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  THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR

  BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

  AUTHOR OF "THE END OF HER HONEYMOON," "THE LODGER," Etc.

  1912

  NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP

  "_But there is one chink in the chain armour of civilized communities. Society is conducted on the assumption that murder will not be committed._"--

  The Spectator.

  THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR

  CHAPTER I

  A small, shiny, pink card lay on the round table in Sylvia Bailey'ssitting-room at the Hotel de l'Horloge in Paris.

  She had become quite accustomed to finding one or more cards--cards fromdressmakers, cards from corset-makers, cards from hairdressers--lying onher sitting-room table, but there had never been a card quite like thiscard.

  Although it was pink, it looked more like a visiting-card than atradesman's advertisement, and she took it up with some curiosity. It wasinscribed "Madame Cagliostra," and underneath the name were written thewords "_Diseuse de la Bonne Aventure_," and then, in a corner, in verysmall black letters, the address, "5, Rue Jolie, Montmartre."

  A fortune-teller's card? What an extraordinary thing!

  Like many pretty, prosperous, idle women, Sylvia was rathersuperstitious. Not long before this, her first visit to Paris, a Londonacquaintance had taken her to see a noted palmist named "Pharaoh," inBond Street. She had paid her guinea willingly enough, but the result hadvaguely disappointed her, and she had had the feeling, all the time shewas with him, that the man was not really reading her hand.

  True, "Pharaoh" had told her she was going abroad, and at that time shehad no intention of doing so. The palmist had also told her--and this wasreally rather curious--that she would meet, when abroad, a foreign womanwho would have a considerable influence on her life. Well, in this veryHotel de l'Horloge Mrs. Bailey had come across a Polish lady, named AnnaWolsky, who was, like Sylvia herself, a young widow, and the two hadtaken a great fancy to one another.

  It was most unlikely that Madame Wolsky would have the slightestinfluence on her, Sylvia Bailey's, life, but at any rate it was verycurious coincidence. "Pharaoh" had proved to be right as to these twothings--she had come abroad, and she had formed a friendship with aforeign woman.

  Mrs. Bailey was still standing by the table, and still holding the pinkcard in her hand, when her new friend came into the room.

  "Well?" said Anna Wolsky, speaking English with a strong foreign accent,but still speaking it remarkably well, "Have you yet decided, my dear,what we shall do this afternoon? There are a dozen things open to us,and I am absolutely at your service to do any one of them!"

  Sylvia Bailey laughingly shook her head.

  "I feel lazy," she said. "I've been at the Bon Marche ever since nineo'clock, and I feel more like having a rest than going out again, thoughit does seem a shame to stay in a day like this!"

  The windows were wide open, the June sun was streaming in, and on thelight breeze was borne the murmur of the traffic in the Avenue del'Opera, within a few yards of the quiet street where the Hotel del'Horloge is situated.

  The other woman--Anna Wolsky was some years older than SylviaBailey--smiled indulgently.

  "_Tiens!_" she cried suddenly, "what have you got there?" and she tookthe pink card out of Sylvia's hand.

  "Madame Cagliostra?" she repeated, musingly. "Now where did I hear thatname? Yes, of course it was from our chambermaid! Cagliostra is a friendof hers, and, according to her, a marvellous person--one from whom thedevil keeps no secrets! She charges only five francs for a consultation,and it appears that all sorts of well-known people go to her, even thosewhom the Parisians call the _Gratin_, that is, the Upper Crust, from theChamps Elysees and the Faubourg St. Germain!"

  "I don't think much of fortune-tellers," said Sylvia, thoughtfully."I went to one last time I was in London and he really didn't tell meanything of the slightest interest."

  Her conscience pricked her a little as she said this, for "Pharaoh" hadcertainly predicted a journey which she had then no intention of taking,and a meeting with a foreign woman. Yet here she was in Paris, and herewas the foreign woman standing close to her!

  Nay more, Anna Wolsky had become--it was really rather odd that it shouldbe so--the first intimate friend of her own sex Sylvia had made since shewas a grown-up woman.

  "I do believe in fortune-tellers," said Madame Wolsky deliberately, "andthat being so I shall spend my afternoon in going up to Montmartre, tothe Rue Jolie, to hear what this Cagliostra has to say. It will be whatyou in England call 'a lark'! And I do not see why I should not givemyself so cheap a lark as a five-franc lark!"

  "Oh, if you really mean to go, I think I will go too!" cried Sylvia,gaily.

  She was beginning to feel less tired, and the thought of a long lonelyafternoon spent indoors and by herself lacked attraction.

  Linking her arm through her friend's, she went downstairs and into thebarely furnished dining-room, which was so very unlike an English hoteldining-room. In this dining-room the wallpaper simulated a vine-coveredtrellis, from out of which peeped blue-plumaged birds, and on each littletable, covered by an unbleached table-cloth, stood an oil and vinegarcruet and a half-bottle of wine.

  The Hotel de l'Horloge was a typical French hotel, and foreigners veryseldom stayed there. Sylvia had been told of the place by the old Frenchlady who had been her governess, and who had taught her to speak Frenchexceptionally well.

  Several quiet Frenchmen, who had offices in the neighbourhood, were "_enpension_" at the Hotel de l'Horloge, and as the two friends came in manywere the steady, speculative glances cast in their direction.

  To the average Frenchman every woman is interesting; for every Frenchmanis in love with love, and in each fair stranger he sees the possibleheroine of a romance in which he may play the agreeable part of hero.So it was that Sylvia Bailey and Anna Wolsky both had their silentadmirers among those who lunched and dined in the narrow green andwhite dining-room of the Hotel de l'Horloge.

  Only a Frenchman would have given a second look at the Polish lady whileSylvia was by, but a Frenchman, being both a philosopher and a logicianby nature, is very apt to content himself with the second-best when heknows the best is not for him.

  The two friends were in entire contrast to one another. Madame Wolsky wastall, dark, almost swarthy; there was a look of rather haughty pride andreserve on her strong-featured face. She dressed extremely plainly, theonly ornament ever worn by her being a small gold horseshoe, in thecentre of which was treasured--so, not long ago, she had confided toSylvia, who had been at once horrified and thrilled--a piece of the ropewith which a man had hanged himself at Monte Carlo two years before! ForMadame Wolsky--and she made no secret of the fact to her new friend--wasa gambler.

  Anna Wolsky was never really happy, she did not feel more than halfalive, when away from the green cloth. She had only left Monte Carlowhen the heat began to make the place unbearable to one of her northerntemperament, and she was soon moving on to one of the Frenchwatering-places, where gambling of sorts can be indulged in allthe summer through.

  Different in looks, in temperament, and in tastes were the two youngwidows, and this, perhaps, was why they got on so excellently welltogether.

  Sylvia Bailey was the foreign ideal of a beautiful Englishwoman. Her hairwas fair, and curled naturally. Her eyes were of that blue which looksviolet in the sunlight; and she had a delicate, rose leaf complexion.

  Married when only nineteen to a man much older than herse
lf, she was nowat twenty-five a widow, and one without any intimate duties or close tiesto fill her existence. Though she had mourned George Bailey sincerely,she had soon recovered all her normal interest and pleasure in life.

  Mrs. Bailey was fond of dress and able to indulge her taste; but, evenso, good feeling and the standard of propriety of the English countrytown of Market Dalling where she had spent most of her life, perhapsalso a subtle instinct that nothing else would ever suit her so well,made her remain rigidly faithful to white and black, pale grey, andlavender. She also wore only one ornament, but it was a very becomingand an exceedingly costly ornament, for it consisted of a string of largeand finely-matched pearls.

  As the two friends went upstairs after luncheon Madame Wolsky saidearnestly, "If I were you, Sylvia, I would certainly leave your pearls inthe office this afternoon. Where is the use of wearing them on such anexpedition as that to a fortune-teller?"

  "But why shouldn't I wear them?" asked Sylvia, rather surprised.

  "Well, in your place I should certainly leave anything as valuable asyour pearls in safe keeping. After all, we know nothing of this MadameCagliostra, and Montmartre is what Parisians call an eccentric quarter."

  Sylvia Bailey disliked very much taking off her pearls. Though she couldnot have put the fact into words, this string of pearls was to her asymbol of her freedom, almost of her womanhood.

  As a child and young girl she had been under the close guardianshipof a stern father, and it was to please him that she had married therich, middle-aged man at Market Dalling whose adoration she had enduredrather than reciprocated. George Bailey also had been a determinedman--determined that his young wife should live his way, not hers.During their brief married life he had heaped on her showy, rather thanbeautiful, jewels; nothing of great value, nothing she could wear when inmourning.

  And then, four months after her husband's death, Sylvia's own aunt haddied and left her a thousand pounds. It was this legacy--which hertrustee, a young solicitor named William Chester, who was also a friendand an admirer of hers, as well as her trustee, had been proposing toinvest in what he called "a remarkably good thing"--Mrs. Bailey hadinsisted on squandering on a string of pearls!

  Sylvia had become aware, in the subtle way in which Women become awareof such things, that pearls were the fashion--in fact, in one sense,"the only wear." She had noticed that most of the great ladies of theneighbourhood of Market Dalling, those whom she saw on those occasionswhen town and county meet, each wore a string of pearls. She had alsocome to know that pearls seem to be the only gems which can be worn withabsolute propriety by a widow, and so, suddenly, she had made up her mindto invest--she called it an "investment," while Chester called it an"absurd extravagance"--in a string of pearls.

  Bill Chester had done his very best to persuade her to give up her sillynotion, but she had held good; she had shown herself, at any rate on thisone occasion, and in spite of her kindly, yielding nature, obstinate.

  This was why her beautiful pearls had become to Sylvia Bailey a symbol ofher freedom. The thousand pounds, invested as Bill Chester had meant toinvest it, would have brought her in L55 a year, so he had told her in agrave, disapproving tone.

  In return she had told him, the colour rushing into her pretty face, thatafter all she had the right to do what she chose with her legacy, themore so that this thousand pounds was in a peculiar sense her own money,as the woman who had left it her was her mother's sister, having nothingto do either with her father or with the late George Bailey!

  And so she had had her way--nay, more; Chester, at the very last, hadgone to great trouble in order that she might not be cheated over herpurchase. Best of all, Bill--Sylvia always called the serious-mindedyoung lawyer "Bill"--had lived to admit that Mrs. Bailey had made a goodinvestment after all, for her pearls had increased in value in the twoyears she had had them.

  Be that as it may, the young widow often reminded herself that nothingshe had ever bought, and nothing that had ever been given her, had causedher such lasting pleasure as her beloved string of pearls!

  But on this pleasant June afternoon, in deference to her determinedfriend's advice, she took off her pearls before starting out forMontmartre, leaving the case in the charge of M. Girard, the genialproprietor of the Hotel de l'Horloge.