The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ the letter behind her, then, of course it would be our positive duty to communicate with the police. But I cannot help being afraid—" He stopped abruptly.

      "Of what are you afraid?" asked Sylvia eagerly.

      "I am afraid that Madame Wolsky may be very much offended by your interference in the matter."

      "Oh, no!" cried Sylvia. "Indeed, in that you are quite mistaken! I know Anna would never be offended by anything I could do. She was very fond of me, and so am I of her. But in any case I am willing to risk it. You see"—her voice broke, quivered—"I am really very unhappy about Anna—"

      "When would you like to go to the Commissioner of Police?" asked the Count.

      "Is there any reason why we should not go now?"

      "No. Let us go at once. I only had the feeling that you might hear from her any moment."

      Together they walked up into the little town of Lacville. To each any expedition in which the other took part had become delightful. They were together now more than they had ever been before. No, Count Paul could not be sorry that Sylvia's friend had left Lacville. He had no wish for her return.

      At last they came to a rather mean-looking white house; out of one of the windows hung a tricolour flag.

      "Here we are!" he said briefly.

      "It doesn't look a very imposing place," said Sylvia smiling.

      But all the same, as the Count rang the bell Sylvia suddenly felt as if she would like to run away! After all, what should she say to the Commissioner of Police? Would he think her interference in Anna's affairs strange and uncalled for? But she kept her thoughts to herself.

      They were shown into a room where a tired-looking man bent over a large, ink-stained table littered over with papers.

      "Monsieur? Madame?" he glanced up inquiringly, and gave them a searching look. But he did not rise from the table, as Sylvia expected him to do. "What can I do for you?" he said. "I am at your service," and again he stared with insistent curiosity at the couple before him, at the well-dressed young Englishwoman and at her French companion.

      The Count explained at some length why they had come.

      And then at last the Commissioner of Police got up.

      "Madame has now been at Lacville three weeks?"—and he quickly made a note of the fact on a little tablet he held in his hand. "And her friend, a Polish lady named Wolsky, has left Lacville rather suddenly? Madame has, however, received a letter from her friend explaining that she had to leave unexpectedly?"

      "No," said Sylvia, quickly, "the letter was not sent to me; it was left by my friend in her bed-room at the Pension Malfait. You see, the strange thing, Monsieur, is that Madame Wolsky left all her luggage. She took absolutely nothing with her, excepting, of course, her money. And as yet nothing has come from her, although she promised to telegraph where her luggage was to be sent on to her! I come to you because I am afraid that she had met with some accident in the Paris streets, and I thought you would be able to telephone for us to the Paris Police."

      She looked very piteously at the French official, and his face softened, a kindly look came over it.

      "Well, Madame," he said, "I will certainly do everything I can. But I must ask you to provide me first with a few more particulars about your friend."

      "I will tell you everything I know. But I really do not know very much."

      "Her age?" said the Commissioner.

      "I do not know her age, but I suppose she is about thirty."

      "The place of her birth?"

      Sylvia shook her head.

      "What is her permanent address? Surely you know with whom you could communicate the news of an accident having happened to her?"

      "I am afraid I don't even know that." Sylvia began to feel rather foolish. But—but was it so strange after all? Who among the people she was now living with knew anything of her far-away English home? If anything happened to herself, for instance? Even Count Paul would not know to whom to write. It was an odd, rather an uncomfortable thought.

      The Commissioner went to a drawer and pulled out from it a portfolio filled with loose pieces of paper.

      "Malfait? Malfait? Malfait?" he muttered interrogatively to himself. And at last he found what he was looking for. It was a large sheet, on which was inscribed in large round letters "Pension Malfait." There were many close lines of writing under the words. He looked down and read through all that was there.

      "The Pension Malfait has a good reputation!" he exclaimed, in a relieved tone. "I gather from what you say, Monsieur,"—he gave a quick shrewd look at the Count—"that Madame and her friend did not play in a serious sense at the Casino—I mean, there was no large sum of money in question?"

      Count Paul hesitated—but Sylvia thought that surely it were better to tell the truth.

      "Yes," she said, "my friend did play, and she played rather high. She must have had a large sum of money in her possession when she left Lacville, unless she lost it all on the last day. But I was in Paris, and so I don't know what she did."

      The Commissioner looked grave.

      "Ah, but that alters the case very much!" he said. "I must request you to come with me to the Pension Malfait. We had better pursue our inquiries there. If this Madame Wolsky had a large sum of money in notes and gold, it becomes very important that we should know where she is."

      They all three left the shabby little house together, and Sylvia could not help wondering what would happen there while they were gone. But the Commissioner solved her doubts by turning the key in the door.

      The Count hailed a cab, and they all got into it. Then followed a curious little drive. The Commissioner made polite conversation with Mrs. Bailey. He spoke of the beauties of Lacville. "And Madame," he said, pleasantly, "is staying at the Villa du Lac? It is a charming house, with historic associations."

      Sylvia was surprised. She remembered clearly that she had not told the police official where she was staying.

      When they reached the Pension Malfait they were kept waiting a few moments, but at last M. Malfait appeared in the hall. He received them with obsequious amiability.

      Still, even Sylvia could not but be aware that he was extremely angry, and she herself felt wretchedly uncomfortable. What if Anna Wolsky were all right after all? Would she not blame her for having made such a fuss?

      "Everything is quite en règle," M. Malfait said smoothly when the purport of their presence was explained to him in a few curt words by the Commissioner of Police.

      "You see, Monsieur le Commissaire, it is quite simple. The lady left us a letter explaining why she was obliged to go away. I do not know why Madame"—he turned to Sylvia—"thought it necessary to go to you? We have been perfectly open about the whole matter. We are respectable people, and have absolutely nothing to hide. Madame Wolsky's boxes are there, in her bed-room; I might have let the room twice over since she left, but no, I prefer to wait, hoping that the lady—the very charming lady—will come back."

      "By the way, where is the letter which she left?" СКАЧАТЬ