WO APACHES 
 OF PARIS 
 
 
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 TWO APACHES OF PARIS
 
 TWO APACHES 
 OF PARIS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALICE & CLAUDE ASKEW 
 
 Authors of 
 
 "The Shulamite," "The Rod of Justice," 
 Etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY 
 
 1911
 
 Copyrighted 1911, by 
 WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY 
 
 Pre of Wffliam G. Hewitt. Brooklyn. New York.
 
 SSlf 
 URL 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 As NEW YORK has its gangsters, and London its 
 Hooligans, so Paris has more or less organized bands 
 of street ruffians of the lowest type, who, within the 
 last decade, have come to be known as "Apaches." Be- 
 stowed at first by some Parisian newspaper men, who 
 had in mind the crudest and most dangerous tribe of 
 American Indians, the appellation has been accepted 
 by the Paris Apaches themselves, not as a stigma, but 
 as a name worn with no little pride. 
 
 And they do not belie it. The tough class of no 
 other city goes to such lengths of wanton cruelty, of 
 absolutely reckless indifference to law or morality, or 
 of murder done seemingly oftentimes for the sheer 
 sake of doing it. 
 
 Affiliated in bands or gangs, like those of New York 
 City, each with its colors and "signs," and each under 
 the domination of some man more daring or "quick 
 on the draw" than his fellows, they terrorize a large 
 portion of the French metropolis. Certain quarters, 
 even in broad daylight, seem to be entirely at their 
 mercy : the police of the city being apparently power- 
 less to break them up. 
 
 Unlike their New York confreres, their weapon is 
 not the revolver, but the knife, a far more silent 
 weapon, which they can also throw, javelin-like, with 
 deadly accuracy. Unlike the New York gangsters, 
 they make no attempt to mix in politics. They are a 
 
 v
 
 vl INTRODUCTION 
 
 class by themselves, with their own laws, tribunals 
 and customs even their own language, for their argot 
 is almost unintelligible to the native Frenchman. 
 
 Their work and sustenance? Chiefly highway rob- 
 bery of the crudest type. Many a victim is played into 
 their hands by their women. Others are simply street 
 hold-ups, a handkerchief garrote peculiar to the ilk 
 taking the place of the American sandbag. If neces- 
 sary, the victim is tortured until senseless, without the 
 slightest qualm; or, if advisable, knifed, and left, or 
 tossed into the Seine with little ceremony. 
 
 A further word should be said of the Apache women. 
 Mostly of the courtesan class, the men act toward them 
 the part of the American cadet. And while the men 
 Apaches are brutal degenerates, the women are often 
 prepossessing, equally cold-blooded, it is true, but of 
 far higher intelligence. Their very intelligence makes 
 them, if anything, more dangerous. They are the 
 spiders who lure the intended victims into the Apache 
 web. On the street one easily recognizes them hat- 
 less, bold, self-possessed. 
 
 The haunts of the whole tribe are the cheaper cab- 
 arets, the cafes near the markets, and in the older 
 faubourgs. In the questionable dance and concert halls 
 they may be seen at all hours of the night, taking their 
 pleasure as crudely as their drinks and their "business." 
 
 To root them out is no small problem. However 
 much they quarrel among themselves, they are banded 
 together implacably and avowedly against society in 
 general. The gendarme who arrests one of them, 
 the judge who convicts one, are marked men; and the 
 arm of the Apache is as long and patient as that of the 
 Italian Camorra. 
 
 THE PUBLISHER.
 
 Two Apaches of Paris 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ROBIN CLITHERO leaned back in his chair and laughed 
 heartily. His laugh was loud and resonant and it rang 
 true. 
 
 "What a chap you are, Owen," he gasped, when he 
 had somewhat recovered his breath ; "the deuce only 
 knows what you'll think of next !" 
 
 It was an occasion for merriment, and Robin's laugh 
 was by no means singular. The famous dancing-hall 
 of the Moulin de la Bonne Fortune, at Montmartre, was 
 thronged by a fantastically garbed crowd given over 
 to the wild license of a carnival ball. It was the night 
 of Shrove Tuesday, when extravagance and folly held 
 undisputed sway. 
 
 The Saturnalian revel was at its height. Dancing 
 was only indulged in in a desultory fashion a "go-as- 
 you-please" entertainment save when space was 
 cleared for professional performers ; the floor was car- 
 peted with many-hued confetti, and the air was dust- 
 laden and heavy; the countless electric lights glowed 
 red and yellow through a mist of tobacco smoke and 
 the steam of perspiring humanity. The band brayed 
 intermittently, heedless of the accompaniment of toy 
 trumpets, whistles, and cat-calls the thousand and one 
 
 1
 
 2 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 noises in which such a crowd delights; everyone did 
 just as he or she liked, and it was all breathless, spon- 
 taneous, and irresponsible. 
 
 From the box where Owen Mayne was entertaining 
 his Bohemian friends fellow artists, models, anyone, 
 in short, who cared to claim his acquaintance one 
 looked down upon a kaleidoscope of color a seething, 
 swirling, palpitating mass of life, painted in lurid hues 
 that fascinated by their very discordance. 
 
 The crowd had been particularly dense below the box 
 a few minutes ago. It was due to a happy inspiration 
 on the part of Owen Mayne. By means of a rod and 
 string he had suspended object after object dear to the 
 feminine heart flowers, perfume in bottles, light arti- 
 cles of attire over the heads of the masqueraders, 
 swinging them irritatingly before women's faces and 
 then jerking them out of reach as soon as eager hands 
 were stretched out to grasp them. 
 
 It was great fun, attended by much springing in the 
 air, queer contortions, the elbowing and pushing of 
 one another, giggling, and general hubbub. The male 
 lookers-on cheered and encouraged the competitors 
 to fresh exertions; one big fellow had lifted a slim 
 Pierrette upon his shoulders, making occasional dashes 
 forward with his charge, while another held his girl 
 a pink-cheeked and flaxen-haired doll by the arms and 
 jumped her up and down in the quaintest fashion when- 
 ever the swinging object came within her reach. Now 
 and then a general rush would be made, a rush that 
 invariably ended in a scuflfle upon the floor. 
 
 The contest had reached its height over a pair of 
 gaudily buckled garters. It was the final disposition 
 of these which had aroused Robin's mirth. At the 
 same time Owen, wearied of the game, rose and bowed 
 gracefully to the clamouring crowd, and then retired
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 3 
 
 to the back of the box, taking Robin with him ; their 
 places in the front were immediately occupied by a 
 couple of showily dressed girls, one, tall and handsome, 
 known as "La Grande Rose," the other, fragile and 
 pretty, as "P'tit Bleu" ; they were both models, and of 
 course had their attendant swains. 
 
 "Now we can have a chat, Rob," said Owen, after 
 he had given an order for refreshment. "I'm glad you 
 caught sight of me and came up. We never seem to 
 meet now that you've elected to bury yourself at Fon- 
 tainebleau. Such a mad thing to do at this time of 
 year." 
 
 "It's cheap living," responded the other readily, 
 "and away from temptations. And, then, I love the 
 forest, know every inch of it, and like to paint it in all 
 its moods. Besides, there's another reason why I 
 should love Fontainebleau." He gave a queer little jerk 
 of his head, then added quickly, "But that's ancient 
 history. Anyway, the country is good enough for a 
 plodder; Paris is for geniuses like yourself, Owen, 
 soaring rockets." 
 
 Robin Clithero, big, honest, and stolid, nondescript 
 of colouring and homely of face, gazed with a certain 
 envy at his better favoured friend. Owen Mayne was 
 certainly very good-looking, even if it was after a 
 rather flashy manner. He was tall and slim and dark, 
 and had a "hail-fellow-well-met" way about him that 
 was quite delightful and earned him considerable pop- 
 ularity especially with women. The red "Mephis- 
 topheles" costume he wore suited him admirably. 
 
 Yet they were great friends these two, though un- 
 doubtedly the devotion was more on the side of Robin. 
 It was in his nature to bestow a certain dog-like fidelity 
 upon anyone who had captured his affection. Besides, 
 he considered that he owed a debt to Owen Mayne, who
 
 4 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 upon the occasion of their first meeting had saved his 
 life under somewhat exciting circumstances, and Robin 
 never forgot a debt it was another of his peculiarly 
 unbohemian characteristics. 
 
 "If I soar like a rocket," laughed Owen, "I'm just 
 as likely to come down like a stick. You know the sort 
 of chap I am, Rob. I can't put my shoulder to the 
 wheel never could. Look at my picture, 'The Cham- 
 ois Hunter,' well, I haven't touched it since I saw 
 you last." 
 
 "But why not?" protested the other. "I tell you, 
 Owen, that that picture would make your name and 
 fortune. I always said so. A fine piece of work, full 
 of symbolism." 
 
 "You know why I chucked it up," responded Owen, 
 a touch of impatience in his tone. "La Place Pigalle 
 couldn't provide me with the style of face I wanted for 
 my siren nor the whole of Paris, for the matter of 
 that. I suppose it doesn't exist except somewhere at 
 the back of my brain, whence it peeps out mockingly 
 in my dreams but it's so infernally elusive, and I'm 
 hanged if I can ever put anything on canvas that re- 
 sembles it to the smallest extent. So what's the use 
 of trying ?" 
 
 "But why not do with a substitute why just that 
 particular face?" urged Robin. "There are lots of 
 pretty girls " 
 
 "Pretty girls!" exclaimed Owen scornfully. "It's 
 not a pretty girl that I want. There's P'tit Bleu who 
 sobs her blue eyes out because I won't let her sit. But 
 do you think my siren is to be the style of a mere 
 brasserie wench? No, old man, my siren must be a 
 tigress, a panther, with a woman's face and form. She 
 must have the beauty of consummate vice. She must 
 horrify but allure. Her hair must be a net in which
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 5 
 
 all the sins of the world are caught and held. Her eyes 
 must burn you with their passion. They must be like 
 mirrors in which you see reflected the most secret 
 desires of your heart. Her mouth must be an opium- 
 soaked poppy, the kisses of which are delirious phan- 
 tasms, oblivion, and death. And her body ah, her 
 body a snake-woman, subtle, lithe and enveloping, 
 with a grip that only relaxes when your very spirit has 
 been absorbed. That's my siren, Rob. Is it any won- 
 der I haven't found her ? But I tell you if I ever did 
 I'd give myself to her yes, body and soul." 
 
 "Thank God you haven't !" retorted the more simple- 
 minded Robin. "And for your own sake, old fellow, 
 I hope you never will. Give me P'tit Bleu any day in 
 preference to your monster. Hullo !" he added quickly, 
 stepping to the front of the box from which the girls 
 and their companions had by now retired. "What are 
 they up to ? A special dance, eh ?" 
 
 A space had been cleared in the centre of the great 
 saloon. Fantastically attired couples were taking up 
 their positions in sets of eight. There was to be a 
 "quadrille" danced by professionals. Robin recog- 
 nised familiar faces, and cried out their names to the 
 girls at the back of the box. 
 
 "There's Zouzou 1'Epatante over there," he ex- 
 claimed. "She's with Manon la Cigale. And here's 
 Toupet Gris in the set close to us, so we shall see 
 something in the way of high kicking." 
 
 They all leaned over the ledge of the box. The band 
 played the introductory bars of a favourite dance. 
 Robin waved his hand to Toupet Gris, who executed 
 a fantastic pas-seul in response, ending up with an 
 exaggerated curtsey. 
 
 "Who's the girl facing us the one dancing with that
 
 6 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 ugly chap who looks like an Apache?" queried some- 
 one as the quadrille began. 
 
 Owen Mayne and Robin turned their eyes in the 
 direction indicated. They saw a thin, lithe, and black- 
 clad figure bent almost double over the arm of a for- 
 bidding-looking youth, who seemed to have aped no 
 disguise, but come to the ball in the costume that was 
 natural to him, the blouse and red scarf, the tight 
 trousers, the peaked cap of the loafer of the outer 
 boulevards the so-called Apache. 
 
 The next moment the girl was standing erect, smi- 
 ling, and displaying teeth that were dazzingly white, 
 small, and sharp, and which served to enhance the vivid 
 crimson of her lips. Her glorious black hair hung 
 loose over her shoulders. It was a small face and, save 
 at the lips, almost devoid of colour. 
 
 Robin glanced apprehensively at Owen. "She looks 
 a devil," he muttered; "a devil. Do you know her, 
 Rose?" 
 
 Rose, a heavily built, dark girl, leant her arm famil- 
 iarly upon the man's shoulder and followed the direc- 
 tion of his eyes. Then, with a sharp exclamation, and 
 disregarding Robin, she turned to the other girl, P'tit 
 Bleu, whose attention just then was wholly taken up by 
 a flirtation in the incipient stage. 
 
 "Regards-moi qal Zelie, of all people in the world, 
 Zelie la Couleuvre! Who'd have thought she'd have 
 the cheek to show herself here? Qu'en dis-tu, Pou- 
 lette?" Rose had slipped her arm round the waist of 
 P'tit Bleu, dragging her ruthlessly to the front. The 
 two girls were devoted friends and inseparable com- 
 panions. 
 
 P'tit Bleu uttered bird-like chirps of wonder. She 
 had a round, precocious face and an impertinent, tip- 
 tilted nose. Her speech was twittering and she af-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 7 
 
 fected little jerky movements of the head, like a spar- 
 row. Her costume represented a blue bird, which was 
 quite appropriate. 
 
 "Nothing like advertisement, my dear. I, too, I 
 will one day be mixed up in a murder trial, and then 
 who knows ? all Paris may want to paint my picture." 
 
 Robin flicked with his finger the bare, comely arm 
 that still rested on his shoulder, recalling himself thus 
 to attention. 
 
 "I asked you a question, Rose. Who is this Zelie?" 
 
 "Do you mean to say you don't know?" The two 
 girls chorused their surprise. Then Rose volunteered 
 the required information. She spoke in jerky, discon- 
 nected sentences. 
 
 "Six months ago, wasn't it? Half a dozen vauriens 
 rascals from the fortifs Apaches they fought to- 
 gether it was a fierce and bloody struggle they were 
 all wounded and carried to hospital two died and 
 what did they fight for, you ask?" The girl jerked her 
 elbow in the direction of the dark-clad, swaying figure 
 below. "It was for that creature the Queen of the 
 Apaches, as they called her. And they were none the 
 better for shedding their blood those who lived. Of 
 course, she took up with another while they went to 
 prison. There he is her type. An Apache of the 
 Apaches. They dance together at the Florian. For 
 naturally Zelie became notorious one only has to get 
 one's name in the papers for all the world to want to 
 see you. And there she is, the coquine, parading her- 
 self here instead of hiding in the gutter where she be- 
 longs." Rose spoke with righteous indignation. 
 
 "But, sapristi, she can dance!" The speaker was 
 Jean Brieul, the young man to whom P'tit Bleu was 
 devoting herself. 
 
 Owen had not been listening. He was sitting on the
 
 8 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 other side of Robin, his elbows resting on the velvet- 
 covered ledge of the box, his chin sunk in his hands. 
 His eyes fixed upon Zelie. 
 
 Robin noticed this and tried to distract his friend's 
 attention. "Look at Toupet! She's just kicked that 
 chap's hat off." He laughed a strained laugh. 
 
 Owen gripped him by the arm. "Robin," he whis- 
 pered excitedly. "I've found her! Fate has sent her 
 my way. That is my siren in the flesh. Look at her 
 mouth it's like a bleeding wound. Look at her eyes 
 mon Dieu, man, look at her eyes !" 
 
 He was trembling with suppressed excitement. The 
 wild dance continued fantastic, untrammelled, licen- 
 tious a riot of the baser instincts. And to Owen, 
 watching, it seemed that Zelie was born of that dance, 
 that in her own person all its evil was concentrated. 
 It was thus that she had come to him the woman, the 
 siren, for whom he was ready to barter his soul. 
 
 The music ended on a wild, screeching note, and 
 there followed a clapping of hands, a chorus of cat- 
 calls, discordant shouts and cries. Serpentins were 
 flung this way and that. Owen seized the rod, which 
 had already done service, and quickly attaching a red 
 rose torn, regardless of protest, from the corsage of 
 one of the models to the string, he flung it so that it 
 hung suspended before the dancer. 
 
 For a moment she suspected a trick, and laughingly 
 put her hands behind her back. Then, as Owen, 
 standing up in the box, cried out to her, she returned 
 his gaze, and her eyes still held him as she took the 
 flower from its string, lifted it for a moment to her 
 face, and then ostentatiously pressed it to her bosom. 
 
 Her companion of the forbidding countenance 
 looked on and scowled.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "So YOU are an artist, and you wish me to sit for you. 
 It would not be the first time that I sit but now I 
 don't know." 
 
 Zelie shook her head dubiously. She was seated at 
 a little table with Owen Mayne, and a perspiring waiter 
 had just set before them two tall glasses with contained 
 a green fluid. 
 
 They had spent the best part of an hour in each 
 other's company, these two. Owen had simply carried 
 her off from her surly cavalier, who had frowned, but 
 said nothing, though Owen was quite aware all the 
 time that he and his companion had been shadowed by 
 an ill-omened figure, watched out of the corners of a 
 pair of dull, grey eyes. 
 
 He was in nowise disconcerted. He was not the 
 man to be afraid of an Apache or anything else. 
 
 Robin had croaked but then it was Robin's way to 
 croak. "I think she is hateful," he had urged, "the 
 personification of all that is bad. For Heaven's sake, 
 Owen, leave her to her type as Rose says. They're 
 well matched." 
 
 "I want a personification of all that is bad for my 
 picture," Owen had retorted, and, after that, there was 
 no more to be said. 
 
 "Why can't you sit for me now ?" urged Owen. 
 
 The woman shrugged her narrow shoulders. "He 
 won't let me. He would be furious. He is jealous 
 mon Bibi" 
 
 9
 
 10 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Bother Bibi," retorted the man. "Are you so fond 
 of him, then, Zelie?" He addressed her with the 
 second person of familiarity was it not Carnival 
 time? 
 
 The girl's brows narrowed and her eyes became 
 slits that yet shot fire. "He has struck me once 
 twice many times. I bear the mark of his knife on 
 my shoulder." She laughed fiercely. "And he has 
 the print of my teeth on his wrist !" Her little, sharp 
 teeth glowed white as she spoke. 
 
 "Why should you consider the fellow if that's the 
 way he treats you?" Owen put the question half 
 lazily, for he knew what the answer would be. He was 
 studying the girl's face, gratifying his artistic soul. 
 
 "He would kill me you, too, perhaps. Are you 
 afraid?" She peered up into his face with a queer 
 look in her green eyes. Perhaps she was summing 
 him up. 
 
 Apparently Zelie's scrutiny was satisfactory to her. 
 She dropped her eyes and sipped her absinthe. "Are 
 you afraid ?" she repeated. 
 
 "Not I," he replied easily. "And as for danger to 
 yourself, Zelie, I'll see to that. Sapristi," he added, 
 leaning toward her so that his face was very close to 
 the waving, glistening mass of hair where it fell upon 
 her shoulders, "to think I have been looking for you all 
 these months, and that you really exist ! It's as if the 
 devil had created you from the thoughts of my brain. 
 Don't you know that you've got the devil's beauty?" 
 
 She smiled, well pleased. "Well, we are a pair," 
 she said, alluding to his costume. Presently she leaned 
 forward, resting her elbows on the table, her slim 
 fingers clasped together under her chin. "What is 
 your name?" she asked. 
 
 "Owen Mayne."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 11 
 
 Her lips tried to form the words. "O-en. No, but 
 I cannot say it. I will just call you Phisto for short. 
 Are you not Mephisto?" 
 
 "Call me what you like," he replied, winding a finger 
 in a strand of her hair. It had a subtle perfume, her 
 hair, that mounted to his brain and intoxicated him. 
 "As long as you promise to come to my studio and sit 
 for me," he added. 
 
 She put another question. "Are you rich?" 
 
 He laughed. "I've got a few billets de mille left," 
 he said. "We'll spend them together, Zelie." 
 
 Once more she scrutinized him, and her eyes soft- 
 ened. "I like you," she declared. "You know what it 
 is you want. You do not fight for it with a knife and 
 in the dark like Bibi but you fight. Listen, this I will 
 promise. If I can I will come to you you will tell me 
 the address of your studio " 
 
 "You must come, Zelie," he interrupted, gripping 
 her wrist tightly. "You must. I want you." 
 
 "I will come if I can escape from him I swear 
 it." 
 
 "To-morrow ?" 
 
 "Perhaps. Yes, perhaps to-morrow. And now" 
 she drank off the absinthe at a gulp "you must let 
 me go. You must not speak to me again to-night. It 
 would not be safe. Especially outside you understand 
 that ? By no means outside." 
 
 She rose and stretched out her hand, flashing her 
 white teeth at him. "Au revoir, mon ami le diable." 
 
 "A demain, Mme. la Couleuvre," he retorted. How 
 the name suited her ! A snake-woman ! No doubt she 
 had received the title because she was so lithe and slim 
 of body but, then, she could wound, too he was sure 
 of that. 
 
 She tossed her hair back from her shoulders, gath-
 
 12 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 ered the folds of her black skirt together, and was soon 
 lost in the crowd. 
 
 A little while later Owen met his fellow-artist Robin 
 Clithero alone and a trifle bored. The two men left 
 the ball together, driving through the mist and rain to 
 Owen's studio for a final smoke. 
 
 Later still the Moulin de la Bonne Fortune dis- 
 gorged its burden of humanity. The broad boulevard 
 and the neighbouring narrow streets echoed with 
 shouts and laughter as the motley crew slowly dis- 
 persed. It was the morning of Ash Wednesday. 
 
 Bibi Coupe-vide was in a bad temper, though Zelie 
 hung on his arm and called him her Bibi cheri and 
 other queer, endearing names peculiar to her class. 
 His language in return was of an order only to be un- 
 derstood by those conversant with the lowest argot 
 which is a tongue of its own. He was a narrow-chested 
 youth, with thin yellow hair fringed on his forehead ; 
 he had a receding chin and little deep-set eyes a born 
 hooligan an Apache. 
 
 "Let there be no mistake about it," he said in low, 
 guttural tones, clenching her arm to his side as in a 
 vice, "you are mine, ma gosse, and if you give your- 
 self to another for love woe betide you and him." 
 
 Suddenly, with a quick movement, he threw back her 
 sleeve, displaying her bare white skin to the elbow. 
 With a lean finger he pointed to a mark upon it. 
 "Don't you dare forget that," he muttered. 
 
 "I know," she replied sullenly, with an effort to 
 readjust the sleeve and hide the blue tattoo mark. "Is 
 it likely that I shall forget?" 
 
 "A Bibi pour la vie," he quoted. "You belong to 
 Bibi for life, my girl. And Bibi Coupe-vide will hold 
 his own, or " A string of vile oaths followed. 
 
 Zelie's thin lips formed a word, but she did not give
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 13 
 
 voice to it. Instead, and forcing herself to coaxing 
 utterance like the purring of a cat she vowed that 
 Bibi was her adore, and that he was foolish to doubt it. 
 
 They turned into a badly-lit side street. The sleet 
 drove into their faces and added to Bibi's evil temper. 
 Suddenly at the door of a wine-shop on the other side, 
 and a little further on, Zelie's keen eyes espied a dark 
 and familiar figure. At the same moment it flashed 
 across her mind that they had passed a cloaked gen- 
 darme under a lamp-post hardly a minute ago, and 
 that Bibi, loud in his grievances, had been less ob- 
 servant than she. She glanced over her shoulder yes, 
 the policeman was still there. 
 
 She gave her companion's arm a sharp squeeze, 
 bringing him to a halt. Then she pointed across the 
 street to the wine-shop. 
 
 "Bibi," she whispered hoarsely, "it's Jules 'le daim' 
 the vile scum. Fais-lui son affaire. Pay your debt, 
 for now's your chance. He hasn't seen you." 
 
 Bibi required no second bidding. He had vowed 
 vengeance upon Jules, as Jules had vowed it upon him. 
 The one to get in the first blow was the one to whom 
 victory belonged. 
 
 The Apache thrust the woman back and stole across 
 the street, keeping in the shadow of the houses when 
 he reached the other side. He was stalking his prey, 
 the man Jules, who was drunk, and who had staggered 
 on, alone, a few paces beyond the dimly lit shop. Zelie 
 held her breath and watched. 
 
 "Au secours!" It was Zelie who gave the alarm 
 before the blow had time to fall. Her cry rang out 
 shrilly. Bibi heard it and uttered a savage oath. Jules 
 heard it too, and turned the next moment he was de- 
 fending himself as best he could against an upraised 
 knife.
 
 14 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Help!" The cry was repeated, bringing up the 
 policeman at a run. Jules sprawled bleeding in the 
 gutter. Windows were thrown up, doors flung open. 
 The whole street was in a turmoil. Bibi tried to run. 
 but escape was quickly cut off. He was seized by a 
 gendarme, while another, who had by now appeared 
 upon the scene, knelt by the wounded man, whose 
 groans and oaths rent the air. 
 
 Zelie had kept discreetly in the background. But 
 Bibi knew that she had betrayed him, that his capture 
 was due to her. Struggling with the policeman who 
 held him, he poured out imprecations upon her head. 
 
 "Attends, ma gosse wait till I can get at you 
 only wait! Je t' arranger ai bien. You shall pay for 
 
 this yes, with your life. I swear it I, Bibi " A 
 
 string of foul oaths was silenced by a hand pressed over 
 his lips, and Bibi, struggling still, was practically lifted 
 from the ground and carried off by two sturdy police- 
 men. 
 
 Zelie was at liberty to keep her appointment with 
 Owen Mayne.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "IT'S a mad project, Owen impossible." The 
 speaker, Robin Clithero, frowned and stared out of 
 the open window across the white road to the trees 
 that marked the edge of the forest. They were now 
 in leaf, for April was already well advanced. 
 
 Robin was at the little house near Fontainebleau, 
 where he had been settled for some months, and he 
 had been entertaining two guests that day Owen 
 Mayne and Zelie, who had come from Paris, ostensibly 
 for a mere idle visit of a few hours, but in reality be- 
 cause Owen wished to make a proposition to his 
 friend a very remarkable proposition indeed, and one 
 .which had startled Robin more than a little. 
 
 It was not till early in the afternoon, however, that 
 he had broached the subject. They had lunched at 
 an inn in the forest and had then made their way back 
 to the house. It was a warm spring day, and Zelie 
 was in the little garden sunning herself indolently, 
 leaving the two men to smoke and chat together. 
 
 "Don't be in such a hurry, old man," urged Owen. 
 "Think it well over before you decide. You see, there's 
 a fortune at stake and we are jolly hard up, both of 
 us. Zelie has made the shekels fly, and I must have 
 more for her sake I must have more." He spoke in 
 a tone of infatuation which grated upon Robin's ears. 
 Closer acquaintance had only served to enhance the 
 dislike which the latter bore for the snake-woman, as 
 he was pleased to call Zelie. 
 
 15
 
 16 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "A hundred thousand pounds, at least, to divide be- 
 tween us, Robin, and a fine estate as well," Owen added. 
 "And it's ours for the asking. We've only got to pick 
 it up." 
 
 Robin Clithero whistled, then he began to laugh. 
 "I like your way of putting things, Owen," he said. 
 "You don't seem to realise that even a harum-scarum 
 fool like myself hardly likes to make love to an un- 
 known young lady pretending to be someone else 
 personating his best friend." 
 
 "But at that friend's most earnest request," Owen 
 interrupted. He was sitting easily in a cane chair 
 and he held in his hand the lengthy and carefully 
 worded epistle which, all unexpectedly, a day or two 
 ago, he had received from an aunt of whose very 
 existence he was scarcely aware. 
 
 It was really a very startling letter. Mrs. Alderson, 
 the aunt in question, had written to say that after a 
 vain search extending over at least two years she had 
 at last succeeded in tracing her nephew Owen, who 
 was the son of her only sister, from whom she had been 
 estranged ever since her own marriage. She had some 
 reason to believe herself at fault in the quarrel. So 
 now that she had found her sister's child she wished to 
 make his acquaintance, more especially as her differ- 
 ence with her sister weighed heavily upon her mind, 
 and she was anxious to make what reparation she could 
 before she died an event which, according to the pro- 
 nouncement of the doctor, could not be delayed more 
 than two or three months. 
 
 Mrs. Alderson added that she had no other relation 
 in the world. She had, however, adopted a sweet and 
 beautiful girl, named Lavender Percivale of whom 
 a photograph was enclosed and she would die happy 
 if her nephew and Miss Percivale should meet and fall
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 17 
 
 in love with one another. Selwood Manor, where she 
 lived with her ward, was a fine estate, and needed a 
 man at the head of it. So, if Owen would come to 
 England, if things should fall out according to her 
 cherished desires, then Mrs. Alderson would no longer 
 feel any difficulty as to the disposition of her property. 
 
 The letter was very explicit ; it was evidently written 
 by a woman who knew that her days in the land were 
 numbered and who was keenly anxious to set her house 
 in order. 
 
 "I always knew I had an aunt somewhere in Eng- 
 land," Owen explained, "for I can remember that my 
 father used to speak of her and how rich she was, but 
 that I should never profit by her riches, since Aunt 
 Anne and my mother had been at daggers drawn. My 
 mother died when I was born, you know, and I 
 knocked about the world with my father for years, 
 and as I only came to Paris after he went the way of 
 -all flesh, it's not remarkable that Aunt Anne was not 
 able to find me out. It seems that it was that quaint 
 person Martyn who brought my aunt and me into 
 touch. You remember he was at the ball that night I 
 first met Zelie. He has, it appears, a country seat near 
 Selwood. Well, he's certainly done me a good turn. 
 There's a fortune in it, Robin, if I can only work the 
 trick." 
 
 To Robin's more simple mind it seemed that every- 
 thing was straightforward and that there was no diffi- 
 culty in the way. Owen had only to accept his aunt's 
 invitation, to proceed with the least possible delay to 
 Selwood Manor, and thankfully take what the gods 
 had sent. To marry a nice girl and to win a fortune 
 and an estate at the same time why, what could be 
 more desirable than that ? 
 
 But there was Zelie, and, as usual, Zelie stood ag-
 
 18 
 
 gressively in the way. In Robin's opinion Zelie had 
 already become the curse of his friend's life. He would 
 have been the more sure of it had he known the truth 
 that Owen had been foolish enough to make the dan- 
 cing-girl his wife. 
 
 But Robin did not know this. He only realised that 
 Zelie had squandered Owen's money for him and had 
 done much towards alienating him from his friends; 
 then there was always the danger of trouble that might 
 arise when that wretched Apache who bore the nick- 
 name of Bibi Coupe-vide came out of prison. He had 
 been sentenced to six weeks only, for his enemy Jules 
 had not been badly hurt after all, and in hospital had 
 soon recovered. Zelie had given evidence against her 
 former friend, and there had been a terrible scene in 
 court, the prisoner flinging denunciation at her head 
 and vowing vengeance upon her. Bibi was a dangerous 
 character, there was no doubt of that. It would be 
 well for Owen to be safely out of the country. 
 
 But Owen's infatuation had increased as time passed 
 on. The girl's very fierceness, her utter lack of the 
 moral sense, her passionate nature, seemed to enthral 
 him. Robin, not knowing the truth, was yet afraid. 
 He was keenly anxious to save his friend from a 
 dangerous liaison. 
 
 One good thing Zelie had done, however; Owen, 
 having found the model that he desired, had been 
 induced to work. He had finished his picture the 
 picture of a chamois hunter treading in pursuit of his 
 quarry a dangerous, precipitous path, whose steps had 
 been arrested by the apparition at a turn of the way 
 of that wonderful siren of the mountain, that evil, 
 alluring creature, to the conception of which Zelie alone 
 had been able to give expression. It was an astonish- 
 ing piece of work, full of weird symbolism, and it had
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 19 
 
 been accepted for the Salon ; but at present it was still 
 in Owen's studio for the finishing touches, where it 
 was to remain for another week or so. All who had 
 seen it declared that it would make the young artist's 
 name and set him on the high road to success. 
 
 Owen Mayne, however, did not look upon his pros- 
 pects as far as accepting his aunt's invitation was 
 concerned in the same light as Robin. He wanted 
 the money, wanted it keenly, but scoffed at the implied 
 obligation to an alliance with a girl whom he had never 
 seen in his life and who, to judge from her photograph, 
 was the very opposite to Zelie. 
 
 Under these circumstances he had approached 
 Robin with the remarkable suggestion that the latter 
 should take his place and present himself at Selwood 
 Manor in the character of Mrs. Alderson's nephew. 
 
 "Don't you see, Robin," he urged, "there's no diffi- 
 culty or danger whatever? It isn't as if you need 
 really marry the girl at all. My aunt can't live another 
 three months, and so all that you have to do is to make 
 yourself very amiable, to get engaged to Miss Perci- 
 vale, and then, after the old lady has made her will in 
 her nephew's favour and peacefully departed this life, 
 find some excuse for breaking off the marriage." 
 
 Such was the proposed plot, and Owen had done 
 his best to induce his friend to accept it; but Robin 
 shook his head with decision. His "no" was final. He 
 would not be party to so mean a trick. Besides, Owen 
 must be induced to accept his aunt's proposal. It 
 would be his salvation. 
 
 Robin stared out of the window, inwardly pronoun- 
 cing a curse upon Zelie. She was there, basking in the 
 garden, lying her full length on the small grass-plot, 
 letting the sun pour down on her, and she looked like 
 a sleek tiger-cat; she appeared to be bathing herself
 
 20 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 in the hot rays just as cats do, stretching out her lazy 
 limbs and blinking her eyes, those hazel eyes that had 
 such strange green lights in them. 
 
 To Robin she was as evil and sinister-looking as one 
 of Aubrey Beardsley's creations. She made his flesh 
 creep, and he could see no beauty in her tiny, sharply- 
 cut face, with the crimped brown hair falling in heavy 
 waves on each side. 
 
 Owen rose leisurely from his chair and joined his 
 friend by the window. Here Zelie immediately caught 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Doesn't she look beautiful," he muttered, "stretched 
 out on the turf like that ? Those slim, wonderful limbs 
 of hers, half hidden, half revealed, moulded to her 
 gown, her whole body drinking in the sun?" 
 
 Owen spoke with all a lover's passion, then he gave 
 a short laugh and pulled out from his pocket the little 
 carte-de-visite photograph which had been enclosed in 
 his aunt's letter. He handed it to Robin. 
 
 "That's the girl's likeness," he said "Lavender 
 Percivale Aunt Anne's adopted daughter. Can you 
 imagine a greater contrast to Zelie than this poor little 
 prim Puritan?" 
 
 He smiled contemptuously. It was obvious that he 
 saw no beauty in the pure oval face, the soft parted 
 bands of hair, and the sensitive lips ; he missed the look 
 of fierce, restless passion that distinguished Zelie. 
 
 Robin studied the photograph carefully, an expres- 
 sion of infinite tenderness coming into his eyes as he 
 gazed upon it. "How like she is how like," he sighed 
 to himself, "it is as if Claire lived again !" The memory 
 of a dead and gone romance had been aroused in him ; 
 for a few moments he stood speechless, living in the 
 past. 
 
 Owen noticed nothing he was staring at Zelie. "A
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 21 
 
 poor little cold thing, isn't she?" he said, alluding to 
 the photograph. "Not my sort at all. All the same, 
 Robin, since you won't take on the job, I must, though 
 there'll be the devil to pay if Zelie gets wind of it. 
 She's jealous, you know, and rather given to making 
 passionate scenes. I like her for it." 
 
 Robin started and frowned. "You wouldn't be such 
 a blackguard, Owen ? It would be a cruel thing to let 
 the girl fall in love with you unless you intend to 
 marry her in the end." He rested his hand upon his 
 friend's shoulder. "But you will, old chap ; it would be 
 absurd to ruin your life for such a woman as Zelie. 
 I've got to see that you don't do it." Robin could not 
 forget his debt of gratitude. 
 
 Owen gave his friend a sidelong glance and laughed 
 queerly. "Oh, faithful mentor," he exclaimed, "guard- 
 ian of my morals ! So you would steer me into the safe 
 haven of matrimony with the little Puritan! Well, 
 'well so be it. Beggars can't afford to be choosers, 
 and money I must have." He did not say so, but it 
 was of Zelie he was thinking, it was for her he needed 
 his aunt's fortune. "And I tell you what, Rob," he 
 added, "you shall come to England with me see me 
 through a difficult job. I can easily write and say I am 
 bringing my best friend, a fellow artist." It had oc- 
 curred to him that Robin's company might be of service 
 if there was trouble with Zelie later on it would not 
 be hard to make his friend the scapegoat. 
 
 Robin's eyes were fixed upon the photograph, which 
 he held in his hand. He was about to reply, but 
 checked himself abruptly, for Zelie had risen and was 
 walking towards the window, her small, cruel-looking 
 face thrust forward, her white, slim hands making 
 swift darts at the butterflies that flew about butterflies 
 all blue and white.
 
 22 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "What are you talking about, you two?" she de- 
 manded curiously, half closing- her eyes. Her tight cot- 
 ton gown hung closely about her limbs, and her dress 
 was open at the throat ; there was a bizarre fascination 
 about her thin, peaked face. 
 
 "We were discussing a possible run over to England 
 for a week or so," Owen replied lightly. "Robin has 
 just suggested it. He thinks he would like to see his 
 native land again, and I've got some relatives in Eng- 
 land, you know " 
 
 Zelie glanced at him keenly somewhat suspiciously. 
 
 "Well, you can go if you want to," she answered. 
 Then she made a swift movement of her hand and 
 caught at the photograph that Robin was still holding. 
 
 "Mon Dieu, who is this?" she demanded. "I do 
 not know her she is like a little wax saint." 
 
 Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she turned on 
 Owen. "Do you know this girl ?" she inquired, "or does 
 Robin?" 
 
 Owen laughed uneasily, the blood mounting to his 
 forehead. But before he could speak Robin had re- 
 gained possession of the photograph, claiming it as 
 his own and making some laughing remark which suc- 
 cessfully averted the girl's suspicions. It would not do 
 to arouse Zelie's jealousy yet not till Owen was safe 
 in England and out of the way of temptation not till 
 everything was settled. 
 
 When they parted late that afternoon all the details 
 of the visit to England had been arranged. Zelie was 
 to stay with a married friend at Versailles. She offered 
 but little opposition, and it struck Robin that the pros- 
 pect of a week or so of freedom was not distasteful to 
 her. 
 
 "You'll play fair, Owen ?" Robin gripped his friend's 
 hand tightly as he bade him good-bye. "This girl
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 23 
 
 Miss Percivale is sweet and pure you can tell it 
 from her likeness. It would be a sin to hurt her." 
 
 And Owen, married man though he was, gave the 
 required assurance, gave it with that easy charm of 
 manner that distinguished him. "You'll be with me 
 to see all's fair," he added with a laugh. 
 
 When his visitors had departed Robin Clithero took 
 the photograph of Lavender Percivale and laid it on 
 a table by the side of another photograph, one that 
 was faded and yellow. He sat, gazing from one to the 
 other, till the room was in darkness. There were tears 
 in his eyes.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A FORTNIGHT later Zelie was in Paris once more. She 
 had soon tired of the humdrum provincial life with her 
 friend, Berthe Lecomte, late of the "Parnasse Cafe 
 Chantant," but now respectably married and with no 
 higher ambition than the welfare of her common-place 
 husband and her two fine, healthy babies. It was 
 deadly dull at Versailles, and Zelie was one of those 
 who crave for constant excitement. 
 
 It was as the breath of her life to her. Ever since 
 she could remember, she had lived in an atmosphere of 
 stress and storm, buffeted by breakers over which she 
 had nevertheless ridden, laughing and mocking at their 
 efforts to engulf her. Owen had imagined another 
 picture for her; she should be sitting astride a piece 
 of wreckage tossed on an angry sea a white, defiant 
 nymph of the depth with arms outstretched and a trail 
 of black hair floating behind her. There should be dead 
 men's faces in the water, too, drift and jetsam, a dark 
 sky and the streak of lightning. But the nymph should 
 be laughing laughing as Zelie laughed. 
 
 Just now, however, Zelie was more than ever in a 
 condition of unrest. Until her meeting with Owen she 
 had imagined no existence for herself outside her own 
 narrow, if tempestuous sphere. Her intelligence was 
 limited by the cafe, the brasserie, the slum, and the 
 gutter. She did not understand the art that inspired 
 her to dance. She had herded with the lowest of the 
 low was of them, queen of the Apaches. All her 
 
 24
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 25 
 
 instincts were animal and primitive. But now, since 
 her marriage, she was beginning to open eyes of 
 intelligence. 
 
 To begin with, Owen had compelled her to give up 
 dancing in public, and, to a certain extent, had weaned 
 her from the low haunts that she would still willingly 
 have frequented. There was an easy excuse for this 
 Bibi's friends might be on the look-out for Zelie and 
 constitute themselves a danger. 
 
 Instead, Owen had taken her to smart restaurants, 
 he had driven with her in the Bois, he had shown him- 
 self with her in the stalls of theatres on first nights 
 when tout Paris was gathered together. She had 
 aroused some attention by her bizarre appearance at 
 once attractive and repellent her thin pixyish face and 
 her lithe figure which she had the instinctive talent of 
 draping to the best advantage. Zelie had felt herself 
 marked out for observation and had taken pleasure in 
 the fact. So she was absorbing knowledge, learning 
 her strength, realising the dominion that women may 
 hold over men she who had been content to yield her- 
 self to the whims of a Bibi Coupe-vide and had 
 imagined that this was all in the ordained order of 
 things ! 
 
 It was Owen who had insisted upon their marriage. 
 The proposal had seemed absurd to her, and she had 
 scoffed at it. But Owen was determined. He believed 
 that by marriage alone could he make this fierce, un- 
 tamed creature, who had fascinated him so strangely, 
 really his own. Until the ceremony had been per- 
 formed he was in constant dread lest she should weary 
 and take herself out of his life as suddenly as she had 
 come into it and this, perhaps, even before he had 
 transferred her likeness to the canvas upon which now 
 he set such store. For his picture, "The Chamois
 
 26 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Hunter," had come to mean much to him. He saw for 
 himself that it was a masterpiece. 
 
 It was upon the picture that he relied for funds 
 when the remains of his meagre patrimony had been 
 expended. But the money had flown quicker than 
 even he had anticipated. The situation threatened to 
 grow acute when that strange letter, with its stranger 
 proposal, from his aunt in England reached him. 
 When, in company with Robin, he left Paris for Sel- 
 wood Manor, he had handed over to Zelie practically 
 all that remained to him. It seemed quite a large sum 
 to the girl, and she accepted it joyfully enough. 
 
 She had been given an address in London to which 
 to write, but Zeiie was too illiterate to care to put 
 pen to paper without special need. Owen, however, 
 had written three or four times, wild passionate letters 
 in each of which he proclaimed his anxiety to return 
 to Paris, though he gave no hint of when that return 
 might be ; also he vouchsafed no information as to his 
 doings in England. 
 
 Zelie was of a fiercely jealous disposition. It was in 
 her blood blood that had in it some remote touch of 
 the gipsy, Paris gutter-born as she was. Utterly with- 
 out morals, she yet had the instinct to strike if she felt 
 that her lover's affections were being alienated from 
 herself. In her heart she did not blame Bibi Coupe- 
 vide because he had vowed to kill her it was nature, 
 as she understood it. 
 
 It was partly jealousy which had brought her from 
 Versailles to Paris. She was more than a little sus- 
 picious of what this journey to England might mean. 
 Owen and Robin had spoken so mysteriously together 
 in English, of which Zelie hardly understood a word. 
 There was that photograph, too she was not at all 
 sure that it really belonged to Robin. He may have
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 27 
 
 lied about it Zelie always lied herself when she deemed 
 it to her interest. Could it be that Owen meant to 
 desert her now that the picture was finished to desert 
 her after forcing her to give up her means of regular 
 livelihood? Dared he do so? She set her little white 
 sharp teeth. Dared he? 
 
 And so it was that jealousy as well as the desire 
 for a few days' freedom brought her one afternoon 
 to Owen's studio in the Rue Voltaire, the studio which 
 adjoined his tastefully furnished, if small, appartement. 
 The concierge, a garrulous old fellow, particularly 
 proud of his knowledge of English, was glad to see 
 her and conducted her upstairs. 
 
 "And monsieur," he remarked, when, at Zelie's in- 
 vitation, he had followed her into the little salon which 
 opened directly upon the studio, "when does madame 
 expect that monsieur will return?" 
 
 Zelie shook her head impatiently. She didn't know. 
 She had come, she explained, to look for a letter which 
 her husband had left in his escritoire. 
 
 This was, in fact, the object of her visit. She had 
 noticed on the evening before Owen's departure that 
 he had hastily thrust some papers away in a drawer 
 and had refused to give her any explanation of them. 
 She had made up her mind to look into the matter, 
 and she had invited M. Blaize, the concierge, to accom- 
 pany her in case his knowledge of English might be 
 requisitioned. She had no sense of pride whatever. 
 
 Blaize continued to chatter while Zelie opened the 
 escritoire with one of her own keys she had already 
 discovered that it would fit. The men would be coming 
 in the next day, he announced, to remove the famous 
 picture to the Salon. Did madame know that mon- 
 sieur had already found a purchaser? So, at least,
 
 28 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Blaize had heard. A large sum, too Blaize swelled 
 with the pride of reflected glory. 
 
 "Read this to me, M. Blaize." Zelie cut short the 
 worthy man's harangue by handing him a letter writ- 
 ten on thin paper. "It is in English ; translate it." 
 
 Blaize adjusted his spectacle:, and moved to the light 
 of the window. Then, not without difficulty, he spelt 
 out the letter, while Zelie stood, palpitating with ex- 
 citement, by his side. 
 
 Her fears were realised. It was not long before that 
 fact was abundantly clear. The letter was one written 
 by Owen's aunt in response to that in which he had 
 announced his acceptance of her proposal and his al- 
 most immediate arrival at Selwood Manor with his 
 friend Robin Clithero. 
 
 "You shall receive a warm welcome, Nephew 
 Owen," the old lady had written, "both from me and 
 from Lavender, and I only live now in the hope that 
 you and she may love each other love and marry." 
 
 Zelie waited to hear no more. She snatched the 
 letter from the hand of the astonished concierge and 
 gave free vent to an outburst of uncontrollable pas- 
 sion. As Bibi Coupe-vide had threatened her, so now 
 she hurled menaces at Owen's head. Her language 
 was as vile, as lurid, as that of which the Apache had 
 made use. She was transformed all at once into a 
 fury, the humanity in her absorbed by the sheerly 
 animal. 
 
 "// me lache, le gredin" she gasped, as the horrified 
 Blaize, after a vain effort to appease her, backed out 
 of the room. "He means to desert me to marry an 
 English girl. Ah ah, it was she of the photograph 
 I guessed it from the first. A pink-and-white faced 
 doll! But wait, my friend, wait. You are reckoning 
 without Zelie."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 29 
 
 The spirit of destruction was upon her. She seized 
 a fine Chinese vase that stood upon a pedestal close 
 at hand and hurled it to the floor. "But wait," she 
 repeated, fiercely, "only wait, my good Owen. Eng- 
 land is not far away. I can follow you yes, I, Zelie. 
 To-morrow I go to find you. And to-morrow prends 
 garde see to yourself." 
 
 She stood a moment erect, her hand clenched as 
 though, indeed, her fingers held a dagger. "To-mor- 
 row," she repeated slowly. "I am not of those whom 
 one deserts. You shall learn it, M. mon man. See to 
 yourself, for you will have need."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THERE was no suggestion of tears in Zelie's eyes as 
 she paraded the length of the little salon with the 
 threatening stride of a caged beast. 
 
 She thrust aside anything that intruded itself in her 
 way. A little table, set out with fragile ornaments, 
 soon followed the way of the vase; she trod broken 
 fragments of glass and china under her feet; she had 
 the desire, in her mood of wild destruction to break, 
 tear, or crush everything that came within the reach 
 of her cruel white hands. Did they not belong to him, 
 these things? 
 
 Suddenly she paused. The door of the studio, 
 draped by a crimson Eastern curtain, stood partially 
 open, and, through it, she had just caught sight of the 
 picture upon its easel the picture which was to make 
 Owen Mayne's name and fortune. To-morrow it 
 would be packed up and transferred to the Salon had 
 not Blaize said so? The woman's scarlet lips parted 
 in a vicious, menacing smile as a thought flashed 
 through her brain. Ah, it was well that she had come 
 to-day ? 
 
 Revenge! Why, she need not even wait till to-mor- 
 row to begin her revenge. It was in her power to 
 strike a blow at once here and now! 
 
 She tore the curtain aside, digging her fingers, with 
 their pointed nails, ruthlessly into its delicate fabric, 
 and flung into the studio. 
 
 It was in semi-obscurity, for the red blind was 
 30
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 31 
 
 drawn over the broad sloping skylight. Zelie went 
 straight to this and attempted to manipulate the cord, 
 but failed to do so, and very soon abandoned the ef- 
 fort. It did not matter: there was light enough for 
 her purpose. Besides, the gloom was red-tinted, and 
 it accorded with her mood. 
 
 She stepped up to the picture the picture which, 
 covered with a cloth, stood upon its easel close to the 
 little platform where she had been wont to pose. There 
 was a chair upon the platform, over the back of which 
 hung a skirt and bodice; they belonged to her, and 
 she remembered that she had not troubled to put them 
 away. In the half-darkness they appeared huge and 
 grotesque, like a doubled-up and headless figure. 
 
 Zelie tore the cloth from the picture, stood a moment 
 gazing at it, her teeth clenched, then drew up a high 
 Moorish stool, and was about to seat herself when she 
 noticed that Owen had left one of his pipes lying upon 
 it. He was as careless of his belongings as she. Zelie 
 muttered an ugly word, and swept the pipe to the 
 floor. 
 
 Then, perched upon the stool, she resumed her ex- 
 amination of the picture. Her eyes glowed opalescent 
 as she realised that here before her, at her mercy, was 
 the work that Owen prized so highly, the work into 
 which he had painted so much of himself the child of 
 his brain. 
 
 She could see it quite distinctly now, her eyes accus- 
 timed to the gloom. There sat the siren herself 
 upon a narrow ledge of rock, white against the lower- 
 ing blackness of the crags, her legs hanging over the 
 precipice, her shapely arms entwined in the rich masses 
 of black hair, from out of which peered the little, cruel 
 face, so evil, and yet so alluring. 
 
 The siren's eyes were turned up to the Chamois
 
 32 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Hunter, whose path she barred. He was a strong, 
 broad-shouldered fellow, clad in typical costume. The 
 expression upon his good-natured face was one of sur- 
 prise and wonder. Here, amid mountain fastnesses, 
 at a bend of the way, he had encountered this mar- 
 vellously white and tempting vision; his quarry had 
 escaped him; the chamois could be dimly seen about 
 to leap from a craggy height in the far background 
 but he no longer thought of the chamois. 
 
 Zelie had never read into the picture any more than 
 she could actually see. It had no inner meaning for 
 her. But now, as she gazed, some dim perception of 
 the metaphor filtered into her brain. That siren was 
 herself woman exemplified by her and it was in her 
 power as with the spirit in the picture to lure man 
 from his aims and ambitions, and to bring him to his 
 knees before her. For her sake at her bidding he 
 would throw himself into the gulf that yawned at his 
 feet shatter himself upon the stones over which she 
 could float unharmed. 
 
 These things Zelie realised faintly, but she gave her- 
 self no time to consider them. All she cared about 
 now was that this was Owen's work, and that upon it 
 he fastened his future hopes. Had he himself not told 
 her so? 
 
 Well, there should, at least, be an end to these hopes. 
 Of so much she could be assured. Zelie rose from her 
 stool and crossed the studio to a little cabinet where 
 she knew that Owen kept all manner of articles which 
 might come in useful for his painting; among them 
 she had often noticed a fine, sharp knife of Spanish 
 make, with a silver scabbard this would serve her 
 purpose excellently well. 
 
 Armed with the knife, she returned to the picture. 
 Without another moment of hesitation she struck
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 33 
 
 straight at the heart of the Chamois Hunter. There 
 was a vague idea at the back of her brain that Owen 
 had represented himself in this figure. The knife 
 pierced the canvas, and Zelie gave utterance to a low 
 snarl almost like that of a wild beast as she felt the 
 blade sink in. 
 
 Then, yielding once more to the frenzy of her pas- 
 sion, she struck out right and left, rending the picture 
 into strips, destroying in a minute of time the work 
 which, fruit of inspiration as it was, could never be 
 restored. 
 
 "This for you, Owen Mayne ami Phisto Monsieur 
 my husband!" she cried, as she seized the rent edges 
 of the canvas and tore them still further asunder with 
 her fingers. "You have not done with Zelie yet. You 
 won her love, and now you shall know that she can 
 hate as well. Does it hurt that I have torn your 
 .picture? Ah, but it is nothing nothing to the pain 
 you shall bear!" 
 
 Zelie was about to throw the knife carelessly aside, 
 then she paused and thrust it into the bosom of her 
 dress. There was a little red paint, she noticed, upon 
 the scabbard, and it looked like blood. 
 
 She had grown calmer now. She remained a short 
 while longer, hovering about the studio and the other 
 rooms of the appartement, picking up anything of 
 value that she could find and that could easily be 
 packed into a little hand-bag; then she carefully shut 
 the door behind her and made her way downstairs. 
 
 M. Blaize was in his office by the hall door, and he 
 poked his head out when she appeared. 
 
 "You are going, Madame Zelie?" 
 
 She turned her head as she slipped through the small 
 aperture in the great wooden door, the door that 
 opened upon a paved court. "When the men come for
 
 34 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 M. Mayne's picture to-morrow, bid them take great 
 care, M. Blaize," she said suavely. "I should grieve 
 if any harm befell it." 
 
 The concierge nodded. He watched the slim figure 
 as it receded leisurely down the street. 
 
 Zelie had not disappeared many minutes when 
 Blaize, still standing by the door, was accosted by a 
 young man of distinctly unprepossessing appearance. 
 He wore a red muffler loosely knotted about his throat, 
 and his peaked cap was drawn low over his eyes. 
 
 "M. Mayne the artist does he live here ?" 
 
 Blaize hesitated before he replied. He did not like 
 the stranger's manner of speech. However, it was the 
 concierge's duty to give information discreetly. 
 
 "M. Mayne is not now in Paris. He is in England." 
 
 "Ah !" The fellow nonchalantly kicked at the kerb. 
 "And Mile. Zelie a friend of M. Mayne. You know 
 her?" 
 
 Blaize had not been without experience of the type 
 of man with whom he was speaking. He had been 
 brought into unpleasing relations with other Apaches. 
 Furthermore, nature had not endowed him with the 
 quality of courage. He had an overwhelming desire, 
 therefore, to bring the conversation to an end as 
 speedily as possible. 
 
 "Mile. Zelie is not in Paris, either." 
 
 "She, too, is in England?" 
 
 "Yes." It was the quickest way out of the diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "Give me the address." The words were practically 
 a command. 
 
 Blaize spread out his fleshy hands helplessly. "I 
 don't know it I give you my word." 
 
 The Apache drew a step nearer. There was menace 
 in his tone. "That's a lie. You must have an address
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 35 
 
 for forwarding letters. Give it to me. Write it 
 down." 
 
 Blaize was too timorous to resist. He remembered 
 that former occasion. There had been murder done 
 then. It was another concierge a friend of his own. 
 With a shaking hand he took a scrap of paper and a 
 pencil and wrote: "The Delphic Club, London." It 
 was the only address that Owen had given him. 
 
 Bibi Coupe-vide free once more snatched the 
 paper from the concierge's hand, and, after glancing at 
 it, thrust it into his pocket. Then with a muttered 
 "Merci!" and a surly nod he lounged away. 
 
 Over a glass of absinthe at a neighbouring cafe he 
 scrutinised the writing again. "London," he muttered 
 to himself. "Well, there's Alphonse Lereux settled 
 comfortably in London. Alphonse will be delighted 
 to see his old friend Bibi, and he's been making his 
 fortune, they say." There was an evil smile on the 
 man's lips as the thought flashed through his brain. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, emptying his glass at a gulp. 
 "Paris isn't healthy for Bibi just now. There are too 
 many of Jules's friends about to say nothing of Jules 
 himself. A change of scene is what's wanted. To 
 London be it and look to yourself, Zelie, my dear 
 when I find you !"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ZELIE left Paris upon the following day, taking the 
 train for Calais and London, and, for the first time in 
 her life, turning her back upon her native country. 
 
 Her first intention had been to travel the same night 
 at once but it had been necessary for her to return 
 to Versailles in order to get Owen's letters. She was 
 not certain if he was in London or at the house of his 
 aunt in the country he had certainly spoken of the 
 country, but, on the other hand, she believed that he 
 had written from London; at least it was certainly a 
 London address with which he headed his letters. She 
 verified this later as the Delphic Club which meant 
 very little to her, and did not strike her as insufficient. 
 
 There was no address at all upon the letter which 
 she had carried off from the studio; it had been torn 
 off, evidently by the young man himself. 
 
 She wanted money, too, and to pack up her clothes 
 and other necessities of travel. She had no intention 
 of undertaking a journey without providing for her 
 personal comfort. All of which rendered the delay 
 necessary, a delay which, though she was blissfully un- 
 conscious of the fact, saved her from a very unpleasant 
 meeting for Bibi Coupe-vide only preceded her across 
 the Channel by a few hours. Bibi, however, was very 
 far from Zelie's thoughts just then. She had not even 
 realised that he had come out of prison. 
 
 Zelie found, on reaching Versailles, that Berthe Le- 
 comte and her husband were away from home. This 
 
 36
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 37 
 
 did not matter much. Zelie packed her things, taking 
 all the money she had, and returned to Paris, putting 
 up at a small and, truth to tell, rather disreputable 
 hotel near the Gare du Nord, the proprietress of which 
 was an acquaintance of hers. 
 
 The journey was comparatively uneventful. Cer- 
 tainly there was something of a scene at Cannon Street 
 when Zelie, imagining that she had arrived at her des- 
 tination, had got out on the platform with her belong- 
 ings and had only realised her mistake just as the train 
 was about to start once more. She had been bundled 
 back breathless into the carriage, and had sunk down 
 upon the seat muttering imprecations, in the coarsest 
 Montmartre slang, upon everything that was foreign 
 and English. 
 
 There was a respectable British matron, with an 
 insipid-looking daughter, travelling in the same com- 
 partment, and they had cast horrified eyes upon her, 
 guessing instinctively that her remarks were not good 
 to hear ; it was, indeed, lucky for them that they could 
 not understand. 
 
 They had left the train at Waterloo, and Zelie was 
 alone when she reached Charing Cross. She stared 
 up and down the long platform, and realised nothing 
 but bustle and confusion, all seen dimly through a haze 
 of fog which had penetrated the station. 
 
 "Is this London?" She ventured to ask at last of 
 a red-bearded porter, who stared at her for a moment, 
 and then, grasping the significance of the question, re- 
 sponded gruffly: "Yes, miss, this is London, Charing 
 Cross. You get out here. Tout-le-monde-descend." 
 He spoke the words slowly and with emphasis, proud 
 of his knowledge of the French language. "Shall I 
 take your luggage, miss? Where are you going to?" 
 
 Zelie had not the remotest idea. She had not given
 
 38 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 the matter a thought. She was utterly unaccustomed 
 to travelling, had never been more than fifty miles 
 away from Paris in her life. And now she was far too 
 dazed to give any serious consideration to the question. 
 
 In the meanwhile the porter had seized her hand- 
 bag, and was apparently making off with it. Zelie fol- 
 lowed him along the platform, protesting loudly. 
 Luckily, at that moment help appeared in the shape of 
 a liveried interpreter, who quietly took the case in hand. 
 With his assistance Zelie was initiated into the mys- 
 teries of the Custom House, her luggage was passed 
 and finally taken charge of by a porter from a neigh- 
 bouring hotel, Zelie having explained that she had no 
 choice in the matter, and did not mind where she put 
 up for the night. 
 
 She was allotted a room upon the first floor, but in 
 a far corner. It seemed to her as if she walked down 
 interminable passages and corridors to reach it. She 
 had never before been in a large and important hotel. 
 The bustle and movement confused her made her 
 head swim. 
 
 She was most utterly out of her element and vaguely 
 realised the fact. As was usual with her, she had 
 acted wholly upon impulse, and had no definite plan 
 whatever in her mind. She had vowed to find Owen. 
 In many ways in her ignorance and lack of knowl- 
 edge of the world outside her own sphere she was 
 like a child. She was only old in vice. 
 
 After an hour's rest, however, she felt refreshed and 
 her spirits revived. She changed her dress, selecting 
 a walking frock of grey, which suited her and which 
 Owen had always admired. She paid a good deal of 
 attention to her hair, fluffing it up over her ears in 
 the way that he liked to see it, and her hat was one 
 which he himself had selected for her.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 39 
 
 Owen, who had an artistic eye for what was correct 
 and appropriate in a woman's dress, had been instru- 
 mental in training her against the exaggeration which 
 she might otherwise have affected. His love of the 
 outre had prevented him from attempting to refine her 
 in other ways, but, as far as appearance went, Zelie 
 could hold her own. 
 
 Never in her life, she told herself, had she felt so 
 utterly alone as now. It was this that kept the fire of 
 her rage against Owen aflame. She stared out of 
 window at a narrow, dismal street with a strip of 
 leaden sky showing dimly through the mist, and her 
 heart yearned for the lights and the laughter of her 
 beloved cafes. She craved for absinthe, too. 
 
 But she had her work to do whatever it might 
 prove to be and so, with a grim smile playing upon 
 her red lips, she once more secreted about her person 
 ,the silver-mounted dagger, and made her way, not 
 without difficulty, downstairs to the hall. Here there 
 was the bustle of a recently arrived train, and Zelie was 
 thrust that way and this before she ventured to make 
 an inquiry at the office, where there was a young lady 
 who spoke French. 
 
 She asked how she could best reach the Delphic 
 Club, and was advised, since she spoke no English, to 
 take a taxi-cab. 
 
 It was only a short drive, but Zelie, gazing out of 
 window, found little to admire in what she saw. Where 
 were the cafes, with their brilliantly lighted windows, 
 their rows of little tables, their crowds of absinthe and 
 beer drinking customers? Everyone seemed busy and 
 in a hurry, even at this hour of the evening. She 
 imagined that the Strand must be a quite unimportant 
 thoroughfare. And she felt lonely, terribly lonely. 
 
 She had but little time for reflection, however, for
 
 40 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 very shortly the taxi-cab turned into a quieter street 
 and drew up at a lighted doorway. 
 
 Zelie descended from the cab and walked boldly in. 
 There were several men in the hall, who stared dis- 
 creetly at this feminine apparition, but Zelie, holding 
 her head high, addressed herself without hesitation to 
 the hall porter. 
 
 "I wish to see Mr. Owen Mayne." 
 
 She spoke in French, and the porter stared, failing 
 to grasp her meaning. This was a kind of visitor to 
 whom he was unaccustomed. Zelie repeated her re- 
 quest in a slightly louder tone. 
 
 Luckily she found an interpreter in the person of a 
 good-looking young man with closely-cut fair hair and 
 clean-shaven face. He wore evening dress. 
 
 "Can I be of any service?" he inquired, addressing 
 her in her own language. "I'm afraid the porter does 
 not understand you." 
 
 Zelie was grateful. "I wish to see Mr. Owen Mayne," 
 she repeated for the third time. This is the address 
 which he gave me the Delphic Club." 
 
 She spoke the words with a queer little lisp, and the 
 Englishman raised his eyebrows with a semi-humorous 
 expression. His keen eyes were scrutinising the girl's 
 face, too he could not quite make up his mind whether 
 she were repulsively ugly or astonishingly attractive. 
 
 He spoke a few words to the porter. "I'm afraid 
 Mr. Mayne is not in the club," he said then. "The 
 porter tells me, in fact, that Mr. Mayne is not at present 
 in London." 
 
 "Ah ! Then he is in the country with his aunt," re- 
 turned Zelie. "I shall have to go to him there. Will 
 you kindly ask could they give me his address?" 
 
 The Englishman raised his brows. This was really 
 a very persistent young woman. There was a danger-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 41 
 
 ous glitter in her eyes, too. He was rather inclined to 
 think that Mr. Owen Mayne, whom he did not know 
 even by repute, was in for troublous times. 
 
 He spoke to the porter again, then turned to the girl 
 with a smile. "I'm afraid they can't oblige you with 
 what you require," he explained. "It's against the rules 
 of the club." 
 
 "They won't give me the address!" Zelie's jaw fell 
 and her eyes flashed with indignation. This was an un- 
 expected set-back, and she was inclined to look upon 
 it as a plot specially devised against herself. 
 
 The young Englishman explained further. "It is 
 not customary to give members' addresses. Of course, 
 any letters are immediately forwarded if a request has 
 been made for them. I understand that Mr. Mayne 
 makes but small use of the club, that he is, indeed, only 
 very rarely in England." 
 
 , Zelie was asking herself what she was to do. She 
 was tapping the floor impatiently with the toe of her 
 narrow boot. The action aroused the attention of the 
 young man. What remarkably small feet she had, and 
 what a strangely lithe figure. He was beginning to 
 think that she was quite attractive; the type was new 
 to him, and novelty had a wonderful charm for Stephen 
 Aldis. But what fierce eyes and cruel lips! 
 
 It was at this moment, just as Zelie appeared dis- 
 posed to give way to an outbreak of wrath, that an 
 interruption occurred in the person of a big, broad- 
 shouldered man, who wore a black beard, and who for 
 some moments had been scrutinising Zelie from under 
 peculiarly heavy brows. He had emerged from a room 
 on the ground floor, and was putting a cloak on over 
 his evening dress, evidently with the intention of going 
 out, when the little scene that was going on by the 
 porter's box had attracted his attention.
 
 42 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Unless I'm very much mistaken," he said now, his 
 eyes still fixed upon Zelie, "I'm acquainted with this 
 young lady." He smiled, his white teeth gleaming be- 
 hind the heavy beard. Then he addressed himself di- 
 rectly to the girl, speaking in fluent French. ''Isn't 
 it Mile. Zelie of the Florian?" he inquired. "Yes, I'm 
 sure it is." 
 
 He extended a large, strong hand, which Zelie took 
 readily enough. She had a vague recollection of hav- 
 ing seen this big Englishman with his black beard and 
 his bronzed cheeks before, though she could not recall 
 the circumstances of their acquaintance. 
 
 "Don't you remember?" he said, "I met you several 
 times at the Florian, when I went there to see my friend 
 Dubois, who runs the show? And the last time I ran 
 across you was at Le Moulin de la Bonne Fortune last 
 Shrove Tuesday. You were with my friend Mayne, I 
 recollect, and he looked daggers at me because I dared 
 to claim your acquaintance. So I made myself scarce 
 pretty sharply, you bet." The man laughed broadly; 
 he was possessed of peculiarly easy manners, and gave 
 Zelie the impression of belonging to the Bohemian 
 class to which she was accustomed. His presence, the 
 tone of his voice, seemed to charm away the sense of 
 loneliness which had been oppressing her it was like 
 coming across an oasis in the desert. 
 
 "I remember," she exclaimed. "Yes, I remember 
 quite well. But I have forgotten your name." 
 
 "I'm Lord Martyn," he said ; then he laughed again. 
 "Queer thing, eh? You wouldn't believe it of me. 
 But it's a fact. However, all my friends call me Harry, 
 too, if you like." 
 
 Zelie remembered now with something of a thrill. 
 This Milor Anglais had been introduced to her at the 
 disreputable little cafe where she had been wont to per-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 43 
 
 form, and she had been told that he was immensely 
 wealthy a millionaire. She had noticed him in the 
 theatre, before he had actually spoken to her, on more 
 than one occasion. She had fancied he stared at her. 
 He was eccentric, she had been told ; but then, are not 
 all the English eccentric? 
 
 "You disappeared altogether after that night," Lord 
 Martyn continued. "What the deuce became of you? 
 I went to the Florian, because I had an idea in my 
 mind in which you were concerned. But they couldn't, 
 or wouldn't, tell me anything. And now what are you 
 doing in England, eh here at the Delphic, of all 
 places? Is it that rascal Aldis who has brought you? 
 I'm surprised at you, Steve." 
 
 He slapped the other man heartily on the back. 
 But Steve Aldis hastened to repudiate the suggestion. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't claim acquaintance with this 
 lady," he said. "She came to the club to ask for a 
 man named Mayne, who doesn't happen to be here. 
 I don't know him, so couldn't help her." 
 
 "Owen Mayne? That's the chap I spoke of just 
 now," returned the big man. "I didn't know he be- 
 longed to the Delphic, for he was always a fixture in 
 Paris. But he's a friend of mine and ought to be 
 pretty grateful to me, for I did him a good turn quite 
 lately." He chuckled at the recollection. "I was the 
 means," he continued, "of bringing him and his aunt, 
 dear old Mrs. Alderson, of Selwood Manor, together. 
 And that means a lot for Owen Mayne, I can tell you." 
 
 Selwood Manor! That was the name of the place 
 which Owen had mentioned as his destination and 
 which had escaped Zelie's memory. She had learnt 
 what she wanted to know in most unexpected fashion. 
 And now some intuition within her told her that she
 
 44 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 must be discreet and not betray the purpose of her visit 
 to England. 
 
 "My own place is near Selwood, within five miles of 
 it," Lord Martyn resumed, "so I often see Mrs. Alder- 
 son, who is the dearest old lady on the face of the 
 earth." Here he broke off suddenly and cast a sharp 
 glance at the girl from under his bushy brows. "But 
 what's the idea in asking for Owen Mayne?" he in- 
 quired. "What do you want of him, eh ?" 
 
 Zelie could lie readily. She lied now. It was evident 
 to her that, if she betrayed her real purpose, her true 
 relationship to Owen Mayne, she might well be re- 
 garded with disfavour. 
 
 "I came to England to look for an engagement," 
 she said readily. "I thought a change would be agree- 
 able. And Monsieur Mayne, he promised that he 
 would help me." 
 
 "Ah, that's it, is it?" replied the man, with some 
 relief in his tone. "Well, if it comes to that, I expect 
 I can do more for you than Mayne could." He glanced 
 at the clock. "But, look here," he resumed, "you'd 
 better come along with me and have some dinner. As 
 it happens, I'm free to-night. Then we can talk it 
 over. What do you say?" 
 
 Zelie eagerly accepted the invitation. Lord Martyn 
 turned to the younger man. "Will you come, too, 
 Steve?" he asked. 
 
 Stephen Aldis hesitated. "I had an engagement," 
 he faltered. Then his eyes met those of Zelie. "Yes, 
 I shall be very happy to join you," he said.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IT was not yet eight o'clock, and so, a sudden inspira- 
 tion that it would be the right thing seizing her, Zelie 
 paused before stepping into the motor brougham, which 
 was awaiting Lord Martyn, and asked whether it might 
 not be possible to return to the hotel first in order 
 that she might change into an evening gown. 
 
 She had an intuitive feeling that this meeting would 
 be fraught with great consequences. Her brain worked 
 quickly within its groove and she was naturally 
 shrewd. The English Milor was a man of great 
 wealth; at the Florian, as she remembered now, they 
 had spoken of his generosity, as well as of his eccen- 
 tricity, with bated breath. And he was palpably in- 
 terested in her; she was sure of that, too, both from 
 what he had said and by the way he had looked at her 
 out of those keen grey eyes of his. 
 
 And so she wanted to look her best. She was 
 heartily thankful that she had not left Paris in a hurry, 
 but had had the good sense to pack up her most be- 
 coming gowns. 
 
 Lord Martyn assented with a smile. "It will be 
 ever so much better," he said. "Not that I mind for 
 myself I once took a flowergirl with a red shawl over 
 her shoulders to lunch at the 'Regent' but since it 
 will be your first appearance in public in London, Zelie, 
 you're bound to be stared at." He knew from experi- 
 ence that any woman would be stared at who happened 
 to be in his company. "If you've got a really smart 
 
 45
 
 46 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 frock," he added, "we'll go to the Pallanza. That 
 will be a good opening." 
 
 And so the little party of three drove to the hotel, 
 where Zelie left the two men to discuss aperitifs in the 
 lounge while she found her way, not without con- 
 siderable difficulty, to her bedroom. She had noticed, 
 with delight, as she passed with her companions 
 through the hall, that they were recognised, and that 
 she herself appeared to be regarded with new respect. 
 
 She laughed to herself as she allowed her grey walk- 
 ing dress to slip to the floor, and laughed again 
 triumphantly, as she stood up, bare-shouldered, to gaze 
 at her reflection in the mirror upon the dressing-table. 
 
 "Queen of the Apaches," she muttered, " a siren of 
 the mountains what next? Who can say?" Owen 
 Mayne and her revenge had no part in her thoughts 
 at that moment. 
 
 But presently she turned petulantly away from the 
 mirror. There was a flaw in the glass, and it seemed 
 to distort the face that looked back at her. It was as 
 if the red lips sneered. 
 
 After a few minutes she moved to the window, and, 
 drawing the blind aside, gazed down into the street. 
 It was as if she obeyed some irresistible impulse, for 
 she had already gauged the unattractiveness of the 
 scene without. 
 
 Narrow though the street was upon which she looked 
 there was yet considerable traffic in it. Zelie gazed 
 idly up and down. The fog had cleared away some- 
 what, but thin rain was falling and the pavement was 
 damp and greasy. There was a brilliantly lighted 
 tobacconist's shop just opposite, and beyond that several 
 dark houses. 
 
 It was in the shadow of one of these that Zelie of a
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 47 
 
 sudden caught sight of a figure that had a strangely 
 familiar aspect. She drew a deep, panting breath. 
 
 "Mon Dieu," she muttered, gripping at her throat 
 with nervous fingers. "Bibi! But it isn't possible 
 it isn't possible !" 
 
 The man stood there motionless, unaffected by the 
 movement about him. Zelie could almost imagine that 
 he was gazing up at her window. It was almost as if 
 he held her eyes with his. 
 
 Of course, it was an accidental resemblance or so 
 Zelie told herself but straightway and without volun- 
 tary effort her thoughts flew back to a sordid garret, 
 and it seemed to her of a sudden as if there were a 
 sharp pain in her shoulder where once she had been 
 struck by the knife of her Apache lover. 
 
 "A Bibi pour la vie." The tattoo marks upon her 
 arm, the bare white arm that held the blind back, 
 sprang into aggressive prominence. For life! And 
 Bibi had threatened her she could see his face now 
 as, in court, he had poured out imprecations upon her 
 head. 
 
 Supposing only supposing Bibi Coupe-vide should 
 be following her as she was following Owen Mayne 
 Bibi, with vengeance in his heart and a sharp knife 
 hidden somewhere about his person! 
 
 Zelie allowed the blind to flap back to its place. 
 "It's a delusion," she told herself. 
 
 But Zelie was wrong. It was no delusion. It was 
 Bibi himself whom she had seen, though he, of course, 
 was unconscious of her eyes fixed upon him. 
 
 Bibi had loitered all day about the Delphic Club 
 on the chance of meeting Owen Mayne. He had been 
 afforded no information at the club itself, had, indeed, 
 been treated with considerable abruptness, and, un-
 
 48 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 fortunately for him, he could not apply the methods 
 which had been so successful with M. Blaize. 
 
 And so it had come about that, unseen, he was 
 witness of Zelie's visit to the club. He had watched 
 her departure too, and had tracked the brougham, 
 the progress of which was slow, through the traffic to 
 the hotel. 
 
 Bibi Coupe-vide had struck the trail. But Zelie, as 
 she selected her smartest gown, laughed to herself 
 at the delusion which, for a moment, had frightened 
 her. No in spite of that mark upon her arm she was 
 rid of Bibi for ever. So she assured herself in her 
 ignorance.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "I DON'T know what to make of her. I've never seen 
 anyone quite like her before and I've had experience 
 of women too." 
 
 So spoke Stephen Aldis. He was an actor by pro- 
 fession, and had achieved something of a name as 
 "juvenile lead." His good looks had made him a 
 great favourite with women, and he was always inun- 
 dated with letters from feminine admirers. So he only 
 spoke the bare truth when he claimed a knowledge of 
 the sex. 
 
 Lord Martyn and Stephen Aldis were sitting in the 
 lounge of the hotel, waiting for Zelie. She had already 
 been the best part of half an hour changing her dress, 
 but that was only what the two men had expected, 
 and, after all, there was no hurry. 
 
 "She is uncommon," mused Lord Martyn, pensively 
 sipping his aperitif, a remarkable and potent concoc- 
 tion of his own invention. "Uncommon is perhaps 
 not altogether a strong enough word. One might say 
 that there is something hardly human about her." 
 
 "Yes, I feel that," returned the other, bending for- 
 ward to light a fresh cigarette. "My first impression 
 was very distinct I told myself I had never seen so 
 repellent a creature. But, then, when she looks at 
 you out of those black, shining eyes of hers you feel 
 magnetised, as it were. And then her lips have you 
 noticed her lips, Harry?" 
 
 Lord Martyn stroked his black beard with a hand 
 49
 
 50 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 that was white and strong. "Look here, young man," 
 he said gravely, "you'd best not think too much of 
 Mile. Zelie's eyes and lips. They are dangerous. 
 Those lips of hers by themselves are like a red danger 
 signal. You're a man of experience, and a word to 
 the wise it's an old saw, but true." He blew a cloud 
 of smoke from his mouth and stared for a moment at 
 the long black cigar he held between his fingers. Lord 
 Martyn's cigars were always the terror of his friends. 
 
 "Do you know why that woman is different to 
 others?" he resumed, after a brief pause. "Do you 
 know what it is that she lacks?" 
 
 For a moment Aldis had been inclined to resent being 
 preached to but he knew his friend's outspoken way. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "She lacks the one thing that makes human creatures 
 human," was Martyn's reply. "She hasn't got a soul. 
 She's like a wild animal in the shape of a woman 
 or perhaps a snake. In Paris they called her Zelie la 
 Couleuvre, though I expect that was because of her 
 lithe and subtle body. You should see her dance, 
 Steve I tell you she writhes from feet to head, and 
 as for her arms, when she folds them about her, they 
 are like two clinging serpents. I went to see her night 
 after night at the Florian. She fascinated me. I 
 meant to take her in hand then, but, as I told you, I 
 lost sight of her." 
 
 "It's jolly interesting," said Aldis, "and a woman 
 without a soul is by way of being a novelty, what? 
 You're always discovering queer types, Harry ; it seems 
 to be a speciality of yours. What do you propose to do 
 with Mademoiselle Zelie now you've found her?" 
 
 "Launch her on the English stage, of course," re- 
 sponded Martyn promptly. "I tell you the British 
 public, the staid and Puritan British public, will rise
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 51 
 
 and proclaim her a heaven-born genius. She'll make a 
 fortune for herself and for the theatre that brings her 
 out. Society is craving for a new sensation, and there's 
 a tendency to look for it in the gutter. We are ready 
 to exalt the Apache and the Hooligan. We've seen a 
 lot of imitations but Zelie is the real thing cruel to 
 her finger-tips, without a moral sense about her, reek- 
 ing of the slum, offspring of what and what only 
 Heaven or the devil knows, vicious because vice is 
 her nature. What can Society ask for more than that?" 
 The man spoke with biting sarcasm. "Even Dubois 
 of the Florian gave her a bad character," he went on ; 
 "said she associated with thieves and worse. There 
 was a charming gentleman I saw in her company 
 Bibi something or other a regular Apache. But 
 Zelie has evidently gone up in the world since then. 
 She's been looking about her and learning things. It 
 makes her all the more dangerous for those who can't 
 see behind the veneer." 
 
 "For, in spite of veneer, she hasn't developed a soul," 
 mused Aldis. "I can see that you're right there, 
 Harry." 
 
 "No, and it's just because she hasn't a soul that she 
 will go so far. You mark my words, old fellow, for 
 I know what I'm talking about. I've come across the 
 type before in my wanderings. I've met it in Mexico 
 in the East I've seen it in London. I've recognised 
 it among the highly-born and among the scum of the 
 people. It very rarely comes to the surface, so the 
 world doesn't know of it. As a rule, it dies as it has 
 lived dies, as Zelie might, in some filthy court, in the 
 workhouse, in an asylum for the insane, or perhaps by 
 the knife of one of its fellows. It is women of this 
 type who take to drugs, who commit all manner of 
 secret sin. Put power into the hands of such a one and
 
 52 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 she will ride rough-shod over humanity she will 
 crush it down beneath her cruel heels. That's because 
 she is soulless. But woe betide the woman woe be- 
 tide Zelie if ever a soul is born within her. For I've 
 seen that, too yes, my God, I've seen the tragedy of 
 a new-born soul !" 
 
 Lord Martyn had been speaking with more feeling 
 than he was wont to show. As a rule, he adopted a 
 tone of careless insouciance. 
 
 He was a man who knew the world better than most. 
 He had probed it to its very depths. Wealth had come 
 to him by his own efforts ; he owed nothing to his birth 
 and parentage. 
 
 The inheritance of a title had not seemed even re- 
 motely possible. It had come about through an alto- 
 gether remarkable series of accidents and sudden deaths 
 which, all unexpectedly, placed him in the position of 
 next-of-kin. He was living somewhere in the wilds of 
 Mexico at the time, and there had been considerable 
 difficulty in finding him and bringing him over to 
 England in order that he might claim his rights. That 
 was barely three years ago, and to the cosmopolitan 
 Henry Flint, the builder of his own fortune, it seemed 
 an excellent joke that he, of all people in the world, 
 should be expected to take his place in the midst of a 
 county society that was eminently staid and respectable. 
 Chamney Castle, the ancestral seat of the Martyns, 
 was on the border of Buckinghamshire, and the new 
 baron was, at first, regarded with anything but eyes 
 of favour by the neighbourhood. His reputation had 
 preceded him. 
 
 Born in a miners' camp, he had been left an orphan 
 when little more than a child. He had learnt to face 
 and fight the world at a time when other children were 
 scarcely out of the nursery. Fate had treated him
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 53 
 
 kindly perhaps because he had always scoffed at 
 Fate. He had built up a fortune for himself by devious 
 ways no one knew exactly how, though he had no 
 lack of candour in speaking of himself and his affairs. 
 
 He had ranched in Texas, he had mined in the 
 Yukon, farmed in Canada; he was the hero of a cele- 
 brated "corner" that had shaken Wall Street to its 
 very foundations; there was scarcely a part of the 
 world, civilised and uncivilised, of which he could not 
 discourse from personal acquaintance; he had pene- 
 trated further into the heart of Asia than most ex- 
 plorers; he could adapt himself to his environment in 
 the most remarkable manner, equally at home in the 
 jungle, in the Quartier Latin, and in Pall Mall. 
 
 But he had a fine disregard for the conventions, and 
 was not afraid of proclaiming his unorthodoxy. He 
 shocked his respectable neighbours by his outspoken 
 criticisms of them, as well as by the company he was 
 wont to entertain at Chamney. He had no mind to 
 cover himself with the veneer of artificiality. The 
 most unpardonable sins in Lord Martyn's eyes were 
 cant and humbug. 
 
 As might well be expected, his life had been full of 
 romance. It was hinted that he had a grudge against 
 Society, a grudge which accounted for his attitude of 
 contempt for humanity at large. 
 
 Stephen Aldis emptied his glass. "I see," he said ; 
 "and I think you are right in your deductions, Harry. 
 You usually are. All the same" his eyes narrowed 
 "isn't it a dangerous game that you propose to play ? 
 Someone is bound to be hurt. Isn't it rather like letting 
 loose a caged panther, nourishing a snake in order that 
 it may sting? Hadn't Zelie better go back to her 
 gutter ?" 
 
 "What do I care?" Martyn shrugged his broad
 
 54 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 shoulders. "Society must look to itself. It's a fine 
 sport, my friend, to play with fire. We all love it, 
 grown-up children that we are; you and I are no ex- 
 ception. You're quite ready to improve your ac- 
 quaintance with my snake-woman I can see that." 
 He smiled knowingly and continued: "What we crave 
 for to-day is the new sensation, the something that is 
 unlike anything that has gone before, the bizarre, the 
 unnatural that's what Society demands not only upon 
 the stage, but in everyday life in its very drawing- 
 rooms. So you see, Steve, that if I give Mile. Zelie to 
 the world, the world should be obliged to me." 
 
 He spoke satirically, his white teeth gleaming be- 
 hind his beard. "It's every man for himself, Steve, my 
 boy," he added, "and every woman for herself. The 
 eternal contest. The looker-on has the best of it 
 especially if he can move the pawns." 
 
 At that moment the subject of their conversation 
 appeared in the doorway, and the two men rose quickly 
 and joined her. Zelie had unconsciously dressed her- 
 self to suit the part which they had allotted to her. She 
 wore a demi-toilette, such as she had been accustomed 
 to don when dining out with Owen at some smart 
 restaurant. She had chosen black because Owen had 
 always said that black suited her best. And Owen 
 was an artist. The gown was moulded closely to her 
 form and the bodice scintillated with jet. She wore 
 heavy jet pendants in her ears. Her face, very white 
 and pale in contrast to the black of her dress, peeped 
 out from under a large picture hat, extravagantly 
 adorned with ostrich feathers. 
 
 Lord Martyn gazed at her critically and with appre- 
 ciation. "You'll do," he said, abruptly. Then, as 
 they were about to pass out of the hotel, he laid his 
 hand upon her arm.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 55 
 
 "One moment," he exclaimed. "I think a touch of 
 colour will heighten the effect." 
 
 There was a flower stall by the door and here Lord 
 Martyn purchased a rose in full bloom. It was the 
 colour of blood. He pinned it himself into Zelie's 
 bodice. She smiled as he did so, well pleased.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A TAXI-CAB conveyed them to the famous Cafe Pal- 
 lanza, the smart semi-Bohemian resort where Lord 
 Martyn had elected to dine. It was already so crowded 
 that they would certainly not have been accommodated 
 with a table had not his lordship been well known to 
 the cheery little proprietor a popular character and 
 quite a celebrity in his own way. 
 
 Zelie was excited, pleased with herself, conscious that 
 she was looking at her best this, despite the fatigue 
 of an unwonted journey and the desperate project 
 which had inspired her to leave her beloved Paris. 
 London was no longer a hateful place in her eyes, a 
 city of fog, bustle and confusion. It was in her nature 
 to live in the present, and the present was showing 
 itself to be altogether delightful. 
 
 Never before had she realised so fully the curious 
 magnetism of her personality; never before had she 
 received such open homage. She was keen-witted 
 enough to understand that she was not in the company 
 of ordinary, every-day kind of people; that fact was 
 self-evident, if only from the manner in which they 
 were received at the restaurant. 
 
 Everyone had turned to look at them, and Zelie was 
 happily aware that she was the centre of attraction. 
 Such smart women, too, and such distinguished-looking 
 men! How different it all was to the low cafes and 
 brasseries which had been her haunt not so many 
 
 56
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 57 
 
 months ago; she had never set foot inside a smart 
 restaurant until she had gone there with Owen. But 
 even then she had felt herself out of her element, de- 
 pendent now she was free, her own mistress. She 
 was possessed of a new sense it was that of power. 
 
 She adapted herself with natural shrewdness to these 
 fresh circumstances; she appeared calmly indifferent 
 to the attention which she aroused. Zelie, in her black 
 clinging gown and with the red rose at her breast, was 
 a figure that people would have turned to look at any- 
 where, but just now, since she was in the company of 
 two such prominent figures as Martyn and Aldis, she 
 was naturally subjected to the keenest scrutiny. 
 
 People were making whispered remarks; she knew 
 that they referred to herself and was delighted. She 
 fancied she could read disapproval in the women's 
 eyes, but the men ah, they turned their heads not once, 
 but again and again. 
 
 Lord Martyn was an adept at ordering a dinner. 
 The food that was set before them was of the choicest, 
 while the wine flowed as freely as Zelie could desire. 
 Her heart warmed under the influence of it, and she 
 gave free vent to her natural wild spirits. She threw 
 restraint aside. She was herself, fierce, primitive, un- 
 trammelled by convention. 
 
 Martyn watched her through half-closed eyes, filling 
 her glass whenever she held it out to him. There was 
 a smile of amusement upon his lips. And Aldis it 
 was as if the champagne or something else had got 
 into his blood too. He was lifted, as it were, into a 
 new element. The familiar restaurant was no longer 
 the same. He might have been in the very heart of 
 Paris. And Zelie was responsible for this. 
 
 It was when dinner was concluded, and coffee and 
 liqueurs set before them, that Lord Martyn, lighting
 
 58 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 up one of the strong, dark cigars that he affected, 
 unfolded his plans. 
 
 "You want to go on the English stage, Zelie?" he 
 said. "You want to show London how you can dance ? 
 Well, if I'm any judge, you'll make a success, and if 
 I had not lost sight of you in Paris, I should have pro- 
 posed your visiting England. It's just luck that we've 
 met again. I shall introduce you to my friend Rad- 
 cliffe, of the Star Theatre, who'll put you through 
 your paces. But, in the meanwhile, I've got something 
 else in view. I want you to come down to Chamney 
 Castle, my place in Buckinghamshire, to take part in 
 an entertainment which I am giving there on Thurs- 
 day next. To-day's Saturday, so it's five days from 
 now." 
 
 He turned, with a half smile, to Aldis. "The 
 Duchess is coming for the first time," he remarked, 
 "and a lot of other county nobs. I guess Zelie will 
 make 'em sit up. They'll either hate me more than 
 ever or hail her as a genius it remains to be seen 
 which/' 
 
 Aldis laughed heartily. "I'm glad you've extended 
 an invitation to me, Harry," he remarked. He handed 
 Zelie a pear as he spoke. "But if you ask my opinion, 
 I don't mind betting that the Duchess of Shiplake takes 
 to Zelie at once. She's a good sportswoman, the 
 Duchess, and there's no humbug about her." 
 
 The two men had been talking in English, and Zelie 
 had been giving herself up to the contemplation of all 
 that Lord Martyn's invitation which she had accepted 
 at once meant for her. Now she sank her sharp 
 teeth into the luscious fruit which Aldis had set before 
 her, disdaining a knife, and her black eyes glittered 
 and shone. 
 
 For she had not forgotten that Chamney Castle was
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 59 
 
 within a mile or so of Selwood Manor. She would 
 meet Owen, and under what astonishing circumstances ! 
 Ah! he would see that she had not suffered by his 
 desertion of her ; that he had not hurt her as perhaps 
 he imagined he had done. She could laugh at him and 
 mock him him and his pink-cheeked saint! 
 
 But she would have to wait a day or so longer, and 
 it had been her instinct not to lose a moment more 
 than could be avoided. Ah, but that was when the hot 
 blood was surging through her veins, when every fibre 
 of her being was quivering in the consciousness of the 
 insult that had been offered her. She was no less vin- 
 dictive now, as keenly anxious for that revenge which 
 she had promised herself ; but Zelie looked about her 
 and saw the smiling faces of her companions, the rich 
 dresses of the women who thronged the restaurant, 
 caught the glimmer of gems, the gleam of white, bare 
 'shoulders. An invisible band made soft music in her 
 ears, and in her nostrils was the perfume of flowers and 
 femininity that peculiar, intoxicating scent which 
 hangs over a fashionable assembly. She caught the 
 light ring of laughter, and she was laughing too for- 
 getful of everything save that she was Woman Tri- 
 umphant, and that she had been brought to the thresh- 
 old of her kingdom. 
 
 Stephen Aldis watched as Zelie, regardless of appear- 
 ance, continued to bite her pear. Those little sharp 
 teeth had a fascination for him, none the less potent 
 because he knew it to be morbid. Her eyes, too, with 
 their indefinable emerald glint why did all the pulses 
 of his body tingle whenever he felt that her eyes were 
 turned to him ? 
 
 It was ridiculous he ! Why, he was behaving like 
 a mere schoolboy, and Martyn, observant always, would 
 have good reason to laugh at him. "It's just because
 
 60 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 she's a new type to me," Aldis muttered to himself. "I 
 expect the twentieth century is beginning to pall. With 
 Zelie one thinks of primitive creatures in caves and 
 forests, hardly human, and wholly cruel and unre- 
 strained. Martyn is right. It's dangerous but it 
 fascinates." 
 
 And so, regardless of the good-natured sneer with 
 which his friend observed him, Aldis made no further 
 efforts to keep himself in curb. The wine had mounted 
 to his head, but it was not with wine that he was 
 intoxicated so much as with the subtle, irresistible 
 magnetism that emanated from Zelie. 
 
 Aldis and Zelie were seated together on one side of 
 the table, while Lord Martyn faced them. Close at 
 hand was a staircase that led to a gallery where dinners 
 were also served. This staircase was visible to Mar- 
 tyn, but his companions had their backs turned to it; 
 thus the latter did not perceive how two ladies, both 
 very fashionably attired and wearing rich opera cloaks, 
 paused and looked down over the banister at the little 
 party below. 
 
 Aldis had been making some laughing remark to 
 Zelie, who sat, a cigarette between her lips, in her 
 favourite attitude, her elbows resting on the table, her 
 fingers crossed beneath her chin. The younger of the 
 two women upon the stairs gave a little start, and 
 her pink cheeks flushed as she recognised Stephen 
 Aldis. She was very fair and almost doll-like in her 
 artificiality, but she was a clever actress, and had al- 
 ready made a name for herself or rather it was Aldis, 
 with whom she had recently acted in a play that was 
 a palpable success, who had brought her into promi- 
 nence. 
 
 Lord Martyn realised the situation and smiled ; then 
 he half rose in his seat and waved his hand.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 61 
 
 "There's a friend of yours been in the gallery all 
 the time without seeing us, Steve," he said. "It's Miss 
 Cuthbert. She's with Mme. de Freyne. What a piece 
 of luck ! Mme. Eve is the woman of all others whom 
 I most wanted to meet just now." He beckoned 
 laughingly, as he spoke, to the two ladies, who slowly 
 descended the stairs. 
 
 Aldis had turned his head, too experienced to evince 
 any agitation or annoyance. But he cast a glance over 
 his shoulder at Martyn, with a suggestive drawing 
 down of his lips. "I'd promised to fetch Cecily and 
 take her out to dinner to-night," he said in a half 
 whisper. "Who'd have dreamed that she must elect 
 to come to the Pallanza?" 
 
 The newcomers threaded their way to the table, 
 where the two men rose to receive them. Zelie re- 
 mained seated, her chin still resting on her fingers, the 
 cigarette hanging between her lips. A certain defiance 
 had sprung into her eyes. It was in her nature to 
 regard her own sex with suspicion. 
 
 Aldis was making his apologies as best he could. 
 He told conventional lies in a graceful tone that forced 
 conviction. He had been detained upon business, he 
 explained, till he feared it was too late to carry 
 out his promise; he felt certain that Miss Cuthbert 
 Cecily would not expect him after eight and would 
 understand. He had proposed to call later on and 
 obtain forgiveness. 
 
 Cecily Cuthbert was quickly mollified or perhaps 
 she realised that it was politic to appear so. Stephen 
 Aldis, in his quality of a manager, proposed shortly 
 to produce a new play and there was a part in it which 
 appealed very particularly to Cecily. Furthermore, a 
 report had gone abroad which hinted that the hand- 
 some actor-manager was really at last contemplating
 
 62 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 matrimony, and her name and his had been coupled 
 together. Aldis had never troubled to contradict the 
 rumour, though he knew of it; indeed, he had been 
 particularly attentive to her of late. As for Cecily 
 herself, she did not make any secret of her passion for 
 the popular actor ; it was quite usual for Aldis's many 
 admirers to express their devotion in exaggerated 
 phrases. 
 
 Cecily was a beauty of repute, and her artificiality 
 was of her age. How can a woman be natural when 
 she has to devote so much time to posing for her photo- 
 graph? Cecily had already acquired that chief symp- 
 tom of the disease the set smile. It was a pity, be- 
 cause there was a good deal of humanity behind all the 
 pretence and more than a little talent. 
 
 Never, Aldis thought, had he seen greater contrast 
 between any two women than between Zelie and Cecily, 
 as Martyn introduced one to the other. A picture pre- 
 sented itself spontaneously to his mind. It was that of 
 a lap-dog, the pampered product of art and science, 
 suddenly brought face to face with crude nature in the 
 shape of a wolf. And yet, mysteriously, the same blood 
 ran in the veins of both. 
 
 It was true enough that Cecily had pleased and cap- 
 tivated him even that he had seriously contemplated 
 making her his wife. A good fellow at heart, he had 
 been spoilt by too openly-exposed admiration. He had 
 come to believe himself infallible with women. In her 
 way Cecily was almost as much be-puffed and be- 
 lauded as he yet she had held herself aloof for his 
 sake. He knew it and was flattered. Besides, had he 
 not given her her start on the stage, helped her to cut 
 herself adrift from an uncongenial home-life emi- 
 nently high-class and respectable in order that her
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 63 
 
 talents might have full swing? He felt himself, in a 
 manner, responsible for her future. 
 
 And now well, his sentiments were wholly un- 
 changed, but why should he feel annoyance at this 
 meeting of Zelie and Cecily? He was unpleasantly 
 conscious of Lord Martyn's satirical smile as the latter 
 watched the two women. Did Martyn, too, see the 
 analogy of the lap-dog and the wolf? 
 
 The difficulties of introduction over, the whole party 
 settled down again harmoniously at the table, and Lord 
 Martyn proceeded to explain how Zelie had come to 
 England with the idea of obtaining an engagement to 
 dance on the music-hall stage. 
 
 "Which brings me to my point," he continued, ad- 
 dressing himself to Cecily's companion, a woman of 
 middle-age, with a strong masculine face, keen steel- 
 blue eyes, and a skin that looked as if it had been turned 
 brown by exposure. "You, my dear Eve" he spoke 
 with the familiarity of intimate acquaintance "are 
 just the woman I wanted to see. I'm going to ask you 
 to do me a favour and refuse at your peril." He 
 shook his forefinger laughingly at her. "I know the 
 tricks of the trade, you know." 
 
 "Speak, oh, king," said Mme. de Freyne in mock 
 heroic tone. She had a deep voice that harmonised with 
 her appearance. 
 
 "I want you to take charge of Mile. Zelie for the 
 next three or four days at any rate. She's a stranger 
 in London, knows nobody, and doesn't speak a word 
 of English. She's putting up at present at the North- 
 umberland Hotel. I'd like you to take her to your flat 
 to-morrow. You're coming to Chamney next Wednes- 
 day, so you could bring Mile. Zelie with you. I've 
 got to run down on Monday myself, as that's the day
 
 64. TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 the house-party begins to assemble. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 "You want me to be Mile. Zelie's chaperon?" The 
 journalist for such was Mme. de Freyne's profession 
 puffed at her cigarette unconcernedly. She was 
 always remarkable for her passivity of expression. 
 Yet she had already, with characteristic rapidity, taken 
 mental measure of Lord Martyn's new protegee. 
 
 "That's the strength of it." Martyn spoke quickly 
 and in English. "You'll be interested, Eve. The girl's 
 a savage. She is coarse and ignorant, and hasn't a 
 vestige of moral sense. But it won't be long before 
 London echoes with her name. She is going to be the 
 pioneer of Retrogression. We're all a bit over-civilised 
 and are getting tired of it. We want a touch of primi- 
 tive brutality. Society has been looking for something 
 fresh to shock and delight it. Well, here we have the 
 very thing Zelie!" 
 
 Eve de Freyne's shoulders quivered a little, though 
 her lips hardly relaxed. This was an indication, how- 
 ever, that she was amused. Lord Martyn's utter 
 cynicism always pleased her, for like him, she knew the 
 world and had learnt to make mock of it. 
 
 "All right," she said curtly. "I'm willing. And 
 there's no reason why your protegee should stay at the 
 hotel to-night. She can come straight home with me. 
 We'll send for her things in the morning." 
 
 "That will be much the best plan," agreed Martyn 
 with an appreciative nod. "I can send you back in 
 my brougham unless you've got your own out. It 
 can pick me up at the club later on." He glanced 
 across the table at Aldis. "Steven is fixed up for the 
 rest of the evening," he added. 
 
 "Thank you," responded Mme. de Freyne, "let it be 
 your brougham. Cecily and I came in a taxi. She
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 65 
 
 called round for me after she had waited the best part 
 of an hour for that faithless swain of her. She was 
 almost in tears. I suggested dining here to buck her 
 up a bit." The shoulders quivered again. "I didn't 
 anticipate this pleasant meeting. Say" Eve de Freyne 
 professed to have American blood in her, and occa- 
 sionally spoke with a marked twang "he was playing 
 it up pretty thick your Steve as we came down the 
 stairs ? I've always warned Cecily not to take him too 
 seriously. But she's lost her head over him worse 
 luck for her." 
 
 Martyn shrugged his broad shoulders. "If any man 
 should be able to take care of hiself it's Steve Aldis. 
 It's his own look-out if he gets bitten he knows what 
 he's doing. But it all goes to prove Zelie's powers 
 and that I'm right in my estimate of her. So I look 
 on and am amused." 
 
 He turned to Zelie, addressing her in her own lan- 
 guage. "Listen, my dear," he said. "Mme. de Freyne 
 has very kindly offered you the hospitality of her flat 
 while you are in London. You needn't even go back 
 to the hotel to-night. It will be nicer for you, stranger 
 to London as you are, to have a companion. And 
 Mme. Eve can put you up to the ropes. She speaks 
 French like a native her husband was a fellow- 
 countryman of yours, you see. Now, I suggest that 
 you two ladies have a little chat together, and I expect 
 it won't take you many minutes to fix everything up." 
 
 The necessary shifting of seats followed this sug- 
 gestion, and Mme. de Freyne and Zelie were soon in 
 intimate converse. The journalist possessed the qual- 
 ity, when she cared to exert it, of gaining people's con- 
 fidence, and Zelie, naturally suspicious of her own sex, 
 succumbed sooner than might have been expected.
 
 66 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 She expressed herself happy to fall in with the arrange- 
 ments that had been made for her. 
 
 Supper parties were beginning to assemble before 
 the little company thought of breaking up. The res- 
 taurant, almost deserted for the last hour, was filling 
 up again. Once more Zelie realised the scrutiny of 
 curious eyes though it was Cecily Cuthbert, the well- 
 known beauty, who attracted attention in the first in- 
 stance. Still, it was upon Zelie that regard lingered 
 most persistently. 
 
 "Who the devil is that girl at the table with Stephen 
 Aldis?" Martyn, leaning back in his chair and still 
 smoking a black cigar, caught the words distinctly. 
 
 "I haven't an idea," was the answer, "but you may 
 well invoke the devil, old chap. I never saw such a 
 wicked-looking little baggage in my life. There's 
 something about her I believe it's sheer ugliness 
 that well, I've not been able to take my eyes off her 
 for the last ten minutes." 
 
 Martyn smiled to himself, well pleased. 
 
 They rose at last and trooped out to the vestibule 
 where the men busied themselves helping the ladies 
 with their cloaks. Cecily Cuthbert kept very near to 
 Aldis; she had succeeded in monopolising him ever 
 since her advent upon the scene, and Aldis was too 
 good-natured and easy-going to allow her to realise 
 how much he wanted to resume his interrupted 
 badinage with Zelie. 
 
 There were times, he told himself now, when even 
 Cecily Cuthbert was capable of boring him. 
 
 But he had promised to see her home she lived in 
 a little house at South Kensington with a fellow 
 actress and, of course, he must keep his word. He 
 seized the opportunity, however, when Mme. de Freyne
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 67 
 
 was bidding- Cecily good-night, to speak a few hurried 
 words to Zelie. 
 
 He held the small sinewy white hand which she ex- 
 tended to him a little longer than was necessary. "So 
 you are going to stay with our journalist friend?" he 
 said in low tones. "Well, she's a good sort, and you 
 couldn't be in better hands. But you must let me come 
 and see you. I'm interested in you, you know. I agree 
 with Martyn that you are going to take London by 
 storm." 
 
 He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "May I 
 come to-morrow ?" 
 
 Zelie gave a quick assent, her eyes dancing and 
 flashing their strange green light upon him. "Come 
 when you like as often as you like," she said, without 
 any attempt to modify her tone. "Pourquoi non?" 
 She broke into a laugh of sheer delight and excite- 
 ment, a laugh that was inspired by the glamour and 
 intoxication of the moment. "I like you, mon ami, 
 I like you all. And your London ah, I am glad that 
 I came to your London. For now I am going to live 
 to live!" She clapped her hands together; for the 
 moment she was like a child. 
 
 Stephen Aldis laughed back and was about to whis- 
 per a further remark; then, hearing his name pro- 
 nounced, he turned quickly away. 
 
 Cecily Cuthbert was regarding him with sombre 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "I HOPE we shall be friends the best of friends," said 
 Eve de Freyne, as she drew her cloak closer about her 
 shoulders, which were heavy and fleshy, and settled 
 herself comfortably against the soft cushions of the 
 car. 
 
 The last adieux had been said, the final arrange- 
 ments for meeting at Chamney made, and Zelie was 
 now on her way to her new, if temporary, home. Her 
 heart was still beating quickly with excitement and 
 elation of spirits. For she felt that she had crossed the 
 threshold of a new and wonderful world. 
 
 "I never had a woman friend in all my life," she 
 said naively, then she corrected herself sharply : "Tiens, 
 yes, there was Nanon 1'Escargot that's what we called 
 her because she had a hump on her back. Nanon "was 
 good to me when I was a brat of a girl. She saw me 
 dancing in the street to the music of an old fiddle 
 it was Pere Requin who played it. I hadn't had a 
 scrap of food that day, but I could dance, I could 
 always dance. Nanon fed me and I stayed with 
 her " Zelie broke off her story with some abrupt- 
 ness " oh, for some months." 
 
 "Why did you leave her ?" Mme. de Freyne put the 
 question merely because she wante Zelie to continue 
 talking. 
 
 "I got tired and ran away." The answer was given 
 jvith a certain sullenness. "Nanon wanted to make 
 
 68
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 69 
 
 money off me because I could dance. She wanted to 
 tie me up. And then there was Chicot." 
 
 "Who was Chicot?" 
 
 Zelie gave a little toss to her head. "Oh, Chicot 
 belonged to a brasserie out Belmont way. He said I 
 was wasting myself with Nanon." Zelie neglected 
 to mention that she had been incited by her Apache 
 friend the one who had first "launched" her to rob 
 her benefactress, who had been nearly murdered in an 
 attempt to save the few gold pieces that she had stored 
 away. 
 
 "I used to dance at the brasserie and then go round 
 and collect sous in a shell," the girl went on, in no way 
 ashamed of her checkered career. Owen, indeed, had 
 always encouraged her to speak of it, amused and in- 
 terested by the lurid pictures of life in low places which 
 Zelie would draw for his benefit. "It was rather 
 amusing and my shell was always full silver, too 
 but the old men, they gave the most. They did not 
 know how I mocked them behind their backs the old 
 gredins! But Chicot he took all the money and he 
 beat me until one day I turned upon him and hit 
 him it was with an iron bar his face was all over 
 blood when he fell. And how he squealed! It made 
 me laugh." 
 
 "A return to the primitive, indeed !" muttered Mme. 
 de Freyne to herself. "Harry was right." Aloud she 
 said: "What about your parents, Zelie?" 
 
 Zelie had never known her parents and said so 
 frankly. Her very earliest recollection was of an 
 orphanage, an asylum for unwanted children, which 
 she had hated and run away from almost as soon as she 
 could toddle. After that her home had been the gut- 
 ter. She had been taught to beg by an old chiffonnier. 
 To thieve had been natural to her. A little savage,
 
 70 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 she had grown up without respect of man or fear of 
 God. 
 
 Mme. de Freyne would doubtless have elicited more 
 of Zelie's story had not the recital been unexpectedly 
 interrupted. The motor brougham happened to be 
 passing the Northumberland Hotel, when the elder 
 woman, gazing out of the window, observed a crowd 
 of people, together with several policemen, at the door. 
 Without a moment's hesitation she tapped on the glass 
 and told the chauffeur to stop. 
 
 "What's the matter at the Northumberland?" she 
 inquired of a policeman who was standing near at 
 hand. 
 
 The man appeared to recognize her and civilly lifted 
 his hand to his helmet. "I'm afraid there's been mur- 
 der done, madam," he said. "Leastwise, there's some- 
 one very badly hurt." 
 
 Mme. de Freyne's professional interest was imme- 
 diately aroused. "I must get out," she exclaimed, "and 
 inquire into this at once. The Comet will be glad of 
 an early report. Do you know any particulars ?" She 
 addressed the policeman with characteristic brusque- 
 ness. 
 
 "Not much, madam," she responded. "I believe 
 it's one of the staff who's hurt. They found a man 
 a thief, I guess lurking in one of the corridors. He 
 was just about to go into a room when he was collared. 
 But the fellow had a knife and used it. The alarm 
 was given at once, only unfortunately the murderer got 
 away. He threw down his knife and climbed out of 
 a window, they tell me. He's probably still lurking 
 somewhere about, for the whole thing only happened 
 a quarter of an hour ago. We're bound to get him." 
 
 "Thank you." Mme. de Freyne slipped a coin into 
 the man's hand. "And now I think I'll go to the hotel
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 71 
 
 and make some further inquiries. May the car wait 
 for me here ?" 
 
 The policeman shook his head. "Tell the chauffeur 
 to turn round the corner," he said. "He won't be in 
 the way in Bowen Street, and it will only be a few 
 steps more for you to go." 
 
 "Right." In a few hurried words Mme. de Freyne 
 explained the situation to Z&ie. "I shan't keep you 
 waiting long," she said. "It's professional zeal, you 
 know." 
 
 With which and a wave of her hand the journalist 
 hurried up to the hotel. A word to the policeman on 
 duty was sufficient to obtain her admission. 
 
 Meanwhile the car was driven slowly round into a 
 narrow thoroughfare at a little distance from the scene 
 of the crime. The street was ill-lit, and to Zelie, 
 gazing anxiously out of the window, it appeared to be 
 a blind alley. The car halted by the curb and presently 
 the chauffeur, taking a paper from his pocket set him- 
 self to read it. 
 
 Zelie had only dimly understood what Mme. de 
 Freyne had said to her. A murder at the Northumber- 
 land Hotel where she would have been staying had 
 not other arrangements been made for her ? Had she 
 heard aright? 
 
 A vague fear came upon her. She remembered her 
 fancy of some hours ago when she had looked out of 
 the window and imagined she recognised Bibi. Bibi ! 
 but that was absurd. For Bibi was far away in Paris 
 even if he was not still in prison. Was it time for 
 him to be out of prison yet? 
 
 Presently a boy, who wore the livery of a page, 
 appeared and spoke a few words to the chauffeur. The 
 latter dismounted, and, opening the door of the 
 brougham, addressed himself to Zelie, Of course, he
 
 72 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 spoke in English, and she did not understand what 
 he said. But since he was evidently asking a question 
 she nodded, and said, "Yes, please," which seemed to 
 satisfy him, for he closed the door, and then, some- 
 what to her alarm, disappeared with the page, 
 moving off in the direction of the hotel. 
 
 Zelie was left alone. She supposed it was all right, 
 and that the chauffeur had been called away to speak 
 to Mme. de Freyne; nevertheless, her nervousness in- 
 creased. 
 
 She could not help thinking of Bibi. Had he come 
 out of prison? The minutes passed slowly. She be- 
 gan a mental calculation. It was in March that he had 
 been convicted the end of March. Six weeks ! Why, 
 of course suddenly she interrupted herself with a 
 smothered scream, for the door of the brougham had 
 been quietly very quietly opened upon the road side, 
 and a white face a face that had a smear of blood 
 upon one cheek was peering at her from the gloom 
 without. 
 
 She was staring into the eyes of Bibi Coupe-vide.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE door of the motor brougham had swung open 
 now to its full extent, and Zelie, craning her body 
 forward, her fingers digging into the soft cushioned 
 seat on either side of her, was staring, wild-eyed, at 
 the white, ill-omened face that presented itself in the 
 aperture. 
 
 The face with its ugly red smear upon the one cheek, 
 with its dark hair that hung lank over the forehead, 
 almost covering one of the eyes, with its snarling lips, 
 with its look of a hunted beast the face of Bibi, the 
 Apache. 
 
 Then, in a flash, she realised that it was true that 
 which she had vaguely dreaded when Madame de 
 Freyne had told her of the crime at the Northumber- 
 land Hotel. Bibi was the culprit, the man who had 
 made his escape, and whom the police were now seek- 
 ing. By some means he had traced her to the hotel, 
 and it was for her that he was searching when he was 
 interrupted with such tragic results. 
 
 And now they had actually met. They were face 
 to face she and the man whom she had ruthlessly 
 betrayed and sent to prison, the man who had vowed 
 to be revenged on her. 
 
 She neither screamed nor lost her head. Zelie, at 
 least, possessed the virtue of fierce, primitive courage. 
 The necessity of facing dangers, of meeting attacks, 
 had been instilled into her from her earliest years. 
 Besides, Bibi was unarmed; had not Madame de 
 
 73
 
 74 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Freyne spoken of a knife thrown away ? He was not 
 a man possessed of any great muscular strength; all 
 things being equal, Zelie was quite capable of holding 
 her own against him. And, as it happened, she had 
 the advantage. With a deft movement of her right 
 hand she seized the dagger which was concealed in the 
 bosom of her dress, and which she had carried ever 
 since leaving Paris. 
 
 Bibi was as surprised as Zelie herself. He had been 
 lurking there in some dark corner, unable to find his 
 way out of the impasse, and not daring, dishevelled 
 as he was, to venture back into the main street. The 
 police would be upon him in a few minutes, they would 
 drag him out to the light, and his bloodstained hands 
 and face would betray him. 
 
 He had watched the arrival of the motor-brougham, 
 had observed the departure of the chauffeur. Here 
 was a woman alone and shelter. The police would 
 never think of seeking him in so fine a carriage. It 
 was a case for intimidation. The woman must be 
 compelled to lend him her aid. He would frighten her 
 into doing so. If all turned out as he hoped he would 
 drive quietly away from the scene of his crime for 
 the chauffeur was bound to return in a minute or two 
 and so make good his escape. 
 
 It was a desperate resolution, but he proceeded to 
 put it into practice. And so he found Zelie. 
 
 "Bibi!" 
 
 She uttered the name in an excited whisper. It 
 was curious, but, of a sudden, all her desire was to 
 save the fugitive from his pursuers. Her instinctive 
 hatred and fear of "La Rousse" as she would have 
 called the police came to the surface. It was one 
 of the principles of her gutter education. And of Bibi 
 himself she was no longer afraid.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 75 
 
 Furthermore, at that moment a couple of policemen 
 had appeared at the corner of the street. Presently 
 they were joined by a sergeant. There was no time 
 to be lost. She stretched out a hand and, clutching 
 Bibi by the sleeve of his coat, dragged him into the 
 carriage. 
 
 He fell on the seat by her side, staring vacantly and 
 muttering under his breath. It was she who closed 
 the door of the brougham, drawing it to with a smart 
 click. Then she turned and looked at him, still hold- 
 ing her knife under her hand, but sufficiently exposed 
 for him to see it. He was hatless, his clothes were 
 mud-bespattered, and she noticed that he had cut his 
 hands doubtless when escaping from the window 
 which accounted at once for the blood upon his cheek. 
 He presented a pitiable appearance. 
 
 "You're in a pretty state, my poor Bibi," she said, 
 with more than a suggestion of contempt. "So you've 
 been sticking your knife into someone and got the 
 police on your track ? What did you do it for ?" 
 
 "You know well enough," he retorted. "I came to 
 London to find you. You were at that hotel. I saw 
 you go in. I made some inquiry. Madame Mayne 
 you called yourself, Madame Mayne! I saw red. I 
 hid myself in an empty room no one interfered with 
 me when I went upstairs. And when everything was 
 dark and quiet I crept out. My hand was on the knob 
 of your door when that pig laid his hand on my arm." 
 The Apache ground his teeth together. "I settled him 
 with one blow, but he screamed out, and then they all 
 came running. I had to run, too." 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm. "Did you want to 
 put the knife into me, Bibi?" 
 
 He turned sombre eyes upon her. "Into him 
 perhaps you too, if you resisted. I meant to take you
 
 76 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 back back to Paris with me. I'd have beaten you till 
 you cried for mercy. You are mine, and I've the 
 right." With a quick movement he seized her hand 
 and threw back her sleeve as he had done once be- 
 fore in Paris. "What's that upon your arm ?" he cried 
 hoarsely, pointing to the tattoo mark. "You are mine, 
 you belong to Bibi for life. Deny it if you can. And 
 I want you. Don't you understand that? I have you 
 in my blood." 
 
 His fingers, with their sharp nails, dug into the soft 
 flesh of her arm. To her the sensation was not un- 
 pleasant. Brutality was second nature to her. She 
 knew that what he said was true. If he could carry 
 her off now if she should consent to go back to him 
 he would take the first opportunity to beat her till 
 she fainted, to kick her as she lay at his mercy. It 
 would be a duty. Nevertheless, he loved her ; he "had 
 her in the blood." 
 
 Suddenly she put her finger to her lips. "Hush!" 
 
 The police were parading the street, scrutinising 
 every area, exploring every dark entry. Had Bibi re- 
 mained where he had been for another five minutes 
 he would inevitably have been discovered. As it was, 
 the smart brougham, wherein was seated a lady in 
 evening dress, did not present itself as an object of 
 suspicion, and though the searchers passed close to it, 
 even glanced through the shut window, they went on 
 without deeming a nearer inspection necessary. Prob- 
 ably they argued that something had gone wrong with 
 the motor and that a wait in this quiet street was in- 
 evitable. The absence of the chauffeur only lent colour 
 to this idea. 
 
 Zelie had spread out her skirt, and Bibi crouching 
 in his corner of the carriage, was almost hidden from 
 view. The danger was over for the present, but an-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 77 
 
 other would arise very shortly. The chauffeur was 
 bound to return, alone or with Madame de Freyne. 
 There was no time to be lost. 
 
 "You don't want to give me up to the police ?" mut- 
 tered the man. "You could have got rid of me that 
 way for the second time. They'd have sent me to the 
 gallows and there'd have been an end of it. But I'd 
 have strangled the life out of you first if I could." 
 He added the last words savagely, staring down at his 
 bleeding fingers and glancing askance at the knife, 
 which Zelie had placed on the seat by her side, within 
 easy reach of her hand. 
 
 "You may put the knife away," he went on, in the 
 same tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to get 
 out of this with a whole skin. In a few minutes I may 
 go." He turned sharply. "Where is he?" He laid 
 strong accent upon the pronoun, supplementing it with 
 a lurid expletive. 
 
 Zelie laughed musically. "Owen Mayne?" she 
 queried. Then she shrugged her shoulders. "Owen" 
 she still pronounced the name "O-en" "Owen 
 Mayne is a brute. I hate him." 
 
 She understood the man with whom she had to deal, 
 understood him thoroughly. Bibi Coupe-vide, follow- 
 ing the instincts of his class, was only jealous of her 
 love as he realised the meaning of the term. He did 
 not mind what escapades she might be up to as long 
 as her heart remained his and his pocket was well 
 lined in consequence. To do her justice, she had evinced 
 small inclination for fresh adventures since placing 
 herself in the hands of Bibi, her earnings as a dancer 
 being quite sufficient to keep him in the idleness that 
 was dear to his heart. 
 
 And now, quite suddenly, Zelie saw her way to turn 
 this meeting, which at first had seemed so terrifying,
 
 78 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 to her advantage. She could have her revenge with- 
 out herself incurring any danger. The weapon should 
 be wielded by another hand, but it would strike as 
 surely and perhaps more swiftly. 
 
 Bibi would no longer be angry with her if he thought 
 she did not love the Englishman, while it was in her 
 power to inflame his wrath against the latter, by judi- 
 cious lying, to a pitch of fury. Furthermore, she could 
 play upon Bibi's cupidity. He was one of those who 
 would commit any crime for money. 
 
 As far as Owen was concerned she had no remorse. 
 She had set out for England, knife in hand, to revenge 
 herself upon him. 
 
 She felt she hated him with a bitter hatred. Had 
 she ever loved him ? Had she ever loved anyone ? She 
 only knew that she loved herself best of all, and that 
 she would willingly sweep all the world aside for her 
 own advancement. 
 
 And so Bibi Coupe-vide, whose hands were already 
 red, might be turned to excellent account. If the 
 police should secure him before he had time to do as 
 she desired, well, then it could not be helped at any 
 rate, he would be out of her way. 
 
 "Bibi," she said ; "listen to me, mon gars. We must 
 say what has to be said quickly, because my friends 
 may return at any moment, and you must not be seen 
 with me. You wonder that I say I hate this Owen 
 Mayne. I do. I never cared for him. It was merely 
 a little bit of fun, a lark a madness of Carnival night. 
 I have wanted you, my Bibi, all the while." 
 
 He laid his hands upon her bare shoulders and 
 turned her so that she directly faced him. She met 
 his eyes without flinching. 
 
 "Is this true?" 
 
 "True, I swear it. You are my adored Bibi."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 79 
 
 "You gave me up that night. It was you who set 
 the police after me." 
 
 "No, no," she lied, breathing hard, her bosom 
 palpitating under the black corsage. "It was not on 
 purpose. You thought so, but you were in error. I 
 was frightened, for you. I thought another followed 
 behind you, and I screamed. I could have bitten off 
 my tongue, but it was too late. And then the next day 
 and the next day and the day after that came this 
 Englishman. He pestered me to sit to him. At last 
 I consented. I thought you would never forgive me 
 and that I had lost you. But I never loved Owen 
 Mayne never. And at last I left him, left him of my 
 own accord. For I had made other friends, you see, 
 here in London. Big people, Bibi, rich and powerful. 
 They say I can dance, that I will make money, heaps 
 and heaps of money. You shall have your share, mon 
 ami. But this Owen Mayne he will not leave me 
 alone. He says that I shall not dance he wishes to 
 keep me to himself. Ah, my dear, you can help me. 
 You would have killed the Englishman and beaten me. 
 You have no longer need to beat me who love you, 
 but you can still kill." 
 
 Zelie poured out her lies with astonishing rapidity. 
 Her voice was soft and endearing, and she had the 
 subtle movements of a cat. 
 
 Bibi looked at his blood-stained hands. "And if I 
 should escape from this mess," he asked slowly, "and 
 should do as you wish, what do I get for it ?" 
 
 Zelie had taken a lace handkerchief from her pocket 
 and, after pouring a few drops of scent upon it from 
 a tiny flagon, was rubbing the stain from the man's 
 cheek. 
 
 "Will you come back to me to your Bibi?" he 
 asked grimly.
 
 80 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 She was brushing back the hair from his forehead 
 now, smoothing and tidying it, while at the same time 
 she kept anxious glance upon the window lest danger 
 should come in sight at the end of the street. 
 
 "Not yet, my Bibi," she murmured, in pouring, ca- 
 joling tone. "You must not ask that of me for both 
 our sakes. For look you, I am going to make much 
 money London is going to ring with my name. They 
 have told me so, my new friends. There is a Milor, 
 Bibi a man of consequence. But I shall not forget 
 you no. Your pockets shall be full of gold. Think 
 of that, and what you will do with it at Montmartre. 
 
 And one day I will come to you " she laughed 
 
 "together we will go back to the old life. It will be 
 like the old times. N'est-ce pas? For we shall be 
 rich, and how we shall be envied !" 
 
 The narrow eyes of the man glittered covetously. 
 "You swear to me that this is true, Zelie?" he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 She swore that it was true. She used all the arts 
 she possessed to convince him of her sincerity. She 
 painted a picture that made the mouth of the Apache 
 water. All this should be his, but first 
 
 "And you will give your heart to none? Bibi shall 
 always be first? For if you fail me in this" he 
 punctuated his speech with a vile oath "I will kill you 
 yes without mercy, though I lose my head for it." 
 
 She gave him the promise he required, gave it 
 lightly, mindful only of gaining her immediate point. 
 If Bibi executed her will he would have to flee the 
 country, or perhaps he would be caught what did it 
 matter? When the day came then would be the time 
 to reflect not now. 
 
 "Don't I prove my love, Bibi, when I ask you to 
 rid me of this Owen Mayne?"
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 81 
 
 "Where shall I find him?" 
 
 The question was not an easy one to answer and 
 time pressed. Bibi would need explanations which she 
 at the moment was unable to give. 
 
 "Tell me an address that will find you," she said 
 hurriedly. "I will write. There is no time to go into 
 details." 
 
 "I'm with Alphonse Lereux," Bibi responded. "He's 
 got a restaurant, Number 77, Conway Street, Soho." 
 He brought out the unaccustomed syllables with diffi- 
 culty. "That will find me unless the detectives get 
 on my track." 
 
 "They won't," Zelie said. Then she asked quickly: 
 "Is that Alphonse the blackmailer?" She knew Al- 
 phonse Lereux by name. He had left his country for 
 his country's good. 
 
 Bibi nodded. "Yes. He doesn't love me much, does 
 dear Alphonse. But I have a hold on him." 
 
 "Good. Then I will write to-morrow. And now, 
 my Bibi, you must go. But there is money for you," 
 she emptied her purse into his open hand "and 
 there will be more plenty more. See that you don't 
 let yourself be caught. Ah, tiens," she cried suddenly, 
 bursting into a ripple of laughter and picking up a 
 man's cloak which had been left in the brougham, "here 
 is disguise for you. It must be the coat of the Milor 
 Anglais. This is his carriage. Take it, Bibi. Wrap 
 it well round you. They will think you have come 
 from a theatre. You will not be suspected." 
 
 She helped him eagerly to don the coat, tingling 
 with impatience now to be rid of him. The garment, 
 of course, was much too large for the thin figure of 
 the Apache, but he did as she advised, and wrapped it 
 closely about him. It would effectively conceal the 
 disorder of his own clothes.
 
 82 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Then, as Zelie opened the door of the brougham, 
 Bibi seized and held her in a violent embrace, throwing 
 her lithe body back over his arm and pressing his hot 
 mouth to her red lips. For a moment her senses 
 reeled. She was Zelie the Snake once more Zelie of 
 Montmarte. 
 
 But she quickly recovered and disengaged herself. 
 "Go," she cried hoarsely, "go quickly. Trust me, and 
 you shall be rich rich beyond your wildest thoughts. 
 But there must be no mistake. You know what you 
 have to do. Owen Mayne still demands my love. He 
 is in our way." The words came in an intense whis- 
 per. "Kill him! kill him!" 
 
 With which she thrust Bibi from the carriage. He 
 hesitated a moment, one foot resting upon the step. 
 His face appeared livid in the lamplight. But she 
 closed the door upon him, and watched through the 
 window as presently he drifted away to the crowded 
 and illuminated street beyond. 
 
 Then Zelie, still breathing heavily, leant back against 
 the soft cushions of the carriage, and composed herself 
 for the return of Madame de Freyne. She glanced at 
 her watch, an enamelled trinket which had been given 
 her by Owen. It had seemed as if Bibi had been with 
 her for hours; in reality the whole scene had been 
 enacted in little more than fifteen minutes. 
 
 Yet in those minutes, if all went well, she had signed 
 the death warrant of Owen Mayne. She had revenged 
 herself for his desertion, while her own position re- 
 mained secure. 
 
 She picked up the dagger which still lay by her side 
 on the seat, and regarded it for a moment with in- 
 scrutable eyes. Then she thrust it back into the bosom 
 of her dress. 
 
 In doing so she dislodged the rose which Lord Mar-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 83 
 
 tyn had given her. It fell to the floor of the carriage, 
 shedding petals in its fall. Nevertheless she gathered 
 these together, lifting them in the palms of both hands 
 to her lips, which, for a moment, she buried in the 
 scented mass. Then she raised her head, smiling, and 
 allowed the rose leaves to fall slowly, one by one, 
 through her fingers to the floor. They lay there like 
 a stain of blood.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MADAME DE FREYNE occupied a charming flat in 
 Knightsbridge. Zelie quickly learned to make herself 
 at home, though her manners, even after her training 
 with Owen, still left much to be desired. Her weird 
 beauty, however, atoned for a good deal ; besides, she 
 was quick and willing to learn, realising the im- 
 portance of this for her future triumphant progress. 
 At heart she remained a savage, as, if Lord Martyn 
 prophesied truly, she would remain to the end. 
 
 To the journalist she presented a study of the deepest 
 interest. Mme. de Freyne was never tired of listening 
 to those stories, which Zelie was always ready to tell, 
 of life in the great city. And the language! That, 
 too, even to a woman of her experience, was a 
 revelation. 
 
 Of Owen Mayne, save as a friend who had taken an 
 interest in her and who had suggested that she should 
 come to England, Zelie spoke never a word. Now. 
 more than ever, it was to her interest to keep silence in 
 respect to him. 
 
 She had written to Bibi according to her promise, 
 giving him the information which she had been unable 
 to provide with sufficient detail on the occasion of their 
 unexpected meeting. Owen Mayne was at Selwood 
 Manor, which was in Buckinghamshire, the seat of a 
 Mrs. Alderspn, his aunt. The nearest town was Sel- 
 wood, where there was a station. Then followed such 
 instructions as Zelie could give as to the best way for 
 
 84
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 85 
 
 Bibi to reach his destination. She had found it out by 
 judicious questioning of Mme. de Freyne and by her- 
 self struggling with a time-table. She said nothing 
 whatever about her own approaching visit to the 
 neighbourhood. She hoped, even, that everything 
 might be over by then. 
 
 She begged Bibi not to come to see her. Her letter 
 was charged with illiterate protestations of affection. 
 She renewed her promises of wealth in the future. She 
 signed herself, "Zelie who adores you." And as she 
 sealed the letter she screwed up her lips into an ex- 
 pression of half-humorous disdain. 
 
 "He will do as I tell him, my Bibi. Then the Rousse 
 will get him, and I shall be free." 
 
 So far, as she was glad to know, the police had not 
 succeeded in laying hands upon the perpetrator of the 
 Northumberland Hotel assault an assault which had, 
 luckily, not proved fatal, though the victim was lying 
 in hospital in sorry condition. The criminal was re- 
 ported to have escaped in marvellous fashion, and the 
 police were severely blamed for having allowed him 
 to slip through their fingers. 
 
 It was assumed as certain that robbery had been the 
 culprit's motive, and so, luckily for Zelie, no impor- 
 tance was attached to the fact that it was at the door 
 of her room that the assault was committed. Mme. de 
 Freyne, in her journalistic capacity, had not thought 
 of associating the name of Mrs. Mayne which Zelie 
 had given at the hotel with her young friend, and 
 Zelie, upon the following morning, had driven alone 
 to the hotel her hostess being busy with newspaper 
 work to fetch her luggage. She had been congratu- 
 lated upon having escaped a fright, and she had been 
 asked certain questions by the inspector in charge of 
 the case, to which questions she had given ready an-
 
 86 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 swers, and she had driven off again without attracting 
 the smallest suspicion to herself. 
 
 Eve de Freyne was very apologetic for having kept 
 Zelie waiting so long in the brougham. She had been 
 detained on another matter altogether, and had 
 imagined that she might not be able to drive back with 
 her guest to Knightsbridge after all. Her conscience 
 was pricking her, too, about keeping Lord Martyn's 
 carriage so long. 
 
 Under these circumstances she had sent one of the 
 hotel messengers to the chauffeur, requesting the latter 
 to come and receive instructions from her. She pro- 
 posed telling him to drive Zelie straight to Knights- 
 bridge, where he would have to explain to the servants 
 the young lady not talking English that madem- 
 oiselle was a friend of her own and was to be shown 
 every hospitality. She could not write all this in a 
 note, and had therefore sent for the man himself. 
 
 As it happened, however, she was so busy when the 
 chauffeur arrived that there had been a delay before 
 she was able to speak to him. And when she was, at 
 last, disengaged there seemed no longer any need for 
 sending Zelie off by herself. And so, after a few 
 minutes more, Mme. de Freyne made her way back 
 to the motor, arriving there only a minute or two after 
 the chauffeur. She had found Zelie waiting for her, 
 apparently more than half asleep. 
 
 The only real trouble that resulted from that night's 
 experiences was the loss of Lord Martyn's coat. He 
 called upon the following day to inquire about it. He 
 was certain that he had left it in the brougham, and 
 shook his head at Mme. de Freyne's suggestion that 
 it must have been mislaid at the restaurant. Zelie, of 
 course, knew nothing about it, but expressed an opin- 
 ion that Milor was wearing his coat when they arrived
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 87 
 
 at the Pallanza yes, she could remember his removing 
 it in the hall. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to accept this explana- 
 tion, but Lord Martyn frowned and was evidently 
 more troubled over his loss than he cared to admit. 
 There were important papers in one of the pockets, he 
 declared, and it was very undesirable that they should 
 pass into other hands. 
 
 At this Zelie felt a qualm hardly of conscience, for 
 she was not troubled with such a possession, but of 
 self-reproach, for if there was any man upon earth 
 just then whom she did not desire to injure it was 
 Lord Martyn. Besides, it was just possible that the 
 guilt might be brought back to her, which would be 
 very unpleasant. She reflected uneasily upon the char- 
 acter of Alphonse Lereux, and wondered if Bibi would 
 have sufficient sense to keep those papers to himself. 
 
 But living in the day as she did, she soon put her 
 fears aside. Lord Martyn was charming to her and 
 appeared in no way to have modified his opinion as 
 to her future success. He had called that Sunday 
 quite unexpectedly, owing to the worry over his cloak, 
 and he could only spare a few minutes for his visit. 
 But he had, it appeared, already made arrangements 
 for Mr. Radcliffe, of the Star Theatre, to call on the 
 Monday, so that no time should be lost in getting 
 Zelie started upon her stage career. 
 
 "We meet again on Thursday at Chamney Castle," 
 he said, as he took his leave. "And don't be afraid 
 of shocking the good Society folk whom you will find 
 there, my dear Zelie. Be natural, and then they are 
 bound to think you are adopting a clever pose and will 
 be suitably impressed." 
 
 Zelie didn't understand, but she nodded her head 
 quickly several times and flashed her dark eyes at him.
 
 88 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Stephen Aldis came to see her that Sunday, too, 
 and had tea at Mme. de Freyne's flat. He brought 
 her flowers, fantastically shaped orchids, which he must 
 have put himself to great trouble to find especially 
 on a Sunday. He was looking very handsome, Zelie 
 thought, with his rather boyish face and his crisp, 
 curly hair, but his type was too Saxon to suit her 
 taste really, though she was amused at his thinly veiled 
 devotion more and more openly expressed with each 
 visit he paid, for he did not confine himself to Sunday, 
 but came upon Monday and Tuesday as well. 
 
 It was all a symbol of the triumphant progress that 
 was in store for her. This man, this Stephen Aldis, 
 was run after by all the women in London Eve de 
 Freyne had told her so. And now he was at her feet, 
 she who had not sought to encourage him. 
 
 It was on the Tuesday afternoon that Zelie, who had 
 gone to lie down before dinner as was now her 
 wont was aroused by Clementine, the French maid, 
 who begged her to descend to the drawing-room, as 
 there was a caller whom Mme. de Freyne would like 
 her to meet. 
 
 Zelie got up grumbling. She hated being disturbed 
 when she was resting. Still, it would not have been 
 diplomatic to refuse, and besides, she was naturally 
 curious. So she sent Clementine back with a message 
 that she would be down in a few minutes. 
 
 It took her rather more than that before she was 
 satisfied with her general appearance. Her hair was 
 uintidy, and she could not contrive, in a hurry, to re- 
 dress it exactly as she wished. As she thrust hair- 
 pins into the recalcitrant black locks she muttered im- 
 precations in choice Montmartre under her breath 
 upon such late callers. 
 
 She descended at last to the drawing-room. She
 
 89 
 
 entered the room with that noiseless tread that dis- 
 tinguished her and was so curiously feline. Mme. de 
 Freyne was there, talking to a man whose back was 
 turned to the door. He wore blue serge, Zelie noticed, 
 not the conventional frock-coat of London. 
 
 Eve Freyne looked up as Zelie entered. 
 
 "Ah, here you are, my dear," she cried. "I think 
 you know this gentleman and will be pleased to see 
 him." 
 
 The man turned quickly but a little awkardly. He 
 had broad, but rather rounded, shoulders, and his 
 figure appeared familiar. When he faced her, smiling 
 and holding out his hand, Zelie gave a little cry which 
 might have expressed anger or alarm, but which 
 Mme. de Freyne took for pleasure. 
 
 The visitor, unobserved, had lifted his finger to his 
 lips, indicating caution. The warning was not lost 
 upon Zelie, but recognition was evidently expected of 
 her. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed. "Robin! And how 
 are you, mon ami?" 
 
 She touched his fingers with hers, then drew back, 
 scanning his face with eyes that were charged with 
 suspicion and defiance.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ROBIN behaved with what was, for him, remarkable 
 tact. He gave no hint of the fact for it was a fact 
 that he had traced Zelie to her present address, and 
 that his visit at the Knightsbridge flat was solely upon 
 her account. 
 
 Luckily he could claim acquaintance with Mme. de 
 Freyne, whom he had met in Paris a year or so before, 
 and whom he usually called upon when he happened 
 to be in London. Once chatting with the journalist, 
 it had been quite easy to lead the conversation into 
 the required direction, and then, when Zelie was men- 
 tioned, to admit that he knew the dancing girl and 
 would be pleased to see her again. Robin was very 
 careful not to commit himself in any way. He was 
 acting for his friend Owen, whose name must not be 
 mentioned for fear of bringing about that scandal 
 which would be so disastrous just now. 
 
 Robin had been on tenterhooks ever since he had 
 learnt of Zelie's flight from Paris as to whether or no 
 she had made boast of her liaison as he still regarded 
 it with Owen. And why had she come to London at 
 all ? He could not guess her motive though he feared 
 it. And how on earth had it come about that she was 
 living in the house of so well-known a woman as Eve 
 de Freyne? 
 
 His conversation with the latter had set his mind 
 somewhat at rest. Mme. Eve had told him unhesi- 
 tatingly how Zelie had been introduced to her. She 
 
 90
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 91 
 
 had come to London to seek an opening on the stage, 
 and this looked promising almost as if Zelie had ac- 
 cepted her dismissal from Owen before it was actually 
 spoken. Furthermore, Mme. de Freyne had not men- 
 tioned Owen's name once in the whole course of their 
 talk. 
 
 Still, much remained that had to be spoken between 
 himself and Zelie, and the glances which he now and 
 then threw in her direction clearly betokened the fact. 
 Zelie met his eyes on these occasions with a look of 
 defiance which made him uneasy. He had always 
 feared and disliked the girl her fascination had never 
 been able to touch him. He regarded her with the 
 same aversion that he might have for a snake. 
 
 He hated what he had to do, but it was his duty 
 towards his friend. And presently fortune favoured 
 him, for Mme. de Freyne rose from her seat and an- 
 nounced that she had some writing which must abso- 
 lutely be completed before dinner. 
 
 "But don't hurry away," she said to Robin. "I'm 
 sure that you and Zelie would like to have a chat 
 about Paris. For myself, I'll say good-bye." 
 
 And so they were left alone, facing each other, 
 these two, animated, both of them, by the instinct of 
 a struggle to come. 
 
 Zelie had risen, too, when Mme. de Freyne left the 
 room. She remained standing, one foot resting on 
 the fierce head of a great tawny tiger-skin rug that 
 was stretched out in front of the hearth. The attitude 
 suited her. 
 
 Robin closed the door behind his hostess and then 
 approached Zelie. "I wanted to talk to you alone," 
 he said simply. 
 
 "Yes." Her red lips curved defiantly. "You have 
 followed me. Did he send you?"
 
 93 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Owen?" Robin was standing close to Zelie now, 
 one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. "In a way 
 he did. I had to go to Paris on business of my own. 
 I left England last Sunday. It was Saturday night, 
 Zelie, that news reached Owen of what you had done." 
 
 "What had I done?" So much had happened since 
 Zelie left Paris that she had almost forgotten her 
 escapade with the picture. 
 
 " The Chamois Hunter,' " said the man sternly. 
 "You know." 
 
 Zelie broke into a ripple of derisive laughter. "Ah 
 ah ! It was well done. Is it not so ?" 
 
 "It was a mean act and a cruel act," retorted the 
 man warmly. "Moreover, it was infinitely foolish 
 as you shall learn. You knew that my friend, the 
 man who never treated you anything but well, had 
 sold his picture for a large sum; you knew, too, that 
 his work was a masterpiece, the exhibition of which 
 at the Salon was bound to bring him fame. Yet in 
 your rage you wantonly hacked this picture to pieces." 
 
 "I did," cried Zelie, her eyes flaming. "And I'm 
 glad of it glad. Had he not deceived and deserted 
 me this man who called himself my husband? Had 
 he not thrown me over, the cur, for a pink-cheeked 
 schoolgirl; she of the photograph about whom you 
 lied to me, you and your precious friend? Yes you 
 lied you lied and deny it if you dare!" 
 
 She poured out the words tempestuously, and with 
 such rapidity, that Robin had hardly caught their full 
 significance. 
 
 And now he could not deny that in a measure Zelie 
 had been deceived. It had been his own fault, too. 
 He had been so anxious to get Owen safely away from 
 Paris. Zelie could be told by letter afterwards it was 
 thus that he himself had urged. But Zelie had found
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 93 
 
 out for herself, and with lamentable results. He cursed 
 himself inwardly for a fool who was always doing the 
 wrong thing with the best intentions. 
 
 He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Look here, 
 Zelie," he said, "it had to be, you know. Your friend- 
 ship with Owen was all very well while it lasted, but 
 that sort of thing has to have an end. Owen's circum- 
 stances were all changed, and that is why he was com- 
 pelled to leave Paris. He had to go to an aunt who 
 is dying. She will make him her heir, but she 
 would have had nothing to do with him if she had 
 known." 
 
 "And he will marry the pink-cheeked schoolgirl 
 the little wax saint?" Zelie put the question 
 mockingly. 
 
 Robin inclined his head. "That is what Owen's 
 aunt desires. It is really a condition to his inheriting 
 the property. You don't know, perhaps, that Owen 
 had no money left when he reached England? It's 
 true, however. He spent his last louis with you. So 
 you see how essential it is. You see, too, the harm 
 you did to yourself in destroying the picture. Owen 
 would have been able to give you money at once " 
 
 "Hold your tongue with your offer of money." 
 Zelie's voice rose scornfully, and a hectic spot of rage 
 mounted to each cheek. "I will take no money not 
 a brass farthing bit from this cad whom I could force 
 away from his little saint with a word you under- 
 stand me ? with a word. I have but to say " She 
 
 was about to refer to the form of civil marriage that 
 she and Owen had gone through, but broke off sud- 
 denly. "But, no," she corrected herself, "I don't want 
 him I would not again be defiled by his touch. But 
 I hate him grand Dieu! how I hate him!" 
 
 She was the personification of hate as she stood
 
 94 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 there, her white fists clenched, those two red spots 
 burning upon her cheeks, her little sharp teeth show- 
 ing between her scarlet lips. "Bibi, Bibi," she mut- 
 tered under her breath, "give me my revenge quick !" 
 
 She choked the words down and then turned fiercely 
 upon the man. "He sent you," she asked, "to offer 
 me money for my silence, and that I should leave him 
 alone?" 
 
 "I had to go to Paris," Robin replied, feeling the 
 hatefulness of his task. "Owen could not leave his 
 aunt is too ill. He was angry very angry about 
 the picture. But he wished to see you. I went to 
 Versailles and found that you had left. But Mme. 
 Lecomte gave me your address here. I was sur- 
 prised." 
 
 Zelie bit her lip. It was true that she had written to 
 her friend, giving her London address. The action 
 had been inspired by her pride in her new grand 
 friends. 
 
 "So you bring me the message from Owen?" re- 
 peated Zelie. "It is as I have said? It is his wish 
 that I take myself out of his life?" 
 
 Once more Robin inclined his head. What was the 
 good of beating about the bush ? "He wished to make 
 reparation to you," he said, "later on when he can 
 afford to do so. And he has asked me to give you 
 this letter." 
 
 He handed a sealed envelope to Zelie. She took it, 
 crushing it in her palm. 
 
 "You will see Owen?" 
 
 "Yes to-night." 
 
 Zelie was laughing now. Her laugh sounded hor- 
 ribly ominous in the man's ears. He could not help 
 thinking that she had something in her mind to which 1
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 95 
 
 she would not give utterance that her laugh veiled 
 a threat. 
 
 "Then, M. Robin, you may tell Owen Mayne that 
 I give him his liberty. And may he live long to en- 
 joy the kisses of his little wax saint. You will be sure 
 to say that?" She pronounced the words with biting 
 emphasis. "May he live to enjoy his money and his 
 kisses." 
 
 Robin had done what he had to do, but he left the 
 flat in Knightsbridge with a sense of impending ca- 
 lamity. He was sure that Zelie had not been sincere, 
 that she was meditating some secret blow. As he 
 walked slowly away his heart was sore within him. 
 
 As for Zelie, no sooner had the door shut behind 
 Robin than she took Owen's letter and tore it, un- 
 read, into tiny threads. It was with her teeth that she 
 first rent the envelope in half. And all the while she 
 muttered savage curses under her breath, while she 
 called upon Bibi to be quick with the completion of 
 his task. 
 
 She destroyed Owen's letter unread. Had she at- 
 tempted to master its contents she would have learnt 
 that Owen repudiated every word that Robin had said. 
 In that letter he revealed to her the whole plot that 
 he was carrying out at Selwood how, his aunt dead 
 and the inheritance his, he meant to break his engage- 
 ment should that engagement ever become an actu- 
 ality with the "little wax saint," and return to his 
 Zelie, whom he adored now more than ever, and whom 
 he freely forgave for the destruction of his picture. 
 
 He was unable to take Robin into his secret, for 
 Robin was so stubbornly honest. So the good fellow 
 would speak to Zelie of a separation, and all manner 
 of other foolish things, thinking he was doing his duty 
 by his friend, but Zelie must take no notice of this
 
 96 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 whatever. Only she must pretend, in order that Robin 
 should be deceived. And then it would not be long 
 before Owen was a rich man and at liberty once more. 
 What a good time they would have when that happy 
 day came! 
 
 The letter was full of passionate affection. Yet it 
 was torn up unread, and Zelie, with murder in her 
 heart, tossed the fragments contemptuously to the 
 back of the grate. 
 
 "Hasten, my Bibi," she muttered again and again. 
 "Be quick and sure to strike." There was a red glow 
 before her eyes the lust of revenge.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ROBIN CLITHERO journeyed down to Buckinghamshire 
 by a late train that evening. He had snatched a 
 hurried dinner at the station and he was tired, dis- 
 satisfied with himself, and uneasy in his mind. 
 
 He was inclined to wish that he had not interfered 
 in the matter of Zelie at all. It had been all his own 
 doing, for Owen, if anything, had sought to dis- 
 courage him so he might have spared himself the 
 unpleasant interview of that afternoon, as well as the 
 running about in Paris, the playing at amateur de- 
 tective, which had wearied him and prevented him 
 from giving the requisite attention to his own business. 
 He had reached Paris early on the Sunday morning, 
 having travelled over-night, and the amount of work 
 which he had crammed into two days was really 
 astonishing. 
 
 It was about noon on the preceding Saturday that 
 the news of the destruction of Owen's picture had 
 reached Selwood Manor. It had come in the form of 
 a telegram from Blaize, the concierge, which had been 
 redirected to Owen from the Delphic Club. 
 
 Robin remembered the scene quite well. They were 
 at lunch, himself, Owen, Lavender, and a girl friend 
 of the latter's, Diana Ferrars, who had ridden over 
 to spend the afternoon at the Manor. Mrs. Alderson 
 always took her meals in her own boudoir, where she 
 spent the best part of the day reclining on her invalid 
 couch. 
 
 97
 
 98 TWO APACHES OF PAKIS 
 
 Owen had torn open the envelope, making some 
 half-jocular apology, but an ominous change had come 
 over his face as he read the missive. He was a man 
 who was sometimes given to unrestrained outbursts of 
 passion, and he looked just then as if he might be 
 unable to hold himself in check. Rarely had Robin 
 seen so dark a frown settle on his brow. 
 
 Of course Lavender noticed it too. Telegrams were 
 rare events at Selwood Manor, and she had the natural 
 instinct to associate them with evil tidings. There 
 was deep concern, a tender sympathy, expressed upon 
 her face anxiety, too but it was some moments be- 
 fore she ventured to ask Owen the cause of his trouble. 
 
 He was able to choke down his wrath, though it was 
 only after an effort palpable enough to Robin. He 
 crushed up the telegram and thrust it away in his 
 pocket. Then he tried to smile, but it was a poor 
 attempt. 
 
 "There has been an accident to my picture the 
 'Chamois Hunter,' you know," he said. "I'm afraid 
 it has been utterly spoilt. It's a pity, and it means a 
 considerable loss to me but it was quite an accident." 
 He seemed eager to emphasise the point. 
 
 Robin could not refrain from an exclamation of dis- 
 may. He set as much store by Owen's success as did 
 Owen himself. He was proud of his friend's work. 
 He had watched it as it developed under the masterful 
 hand and had foreseen it as the picture of the year. 
 Furthermore, he knew that its sale, already accom- 
 plished, was of the greatest importance to Owen just 
 then. 
 
 For Owen was badly in debt, and he had handed 
 over to Zelie practically all the money that remained 
 to him. He was being pushed by his creditors, and 
 he had promised to pay from the proceeds of this sale.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 99 
 
 Now he would probably have to ask assistance from 
 his aunt, who, so far, believed that her nephew was 
 earning a comfortable income. Well, so Robin argued 
 with himself, that wouldn't matter so much if Owen 
 would only hurry up and get definitely engaged to 
 Lavender which was what Mrs. Alderson wanted. 
 But they had been at Selwood Manor now for the 
 best part of three weeks, and nothing decisive had 
 happened. So perhaps this accident was for the best, 
 after all it might precipitate the desired end. 
 
 Staunch and loyal Robin! Sincerely and from the 
 depth of his honest heart he desired to see his friend 
 and Lavender engaged, so that there might be an end, 
 once and for all, to that liaison with a dangerous woman 
 which threatened nothing but ill as long as it lasted; 
 also, so that Owen should take the place in life that 
 was his due as natural heir to the Alderson estates. 
 Robin was convinced that he would do credit to it. 
 
 And all the while Robin suffered suffered acutely. 
 For Lavender, now that he had met her in the flesh, 
 appeared to him a very reincarnation of the one woman 
 who had meant anything in his life the girl whom he 
 had loved and lost. She was just as gentle and as 
 pure, and her voice thrilled him, so soft it was, so like 
 in its intonation to that which haunted his dream. He, 
 who had vowed never to love again, felt that all his 
 heart was drawn to Lavender Percivale, and yet his 
 lips were closed by the sacred seal of honour and 
 friendship. 
 
 Lavender had given no indication of her feelings. 
 She was naturally retiring of disposition even a trifle 
 shy. Robin had been afraid at first that Owen might 
 offend her by too impetuous love-making. But, as a 
 matter of fact, he had behaved with commendable
 
 100 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 discretion. Perhaps Mrs. Alderson had warned him 
 to go gently. 
 
 The truth was though this was a secret of the man's 
 own heart that Owen had a vague hope that his aunt 
 might be induced to make a will in his favour without 
 the necessity of his becoming engaged at all. Her 
 tenure upon life was growing daily more feeble, and 
 she might easily recognise the danger of further 
 delay. 
 
 That day, as soon as lunch was over, Owen showed 
 Robin the telegram which he had received from Paris. 
 It had been written in English in M. Blaize's best 
 style. 
 
 "Your Salon picture has been cut to pieces ruined. 
 It was Mme. Zelie who did it." 
 
 Then Owen's rage blazed forth. He put no re- 
 straint upon his tongue. But, though Robin hardly 
 noticed it at the time, his anger was directed against 
 himself and his friend rather than against the author 
 of the catastrophe. Why had they not admitted the 
 whole truth to Zelie before leaving Paris? That was 
 the cause of all the mischief. Of course, she had found 
 it out and had used the first weapon that came to her 
 hand to avenge herself. It was like her what he 
 might have expected. 
 
 "The whole truth ?" faltered Robin, not understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Then, even in his passion, Owen realised that he had 
 nearly betrayed himself. "As there had to be a scene," 
 he explained hurriedly, "we should have got it over 
 at once. Zelie ought not to have found things out 
 for herself. For now Heaven knows what I'm going 
 to do. There's Carlier pressing for money and a 
 host of others."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 101 
 
 "What you have to do, Owen," said Robin, simply, 
 "is to hurry up matters here. Your aunt will sympa- 
 thise over the picture and she'll put everything straight 
 for you as soon as her own wishes are realised. As for 
 Zelie the vicious little devil you are well rid of her, 
 even at such a terrible price." 
 
 "That's all very well," grumbled Owen; "and, of 
 course, you're right, Robin. You always are. It's an 
 infernally aggravating characteristic of yours. But 
 don't you see, man, that I shall have to go to Paris?" 
 
 Robin saw no necessity for such a course and said 
 so forcibly. He had already arranged to cross the 
 Channel that night, having some business of his own 
 to attend to. Ever ready to devote himself to the 
 cause of friendship, he suggested that he should hunt 
 up Zelie and take the whole unpleasant duty upon 
 himself. 
 
 It needed a good deal of argument, however, before 
 Owen yielded, and then it was because he saw a certain 
 humour in the situation which appealed to his love of 
 the bizarre and eccentric. He would write a letter to 
 Zelie, in which he would reveal the exact truth to 
 her, telling her that he forgave her for the wanton 
 damage she had done, and that she was the only 
 woman upon earth whom he loved or could ever really 
 love. He would explain his reasons for secrecy with 
 regard to Robin, and make it quite clear to her that 
 she must not take seriously a word of what the latter 
 said. 
 
 And this letter it was which had been duly handed 
 to Zelie and which she had torn up unread. 
 
 It was late that evening when Robin reached Sel- 
 wood. Yet, since the night was fine and the spring 
 air soft and balmy, he decided that it would be pleasant 
 to walk the mile or two from the station to the Manor.
 
 102 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 He was oppressed with a feeling of despondency and 
 foreboding of evil to come, and he wanted to shake 
 off these ominous thoughts. 
 
 But they were weighing upon him more heavily 
 than ever when he turned into the long elm avenue that 
 led to the Manor, and which was one of its greatest 
 prides. The boughs intertwined above his head, almost 
 completely shutting out the light of the moon, and as 
 he walked, a little more hurriedly now, he could fancy 
 that he heard footsteps following him. 
 
 More than once he came to a halt, turning, and try- 
 ing to penetrate the darkness behind him with his eyes, 
 and then there would come the creaking of a twig, and 
 he could imagine that someone was crouching down 
 among the trees close at hand, watching him from some 
 leafy recess. 
 
 "Is anyone there?" He called the words aloud at 
 last, stepping aside from the road on to the soft sward 
 at a spot where the tall elms were flanked by dense 
 bush. 
 
 There was no answer, but he could have sworn that, 
 following his words, there came the sound of hur- 
 ried, retreating steps among the bushes. 
 
 "I expect it's nothing more than a rabbit or a bird," 
 he muttered to himself as he resumed his way. "I'm 
 getting timid as well as morbid. This will never do." 
 
 A few minutes later he reached the Manor. Owen 
 was waiting up for him, the rest of the household 
 having retired to bed. Owen hurried his friend into 
 the dining-room, where supper had been thoughfully 
 laid for the traveller. 
 
 "Well?" inquired Owen, anxiously. 
 
 "It's all right," responded Robin, trying to adopt a 
 cheerful manner. "I saw Zelie and told her. I can't 
 say I had a good time. She's in London looking out
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 103 
 
 for an engagement. She told me to say that she gives 
 you your liberty but she didn't say it nicely." 
 
 "Did you give her my letter?" interrupted Owen 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Owen breathed a sigh of relief. "That's all right," 
 he said. The next moment he was acting his part 
 once more. "Poor Zelie," he muttered, "so this is 
 the end." 
 
 "And you?" asked Robin, scrutinising his friend's 
 handsome face with some eagerness, although his limbs 
 quivered. He was bracing himself to hear the answer 
 he expected. "Are you and Lavender engaged?" 
 
 "Not yet," was the answer, given almost sullenly. 
 "I've not found an opportunity to speak. My aunt has 
 been very ill. She talked to me to-day about her will 
 and other matters. I've promised to speak to Lav- 
 ender to-morrow. Aunt Anne doesn't know if 
 Lavender cares for me, and I've been afraid to risk 
 things by being too precipitate. But we shall see 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Later, as he partook of some supper, Robin men- 
 tioned how he had fancied himself shadowed as he 
 came through the park. "I'm getting awfully imagi- 
 native," he said. 
 
 But Owen looked serious. "It's curious," he re- 
 marked, meditatively, "but I had exactly the same ex- 
 perience this afternoon. I felt convinced that there 
 was someone hanging about in the bushes. There 
 have been several burglaries in the neighbourhood 
 lately so I'm told. Still, I expect you're right, and 
 it was only a rabbit. Let us hope so."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "I'M afraid we can no longer say that it's a matter of 
 months. More likely weeks, or perhaps even days." 
 The speaker was Dr. Murray, Mrs. Alderson's medical 
 adviser. He had been in daily attendance since the 
 beginning of the week. 
 
 Owen Mayne, who, although himself a guest, was 
 acting as host, had accompanied the doctor to the door, 
 and was standing chatting for a few moments before 
 the latter stepped into the neat brougham that awaited 
 him. 
 
 "It will be a sad loss to the county," Dr. Murray 
 continued, with a shake of his head, "for there never 
 was a better beloved woman. Her one desire is al- 
 ways to make people happy and to have smiling faces 
 about her. Poor Miss Percivale she'll feel it in- 
 tensely." 
 
 "You haven't warned her, of course?" asked Owen. 
 "It would do no good to sadden her just now." 
 
 "No," replied the doctor, "but, of course, she knows 
 that the end cannot be long delayed. Well, good-bye ; 
 remember I can always come at the shortest notice if 
 I am wanted." Dr. Murray stepped into the brougham, 
 which was soon lost to sight in the long elm avenue. 
 
 Owen stood for a few moments at the door, gazing 
 with unseeing eyes over the smooth, broad lawn that 
 sloped down to a tiny lake and to a background of tall 
 pines. 
 
 But his thoughts were not with the dying lady; he 
 104
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 105 
 
 was allowing his mind to wander to far-away Paris, 
 to the warmth of his studio and to the white figure of 
 a siren perched upon a rock, her hands entwined in the 
 flowing meshes of her black hair. 
 
 "The witch," he muttered to himself, a frown upon 
 his brow. "But I mustn't think of her as she appears 
 in my unfortunate picture. That chamois hunter has 
 hunted his last. Fool that I was, not to have told her 
 everything at once. But I think I've made matters 
 all right by my letter. She'll understand and will wait 
 till I can go to her with my pockets full of money. 
 But fancy Zelie being in London with Eve de 
 Freyne of all people. However, I'm sure she'll act 
 discreetly, and not attempt to write me or see me as 
 I asked her. She's clever as they make them and 
 knows what's to her own interest." 
 
 "So you've just got to wait, my dear," he went on, 
 after a pause, "while I play out my blackguardly game 
 here, deceiving a charming old lady, who is on the 
 brink of eternity, and an innocent girl, who has an 
 uncomfortable way of making one feel ashamed of 
 oneself. Yes, Robin was right when he said it was a 
 low trick, and Robin will loathe me when he knows 
 the truth. But it's all for your sake, Zelie." He 
 clenched his fists. "I regret nothing. I'd stake my 
 soul for you my very soul !" 
 
 He turned on his heel and made his way slowly to 
 the bright and sunny boudoir facing the other side of 
 the house, where he knew he would find Mrs. Alder- 
 son, Lavender, and Robin. The girl looked up 
 anxiously as he entered the room. She knew that he 
 had been talking with Dr. Murray. 
 
 "Murray reports well of our patient," he lied, anxious 
 to dissipate Lavender's fears, and knowing quite well 
 that Mrs. Alderson had no illusions as to her condi-
 
 106 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 tion. "He has to go to some meeting or other, or he'd 
 not have hurried away directly after lunch." 
 
 Mrs. Alderson lay upon her sofa, the sofa upon 
 which the greater part of her days were spent. She 
 was very feeble and not allowed to walk much ; for the 
 last four years she had been a chronic invalid, suffer- 
 ing from a complicated form of heart disease, which 
 had followed an attack of rheumatic fever. 
 
 She was small and frail, but delightful to look upon. 
 She had silver-grey hair, always carefully dressed 
 high on her head, hair that reminded one of nothing 
 so much as that of some stately lady of old times. 
 Mrs. Alderson was, in every way, like a picture, from 
 her slender, delicate figure to her smooth, white brow 
 and clear-cut features. 
 
 She smiled now as Owen crossed to Lavender's side 
 and stood talking in an undertone to the girl. What 
 a handsome couple they made ! It had not taken long 
 for Owen, by his natural charm of manner, to win 
 her heart. 
 
 "I mustn't be so cruel as to keep you two young men 
 indoors all the afternoon," she said. "This is my 
 quiet hour, you know, when Lavender reads to me or 
 we chat together on all manner of things. Perhaps, 
 Owen, you and Mr. Clithero would like to take a ride 
 and get back in time for tea. After that I can spare 
 Lavender to you for a little." 
 
 She cast a meaning glance at her nephew. It was 
 evidently meant to remind him of his promise. Then, 
 as the two men were about to take their departure, 
 Mrs. Alderson called them back to ask a question which 
 had just occurred to her. 
 
 "By the way, Owen," she said, "did you tell Mr. 
 Clithero about the entertainment at Chamney to-mor- 
 row? The invitation came while you were away,"
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 107 
 
 she went on, addressing Robin. "Lavender wanted 
 to refuse because I've not been so well, but Miss 
 Ferrars is very anxious for her to go. There are bound 
 to be all sorts of curious people there, and I've no 
 doubt that you, as an artist and a Bohemian" she 
 smiled and shook her forefinger at him "will be in- 
 terested. Besides, both Owen and I owe a good deal 
 to Lord Martyn, who is giving the party." 
 
 Owen laughed. "Oh, I'd forgotten all about it. 
 But you're quite right, my dear Aunt Anne, for the 
 entertainment is bound to be a peculiar one. Martyn 
 is such a queer fish. But, as you say, we have every 
 reason to be grateful to him. If it hadn't happened 
 that he was your neighbour and that he knew of me 
 in Paris you would probably never have found me 
 out at all or have thought of writing to me. Yes, 
 Martyn is a good fellow, but I'm afraid he makes rather 
 a point of shocking people, doesn't he? I've heard 
 some queer stories about him and his doings since I've 
 been here." Owen's pose, in the presence of his aunt, 
 was that of a scrupulous observer of the proprieties. 
 
 Owen and Robin took their departure after this, 
 accepting Mrs. Alderson's suggestion of an hour's ride 
 across the fine open country which lay in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Selwood Manor. 
 
 Lavender seated herself at once by the side of the 
 invalid and opened the book which she was in course 
 of reading aloud. But she had not read many pages 
 before she noticed that the old lady had closed her 
 eyes and was sleeping peacefully, a smile upon her thin 
 lips. 
 
 Lavender allowed the book to drop upon her knees 
 and sat very still, her hands folded in her lap, gazing 
 straight in front of her. A mirror upon the opposite 
 wall reflected her beautiful face and graceful figure.
 
 108 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Lavender was very fair and her features were 
 Madonna-like in their innocence and purity. Her face 
 was oval, her eyes blue and dreamy, her lips tenderly 
 sensitive. She might have been Mrs. Alderson's own 
 daughter, because of the similarity of disposition be- 
 tween the two, as well as the great love they bore 
 each other. 
 
 Yet it was little more than three years that Lavender 
 had lived under the roof of Selwood Manor. She had 
 come there before she was nineteen, and she was now 
 nearing her twenty-second birthday. 
 
 She had not gone through life without knowing its 
 sadder side. She was the daughter of a former vicar 
 of Selwood. Her mother had been a great friend of 
 Mrs. Alderson's, who had stood as Lavender's god- 
 mother. 
 
 Unfortunately, when Lavender was eleven or twelve 
 years old, things had gone amiss with the Percivales. 
 The vicar had become involved in certain shady finan- 
 cial transactions in which he had not only lost the little 
 fortune of which he was possessed, but suffered in 
 honour as well. He was innocent of actual offence, 
 as all who knew him were aware, but he was tech- 
 nically guilty of complicity with the rogues who had 
 defrauded him. The ruin of many besides himself was 
 laid at his door. He had to appear in court, and, 
 though he was absolved of personal blame, the shame 
 of it broke him both physically and mentally. 
 
 Mrs. Alderson and her husband, who was alive at 
 that time a hard-riding, genial old country squire 
 did their best for the vicar not only out of personal 
 sympathy but because of their affection for Mrs. Per- 
 civale and for Lavender, a delicate, pretty little crea- 
 ture who had won her way to their hearts. But the 
 vicar was too proud to accept assistance from his
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 109 
 
 friends, and, with his wife and child, he had drifted 
 away from Selwood, losing himself and them in the 
 world against which he had not the strength to fight. 
 
 The years that followed were black and bitter, and 
 Lavender could never think of them without a shud- 
 der. In her childish memories she always seemed to 
 be moving from place to place, never making long so- 
 journ anywhere. She had been to school, but had soon 
 been removed from it because the expense was too 
 great. Her mother had then taken her education in 
 hand, but Mrs. Percivale was weak and sickly, and 
 her husband was warned that unless she could be sent 
 out of the country to a warmer climate she was not 
 likely to survive another winter. 
 
 It was this verdict of the doctor's which brought 
 about the final catastrophe. Whatever the late vicar's 
 faults may have been there was no doubt about the 
 love he bore for Lavender's mother. It was for her 
 sake that he stepped, open-eyed this time, off the path 
 of honesty. 
 
 One day he yielded to temptation. He stole stole 
 foolishly, almost without taking means to avoid de- 
 tection, almost as if he were proud of what he did. 
 
 He was arrested before he had time to leave the 
 country with his wife and child. Charged at the police 
 court he made no attempt to deny his guilt, but pleaded 
 that what he had done was to save a human life. 
 
 Here fate, as it will do, made cruel sport of him. 
 For, instead of saving his wife's life, his action brought 
 her to her death-bed. Mrs. Percivale died, and was 
 mercifully spared the knowledge of her husband's 
 conviction and sentence to twelve months' imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 He did not live to complete his sentence, but he held 
 his head high till the end, refusing to acknowledge that
 
 110 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 he had committed any sin. As for Lavender, the 
 sensation caused by the case brought her to the notice 
 of Mrs. Alderson, now a widow, who came forward and 
 offered to adopt the unfortunate felon's daughter. 
 
 And now the end was drawing very near; Mrs. 
 Alderson had made no secret of it with the girl. But 
 she was not afraid of going as long as she was assured 
 that she was leaving Lavender happy. 
 
 Was Lavender disposed to return the love which 
 Owen had declared himself ready to bestow ? That was 
 the question which harassed the mind of the dying 
 woman. She had been waiting, watching allowing 
 matters to follow their normal development. Did 
 Lavender care? 
 
 Mrs. Alderson opened her eyes dreamily. Lavender 
 was still sitting upright in her chair, the open book 
 lying idly upon her knees. Her thoughts were evi- 
 dently far away. She had not noticed that Mrs. Al- 
 derson was awake. 
 
 There was a smile hovering about her lips, and 
 presently she murmured a question to herself, mur- 
 mured it aloud. 
 
 "Does he love me ? Oh, I wonder if he really loves 
 me?" 
 
 Mrs. Alderson heard, and then she drew a deep 
 breath, a sigh of thanksgiving. "I have asked no 
 more of God than this," she whispered, "that you 
 should love one another. And God has granted my 
 prayer." 
 
 "Oh, mother, I didn't know you were awake." 
 Lavender fluttered to her feet, tumbling the book to 
 the floor, and then, a rich flush mantling her cheeks, 
 stooped to pick it up. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I was awake, and I overheard what you
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 111 
 
 said. Wasn't it indiscreet? But come, my darling, 
 come and sit down by my side again." 
 
 "Yes, mother. Shall I go on reading to you?" 
 Lavender fumbled with the pages of the book, bending 
 over it to hide her blush. 
 
 Mrs. Alderson stretched out her hand and rested it 
 upon that of the girl. "No, Lavender, I don't want 
 to be read to," she said softly. "I'd like you to talk 
 to me of him. I'm sure you'll be happy to share your 
 secret with me." 
 
 Lavender gave a little fluttering sigh, and then 
 yielded herself to the delight of talking of her love. 
 She could not say when the knowledge of it had first 
 come to her, but she was quite sure that she had known 
 Owen long before he ever came to Selwood Manor 
 she had seen him in her dreams, he had been the fairy 
 prince of the fairy castle that all girls build for them- 
 selves. 
 
 "But do you think he cares for me as I care for 
 him, mother?" she murmured. "That's what I'm not 
 sure about. You see, he hasn't said a word to me yet, 
 and sometimes I can't help feeling that I'm not good 
 enough for him, I, who, if it had not been for your 
 kindness, might have been in the workhouse by now 
 I" she lowered her eyes "whose father died in 
 prison. Does he know all these things about me, 
 mother ? Oh, you've told him the truth, haven't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, Owen knows your story," Mrs. Alderson com- 
 forted. "I have told him every word of it. He said 
 that he was sure your father was more sinned against 
 than sinning." 
 
 "Ah, that was good of him, good and kind," sighed 
 the girl, reassured. "And he's so handsome. I'm 
 sure he has just the face of a really great artist. Don't 
 you think he's very handsome, dear ?"
 
 "His mother, my sister Margaret, was a beautiful 
 woman," Mrs. Alderson said, "and Owen is like his 
 mother. I recognised the likeness immediately, and it 
 made the boy very dear to me. For I loved my sister, 
 Lavender, and the fact that she and I were estranged 
 from each other troubled me more than I can tell you. 
 I don't think I've ever spoken to you of our quarrel 
 it is a subject that I have not cared to allude to." 
 
 Mrs. Alderson pressed her hand to her brow for an 
 instant, then continued: "You see, Margaret and I 
 had always been on the best of terms together, but 
 when I married her manner changed, and though I 
 begged her to tell me why she would never say a word. 
 She thought I knew, that I understood, but I didn't. 
 It was all a mystery to me. And then she went abroad, 
 and from France, where she was living, wrote me a 
 hard and cruel letter in which she said that she hoped 
 never to see me again. She married in France and 
 had one child that is Owen whose birth cost her her 
 life. They were in Paris then, for Mr. Mayne had 
 French relations. But I learned that the father and 
 the boy drifted away soon afterwards, and Owen might 
 have passed out of my life altogether had I not acci- 
 dentally heard of him through Lord Martyn." 
 
 The old lady paused and sighed. "It was only after 
 my husband's death," she went on, "that I discovered 
 the reason for my sister's anger. She, too, had been 
 in love with Francis before he married me and 
 imagined that I had weaned his affections from her. 
 I'm afraid he must have given her some excuse for 
 believing that he cared that is, if I can judge from 
 the letters which I found." Two bright spots of 
 colour came to the old lady's cheeks as she spoke. 
 
 "So you see," she resumed, "from the time of my 
 marriage till her death Margaret imagined that I had
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 113 
 
 wilfully robbed her of the man she loved. She died 
 believing me a cruel, heartless woman, and that is the 
 tragedy of it, for I loved my sister dearly. That's the 
 story, Lavender, and now you know why I was so 
 eager to see Owen before I died, why I wanted to make 
 up to him for the pain that his mother suffered on my 
 account. And it is my one remaining wish that he and 
 you, my two dear children, shall fall in love with each 
 other, so that Selwood, with all its responsibilities, may 
 be left in capable hands." 
 
 "And now kiss me, dear child," the old lady con- 
 cluded, "for since you love Owen everything will be 
 well. God has granted my wish." 
 
 Lavender bent and kissed the smooth brow of the 
 old lady. "Oh, I should be so happy," she murmured, 
 "if I was sure that Owen cared for me as I care for 
 him. But sometimes I don't know how to explain it 
 I'm almost afraid." 
 
 Mrs. Alderson stroked Lavender's hair lovingly as 
 the girl bent over her. "When we are in love we are 
 frightened of shadows," she comforted. "I dare say 
 you are right, and that Owen was thinking of those 
 unhappy days that you lived through, my child. He 
 was so sorry for you when I told him of them. So 
 there, I don't think you need worry yourself any more 
 about it." 
 
 Mrs. Alderson's couch was drawn up close to the 
 window, a window that looked out upon a carefully 
 tended flower garden, with a blackground of wood and 
 undulating hills. The afternoon sun was streaming in, 
 shimmering on Lavender's fair face. The old lady 
 lifted herself a little and gazed into the garden. 
 
 "If I'm not very much mistaken," she said, "our 
 two young friends have come back from their ride, and 
 are strolling about in the garden at this very moment.
 
 114, TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 I suppose they're afraid of intruding before the tea 
 hour. If I were you, Lavender dear, I'd join them. 
 Send Mr. Clithero in to have a chat with me. I like 
 Mr. Clithero there's a solid honesty about him which 
 appeals, and, besides, he's so devoted to Owen." 
 
 Lavender needed no second invitation. She flut- 
 tered to the window, watching for herself the two tall 
 figures sauntering up the garden path, then, smiling 
 and whispering tender words, she again kissed the old 
 lady and ran lightly from the room.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "WHAT'S wrong with you, old chap? You've been 
 awfully glum all day not a bit yourself. Haven't I 
 been behaving to your satisfaction ?" 
 
 Owen Mayne put the question with that half-satirical 
 touch in his voice which was rarely absent in his deal- 
 ings with Robin. The two young men were strolling 
 in the garden and smoking, waiting for the gong that 
 would summon them in to tea. 
 
 "I? Oh, I'm all rght," responded Robin, but some- 
 what evasively. "Don't worry about me, Owen. I 
 was really thinking that it wasn't much good my 
 having come back to Selwood. I'm only in the way 
 here, after all. There's nothing more that I can do. 
 You're quit of Zelie at least, I hope so and you've 
 only got to go ahead and make Lavender your wife, 
 and the sooner the better. I believe you are really 
 growing to care for the little Puritan as you called 
 her. And as for her she adores the very ground you 
 walk on. I'm sure of it, in spite of your doubts. It's 
 all falling out just as it should and I I'm delighted. 
 You are clear of a ghastly encumbrance, you'll settle 
 down as master of a big estate, you'll be rich and have 
 
 a charming wife Jove, Owen, but you are a man to 
 
 be envied ! I shall go back to France happy on your ac- 
 count and hers oh, quite happy." 
 
 He spoke heartily, and yet there was something 
 115
 
 116 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 strained and unnatural in his voice. Owen glanced at 
 him curiously. 
 
 "So you're really glad, Robin?" he asked. "You're 
 not sorry you refused the offer I made you? Do you 
 remember that you should take my place?" 
 
 Robin shook his head with decision. "No, no," he 
 said, "never that. I should have hated, loathed my- 
 self. I don't think you meant it seriously you couldn't 
 have." 
 
 Owen shrugged his shoulders. "Well, well," he said, 
 "what had to be had to be. You've been a very good 
 friend to me, Rob, and I'm grateful. You'll remember 
 that, won't you, old chap, whatever happens in the 
 future ? Do you know, there are times" his eyes were 
 reflective "times when I wish that we could cut the 
 last four months out of our lives altogether." 
 
 He slashed at the grass by the side of the path with 
 a twig which he had picked up. "They were jolly 
 days, weren't they," he muttered; "the irresponsible 
 studio days when nothing mattered?" 
 
 "There are better things in store for you, old fel- 
 low," responded Robin sturdily. "You've drawn a 
 lucky number in the lottery. Stick to it. As for me, 
 I shall get along all right at Fontainebleau with my 
 work." 
 
 He broke off, because at that moment Lavender ap- 
 peared, a graceful figure in white, running across the 
 lawn from the house. A moment or two later she 
 was by their side. 
 
 She delivered her message breathlessly. Mrs. Alder- 
 son wanted a chat with Mr. Clithero. There was 
 nothing strange in the request. The old lady could 
 never see much company together, and it was her way 
 to arrange pleasant little interviews one at a time. 
 
 Robin walked slowly to the house. Once he turned
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 117 
 
 and noticed that Owen and Lavender were strolling 
 away together in the opposite direction. 
 
 "It is all as it should be," he muttered, bowing his 
 head, "but I oh, why must I stay here and suffer? 
 For I love her so oh, I love her so!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN the meanwhile Owen and Lavender wandered off 
 together, their feet turning, as it were instinctively, 
 towards a spot in the garden which for many years 
 past had gone by the name of "The Lovers' Walk." 
 
 This was really a long cutting in the wood which 
 bordered one side of the garden, and Lavender de- 
 lighted in the spot, especially in the spring, because 
 of the wild flowers with which it abounded. The soft, 
 mossy turf was always carpeted then with primroses, 
 hyacinths, bluebells, and violets. There was a little 
 silvery brook, too, that flowed murmuring through the 
 dell. 
 
 At the far end of the walk, almost hidden by tree 
 and bush, there was a life-sized marble statue of a girl 
 in loose, flowing robes. The strange thing about it 
 was that no one could say when or by whom the effigy 
 had been set up. There was no mention of it in the 
 family records. But though nothing was actually 
 known, it was, naturally enough, believed that the figure 
 had been set up to commemorate a bygone tragedy. 
 
 The expression of the face, the attitude, all lent 
 colour to this belief. The figure was represented 
 standing, with arms raised, and leaning a little for- 
 ward as if suddenly arrested by the sight of something 
 that terrified. The lips were slightly parted, the eyes 
 turned down with a look of fear in them that haunted. 
 It was a sweet face, very delicate and classical, and, 
 altogether, the statue was a fine piece of work. 
 
 118
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 119 
 
 Nevertheless, Lavender was glad that it was so over- 
 grown with shrub as to be hardly visible till one came 
 quite near, only peeping out then like a wan ghost 
 from among a festoon of leafy branches, for it seemed 
 to her that the statue brought a discordant element, a 
 suggestion of pain, into a spot that was idyllic in its 
 beauty. 
 
 And so they approached the "Lovers' Walk," Owen 
 and Lavender, walking slowly side by side, not talking 
 much as they went, for the mind of each was busy with 
 its own reflections. 
 
 The girl was very happy, timidly, deliciously ex- 
 pectant. Owen cared for her she was sure of that 
 now ; it was silly of her, she told herself, to have had 
 any doubt of it. Mrs. Alderson had quite set her mind 
 at rest. It was all clear, even from what Owen had 
 whispered to her when Mr. Clithero had turned away, 
 leaving them to their own company. 
 
 "Lavender, I'm glad of the opportunity of a chat 
 with you. There's something I want to say." 
 
 Her cheeks had flushed pink she never could help 
 that tell-tale blush ! but she had tried to look uncon- 
 scious as she murmured, "Yes, Owen," then, casting 
 down her eyes, "Which way shall we go ?" 
 
 "To the Lovers' Walk," he had replied promptly, 
 looking down into her face, a smile upon his lips. 
 
 "Oh, yes we will gather primroses," she had cried, 
 clapping her hands together. "I want some for the 
 vases in the boudoir. Mother loves the spring flowers." 
 
 "Sweet simplicity," muttered Owen to himself, 
 pursing his lips together, but he drew her hand gently 
 under his arm, and so they made their way in silence 
 to the spot which he had chosen, the spot where he 
 had decided that the fateful words must be spoken. 
 
 For what was the use of further delay? Lavender
 
 120 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 loved him and was ready to give him her young and 
 fragrant life. But, all unexpectedly, conscience had 
 pricked him, some belated appreciation of the sin he 
 had so easily, so lightly designed. This was not re- 
 markable, for Owen was thoughtless and irresponsible 
 rather than flagrantly unscrupulous. 
 
 It had seemed so easy and simple at a distance. 
 
 It was an afternoon for love vows. The long cutting 
 in the wood was fragrant with the scent of spring. 
 The path by the brook was in shade, but the leafy 
 branches of the trees glittered as if they were spangled 
 with thousands of gems as the sunrays filtered through. 
 The stream made soft, murmuring music, an accom- 
 paniment to the twittering of birds among the boughs. 
 
 Lavender had soon gathered a handful of pale, dewy 
 primroses. Owen watched her as she ran from tuft 
 to tuft, her feet sinking in the soft moss. Her white 
 dress and her fair hair, only partly hidden by her sun- 
 bonnet, were in delightful harmony with the dark green 
 background. Owen's artistic eyes appreciated the 
 scene. Like Zelie, Lavender was slim of figure, though 
 she had nothing of the feline the almost serpentine 
 litheness that characterised the French girl. 
 
 But Zelie would have been out of place in the spring 
 freshness of the wood she would have presented an 
 element of discord. Not that that would have been 
 an offence in the eyes of Owen, to whom strong dis- 
 cords and startling unconventionalities appealed; in- 
 deed, even now, he was figuring Zelie in Lavender's 
 place Zelie, black clad, a panther among buttercups 
 and daisies ! What a fine contrast ! 
 
 "Are they not beautiful?" Lavender came to him, 
 holding up the flowers for his inspection. But he 
 caught her hands and drew her to him, so that, with
 
 TWO APACHES OP PARIS 
 
 a little cry, her fingers relaxed and the primroses fell, 
 a shower of gold, to her feet. 
 
 "You are beautiful," he said; "you are the sweetest 
 flower of all my flower. I love you, Lavender." 
 
 They were spoken, the fateful words, born of deceit 
 and selfishness the burning, lying words that could 
 never be unsaid or forgotten. 
 
 Lavender drew a deep sighing breath, and allowed 
 her head to drop against the man's shoulder. He could 
 feel the fluttering of her breast, the beating of her 
 heart the heart with which he was playing so cruelly. 
 
 For the day was not very far distant when that heart 
 would bleed for the insidious blow which he was deal- 
 ing now, a blow that was veiled with a kiss. And he 
 did not attempt to disguise the truth from himself. 
 He knew that he was a blackguard. 
 
 "You will be my wife, Lavender?" he whispered 
 
 hoarsely. "Oh, my dear " he lifted her head and 
 
 gazed down into her pure blue eyes "you need not 
 speak a word not a syllable if I have frightened 
 you let a kiss be your answer." 
 
 Slowly he bent his head still lower, his arm holding 
 her tightly to him. And so their lips met. 
 
 And all the while in the ears of the man the water 
 of the brook flowing at his feet was singing a monot- 
 onous chant. "He betrayed with a kiss he betrayed 
 with a kiss with a kiss with a kiss with a kiss." 
 And the birds chirped mockingly to the refrain, while 
 the wind whispered it to the trees. 
 
 But the brook was singing to Lavender too a glad 
 song, the song of love exultant, while the very beating 
 of her heart seemed pulsed back to her by nature that 
 rejoiced for her rejoicing. 
 
 The moments sped by moments that were precious 
 to the girl in her new-found earthly paradise, moments
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 that for the man were charged with a weight of self- 
 reproach of which he had not deemed himself capable. 
 
 For Lavender had touched some chord in his nature, 
 of the very existence of which he was not aware. He 
 did not love her, for love such as was her right, such 
 as alone might be offered to her, was a stranger to his 
 breast. But vaguely the very purity of her love had 
 affected and moved him, reaching to some unprobed 
 depth of his being, and for the moment he hated and 
 despised himself. 
 
 They strolled on by the brook, forgetting that the 
 hour grew late, and that tea at the Manor must long 
 ago have been served. And, after a while, Owen 
 crushed down the voice of conscience within him, let- 
 ting himself go with the sheer delight of having this 
 beautiful young creature by his side palpitating with 
 love for him, bashfully happy to lift her sweet lips, 
 untasted till now, to meet the ardour of his kisses. 
 
 At last, the world forgetting, they reached the point 
 where the Lovers' Walk came to an abrupt termination 
 in the thickness of the wood. And here the glint of 
 white among the bushes and undergrowth suddenly 
 caught Owen's eyes. He knew of the existence of 
 the statue, but had never had the curiosity to examine 
 it closely. 
 
 Now, before the girl had time to realise what he 
 was about to do, Owen seized a branch and drew it 
 aside, laughingly remarking that they must have a 
 look at the guardian spirit of the grove. 
 
 Lavender gave a little scream as she found herself 
 gazing at the white, sad figure that seemed to be look- 
 ing down upon them, a wan ghost of disappointed 
 love. 
 
 "Oh, Owen," she cried, with a shudder, "I didn't 
 know what you were going to do. Haven't you heard
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 123 
 
 that there's a superstition about this statue?" She 
 gently released his fingers from the bough, allowing it 
 to sway back. "Let us go away, dear; oh, please, 
 please, let us go away." 
 
 He laughed at her fears, himself not addicted to 
 superstitious prejudices. He wound his arm about her, 
 drawing her to him, but, at the same time, turning so 
 that they no longer faced the offending statue. 
 
 "What silly fancies!" he scolded. "As if a statue 
 could do any harm! But tell me, darling, what is it 
 they say?" 
 
 "They say," she answered, nestling to him, "that if 
 lovers who have just plighted their troth as we have 
 done, Owen should look together upon the statue 
 some evil will befall them. That's why the bushes 
 have been allowed to grow up all around it it has been 
 buried in foliage for years and years, longer than any- 
 one can remember. Oh, Owen, it's only a silly story, 
 isn't it? You don't believe in omens of that sort?" 
 
 "Of course I don't," he replied, with a laugh that, 
 nevertheless, sounded a little strained. For the coinci- 
 dence was, at least, peculiar. Did not evil already 
 threaten ? 
 
 "You see," Lavender went on, "the story goes that 
 the lovers who gave their name to this place loved 
 only for a while. It was he that failed. But she never 
 knew she was true and faithful to the end." 
 
 "What was the end?" Owen put the question with 
 assumed carelessness. 
 
 "He was found lying in the wood dead. He had 
 been slain in a duel. She found his body. That is 
 what you see in the statue. The poor girl is looking 
 down at her dead lover lying at her feet. It's such a 
 sad, pathetic little story, but, oh, Owen, don't let's
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 think of it now. It seems to me suddenly as if the 
 sun had gone and the wood is dark and cold." 
 
 He led her away, chiding gently. But for him, too, 
 the glamour of the day was done. Once more, as they 
 followed the path by the stream, there was the echo of 
 a torturing refrain in his ears nor could he close them 
 against it. 
 
 "He betrayed with a kiss with a kiss with a kiss." 
 And as he walked he turned his head to the spot 
 where a white glimmer among the trees betokened the 
 presence of the ill-omened statue. He could see the 
 figure in his mind's eye, bending forward, her eyes 
 horror-filled, gazing down at the body of her dead 
 lover the lover whose love had failed.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 "HAVE you any news of the lost papers, Harry?" 
 Stephen Aldis put the question in a tone that was 
 marked by more than a little anxiety. It was the 
 first time since his arrival at Chamney Castle that 
 Thursday morning the day of the great entertain- 
 ment that he had been able to have a word alone with 
 his host. 
 
 He had originally intended to journey down to 
 Buckinghamshire the day before, accompanying Mme. 
 de Freyne, Zelie, Cecily Cuthbert, and one or two 
 more of Lord Martyn's guests, for whom special car- 
 riages had been reserved, but at the last minute he had 
 been obliged by important business to delay his de- 
 parture. This had annoyed him not a little, for he had 
 been looking forward to an afternoon and evening in 
 the company of the French dancing-girl, who had 
 captivated him so suddenly and so strangely. 
 
 Poor Cecily had been almost ruthlessly thrust aside, 
 and she was quite conscious of the fact. Aldis, accus- 
 tomed as he was to being made much of by the other 
 sex, had grown careless of the finer feelings of those 
 women with whom he had episodes of affection or pas- 
 sion ; with him the old love was very easily put by, the 
 new as easily assumed. 
 
 His flirtations had all been so ephemeral and were 
 of such small account to him; he could not see why 
 they should mean more to the other party concerned. 
 
 It was true that with Cecily he had allowed matters 
 125
 
 126 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 to go rather further than usual. There had been that 
 suggestion of marriage. It was not he who had made 
 it, but he had never taken the trouble to deny the 
 rumour. He had, indeed, considered the feasibility of 
 such an event. But that was before he met Zelie. 
 
 He was very fond of Cecily no less fond of her now 
 than before he knew the French girl. He certainly 
 had no intention of marrying the latter, for she repelled 
 him even while she attracted him so powerfully. Well, 
 why should Cecily object to an interlude of the sort? 
 It really meant nothing, and if Cecily were wise she 
 would not worry her head about it. She could win him 
 back quite easily later on, if she were not foolish 
 enough to give way to jealousy. That was the one 
 thing he could not bear jealousy. 
 
 He had done his best to hint as much to Cecily, and 
 because she was very quiet over it with him and did 
 not make a scene he was happily under the impression 
 that she understood. All was shaping itself as he 
 desired. 
 
 But he did not see Cecily at those times when she 
 allowed her real feelings to come to the surface. He 
 did not know of the long sleepless nights and the pillow 
 bedewed with tears, nor did he notice the pallor of her 
 cheeks, because she understood so well the use of 
 cosmetics. 
 
 It was her nature to hide her true self from the man 
 she loved. Upon the surface she was the shallow, 
 light-hearted, laughing star of musical comedy that the 
 world took her for, but below this there were unprobed 
 depths of sentiment, smouldering fires that might at 
 any moment burst forth to active life. Cecily was 
 hardly conscious of them herself, save for the dull 
 ache in her breast when she realised that love had 
 proved unkind.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 127 
 
 Lord Martyn had just contrived to snatch a few 
 moments to have a chat with his friend. They were 
 strolling together on the great sunny terrace of the 
 castle when Aldis put his question. 
 
 "Have you any news of the lost papers, Harry?" 
 
 Lord Martyn shook his head gravely. "I'm sorry, 
 Steve, old man, no." 
 
 Aldis knitted his brow. "Dash it!" he muttered. 
 "I'd give a hundred pounds, Harry five hundred 
 for this not to have happened. And it was all my own 
 idiotic fault." 
 
 "It was," agreed Martyn, who always spoke his mind 
 frankly when occasion demanded. "What on earth 
 possessed you to put those letters into the pocket of 
 my coat is beyond my comprehension." 
 
 "How could I guess the coat would be stolen ?" pro- 
 tested Aldis. Nevertheless, he hung his head a trifle. 
 "It was a mean thing ever to have wanted you to see 
 the letters of that poor little girl at all," he went on, 
 "and I'm ashamed of myself I really am." 
 
 "That's because you're in a fix," said Martyn 
 cynically, "and don't know what you will say to Lady 
 Beatrice when you meet her. Your conscience wouldn't 
 have pricked you if things hadn't gone wrong. The 
 devil was sick you know the old saw." 
 
 "I dare say you're right," said Aldis ruefully. "Any- 
 way, I know I'm jolly sick with myself at the present 
 moment. But I give you my word, Harry, I've not 
 shown those letters to another living soul. You do be- 
 lieve that, don't you?" 
 
 Martyn nodded, gravely blowing a smoke ring from 
 between his lips. He was smoking one of his invari- 
 able black cigars. "It was just your infernal vanity," 
 he remarked. 
 
 "Not only that," Aldis flushed guiltily. "You were
 
 128 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 so jolly confident that Lady Beatrice was the last girl 
 in the world to commit an indiscretion. You were 
 arguing against your own theories, and I couldn't re- 
 sist the temptation to put you right with them. That's 
 why I said I'd show you the silly letters she wrote to 
 me years ago when she was little more than a child. 
 That's why I brought them round to the club that 
 evening when we first met Zelie. You remember we 
 sat talking in the smoking-room, and I was just about 
 to produce them when someone else joined in the con- 
 versation. Your coat was lying by my side, so in case 
 I didn't get another opportunity I slipped the letters 
 into one of the pockets. I knew I could trust you. 
 But you never knew they were there, and were not 
 worrying about the loss of your coat till I called round 
 in the morning to ask for the wretched things back, 
 and then oh, it's all a ghastly nuisance." 
 
 "It may be a good deal worse than that," com- 
 mented Martyn, pursing his lips. He liked Stephen 
 Aldis as much as he liked most men, and he never 
 lost his temper though it had been sorely tried in con- 
 nection with this particular matter. 
 
 "Worse how?" 
 
 "Why, we don't know that the letters have not 
 fallen into the hands of some wretched blackmailer, 
 who will use them against Lady Beatrice. Just now, 
 when her name is before the public, her engagement 
 to Sir Donald one of the events of the season, her por- 
 trait in all the papers isn't it a marvellous opportunity 
 for an unscrupulous man ? My name and address were 
 in one of the pockets. There's no question as to a 
 thief in the case. I've made every inquiry, and the 
 coat wasn't merely lost or taken by accident. Of 
 course, I've had a detective on the scent, too, but with 
 the usual futile result."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 129 
 
 The two men paused, leaning over the marble balus- 
 trade. Martyn tossed away the stump of his cigar. 
 
 "You'll meet Lady Beatrice to-day, you know," he 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," explained Aldis hastily. 
 "We've met many times since since the little inno- 
 cent interlude of the past. We've laughed over it, and 
 agreed that it should all be forgotten." 
 
 "And I suppose Lady Beatrice imagines that her 
 letters have long ago been destroyed?" 
 
 Again Aldis flushed. Lord Martyn, in his blnnt 
 way, had touched the mark, hit his friend on the raw. 
 For Stephen Aldis had allowed Lady Beatrice Clewer, 
 with whom he had flirted innocently enough in the 
 past, to imagine that those foolish and incriminating 
 letters which she had written were all destroyed; 
 whereas in his self-conceit, the vanity of a man made 
 much of by women, he had kept them as souvenirs 
 trophies of his conquest. And now this meanness, 
 this contemptible littleness of his character, stood re- 
 vealed to a man who, of all men, was the one in whose 
 estimation Aldis wished to stand high. 
 
 For Lord Martyn professed to believe in no man's 
 honour, and now in the person of one of his nearest 
 friends his pessimist theory was proved correct. 
 
 "That's all right, Steve," said Martyn, breaking the 
 ominous silence. "I quite understand. And, of course, 
 I'll do everything I can to put matters right if any 
 trouble should befall." 
 
 It was upon this that the two men parted, Aldis all 
 the more readily because at that moment he caught 
 sight of the lithe figure of Zelie slowly making her 
 way across the lawn to the little group under the 
 trees. She was in the company of a man whom Aldis 
 did not recognise, a tall, fair boy, who was bending
 
 130 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 over her and laughing in a manner that indicated 
 pleasant intimacy. The actor was conscious of a 
 twinge of jealousy and hastened his steps across the 
 soft turf of the lawn. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lord Martyn made his way back to the 
 house and settled himself down in his study. 
 
 He was given but little leisure. He had not been 
 in his study for more than ten minutes before his 
 privacy was disturbed by a sedate old butler, who en- 
 tered the room nervously, giving evidence by his man- 
 ner of a disturbed mind. 
 
 "What's the matter, Ronaldson?" Martyn glanced 
 up from the papers on the desk before him. 
 
 "If you please, my lord, there's a man, a foreigner, 
 who wishes to see you. He won't give his name or 
 state his business, but he says it's important. He 
 don't speak English, and I had to get Mrs. Richards 
 to interpret. I'd have packed him off, seeing that it's 
 to-day, but did not like to without mentioning it to 
 you. He looks a scamp, my lord." 
 
 It was Lord Martyn's habit to see anyone who asked 
 for him. He had given strict instructions that no one 
 was to be turned away from his door. He found the 
 cadgers and riff-raff who appealed to him on one pre- 
 text or another an interesting study. 
 
 "You may show the fellow in, Ronaldson." Just 
 now, with those incriminating letters still to be re- 
 covered, it was important not to miss any casual caller. 
 
 The butler began to mutter a protest, but was dis- 
 missed with a wave of the hand. Martyn resumed his 
 inspection of the papers on his desk. Presently Ronald- 
 son returned and ushered an ungainly figure into the 
 room. 
 
 It was Bibi Coupe-vide. He was attired in a tweed 
 sut of aggressive pattern and his cravat was of lurid
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 131 
 
 hue. He carried a black bowler hat, and his hands 
 were gloved. The effect was ridiculous Bibi, the 
 Apache, looked out of his element. He had taken the 
 trouble to shave clean, and his receding chin was pecu- 
 liarly noticeable, as were his little furtive, twinkling 
 eyes. His narrow shoulders were hunched, and he 
 slouched more than ever as he followed the butler into 
 the study. 
 
 Lord Martyn inspected his visitor with curiosity, 
 leaning back in his chair. The fellow's face seemed 
 familiar to him. 
 
 "You may go, Ronaldson," he said to the butler, 
 then he addressed Bibi in his own language. 
 
 "You wish to see me?" 
 
 The Apache shuffled his feet and stared at his hat. 
 
 "Yes, milord," he mumbled. "I am glad that milord 
 speaks French." 
 
 "Sit down." 
 
 Bibi obeyed, carefully placing his hat on the floor by 
 his side. This big Englishman, with his strong face, 
 penetrating eyes, and black beard, disconcerted him 
 more than a little. He felt himself a weakling, and 
 guessed instinctively that it would be no use to assume 
 a hectoring tone. He had found it necessary to modify 
 that tone a good deal since he had been in England. 
 
 "Well, what is it? I'm very busy this morning, and 
 can only give you a minute or two." Martyn wheeled 
 round in his chair. There was a tone of command in 
 his voice, besides a great contempt. He knew the 
 type of man he was dealing with. 
 
 Bibi began to wish he had not come, that he had 
 listened to the advice of his friend Alphonse Lereux, 
 who had had greater experience than he in these mat- 
 ters. Alphonse had recommended dealing exclusively 
 with the woman with Lady Beatrice, who was the
 
 132 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 writer of the incriminating letters found in Lord Mar- 
 tyn's overcoat. It is so much easier to frighten a 
 woman. 
 
 But Bibi had imagined himself more clever than his 
 friend, and had decided on a double deal. Besides, he 
 had found out that Lord Martyn lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Selwood, where he himself had come in 
 obedience to Zelie's commands, and was therefore 
 easily accessible. Some ready money was urgently 
 needed before Bibi carried out his coup against Owen 
 Mayne, especially having regard to the necessity of 
 immediate flight from the country, and here was the 
 best means of obtaining it. Later on, if all went well 
 so the Apache argued with himself Lady Beatrice 
 might still be approached and made to pay for her in- 
 discretion he had arranged for that. 
 
 But now well, Bibi did not feel so confident of 
 himself. And yet the man in whose possession these 
 letters had been would surely pay for their restoration 
 to save a woman's honour ! 
 
 "Milord lost an overcoat in London last week." 
 Bibi made the plunge. What was the use of holding 
 back? 
 
 "Ah!" Lord Martyn sat erect. "Well you found 
 it?" 
 
 "Not I a friend of mine. He took it by error from 
 a restaurant." 
 
 The lie was so palpably absurd that Martyn laughed. 
 Bibi, too, allowed his lips to relax in a grin. 
 
 "Your friend took my coat by mistake. Well, let 
 it go at that. You wish to restore it?" 
 
 This was impossible, for it had already been pawned. 
 
 "I have not got the coat, milord," said Bibi, 
 "but " he hesitated, scraping his feet on the carpet. 
 
 "There were papers letters," prompted Martyn.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 133 
 
 "Yes, milord. I thought they might be of im- 
 portance. I have brought them. I have them here." 
 He tapped his pocket. 
 
 "All of them?" 
 
 "Yes, milord," lied Bibi. He had taken the pre- 
 caution to leave two of the most incriminating letters 
 in London. 
 
 "Well, hand them over and we'll say no more about 
 the coat taken by mistake." 
 
 This was a high-handed way of dealing with him 
 which did not at all meet with Bibi's approval. "Par- 
 don, milord," he muttered surlily, "but these letters 
 they are worth money to you or to the lady or to the 
 other gentleman I care not which. I have come to 
 you first. Will you buy them from me? If not, I go 
 elsewhere." 
 
 "I see," said Martyn easily. "It is a case of black- 
 mail. How much do you want?" 
 
 "I think five hundred pounds," said Bibi modestly. 
 "It is serious for the lady if monsieur her fiance 
 should see those letters." Bibi had acquired all the 
 necessary information about Lady Beatrice Clewer 
 from his friend Lereux. 
 
 "And you've got them all with you?" 
 
 "Every one," lied the Apache again more cheer- 
 fully now, for things seemed going well after all. He 
 felt as if those five hundred pounds were already in 
 his pocket. 
 
 "I'm glad to hear it." There was a smile on Mar- 
 tyn's lips, and he eyed the Frenchman with infinite 
 disdain. "I should say you were new to the business 
 of blackmailing or you'd never have brought the letters 
 with you. A poor sort of rogue. Kindly empty out 
 your pockets. Every one and at once." 
 
 Bibi started to his feet, an imprecation upon his
 
 134 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 lips. This was turning the tables with a vengeance. 
 What a fool he had been ! It was true that he should 
 have made his negotiations first and produced the 
 letters afterwards. This natural expedient had not 
 occurred to his dull brain. 
 
 "Do as I bid you." Lord Martyn had risen, too, and 
 taken a quick step in the direction of the Apache. The 
 latter looked little more than a boy by the side of the 
 burly Englishman. 
 
 Bibi retreated. "Milord will not purchase?" he 
 faltered. "Then, please permit that I go." 
 
 He made a sudden dash for the door, but Martyn 
 was too quick for him. Bibi's shoulders were gripped 
 by two powerful hands. With a snarl of rage, like a 
 trapped beast, the Apache, whose hands were still free, 
 felt for, and found, his knife. He had no strength, 
 but he had quickness and cunning. And that knife 
 had already seen service.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THIS was not the first time in his life that Lord Martyn 
 had been involved in trouble with gentlemen of the 
 same kidney as Bibi Coupe-vide. He knew the dangers 
 that had to be avoided. Your Apache may be physi- 
 cally weak a poor specimen of humanity but he has 
 methods of self-defence which are apt to take the un- 
 initiated by surprise. 
 
 Martyn remembered how he had once seen a friend 
 of his a big man, too knocked out by an unexpected 
 kick from a heavy boot under the jaw. So, to avoid 
 any possible exercise of la savate that un-English 
 method of fighting it was necessary to keep at close 
 quarters. It was against Bibi's feet rather than his 
 hands that the Englishman was on his guard. 
 
 And so Bibi got a blow in with his knife, but it 
 was an ineffectual one. The blade pierced his op- 
 ponent's coat over the right breast, and then met with 
 an obstruction in the shape of a heavy gun-metal cigar 
 case, which Lord Martyn happened to be carrying in 
 his pocket. The shock of the impact wrenched the 
 weapon from Bibi's hand, and the next moment he was 
 swept from his feet, lifted up like a child, and then 
 thrown down again, panting and half throttled, upon 
 a low easy-chair. 
 
 He lay there gasping out the vilest invectives, but 
 he made no attempt to renew the fray. Lord Martyn 
 watched him for a moment or two, then he turned his 
 attention to the rent in his coat, as though that were 
 
 135
 
 136 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 of primary importance. Next he picked up the knife 
 from the floor and threw it carelessly upon his desk. 
 
 "I think I'll keep that as a souvenir of our pleasant 
 meeting," he remarked. "You'll have to get yourself 
 another, my friend. A lot of good it would have done 
 if you had stuck it into me," he added, smiling behind 
 his beard, "for you couldn't have got away, you know." 
 
 He did not think for a moment of giving his assailant 
 in charge. It would not have been like Martyn to do 
 so. 
 
 Bibi growled an inaudible reply. He was getting his 
 breath back, and beginning to contemplate the possi- 
 bility of an escape. The letters still reposed in his 
 pocket. 
 
 But they were not to remain there long. "If you 
 won't turn out your pockets of your own accord, I 
 shall have to do it for you," said Lord Martyn, "and 
 I may possibly have to use you roughly in the job. 
 You can see for yourself that you are quite helpless." 
 
 The fact, indeed, was self-evident. Bibi, huddled 
 up in his chair, deprived of his knife, gasping still, 
 was not in a position to offer resistance to anything 
 that the powerful, muscular Englishman should com- 
 mand. 
 
 "Now, then hurry up; I'll give you just one minute 
 to hand over the letters," Martyn took out his watch 
 and fixed his eyes upon it. 
 
 Bibi changed his tone to a whine. "Very well, 
 milord. You shall have them. But you won't be hard 
 upon me. I'm a poor man, and badly in need of 
 money. If I were a blackmailer I'd not have brought 
 the letters with me." It struck him that this was a 
 point in his defence. 
 
 "The minute is nearly up." Lord Martyn slowly 
 replaced his watch and advanced a step nearer. "Your
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 137 
 
 object was blackmail," he added. "It's your own look- 
 out that you are a fool as well as a rogue." 
 
 Bibi muttered something under his breath, and then 
 produced the papers. They were done up in a little 
 packet and tied with delicate pink ribbon. Lord Mar- 
 tyn took them from the hand of the Apache, glanced 
 at the top one, recognising at once the handwriting of 
 Lady Beatrice Clewer, though it was still unformed and 
 girlish, then, as some affectionate phrase met his eye, 
 he swore an oath behind his beard, and thrust the 
 letters into his pocket. 
 
 ''That is all you swear it ?" there was a frown upon 
 his forehead for which Bibi was not responsible. Even 
 a cynic may cherish some illusions, and Lady Beatrice 
 Clewer was the fondest of any that remained to Lord 
 Martyn. He had enshrined her in a secret place in his 
 heart, set her, in some curious way, apart from the 
 common frailties of humanity. He had never admitted 
 to living soul his weakness in his armour he never 
 would admit it. Nevertheless, the knowledge that Lady 
 Beatrice was, after all, upon the same level as every 
 other woman as he regarded woman had come to 
 him as a staggering blow. 
 
 "Mais oui that is all." 
 
 "Turn out all your pockets so that I may see." 
 
 Bibi obeyed with the best grace that he could muster 
 under the circumstances. After all, it did not really 
 matter that these letters should be given up. Even 
 one by itself was quite as useful as the whole packet. 
 Bibi reflected that he still had his weapon to hand, 
 and, one day, he would take a fine revenge for the sum- 
 mary treatment that had been meted out to him. He 
 wouldn't be content with five hundred pounds then 
 not he. 
 
 Lord Martyn was not content until he had seen all
 
 138 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Bibi's pockets thoroughly turned out. When this had 
 been effectually done he drew back a pace or two and 
 scrutinised the scowling face of the man in the 
 chair with some amusement and rather more interest 
 than he had hitherto manifested. 
 
 "So you've come off second best, my French friend," 
 he remarked ; "not that you didn't have a good try to 
 put me out of the way. It's lucky for you that you 
 failed." He glanced at the rent in his coat. "You'd 
 have got yourself into a mess if you'd really hurt me. 
 As it is, we'll say no more about that." 
 
 Bibi drew a deep breath of relief. He had had a 
 lurking fear that the police might yet be called in, and 
 that would have been disastrous for him just now. He 
 rose gingerly, for his limbs still ached, to his feet. 
 
 "Then I may go ?" 
 
 "In a minute in a minute." Lord Martyn was still 
 scrutinising Bibi's face intently. "It has just occurred 
 to me," he went on, "that I've seen you before. You're 
 an Apache of Montmartre, or some other part of Paris 
 a perfect type of your kind. Your sort don't often 
 come to England. What are you doing over here and 
 where the devil have I seen you ?" 
 
 "How should I know I?" Bibi shrugged his 
 shoulders with a gesture that indicated impatience. He 
 was anxious to be off. 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "They call me Bibi Coupe-vide." 
 
 Lord Martyn's eyes shot a keen glance of recog- 
 nition. He remembered quite well now. A picture 
 quickly fashioned itself in his brain of a long hall, 
 murky with tobacco smoke, and reeking of beer, spirits, 
 and humanity. There was a stage at one end and a 
 poor pretence of scenery. Those who could afford it 
 found more elbow-room in little boxes raised a trifle
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 139 
 
 above the level of the parterre, but which were only 
 divided from each other by waist-high partitions and 
 which had no privacy about them. It was from one of 
 these boxes that Lord Martyn had discovered Zelie. 
 
 "Ah ! You danced at the Florian ?" 
 
 "Yes." Bibi drew himself up, trying to square his 
 narrow shoulders. After all, he was a person of some 
 importance. His reputation had preceded him even 
 with this Milor Anglais. 
 
 "With Zelie who was called Zelie la Couleuvre?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Lord Martyn pulled at his beard. A train of suspi- 
 cion had been aroused in his mind. For, surely, the 
 appearance of this fellow, this Apache, upon the scene 
 was not wholly due to coincidence ? 
 
 "I want you to tell me the whole truth. It may be 
 very much to your advantage to do so. You know 
 that Mademoiselle Zelie is in England?" 
 
 "Yes." It was slowly dawning upon Bibi that he 
 might be committing himself. He shuffled nervously 
 with his feet. 
 
 "Do you know where she is at present?" 
 
 "I suppose in London." Bibi's replies were sullen. 
 What was the meaning of these questions? Why 
 should he trouble to answer them ? 
 
 "Did you come to England with her?" This was 
 the point concerning which Lord Martyn was most 
 troubled. Zelie by herself was all very well, and would 
 fulfil the destiny which he had foreseen for her, but if 
 she were already hampered by a masculine appendage 
 and such a one ! then the prospects for the future 
 took on a different aspect altogether. 
 
 "No. Why do you ask me these questions? Why 
 should I answer them?" Bibi edged sideways towards
 
 140 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 the door. "I've had enough. One would think that 
 you belonged to the police yourself. Let me go." 
 
 "Not until we've had our talk out." Martyn spoke 
 with decision. When he wished he could assume a tone 
 that brooked no contradiction. He pointed to a chair, 
 and Bibi, all against his will, and because he couldn't 
 help himself, dropped into it. 
 
 For here was a mystery that had to be solved. If 
 Zelie really cared for this fellow, then good-bye to her 
 prospects of success. She had much better return to 
 her native slums. But if, as was more likely, she was 
 being followed, tracked, then some steps must be taken 
 to rid her of the persecution. 
 
 Lord Martyn, unwilling to pay a farthing under 
 compulsion, had no care for the money he spent to 
 attain anything he desired. He stepped to his desk, un- 
 locked a drawer, and produced a handful of banknotes. 
 
 "You may yet go away with your pockets lined," 
 he said. "I'm a queer person, you see, M. Bibi 
 1'Apache, and I bear you no grudge for trying to black- 
 mail and then knife me. You just acted according to 
 the ways of your kind, and you're no more responsible 
 than if you were a puppet dangled at the end of a lot 
 of strings. We're all of us dangled on strings, if it 
 comes to that." 
 
 Lord Martyn laughed and broke off, recognising that 
 he was not understood. "To come to the point," he 
 went on in more ordinary tone. "I want you to tell 
 me what you are doing in England, and what is your 
 present connection with Mademoiselle Zelie." 
 
 Bibi greedily eyed the bank-notes that lay upon the 
 desk. He had only to talk, to tell a plausible story, and 
 they would be in his pocket. Certainly, it must be true, 
 what he had so often heard, that all the English are 
 mad.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 141 
 
 But he did not allow his cupidity to blind him to the 
 necessity for discretion. Bibi had his full share of 
 natural cunning. He had divined that this Milor 
 whose coat had fallen into his possession, was most 
 probably the same one of whom Zelie had spoken when 
 she referred to her new and powerful friends in Eng- 
 land, through whose influence she was going to rise 
 to such astonishing heights, and he would certainly 
 have refrained from his attempt at blackmail had he 
 anticipated any danger of his connection with Zelie 
 being revealed. For, of course, that revelation might 
 lead to others all unpleasant. How he obtained the 
 coat, for instance, and under what circumstances. 
 
 So he must be careful what he said, for his own sake 
 as well as for Zelie's. It would be a catastrophe, in- 
 deed, if those wonderful prospects of hers should be 
 interfered with because of his blunder why, it would 
 be the ruin of all the hopes he had been building for 
 himself on the strength of her word! And that was 
 most serious of all. 
 
 So Bibi was on his guard lest he should say a word 
 to betray any immediate connection between Zelie and 
 himself, and being a cunning rogue, with the blood of 
 centuries of villainy in his veins, he. contrived to put 
 together a plausible story enough. 
 
 "I don't see that it's any affair of yours," he said, 
 with a dogged sullenness that was more or less as- 
 sumed to hide the avidity with which he had watched 
 the production of the notes, "but since you want the 
 information, and don't mind paying for it, I'm willing 
 to talk. Go ahead. Ask any question you like." 
 
 Lord Marty n seated himself at his desk. He kept his 
 eyes fixed upon the face of the Apache as he proceeded 
 with his interrogatory.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "You tell me you did not accompany Zelie to Eng- 
 land. Is that the truth?" 
 
 "It is. I swear it." 
 
 "Why did you come?" 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" Bibi spread out his palms. He was 
 speaking the truth because there was, at present, no 
 object in lying. "She had left me and she was my 
 gosse. I had been in gaol on her account. I was 
 wild with her jealous. And there were other reasons 
 why I wished to be out of Paris. I had enemies, you 
 understand, fellows who would have knifed me in the 
 dark. So I came to London to find Zelie." 
 
 "And you found her ?" 
 
 It was now that caution was needed. Bibi was equal 
 to the occasion. "Not to speak to. I traced her to a 
 club in London. I knew she would go there to see 
 a friend." 
 
 "The Delphic Club?" 
 
 "That's it. She came out with two gentlemen 
 I could not see their faces. She drove off with them 
 in an automobile. I did not venture to interfere. But 
 I followed running. The street was crowded, and 
 the carriage couldn't travel fast. Luckily it didn't go 
 far. It stopped at the door of a big restaurant " 
 
 "An hotel," corrected Martyn. So far the story 
 sounded reasonable enough. 
 
 "Zelie got out and the two gentlemen. I think that 
 one of them was yourself, milord. All three went into 
 the hotel. Again I did not dare to follow. The auto- 
 mobile drew up in a rank with the other carriages to 
 wait. I hung about it you see, I wanted to find out 
 about Zelie. An opportunity came the chauffeur was 
 talking to other men I looked in and saw the coat ly- 
 ing there " Bibi paused dramatically. 
 
 "You took it stole it?"
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 143 
 
 "It was not that I meant to steal. I thought that 
 I might find in the pockets something that would help 
 me to get into definite touch with Zelie. You under- 
 stand me, milord it was my love for her that prompted 
 me." Bibi flattered himself that he was telling his story 
 quite artistically. "She would not have spoken to me 
 had I ventured to address her that afternoon. So it 
 was all that I could do to take the coat." 
 
 "This was last Saturday nearly five days ago. Why 
 did you not come to see me earlier ? My card was in a 
 pocket of the cloak. I presume that M. Bibi Coupe- 
 vide was occupied in obtaining his facts in order to 
 turn the letters he had found to improper account. 
 The desire to trace Zelie gave way to this glorious 
 chance of blackmail. Am I right ?" 
 
 Lord Martyn put the question quietly, though with 
 a disdainful curve of his lip. He was inclined to be- 
 lieve the story, which certainly sounded plausible, and 
 was relieved to know that there was no manner of 
 connection at present between his protegee and this 
 very undesirable alien. That was the main point, and 
 it was his business to see that Bibi Coupe-vide was 
 packed out of the country as soon as possible. 
 
 "I thought you would be pleased to have the letters, 
 and that at the same time I might find my Zelie," ad- 
 mitted Bibi unabashed. He felt proud of himself for 
 having tackled a difficult task so successfully. He 
 had not said a single word to betray Zelie, and he had 
 fully earned those notes that lay there so invitingly on 
 the desk. 
 
 "I see." Lord Martyn carefully selected five of the 
 notes and folded them slowly. "So that is your story. 
 And you swear that you have not spoken to Madem- 
 oiselle Zelie since she has been in England ?" 
 
 "I swear it."
 
 144 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Good. Well, M. Bibi Coupe-vide, it strikes me 
 that you are such a fine specimen of a rogue that your 
 talents are wasted in England. I suggest that you 
 return to your native country and stay there. The 
 price you asked for the letters was five hundred pounds. 
 Well, I will give you fifty pounds now and a card of 
 introduction to my agent in Paris, who will pay you 
 fifty pounds a month for the next year as long as 
 you can prove to his satisfaction and mine that you 
 have not attempted to return to this country. What 
 do you say?" 
 
 The offer was a tempting one. Fifteen hundred 
 francs a month ! to say nothing of Zelie's promises 
 of untold wealth to come if he should succeed in doing 
 what she wished him to do. And he had laid his plans 
 for that plans which were bound to be successful. 
 Yes, he could safely promise to leave the country! 
 
 There could no longer be any vestige of doubt in his 
 mind that what Zelie had told him was true. She 
 had found powerful friends and was going to make 
 her mark. She must have a free hand for year per- 
 haps. After that well, she was still la gosse & Bibi, 
 his name was indelibly impressed upon her arm, and 
 he would see to it that he kept his own. 
 
 "I consent," he said, so eagerly that Lord Martyn 
 was constrained to smile. 
 
 The remaining details were quickly settled. Bibi 
 promised to return to London that day. He was to 
 be driven to the station and seen off by one of Lord 
 Martyn's servants. Here Bibi made a mental reserva- 
 tion that no one need be any the wiser if he should 
 return by a late train that evening as, indeed, would 
 be necessary if he was to carry out his plans. He 
 would get out at another station a few m:les from Sel- 
 wood, and walk across country. The fact that he
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 145 
 
 would be apparently leaving for London that afternoon 
 in so open a manner fitted in most excellently with his 
 projects. 
 
 He undertook to be in Paris by Saturday morning. 
 He was to call on the agent at once, so that his arrival 
 might be reported. This again suited him admirably. 
 For, if all fell out as Bibi hoped, he would have struck 
 his blow at Owen Mayne before another twelve hours 
 were over, and then, naturally, a speedy flight from 
 England was indicated. Oh, yes, he trusted to be 
 safely in Paris by Saturday morning. And he would 
 not be hampered by the want of money, either he had 
 certainly been in luck when he decided to call upon 
 this mad Englishman ! Affairs that begin badly often 
 turn out well. 
 
 These matters having been duly settled, Lord Mar- 
 tyn handed over the stipulated number of notes, which 
 Bibi grabbed with lean and none too clean fingers. 
 Then the bell was rung, the butler summoned, and 
 instructions given as to the train by which the French- 
 man must leave and the manner of his conveyance to 
 the station. 
 
 They passed out of the study into the great hall to- 
 gether, Lord Martyn a little in advance. And it was 
 at that very moment that Zelie, escorted by Stephen 
 Aldis, appeared, coming from the side corridor that 
 led to the terrace entrance. Martyn muttered an oath 
 in his beard, but the meeting was inevitable. 
 
 Aldis and the French girl were laughing together, 
 evidently on the best of terms. It was the luncheon 
 hour, and Zelie was making a pretence of taking off 
 her hat. The actor was attempting to help her. There 
 was a familiarity about the whole proceeding which 
 must have struck the most casual observer. 
 
 Bibi was hidden by the stalwart form of Lord Mar-
 
 146 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 tyn. It was the latter only that Zelie saw. She ran 
 forward, her eyes flashing with merriment. 
 
 "I have sought for you, milord," she exclaimed, 
 "but they always tell me you are busy. And since 
 noon, M. Aldis, he has not left me alone, though I 
 tell him there are those who will be jealous." 
 
 Suddenly she broke off she had caught sight of 
 Bibi slouching behind her host. 
 
 The smile deserted her lips, and her thin, small face 
 took on that unhuman and feline expression which was 
 peculiar to it in moments of annoyance. Her lips 
 quivered as though there were venom upon them. 
 Lord Martyn, watching her, was not ill-pleased. For 
 it was evident that Zelie did not welcome this appari- 
 tion from the past. 
 
 "It's all right, Zelie," he explained, quickly. "M. 
 Bibi Coupe-vide I believe that is the gentleman's 
 name and I have been having a talk, and we have 
 arranged matters quite harmoniously. As a matter 
 of fact, I rather fancy that this meeting is as unex- 
 pected to him as it is to you." 
 
 The fact was self-evident. Bibi had had no idea 
 that Zelie was at Chamney Castle when he had de- 
 cided upon his visit to Lord Martyn. He had imagined 
 her in London, making the arrangements for her Eng- 
 lish stage career, and, doubtless, waiting impatiently 
 for intelligence from him that he had succeeded in 
 avenging her with Owen Mayne. 
 
 He was taken utterly aback, and his face expressed 
 a foolish surprise that had, also, something of trepi- 
 dation in it. For, despite his brutality, he was not 
 without a certain fear and respect for Zelie. 
 
 To think that this splendid creature was his gosse, 
 Zelie la Couleuvre, the Dancing Girl of Montmatre! 
 It seemed almost outside the realms of possibility.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 147 
 
 "Zelie," he gasped. "Nom de Dieu, but who'd have 
 thought it?" 
 
 Zelie quickly recovered herself; indeed, it was only 
 Lord Martyn who had noticed the flash of malevolent 
 anger which had crossed her face. Her quick brain 
 had realised the purport of Bibi's visit. She had an- 
 ticipated from the first moment when she had heard 
 of the lost papers that such an event might occur. It 
 was not to intrude himself upon her that Bibi had 
 come to Chamney Castle, and it was evident enough 
 that, whatever had happened between him and Lord 
 Martyn, no harm to herself had been done. 
 
 And, all at once, a sudden inspiration came to her. 
 Her whole face lit up, her eyes sparkled, and her 
 white teeth flashed. 
 
 '"Cre nom!" she exclaimed in her turn, bursting 
 into a ringing laugh. "Who'd have thought it? My 
 Bibi !" She took Bibi's hand, shaking it with unneces- 
 sary violence, laughing melodiously all the time. The 
 Apache seemed to shrink from her, regarding her 
 furtively from the corners of his narrow eyes. 
 
 "M. Bibi is leaving for London by an early train 
 this afternoon, Zelie," explained Lord Martyn, after 
 he had watched the scene for a moment, appreciating 
 the comedy of it. "He came to see me on a matter 
 of business, and this is really only a chance meeting. 
 I have arranged to send him to the station." 
 
 But this arrangement did not appeal to Zelie. She 
 had formed other plans. "Ah, mais non!" she cried. 
 "I cannot allow my Bibi to depart thus. Bibi shall 
 dance with me to-night. We will perform our famous 
 Danse du Neant" she clapped her hands together 
 delightedly "and you shall see ah, you shall see what 
 a success Bibi and I will make of it !"
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 OF course, Zelie had her way, though her proposal was 
 hardly received with acclamation. On the contrary, 
 Lord Martyn did his utmost to dissuade her from such 
 a course, while Stephen Aldis both looked and spoke 
 his disapprobation. 
 
 Yet, in a way, Martyn was amused, and, after all, 
 he cared not a snap of his fingers for what people said 
 about him. 
 
 And so arrangements were made for a rehearsal 
 that afternoon, and then the scene came to a conclusion. 
 
 Bibi was left in the temporary charge of the unhappy 
 Ronaldson, who showed himself peculiarly averse to 
 the job. He was to be given a good meal and looked 
 after generally. Luckily for the butler, Cooper, Lord 
 Martyn's valet, was thoroughly conversant with 
 French, and could be pressed into service also. 
 
 Ronaldson's mental denunciation of "furriners" in- 
 cluded Zelie as well as the masculine intruder. 
 
 Before joining the rest of the house-party at lunch 
 Lord Martyn seized the opportunity to have a private 
 word with Stephen Aldis. He drew the latter into 
 his study and closed the door. 
 
 "Steve, old man," he said, "you'll be glad to hear 
 that I've done a stroke of business on your account. 
 You can set your mind at rest about those letters. 
 Here they are." 
 
 Martyn produced the packet of papers, still tied up 
 with pink ribbon, from his pocket, and handed it to 
 
 148
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 149 
 
 his friend. "You may thank your lucky stars," he 
 went on, "that you've got out of the mess so easily." 
 
 Aldis was loud in his exclamations of surprise and 
 thanks. He scrutinised the letters, but without un- 
 doing the ribbon. There was a warm flush upon his 
 cheek. "But how on earth did you get them, Harry ?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 Lord Martyn told the story briefly. "The fellow 
 came to England in pursuit of Zelie, you see," he ex- 
 claimed, "but I think it's true that they have not 
 actually met before to-day. Indeed, I'm quite sure 
 that they were both genuinely surprised and taken 
 aback. And now, if I were you," he added, "I'd de- 
 stroy those letters before they are capable of doing any 
 real damage, and then you can meet Lady Beatrice 
 with a more or less easy conscience." 
 
 Aldis protested eagerly that he would do as he was 
 advised. "I can't say how grateful to you I am, 
 Harry," he muttered, "nor how ashamed of myself. 
 But you'll think none the worse of Lady Beatrice, will 
 you? Believe me, it was nothing on her part but just 
 a silly, girlish prank." 
 
 "I'm quite sure of that," responded Martyn readily, 
 but he turned his head away so that Aldis could not 
 see his face. 
 
 "And now" Martyn glanced at the rent in his coat 
 "both you and I I especially will want to get ready 
 for lunch." He tapped his breast and smiled. "And 
 my dear Steve, let this be a warning to you. Zelie is 
 dangerous. Don't play with edged tools you have no 
 need to. Of course, it's a fascinating game " 
 
 "She's a siren, Harry." Aldis blurted out the 
 avowal. "She makes me lose my head. I don't know 
 why, because she doesn't really encourage me, rather 
 the reverse. I know I shall never win her, and that's
 
 150 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 the devil of it. For I feel that I must go on, that she's 
 the one thing I want upon earth. It's a torture and a 
 delight. When I'm alone I tell myself that I'm a fool 
 and I try to think of Cecily, but it's no use. Zelie 
 absorbs me. I could curse you for taking her up and 
 I could thank you on my bended knees. That's how 
 I feel." 
 
 "Keep out of her way, Steve," said Martyn, his 
 usual bluff tone softening. "Go back to London to- 
 morrow. I thought that you, at least, were safe. I 
 didn't sharpen my panther's claws for you." Suddenly 
 his voice changed again, and he turned sharply upon 
 Aldis. "Good heavens, man, haven't you got your 
 Cecily, haven't you got all the most beautiful women 
 in London at your feet? Can't you be content?" 
 
 "A man always wants the unattainable," muttered 
 Aldis almost sullenly. 
 
 "He turns naturally to the evil," retorted Martyn 
 mockingly. "Well, well, Steve," he added, "it's not 
 for me to control you. You're a man of mature under- 
 standing. Which means that if someone points out a 
 way to you you're bound to take the other. So please 
 consider my advice unsaid." 
 
 "A queer fellow, Harry," was Aldis's private com- 
 ment as, a little later, he made his way to the dining- 
 room. "I sometimes wonder if those people aren't 
 right who say he's a bit mad." 
 
 As for Martyn, he remained alone in his study for a 
 few minutes after the departure of his friend. He 
 sat by his desk, resting his chin in the palm of one of 
 his hands, while with the other he played with the knife 
 which he had secured from Bibi. He ran his finger 
 along the edge. 
 
 "The panther's claw" so he communed with him- 
 self "yes, it's sharp and keen. There was once a
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 151 
 
 man," he went on, as if he were telling himself a story, 
 "who made it his profession to scoff and despise his 
 fellows. And he owned a panther, which lived safely 
 ensconced behind its bars. And one and all admired 
 it, saying, 'How sleek is its coat, how wonderful its 
 eyes, how graceful its gait!' Then, one day, in de- 
 rision, he unloosed the bars and the panther was free. 
 And, first of all, it turned upon those who were nearest 
 and dearest to the man's heart, and rent them limb 
 from limb, and, as he tried to cage it once more, it fell 
 upon him and rent him too." 
 
 Lord Martyn quietly dropped the knife into a drawer 
 of his desk, then he pushed back his chair and rose. 
 
 "Which things are an allegory," he added, as he 
 made his slow way to his room. Here he changed 
 his clothes and made elaborate preparations for meet- 
 ing his guests at the luncheon table. 
 
 He was smiling again when he seated himself at 
 their head, quite restored to his normal self. And 
 Zelie was placed beside him upon his left.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THEY were rehearsing that afternoon in the great ball- 
 room of Chamney Castle, where the entertainment was 
 to take place some hours later. It was great fun, more 
 particularly perhaps because the workpeople were still 
 busy with the decorations and general preparations, 
 and, consequently, confusion and general pandemonium 
 reigned from end to end of the hall. 
 
 Beyond the four great marble pillars which divided 
 the room into two parts a stage had been erected with 
 all the requisite accessories. A space had been railed 
 off for the orchestra, which, however, when the time 
 for the performance came, would be practically hidden 
 by banks of flowers. There was to be dancing after 
 supper, when the orchestra would be removed to a 
 more prominent position upon the stage. A smaller 
 hall adjoining the main apartment afforded all the ac- 
 commodation that was needed for the chaperons. 
 Three great windows upon the south side gave direct 
 access to the terrace, lawns, and garden of the Castle. 
 
 Outside the hall there was almost as much movement 
 as within, for the lawns were being edged with thou- 
 sands of multi-coloured fairy lamps, while Chinese 
 lanterns were being suspended from all the available 
 trees within a wide radius of the Castle. 
 
 Zelie was enjoying herself mightily and was already 
 quite conscious of the fact that she was regarded as a 
 kind of queen qf Jjie forthcoming revelry. She had, in 
 
 152
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 153 
 
 fact, not been a dozen hours at Chamney Castle before 
 it was evident that all the men at least were at her 
 feet. The women, perhaps, held more aloof. But, 
 then, Zelie never troubled herself about the opinion of 
 her own sex. 
 
 Of course, the guests whom Lord Marty n had col- 
 lected together under his roof were all more or less 
 of the Bohemian order. Had it been otherwise Zelie 
 would certainly have found it more difficult to hold 
 her own. She was, however, happily unconscious of 
 any such social distinctions, and imagined herself 
 already moving among the proudest of England's 
 aristocracy. 
 
 And certainly the names of her fellow-guests were 
 such as might well have excused the misunderstanding. 
 Some twenty in all, there was hardly one, man or 
 woman, who was not well known through the length 
 and breadth of the land and beyond it. 
 
 Such, for instance, were Stephen Aldis and Cecily 
 Cuthbert, both stage constellations of magnitude ; such 
 was Mme. de Freyne, known to the cosmopolitan world 
 of letters; such, again, was Sir Donald Ransom, who 
 had latterly achieved great fame by his explorations 
 over unknown territory in Central Asia. 
 
 It was towards the close of one of these expeditions 
 that Sir Donald had fallen in with Lord Martyn, and 
 the two men had been fast friends ever since. Lord 
 Martyn, therefore, had regarded the young explorer's 
 engagement to Lady Beatrice Clewer, for whom he 
 had so deep and tender a regard, with especial eyes of 
 favour. 
 
 Lady Beatrice herself, now some twenty-two years 
 of age, was one of the most popular figures, as well 
 as the most beautiful, in London society. Her father, 
 the Earl of Albyn, had been a highly placed diplomat.
 
 154 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 He had devoted all his love to Lady Beatrice, and it 
 was upon his death, little more than two years ago, 
 that he had invoked the good will of his friend Lord 
 Martyn on behalf of his fondly loved daughter. For, 
 as it happened, the present Countess of Albyn, the 
 Earl's second wife, was a woman addicted to fast com- 
 pany. She loved to squander large sums at Monte 
 Carlo, while her figure was a familiar one upon the 
 race-course. Scandal had more than once attached 
 itself to her name. But for this she did not care a 
 scrap. She was a good-natured woman, very much of 
 the horsy type, and she liked to talk to men as if she 
 herself belonged to their sex. 
 
 So much of the Albyn history was generally known. 
 But there were many who affirmed that the secret side 
 of it had not yet been written, but that if Lord Mar- 
 tyn cared to speak he could tell a story which would 
 astonish Society. Lord Martyn, however, was not the 
 kind of man to unseal his lips for the gratification of 
 vulgar curiosity. 
 
 Of course, the Countess of Albyn was of the house 
 party, and besides her, to name but two or three who 
 had already attracted Zelie's attention, there were Gil- 
 bert Farrington, the eccentric artist, George Hamand, 
 the famous gentleman rider, and Guy Menzies, who 
 would undoubtedly be a Cabinet Minister when his 
 party were once more returned to power. 
 
 Zelie was anxious to have a talk with Bibi, but it 
 needed some careful manoeuvring to bring about the 
 desired interview. She found it necessary at last to 
 appeal to Lord Martyn that he should have the stage 
 cleared in order that she and Bibi might rehearse their 
 Danse du Neant. The rest of her performance had 
 already been arranged, but she would have to instruct 
 the leader of the orchestra in certain points which it
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 155 
 
 was essential for him to observe if the dance were to 
 be a success. 
 
 And so Bibi was sent for, and he arrived, accom- 
 panied by the French-speaking valet, just as a laughing 
 company of young people scrambled down from the 
 stage in obedience to Lord Martyn's imperative but 
 genially spoken order. Bibi felt himself stared at, 
 despised, made an object of derision. He was quite 
 sure that they were laughing at him, and as he stepped 
 back to allow th.e little group to pass he scowled and 
 assumed an even more hang-dog expression than he 
 wore habitually. 
 
 "What an ugly-looking brute!" It was Sir Donald 
 who whispered the remark to his fiancee. "He looks 
 as if he'd like to stick a knife into any one of us. I 
 don't know what Martyn's about to allow such a fellow 
 to take part in the show." 
 
 "He's going to dance with your Mile. Zelie," replied 
 the girl, slightly accenting the pronoun. Sir Donald, 
 in her opinion, had already been over-attentive to the 
 French girl. 
 
 "Well, she's a marvel by herself," responded the 
 man, "and if she dances as they say she does, she's 
 going to take London by storm.''' 
 
 "She frightens me," replied the girl simply. Then 
 she turned to Cecily Cuthbert, who was just behind her, 
 and linked her arm in that of the young actress, for 
 whom she was feeling no little sympathy. 
 
 "What shall we do next, now that we're turned out 
 of the hall, Cecily?" she asked lightly. "I move we 
 get Donald to take us for a row on the lake. It's 
 so oppressively hot, and we could just paddle about 
 for a bit. We needn't be energetic, since we shall be 
 dancing till dawn."
 
 156 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 She glanced up appealingly at her tall, handsome 
 lover. "You'll take us, Don, won't you?" 
 
 Sir Donald promised he would. He smiled down 
 into the eyes of the girl, taking no heed of the very 
 gentle rebuke which she had offered him. He was 
 guiltily conscious of having paid Zelie rather more 
 attention than he need. 
 
 "No, you must excuse me," said Cecily, quietly 
 disengaging her arm. "I'm sure you two will be quite 
 happy by yourselves." Her eyes were directed to- 
 wards the stage, Stephen Aldis was still lingering there. 
 His figure was just visible in the wings, and he was 
 talking with Zelie, who had thrown herself down upon 
 a property chair. 
 
 "Come along, Bee," said Donald. "We'll saunter 
 down towards the lake. Cecily may be able to join 
 us later on. Poor little woman," he added, as he gently 
 conducted his fiancee through one of the windows that 
 opened on to the garden. "She's consumed with 
 jealousy, and I must say that Aldis is playing it up 
 rather thick." 
 
 And so, laughing and whispering to each other the 
 sweet nothings in which young lovers delight, they 
 strolled happily to the lake, where they embarked 
 upon a little boat and lost themselves for the rest of 
 the afternoon in the shadow of the great trees whose 
 leafy branches overhung the water. 
 
 In the meanwhile Zelie was all impatience to get 
 rid of the persistent Stephen Aldis. "There's Miss 
 Cuthbert waiting for you," she said, "and she's been 
 looking daggers at both of us all day." Zelie gave a 
 short, rather malicious laugh. "At least, I can't call 
 it looking daggers," she added, "for that isn't the way 
 with your Englishwomen. They just appear sad and
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 157 
 
 as if they wanted to shed tears. I call that silly, for 
 no man's worth weeping for." 
 
 "Have you ever cried, Zelie?" he asked musingly. 
 
 "I ?" She laughed again, a hard laugh. "Yes, with 
 passion, and, once or twice, long ago, because I was 
 cold and hungry. But for love" she shrugged her 
 narrow shoulders "ah, mais non never, never!" 
 
 It was at this moment that Bibi stepped on to the 
 stage. He was approaching from the opposite wing, 
 and he stared about him with surly defiance. The 
 valet, having brought him safely to his destination, had 
 remained in the body of the hall. He had his instruc- 
 tions not to let his charge out of sight. 
 
 "And you're going to dance to-night with this fel- 
 low?" said Aldis in an undertone. "What do you do 
 it for, Zelie? You are so charming, so wonderful, by 
 yourself. And to think that you will be held in the 
 arms of a creature like that it is revolting." 
 
 And yet, even as he said the words, he knew that it 
 was all right and proper, artistically just as it should 
 be. For Bibi Coupe-vide was the mate that nature 
 had ordained for Zelie, the Snake-woman, Zelie, Queen 
 of the Apaches, who was in truth out of her element at 
 Chamney Castle. 
 
 Zelie stared at him as if she did not fully understand. 
 "Revolting? To dance with my Bibi? Ah, mais non, 
 par exemple, for Bibi can dance you shall see for 
 yourself to-night." 
 
 Aldis abandoned the task as hopeless. At any rate, 
 he reflected, this objectionable intruder was to be 
 packed off the next day. And though Lord Martyn 
 had yielded on this occasion to Zelie's solicitude, hardly 
 being able to prevent himself under the circumstances, 
 he would certainly not be so weak again.
 
 158 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "And now I want to talk to Bibi about the dance. 
 You must go away." 
 
 Zelie had risen and was standing face to face with 
 the actor, her hands clasped behind her back, her face 
 impertinently tilted up, her chin prominent, her red, 
 alluring lips parted over the white, cruel teeth. 
 
 Stephen Aldis forgot the Apache standing there upon 
 the stage within a few yards of him, forgot everything 
 save that this woman maddened and intoxicated him. 
 He opened his arms, and it was all he could do to re- 
 frain from kissing her where she stood. 
 
 "You black witch !" he muttered hoarsely. "I don't 
 know what you have done to me. You have the 
 fascination of all the evil things that were ever put 
 into the world. You make my brain reel." 
 
 She stepped back a pace or two, still smiling up at 
 him, revelling in her power over the brute in man. She 
 lifted a slim forefinger, and shook it at him warningly, 
 mockingly. 
 
 Well might she do so. For the little scene between 
 them was doubly observed. Bibi, slouching about the 
 stage, saw it, and scowled darkly under his dark brows, 
 while Cecily, standing among the palms by one of the 
 windows, saw it too, and, for all the warmth of the day, 
 her heart felt numb and cold within her breast.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "WHO is that fellow ?" demanded Bibi, as soon as Aldis 
 had reluctantly taken his departure. "He has the mug 
 of a cabotin an actor. I don't, like him." 
 
 "You're quite right, Bibi," responded Zelie, suavely 
 kissing her fingers to Aldis, who had turned, as he 
 reached the great central window of the hall which 
 opened upon the terrace, for a last glance at the stage. 
 "M. Aldis is an actor. He is a good friend of mine." 
 
 "I don't like him," repeated Bibi. He seized the 
 girl's hands and held them tight. "This M. Aldis I 
 know something of him. He had best look to himself. 
 And as for you, understand once more, ma fille," he 
 went on, "that though I give you a free hand, there's 
 to be no falling in love. You belong to Bibi." 
 
 Zelie frowned a little, but nevertheless thought it 
 well to humour the man. It would be time enough to 
 free herself from him when he had carried out the 
 part which she had allotted to him. "You have noth- 
 ing to fear, mon Bibi" she murmured. "All that I do 
 is for my interests and yours. There is no other 
 thought but that in my brain. I am yours, and it is 
 for us that I work. One day when your pockets are 
 full of money you will know." Bibi's cupidity was 
 his weakest point, and Zelie knew how to make the best 
 of it. 
 
 "Very well," grumbled the Apache. "As long as 
 you love no one but me that's the main point." 
 
 159
 
 160 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 The conversation had been carried on in quick under- 
 tones. There remained a great deal to be said, how 
 ever, for neither Zelie nor Bibi had as yet been able 
 to touch upon the essential topic that had to be dis- 
 cussed between them. And the conductor of the or- 
 chestra appeared anxious to get to work with the re- 
 hearsing. 
 
 With her usual promptitude Zelie took the matter in 
 hand. There had been no difficulty as to the score of 
 the "Danse du Neant" for that dance, success as it had 
 been in Paris, was already well known to the foreign 
 musicians whom Lord Martyn had engaged. Zelie 
 walked up to the conductor. He was a slim, sleek- 
 haired Italian, who, however, spoke French, and who 
 availed himself of every opportunity to leer sug- 
 gestively at the dancing-girl. 
 
 Zelie smiled on him, quite ready to exert her fas- 
 cination he would be all the more keen upon her 
 success when the time for the performance came; he 
 would make his men play up, and would see to it that 
 all the necessary pauses and points were duly observed. 
 It was to these that she now called his attention. 
 
 She expounded them to him briefly, requesting him 
 to run over the music once or twice while she talked 
 to her friend. 
 
 The conductor smiled and bowed, and Zelie, gratify- 
 ing him with another fascinating glance, turned away 
 and, humming the melody of the dance, pirouetted 
 lightly up the stage till she was once more by Bibi's 
 side. 
 
 "Now we can talk," she said. "We can have a few 
 minutes without interruption. But we must be brief. 
 Why did you come here?" She regarded him with a 
 certain contempt. "Ah, but I know, I can guess," she 
 went on. "You have those papers which were in the
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 161 
 
 pocket of Lord Martyn's coat. You came to blackmail. 
 Is it not so ?" 
 
 Bibi responded with a surly nod. What was the use 
 of denying the obvious? "I didn't know you were 
 here," he muttered. "How was I to know ? I needed 
 money since I had to escape from the country in a 
 hurry. You didn't give me enough. I was at Selwood, 
 you know why, and I found out that this Lord Martyn 
 lived in the neighbourhood. It's simple, isn't it?" 
 
 "You haven't betrayed me?" she asked anxiously, 
 tapping the boards of the stage impatiently with her 
 heel. "You haven't said a word to Lord Martyn to 
 indicate that it was I who gave you the coat? If you 
 have it may ruin my chances." 
 
 "Not a word," he replied. "I was too clever for 
 that Zelie." He drew up his rounded shoulders and 
 leered. "I saw how things stood, and I invented a 
 story, a clever story. This milor and I, we understand 
 each other. We have made a harmonious agreement. 
 All was well, Zelie, till you came upon the scene and 
 spoilt it." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked. Then, suddenly, 
 she pressed her hands to her ears, as discordant sounds 
 reached her from the orchestra. 
 
 "Ah mats non, mais non" she exclaimed, darting 
 forward to the footlights. "It's not like that. Would 
 you that we dance that measure to jig time?" She 
 spread out her hands, appealing pathetically to the 
 conductor. 
 
 She beat time with her finger while the orchestra 
 repeated the passage, then she turned to Bibi. "What 
 do you mean," she repeated, "that I spoilt it all?" 
 
 "By insisting that I should stay at milords castle the 
 night," he grumbled. "Couldn't you see that I didn't
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 want to that I had other plans ? They were on your 
 account, those plans, and you have upset them." 
 
 Zelie's eyes became mere slits. "What were your 
 plans?" she inquired. 
 
 He laid his hand upon her arm, drawing her still 
 further back into the wnigs. She had to bend her 
 head to him to catch the whispered words. The 
 orchestra was playing its loudest just then. 
 
 "What was it you asked me to do? To kill Owen 
 Mayne, riest-ce pas? Very well. It was to-night that 
 he would have died. To-night and I am here help- 
 less." 
 
 Zelie wrinkled her brows. "You would have killed 
 him to-night how, then?" 
 
 "There will be a burglary at Selwood Manor," he 
 explained hurriedly. "It has all been settled. I have 
 been working with a man to whom Alphonse intro- 
 duced me. His name is Jim Lamprey, and Alphonse 
 says he's the cleverest thief in the country. A burglary 
 it is easy for a man to be killed in a house when 
 thieves break in, is it not so? I have been hanging 
 about the house for days, yes I, myself. More than 
 once in the garden and the park I saw Owen Mayne 
 and I might have killed him then, taken him by sur- 
 prise, fallen upon him from the bushes but it was not 
 safe. I might not have got away. But breaking into 
 the house, that is another matter. The police will look 
 out for the thieves for a gang they will not suspect 
 Bibi." 
 
 He had been speaking hurriedly, gesticulating with 
 bony fingers, but never raising his voice above an 
 undertone. "And now you have spoilt all that," he 
 growled, "and Heaven alone knows why you wanted to 
 keep me at Chamney Castle." 
 
 Zelie had listened without interrupting. The frown
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 163 
 
 upon her forehead deepened, however, as the man ex- 
 pounded his plans. When he had finished she gave 
 utterance to a short, disdainful laugh. "My poor 
 Bibi," she said, "it is you who have been deceived. 
 This man this Jim Lamprey, as you call him he 
 must have known. He has just made use of you for 
 his own purposes. It was he, I expect, who settled 
 to-night for the burglary. Is it not so?" 
 
 "Yes." Bibi screwed up his face in puzzled won- 
 der. "I don't understand you, Zelie." 
 
 "No, but you will," she retorted. "Your burglar 
 friend fixed on to-night for the simple reason that there 
 would be no men in the house except the servants. If 
 you had not been a fool, you'd have found it out. Both 
 Owen Mayne and his friend, Robin Clithero, will be 
 here" she stamped her tiny foot. "Do I speak 
 plainly? They will be here, at Chamney Castle." 
 
 Bibi collapsed. He had sufficient intelligence to see 
 at once how he had been taken in. He was to assist 
 in this burglary, to have taken the greater part of the 
 risk upon his own head, and for no object whatever. 
 The man whom he meant to slay would not be in the 
 house at all. 
 
 Bibi broke out into a volume of coarse invective, 
 no longer caring about the modulation of his voice. It 
 was lucky that the orchestra was still playing loudly. 
 
 Zelie laughed at him she mocked him. He felt 
 himself lowered in her eyes; there was something in 
 her scorn, scorn which she took no trouble to conceal 
 from him, which scorched and burnt him. 
 
 She lifted her hand and put an end to the current of 
 abuse. At any other time she would not have spared 
 Bibi the verbal expression of her disdain, but now 
 well, she had her own plans, and it was for Bibi to 
 retrieve his folly by carrying them gut.
 
 164 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "I am more clever than you, my Bibi," she said, 
 laying her hand upon his shoulder, "and I have ar- 
 ranged things so that all may yet go well. Your M. 
 Lamprey may have his burglary to-night, and it is well 
 for you that you will not be there." She fixed her 
 eyes upon him it was she who was the dominating 
 spirit now. 
 
 "Do you guess why I have kept you at Chamney," 
 she asked, "why I made the excuse that we should 
 dance together to-night?" 
 
 He nodded his head. He was subdued in spirit. 
 "Because Owen Mayne will be here," he hazarded. 
 
 "Exactly. And so, what you would have failed to 
 do at Selwood you shall do at Chamney. I have 
 thought it all out, and my plans are made. There is 
 less danger for you, Bibi, than there would have been 
 at Selwood. I saw it in a flash, and so I asked Lord 
 Martyn that you should stay." 
 
 Her eyes glittered and she spoke in tones of sup- 
 pressed excitement. For a moment the voice of the 
 conductor could be heard cursing his men in voluble 
 Italian, then the violins began to wail a fierce, cruel 
 melody the essential motive of the "Danse du Neant." 
 
 The music harmonised with the spirit of Zelie's 
 speech. 
 
 "Listen to me carefully, Bibi, mon gars. If you do 
 exactly as I tell you all will be well. This afternoon, 
 later on, I will take you to a summer-house which I 
 have seen in the garden. It is not very far away, but 
 it is in a spot where they are hanging no lamps. There 
 is a hedge just behind it and a public footpath. To 
 that summer-house I will lead Owen Mayne to-night. 
 It will be after supper is over, when we shall be free 
 to do as we please. Yes, I, myself, I will lead him 
 there and it shall be to his death."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 165 
 
 She stood erect, drawing deep breaths, yet, save for 
 the quick rise and fall of her bosom, she might have 
 been talking of some ordinary topic not discussing 
 treachery and murder. 
 
 Bibi glanced at her with suppressed admiration. He 
 thought her fine. And she was his, his gosse! His 
 whole being swelled with pride. Ah, yes, he would 
 do this thing for her for her sake, and because of the 
 money which she had promised him. 
 
 "You must break down the hedge and trample the 
 grass beyond it," Zelie went on, "so that it will appear 
 as if someone, some thief, had entered from without. 
 You must rifle Owen Mayne's pockets and take his 
 watch ; then they will say, 'It is a thief who has done 
 this thing.' When all is over, you must make your 
 way back to the house and let people see you, so that 
 there shall be no suspicion. To run away would be 
 to betray us. To-morrow you will go at the time which 
 has been appointed for you. You understand me?" 
 
 Bibi nodded he understood clearly. 
 
 Zelie bent her lips still closer to his ear. "I will 
 contrive it so," she whispered, "that he stands with 
 his back turned to the door of the summer-house. You 
 are concealed among the bushes close at hand. You 
 approach quietly very quietly so." She lifted her- 
 self upon tiptoe and made pantomimic gestures to in- 
 dicate what he should do. She took a few steps, pass- 
 ing in front of him, and she had a movement of her 
 shoulders that was animal, feline, curiously suggestive 
 of the panther to which she had been compared. 
 
 "You have the knife in your hand. He is standing 
 there with his back turned what could be easier ? You 
 lift your hand you strike so it is all over." 
 
 She was acting the part as she spoke, living in it. 
 There was a red glow before her eyes, and in imagina-
 
 166 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 tion she already saw Owen Mayne lying dead at her 
 feet. 
 
 "Good," said Bibi, hoarsely, "I will do it. But I 
 have no knife I I have lost mine." 
 
 Zelie was still in possession of hers. It had never 
 left her since the day she picked it up at Owen's 
 studio. She produced it now and pressed it into Bibi's 
 hand. "He shall die with his own knife," she muttered. 
 
 A few more hurried sentences and all was arranged 
 Zelie gripped Bibi by the arm and drew him forward 
 to the front of the stage. Here she dropped a smiling 
 curtsy to the oily conductor a curtsy that was alto- 
 gether theatrical. 
 
 "We are ready now, monsieur," she said. 
 
 The conductor he was a big man in his way and 
 had been engaged at great expense bowed graciously, 
 swung his baton, and once more the curious wailing 
 rhythm of the opening bars of the melody made itself 
 heard. It was upon such notes as these that the dance 
 opened almost as if the composer had sought to ex- 
 press in a few notes the sob of suffering humanity 
 and it was to the same refrain that the music ended. 
 
 A dance but a Dance of Death !
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 STEPHEN ALDIS had hardly stepped through the win- 
 dow of the great hall, leaving its cool, semi-obscurity 
 behind him an obscurity due to the heavily banked 
 up palms and flowers and passed into the sunlight, 
 before he felt a light touch upon his arm and turned 
 to recognise Cecily. 
 
 He muttered an oath inwardly. His mind had been 
 so full of Zelie that the sight of the fair girl, who 
 might have belonged to another world altogether, came 
 almost as an offence to him. Besides, why was not 
 Cecily amusing herself with the other guests? Why 
 was she looking here in the scorching sun upon the 
 terrace? She had been waiting for him, of course. 
 It was ridiculous, and really she was making him quite 
 conspicuous. 
 
 "My dear Cecily, what on earth are you doing here?" 
 he said, coming to an abrupt halt. "Why, I thought 
 your complexion was your first care." 
 
 "I was waiting for you, Steve," she admitted, her 
 tone almost humble. "I knew you must come out di- 
 rectly." 
 
 "Why should you wait?" he asked sharply. 
 
 "I've seen so little of you, Steve," she pleaded. "You 
 are not going to avoid me, are you? I thought per- 
 haps you'd take me for a row on the lake." She tried 
 to force a smile. "Lady Beatrice wanted me to go 
 with her and Sir Donald. But I thought I might be 
 
 167
 
 168 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 in the way. It's a case of two's company there, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "You might just as well have gone," he replied, 
 taking little trouble to conceal his displeasure. "Peo- 
 ple must have noticed you hanging about here. It 
 makes me look ridiculous." 
 
 Her hand dropped from his arm and they walked 
 on together, side by side, in silence. They descended 
 the broad stone staircase and were soon treading upon 
 the soft, velvety grass of the lawn. 
 
 Aldis felt as if he had come straight from the heart 
 of some wild, primeval forest that was while he had 
 been in that darkened room with Zelie and now he 
 had been brought back, forcibly awakened as it were 
 to ultra-civilisation as represented by this delicate hot- 
 house plant, forced and artificial, this fair girl who 
 was compelling his attention. 
 
 He was fond of Cecily yes, certainly, he was fond 
 of her, but not now ; the sight of her pale cheeks and 
 pathetic blue eyes, as well as the little droop of her 
 dainty lips, hurt him his soul was not attuned to hers 
 at that moment. It was the fierce, the savage, the 
 primitive, for which he craved, and this desire which 
 had taken possession of him made him fierce and 
 savage and primitive too. 
 
 Cecily had met him in an evil hour. 
 
 She slipped her hand under his arm once more. "I 
 want to have a chat with you, Steve," she said. "Don't 
 let's go where there's anyone else. I'm not in the mood 
 to chatter commonplaces. Lady Albyn almost drove 
 me crazy this morning with her gossiping about the 
 latest stage scandals. She seems to have fixed upon 
 me as a special victim. And she's over there with her 
 usual boys in attendance, and her wretched little pug
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 169 
 
 dog." The girl gave a nervous shiver. "I hate the 
 little beast." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and came to a halt. 
 "Where shall we go ?" he said shortly. Then he added 
 quickly: "I haven't got long to give you, Cecily." 
 
 A flush stole over the girl's cheeks. She knew 
 what he meant. He was to meet Zelie when she had 
 finished rehearsing. 
 
 "Let us go to the lake," she proposed eagerly. 
 There were paths encircling the water from which the 
 house could not be seen paths which were made for 
 lovers; surely there, if there was any power in her, 
 she could make Stephen Aldis forget his hateful ob- 
 session? Surely there she could win him back to 
 herself ? 
 
 "No," he said curtly, "we won't go as far as that, 
 Cecily. It's cool and shady by the fountain, and I see 
 they've put some chairs there. That will do very 
 well." 
 
 He led the way, walking with long strides, the girl 
 having some difficulty in keeping pace with him. 
 
 The fountain, with its circular marble basin and its 
 golden Triton and dolphins, lay in full view of the 
 terrace. Aldis seated himself, dropping languidly into 
 a low deck chair, in such a position that he could see 
 at once when Zelie should leave the hall if, as he ex- 
 pected, she should follow by the same way which he 
 had taken. 
 
 Cecily seated herself upon the marble rim of the 
 fountain and for a few moments gazed down into the 
 water without speaking. She was watching the gold 
 and silver fish darting quickly by, sporting in the clear 
 water of the pool. 
 
 Aldis lit a cigarette. "Well, now you've got me
 
 170 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 here," he said, "you don't seem eager to talk. What's 
 the trouble, Cecily ? Let's have it out." 
 
 "I don't know that there is any trouble," she mur- 
 mured nervously. "I I hope there isn't. It's only 
 this, Steve, that you've been very kind to me lately. 
 You've neglected me a little, haven't you? And and 
 I feel it." 
 
 She pressed her hands to her bosom ; her heart was 
 beating quickly, painfully. 
 
 Aldis knocked the ash .from his cigarette. "I don'd 
 know about neglecting you," he said. "We've always 
 been the best of friends, Cecily, and I hope we shall 
 remain so. It's to our mutual interest, isn't it? The 
 public like to see us acting together, and I'm quite 
 ready to promise you the part of Maisie when we put 
 up The Golden East. That's one of the fondest wishes 
 of your heart, isn't it? Only, for Heaven's sake, my 
 dear girl, don't always be hanging about me and mak- 
 ing me conspicuous. People have said all sorts of 
 things already which are not a bit justified by fact. 
 I haven't worried my head about it, and don't mean 
 to unless you compel me." 
 
 He was trying, even against the instincts that ani- 
 mated him at that moment, to let her down gently. 
 He knew how eager she was to play that part in his 
 next production. Surely she should be contented with 
 the promise he had just given her? 
 
 Cecily had deceived herself with false hopes that 
 was the tragedy of it. She had believed that she had 
 succeeded where so many other women had failed. But 
 those happy dreams were over now, and she was 
 learning the bitter lesson of her own weakness. She 
 was treading a path which others had trodden before 
 her, but for Cecily Cuthbert the weeds were more rank 
 and the thorns more sharp than her predecessors had
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 171 
 
 found them. It was a matter of temperament, no 
 more than that. 
 
 "I thought," Cecily faltered out the words, "that 
 you cared a little, Steve. It isn't only a matter of 
 being given a part in your next piece. I'm very glad 
 of that, but but " 
 
 Her voice trembled and broke, tears stood in her 
 eyes and Aldis hated tears. 
 
 "But, what?" he exclaimed almost roughly. Why 
 on earth couldn't the girl behave sensibly? 
 
 "One can't be always an actress, you know," she 
 faltered. "One is a woman in spite of oneself. I 
 thought you cared for me, Steve. I suppose I was 
 wrong." Suddenly she threw restraint aside. "Oh, 
 Steve," she cried, clasping her hands together, "why 
 did you make me love you?" 
 
 Tears rolled down her cheeks. Cecily's courage had 
 broken down, the strain of the last few days had 
 proved too great; she had reached the breaking-point. 
 
 The man threw his cigarette away, crossed his legs, 
 and knitted his brows. It was really very aggravating, 
 and this sort of thing must not be allowed to go on. 
 Why couldn't Cecily behave like those other women 
 whom he had kissed and was ready to kiss again? 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't be so tragic, Cis," he said, 
 forcing himself to speak lightly. "Of course, I'm very 
 fond of you, and when I'm fond of a woman I can't 
 help letting her know of it. It's my nature. I've not 
 changed towards you a bit, and if you don't fidget me 
 with your absurd jealousy you'll find me just the same 
 as ever. What more can you ask ?" 
 
 She plunged her hand into the water, and then lifted 
 it, dripping wet as it was, to her brow. "You are 
 hard and cruel," she cried, "and you break women's 
 hearts for your pleasure. You have won my love,
 
 173 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Steve you can't deny it, that you sought to make me 
 love you and now you would throw me over because 
 another woman's face has caught your fancy. And 
 it's the face of a wicked woman, of one who will hurt 
 you, who will kiss you to your undoing." 
 
 A shudder convulsed her frame. She stood erect, 
 and spoke with a concentration of passion such as he 
 had never suspected of her. Light, smiling, artificial 
 Cecily ! She had never even played at real drama upon 
 the stage but she was playing it now upon the broader 
 stage of life. 
 
 "She has stolen you from me" the words came 
 from between her closed teeth "and it's to her that 
 I must give you up. Oh, that viper in human form, 
 that snake-woman, how I hate her ! How I hate her ! 
 But she shall never have you, Steve never, never !" 
 
 Brutal words rose to the man's lips. This sort of 
 thing was absurd, and must not be allowed to continue. 
 Cecily must be made to understand that she had no 
 claim upon him, no claim at all. 
 
 "I don't know why you should presume to inter- 
 fere," he said, regarding her harshly. "It's nothing to 
 do with you. We are not engaged." 
 
 The girl stared at him for a moment without re- 
 sponse, then a moan, a deep, sobbing breath, broke 
 from between her lips, and she sank down upon her 
 knees beside the marble basin, her hands trailing over 
 the rim of it, the fingers immersed in the water. 
 
 Aldis glanced anxiously in the direction of the group 
 of people collected upon the further lawn, then, because 
 it was not his way to be harsh with women, he stepped 
 up to the sobbing girl and laid his hand upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Let's have no more of this nonsense, Cecily," he 
 said. "You are foolishly, ridiculously jealous, and you
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 173 
 
 are making a tremendous fuss about nothing. Pull 
 yourself together, my dear. Go indoors and bathe 
 your eyes you're a bit hysterical. Next time we meet 
 we'll laugh together over this silly scene." 
 
 Cecily lifted her head and allowed a wan little smile 
 to flutter about her lips. Unfortunately at that mo- 
 ment Zelie appeared upon the terrace, standing in the 
 shadow of the ballroom window. She glanced up and 
 down and tfien turned away. In another minute she 
 would disappear round the wing of the house. 
 
 Stephen Aldis muttered a few hasty words to his 
 companion, and was about to follow. But Cecily seized 
 his hand, holding it tightly. 
 
 "Don't go!" she begged of him. "Oh, Steve, for 
 God's sake, for the love of Heaven, don't go !" 
 
 But he wrenched himself free, and when the girl 
 sought to grasp his arm, to hold him back, he thrust 
 her from him, nor did he spare her the oath which 
 rose to his lips. 
 
 "You're behaving like a damned hysterical fool, 
 Cecily !" he exclaimed roughly. Then he turned on his 
 heel and stalked away. 
 
 Cecily stood there by the fountain, the warm after- 
 noon sun glistening on her flaxen hair and on her pale 
 cheeks, unwontedly furrowed by tears. 
 
 She lifted her hand to her throat and choked down 
 the sob that shook her. She watched Aldis as he 
 crossed the lawn, mounted the terrace steps, and came 
 up at last with Zelie. She could not distinguish their 
 faces, but she was sure the dancer laughed the ca- 
 joling, tempting laugh of a siren. 
 
 They stood a moment, and then, presently, side by 
 side, they disappeared. 
 
 "I won't give him up to her!" Cecily cried aloud, 
 and she raised her clasped hands as though she were
 
 174* TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 indeed pronouncing an oath. "She shall not triumph 
 over me, that nightmare woman of evil! His kisses 
 are on my lips I can feel the burn of them still 
 and shall he kiss another woman's lips after that?"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE great drawing-room was well filled when the 
 Selwood Manor party arrived at Chamney Castle that 
 night. Fresh guests were pouring in, but Lord Mar- 
 tyn found time to speak a few words of congratulation 
 to Owen and Lavender. He had already heard of the 
 engagement, though it was barely a day old. There 
 had been several callers at the Manor, to whom the 
 news had been imparted, and, in the country, this kind 
 of intelligence travels quickly. 
 
 "The best of good luck to you both," he said, 
 heartily shaking them by the hand. "I feel almost 
 like the fairy godmother. Yes, Mayne, I had your 
 letter I got it at the club. I was only too pleased to 
 bring you and your aunt together. Just a happy 
 coincidence, wasn't it? You're to be congratulated, 
 my dear fellow" he drew Owen a little aside "she's 
 as sweet a girl as the heart of man could desire." 
 
 "She is," agreed Owen. 
 
 "You'll have to back-water a bit now, though," smiled 
 Martyn ; "give up the frivolity of studio life and so on, 
 what?" He was thinking of Zelie, who had been so 
 anxious to know Owen's address. "By the way," he 
 added, "you'll meet a Paris friend of yours here to- 
 night a lady." 
 
 "Shall I ?" said Owen, but without interest. "You've 
 got such a representative crowd, Martyn, that I dare 
 say I shall meet a lot. But who's the particular lady ?" 
 
 175
 
 176 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "You'll see all in good time," was the response. 
 "I won't spoil sport by telling you. But remember" 
 Martyn shook a warning forefinger "you're an en- 
 gaged man." 
 
 He bustled off to welcome some fresh guests, leaving 
 Owen to return to Lavender, who was already sur- 
 rounded by a bevy of feminine friends all anxious to 
 know how soon the wedding would be. He felt him- 
 self the cynosure of many eyes and guessed that he 
 was being weighed in the balance. He judged that the 
 general result was satisfactory for the ladies smiled 
 upon him but this was no salve to his conscience, 
 which was smiting him ridiculously, and he had a hate- 
 ful feeling that people must read his duplicity in his 
 face. 
 
 He had had this idea once or twice with Lavender. 
 Her eyes were so pure and he could not always meet 
 them as he would have liked. 
 
 The performance in the great hall was to begin at 
 ten and was calculated to last a couple of hours. It 
 was not a formal entertainment people might come 
 and go as they pleased. There were no long rows of 
 seats stretching across from side to side, but com- 
 fortable chairs were scattered about the room anyhow. 
 For those who preferred it there was a military band 
 in the garden, to say nothing of the illuminated lake, 
 walks and terraces ; but the majority of the guests pre- 
 ferred to watch the performance, for rumours of sen- 
 sational "turns" had been whispered abroad. The or- 
 chestra itself, under the control of the celebrated con- 
 ductor Signor Cavini, was worth going miles to hear. 
 
 Owen and Lavender found comfortable seats in the 
 hall, where they commanded an excellent view of the 
 stage. Seated next to them was a prim dowager and 
 her meek husband. The latter had apparently insti-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 177 
 
 gated his spouse to accept the invitation, and she was 
 making him responsible for the various shocks she had 
 already received. All this while it was palpable from 
 her keen, roving eyes and generally interested mien 
 that she was enjoying herself immensely. 
 
 "To think of it," Owen heard her say, "that singing 
 girl from the Star what's her name? Cecily Cuth- 
 bert, yes, that's it here, and as a guest ! And lots of 
 others of the same kind. People we should feed in 
 the servants' hall ! Guests !" 
 
 "But, my dear Maria," whispered the man timidly, 
 "Miss Cuthbert is quite a lady by birth. Besides, it 
 isn't birth, you know, that is a passport with our host. 
 It's cleverness!" 
 
 "People have no right to be clever unless they are 
 well born," snorted the lady. "I call it impudent." 
 She sighed. "I don't know what we are coming to in 
 these degenerate days." 
 
 Robin, who, with Captain Ferrars and a girl friend 
 of the latter 's, was sitting just behind Owen, over- 
 heard, too, and broke into a sniggle. The dowager 
 turned a supercilious lorgnette upon him until he suc- 
 cumbed. Then she placidly continued her conversation. 
 
 "And I hear there's to be a dancing girl on the 
 stage some French hussy I suppose she's a guest, 
 too. They tell me" here she lowered her voice 
 "that she comes from some vile Paris haunt, and that 
 her dancing is positively indecent. Well, I shall be 
 able to judge of that after I've seen the performance 
 right through." 
 
 The good lady settled herself in her chair with the 
 evident intention of missing nothing and finding fault 
 with all. 
 
 "Remember that you brought me, James," she said, 
 "to see the improper dancing of a French drab,"
 
 178 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Owen wondered vaguely who the French drab might 
 be, but he had no suspicions. Programmes had not 
 been provided, the entertainment being of so informal 
 a nature. Besides, most of the performers were too 
 well known in their particular line to need any intro- 
 duction. 
 
 Silence fell upon the great hall when Signer Cavini, 
 sleeker and more self-assertive than ever, rose, bowed 
 to the audience, and then gave a preliminary flourish 
 of his baton as a signal for the overture to commence. 
 This had been specially composed by Lord Martyn, 
 who was himself a musician of no mean order, and it 
 was in many ways a remarkable piece of work. 
 
 For, in some subtle manner, it was suggestive of 
 his own outlook upon life. To Owen's ears the music 
 was a delight because of its weird contrasts, its quaint 
 gradations of symphony, its union of the sublime and 
 the ridiculous. One felt that the composer had per- 
 formed his task with his tongue in his cheek. There 
 were moments when the soul of the listener was lifted 
 up by an exalted passage, only to be brought to earth 
 again directly by a fantastic suggestion of some popu- 
 lar lilt of the day. Lord Martyn had done his share 
 towards the unconventionality of the entertainment. 
 
 Following this introduction, turn succeeded turn, and 
 every one presented its own surprise to the audience. 
 Celebrities appeared upon the stage whose talents in 
 that direction had never been suspected. There was 
 Leonard Bryce, for instance, who had made such a 
 brave fight for his party at the Daleshire by-election 
 he delivered a stump-speech that was remarkable for 
 its wit as well as for its trenchant sarcasm of the 
 Government, sarcasm that was cleverly veiled by his 
 assumed character. 
 
 Gilbert Farrington, the artist, achieved success with
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 179 
 
 his lightning sketches of well-known personalities, most 
 of whom were present to recognise and applaud the 
 caricatures of themselves; Maurice Gothard, the 
 pianist, astonished the assembly by showing himself 
 almost as great a master of the violin ; Marcelle Grelat, 
 of the Paris Opera, sang chansonettes such as had been 
 associated with the name of Berthe Montjoy; while 
 the latter proved herself quite capable of shining in 
 the higher realms of her art. 
 
 And so on and so on. It was an entertainment at 
 which the unexpected reigned supreme. It was a tri- 
 umph for Lord Martyn. 
 
 Stephen Aldis and Cecily appeared upon the stage 
 together, and were greeted as popular favourites. 
 They sang a duet from the much-bepuffed Golden East. 
 Aldis had decided upon this coup almost at the last 
 moment, in order to convince Cecily of his sincerity 
 when he had promised her the part of Maisie. 
 
 They appeared in ordinary evening dress, but the 
 song had a haunting refrain which was bound to ensure 
 its popularity. Unfortunately Aldis had not con- 
 sidered the sense of the words which Cecily would have 
 to sing. To him a song was merely a song that it 
 should be made to have any personal significance to the 
 singer was absurd. He could play an impassioned 
 scene and remain cold. 
 
 It was not so with Cecily in the present excited state 
 of her nerves. This ardent love-song was more than 
 she could bear. Aldis, in his presumed character, had 
 to clasp her in his arms and kiss her. And she knew 
 he did it utterly without feeling. 
 
 "Love, will you crown me with roses, 
 
 Love, will you deck me with rue? 
 Come with your joy or your sorrow, 
 Love so you be but true."
 
 180 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 She had to sing these words. A silly jingle of sound, 
 but it hurt her. In the second verse she broke down. 
 If they had been in stage costume it might have been 
 different she could perhaps have dispelled the illu- 
 sion that Stephen and she were acting. As it was she 
 turned and saw him gazing at her tenderly and wist- 
 fully a studied look which he had always found most 
 successful, especially with the ladies of the audience 
 and she could not endure it. She sang a false note, 
 then her voice shook painfully, she lifted her hand to 
 her throat, and quivered to silence. 
 
 "I I'm sorry. Forgive me," She cast an agonising 
 glance at Aldis, then advanced, trembling, to the foot- 
 lights, where she repeated her pitiful little apology. 
 The audience broke into an encouraging roar of ap- 
 plause. She bowed, smiling wanly, then Aldis took her 
 by the hand and led her off. The curtain fell, and the 
 orchestra struck up a selection but it could not hush 
 the wagging of many tongues that had opinions to 
 pass. Why, this was the sensation of the evening. 
 
 But Cecily and her collapse were forgotten when the 
 final turn was announced, and the curtain rose upon 
 a stage draped completely in black fold upon 
 fold, or so it appeared, of filmy gauze. The word went 
 round that the new French dancing-girl was about to 
 appear. Rumour had been busy as to her marvellous 
 talent, but none knew her name. Owen, leaning back, 
 asked Robin if he had heard it, but the latter shook 
 his head. 
 
 "What extraordinary music!" Everyone was mak- 
 ing the same remark. Some put their fingers to their 
 ears. The violins squealed agonisingly, the bassoons 
 wailed like the wind in storm, the drums thundered 
 wrath or muttered a sullen defiance. It was the war
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 181 
 
 of the elements before they fell into their, allotted 
 places in a world where chaos reigned. 
 
 The stage was empty and dark as the world it por- 
 trayed. Then, subtly, the music suggested creation, 
 and one could imagine one could almost see primi- 
 tive man emerge from his cave, climb down from his 
 tree and join in chase of the wild creatures that stam- 
 peded through trackless forests and across limitless 
 plains. Yet, so far, all that had happened upon the 
 stage was an increase of light a pale white light that 
 only made the darkness visible. 
 
 And then she came, lifting film after film of the 
 gauzy background so that she seemed to be fashioning 
 herself a shape from the mist of untold ages Woman 
 the temptress the Zelie of an epoch when time knew 
 no reckoning Zelie, the same long seons ago as she 
 appeared to the world of to-day. 
 
 She was clad in a leopard-skin, and the girdle about 
 her waist resembled a snake. Her arms and neck 
 were bare; so, too, were her feet and her legs to the 
 knee. Her black hair hung loose, reaching below her 
 waist. She advanced to the footlights, glancing fear- 
 fully over her shoulder to right and left as though on 
 her guard against attack, then drew herself up and 
 laughed. She was the Woman to whom, inscrutably, 
 power had been given to lure men to destruction, who 
 trod a path that was red with blood and sodden with- 
 tears. A crimson light played about her feet as she 
 stood there it was all-significant. 
 
 "My God Zelie !" Owen half rose in his chair. He 
 had turned deathly pale, but the great hall was in 
 obscurity, so Lavender could not see his face at that 
 moment. It was well for her that she could not. 
 
 Robin touched his shoulder from behind, and he sank 
 back into his seat. He was breathing hard, like a
 
 183 TWO AfACHES OF PARIS 
 
 man whose throat is compressed. His finger nails bit 
 into his palms, but he was silent. 
 
 Zelie danced as her savage prototype might have 
 moved and danced. She was alternately stealthy and 
 fierce, yielding and defiant. She was the woman who 
 gives and at the same time the conqueror who takes. 
 Those who watched her knew for every movement 
 had its suggestion that men, naked and fierce, fought 
 for her, and that she was the victor's meed. And yet 
 her very embrace was a mockery for she had no heart, 
 no soul. 
 
 The curtain fell and the audience sat spell-bound. 
 The orchestra continued to make weird music that told 
 of the passage of time and of the development of 
 knowledge. Melody, exotic and mystical, had taken 
 the place of fantastic discord. It was the turn of man 
 to create, and man had created unto himself his gods. 
 
 It was this which the second phase of the dance 
 portrayed. Zelie appeared in the filmy drapery of 
 classic times. She represented no character in par- 
 ticular for time had not changed her she was still 
 the temptress, whom man had defied, she to whom 
 sacrifice was made in secret groves, who received as 
 her right the libation of her creators' lives. She was 
 goddess and woman, Aphrodite and Sappho, shadowy 
 exemplification of human passion and creature of warm 
 flesh and blood. And still she was without remorse 
 for still she had no soul ! 
 
 And the wonder of her dancing grew. She paraded 
 the stage slowly, and it seemed as if the ghosts of all 
 those whom love had tempted to folly trod in her train. 
 The stage was peopled by a great company. The 
 dancer threw herself down in voluptuous abandon or 
 stood up mocking. Her arms were writhing snakes, 
 her eyes shot living flame, her lips were stained with
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 183 
 
 blood. She led her phantom host to the gates of 
 heaven or hell and vanished. 
 
 And so dance succeeded dance, and it was as if the 
 audience watched the evolution of the world in its 
 eternal slavery to the temptress. She was there always, 
 though it might only be some subtle gesture that in- 
 dicated her presence, and when the last phase com- 
 menced the "Danse du Neant" one felt that the 
 Zelie of to-day had lived through all the ages, ever the 
 temptress, ever without a soul. 
 
 In the obscurity of the hall Lavender slipped her 
 hand into that of Owen, but found his cold and un- 
 responsive. 
 
 "Oh, we are not all like that," she whispered with 
 a shudder. "There are good women, too." 
 
 "It is an allegory," he muttered, feeling that he 
 must say something. But, in truth, he had paid but 
 small heed to the actual significance of the dance. 
 For his brain was in a turmoil. Zelie was there and 
 he sat by the side of Lavender ! 
 
 "An allegory of evil," murmured the girl. Then she 
 was silent. 
 
 And in the meanwhile Bibi had appeared. It was 
 not difficult for the spectators to build up the back- 
 ground of that dance the "Danse du Neant." It was 
 a defiance thrown at law and convention, an exaltation 
 of degeneracy, a mockery of man's attempt to raise 
 himself from the mire of his animal state. There was 
 fierce cruelty in it and passion untrammelled. There 
 was the temptress and her mate. And the background 
 of the dance was a huge, looming scaffold. 
 
 Yet thousands had applauded that dance laughed 
 and wept over it according to their dispositions 
 thousands would applaud it again. Staid British 
 matrons would see it because it was "the thing." They
 
 184* TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 would take their daughters, who would stare with inno- 
 cent eyes and laugh in secret. The vice of it would be 
 slurred over in the cleverness of the dancers. 
 
 It was this that Lord Martyn had anticipated this 
 that he was putting to the test. "What fools these 
 mortals be" that was the assumption upon which he 
 acted. 
 
 And he had not misjudged his world. The curtain 
 fell. There was a moment of intense silence. Then the 
 duchess, who was sitting in the front by the side of 
 Lord Martyn, clapped her hands. 
 
 "Wonderful wonderful !" she exclaimed. 
 
 Her cue was taken up. The great hall rang with 
 frantic applause.
 
 HAD Lavender been less innocent and unsuspicious 
 she might have found food for considerable reflection 
 in her lover's behaviour before and during supper that 
 night. To begin with, he had deserted her during 
 the interval between the performance and supper, an 
 interval which Lord Martyn's guests filled up by col- 
 lecting in groups and discussing the performance, by 
 wandering out on the terrace, or by strolling in the 
 picture gallery. 
 
 Everybody was anxious to know what everybody 
 else thought of the entertainment, and Zelie was the 
 prime subject of conversation. The duchess had ap- 
 proved of her, so the rest of the company approved 
 too. Cecily came in for some notice as well; why on 
 earth had she broken down? There were many who 
 scented a scandal. 
 
 It had been settled, of course, that Lavender was to 
 be taken in to supper by Owen. A little party had 
 been arranged which was to include Robin and the 
 Ferrars. But Owen had to be reminded of this, and he 
 appeared strangely agitated when he stooped over 
 to Robin and whispered something in the ear of the 
 latter. Robin seemed disturbed too. Lavender noticed 
 that as well. 
 
 He had answered in the same undertone; then he 
 had turned to her and to Miss Ferrars, offering to take 
 them for a stroll outside. 
 
 185
 
 186 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "I'm simply pining for a cigarette," he said, "and 
 I'm sure you young ladies will like a breath of fresh 
 air. Owen wants to speak to an old friend, someone 
 whom he has not seen for ages. He'll join us again 
 before supper is announced." 
 
 So they went out on the terrace, leaving Owen to 
 lose himself amid the chattering groups of people that 
 still lingered in the great hall. Lavender would have 
 liked to ask him if there was any trouble connected 
 with the friend he was looking for, but she did not like 
 to, and Robin hurried her away. 
 
 Owen was telling himself that he must see Zelie 
 that was the one all-absorbing thought in his brain. 
 Nothing else mattered. He must see and talk with 
 Zelie. 
 
 Lord Martyn was there, standing close to the stage, 
 receiving the congratulations of his many friends. 
 Owen was conscious of a hum of conversation on all 
 sides of him, and to his excited ears everyone seemed 
 to be talking of Zelie. 
 
 "She's wonderful marvellous never seen such 
 dancing in my life. It isn't so much what she actually 
 does as what she makes one feel. I seem to have lived 
 through countless ages in the space of a few minutes." 
 So a grey-bearded, sallow-cheeked man, standing at 
 Owen's elbow, was saying to his companion, a woman 
 of uncertain age and keenly intelligent face. 
 
 Owen recognised them both. The man was Nigel 
 Snow, the poet, while the woman was Mary Fordham, 
 one of the most talented writers of the day. 
 
 "She's so clever," responded the latter, who always 
 lived up to her reputation for saying smart things, 
 "that I'm quite sure she must be wholly ignorant and 
 uneducated. She couldn't dance like that if she studied 
 much. The whole thing is spontaneous with her a
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 187 
 
 sort of second nature. I hope she'll never study she 
 might become artistic, and that would ruin her." 
 
 Snow laughed. "There's a poem," he said, "in 
 every movement of her. I could write a sonnet on the 
 poise of her head. The writhing of her arms I think 
 I could express that best in a ballade. But as for all 
 I've felt to-night it would take an epic to do it 
 justice." 
 
 It was the same thing on all sides, wherever Owen 
 moved he heard Zelie's praises sung. It irritated and 
 maddened him, for it seemed as if she, who was his 
 wife, had given herself to the world ; as if this success 
 of hers, startling and unsuspected as it was to him, 
 had separated her from him, made her independent. 
 
 "I can't live without her," he muttered between his 
 clenched teeth, all the intensity of his desire for the 
 lithe, feline creature, the siren who had enslaved him, 
 returning in full force and sending the blood gushing 
 through his veins. "Why, I don't know how I've 
 existed all these weeks. Upon memory, I suppose, and 
 the prospect of being reunited before long. Zelie, I've 
 cheated and lied for you. I've sacrificed my soul at 
 your altar. You won't desert me now." 
 
 A tall, languid young man, with a giggling girl 
 hanging upon his arm, was standing by Owen now. Of 
 course, they were talking of Zelie. 
 
 "Isn't she rippin'?" the man was saying. "I say, 
 Hilda, I shall get introduced to-night, and when she 
 comes on in London, as, of course, she's bound to, 
 I'll be able to make the runnin' a bit." 
 
 "You're a naughty boy," responded his companion, 
 "and you'll get yourself into trouble one of these days. 
 Besides, I thought you were in love with me." 
 
 "Oh, you're different, Hilda," he retorted. "She's 
 only a dancing-girl, after all."
 
 188 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Hilda smiled, showing her two rows of pearly teeth. 
 "It's the dancing-girl who gets the best time, nowa- 
 days," she remarked. "I'd willingly give up being 
 Lady Hilda and the privilege of making a bow to 
 royalty, to have all London running after me as that 
 girl, whatever her name is, is bound to. It must be 
 just glorious to pick and chose one's men whereas 
 I have to put up with you, Edwin, and condone your 
 infidelities, because it's supposed to be the right thing 
 that we should be engaged." 
 
 She spoke half- jestingly, half in earnest. Owen 
 turned and regarded the boy, for he was little more, 
 with a scowl. The young puppy ! How dare he speak 
 of "making the running" with Zelie? It was to this 
 sort of thing that she was laying herself open. 
 
 Owen was hot with suppressed anger. It had always 
 been his pose to scoff at the world now the world 
 was mocking him. 
 
 He had thrust his way through the crowd by now, 
 till he was standing close to Lord Martyn. The latter 
 turned and saw him. 
 
 "Well, my dear Mayne," he remarked, giving a 
 nod and a smile to the man with whom he had just 
 been talking. "What do you think of my surprise ?" 
 
 He linked his arm in that of his friend and led 
 Owen a little aside. "It's perfectly ridiculous," he 
 went on, "how all the men in the place are swarming 
 round me, and asking to be introduced. And even 
 the ladies you see, the duchess has kindly expressed 
 approval, and wishes to congratulate Zelie in person. 
 And Zelie will put her tongue out at her when her 
 back is turned I'm sure of that. I'm glad you came 
 up, as I couldn't get rid of Rathbone. The same thing, 
 of course. Sixty, if he's a day, and with a grown-up 
 family he ought to know better."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 189 
 
 Owen bit his lip, for the position was a hateful one. 
 How could he who, not three hours ago, had pre- 
 sented his bride-elect to this man, proclaim himself for 
 what he was the husband of Zelie? 
 
 He felt that Martyn, though the latter had spoken 
 lightly, was regarding him with something like a twin- 
 kle in his expressive black eyes. Probably, Martyn felt 
 that Owen had the fever, too. 
 
 Yet he must play his part the part of the mere 
 interested acquaintance. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I think she's wonderful. I con- 
 gratulate you upon your find, Martyn. And it's quite 
 true that Zelie and I are old friends, so I'm on the 
 look-out for her in order to offer her my congratula- 
 tions." 
 
 "I expect she'll be down in a minute," said Martyn : 
 "In fact, I told her that I'd meet her here by the 
 stage. So, if you wait, you'll be bound to see her. 
 Don't make Miss Percivale jealous, though." 
 
 Owen's rather sallow cheeks flushed a trifle, then 
 he quickly changed the subject and warmly thanked 
 his friend for having brought about the meeting be- 
 tween himself and his aunt. "I've only just been told," 
 he remarked, "that you've been at Chamney all the 
 week. If I'd heard of it earlier I should have been 
 over to see you." 
 
 Owen heartily wished now that he had done so. 
 As a matter of fact, he had known well enough that 
 Martyn was at home, but his natural indolence had 
 prevented him from paying a visit at Chamney. 
 
 The two men talked together for a little while 
 longer, and presently they were joined by Stephen 
 Aldis. The actor appeared worried Owen thought 
 it must be on account of Cecily's breakdown but he 
 began at once to talk of Zelie.
 
 190 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Wasn't she wonderful?" he said, enthusiastically. 
 I'm happy to have been the first to congratulate her, 
 for I was behind, of course. She said she wouldn't 
 be long changing her dress." 
 
 He had hardly spoken the words when Zelie herself 
 appeared. She entered the hall by a little door close 
 to the stage, a door that was almost hidden by palms 
 and foliage. She stood there for a moment, her white 
 face and neck thrown into almost startling prominence 
 by the heavy green of the background and by her 
 elaborate black satin gown, a gown that was relieved 
 only by touches of crimson almost fantastically in- 
 serted among the jet trimmings. The dress fitted 
 like a glove, showing every line of the sinuous figure, 
 while it was daring in its low decolletage. Zelie wore 
 no jewellery save for the long pendent earrings of jet. 
 
 A murmur went up from the whole assembly as 
 she stood there, and people craned their necks to see 
 her better. She glanced about her with an almost 
 defiant air, a look in which scorn and pride were 
 mingled, then she advanced with the curiously feline 
 movement that was natural to her to the spot where 
 Lord Martyn stood with his friends. 
 
 She caught sight of Owen, and her eyes flashed 
 dangerously as they settled upon him. She hardly re- 
 moved them from his face as she stood there, receiving 
 the congratulations of one after another. It seemed 
 to Owen, as he gazed, that this woman was less than 
 ever human ; she was a soulless thing, a creature of 
 a world of phantasms, a world that he had created 
 from his own brain. For was it not his brain that 
 had given birth to Zelie in the person of his siren of the 
 mountain ? She was as he had made her evil, but he 
 loved her how he loved her ! 
 
 Those red lips of her lips which he had once com-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 191 
 
 pared to a wound they were smiling upon others now, 
 and not upon him maddening smiles ; her small white 
 teeth, why did they make him think of a vampire? 
 Yet he didn't mind, so long as it was his blood they 
 craved; and her eyes they shone like gems upon 
 her admirers, but him they pierced like living steel. 
 
 His turn came at last, Zelie stretched out her white 
 hand to him, and he took it, bending his head and mut- 
 tering some words of congratulation anything that 
 first came into his head. 
 
 She addressed him as she might a casual acquaint- 
 ance, frankly and without strain. "Comment ga, va, 
 mon ami? You are surprised to see me in England 
 here at Chamney, under the roof of my good friend, 
 Milor Martyn?" 
 
 For the moment Owen was tongue-tied. What could 
 he say to her, here, before all these people ? And why 
 did he instinctively feel that she bore him malice ? Of 
 course, he could not expect that she should greet him 
 in any other way she was showing quite exquisite 
 tact but, still there was a threatening depression of 
 the corners of her lip. It was a storm signal which 
 he recognised. He had once stood with Zelie by the 
 cage of a tigress in the Jardin des Plantes, and the 
 beast had looked up at them from its meal snarling. 
 "Why, Zelie, that's how you draw your lip down when 
 you're angry," he had said laughing. He remembered 
 that now. There had been blood upon the tiger's 
 jaw, too just as there might be blood upon Zelie's 
 so scarlet they were. 
 
 "I must see you alone we must have a talk," he 
 found himself saying at last. "Can you spare me a 
 little of your time after supper ?" Such trivial words 
 but how vital ! 
 
 It was exactly what she desired. "Yes," she replied,
 
 192 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "after supper, with the greatest pleasure. M. Aldis 
 will spare me then, I know. It is with him that I go 
 in to supper. And you, monsieur" her dark eyes 
 were fixed upon him, seeming to probe him to his very 
 soul "you, no doubt, will be with your charming 
 fiancee f May I, too, offer you my congratulations? 
 I have heard of your engagement." 
 
 "Zelie !" Why should she torture him thus ? What 
 he had done was for her sake. He had told her so in 
 his letter. "Why do you say this to me when you 
 know" he faltered "you know that it is you and you 
 only " 
 
 She interrupted him, tapping him lightly upon the 
 arm with her fan. "I know enough," she responded, 
 "ah, but quite enough. We will talk of this again, 
 mon ami after supper." 
 
 She turned away to receive the congratulations of a 
 small group of impatient admirers. Stephen Aldis 
 was talking in an undertone to Lord Martyn, whom he 
 had drawn a little aside. Owen hesitated a moment, 
 then, since there was palpably nothing more to be done 
 or said for the time being, he made his way, as best 
 he could, from the still crowded hall, and, finding a 
 refreshment buffet near the main entrance, he asked for 
 a glass of brandy, which he swallowed at a gulp. Then 
 he went in search of Lavender. 
 
 Meanwhile Zelie was still enjoying the homage of 
 the assembly, so that Aldis and Martyn found them- 
 selves able to talk without interruption. The former 
 had whispered in his host's ear that he had made an 
 alarming discovery he had opened the packet of let- 
 ters which had been restored by Bibi Coupe-vide, and 
 had found that two of the most important, the most 
 damaging, were missing. 
 
 "That scoundrel has kept them back," he exclaimed ;
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 193 
 
 "but he shall give them up he must be made to give 
 them up." 
 
 Lord Martyn frowned, for this was an unpleasant 
 development, and anything which affected Lady 
 Beatrice touched him very closely. 
 
 "Well, we've got the fellow safely in hand," he re- 
 plied. "It's a good thing, after all, that Zelie insisted 
 upon having him to dance with her. There are no 
 suspicions in his mind, so we can afford to wait till 
 to-morrow, Steve. Take my advice, and leave Bibi 
 Coupe-vide alone to-night." 
 
 But Aldis clenched his fists and muttered something 
 under his breath. The very sight of Bibi Coupe-vide 
 was an offence to him. He had watched the Apache 
 in his dance with Zelie. 
 
 "It will be a bad job for the hound if I run across 
 him." That is what Aldis was saying. "I might 
 be tempted to wring his neck."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 IT was not till Owen had danced twice with Lavender 
 the two first dances that he was able to tear him- 
 self away. The minutes had been like hours to him, 
 and even unsuspicious Lavender had wondered at her 
 lover's strange mood. He was alternately silent and 
 talkative, becoming suddenly conscious, as it were, that 
 his abstraction might be noticed, and striving to make 
 up for it by laughter that was over-loud, jokes that 
 were obvious, and hilarity of manner that was con- 
 tradicted by the pallor of his sallow cheeks. 
 
 Of course, Robin knew the reason of this strange 
 behaviour, and did his utmost, on his friend's behalf, 
 to distract attention from it. But Robin was a poor 
 actor at the best of times. 
 
 The two men met at the door of the ballroom when 
 Owen was hurrying out in search of Zelie. He had 
 exchanged a brief word with her after the first dance, 
 and she had promised to wait for him in the vestibule. 
 Of course, Lavender had questioned him innocently 
 enough as to his acquaintance with the French dancing 
 girl, and he had responded with some explanation 
 hastily improvised. He had met Zelie at the studio of 
 a friend of his, to whom she had sat as model. 
 
 Owen would have passed Robin without a word, but 
 the latter caught him by the arm and detained him. 
 
 "You're going to her, Owen?" 
 
 Owen nodded, shaking his friend's hand from his 
 arm. "Yes; I must see her. It's necessary." 
 
 194
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 195 
 
 "I don't see why. For Heaven's sake, man, can't 
 you remember what you owe to the girl you've 
 promised to marry ? Zelie is nothing to you now. It's 
 the most infernal mischance that she should be here." 
 He spoke with growing agitation. "Come back to the 
 ballroom, Owen," he pleaded. "Remember Lavender." 
 
 But Owen was in no mood to listen to his friend. 
 "Oh, for God's sake, don't prate to me!" he ex- 
 claimed, roughly. "I've no time to listen to you. I'm 
 getting sick of your eternal sermonising, Robin. I'm 
 not a child to be dictated to." 
 
 He shot an angry glance at Robin, and was gone. 
 Robin stood there in the doorway and clenched his 
 fists tightly as he watched the receding figure of his 
 friend. 
 
 Meanwhile Owen had found Zelie. She was in the 
 company of a young man whom he recognised as Sir 
 Donald Ransom, but she rose at once when Owen ap- 
 peared, evidently very much to the disgust of her 
 companion. 
 
 "I say, you'll give me another waltz later on, won't 
 you ?" Owen heard him whisper. "It's perfectly divine 
 to dance with you. It seems to make a man forget 
 himself utterly, to take him into another sphere." 
 
 "It is Heaven?" she asked, with a malicious glance 
 at him out of the corners of her eyes. 
 
 "I vow I think it's the other place," he responded; 
 "but there are times when one is very near the other." 
 The young man's face flushed as he spoke; then he 
 scribbled his name upon Zelie's programme, bowed, 
 and left her with Owen. She slipped her hand under 
 the arm of the latter and drew him to the door. 
 
 "We'll go out, I think, mon ami," she said. She 
 spoke the familiar phrase with an intonation which 
 grated. There was such an utter carelessness about
 
 196 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 it. "There is much that we have to say to each other, 
 and I know of a quiet spot. We will talk when we 
 get there." 
 
 She smoothed her dress and pulled up her long 
 gloves, which had become a little wrinkled at the 
 elbows. There was a great gilded mirror close to the 
 spot where she had been sitting, and she regarded 
 herself in it with complacency ; to Owen's presence she 
 appeared indifferent. 
 
 Yet this was Zelie, his wife. It was barely a month 
 since they had been all in all to each other. Four short 
 weeks and yet he felt almost as if the whole width of 
 the world divided them. And it was only to-night that 
 this impression had taken hold of him; in his dreams 
 she had always been near him, the Zelie to whom he 
 had given himself body and soul, she for whom he 
 had been ready to sin for whom he had sinned. 
 
 What was the meaning of her coldness, her indiffer- 
 ence? He would rather have seen her in a passion of 
 anger he understood her in that mood. 
 
 They passed out of the house into the garden. The 
 sky was spangled with stars, and there was a faint 
 glow on the horizon indicating the rising moon. The 
 paths, between beds of fragrant flowers, were bright 
 with the glitter of tiny lamps. The sound of music 
 fell softly upon the ear. Owen followed where Zelie 
 led. The touch of her hand upon his arm thrilled him, 
 and as he walked he pressed it closely against his side. 
 She offered no resistance to this, but her voice re- 
 mained cold and impassive. 
 
 As a matter of fact Zelie was telling herself that 
 the less said between them the better. She wanted no 
 impassioned scene there wasn't the smallest need for 
 it she knew all she wished to know. Had she not, 
 that very evening, heard Owen congratulated upon his
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 197 
 
 engagement to Miss Percivale, the little waxen-faced 
 saint ? 
 
 She was leading this man to his death, and it was 
 upon that that her thoughts centred. The knowledge 
 of what she was doing thrilled every nerve in her body 
 and sent the blood coursing quickly through her veins. 
 This was her revenge, and she was revelling in it. She 
 was leading the man who had scorned and mocked 
 her to his death. 
 
 She knew that all would take place exactly as she 
 had planned it. She had seen and spoken with Bibi 
 since supper, and he was prepared. He would carry 
 out her instructions to the letter. He would be there 
 when they reached the summer-house, crouching hid- 
 den among the bushes. She would enter first and then 
 detain Owen in the doorway. Bibi would creep out, 
 unheard, unseen. A quick blow like this involun- 
 tarily she clenched her fingers into the palms of her 
 hands, and a shudder passed through her frame yes, 
 a blow with his own knife and it would all be over. 
 
 Owen felt the convulsive movement of the girl's 
 body, and he drew her closer to his side. "You're not 
 cold, my Zelie?" he asked, little suspecting the true 
 cause of her emotion. "You should have put some- 
 thing round your neck. We're still in spring, you 
 know, though the nights are so delightfully warm. 
 And you are really very decolletee, Zelie; a little too 
 much so, don't you think?" 
 
 There was something of the old tone of command 
 in his voice. He had always been accustomed to dic- 
 tate to her upon the subject of her dres. But she 
 resented his interference now. 
 
 "What does that matter to you?" she said, shortly. 
 "It seems to me that a man who deserts his wife and
 
 198 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 engages himself to another girl cannot have much to 
 say in these matters. Is it not so, M. mon marif" 
 
 Owen came to a sudden halt. They had reached 
 the end of the illuminated walk by now and were 
 standing on the verge of a thicket, a miniature wood 
 intersected by several paths; in the centre of it the 
 summer-house was situated. The sound of music could 
 still be heard, but very faintly now. They were prac- 
 tically alone. 
 
 "But, Zelie" a puzzled look had come to the man's 
 face. "Why do you say this to me? Why do you 
 speak so cruelly ? Surely you know you understand ?" 
 
 "I understand yes." She drew her hand from 
 under his arm and stood confronting him. Since he 
 demanded it, there was no reason why he should not 
 know what she thought of him. Of course, there could 
 be no doubt about his motives. He wished to marry 
 his flaxen-haired doll for the sake of her money, and to 
 remain on good terms with herself, Zelie, all the same. 
 His passion for her was unabated. That was what 
 he was about to tell her he was going to throw him- 
 self upon her mercy. Well, she would allow herself 
 the gratification of refusing him what he asked. She 
 would speak the final "no" when they reached the 
 arbour just before the blow was struck. 
 
 "I understand that you have left me for another?" 
 she said, in a low, purring voice, in which menance was 
 hidden. 
 
 "Zelie, you are wrong," he cried. "Surely, surely, 
 you read my letter?" 
 
 "Your letter ?" She shot a quick glance at him. 
 
 "The letter I sent you by Robin. He delivered it 
 faithfully?" A momentary suspicion shot through the 
 man's brain. Had Robin deceived him intentionally? 
 
 "Oh, that letter/' She shrugged her slanting
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 199 
 
 shoulders. "I tore it up unread. I guessed that you 
 were trying to excuse yourself, and I did not care to 
 read your excuses. I knew enough." 
 
 "Zelie, my God, Zelie!" He seized her arm and 
 drew her in the shadow of the wood, choosing the first 
 path that presented itself. Zelie made no resistance 
 they were walking in the right direction. 
 
 Owen was speaking hurriedly, evidently labouring 
 under great excitement. He talked half to himself and 
 half to the girl. "Then you didn't know God in 
 Heaven, if I'd only realised that ! You've been think- 
 ing me false to you you've been hating me in your 
 heart. I see that now how you must have hated. 
 You destroyed my picture, and I deserved that blow 
 from you, just because I was a fool and hadn't told you 
 the truth at once. Then I sent the letter to explain 
 things, and I thought you would not hate me any more. 
 I was contented in my mind about you and only look- 
 ing forward to the day when we should meet again 
 and be happy. And all the while you never knew!" 
 
 "What is there to know?" she asked. They had 
 reached a spot where three paths met. She directed 
 his steps into the one that led to the arbour. 
 
 The man pressed his hand to his brow. "No wonder 
 you greeted me so coldly," he said; "no wonder your 
 eyes were fierce ! My poor Zelie and yet, if you knew 
 it, I have been working all these weeks for you. Yes, 
 my dear, I have been degrading myself, playing a 
 blackguard game, and my only comfort has been that 
 it is for you. And, all the while you hated me." 
 
 "How do you mean for me?" Zelie slackened her 
 pace a little, compelling him to do the same. They 
 were very near the summer-house by now, and his 
 speech had mystified her. She wanted to understand. 
 
 He explained the plot upon which he had been en-
 
 200 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 gaged, explained it breathlessly and with many pauses 
 and interjections. 
 
 "You see it was for your sake, Zelie. I was a triple 
 fool not to have told you before I left Paris, but I 
 feared that you might be jealous and prevent me going. 
 I vowed myself to perdition when I learned that you 
 had found out and revenged yourself upon me by cut- 
 ting up my picture. But I forgave you for I know 
 your nature, my dear. And now, Zelie, you see every- 
 thing has happened just as I planned. I am engaged 
 to Lavender Percivale, and to-morrow my aunt will 
 make a new will leaving me heir to the best part of her 
 estate. She can't live more than another week or two 
 it may only be a matter of days the doctor has said 
 so. She is so ill that she is not likely to suggest an 
 immediate marriage between Lavender and myself, 
 which I was afraid she might do. She is quite content, 
 knowing us engaged. She will die, and then, of course, 
 I shall break off the engagement. But the money will 
 be mine and no one can take it from me. Then, Zelie, 
 we can begin a new life together, you and I, and I shall 
 not care what the world says of me, for I shall have 
 you, and you are my world. We'll go away together 
 to some other country and forget that we were ever 
 parted, for, oh!" he was standing still now, immedi- 
 ately facing the girl. He laid his hands upon her 
 shoulders, his fingers biting into the white flesh of her 
 neck "for, oh, I want you so, Zelie ! I have suffered 
 without you. If you should refuse yourself to me I'd 
 rather die at your feet than go on living. Zelie, my 
 wife, say that you understand and forgive." 
 
 This was an unexpected development, and even 
 Zelie's quick brain was unable, for the moment, to cope 
 with it. She realised that there had been a mistake 
 upon her part, and that, however much Owen Mayne
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 201 
 
 might have transgressed against others, he had sinned 
 in order to provide himself and her with the money 
 of which they stood so badly in need. 
 
 Zelie bit her lip in annoyance and indecision. She had 
 nursed her wrath against this man till it had become 
 almost dear to her. Besides } he had no longer any 
 place in her schemes for the future. She wished to be 
 independent and yet, was Owen to die for that? 
 
 She had devoted him to death for an offence of 
 which he was innocent. It is reasonable to kill one who 
 has hurt you but not when there is no injury to be 
 avenged. Such was the primitive idea of justice rooted 
 somewhere in the girl's brain. She recognised no law, 
 human or Divine. This was no more than instinct, 
 an instinct shared with the lower orders of creation. 
 
 And then this man had possessed her entirely he 
 was her husband. She had cared for him, too, in a 
 wild, passionate fashion; it was not love, for that was 
 an emotion to which she was an utter stranger. She 
 had never loved any but herself. 
 
 Yet she had been about to lead him to his death! 
 The murderer was lurking there even now, somewhere 
 close at hand among the bushes. 
 
 Well, Owen must not die since he had not merited 
 death. Zelie's reflections could not extend beyond that. 
 This was no time for looking into the future. For the 
 moment she knew only this Owen Mayne must not 
 die. 
 
 He was drawing her nearer to him, nearer. In 
 another moment her head would be against his breast. 
 She resisted a little. 
 
 "Owen, you swear to me that this is true?" 
 
 "I swear it every word." 
 
 She was still resisting him, but he was the stronger. 
 His arms had dropped from her shoulders now; they
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 were grasping her waist, enfolding her in a passionate 
 embrace. Owen was regaining the mastery. It was 
 his strength which she had always admired in him, his 
 determination. She yielded now because he was 
 strong. 
 
 Their lips met, and to Owen it was as if he were 
 absorbing new life into his veins. He felt as a thirsty 
 man may feel, one who is parched and dying of thirst, 
 when a cup of water is lifted to his mouth. What were 
 the kisses of such a one as Lavender Percivale to this ? 
 For herein was life, the wild, fierce life of the flesh, and 
 what did it matter if sin, degradation death lay be- 
 hind that kiss, so long as it was given and received ? 
 
 The glint of something white among the bushes 
 he could not say what it was, and it did not matter 
 caught his eyes at that moment. A recollection of the 
 statue in the grounds at Selwood shot into his brain, 
 but he dismissed the thought almost as soon as formed. 
 Only a fool allows conscience to hurt him. 
 
 "Come, Zelie," he said recklessly, holding her tightly 
 to him. "The devil first brought us together, my dear, 
 and the devil will look after his own. I don't mean to 
 let you go now we understand each other. There's 
 some sort of an arbour close by here, I believe " 
 
 The arbour and Bibi ! Zelie broke into a nervous 
 laugh at the unconscious irony of the suggestion. Then 
 quickly she disengaged herself from his grasp. How 
 was she to rid herself for the present of this man, 
 her husband, and let him go safely the man whom, 
 not ten minutes ago, she had pictured dead at her feet ? 
 
 Her brain worked rapidly. She affected compliance. 
 "Bien" she said, "let it be so. We have still much to 
 discuss together about the future. But, first, Owen, 
 I shall be pleased if you will go to the house and fetch 
 me a wrap for my shoulders." She shivered artistic-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 203 
 
 ally. "I feel the night air. I left a fichu with Mrs. 
 Richards. You will find her easily. Go quick, and 
 come back. I will wait for you here." 
 
 There was a rustic seat close at hand. Zelie dropped 
 down upon it. "I dare not go myself," she added. "I 
 have partners who would claim me. I shall be com- 
 fortable here and you will not be long." 
 
 Owen hesitated, not liking to leave her alone im- 
 patient, too, of every minute. But she pleaded again 
 that she was cold, and so there was nothing for it but 
 to do as she wished. 
 
 "You won't move from where you are ?" he insisted. 
 
 She promised, and he turned reluctant footsteps 
 away. Zelie watched him, half unconsciously admiring 
 his tall, well-knit figure, till he had disappeared round 
 a bend of the path, then she rose hurriedly and took her 
 way to the arbour. 
 
 There was Bibi to be settled with, and what was she 
 to tell Bibi? 
 
 She had not far to go, but there was a moment 
 when she paused and looked about her nervously. 
 The moon was above the horizon now, and its light, 
 filtering through the trees, was pale and mysterious. 
 She fancied she heard the sound of low sobbing, and of 
 quick footsteps somewhere close at hand. 
 
 There were many paths through the thicket, and 
 the trees were dense. Zelie strained her eyes to see 
 between them, but could distinguish nothing. And 
 presently there was the snapping of a twig, then all 
 was silent once more. She told herself that she was 
 nervous, and had imagined both the sobs and the 
 footsteps. 
 
 She hurried on to the arbour. It was a small cir- 
 cular erection, with a wide door and a bench running
 
 204 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 round the interior. There was no sign of Bibi. No 
 doubt he was hidden among the bushes. 
 
 She was just about to call gently when, with startling 
 suddenness, she was confronted by the figure of a man. 
 He had emerged from the arbour, and in the pale moon- 
 light he appeared white, dishevelled, and terrifying. 
 
 "Zelie, by all that's holy." He stretched out his 
 hands and seized her wrists. She recognised him then 
 with a little scream. It was Stephen Aldis.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 STEPHEN ALDIS and Cecily had patched up a sort of 
 reconciliation before the performance that evening. It 
 was as a consequence of this, and in order to prove 
 his good intentions towards her, that Aldis had ar- 
 ranged that they should appear together in the duet 
 from The Golden East. He had, however, been in- 
 tensely annoyed at her semi-breakdown, while his 
 temper was not improved by the other matter that 
 of the lost letters which was weighing upon his mind. 
 
 He had taken Zelie in to supper, and in order to keep 
 up his spirits he had drunk freely of champagne 
 drunk more than was his wont and the consequence 
 was that he had risen from the table not intoxicated, 
 but in a condition that made him hardly responsible for 
 what he did or said. 
 
 He was an abstemious man as a rule, and without 
 realising the cause of his peculiar frame of mind he 
 wondered stupidly at it. He imagined that it was Zelie 
 who had got into his blood, that it was by her he was 
 intoxicated, and he laughed, seeing everything for the 
 moment in rosy hue. 
 
 Zelie laughed also, but she laughed at rather than 
 with the man. It was she who had encouraged him 
 to drink. The supper was a merry one, and it re- 
 minded her pleasantly of the old Paris days. She had 
 let herself go, and it seemed only natural that others 
 should do the same. 
 
 205
 
 206 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Aldis danced the first dance with Zelie, and his 
 exaltation of spirits increased. She found it difficult 
 to keep him within bounds. She had to tell him in 
 the end, jokingly, that she would not dance with him 
 again unless he behaved himself more becomingly. 
 
 This brought about a change in his mood. He drank 
 again at one of the refreshment buffets, remembered 
 his troubles, and then, instead of rosy, everything ap- 
 peared black before his eyes. 
 
 It was then, as he made his hesitating way back to 
 the drawing-room, that his attention was claimed by 
 Cecily. She had been on the look-out for him, and the 
 dance which he had promised her was already half 
 finished. He had quite forgotten all about it. 
 
 "Don't let's dance, Steve," she murmured, as she 
 took his arm. "I'm tired. Let's go out into the 
 gardens." 
 
 He thought that fresh air would do him good, and 
 readily consented. But he would rather have had any 
 companion than Cecily just then. If she were going 
 to whine to him once more well, he didn't mean to 
 stand it. So he told himself under his breath. He 
 had had enough of her ridiculous behaviour. And 
 why had she made such a fool of herself upon the 
 stage? she had made a fool of him, too. 
 
 Unfortunately the quality of which Cecily stood most 
 in need was tact, and it was in tact that she was pecu- 
 liarly deficient. Her thoughts were too self-centred 
 to allow her to recognise the irresponsible condition of 
 the man. She had been torturing herself both because 
 she had failed to do justice to the duet and because, 
 in her jealousy, she had been watching Aldis almost 
 ever since the curtain fell. He seemed to have studi- 
 ously neglected her, while his attentions to Zelie had 
 been so marked that others had noticed them besides
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 207 
 
 herself. She had heard laughing whispers, sniggering 
 comments, and these had cut her to the heart. 
 
 She had not meant to reproach him, she had told 
 herself that she would be gentle and ingratiating, and 
 that the very force of her beauty should win him back 
 to her. For was she not more beautiful by far as 
 she understood beauty than the strange feline creature 
 who had set a spell upon her lover ? She utterly failed 
 to see wherein Zelie's fascination lay. 
 
 And so at first there was nothing in her manner to 
 which even Aldis could take exception. She was 
 humbly repentant for her mishap upon the stage ; she 
 was not feeling herself, she had a splitting headache, 
 she felt almost as if she were going to faint. Was he 
 not a little sorry for her ? 
 
 He said that he was sorry. He was ready to accept 
 her excuses. It really didn't matter at all to him at 
 that moment that Cecily had failed in her part. It 
 was the picture of Zelie that absorbed him, Zelie as she 
 had appeared in those wonderful dances of hers, the 
 woman, primitive, passionate, and all-conquering. 
 
 He answered more or less at random, and sometimes 
 foolishly, but, since he did not appear angry with her, 
 hope began to revive in Cecily's breast, and, her whole 
 attention centred upon herself, she failed to recognise 
 that her lover had been drinking too freely even 
 though he stumbled once or twice without any apparent 
 cause. 
 
 Fate willed it that she should lead him to the arbour 
 in the wood, eager to have him to herself quite to 
 herself for a little while. And he accompanied her 
 with drunken docility, only knowing that the night air 
 was cooling to his brow and that it would be fully 
 half an hour before he might venture to thrust himself 
 upon Zelie once more.
 
 208 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 It was in the arbour that the trouble broke forth 
 anew. Not all at once, because Cecily had begun by 
 being very sweet and tender, knowing, perhaps, that 
 Stephen Aldis was more amenable to a kiss than to 
 any amount of reasoning. She wreathed her arms 
 about his neck, rested her fair head upon his shoulder, 
 and lifted her lips to his. 
 
 He responded readily enough, though he closed his 
 eyes as his lips met hers. It was of Zelie he was think- 
 ing all the time, though she could not guess it. 
 
 She imagined that she had triumphed, that she had 
 won him back. The soft, sweet perfume of the wood, 
 of the garden, and of the spring night enthralled her. 
 
 "Ah," she cried, with a deep, throbbing sigh, "you 
 love me, Steve, you do love me. It's all been a horrible 
 dream, and I want to forget it. Kiss me again, my dear 
 one, and tell me that it is I whom you love and not 
 that evil creature, that vampire woman, Zelie " 
 
 He opened his eyes. The spell had passed away. He 
 gazed down at her stupidly with the dull comprehension 
 of his semi-intoxication. 
 
 "What's that you were saying about Zelie?" 
 
 "Oh, Steve, I want you to tell me that you've done 
 with her for ever." 
 
 He broke into a rough laugh, thrusting her from 
 him. "Done with Zelie ? What an absurd idea ! Done 
 with her ? My God, no ! Why, she absorbs me. Zelie 
 is a creature of fire and flame. I tell you that it takes 
 a kiss from her lips to make a man realise that he is 
 alive. You are all very well, Cecily, and I'm very 
 fond of you" his voice was almost maudlin "but 
 
 Zelie " he lifted his hands to his lips and kissed 
 
 them "ah, for an hour with Zelie, I'd sacrifice the 
 love of any other woman under the sun !" 
 
 His words fell upon the girl like a heavy blow. She
 
 209 
 
 drew away from him, long shudders convulsing her 
 whole frame, She buried her face in her hands and the 
 tears welled from between her fingers. 
 
 "Oh, God, have pity upon me," she moaned, "for 
 the man I love has none." 
 
 Aldis gazed at her stupidly and then attempted to 
 convince her of the folly of her behaviour. But he 
 found he could not articulate his words distinctly ; they 
 seemed to slip into each other somehow, and he could 
 not say what he meant. 
 
 "Why don't you answer me?" he exclaimed at last, 
 irritation getting the better of him. He had said 
 nothing to which she could reply, but he was not aware 
 of the fact. 
 
 Her face was still buried in her hands, she could not 
 speak. She sat there craning her head forward, and 
 the trembling of her shoulders maddened him. 
 
 He raised his voice almost to a shout. 
 
 "Once and for all, Cecily, will you cease worrying 
 me about Zelie?" 
 
 Still she made him no reply. He was standing be- 
 fore her now, and he seized her arms roughly, tearing 
 her hands from before her face. The sight of the tears 
 streaking her cheeks only served to heighten his wrath. 
 
 "Why don't you speak?" He lurched a step for- 
 ward and shook her savagely, hardly knowing what he 
 did, only incensed against this white-faced thing who 
 could shed tears but could not talk. 
 
 He released her at last, dimly conscious of having 
 performed an act which in his sober senses he would 
 have scorned. Cecily lay back upon the low wooden 
 seat for a moment or two, gasping ; then suddenly she 
 rose to her feet. 
 
 "Let me go," she panted. "I hate you !" 
 
 He stood aside. "All right, go," he grumbled, "and
 
 210 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 I'm glad to be rid of you. You're one of those women 
 who can make a man's life a hell to him. It's all over 
 between us, understand that it's all over." 
 
 "I hate you I hate you !" she repeated, pressing her 
 hands to her swelling bosom. Her eyes were wild. 
 The iron had bitten deeply into her soul. She swept 
 out of the summer-house and was gone. 
 
 Aldis followed her to the door. He had only a dim 
 perception of what had actually happened, of what 
 he had said. Cecily had been playing the fool again 
 and had irritated him. A curse upon these tearful 
 women and their incomprehensible ways ! 
 
 The pale moon, only recently risen, shone down upon 
 the footpath, throwing long shadows across it. Cecily 
 had disappeared, and this struck him as curious, for 
 he could see down the path for a considerable distance 
 in either direction. But, no doubt, there was some 
 other way, hidden among the trees, which he could not 
 see, or perhaps she had contrived a short cut for her- 
 self through the bushes. It was silly of her if she had 
 done that, for she would spoil her gown, and it was a 
 pretty gown, too. 
 
 Should he go after her? He was considering the 
 question, balancing the weight of his body upon each 
 foot alternately, when he perceived a figure approach- 
 ing from the other direction to that which Cecily had 
 taken. 
 
 Could ,she be coming back ? She might have made 
 some sort of a circuit and was now returning to say 
 that she was sorry for having been foolish. Well, he 
 supposed he would have to make friends again. 
 
 He drew back a little into the arbour. He was not 
 going to allow Cecily to see that he had felt anxious on 
 her behalf, so he told himself with foolish, half-drunken
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 cunning. The footsteps were drawing nearer ah! 
 they were now at the very door. 
 
 He stepped forward, and then he realised his error. 
 
 "Zelie, by all that's holy !" He broke into a laugh, 
 and, stretching out his hands, seized the French girl 
 by the wrists. 
 
 Zelie for it was at this moment that she had 
 reached the arbour after leaving Owen gave a low 
 cry, for she realised at once that the man was not 
 master of himself. And what was he doing here in the 
 summer-house alone? 
 
 "What a glorious piece of luck!" chuckled Aldis. 
 "Why, the gods themselves must have sent you, Zelie. 
 To think of it, that we should meet here and without 
 a soul to interfere with us!" 
 
 His eyes were devouring her greedily. He was step- 
 ping backwards into the arbour, drawing her after him. 
 His grip upon her wrists was so tight that it pained 
 her. She was afraid of him. 
 
 "No," she cried. "It was all a mistake. I came 
 here to meet someone not you, M. Aldis. Let me 
 go, let me go, I say." 
 
 She stamped her foot, but he would not let her go. 
 He kept laughing in a foolish sort of manner, and he 
 did not appear to understand what she said. He had 
 passed one arm about her body now and was drawing 
 her to him. 
 
 "I love you, Zelie. You black witch, you en- 
 chantress! You've possessed me body and soul, and 
 you're going to tell me that you love me, too. You're 
 not going to keep me in suspense any longer. For this 
 is our hour, Zelie, yours and mine. You've come to me 
 out of the night it was fate directed your steps." 
 
 He continued to pour out hot, burning words, words
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 that were Hardly intelligible. He was holding her close 
 to his breast now, and his lips were close to hers. Zelie 
 was terrified. She feared this man who had sprung, 
 as it were, out of the darkness and seized her, this man 
 who was too intoxicated to know what he did she 
 was afraid as she had never been afraid before. 
 
 Luckily he released his hold of her for a moment. 
 He had stumbled and been compelled to throw out one 
 of his hands against the woodwork of the arbour to 
 support himself. Zelie seized that moment, and before 
 Aldis knew what she was about she had fled from the 
 arbour, leaving him once more alone. 
 
 She ran down the path, imagining in her terror that 
 Aldis was pursuing her. It was not till she was clear 
 of the wood that she remembered Bibi, who must be 
 lurking there among the bushes, wondering what had 
 happened. But she could not worry about Bibi now. 
 He must find out for himself that there was no need 
 to use his knife against anyone. There was Owen, 
 too; but she would invent some excuse for him he 
 was bound to return to the house in search of her. 
 
 And so Zelie made her way back to the ballroom, 
 and was soon claimed by one of her partners, who had 
 been vainly seeking for her. By that time she had 
 quite recovered her self-possession. 
 
 A little later Donald Ransom and Lady Beatrice, 
 who had been wandering in the grounds, turned by 
 chance into the narrow footpath that led to the summer- 
 house. Donald had recollected its existence, and had 
 told himself that it would be delightful to spend a few 
 minutes there with his sweetheart. 
 
 They had been walking decorously in the illuminated 
 gardens, but now, under the shadow of the trees, the 
 young man slipped his arm about the girl's waist and 
 whispered tender words in her ear.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 213 
 
 They trod upon the soft sward by the side of the 
 path, and so their footsteps made but little sound. The 
 glory and the wonder of their love was upon them, 
 and the things of earth seemed very far away. 
 
 "Here we are," said Sir Donald when at last the 
 summer-house appeared in sight. "Come along, Bee; 
 I'm not going to take you back to the house for an- 
 other quarter of an hour at least." 
 
 "But I'm engaged to dance with Charlie Lake," she 
 protested, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, bother Charlie Lake," he responded. "He must 
 get another partner." 
 
 "Well, I consent," she replied, "on condition that 
 you don't dance again with that horrible Zelie. I saw 
 you flirting with her, sir, and I don't like it." 
 
 He pressed a kiss upon her cheek and led her towards 
 the door of the summer-house, and then, as they were 
 about to enter, Lady Beatrice suddenly gave utterance 
 to a sharp scream, while Donald started and clasped 
 his arm tighter about the girl as if to protect her. 
 
 For a white, ghastly face confronted them in the 
 doorway, a face that seemed hardly human in its utter 
 malignity a frightened face, too that of a hunted 
 creature. 
 
 Donald recognised it, recognised, too, the stunted, 
 ill-shaped figure. "Don't be frightened, Bee," he ex- 
 claimed, "it's only that beast of an Apache. What 
 are you doing here?" He addressed Bibi sternly. 
 
 Bibi made a sudden dart forward, bending his head 
 low an effort to escape. But Donald caught him by 
 the collar and held him firmly. 
 
 Then Beatrice, who, trembling and startled, had been 
 leaning against the door of the arbour, screamed again. 
 
 "Donald, Donald, look!" She pointed a terrified
 
 214. TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 finger at a dark figure that lay there prone upon the 
 floor, a figure strangely and horribly contorted. "It's 
 murder, Donald," she screamed. 
 
 And Donald, still gripping Bibi, the Apache, tightly 
 by the collar, looked and saw.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 OWEN, failing to find Zelie at the spot where he had 
 left her, remained for a few minutes, muttering to 
 himself and walking with short, quick steps up and 
 down the gravel path, then he realised that it was no 
 use waiting any longer, and returned to the house. 
 
 He went circumspectly, for he was terribly afraid 
 lest he should meet Lavender or Robin, who might 
 claim his company and prevent him from having his 
 talk out with Zelie. And he could not leave Chamney 
 Castle that night without a complete understanding 
 it was impossible. 
 
 He found the dancer, at last, sitting among palms 
 and flowers in the conservatory, and surrounded by 
 a small bevy of admirers of both sexes. There was a 
 great red-shaded lamp just behind Zelie's chair, and it 
 cast its glow upon her white cheeks, and lent a bizarre 
 shade of colour to the blackness of her gown. 
 
 She saw him, and she made a little gesture with her 
 hand that was half apologetic and which indicated 
 that, for one moment, she was not free to go to him. 
 Owen noticed then that the tall, handsome woman 
 sitting next to Zelie was none other than the Duchess 
 of Shiplake herself. 
 
 He moved away and found a seat in another nook 
 of the conservatory. It was only separated from Zelie 
 and her party by a screen of foliage. Soon a man 
 whom he knew casually strolled by with a pretty girl 
 upon his arm, evidently on the look-out for a secluded 
 
 215
 
 216 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 corner. He cast envious eyes at the empty chair be- 
 side the one occupied by Owen here was an ideal 
 spot for two under the leafy palms. 
 
 "Aren't you dancing, Mayne?" he cried. "I didn't 
 think you were the sort of man to be sitting out alone. 
 Rippin' waltz this they're playing !" 
 
 The faint sound of dance music fell upon Owen's 
 ears from the distant ballroom. It was a popular 
 melody, with a banal, haunting refrain. He had danced 
 to it a score of times. 
 
 Owen refused to take the hint, and after a few 
 more trivial observations, the man and his partner 
 drifted away. Almost immediately afterwards the 
 duchess rose with a sweep of her skirt, and, of course, 
 the rest of the company followed suit. The little party 
 was about to break up. 
 
 Owen was at Zelie's side immediately. She was 
 gazing at the retreating figure of the duchess, a sneer 
 upon her lips. And, as the latter disappeared, she did 
 exactly what Lord Martyn had foretold she would do- 
 she put her tongue out with a gesture of derision. 
 
 "Ah, but they are funny, these good English people," 
 she exclaimed. "They talk about art and elevating 
 the public taste, but why do they applaud me, why 
 will they come and see me, why?" She clapped her 
 hands together and laughed. I have no art, I am as 
 I am, Zelie of Montmarte. But I show them what 
 is in their own hearts. If they spoke the truth they 
 would say that my dancing shocks them and that they 
 like to be shocked. But you English, you will not 
 admit that you like to be shocked. You speak of art, 
 and then it is all right you have your excuse is it 
 not so?" 
 
 "Art or no art, Zelie, you are wonderful," said the 
 man. "I wish to Heaven you were not, for then I
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 shouldn't feel that I was sharing you with the world. 
 Oh, I hate this appearing on a public stage must you 
 go on with it, Zelie? Must you?" 
 
 He took her hands and drew her to the two chairs 
 under the palms. "Now I've got you," he went on, 
 breathing hard, "I'm not going to let you go until we've 
 settled about the future, Zelie, my wife." 
 
 "Yes, we will talk," she said. "It is best that we 
 should understand each other. And I am sorry, O-en" 
 he delighted in that pronunciation of his name 
 "that I could not wait for you in the garden." 
 
 "Why did you go away?" he asked. 
 
 She spread out her hands it was quke easy to in- 
 vent an excuse, anything would do. "Ah, I could not 
 help myself," she said. "I did not wish to go away, 
 but there came a gentleman I have forgotten his 
 name" she shrugged her narrow shoulders "and he 
 told me that the duchess, she whom you see me with 
 just now, wished to speak with me, and that it was 
 most important, ah, but most important for my future. 
 So what could I do but go? I knew that you would 
 find me again before you leave, mon O-en." 
 
 His hand held hers. The air was soft with the per- 
 fume of flowers, and the music fell faintly upon their 
 ears, a waltz to a fierce gipsy refrain. 
 
 She tapped her feet upon the floor. It was as if she 
 longed to dance. 
 
 "You are dancing your way over the hearts of men, 
 Zelie," he said, noticing the action. "Can you not be 
 content with one heart mine? Do you still love me, 
 Zelie?" 
 
 "Why, of course, mon ami," she answered, but there 
 was no warmth, no passion in her tone. Nevertheless, 
 she stroked his cheek with her soft fingers, and he
 
 218 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 thrilled at the touch of them. "Do we not understand 
 each other now?" she murmured. 
 
 "You will wait for me, Zelie," he said hoarsely, 
 "until I have this fortune in my possession, this fortune 
 that must be mine at no distant date, and for which I 
 have sacrificed my honour? But that doesn't matter, 
 for I'd have sacrificed my very soul, consigned it to 
 hell, if it were to give you something you crave for. 
 And you craved for money, Zelie. Well, I shall be 
 rich, though for a little while longer I must still pre- 
 tend to be the affianced husband of another woman. 
 But, later on ah, the whole world shall know that you 
 are my wife." 
 
 "Let us wait till that hour before we decide on the 
 future?" said Zelie, always ready to postpone in her 
 mind that she would not abandon her stage career, that 
 she would not give up one iota of her success, for the 
 sake of this man whom, only a few hours ago, she had 
 figured as lying dead, murdered, at her feet. She had 
 spared his life, but he should not stand in her way. 
 That was a matter, however, which could be settled 
 later ; for the present all was well, and, from the very 
 circumstances of his position, he could not interfere 
 with her. 
 
 So she leant back lazily in her chair, reaching out 
 one hand and drawing down a great palm leaf so that 
 it half-concealed her face. "We will talk of that later 
 on, Owen," she said, "when the fortune is yours. Do 
 not be afraid that I shall run away from you. But, 
 for the present, you will not grudge me my success. 
 You will be pleased that I am so clever I, Zelie, who 
 not so very long ago was ready to beg my bread in the 
 gutter that I am so clever as to win the applause of 
 all these great people Milor Martyn, who invites me 
 to stay at his castle, and Madame la Duchesse, who
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 219 
 
 condescends to shake me by the hand, and who does 
 not guess that I laugh at her in my heart. Are you 
 not pleased, O-en, that I am so clever as this?" 
 
 Her red lips were parted; they smiled tantalisingly 
 at him from behind the green fan of the palm leaf. He 
 clenched his fists, cursing the evil fate that for a while 
 longer must keep them apart. He was jealous of her 
 success, jealous that other eyes than his should feast 
 upon her weird beauty. Ah, it was different when he 
 was painting the "Chamois Hunter." She was his 
 then, only his. But he was ready to promise anything 
 if the future was assured to him. 
 
 And, at last, a compact was made between them. 
 Zelie gave her promise easily. Words meant so little 
 to her, and weeks must pass before Owen was ready to 
 claim her. To-morrow what heed did she take of 
 to-morrow? "To-morrow never comes" the old saw 
 rang in her brain. Owen had made use of those very 
 words to her once, and had explained their truth. To- 
 morrow never comes. 
 
 A born actress, she played her part skilfully. She 
 pretended to be jealous of the little waxen saint, 
 Lavender Percivale, to whom Owen had engaged 
 himself. She knew now that she had no cause for 
 jealousy; Owen's fidelity to her, the passion which 
 dominated his life, was clearly to be read in every 
 feature of his face. 
 
 "Very well, mon ami, let it be understood so. We 
 part to-night, you as an engaged man, and I as the 
 star of the London season. We play our roles, each 
 independent of the other, until such time as fate may 
 bring us together again. Is that as you would have it ?" 
 
 He bent over her. She could feel his warm breath 
 upon her cheek. "Yes, Zelie," he muttered. "That 
 is understood because it must be so, and there is no
 
 220 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 other way. But don't make me jealous of you, don't 
 let me feel that anyone is taking my place in your 
 heart. For I am your husband, and I would kill you 
 and myself, too, rather than lose you, rather than give 
 you up to another." 
 
 Zelie's eyes glittered. She thought of Bibi, who had 
 said much the same though Bibi's ideas of love were 
 broader. But she estimated a man the higher when 
 he treated her to threats it was a method of love- 
 making that appealed to her and which she appreciated. 
 She had liked Owen at their first meeting because he 
 despised danger. He resembled those primitive men 
 one had seen them in imagination as she danced 
 the wild men of cave and tree, who carry off their 
 women after fighting for them to the death. 
 
 "And now we will go back," she said, "back to the 
 ballroom, for they will be wondering where I am, and 
 you, too" she cast him a quick and mischievous 
 glance "the little pale saint with the flaxen hair, she 
 will be shedding tears for her lover, the lover who 
 has neglected her this evening. You will dance with 
 her, Owen, and you will whisper sweet things in her 
 ear, and she will believe you when you say that you 
 love and adore her and, of course, she will forgive. 
 Oh, la, la" Zelie lifted her arms, clasping her fingers 
 behind her head. "But what a farce is this life ! Men 
 and women alike, we are not worth much, we all have 
 the devil in us. I expect that your prim little demoiselle 
 has been consoling herself for your absence and why 
 not? It is better to laugh than to weep." 
 
 A warm flush mounted to Owen's cheeks. He felt 
 that he should have defended Lavender from such an 
 accusation which he knew to be false. But, after all, 
 Zelie was only giving expression to what he had always 
 professed as his own views of human nature.
 
 "Very well, we will go, Zelie," he said, "now that 
 we understand each other. But my lips will be parched 
 for want of your kisses wife whom I may not call 
 wife." 
 
 He bent over her and would have taken her in his 
 arms and kissed her there and then, but she repulsed 
 him, tapping him lightly on his cheek with her fan. 
 She was minded to show her strength, to prove to her 
 own satisfaction that, now and henceforward, she could 
 bend this man as all others to her caprices. 
 
 And she did not wish for kisses, neither from Owen, 
 who had the best right to bestow them, nor from anyone 
 else in the world. She craved for wealth, admiration, 
 and applause. She loved no other but herself. She 
 had no soul. 
 
 "Go, kiss your little Madonna," she said. "Give her 
 the cold, saintly kisses that she expects. If you went 
 to her with my kisses upon your mouth your lips might 
 burn her and she would not understand." 
 
 "You are cruel, Zelie," he muttered ; but he followed 
 her, and together they made their way to the ballroom. 
 
 A waltz was in progress. Owen recognised the 
 melody as that of the popular musical comedy in which 
 Stephen Aldis had made his last success. There was 
 a passage in it where the musicians hummed to the 
 refrain. The dancers were showing a tendency to join 
 in as well, and there was much laughter and some good- 
 natured boisterousness. The more sedate of the guests 
 had already departed, and the younger people were 
 allowing their spirits to find a vent. 
 
 "Ah-ah-ah," hummed the orchestra, and "Ah-ah-ah," 
 echoed the dancers, as they whirled madly round. 
 Zelie's restless feet tapped the floor. She gripped 
 Owen's arm. "Come, let us dance," she said, eagerly.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Take me in your arms, Owen, and let us mock the 
 world together." 
 
 He clasped her to him, holding her almost as Bibi 
 Coupe-vide himself would have helc^-Jier, breast to 
 breast, and so they swung into the dance, and for a few 
 moments, to Owen, there was no boundary between 
 earth and heaven and hell. 
 
 Nor was he conscious of Lavender's pale face 
 Lavender, who stood there among the lookers-on, with 
 Robin close beside her Lavender, to whom only the 
 day before he had promised love and fidelity 
 Lavender, who was pure and wholesome Lavender, 
 who did not understand. 
 
 "Ah-ah-ah" the orchestra was shouting now rather 
 than humming, and "Ah-ah-ah" repeated Owen, laugh- 
 ing down into the eyes that were raised to his, con- 
 scious of the red, alluring lips, of the supple body 
 which he clasped so tightly, of the heart that beat so 
 close to his own. This was a delirious madness it was 
 worth living for. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the refrain, the music broke 
 down. Someone had mounted the stage and was 
 speaking in a rapid undertone to the conductor. The 
 dancers came to a halt, staring at each other and asking 
 what had happened. Some shouted a protest. "Go on, 
 go on!" One or two couples, with less restraint than 
 the rest, went on dancing, despite the cessation of the 
 music. 
 
 The man who had mounted the stage stepped for- 
 ward, holding out his arm as though to indicate that 
 he wished to speak. It was Gilbert Farrington, the 
 artist, and he was recognised at once by his friends 
 among the dancers, who shouted out his name, pro- 
 testing loudly against his interruption. It was a mo- 
 ment or two before he could make his voice heard.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 223 
 
 "I am sorry," he said. He seemed to feel the 
 awkwardness of his task. "But our host has asked 
 me to explain. There has been an accident, a terrible 
 accident, I am afraid. I don't know the particulars of 
 it yet, but I fear that someone that someone has lost 
 his life." 
 
 He brought out the words jerkily, though he was 
 speaking in a loud tone of voice, so as to be audible 
 from end to end of the great hall. A hush fell as the 
 import of his words became clear. To Owen, after 
 the noise and laughter, it was almost as if he had been 
 stricken with sudden deafness. 
 
 "I'm afraid that there is nothing that we can do but 
 withdraw quietly," Gilbert Farrington continued. 
 "Our host has asked me to make this communication 
 and to beg you to forgive him if he himself is unable 
 to bid you good-night. I am sure that we must all 
 sympathise with him in this disastrous conclusion to so 
 pleasant an entertainment." 
 
 Gilbert Farrington descended from the platform to 
 a room full of people that his words had thrown into 
 confusion. But it was in whispers now that everyone 
 spoke. "Who is it? Who has been hurt? How did 
 it happen? Is he really dead?" 
 
 Fresh intelligence had arrived by now from other 
 quarters, and it was not long before the name of 
 Stephen Aldis was upon everyone's lips. Stephen 
 Aldis was dead some said he had been murdered; 
 Stephen Aldis, whom only an hour or so ago they had 
 applauded upon the stage; Stephen Aldis, the univer- 
 sal favourite, the darling of London audiences. There 
 were many among the women who made no attempt to 
 hide their tears, while one or two were led away crying 
 hysterically. 
 
 It happened in the garden. He was found by Sir
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Donald Ransom and Lady Beatrice Clewer lying dead 
 either shot or stabbed some said one, some the 
 other. The murderer was caught, too, after a terrible 
 tussle with Sir Donald he wasn't one of the guests, 
 oh, no a tramp who must have broken in from out- 
 side there was a public footway close by. But no one 
 knew exactly, and everyone had a different story to 
 tell. 
 
 And then, as the hall was gradually clearing, a pain- 
 ful episode occurred. For nobody knew exactly from 
 whence she came a wild-eyed woman, with her ball- 
 dress in disarray and her hair loosened about her 
 shoulders, came rushing across the room, her arms 
 stretched out. There were few who recognised her at 
 that moment as Cecily Cuthbert. 
 
 "Is he dead?" she screamed. "Oh, God in heaven, 
 tell me, is he dead?" 
 
 Some kindly matrons closed round her and she was 
 led away. But even when she was no longer seen her 
 screams resounded in the ears of the shuddering guests, 
 by now collecting in the hall waiting for the motor- 
 cars and carriages that drove up to the door and then 
 drove off again as quietly and expeditiously as possible. 
 
 Out in the gardens the fairy lamps were being extin- 
 guished, the Chinese lanterns torn down from the trees. 
 But it was not till later on, when the last of the guests 
 had departed and when the ladies of the house party 
 had been sent up to their rooms, that a solemn little 
 procession made its way across the lawn from the fatal 
 summer-house in the wood to the main entrance of the 
 castle. They carried between them an improvised 
 stretcher upon which, reverently covered, lay the body 
 of London's favourite Stephen Aldis.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THERE came a knock at Zelie's door some half an hour 
 after that mournful procession had reached its des- 
 tination, and when all was still in Chamney Castle. 
 
 Zelie had removed her ball-dress, and was sitting 
 at her toilette-table, dressing her hair for the night. 
 For the last few minutes, however, she had been 
 resting idly, her elbow upon the table, gazing at her 
 reflection in the mirror. 
 
 Her lips were set in a straight line, and it would have 
 been difficult for anyone to tell what her thoughts 
 might be. She was not grieving for the death of 
 Stephen Aldis; he had meant nothing to her in her 
 life, and she had only mocked at the passion which she 
 had aroused in his breast. Only, as yet, she did not 
 know exactly how he had come by his death, and there 
 were uneasy suspicions in her mind. 
 
 Together with the other ladies of the house-party, 
 she had been sent off to her room at the earliest oppor- 
 tunity. She had not seen Lord Martyn she had seen 
 nobody who could give her any information. From 
 her window, however, she had been witness of the 
 bringing in of Stephen Aldis's body; she had seen 
 policemen, too, and, later, some time after the last of 
 the guests had departed, another carriage had driven 
 off, starting from the stables, and not from the front 
 door. But as it passed down the main drive she had 
 noticed that there was a policeman sitting upon the 
 box. 
 
 Could it be possible that Bibi had been fool enough 
 to make a blunder? She had not warned him 
 
 225
 
 226 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 frightened away from the arbour as she had been by 
 Stephen Aldis's amorous overtures so, supposing that 
 Bibi, lurking there, had struck the wrong man, or, 
 again, supposing he had been witness of Aldis's attempt 
 to embrace her, and had been seized by a wild fit of 
 jealousy ? 
 
 Either one or the other was possible, and granted 
 that it was Bibi who had done this thing, how was his 
 mad act going to affect her future? That was the 
 principal question, the only question that mattered. 
 
 "Bah," she exclaimed, grimacing at her reflection 
 in the glass. "Let it be so if Fate wills. Why should 
 I suffer? What was it that made my name in Paris, 
 that brought me out of the slums? Was it not that 
 men fought for me, shed their blood, and died? It 
 was that that made people want to see Zelie the Snake. 
 It was blood that made me famous in Paris, and it 
 shall be blood that makes me famous in London." She 
 shrugged her shoulders. "Let it be so, I care not," 
 she muttered. "But Bibi ah, the fool, the fool." 
 
 It was at this moment that a knock came at her door, 
 and Madame de Freyne appeared upon the threshold. 
 
 "May I come in, Zelie?" said the journalist. "I'm 
 far too troubled to think of going to bed, and I should 
 like to have a little talk." 
 
 She had a dark dressing-gown of some rich material 
 wrapped about her, and her steel-blue eyes were 
 clouded, while her strong, rather masculine, face had 
 little lines of trouble about the mouth. 
 
 "This is a terrible business, Zelie," she said, sinking 
 into a chair. "I was fond of Steve Aldis. There's 
 hardly a man in London whose future should have been 
 as bright as his. And to die like this, to be murdered, 
 when he was little more than on the threshold of his 
 real life oh, it's cruel, cruel!"
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 227 
 
 She passed the Sack of her hand across her eyes, 
 which were wet. "We've had a terrible time with 
 Cecily, too," she went on, "but she's quieter now, and 
 perhaps will sleep. But I don't know I don't know. 
 She was like a mad woman for a while, and she said 
 things" the journalist shuddered "which which I 
 should not like to repeat. I think there must have been 
 some quarrel between her and Steve in the course of 
 the evening, for no one seems to have seen her much 
 after supper, though one of the maids tells me that she 
 ran upstairs to her own room oh, quite a long time 
 before we heard about Steve's murder, and that her 
 face was so white that my informant thought she was 
 ill, and asked if she could do anything for her. But 
 she only shook her head and flung herself into the 
 room, locking the door behind her. She didn't come 
 out again till she rushed down to the ball-room you 
 remember how she screamed." Madame de Freyne 
 pressed her fingers to her ears. 
 
 "I am sorry for Mademoiselle Cuthbert," said Zelie, 
 but without conviction. "But I think she was foolish, 
 Madame Eve, and she did not know how to keep a 
 man's love." 
 
 "Ah, Zelie, Zelie," said the other woman sadly, "I 
 don't blame you it isn't your fault that men are ready 
 to sacrifice their souls for you, but it may be hard 
 upon other women. Have a care, Zelie, lest one day 
 even worse may befall." 
 
 Zelie only shrugged her shoulders, making no reply. 
 There was no remorse in her heart, nor did she feel 
 herself to blame for Cecily Cuthbert's agony. 
 
 "I've seen Harry," Madame de Freyne said, after 
 a pause, during which she waited for that word of 
 sympathy which never came. "Do you know, Zelie, 
 who it was that struck the blow?"
 
 228 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Zelie was more interested. She turned in her chair, 
 playing with a ruby ring that she wore it was one 
 which Owen had given her twisting it round and 
 round upon her finger. "No, I haven't heard. Who?" 
 
 "It was your Apache friend the man who danced 
 with you to-night Bibi." 
 
 Zelie was prepared for the answer, but the corners 
 of her lips went down, and for the moment Eve de 
 Freyne, scrutinising her face, wondered what beauty 
 men could see in it. 
 
 "The fool!" Zelie muttered. "The blind fool!" 
 Then she put a sharp question. "He was taken, was 
 he not? Has he given any explanation?" 
 
 Eve de Freyne shook her head. "He says he is 
 innocent," she replied. "Yet he was taken almost 
 red-handed. And he had poor Steve's pocket-book, 
 his watch and chain, and other valuables, about his 
 person. The man is a thief and a murderer. Yet 
 he says that he is innocent." 
 
 Zelie's brows contracted in a heavy frown. Yes, 
 of course, it was evident that the whole thing has been 
 an abominable blunder. Bibi, believing that he had 
 killed Owen Mayne, had been carrying out Zelie's in- 
 structions, taking the dead man's watch and chain 
 and other belongings, in order that it might be thought 
 that some tramp had broken in from the public foot- 
 path. And he had been surprised and captured before 
 he had time to escape from the scene of his crime. 
 
 She drummed with her fingers upon the table impa- 
 tiently. "Well, I am not responsible for Bibi Coupe- 
 vide being at Chamney Castle," she said defiantly. 
 "He did not come at my invitation. I did not even 
 know that he was in England." She spoke the lie 
 glibly. "It's true that when I saw him I suggested 
 he should dance with me, but that is because I knew
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 229 
 
 that our dance would be the greater success. It was 
 for the sake of art." She flung out the words with 
 biting sarcasm. 
 
 "No one blames you, Zelie," said Madame de Freyne 
 sadly. "Harry himself was the first to absolve you. 
 But it is a terrible thing, and, from happiness and 
 enjoyment we have been plunged into the direst sor- 
 row and tragedy. And I feel nervous to-night," she 
 went on, drawing the folds of her dressing-gown more 
 closely about her, as if she were cold, "as though it 
 were not all over yet, as though there were more hor- 
 rors to come oh! perhaps not immediately, but that 
 they are brooding over us." 
 
 Suddenly she drew herself up in her chair. "Hush !" 
 she murmured. "What is that ?" 
 
 Zelie turned and listened. Both women could hear 
 
 the sound of a footfall in the corridor without. There 
 
 was an intense silence in the house, save for that one 
 
 , sound light footsteps, as of bare feet, and they were 
 
 drawing nearer to the door. 
 
 Madame de Freyne started up and laid her strong, 
 muscular hand upon Zelie's bare arm. "Cecily," she 
 muttered. "I am sure it must be Cecily. Who else 
 should be wandering about the house at this hour ?" 
 
 Zelie hunched her shoulders, but did not move. The 
 doings of Cecily Cuthbert were of small importance 
 to her at that moment. She was thinking of Bibi 
 Coupe-vide, and if he would betray her. 
 
 The steps passed the door, and could be heard re- 
 treating down the corridor. "I can't stand this I 
 must see what is the matter !" Eve de Freyne, strong, 
 level-headed woman though she was, was trembling 
 a little as she spoke the words. She stepped quickly 
 to the door and threw it open. 
 
 She saw the figure of a girl, clad in black, who was
 
 230 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 on the point of turning out of the corridor into the 
 gallery upon which it opened. There was something 
 almost ghostlike in the way she seemed to glide along, 
 and her arms were lifted above her head. 
 
 "It is Cecily!" Madame de Freyne turned an awe- 
 struck face to Zelie. "I'm sure she's going to to 
 the chamber of death ! She isn't in her right mind 
 she can't be ! Zelie, I must follow her for Heaven's 
 sake, come, too!" 
 
 Unpleasing to her as was the suggestion, Zelie was 
 constrained to comply. The two women followed 
 quickly down the long corridor in pursuit of the ghost- 
 ly figure. 
 
 They saw it again when they reached the gallery. 
 This was a wide space which formed a communica- 
 tion with the more central block of the building. Here 
 were the best bedrooms, and it was in one of these, 
 as Eve de Freyne already knew, that the body of 
 Stephen Aldis had been laid out; and it was at the 
 door of this room that Cecily Cuthbert was now hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 At that moment another figure appeared upon the 
 scene. It was that of Lord Martyn, and he was still 
 fully dressed. He, too, had evidently been disturbed 
 by the sound of footsteps passing his door. 
 
 Cecily turned and cast a half-frightened, half-defiant 
 glance at her pursuers. A grey light was filtering in 
 from a high, uncurtained window the light of dawn. 
 She had entered the room before they could come 
 up to her, the great oak-panelled room, with its som- 
 bre hangings, its closely-drawn curtains, and the old- 
 fashioned four-post bedstead upon which lay the dead 
 man. Four tall candles were burning upon the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 When Lord Martyn, followed by the two women, in
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 his turn entered the room, it was to see Cecily upon 
 her knees by the bed, her arms stretched out, her face 
 buried in them, her blonde hair streaming over the 
 white sheet. Her whole body was convulsed with 
 sobs. 
 
 Martyn touched her very gently upon the shoulder. 
 "Cecily/ he said, "you must go back to your room. 
 This is no place for you, and it can do no good either 
 to him who is dead or to yourself." 
 
 She lifted her head and regarded him fiercely. She 
 did not seem to perceive the two women who stood 
 huddled together upon the threshold. 
 
 "Leave me alone!" she cried wildly. "Leave me 
 with my dead! I must watch by his side!" They 
 could hear her teeth chattering. "I must watch and 
 pray!" she moaned, "watch and pray!" 
 
 Eve de Freyne stepped forward pityingly, and with 
 gentle speech. But her movement betrayed the pres- 
 ence of Zelie to Cecily Cuthbert. She sprang to her 
 feet, and at that moment she was no longer a soft- 
 haired, soft-voiced English girl she was a fury un- 
 loosed, and every quiver of her body was a denun- 
 ciation. 
 
 The filmy black dress she wore had slipped down 
 from her white shoulders, exposing the exquisite con- 
 tour of neck and breast; her arms, bare too, were 
 stretched out straight before her, the fingers extended 
 and pointed at Zelie. 
 
 "You you!" she screamed. "Have you come to 
 look upon your handiwork to gloat over your victim ? 
 See, then! See!" 
 
 Before she could be restrained she had torn the 
 sheet from the dead man's face, the ashen face that 
 yet, in death, preserved its beauty. 
 
 Cecily gripped Zelie by the arm, and despite her
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 resistance dragged her forward. At that moment she 
 had the strength of a madwoman. 
 
 "Murderess! murderess!" she cried. "You killed 
 this man as surely as if your own hand had struck 
 the blow ! Here, in the presence of the dead, I accuse 
 you! His blood is upon your head! Lift up your 
 hands and let us see the hue of them ! Ah ! you dare 
 not! you dare not!" 
 
 With an hysterical cry she seized one of Zelie's 
 hands, and held it up, and, strangely almost as though 
 it were an omen a ray of light, a first ray of the 
 rising sun, shot across the room, stealing in from be- 
 tween the closed curtains, and it fell upon Zelie's out- 
 stretched hand, tingeing it red. It was but the effect 
 of a moment, but Cecily broke into a fierce laugh. 
 
 "You see! you see!" she cried. "The answer has 
 come direct from Heaven!" She flung Zelie's hand 
 away from her, and then fell back, moaning, into the 
 arms of Eve de Freyne. 
 
 "She is mad!" said Zelie, between her teeth, as 
 Eve picked up the girl in her strong arms, even as she 
 might a child, and carried her from the room. 
 
 "Yes, she is mad mad with grief and does not 
 know what she says," responded Martyn. But later, 
 after he had conducted Zelie to her room, he returned to 
 the death chamber and stood gazing down at the white, 
 upturned face of the man who had been his friend. 
 
 "Yes, there is blood upon the panther's claws," he 
 muttered, "the panther that I let loose to prey upon 
 the world. It has begun even sooner than I expected." 
 
 He clasped his hands together and fell upon his 
 knees. "Forgive me, Steve," he prayed, "and pity 
 me for I am punished!" He lowered his voice al- 
 most to a whisper. "But one day you will be avenged 
 for the panther rent its master, too !"
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE omnibus rattled and rumbled over the hard road 
 on its way back to Selwood Manor, and its occupants, 
 for the most part, were very silent. 
 
 Lavender's head rested against her lover's shoul- 
 der, and her hand clasped his. But she found him 
 cold and unresponsive, and it seemed as if her own 
 heart were chilled too. Of course, they were, one and 
 all, upset by the terrible tragedy which had brought 
 the entertainment to so untimely a close. But Lav- 
 ender wanted comforting so badly, yet Owen sat there 
 silent, his lips compressed together, and she felt that 
 his thoughts were far away. 
 
 The rest of the party had been less restrained dur- 
 ing the early part of the drive. They had discussed 
 .the murder, and had now and then appealed either 
 to Lavender or to Owen. None of them knew Aldis 
 at all intimately, and so they had no personal cause 
 for sorrow. 
 
 The dawn was breaking, a grey and misty dawn, 
 and the trees on either side of the road looked white 
 and ghostly. 
 
 There was a brief pause at the Ferrars' cottage, then 
 the omnibus rattled on again till it reached the gates 
 of the long avenue leading to Selwood Manor. 
 
 The groom opened the gate, and the omnibus turned 
 in; a few more minutes, now, and the interminable 
 drive would be over. 
 
 Suddenly, when they were almost at the end of 
 the avenue, close to the spot where the trees on either 
 side gave place to lawns, there came a jolt, a shock, 
 
 233
 
 234 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 and the three occupants of the omnibus were almost 
 thrown from their seats. 
 
 The coachman backed the omnibus, and shouted to 
 his horses. Both of them appeared frightened, and 
 were restive. One had nearly fallen, being only just 
 pulled up in time. 
 
 Owen threw open the door and sprang out. Then 
 he helped Lavender to alight. Robin followed. 
 
 "What is the matter ?" It was still dark in the ave- 
 nue, though only a few yards further on the lawns 
 appeared white and shimmering in the dawn. Owen 
 addressed the coachman, who, by now, with the assist- 
 ance of the groom, who had run to their heads, had 
 nearly mastered the horses. 
 
 "Can't make it out, sir," was the reply. "One would 
 have thought that the horses had stepped upon some- 
 thing, but there's nothing in the way that I can see." 
 
 Owen's eyes swept the ground, then he advanced 
 a few paces. Suddenly he stumbled and fell. 
 
 He was on his feet again in a moment. "Take 
 care !" he said to Robin, who was following him. 
 
 Then he stooped down and examined a wire that was 
 stretched taut across the road, and at the level of a 
 few inches above it. 
 
 He knew what that wire indicated. So did Robin, 
 who by now was at his side. 
 
 "My, God, Robin! There have been burglars at 
 the Manor!" muttered Owen. 
 
 With a jerk of his powerful wrist Robin tore down 
 the wire, and then, after a swift glance at Lavender, 
 a glance that expressed the deepest concern, he set 
 off at a run for the house. It was distant only a couple 
 of hundred yards or so. He reached the front door 
 before the omnibus, with Owen and Lavender, could 
 drive up.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 235 
 
 He had had a premonition of evil, to all appearance 
 absolutely unreasonable, ever since leaving the castle, 
 and now the feeling had utterly possessed him. Thieves 
 had broken into the Manor of that there could be 
 no doubt but there was more mischief in the wind 
 than mere theft. Robin was sure of it, though he 
 could not have explained why. 
 
 Owen had the same fear, for it was as if there was 
 some strange telepathic influence at work that night; 
 but for Lavender's sake he refrained from giving any 
 expression to it. He consoled the girl as best he could. 
 He would have concealed from her the interpretation 
 which Robin and he had placed upon the obstruction 
 in the way, but she had overheard their mutual ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 "Yes there have been burglars. I don't think there 
 can be any doubt of it, but they've got away, undis- 
 turbed, long ago. See! Dawn is breaking. It just 
 means a loss of the silver. Probably the household 
 has slept quietly through it Your aunt will know 
 nothing till we tell her." 
 
 He repeated the last phrase once or twice, as if to 
 reassure himself. Yet he felt the heart within his 
 breast clasped as in a vice, and it seemed as if an 
 icy hand was compressing his brow. Supposing some 
 terrible mishap had befallen his aunt what then ? His 
 conscience tortured him. Morning was breaking with 
 a lurid light, the tree tops swayed and rustled omi- 
 nously, and from somewhere in the distance a dog 
 howled. He seemed to smell death in the air. 
 
 He opened the door hurriedly with his key, and 
 they entered the hall. Robin had found another wire 
 stretched just across the porch, and this, too, he had 
 torn down. Within all appeared in order. The great 
 central lamp gave a feeble glow of light it had been
 
 236 
 
 left burning in case the party returned before dawn. 
 The windows were closely shuttered, and the whole 
 aspect of the place was cold and ghostly, but nothing 
 had been disturbed the thieves had not passed that 
 way. 
 
 Lavender would have run straight to Mrs. Alder- 
 son's room, but was prevented by Robin, who had 
 taken command of the proceedings. He agreed with 
 Owen that the old lady should not be disturbed unless 
 it were necessary; in the state of her heart, a sudden 
 alarm might have serious consequences. 
 
 So Owen remained with Lavender in the hall while 
 Robin went to arouse Hicks, the butler, and to find out 
 where the thieves had obtained an entry, and the 
 extent of their depredations. 
 
 "I dare say they've confined their attentions to the 
 pantry," he said, for Lavender's benefit. 
 
 "Oh ! but that isn't likely !" faltered Lavender, who 
 was pale with alarm and apprehension. "There's the 
 jewellery. The burglars must have heard of mother's 
 pearls and diamonds the heirlooms. She keeps them 
 in the little boudoir that adjoins her bedroom there's 
 a safe there, you know." She wrung her hands de- 
 spairingly. "Oh! my dear mother! If she has been 
 disturbed in such a way in the middle of the night 
 the shock must have killed her !" 
 
 Owen listened at the foot of the stairs, but there 
 came no sound from above. 
 
 "No alarm has been given," he said, with an affecta- 
 tion of cheerfulness. "Everyone seems to be asleep. 
 And the less noise we make ourselves the better. Why, 
 we might be taken for the thieves!" He forced a 
 laugh. 
 
 Lavender was bitterly repentant for having gone 
 out that night. "There is no one else who sleeps any-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 237 
 
 where near mother's room," she said despairingly. "I 
 wanted her to have Mamey with her, as I should be 
 away, but she wouldn't. You see, my bedroom is just 
 on the other side of the boudoir, so that I could always 
 be called if I was wanted." 
 
 After a few moments, Robin, who had hurried off 
 on his errand, returned. His face was very grave. 
 
 "They got in by a window near the kitchen," he 
 whispered hurriedly. "The glass has been broken and 
 the shutter forced. The pantry has been ransacked. 
 They have been upstairs, too; I can see the marks 
 of their boots on the back staircase. And Hicks is 
 not in his room." 
 
 The two men glanced at each other, then Robin, 
 without further word, led the way to the first floor 
 of the house, where he turned off into the wide cor- 
 ridor where Mrs. Alderson's room was situated. Owen 
 and Lavender followed on tiptoe. The groom, who 
 had hurried back to the house after helping the coach- 
 man with the horses, remained below, ready to answer 
 if he was called. 
 
 It was quite silent in the corridor. The morning 
 light streamed in through a red-stained glass window 
 at the far end. But one or two doors that should 
 have been shut stood open, and once Robin pointed 
 to marks of muddy footprints on the soft, rich carpet. 
 
 The door of Mrs. Alderson's room was shut, as 
 was that of the adjoining bedroom. It was outside 
 the latter that the little party came to a halt. They 
 listened breathlessly before turning the handle. 
 
 "There's someone here !" whispered Owen in Robin's 
 ear. "I'll swear I can hear deep breathing!" He laid 
 a detaining hand upon Lavender's arm. "Stay where 
 you are, dear," he entreated. "Don't go in!" 
 
 But she disregarded this injunction altogether. She
 
 238 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 pushed her way past the two men and flung herself 
 into the boudoir. Then she uttered a sharp cry. 
 
 The room was in disorder. Chairs and tables were 
 overthrown, and there were all the signs of a violent 
 struggle. The door of the safe stood open, and boxes 
 and papers were littered upon the floor. A lantern, 
 such as the burglars might have used, was still burn- 
 ing upon the top of the safe, and a candle lay by the 
 side of a heavy brass poker upon the carpet, in the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 Propped up against the wall, bound and gagged, was 
 Hicks, the butler. He appeared to be only half con- 
 scious. His hair was matted on his forehead, and 
 there was a red stain on one of his cheeks. His lips 
 were swollen, and his face congested; he was breath- 
 ing with difficulty because of the gag that had been 
 thrust into his mouth. 
 
 Robin was at his side in a moment, cutting the 
 thongs that bound him. But Lavender, after her sharp 
 cry, had run straight into the adjoining room, that 
 of Mrs. Alderson, the door of which stood wide open. 
 A few seconds later another scream escaped her lips. 
 
 Owen joined her, and together they stood in speech- 
 less agony though there was a very different founda- 
 tion for the suffering of each by the bedside of a dead 
 woman. 
 
 Mrs. Alderson lay there on the outside of the bed. 
 She wore a dressing-gown one of the dainty, laven- 
 der-perfumed confections that she affected and the 
 silken quilt had been drawn up over her body. She 
 lay on her back, and her hands were folded across her 
 breast. Her eyes were closed, and the whole aspect 
 of her face was peaceful. Lavender had imagined 
 at first that she was asleep, and her heart had leapt
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 239 
 
 joyfully; then she had touched the pale cheek, and 
 understood. 
 
 Owen laid his hand for a moment upon his aunt's 
 breast, then he readjusted the quilt, and, taking Lav- 
 ender by the arm, led her gently away. For this was 
 a chamber of death. 
 
 In the boudoir, Hicks was coughing and gasping 
 back to consciousness. Lavender herself, despite her 
 own trouble, and her streaming eyes, ministered to 
 him as well as she could. The groom had already 
 been despatched to Selwood to notify the doctor and 
 the police. 
 
 And before long the butler was able to tell what 
 had happened. A stiff dose of brandy brought him 
 round, and he managed, with Robin's help, to walk 
 down to the hall, where they all remained, with the 
 exception of Lavender, till the assistance summoned 
 from the little town should arrive. Lavender, at 
 , Owen's urgent request, had retired to her own room, 
 where she could mourn for her dead undisturbed. 
 
 "I woke up, gentlemen," said Hicks huskily, "to 
 hear the fellows creeping upstairs. They must have 
 made their way straight to the boudoir after breaking 
 in; knew just exactly where to go, they did. I didn't 
 know what to do, and I hadn't got any sort of arms. 
 I took up the first thing that came handy the poker 
 and I went after them, poker in one hand, candle 
 in the other. I felt dazed-like, and hadn't a plan in 
 my head. You see, sirs, we've never had nothing 
 of the sort before." 
 
 The butler spoke apologetically, as if he had an 
 idea that he might be held responsible. "They were 
 in the boudoir when I got upstairs," he went on, "and, 
 without waiting to think whether I was doing right 
 or wrong, I threw open the door. I was mortal fright-
 
 240 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 ened, gentlemen, but I had to do it. You see, there 
 was Mrs. Alderson, who might be in danger and 
 she's always been a good mistress to me. And now, 
 only to think of it, she's dead she's dead!" He 
 broke off to rub his eyes with the back of his hand. 
 
 "Well, I was seized in a moment," he continued. 
 "There were two of them big, tall fellows I could 
 swear to them again and they had already got to 
 work on the safe. I suppose it was about two o'clock 
 in the morning. I made the best fight I could, but 
 of course it was all against me. One of them had 
 a revolver, and threatened to fire, but evidently didn't 
 want to do so. They got me down, and began to 
 bind me. It was just then that the door of Mrs. 
 Alderson's room opened, and she herself appeared. 
 She was in her dressing-gown, and so quiet and calm 
 you'd never have believed it. 
 
 " 'Don't hurt him !' that's what she said, and her 
 voice was as gentle as if she had been speaking to 
 you or me. 'Since you have broken into my house 
 to steal,' she went on, 'take what you want, and go 
 quietly.' Then suddenly she pressed her hands to her 
 heart and sank down without a cry or a groan it 
 must have killed her to be aroused so roughly by the 
 noise that was going on in the next room to hers. 
 Well, one of the men went to her, while the other fin- 
 ished binding me up. I heard him say that she was 
 dead. They made no further noise, and, as you know, 
 gentlemen, not another soul in the house was aroused. 
 When I was quite helpless they propped me up against 
 the wall, and then they went and carried Mrs. Alder- 
 son gently I'll say that for them to her bed. After- 
 wards they came back, forced the safe, and cleared it 
 out, and then they stole quietly away. One of them 
 forgot his lantern. Any other room they went to
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 must have been visited afterwards. And so I was 
 left alone, with my dead mistress in the next room, 
 the rope cutting into my flesh, hardly able to breathe 
 for the gag, and the blood trickling from a blow on 
 the head which one of the fellows had given me. It 
 was awful, Mr. Mayne, sir" Hicks passed a trem- 
 bling hand over his brow "and the time seemed to 
 crawl I could hear the stable clock, you know 
 but at last I must have partly lost consciousness, for 
 I remember nothing more until you gentlemen came." 
 
 Dr. Murray arrived soon after the story was con- 
 cluded, but all that remained for him to do was to 
 verify the death of Mrs. Alderson and express his 
 sympathy which he did in no measured terms. Mrs. 
 Alderson was a woman whom all the county would 
 mourn. Few had been so universally beloved as she. 
 
 Owen played his part, both with the doctor, and, 
 later on, with the police. There was no rest for him 
 that night. But when at last he found time to go to 
 his own room to change his clothes he gazed at his 
 reflection in the glass, and wondered at what he saw 
 
 For all the gay insouciance of the Owen Mayne of 
 Paris days seemed to have passed away. To him- 
 self he looked and felt an old man. His face was 
 blanched and haggard, his eyes had lost their lustre. 
 At the moment it seemed as if the mirror was reflect- 
 ing his soul to him and his soul was ugly and foul 
 and mean. 
 
 "She is dead and the old will is still in force," he 
 muttered. "Every penny is Lavender's nothing mine. 
 And Lavender would give it to me, but, for that, I 
 must " 
 
 He smote his cheek heavily with his open palm. 
 "Blackguard! blackguard!" he cried. "The devil is 
 paying you the wages of your hire !"
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 IT was the day after the funeral, as impressive a 
 funeral as the county had ever witnessed. All the 
 neighbourhood, rich and poor alike, had trooped to 
 Selwood to pay the last tribute of respect to the good 
 woman who had always placed the wants and the 
 sufferings of others so far above her own. 
 
 Among those present was Lord Martyn, who him- 
 self had come from a house of mourning. For Stephen 
 Aldis still lay dead at Chamney Castle, though his 
 body was to be moved that night and conveyed in a 
 special train to London, where the funeral would 
 be held on the morrow. There had, of course, been 
 an inquest, and the unanimous verdict of the jury was 
 one of murder against the prisoner Bibi Coupe-vide. 
 There were some in court who maintained that the 
 Frenchman's appearance, his demeanour even his ab- 
 surd name were enough to convict him, even if the 
 evidence were not so strong. And yet he still had the 
 face to deny his guilt ! 
 
 The events at Chamney and Selwood had provided 
 the county with inexhaustible themes of conversation 
 and gossip. Lord Martyn's wonderful entertainment 
 and its tragic ending, of course, took precedence. It 
 was said even as Zelie had expected that the mur- 
 der was really due to jealousy; that the Apache had 
 seen the dancing girl in too intimate converse with 
 the popular and handsome actor, and that he had 
 
 242
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 243 
 
 avenged himself after the manner of his kind. This 
 story was in contradiction to that officially put for- 
 ward the tale that Lord Marty n himself had told 
 at the inquest which maintained that Stephen Aldis 
 had been incensed against the Frenchman because of 
 certain letters details as to which were not consid- 
 ered necessary to the case letters that the French- 
 man had in his possession, and refused to surrender. 
 It was suggested that hot words had passed, leading 
 up to the final tragedy. Aldis had threatened so 
 Lord Martyn testified to break the fellow's neck. 
 Therein, no doubt, lay the provocation to the fatal 
 blow. The fact that the murderer had removed the 
 dead man's watch and other effects did not prove that 
 robbery was the first temptation; it was assumed that 
 Bibi's natural cupidity had come into force as soon as 
 his victim was lying dead at his feet. 
 
 The story told by Bibi himself, through an inter- 
 preter, was a ridiculous one, so all who heard it agreed. 
 He maintained that he had come upon the scene after 
 the murder had been committed. He had found the 
 body lying in the summer-house, and had bent over 
 it to ascertain if the man were really dead. Finding 
 that he was, Bibi had succumbed to the temptation 
 of removing whatever valuables he might find in the 
 pockets. It was while he was doing so that he had 
 been interrupted by the appearance of Sir Donald 
 Ransom and Lady Beatrice Clewer. 
 
 Of course, this version of the affair was absurd. 
 For what had taken Bibi Coupe-vide to the arbour, 
 in the first instance, and who else was there who 
 would have dreamed of doing so popular a man as 
 Stephen Aldis to death? 
 
 Someone who had broken in from without, so it 
 was suggested on Bibi's behalf. The fence was dam-
 
 244 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 aged, and there were footmarks on the soft earth by 
 the side of the path outside also, the grass had ob- 
 viously been trodden down. But all this evidence was 
 turned against the prisoner. It was shown that his 
 coat bore green stains acquired from the fence, and 
 his boot fitted exactly in the footprints. This all went 
 to show that he had made deliberate efforts to avert 
 suspicion from himself, and only served to blacken 
 the case against him. 
 
 Of course, Lord Martyn's house party had broken 
 up on the day following the murder. Some sympa- 
 thy was expressed for him, but there were many who 
 shook their heads, and regarded him as the chief cause 
 of the calamity. "The idea of having such a creature 
 in the house!" declaimed outraged propriety, lifting 
 horrified hands. "But, then, the man makes a point 
 of offending the feelings of his neighbours." 
 
 Owen was in a sullen frame of mind those days, and 
 could not help his mental disturbance showing itself 
 upon his face. He carped bitterly at fate for hav- 
 ing played him so falsely. While other men regarded 
 him as an object of envy the accepted lover of so 
 beautiful and wealthy a girl as Lavender he him- 
 self and for good reason regarded his position as 
 utterly hateful and unendurable. He could not even 
 temper it with that cynicism which had borne him 
 through other troubles in the old Paris days. And, 
 of all things, he hated most having to be with Lav- 
 ender in her grief, having to comfort her, having to 
 play the role of her lover. Every kiss, every embrace, 
 was to him a torture devised by some devil for the 
 racking of his nerves. He could always hear the 
 mocking laugh of the imp perched upon his shoulder 
 whenever Lavender leaned her head against his breast 
 in her desire to find solace for her tears.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 245 
 
 Once she spoke of her inheritance. The substance 
 of the will was already known, for Mr. Jerrold, the 
 solicitor, had come, as was arranged, to Selwood 
 Manor on the day following the burglary, only to 
 find that no fresh disposition of the property was now 
 possible. 
 
 "But it doesn't matter, dear, does it?" Lavender 
 whispered. "You know that what is mine is yours, 
 and when we are married you shall have the control 
 of everything." 
 
 "When we are married!" The biting irony of it! 
 It must be another six months at least before mar- 
 riage could be thought of, and in the meanwhile how 
 was it possible even if he could bring himself to 
 suggest it to get Lavender to transfer her fortune 
 to him? She had placed her affairs in the hands of 
 Mr. Jerrold, a kindly, white-haired old gentleman, who 
 had acted for the Aldersons for the last twenty years, 
 and he would naturally raise objections to a gift pure 
 and simple, even of part of the estate, and would 
 insist that any fresh arrangement should be by way 
 of marriage settlement. 
 
 He avoided Lavender as much as he could in those 
 days that preceded the funeral, but this only threw 
 him into the company of Robin, who irritated him 
 beyond measure by his way of talking cheerily of the 
 fortune, and his palpable avoidance of any subject that 
 might suggest the name of Zelie. There were times 
 when Owen, goaded to a pitch of exasperation, could 
 have turned upon his friend and cursed him it was 
 with difficulty that he held himself in check, and his 
 bad temper was only too obvious. 
 
 By the advice of the solicitor, Lavender had in- 
 vited a relation of her own, a certain Mrs. Foxhall, 
 a cousin of her mother's, to come to the Manor and
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 fill the necessary role of chaperon. Mrs. Foxhall had 
 duly arrived, happy, since she was a poor woman, at 
 the good fortune which had thrown such a position 
 in her way. She was a lady of comfortable propor- 
 tions, who made a point of agreeing amiably with 
 everything that everybody said. Owen hated her from 
 the first, and she was obviously afraid of him. 
 
 Upon the day following the funeral, in the course 
 of the afternoon, Robin found Lavender alone in the 
 garden, and there were tears in her eyes, which she 
 did her best to wipe away when she saw him com- 
 ing. A few minutes earlier he had espied Owen hur- 
 rying across the lawn, walking with long strides, his 
 head bent, and now, finding Lavender so tearful, Robin 
 began to suspect that something must be wrong. 
 
 But she would not take him into her confidence at 
 first. She tried to talk of ordinary topics, but the 
 effort was a pitiful one. Robin thought how sad she 
 looked, and yet how inexpressibly pure and lovely, in 
 her black gown. What a contrast to Zelie, who af- 
 fected black for choice! Robin figured them both 
 as "night," and in his mind's eye he saw the French 
 girl as the representation of some horrible and terri- 
 fying dream; while Lavender, she was night at its 
 holiest, soft and dewy and kind the night that gives 
 rest and content to tired eyes. 
 
 "There is something troubling you, Miss Percivale," 
 he blurted out at last, "something fresh. I know I 
 have no right to question you, but but I can't bear 
 to see you looking so sad." 
 
 "How can I help it?" she said. "Mr. Clithero, I 
 miss her more and more every day." 
 
 Robin regarded her, reading, as he had the power 
 to do, into the depths of her soul. "I know how you 
 sorrow for your loss," he said. "I know what Mrs.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 247 
 
 Alderson was to you, and you to her. But it was 
 not of her that you were thinking just now, Miss 
 Percivale." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" She looked up with faint 
 astonishment. She had never considered Robin Cli- 
 thero in any other light than the friend of Owen 
 an excellent fellow, kind-hearted and loyal. "How 
 do you know?" she added, with a faint blush that 
 clearly indicated his surmise correct. 
 
 "Because" he paused and hesitated "because your 
 eyes betray you, Miss Percivale." He would have 
 liked to tell her how he had studied those eyes of 
 hers, that he knew every shade of feeling they could 
 express, but he dared not speak so freely. What right 
 had he to do so ? 
 
 "You were thinking of Owen," he said simply. 
 
 "Yes." Here resistance broke down. "Oh! Mr. 
 Clithero, you know him so well you are a friend of 
 his perhaps you can tell me explain to me." She 
 clasped her hands together. "Owen hasn't been the 
 same to me ever since dear mother died I'm not sure 
 that it wasn't earlier ever since we went to Cham- 
 ney. I don't know what it is, for he is always very 
 gentle, very kind but I feel it here." She pressed 
 her hands to her bosom. "I can't help thinking that 
 there is something on his mind that he doesn't" she 
 hesitated, and then brought the words out with a rush 
 "that he doesn't love me!" 
 
 "Oh! but, Miss Percivale!" began Robin protest- 
 ingly. 
 
 "I mean utterly, and without reservation," the girl 
 interrupted. "I don't think he loves me as I love 
 him. I've always had that fear. Once, before we 
 were actually engaged, he looked at me pitifully, and 
 said under his breath, 'You poor little girl!' I never
 
 248 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 knew why he said that. I told mother, and she thought 
 it was because he was sorry for the for my family 
 troubles. But I don't know I don't know." The girl 
 shook her head ominously. 
 
 "I'm sure he loves you," declared Robin stoutly. 
 "He couldn't help himself." Yet Robin spoke with 
 greater assurance than he felt. He, too, had noticed 
 the change in Owen's manner, and ascribed it to its 
 true cause. He cursed his friend under his breath. 
 What was he about, to bring tears to such eyes as 
 those of Lavender ? That vampire, that snake-woman, 
 Zelie it was she who was to blame. 
 
 "If he loves me," said Lavender slowly, "why does 
 he want to leave me at such a time when I need 
 him most?" 
 
 "To leave?" faltered Robin. He thought he had 
 not heard aright 
 
 "Yes to leave me," repeated Lavender. "He has 
 just told me that he must go to London, and he will 
 not say for how long. He was so strange in his man- 
 ner, too I'm sure he was keeping something from 
 me. Oh ! Mr. Qithero ! you don't think he is ill, and 
 doesn't like to let me know?" 
 
 "Ill go and see Owen have a talk with him," said 
 Robin, frowning, and altogether ignoring the last ques- 
 tion. "I'll go at once." 
 
 He paused only to arrange the cushions behind Lav- 
 ender's head. She was seated in a low chair under a 
 great cedar tree, and had a book by her side. 
 
 "You can go on reading," he commanded, "and don't 
 fret." 
 
 She pretended to do as he bade her as long as he 
 was in sight, but as soon as he had disappeared the 
 book fell to the ground again, and Lavender sat gaz- 
 ing into a mist of sad memories and future fears.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 49 
 
 Robin did not find Owen all at once. He searched 
 the house before he thought of looking in Owen's bed- 
 room, and it was there he found him, surrounded by 
 his portmanteaux and other luggage, which he was 
 feverishly engaged in packing. 
 
 Rarely had Robin felt so angry with his friend. 
 He could not keep his annoyance from his voice, and 
 spoke abruptly and with a sternness quite unusual 
 to him. 
 
 "Owen, what does this mean?" 
 
 Owen appeared absorbed in his task. At last, when 
 Robin repeated his question, he glanced up. 
 
 "Oh! it's you, is it? What do you want?" 
 
 "I want to know what you are doing." 
 
 "Owen resumed his work. "You can Me for your- 
 self packing." 
 
 "You are going away?* 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-day this evening the sooner the better,** 
 
 "Owen, you are mad!" Robin advanced into the 
 room. For the moment he almost believed that what 
 he said was true, so wild a light shone in his friend's 
 eyes. "Surely you must know that your duty is here?" 
 he added sharply. 
 
 "Duty !" The other rose to his feet He had been 
 bending over a half-packed portmanteau. "You are 
 always prating of duty, damn you! I'm sick to death 
 of it Can't you leave me to manage my own affairs?" 
 
 "No!" replied Robin, with heat. "Not when I see 
 that you're making someone miserable someone whom 
 you have sworn to love and cherish." With some 
 difficulty he modulated his voice. "Good Heavens, 
 man! what do you want to go away for just now, 
 when Lavender is sad, and wants the comfort of your
 
 250 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 presence? I found her not half an hour ago in 
 tears !" 
 
 "I can't help it." Owen kicked the hasp of a dress- 
 ing-case savagely. "Lavender has got to cry. The 
 sooner she gets the tears over, the better. You'd bet- 
 ter stay and dry her eyes." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Suddenly Robin's voice 
 had become steady and even. His calm was ominous. 
 
 "I mean just this." Owen brushed back a lock of 
 his dark hair that was hanging over his brow. He 
 was in a reckless, desperate mood, and did not care 
 what he said. "Things have gone wrong. It's no use 
 my staying here. I can't keep up the farce any longer. 
 My nerves are all on edge." 
 
 "Since you met Zelie ?" 
 
 Owen nodded. "Yes since I met Zelie. You'd 
 better know the truth. I'm going to London to find 
 Zelie." 
 
 "You propose to abandon Lavender to whom you 
 have pledged your word for that hell-cat? You will 
 throw over an assured future wealth and position? 
 There's no doubt of it you are mad!" 
 
 Owen broke into a fierce laugh. At that moment 
 it was as if the devil himself had taken possession of 
 him. He wanted to hurt others as he himself was 
 hurt. Let the worst be known. 
 
 "Is a man mad because he wants to claim his wife ?" 
 
 "His wife!" Robin staggered as if he had been 
 struck. He lifted his hand to his brow. "His wife !" 
 he repeated vaguely. 
 
 "That's what I said. Zelie is my wife. I married 
 her in Paris, soon after we first met. You can verify 
 the fact for yourself." 
 
 "My God! then Lavender?" 
 
 "I have cheated Lavender cheated you cheated
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 251 
 
 everyone. I wanted my aunt's fortune, and played 
 for it. You know the plot. I've lost the game because 
 she died before a new will was made. Lavender has 
 it all, and I can't marry Lavender because I have a 
 wife Zelie. Besides, I wouldn't if I could, for there's 
 no other woman in the world for me but the one who 
 is mine by every right." 
 
 "You blackguard! You vile, cruel devil! But it 
 isn't true! It can't be true!" Robin was trembling 
 in every limb. 
 
 "It's true I swear it!" Owen laughed again, 
 laughed provokingly. He felt as if hot irons were 
 searing his heart, and he could find no other relief for 
 his pain but in a laugh. 
 
 Robin lost all control of himself. He saw in con- 
 fused vision the sweet, pathetic face of Lavender 
 her humid eyes, her lips that trembled as they made 
 their plaintive appeal. How she would suffer! It 
 .was as if a dagger had actually been thrust into her 
 bosom. And the murderer stood there and laughed 
 as he confessed his crime ! 
 
 He must silence that laugh, choke it to extinction 
 with his strong fingers. At that moment it was Owen's 
 laugh that dominated everything. With a hoarse cry 
 of rage Robin sprang over the portmanteau that in- 
 tervened between Owen and himself, and before Owen 
 realised his danger he was seized by the throat, shaken, 
 and at last, as his cheeks assumed the hue of suffoca- 
 tion, thrown violently to the ground. 
 
 He lay there, panting and gasping. Robin stood 
 over him, his long arms outstretched, his breast heav- 
 ing. He was only just beginning to realise what he 
 had done. 
 
 Presently he fell on his knees beside the prostrate
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 man. "My God, Owen!" he cried. "I might have 
 killed you!" 
 
 "I wish you had," said Owen feebly. "It would 
 have been the best thing for me. The end of it all 
 the end." He dragged himself up to a sitting posi- 
 tion by the aid of the leather side of the portmanteau, 
 against which he had fallen. 
 
 "And you saved my life once !" groaned Robin, "and 
 I've looked up to you, admired you, set you on a 
 pedestal ! And now Heaven preserve us ! why did 
 you do this thing?" 
 
 "It's as well you should know me in my true col- 
 ours, "_said Owen, fingering his throat. "I don't bear 
 you any grudge for knocking me about, Rob. I de- 
 serve it. If you'd killed me it would have been what 
 I merit. I am a blackguard. But that admission 
 doesn't help things. You see I've got to go. I can't 
 atone to Lavender, but the sooner she forgets me 
 the better. I'll write from London and break my 
 engagement. It's all I can do. I'm going away a 
 penniless man that is some punishment upon me ; and 
 I despise myself which is a greater penalty still." 
 
 "And I what shall I do?" Robin spread out his 
 hands helplessly. 
 
 "You?" Owen scrambled to his feet. "Stay here 
 and comfort Lavender. She will need you. You love 
 her I'm quite aware of that fact." The eyes of the 
 two men met. "Perhaps some day she will forget 
 me and turn to you. Anyway, I wish it may be so. 
 For myself, I am going out of her life. I am return- 
 ing to my destiny to Zelie if she will have me." 
 
 He muttered the last words to himself.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IT was the month of July, and the London season was 
 on the wane a particularly brilliant season, altogether 
 unmarred by the threatening aspect of the political 
 horizon. It was a long while since there had been 
 such a succession of brilliant entertainments, parties 
 and balls, such an array of handsome debutantes, so 
 lavish a display of social extravagance. 
 
 And, of course, the inevitable touch of the bizarre, 
 the unorthodox, had not been wanting. On this oc- 
 casion it was supplied by Zelie, Queen of the Apaches, 
 the dancing girl of Montmartre, who had appeared 
 in London like a meteor and had straightway become 
 . a centre of attraction to all classes alike. She made 
 her first formal bow to the British public from the 
 vast stage of the Star Theatre, soon after the tragedy 
 at Chamney Castle, with which her name had indi- 
 rectly been associated, owing to her admitted connec- 
 tion with the man who was charged with the murder, 
 and never before in the history of the stage had so 
 enthusiastic and remarkable a reception been recorded. 
 For it was as if Zelie had the power of hypnotising 
 her audiences by some remarkable force inherent to 
 her personality. Calm judgment was suspended when 
 she danced; criticism went by the wind. Press and 
 public declared that she was wonderful, that her per- 
 formance was a triumph of art, and there were few 
 who ventured to hint at a contrary opinion. This, 
 though Zelie herself, with typical frankness, made 
 
 253
 
 254 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 mock of her admirers, and habitually addressed them 
 with her tongue in her cheek. A great measure of 
 her success was due to this attitude a fact which 
 Zelie was quick enough to recognise and to make the 
 most of. 
 
 Her photographs filled the shop windows, she was 
 interviewed and bepuffed, the illustrated papers in- 
 dulged in supposed biographies of her life, biogra- 
 phies which made Zelie hold her sides with laughter 
 when she had them translated to her. There was one 
 that even went so far as to find her a pedigree, and 
 to talk about the quiet home of her childhood with 
 deeply devoted parents, in some Paris suburb. 
 
 She became the "rage." Her dancing was described 
 as "a fine moral lesson." There were clerical digni- 
 taries who preached sermons to this effect. Some few 
 took the opposite side, and discussion arose heated 
 argument all wholly beneficial to the notoriety of 
 the dancer and to the exchequer of the Star Theatre. 
 
 And this was just what Lord Martyn had antici- 
 pated, prophesied, played for. It was precisely in 
 this way that he had designed to mock the world. He 
 had called the tune of malice aforethought, knowing 
 that the foolish rabble would rush and jostle to play 
 the part which he had assigned to it. He had done 
 this because he despised mankind, because he had a 
 grudge against his fellow creatures, because he wanted 
 to laugh at them in his heart, to bring them to scorn 
 and derision. It was a rare joke that he had prom- 
 ised himself, a joke at the world's expense. 
 
 And here was the irony of it, for his joke had been 
 turned against himself. All had happened as he had 
 foreseen, but he could derive no mirth from the suc- 
 cess of his scheming. Like Frankenstein, he had cre- 
 ated his monster, and his strength was not equal to
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 255 
 
 its suppression. For his own amusement he had given 
 Zelie to the world, promising himself a fine feast of 
 ridicule, and now the jest had lost its savour. He 
 could find no food for laughter. 
 
 He had foreseen the danger when it was too late. 
 The allegory of the panther, freed from its cage, by 
 which he had represented his action to himself, had 
 proved itself all too quickly no vain imagining. One 
 of his dearest friends had already succumbed to the 
 claws of the beast, and there were worse things in 
 store. It was of these that Lord Martyn was think- 
 ing that July afternoon as he restlessly paraded the 
 floor of his study, pausing occasionally to gaze, with- 
 out seeing, from his window upon the dusty trees 
 and parched grass of a London square for he had 
 been residing in town ever since the tragedy at 
 Chamney. 
 
 He did not blame Zelie; he had no reason to sus- 
 pect that she was in any way at fault for what had 
 happened that fatal night. It was not even her fas- 
 cination which had been the cause of Stephen Aldis's 
 death or so Martyn believed though the opinion 
 generally held in London was that the fatal blow had 
 been struck for reasons of jealousy this in spite of 
 the evidence at the police-court proceedings, which 
 made the incriminating letters, the attempted black- 
 mail, responsible for everything. London had taken 
 far more interest in Zelie because of her supposed 
 connection with a "crime of passion." It was a repe- 
 tition, on a more exalted scale, of what had happened 
 in Paris when a music-hall engagement had followed 
 that drama of the gutter when some half-dozen rough 
 fellows had fought and bled for her the Queen of 
 the Apaches. 
 
 But while not blaming, Lord Martyn would willingly
 
 256 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 have undone what he had done. Zelie was a danger, 
 whatever her actual intentions might be. Could not 
 the panther be lured back into its cage or, at any 
 rate, be removed from a spot where its presence was 
 to be feared? Even in those days, now the best part 
 of three months ago, Marty n vaguely foresaw where 
 the next blow would fall, and he was ready to pay 
 any sum, to run any personal risk, to avert so ghastly 
 a happening. 
 
 And so, a day or two after the funeral of Stephen 
 Aldis, he approached Zelie, who was then staying with 
 Mme. de Freyne, pending the completion of other ar- 
 rangements, and suggested that a return to her native 
 land might be desirable, considering the scandal that 
 would be stirred up at the forthcoming trial of Bibi 
 Coupe-vide. He knew all the time that his arguments 
 were not likely to have weight. 
 
 "You see, your name can't be kept out of it, Zelie," 
 he said, "because it was at your invitation the fellow 
 stayed at the castle that night. It will do you no good 
 to be connected in the public mind with such a cut- 
 throat scoundrel." 
 
 Zelie lifted her long, velvety lashes and regarded 
 him lazily. "Do you mean that, mon ami?" 
 
 "I do," he lied, for his argument was contrary to 
 all his theories. 
 
 "Ah ! but I think you are wrong. The good public 
 is curious. There has been much written about me 
 in your newspapers already. I have been given most 
 excellent advertisement." She nodded her small head 
 sapiently. "They will want to see Zelie of Montmartre 
 with their own eyes. Wait but a little, Milor Harry. 
 It will all fall out as you have said. I shall have un 
 succcs fou, a wild success do not fear for that." 
 
 It transpired after this that all Zelie's arrangements
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 257 
 
 for appearing at the Star Theatre had practically been 
 made. Mr. Radcliffe, the manager, was not the man 
 to allow the grass to grow under his feet, and he 
 had recognised that the dancer had already gained 
 a certain notoriety. Much had been said and writ- 
 ten about the remarkable entertainment at Chamney 
 Castle, and the part which Zelie had played in it. Her 
 skill at her particular art the word was already freely 
 used had been commented upon. She was a novelty 
 for the theatre by no means to be lost sight of. 
 
 Lord Martyn attempted other arguments, including 
 a liberal offer of money, but they all proved equally 
 inefficacious. Zelie's mind was made up. She meant 
 to pursue her stage career and to fulfil the predictions 
 of her success. Martyn was silenced there was noth- 
 ing more to be said. The stone that he had set rolling 
 could not be stayed, even though an avalanche should 
 follow in its track. 
 
 He had a faint hope that society might not take 
 up the dancer, after all, in spite of the plans he had 
 made to facilitate such a result. But here, again, he 
 had laid his ground too carefully; every seed that 
 he had planted came to fruition. The Duchess of 
 Shiplake, for instance, regarded him with eyes of as- 
 tonishment when he ventured to suggest that Zelie 
 was better suited for the music-hall stage than for a 
 society leader's drawing-room. 
 
 So Zelie danced at the Duchess of Shiplake's "At 
 Home," and after that she practically went every- 
 where. Even royalty smiled upon her graciously. 
 
 She accommodated herself marvellously to this new 
 and difficult environment. She was never awkward 
 or self-conscious. She had natural grace of bearing, 
 and she quickly learned to avoid anything in speech 
 or gesture that might offend. She learnt a little Eng-
 
 258 TWO APACHES OE PARIS 
 
 lish, which she would talk with a delightful lisp. SHe 
 knew exactly how to dress to the best advantage, and 
 the fashion which she set in this regard a gown 
 which, however rich it might be, still gave some subtle 
 suggestion of Montmartre was freely copied by those 
 who fancied that their figures permitted it to say 
 nothing of those who, without figures to boast of, 
 slavishly imitated what they believed to be "the thing." 
 Had Lord Martyn been in the mood to appreciate 
 it, he would have recognised in this a laughable phase 
 of his practical joke upon society. 
 
 Eve de Freyne had proved an excellent mistress. 
 Zelie owed much of her success to the journalist. They 
 continued to live together, this partly because Eva 
 had, like so many others of both sexes, yielded to the 
 strange fascination of the dancer, and partly because 
 Lord Martyn had requested that it might be so. He 
 imagined that the older woman would have a restrain- 
 ing and beneficial influence, and in a measure this 
 was the case, but, unfortunately, her profession often 
 called Mme. Eve away from home. 
 
 Besides, Zelie was the very last person upon earth 
 to be restrained by anyone. She went her own way, 
 and this was a way that was solely of self-interest. 
 She had no love, no emotions, no feelings, save for 
 herself and her own advancement. Mme. Eve often 
 wondered at the cold, calculating cruelty of her ideas, 
 but knew human nature well enough to understand 
 that these were merely primitive instincts, and that, 
 however thickly the veneer might be painted on, be- 
 neath it all Zelie remained the savage that she was 
 born naked and unashamed soulless. 
 
 Of course, admirers swarmed to do her homage. 
 She smiled on all in general. She took all she could 
 get from them, and gave nothing in return. In
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 259 
 
 that respect no stone could be cast at her. She was 
 like a siren who draws men to her snare, and then, 
 before their arms can enfold her, allows them to be 
 swallowed up in the morass over which she has hov- 
 ered. Zelie had learnt the lesson of Owen Mayne's 
 picture, "The Chamois Hunter," learnt it thoroughly 
 and well. 
 
 She had not been before the public six weeks be- 
 fore the panther claimed its second victim. Young 
 Lord Nettleton shot himself, leaving a note in which 
 he declared that he had committed the mad act for 
 love of Zelie that he had been ready to marry her, 
 if that was the only way by which he could win her 
 but she had steadily refused to grant him any favour 
 whatever. He could not live without her, and so 
 the end. 
 
 Of course, he had been drinking hard, and going 
 the pace absurdly a young fool. Zelie was not to 
 blame, so everyone agreed. On the contrary, it was 
 admitted that by refusing to marry the heir to an old 
 title she had acted well and honourably, and was 
 worthy of praise. The poor boy's suicide had no effect 
 but to add to her reputation and popularity. 
 
 And latterly, as Lord Martyn knew well, there had 
 been a constant visitor at the house in Knightsbridge 
 whose attentions should have been bestowed elsewhere. 
 What had Sir Donald Ransom to do with Zelie of 
 Montmartre ? Sir Donald, whose engagement to Lady 
 Beatrice had long ago been announced, and who would 
 have been married to her by now had it not been for 
 an unfortunate family bereavement. The wedding, in 
 consequence, had been postponed till the autumn. 
 
 It was this the intimacy which had sprung up 
 between Sir Donald and Zelie which was troubling 
 Lord Martyn so much that afternoon. Also, the trial
 
 260 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 of Bibi Coupe-vide was in progress he had been com- 
 mitted from the police court upon the capital charge 
 and there was always the fear that the name of the 
 writer of the letters, which Bibi was proved to have 
 used for blackmailing purposes, might be revealed. 
 Lord Martyn had moved heaven and earth to prevent 
 this, and, so far, with success. But one could never 
 say what might not be brought out under cross-exam- 
 ination. And there remained two letters still unac- 
 counted for those the absence of which had thrown 
 Aldis into such a passion that he had paved the way 
 for his tragic death. 
 
 The whole situation was destructive to peace of 
 mind, and it was not to be wondered at that Lord 
 Martyn should pace up and down the room restlessly, 
 inwardly cursing his own impotence; he who had al- 
 ways considered himself a strong man, careless of 
 the world, regarding it much as a theatre with pup- 
 pets that he could force to move for his edification 
 and amusement, now found himself caught in the toils, 
 himself a puppet, dangled at the end of the string of 
 destiny. 
 
 "That she should be threatened she !" he muttered 
 over and over again. "And it has all been my own 
 doing. I have cut a stick for my own back, indeed, 
 sharpened the knife that will shed my heart's blood. 
 And it is through others that the blow will be struck 
 that is the horror of it they must suffer she must 
 suffer because I imagined that I could play with 
 the lives of men." 
 
 He clenched his fists, and threw himself down into 
 an easy chair, then he picked up a paper that lay 
 beside it, and read over again the account of that 
 morning's proceedings in court. He had given his 
 evidence the day before, and his presence was no
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 longer necessary. It was a Friday, and the trial would 
 certainly be adjourned till the following week. Bibi 
 still strongly maintained his innocence, but no one 
 doubted what the result of the case would be. 
 
 Lord Martyn was deep in his paper when the door 
 of the study was pushed open and his name was gently 
 called from the threshold. He looked up sharply, then 
 he sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Beatrice!" 
 
 It was Lady Beatrice Clewer who stood there. She 
 wore a smart afternoon frock, a tightly fitting gown 
 that seemed to be moulded to her exquisite figure, 
 and her large hat, with its overhanging brim, threw 
 her face into shadow. But Martyn could see at once 
 how pale she was, how troubled. There were little 
 lines about her lips, and her lashes drooped over 
 the eyes that were usually so clear and frank and 
 blue. 
 
 "Beatrice, what is the matter ?" He took her hands 
 in his, felt that they were cold despite the heat of the 
 July day. Then he led her into the room, first closing 
 the door, and made her sit down in the chair which he 
 had just vacated. 
 
 "I had to come to you, Uncle Harry," she mur- 
 mured. She was sitting erect, and dragging nervously 
 at her left-hand glove. "They told me you were in 
 the study, and I wouldn't let them announce me. I 
 came straight up." 
 
 "Yes?" he questioned. "Is anything wrong, Bea- 
 trice? But I can see there is. Oh, you poor white 
 child !" There was infinite tenderness in his voice. 
 
 She had drawn off her glove by now, and she held 
 out her slim hand straight before her. The gesture 
 was pathetic, and Lord Martyn realised at once its 
 significance, for Lady Beatrice's engagement ring, the
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 hoop of brilliants that Sir Donald had presented to 
 her, no longer had place upon her finger. 
 
 "I have taken it off," she sighed. "He wouldn't 
 have it back but I've taken it off." Her fingers 
 drooped. "Even they look wretched, don't they?" she 
 said, with a queer little laugh. "Thin and hungry and 
 sad, as if they felt that there was something missing." 
 
 "Tell me why, Beatrice." Lord Martyn drew up a 
 high-backed chair and seated himself heavily. He 
 seemed to have aged all of a sudden. Looking at 
 him now, Beatrice wondered, despite her grief for 
 herself, that she had never before noticed the wrinkles 
 that criss-crossed on his brow. 
 
 She was very fond of Uncle Harry, as she always 
 called him. He had been good to her ever since she 
 was a mite of a child he had spoilt her almost by 
 the number of presents he showered upon her in those 
 days. And later, when she was a little bigger, he 
 had always been ready to devote his time to her, unless 
 he happened to be far away at the other end of the 
 world on one of his wandering expeditions; and, if 
 he were, she was quite sure that he would come back 
 if she should summon him. 
 
 There was little sympathy between her stepmother 
 and herself. They had no interests in common. Be- 
 sides, the Countess of Albyn was of too frivolous a 
 disposition to like the role of chaperon; she had been 
 only too glad to welcome Sir Donald as a deliverer 
 from an irksome charge. It was not to her step- 
 mother that Beatrice hurried for comfort it was to 
 her "Uncle" Harry. 
 
 "Tell me, dear," he said gently, taking her cold 
 hand in his, "is it what we feared?" 
 
 It had been impossible to keep her in ignorance of 
 the misuse of her letters to Stephen Aldis. The revela-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 263 
 
 tion might have been made in court, and she had to be 
 prepared. The poor girl trembled under the blow, 
 for she had imagined the whole silly business long 
 ago dead and forgotten. The letters had been written 
 when she was little more than a child almost as a 
 joke she and a school friend had plotted it together. 
 
 She would have made full confession to her fiance, 
 but Lady Albyn begged her not to. "There's every 
 chance that your name is never mentioned," her lady- 
 ship urged, "so why give yourself away? Do you 
 want to appear a silly little goose in Donald's eyes? 
 Besides, there's no knowing he might take it badly." 
 
 So Beatrice had been silent, and now she regretted 
 her silence. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with a weary little nod of her 
 head, "it's that mainly. Oh ! it's not been mentioned 
 in court, and Sir Laurence says it won't be. But the 
 two other letters, Uncle Harry the missing ones, you 
 know they were brought to Donald. He had to buy 
 them, or else or else " 
 
 She broke off with a sob, and hid her head against 
 the man's shoulder. She could not see how his face 
 was working, how deeply moved he was. 
 
 "Or else they would have been published," she fal- 
 tered. "That was the threat. I believe Donald paid 
 the man what he asked, and then thrashed him well." 
 There was a touch of pride in her tone. "He was 
 angry oh ! very, very angry this happened last night 
 it wasn't so much because I had written the letters, 
 but because I had never told him about it. And then 
 I got angry, too, Uncle Harry I I've got reason 
 to and I said foolish things you know about whom. 
 He went very white, and asked if I didn't trust him. 
 I don't know how I answered, but but it appears that 
 he didn't mean to come and stay with us at Henley
 
 as he had arranged, you know he has decided to go to 
 America after the Cowes week she is going to Amer- 
 ica, so that's why. I begged him not to go if he loved 
 me, but he would not give way you see he was angry, 
 so I took off my ring and asked him to take it back. 
 He took it, Uncle Harry, and flung out of the house, 
 but to-day he came back and wanted to put it on my 
 finger again." She paused and made little dabs at 
 her eyes with a tiny lace pocket handkerchief rolled up 
 into a ball. 
 
 "And you did not allow him to ? Why, Beatrice ?" 
 "Because he would not give up going to America," 
 she answered, with some defiance. "Oh! I know 
 I know how he has been running after that creature 
 that Zelie who is more like a venomous snake than 
 a woman. He makes a pretence of business, but it 
 is only to follow her. She has caught him in her 
 snare, just as she caught that poor, unhappy Nettleton 
 boy. And she will only throw him over when she 
 has broken him. She is a worker of evil. She has 
 no soul !" 
 
 "That is true, and perhaps it is Donald's safeguard," 
 replied Lord Martyn, tugging at his beard with his 
 disengaged hand. "She has no love to bestow upon 
 any but herself. He is a strong man, and he will 
 wrestle with her if it is true that she has really at- 
 tracted him from you. But I tell you, Beatrice, child, 
 that Zelie, in her way, is stronger than he, and he 
 will not get the better of her. Then he will tire. He 
 will recognise his folly. He loves you really. I'd 
 take my oath to that and this affair with Zelie is 
 only a mad infatuation. She is a witch, and seems 
 to mesmerise men they are not exactly responsible. 
 That's how it is with Donald."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 265 
 
 "What would you have me do, uncle?" Beatrice 
 asked, lifting a plaintive face. 
 
 "Be patient," he replied. "Don't be too hard upon 
 him. He will come back to you. There is only one 
 fear, and that" he waved his large, strong hand, as 
 if to brush the thought away "that is no more than 
 a shadow." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Beatrice anxiously. 
 
 "You said just now that Zelie has no soul," he said 
 slowly. "It is true. But woebetide the man Don- 
 ald, or another who should wake the soul within her. 
 And woebetide Zelie herself for there is no room 
 in her breast for a new-born soul !" 
 
 A silence fell. Lady Beatrice was twisting one of 
 the buttons of her chair round and round, uncon- 
 sciously loosening it. Suddenly it broke off with a snap. 
 
 "He wasn't really so very angry with me about 
 the letters," she confessed. "I think I'm sure he 
 understood. It was I who was jealous. I who made 
 the scene. But I love him so I love him so and I 
 can't share his love with another! Oh! if he would 
 only not go to America if he were freed from this 
 horrible infatuation ! For if he didn't see her so often 
 he would forget; he would understand that a pure 
 love is the best. I should soon win him back if I had 
 him all to myself." 
 
 She was rocking herself to and fro, her hands 
 clasped about her knees. "Uncle Harry," she mur- 
 mured, "if I lose Donald, lose him really, I shan't want 
 to live any more ! It would kill me !" 
 
 She spoke with a strange intensity. She was hold- 
 ing herself rigidly, but after a moment her muscles 
 seemed to relax, and she fell back upon the arm which 
 he had stretched out to support her, like a frail blos- 
 som chilled by an untimely frost.
 
 266 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "It would kill me !" she repeated. 
 
 "Donald shall come back to you," Lord Martyn 
 asserted boldly. "Be of good cheer, Beattie, child. 
 He loves you with all that is good in him and there 
 is far more good in him than bad. Yes, I'll answer 
 for it. He shall be at your knees, asking forgiveness, 
 before the month is out." 
 
 He stood up, and lifted his clenched fists high above 
 his head. It was as though he were taking an oath. 
 
 "As there is a God in Heaven," he exclaimed pas- 
 sionately, "Zelie shall not stand between you and the 
 man you love ! I will sweep her from your path yes 
 I I ! For I know what I have to do, and it is not 
 yet too late !"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 EVE DE FREYNE was absent from London on the busi- 
 ness of the paper for which she worked, and for 
 the last week Zelie had had the little house in Knights- 
 bridge to herself. On the whole, she rather preferred 
 this, though the presence of her friend did not in the 
 smallest degree interfere with her independence. 
 
 She had been summoned as a witness at the trial of 
 Bibi Coupe-vide, and her appearance in the box had 
 caused all the sensation she could have wished. The 
 court, of course, was crowded, and she had skilfully 
 played to the gallery on her own behalf. She under- 
 stood that all the sordid details that might be dragged 
 into the light of day her relations with Bibi, for in- 
 stance must either damage her materially or add to 
 the notoriety which she had already gained a great 
 deal depended upon her own behaviour. She passed 
 triumphantly through the ordeal. 
 
 Bibi had not given her away. He had revealed no 
 word of the plot against Owen Mayne into which she 
 had dragged him. Probably he realised that even 
 should this be proved it would not help him at all, he 
 who had apparently been caught red-handed. On the 
 contrary, it might have told against him, as proof of 
 the lightness in which he held human life. For Zelie 
 knew the character of the .man well enough to be quite 
 sure that he would not hesitate to betray her if thereby 
 he should be the gainer. 
 
 There was another reason, too, why he held his 
 267
 
 268 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 tongue. Zelie had once contrived to see him while 
 in prison, and had exercised her blandishments over 
 him to her own advantage. He was always her Bibi 
 adore, and she was working to make money for his 
 sake, and one day when he was free once more they 
 would return to Paris, and the good time would begin 
 for them both. 
 
 Bibi protested his innocence of the crime even to 
 her. She professed to believe him, though she had 
 no doubt whatever that it was he who had struck the 
 blow by mistake. But since he was innocent he 
 would be acquitted, she maintained, and then all would 
 be well. So she left Bibi buoyed up with hope, and 
 in blissful ignorance of the desperation of hi? plight. 
 
 For herself, she did not care one way or the other 
 whether he was acquitted or condemned, so long as 
 he did not compromise her. Perhaps of the two she 
 would have preferred him hanged it would save her 
 trouble in future. 
 
 The defence sought to disprove that there had been 
 any quarrel between the two men with regard to the 
 incriminating letters, also that Bibi had manifested 
 any jealousy of Stephen Aldis. It was concerning 
 these matters that Zelie was questioned. Her answers 
 were non-committal, and of very little service to the 
 prisoner, who sat in the dock, gazing at her with hun- 
 gry eyes, firmly believing, in his stupidity and igno- 
 rance, that when Zelie had spoken there would be an 
 end to the whole matter. 
 
 Zelie was as much as home in the witness-box as 
 in the theatre. The court was thronged with fash- 
 ionably dressed men and women, and she was the 
 centre of attraction. The wretched prisoner was over- 
 looked altogether. 
 
 Yes, it was at her invitation that Bibi Coupe-vide
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 69 
 
 had spent that night at Chamney Castle. She desired 
 his presence in order that her dancing should be the 
 greater success. They had danced together in Paris, 
 and the public had approved. She had no knowledge 
 as to the reason of his appearance at Chamney in the 
 first instance he had certainly not followed her. She 
 did not even know that he was in England. She spoke 
 of Bibi as if he had never been anything to her but 
 a companion of the footlights one in whom her only 
 interest was that of a somewhat disdainful compas- 
 sion. No direct question about her relations with the 
 prisoner was put to her had it been she would doubt- 
 less have lied. 
 
 She returned home that afternoon unruffled by her 
 experiences in court, pleased, if anything, by the sensa- 
 tion she had caused, and by the prospect of seeing 
 her portrait in the illustrated papers on the following 
 morning. The servant told her that a gentleman wished 
 to see her, and was waiting in the drawing-room. 
 
 "What name did he give?" she asked carelessly. 
 The maid was a new one, and not yet accustomed 
 to her ways. Zelie was not at home to every chance 
 caller. 
 
 "He would not give his name," answered the girl. 
 "He said that madam would see him, and that he 
 would wait." 
 
 ZelFe frowned, and passed on. She would scold the 
 maid another time. Visitors must not be admitted in 
 this haphazard fashion. Doubtless, however, it was 
 a friend who wished to" give her a pleasant surprise. 
 She rather expected a call from a certain new admirer 
 with whom she had supped the other night. 
 
 She entered the drawing-room, and found herself 
 confronted by Owen Mayne. Immediately she lost her 
 temper.
 
 270 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "You!" she exclaimed angrily, "you! Have I not 
 forbidden you to come to my house? That girl is a 
 fool to have admitted you ! I shall send her packing !" 
 
 "Zelie!" He stood quite still in the middle of the 
 room. He appeared a broken man. His face was thin 
 and sallow, his eye sunken and hungry. His clothes 
 well cut, as always were dusty and uncared for. 
 He had quite lost the smart appearance that had been 
 wont to characterise him. "Zelie I couldn't keep 
 away. My God! I've tried since you were so cruel 
 to me that day. I vowed that you were not a woman, 
 but a devil in woman's flesh. But you are my wife, 
 you know my wife !" 
 
 "Cruel to you?" she retorted. "What did you ex- 
 pect? After telling me a host of pretty stories about 
 the fortune that was bound to be yours, you come 
 to me without a penny in your pocket, almost without 
 a coat to your back. Yes, things had gone wrong, 
 you said, and the little plaster saint was going to 
 have every penny of the money, after all. But we 
 could be happy all the same you and I because we 
 loved!" Her tone was charged with infinite scorn. 
 "So would I come away with you at once, and we 
 would share a garret somewhere, and you would paint, 
 while I mon Dieu! I might twiddle my thumbs! 
 For I must leave the stage that was part of the pro- 
 gramme. Monsieur was jealous ! Monsieur must have 
 me all to himself in the garret, with nothing a year 
 to live upon !" 
 
 She sank into a chair, tapping the floor viciously 
 with the heel of her little boot, and laughing a laugh 
 that was like the threatening snarl of a wild beast. 
 
 The man drew himself up wearily. He had the ap- 
 pearance of one who had suffered much.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 271 
 
 "I was a fool," he said in low, intense tones. "I 
 admit it. But but I thought you cared, Zelie. That 
 was my folly to think that you had one spark of 
 humanity in you and that it was for me. I loved you 
 because of your very dissimilarity to the rest of the 
 world because you are like a creature fashioned out 
 of the mists of time without heart, or warm blood, 
 or soul a siren, a witch I loved you for all this, and 
 flattered myself that I, too with you could be out- 
 side the world. Those weeks I spent at Selwood 
 Manor were a torture to me, and I only lived in the 
 thought that one day you and I would be reunited. I 
 degraded myself played the blackguard's part but it 
 was for your sake, so I didn't care. And then, when 
 things went wrong, I could stand it no more. I might 
 have kept up the farce have found some other way 
 of carrying the cheat to completion have lowered my- 
 self still more. But I couldn't do it. I hungered and 
 thirsted for your kisses. I saw your red, alluring lips 
 by day and night. They called me. I threw up every- 
 thing and answered the call." 
 
 "You'd better have stayed and married your pink 
 and white doll," retorted Zelie, removing one by one 
 the pins from her hat with nonchalant fingers. "I 
 told you I'd never have interfered with you, husband 
 and wife though we may be. I advised you to go back 
 to her. I thought you had. Why didn't you?" 
 
 Owen shuddered. "Zelie I love you! You are 
 mine, before God and the world! As for Lavender 
 Percivale may her lips never again be defiled by 
 kisses of mine. I left you that day when I realised 
 that you wanted none of me in a passion of rage and 
 despair. I tried to forget. I couldn't. I have been 
 trying to forget through all these weeks. I cannot. 
 I have been in hell. I can't tell you how I have lived.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 I hardly know myself. I have starved because I had 
 no appetite for food. I have drunk myself besotted 
 night after night, but it has not brought forgetfulness. 
 I have taken drugs, but my dreams oh! God! My 
 dreams !" 
 
 He shivered, and pressed his elbows against his 
 chest. "Look at me!" he said. "It is to this I have 
 come because I love you !" 
 
 Zelie had taken off her hat by now, and she laid it 
 down on a sofa close beside her. She still held the 
 long, sharp pins in one hand, allowing them to roll to 
 and fro between her palm and her fingers. 
 
 She threw a disdainful glance at Owen and shrugged 
 her shoulders. "I cannot help it," she said, "if you 
 are a fool. Either you should have kept your promise 
 to me, and come with money in your pocket, or you 
 should have kept away. For myself, I would sooner 
 the^ latter. I do not need you." 
 
 "But I need you," he interrupted, and there were 
 strange fires that burned in his hollow eyes. "Zelie, 
 that is what I have come to tell you. I cannot live 
 without you. I won't go back to my hell alone ! You 
 are my wife " 
 
 Zelie had sprung to her feet. She was quivering 
 with rage. "You dare to threaten me?" she cried. 
 She pointed imperiously to the door. "Begone!" she 
 commanded. "Out of my sight at once ! I hate you 
 I hate you!" 
 
 The pins fell clattering from her hand to the floor, 
 all save one, the longest and sharpest. She threatened 
 him with it. 
 
 "Go !" she panted. Then she broke forth into a flood 
 of low Montmartre expletives, words such as had not 
 passed her lips for months. She stood there, a fury,
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 273 
 
 defiant, uncontrolled. Her breast was heaving, her 
 eyes were like white-hot steel. 
 
 "You may kill me, if you like," he said. "I don't 
 mind if it's at your hand. But I claim you, Zelie, 
 claim you as my wife !" 
 
 He opened his arms and advanced upon her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 "I CAN'T live without you, Zelie I can't!" Owen 
 Mayne advanced blindly, his arms extended. His feet 
 dragged, and he swayed a little from side to side. He 
 had lost all dignity, all strength. He was like a 
 drunken man, without reasoning power, obsessed by 
 one all-absorbing desire. 
 
 "And I hate you!" Zelie stood erect, not even 
 deigning to retreat before him. Her bosom was heav- 
 ing, and her eyes flashed in infinite scorn. And, in- 
 deed, the man presented a pitiable spectacle of moral 
 and physical degeneration. 
 
 It seemed as if he did not hear her. For the mo- 
 ment all recollection of those weeks of agony, during 
 which with drink and drugs he had been blighting his 
 body and soul, was swept away. He saw only Zelie 
 Zelie in the flesh, not a shadow, a form without sub- 
 stance, such as his dreams had conjured up. 
 
 He had forgotten utterly forgotten how he had 
 come to her immediately after his flight from Selwood 
 Manor, believing that she would welcome him with 
 open arms, and how she had discarded him with mock- 
 ing disdain he who had sinned for her, degraded him- 
 self to the lowest depth of infamy how she had bidden 
 him return whence he came, as she had no further 
 use for him. 
 
 At that a violent rage had surged in his breast, and 
 he had seen Zelie for what she was. He had swung 
 away from the house, her derisive laughter ringing in 
 
 274
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 275 
 
 his ears, vowing that she had murdered love and 
 crushed the passion that he had borne for her to ex- 
 tinction. Might he never set eyes upon her more! 
 Wife of his though she was, he consigned her body to 
 defilement, her soul to the nethermost hell. 
 
 He had made an effort after that to return to the 
 old life. Paris saw him once more he strove to paint. 
 He succeeded in earning just enough to keep himself 
 alive and to pay for the poison with which, almost at 
 once, he sought to banish memory and to lay the 
 ghosts that haunted him. It was all in vain. The 
 coils of the snake were about his limbs, the claws of 
 the panther rent his breast, the beak of the vulture 
 was in his heart. The siren who was now snake, now 
 panther, now bird of prey, demanded his soul, while 
 the woman who was the earthly representative of that 
 siren mocked and rejected him. 
 
 It came to his ears that Robin had arrived in Paris 
 in search of him. Owen sold at ruinous sacrifice the 
 few sketches and pictures that remained to him he 
 had already disposed of the furniture and effects of 
 his studio -and flat and returned to London, where 
 he lost himself in the vortex. Robin sought him in 
 vain. 
 
 His funds, such as they were, were soon exhausted. 
 He tried to paint if only to earn a pound or two 
 but found that his hand had lost its cunning. He 
 sank lower and lower. His strength and health gave 
 way. Time after time he set out to find Zelie, but 
 caught sight of himself a sorry figure in some mir- 
 ror behind a shop window, and then slunk back to his 
 miserable apartment. He was ashamed. 
 
 But by degrees even shame lost its restraining influ- 
 ence. Nothing remained but a great hunger for the 
 touch of Zelie's hands, a maddening thirst for the
 
 276 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 kisses of her lips those kisses that were his by right. 
 And his drug-begotten dreams came nightly to add 
 to his frenzy. He haunted the stage door of the Star 
 Theatre. Once, in coming out and passing to her 
 brougham, Zelie had actually brushed against him; 
 her cavalier, a tall, soldierly man, had pushed Owen 
 roughly aside. There might have been a scene, but 
 Owen had become suddenly conscious of his own 
 degradation. He slunk away, and as the brougham 
 passed him by broke down and wept weak tears. He 
 knew then that his day was done. 
 
 The intensity of his passion drove him at last to 
 Zelie's house. He had deprived himself of his drug 
 the night before by a superhuman effort imagining 
 that thereby his head would be clearer. The only re- 
 sult was that he felt miserably weak and ill. Never- 
 theless, he dressed himself with some care for his ap- 
 pearance, and set out. He had eaten nothing, had no 
 desire for food. On the way he had been compelled 
 to fortify himself with brandy, stopping at a public- 
 house for the purpose. It was in this state that he 
 had been admitted to Zelie's presence. 
 
 But all this was forgotten now as he staggered for- 
 ward, imagining that he was about to take his wife 
 in his arms, to slake his thirst at her lips. His senses 
 reeled, and quite suddenly the recollection of her harsh 
 words forsook his brain. He was deaf to her vitupera- 
 tion, to her declaration of hatred. There was a mist 
 before his eyes, and he could not see the loathing that 
 her face expressed; he was blind to the menace of 
 her uplifted hand the hand that was armed with the 
 long, sharp pin. 
 
 His face was close to hers, she could feel his breath, 
 breath that sickened her with its reek of brandy, upon 
 her cheek. Zelie uttered a scream, not of fear, but of
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 277 
 
 hatred and disgust, and then she struck at that face, 
 shortening the weapon in her hand, stabbing with it, 
 viciously, cruelly, careless of consequences, only in 
 her rage eager to see the red blood flow. 
 
 It was her very fury that saved Owen from serious 
 harm. Had she been less frenzied with passion she 
 might have aimed deliberately at one of his eyes. As 
 it was, the hatpin wounded his cheek, his lip, his fore- 
 head and then broke. 
 
 "There there there!" Zelie screeched out the 
 word each time she struck. The foulest insults fell 
 from her tongue. Her face was contorted with rage 
 hideous for the moment every trace of her weird 
 charm had deserted her. 
 
 Owen fell back dazed foolishly astounded con- 
 scious of sharp pain. Blood was trickling from his 
 forehead into one of his eyes, blinding it. He lifted 
 his hands to his face, and then gazed at them vacantly, 
 blinking, wondering why they were smeared with red. 
 
 "Zelie," he muttered, "what is it? What have you 
 done to me ?" 
 
 "I wish I'd killed you," she panted. She was still 
 holding the head of the broken hatpin, and now she 
 threw it away with an impatient jerk. 
 
 And then quite suddenly it all came back to him, 
 the sin that he had sinned for this woman's sake, the 
 trouble that he had wrought the ignominy and shame 
 what he had been, and what he was. 
 
 But the manhood had gone out of him, the strength 
 of will, the power to mock at himself and at the world. 
 The vampire of his passion had sucked his very life- 
 blood ; he had offered up his vitality as a sacrifice upon 
 the altar of the siren. Owen Mayne stood face to face 
 with the tragedy of his own existence. 
 
 He had poisoned himself with deadly drugs ; he had
 
 278 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 neglected to nourish his body; he had scorched and 
 burnt his brain till it was no better than white ash; 
 he had trampled pride under his feet; he was mean, 
 despicable, unspeakably vile. 
 
 So he saw himself at that moment. There was a 
 mirror upon the wall in front of him, a mirror in a 
 quaint and ornate frame of ebony one of Eve de 
 Freyne's curiosities. Fantastic faces, grotesques, were 
 carved on either side, and at the top and bottom, but 
 none of them could equal in repulsive ugliness the 
 face, blood-stained, contorted, hideous, that Owen saw 
 reflected in the mirror itself. Could it, indeed, be 
 his own? Why, it might have depicted all the sin of 
 all the world. It was scarcely human. Yet he had 
 been a man once. 
 
 He sank into a chair and buried his face in his 
 hands. Great tears, that were reddened with his blood, 
 welled between his fingers. His whole body shook 
 and quivered. Choking sobs broke in his throat. He 
 wept for the loss of all that had enabled him to hold 
 up his head among his fellows his pride, his self- 
 respect, his manhood. And all the while the name of 
 his destroyer, she for whom he had sacrificed these 
 things, was on his lips. 
 
 "Zelie! Zelie!" He rocked himself to and fro, re- 
 peating the word in a monotonous wail. 
 
 Zelie regarded him from under her curling lashes, 
 and she moistened her dry lips with her tongue; she 
 had the aspect of a beast of prey who has tasted blood 
 and who thirsts for more. 
 
 How she loathed the sight of that abject figure, 
 rocking to and fro in its chair ! Of all things she de- 
 tested weakness. She quite forgot that it was in ad- 
 miration of his strength, his defiance of danger, that 
 she had given herself to Owen Mayne. Even now,
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 279 
 
 had he thrown himself upon her, crushed her slim 
 body with his powerful hands or, rather, hands that 
 had been powerful once had he beaten her, kicked 
 her as she lay at his feet, she would have understood, 
 for the primitive instinct was still strong in her, and 
 to her mind this was the way of a man with the woman 
 he loved. Bibi Coupe-vide would have dealt thus with 
 her Bibi, who had not a tithe of Owen's physical 
 strength. 
 
 "Zelie, I am your husband. I could proclaim it to 
 the world !" His hands had fallen to his sides, and he 
 was staring up at her with his bloodshot eyes. Then 
 he muttered, half to himself: "Why not why not?" 
 
 This was the danger, and Zelie realised it. That 
 accursed marriage! How often she had laughed to 
 think that she had desired the death of her husband 
 plotted for it not because he was her husband, but 
 because she imagined that he had deceived her, be- 
 cause her fierce jealousy had been aroused. It was 
 another feeling that animated her now. This wreck 
 of humanity this pauper could go forth and pro- 
 claim that he had a right over her that she was his 
 wife ! 
 
 How could she sweep him from her path? She 
 ground her little, sharp teeth together and clenched 
 her fists. Then she told herself that she would find a 
 way if only he could be silenced for the time being. 
 That was the essential point. 
 
 Then she remembered how she had dealt with Bibi. 
 Promises are easy to speak, and men are fools where 
 women are concerned. Owen must be conciliated since 
 he had this weapon in his hand and might use it. It 
 was a pity that she had lost her temper and struck 
 him. 
 
 Her task proved easier than she had anticipated, and
 
 280 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 it was Owen himself who gave her the opening she 
 desired. 
 
 Suddenly he dropped from his chair upon his knees, 
 and trailed across the floor till he reached her side, 
 when he clutched at her skirt, bowing his head almost 
 to the ground, hiding his face in the folds of her dress. 
 He was ashamed of his scars, of his degradation, of 
 his self-abasement, of what he had seen in the mirror. 
 
 "Zelie," he moaned, "it isn't true that you hate me 
 tell me that it isn't true. You were angry, and it is 
 in your nature to be quick-tempered. Why, I remem- 
 ber, even in Paris, months and months ago, when we 
 were happy, you once threatened me with a knife, 
 and you might have used it, too, only I soothed you 
 with a kiss, a fierce kiss that bit the flesh as keenly 
 as any knife. Say that you were angry, Zelie, and 
 that you don't hate me. I'll do anything you like. I'll 
 go away until you call me. I know that I'm a despic- 
 able object now that I've been playing the fool with 
 my life. But it isn't too late, if you'll give me hope. 
 I'll give up the drugs, the drink, everything that has 
 been playing the devil with me. I'll be a man again. 
 I'll work I will, I swear it ! Only say that you want 
 me to, Zelie that you care !" 
 
 She stretched out her hand and touched his head. 
 He had drawn himself up as he poured out his suppli- 
 cation, so that she could easily do so. 
 
 "Get up, mon ami," she said, forcing herself to speak 
 gently. "It's true, I was angry. I am sorry I struck 
 you. Forgive me." 
 
 She allowed him to grasp her hand as he rose to his 
 feet. She knew that it was in her power to dictate 
 any terms she pleased. Soft words why had she not 
 realised at once how much more potent they may be 
 than blows ? The panther had not yet learnt to sheathe
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 281 
 
 its claws till the right moment to strike presented itself. 
 Zelie was gaining wisdom, but the primitive instinct 
 was still strong within her. 
 
 Owen stood before her with bowed head, but his 
 heart beat wildly within his breast. What did the 
 wounds upon his face matter now ? Zelie was his, and 
 he loved her none the less because she had inflicted 
 them. It was this very savagery in her which had 
 charmed him from the first ; his brain had created her, 
 and she had sprung to life vicious, cruel, alluring, 
 the realisation of a fantastic dream. 
 
 Zelie dictated her terms. They had as their object 
 the immediate ridding herself of his presence and the 
 assurance that the relationship between Owen and her- 
 self should not be revealed. She did not mind how 
 many promises she made for the future the future 
 would take care of itself. It was more than likely 
 that Owen would drink and drug himself to death. 
 
 She must bring her London season to a close she 
 must pay her promised visit to America the provinces 
 were clamouring for her. Till the end of the year 
 at least she must have complete independence. Then 
 she would return to Paris, and Owen should join her. 
 She would be tired of fame by that time, and would 
 crave for a return to the old Bohemian life. Together 
 they would begin all over again. It would be delight- 
 ful. Owen should paint his "Chamois Hunter" pic- 
 ture afresh. It would make him famous, for the world 
 would know that she, Zelie, had been his model. 
 
 Just such promises she had made glibly to Bibi 
 Coupe- vide and with just as much intention of carry- 
 ing them into effect. 
 
 "And in the meanwhile you may see me at the thea- 
 tre," she said; "not here and not too often. I've
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 no wish that anyone should suspect. You must have 
 patience." 
 
 He promised that he would. He vowed that he 
 would work, that he would raise himself from the 
 slough into which he had sunk that he would give 
 up the poison which had brought him so low any- 
 thing, if it was to win Zelie in the end. 
 
 Zelie shrugged her shoulders. She did not care 
 what he did. She only wanted him to go. There 
 was another visitor who might arrive at any minute 
 Sir Donald, in point of fact and how could she 
 receive him without tidying her hair and generally 
 attending to her appearance, ruffled as she was after 
 this troublesome interview with Owen? 
 
 And Owen wanted to kiss her as a ratification of 
 their treaty. She laughed, and pointed satirically to 
 his reflection in the mirror. "Would you have me 
 kiss you now?" she asked. 
 
 This recalled him to his senses, arousing him once 
 more to a knowledge of his shame. The scratches 
 upon his face had ceased to bleed. He crossed to the 
 mirror and rubbed the stains away as best he could 
 with his handkerchief. 
 
 Then he came back and took Zelie's hand and lifted 
 it to his lips. "Good-bye," he faltered. "I'll go now. 
 I know that I'm a poor, mean creature a despicable 
 hound but you can do what you will with me, Zelie. 
 You have only to threaten not to see me again and I 
 cringe to you. God but it's not so long ago since I 
 was a man!" 
 
 And so he left her. He had but a few shillings in 
 his pocket, and did not know where he was to obtain 
 more. Yet he had promised to work, to reform ! 
 
 He walked slowly, dragging his feet. A sense of 
 definite lassitude came upon him. Near the door of
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 283 
 
 the house he had met Sir Donald Ransom, looking 
 spruce, pleased with himself, expectant. Sir Donald 
 had glanced at him without recognition. How low he 
 must have fallen ! 
 
 Sir Donald was going to see Zelie. Owen stood 
 at the corner of the street until the young man had 
 knocked at the door and been admitted. A welcome 
 guest, no doubt while he, Owen, Zelie's husband, who 
 had every right to go there, was refused the house! 
 And he had submitted without a murmur! He de- 
 spised himself, loathed himself but in a half-hearted, 
 spiritless fashion. 
 
 The craving for drink seized upon him. Of course, 
 it was that which had made such a coward of him. 
 He had taken no stimulant for nearly twenty-four 
 hours ; no food, either. He must have a little brandy, 
 and then, perhaps, he would see his way clearer 
 just a little, to put life into his sluggish veins. 
 
 He turned into a public-house. Zelie, who desired 
 nothing better than that he should drink himself to 
 death, would have laughed could she have seen him 
 then. 
 
 And she would have rejoiced still more had she seen 
 him later on, a pitiable object, tossing on his bed in 
 the delirium of a drug-begotten sleep. For she would 
 have recognised the futility of taking any steps to 
 rid herself of a man who was bent upon his own 
 destruction.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 ZELIE leant back upon her sofa and laughed noisily. 
 She was in her dressing-room at the theatre, and it 
 was little more than a quarter of an hour since the 
 whole vast house had resounded with the applause 
 which her dancing always called forth. She was quite 
 accustomed to it now, and accepted it as merely her 
 due. 
 
 Her performance was very similar to that which she 
 had given at Chamney Castle, save that in the Danse 
 du Neant the presence of a masculine companion was 
 only implied, just as in her other dances the audience 
 were always able to people the stage with characters 
 which did not exist in actual fact. It had been deemed 
 most effective that Zelie's remarkable personality 
 should not be interfered with by the introduction of 
 another performer. 
 
 It had not taken her long to recover from the effects 
 of her interview with Owen. As soon as the drawing- 
 room door closed behind him she had thrust out her 
 tongue derisively, danced a few steps of a wild can- 
 can, abused him in her coarsest Montmartre slang, 
 and then, finding herself before the mirror, commenced 
 to smooth down her hair, congratulating herself all 
 the time upon her astuteness in having got rid of an 
 incubus. 
 
 "Claim me as his wife he! Oh! mon Dieu! but 
 it would have been awkward if he had. I did well 
 to temporise. For this Owen this husband of mine, 
 
 284
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 285 
 
 whom I hate he shall not stand in my way" 
 she clenched her fists "I say he shall not! I will rid 
 myself of him we shall see we shall see !" 
 
 Her features softened curiously. "For what would 
 Donald say if he knew that I was not free? He has 
 queer ideas, this good Donald of mine, and he would 
 not take a woman who belonged to another man, 
 though he does not hesitate to break his vows to the 
 girl who was to have been his wife. Ah! they are 
 funny, these men, and we can twist them round our 
 fingers, we who are clever." She lifted her fingers to 
 her lips and kissed them lightly. "For, see this. They 
 tell me that Donald is in love with an English miss 
 oh! but very much in love that he will marry her, 
 and they will be happy ever after but I say, 'No! 
 I like your Donald. He is handsome he pleases me/ 
 And so I smile upon him and it is enough. Voila! 
 he is at my feet. Why not? There is another who 
 loves him ? Bah ! I mock myself of women I mock 
 myself of the world !" 
 
 A drop or two of blood which had fallen from 
 Owen's wounded face, and stained the carpet, caught 
 her eyes at that moment; she ground her heel over 
 the spot, muttering another curse upon her husband, 
 then she hurried off to her bedroom to continue there 
 the adjustment of her toilette. She was not content 
 till she had changed her afternoon gown for a be- 
 coming negligee, and by the time she had done this 
 her equanimity was quite restored. 
 
 Of course, she had kept Sir Donald waiting, but 
 she looked so extraordinarily fascinating when at last 
 she reappeared in the drawing-room that he could find 
 nothing to say but just, "Zelie! Zelie! How wonder- 
 ful you are ! How can any man resist you ?" 
 
 She smiled upon him in answer, and, indeed, a curi-
 
 286 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 ous change had come over her face. Its lines were 
 less hard, the humanity of it more marked. Had Lord 
 Martyn seen her at that moment he would have feared 
 for her. Had he not always said that Zelie's day 
 would be over if ever she became like other women 
 if ever she should find her soul ? 
 
 They dined together that evening, Sir Donald and 
 Zelie. The name of Lady Beatrice was not mentioned 
 between them. After dinner they drove to the theatre 
 in Zelie's brougham. 
 
 Just before her turn was signalled the dancer was 
 handed a note. It came from Lord Martyn, and it 
 requested a private interview after the performance. 
 Zelie sent a reply inviting him to her dressing-room 
 when she should have left the stage. 
 
 She found him there awaiting her. She was flushed, 
 a little out of breath, and her nerves on edge, as they 
 always were after the abandonment of her dancing. 
 She threw herself down upon a sofa, her breast heav- 
 ing under the thin black corsage which she wore as 
 the Apache in the last item of her performance. The 
 floor was littered with other articles of attire, gauzy 
 fabrics of white and black, all of them in curious con- 
 trast to the rich evening gown which had been laid out 
 over a chair, ready to be donned again. 
 
 "I always rest for a few minutes after I leave the 
 stage," she explained, "but you know that, Milor 
 Harry. You may talk to me while I lie here." 
 
 He drew a chair up to her side and talked. His 
 face was grave, and Zelie thought that he had aged 
 remarkably since she had first met him. He kept 
 pulling at his black beard in a manner that was char- 
 acteristic of him. 
 
 And it was with characteristic promptitude, too, 
 that he came to the point, once the ordinary words
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 287 
 
 of greeting and compliment were spoken. Lord Mar- 
 tyn was not given to beating about the bush when 
 his mind was made up. And it was quite made up 
 now. 
 
 There remained but one way by which the panther 
 might be cajoled back to its cage the panther that 
 had done so much harm already. It was he himself, 
 Lord Martyn, who had given the beast its freedom, 
 so upon him lay the responsibility of guarding against 
 other victims falling into the clutch of those death- 
 dealing claws. He must atone by devoting himself. 
 
 "Zelie," he said smoothly, "I feel that in a way I'm 
 answerable for you. I'll be quite frank about it. I 
 launched you in London, knowing full well that you 
 would be a danger to society, that your beauty your 
 astonishing power of attraction, which, whatever it 
 may be due to, is hardly human would set people by 
 the ears. I had a grudge against society, you see. My 
 experiment has been successful too successful. I 
 think I underestimated the folly of my kind. Well, 
 my dear, I don't blame you, of course. It's all due to 
 the inscrutable ways of what we are pleased to call 
 Providence. But I fancy it's time to draw in, and 
 with this object in view I'm going to make you an 
 offer." 
 
 "An offer?" She folded her bare arms above her 
 head, and the white of them glinted from beneath the 
 meshes of rick black hair which lay upon them like 
 a veil. Her lashes drooped lazily over her eyes. "An 
 offer?" she repeated. 
 
 He nodded gravely. "Yes. I think I understand 
 your nature, Zelie, as well, at least, as a man can un- 
 derstand the heart of a woman. You love applause, 
 admiration, position, gold you love yourself. Beyond 
 these things you are cold. You despise mankind
 
 288 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 yes, men and women alike. It pleases you that men 
 shall pay you court, but you have no love to give in 
 return. You have never loved. You never will." 
 
 She lifted her lids and turned her head a little. Her 
 eyes glittered behind their dark circles of paint. "And 
 if this is so," she said, "why do you speak of it? To 
 what are you coming?" 
 
 "To this," he responded. "I am ready to give you 
 all that you most desire, Zelie a high position, a name 
 that is centuries old, a fortune that you may play with 
 as you please. And I do not ask for love in return. 
 There shall be no question of love as love between 
 us. I merely want you to be my wife." Even at that 
 moment Martyn could not restrain the vein of satire 
 that was so strong within him. 
 
 This was the only way or so he had decided by 
 which Sir Donald and Lady Beatrice could be restored 
 to each other's arms. The spell of the siren must be 
 removed. There was real love between the two young 
 people in whose fortunes he was so deeply interested 
 and Donald was an honourable man, though he had 
 been snared, tempted, and was drifting to dishonour 
 in spite of all that was good in him. 
 
 "So you wish to marry me, Milor Harry?" Zelie 
 sat up as she put the question. 
 
 "Yes," he replied quietly, "to marry you." 
 
 "But you don't" she hesitated "love me?" 
 
 "No no more than I expect you to love me, Zelie. 
 Love, in the true sense of the word, died in my breast 
 many years ago. It left me cold." He folded his 
 arms and fixed his eyes upon the girl. For one brief 
 moment, as he spoke of dead love, they had softened 
 then the light died out of them again. 
 
 "And you do not even feel that that attraction 
 which you say I exert over men without knowing it?
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 289 
 
 You have no passion?" She threw out the word 
 boldly, defiantly. There had been times when she won- 
 dered why this strong man, who had seemingly taken 
 such interest in her, had never, by word or deed, ex- 
 pressed any warmer feeling. 
 
 "No." 
 
 It was then that Zelie had thrown herself back upon 
 the sofa and broken out into a harsh laugh. For she 
 guessed the reason of Lord Martyn's proposal. 
 
 "Yet you would marry me why ?" The words were 
 broken by her laughter. 
 
 He frowned a little for why should she laugh? 
 "Let us say that it is because I am still ambitious for 
 you," he replied, carefully weighing his speech, "be- 
 cause I want my wife to be a woman who is different 
 to any other woman on the face of the earth. The 
 world regards me as an eccentric man, Zelie ; perhaps 
 I wish to crown my eccentricities by this marriage. At 
 any rate, what I propose is all for your benefit; so, 
 since you do not desire love, but only worldly gain 
 you have told me so many times why should we 
 trouble about the reason of my proposal? A union 
 between you and me will hurt no one and it may save 
 many." 
 
 Zelie stretched out her hand and touched his wrist. 
 "Ah! there we have it, mon ami!" she said. "That 
 is the true reason. I am a danger, and you would 
 save someone from me. It is of Sir Donald that you 
 are thinking. Am I not right, heinf" 
 
 He inclined his head. "You do not love Sir Don- 
 ald," he replied, "only it pleases you to encourage his 
 infatuation. But I can give you more, far more, than 
 ever Sir Donald could offer. You will not hesitate 
 between us, Zelie?" 
 
 Lord Martyn spoke bluntly, for this was his trump
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 card. He knew that if he was to gain his point it was 
 only the girl's avarice, her self-love, that he could ap- 
 peal to. She had no finer emotion to play upon. The 
 conviction of this had actuated him throughout. It 
 was merely a compact that he was proposing, a com- 
 pact in which all the advantage was on one side. He 
 had imagined that Zelie would see it in this light. 
 
 But for once he was mistaken as he was soon to 
 learn. For Zelie laughed again, and her laughter 
 jarred upon his ears. Then she rose from her sofa 
 and crossed to her dressing-table; it was as though 
 she wished to signify that the interview was at an 
 end. 
 
 "I am flattered, Milor Harry," she said, "by your 
 proposal." She dropped him a mock curtsy. "But, 
 no I cannot accept it." She was not going to ac- 
 knowledge herself a married woman there was no- 
 need for that. "Nor would I if I could without love," 
 she added. 
 
 Martyn could hardly believe that he had heard 
 aright. He had not had the smallest doubt of the 
 success of his manoeuvre till Zelie laughed. He rose 
 to his feet and stepped quickly to the girl's side. He 
 towered over her as he stood there, a strong man 
 whose self-confidence had received a sudden check. 
 
 "Without love?" he faltered. "Zelie, for Heaven's 
 sake, what do you mean? You do not love anyone? 
 You are not the sort of woman who loves. You can 
 play with men's souls and toss them away that is 
 why I felt it would cost you nothing to give up those 
 who are hovering round you now the one especially 
 and marry me. But love what have you to do with 
 love?' 
 
 "Only this," she replied, and of a sudden her voice 
 had softened, and all its mocking ring had gone from
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 291 
 
 it "that he has taught me to love yes, Donald. For 
 the others, I have cared nothing no, never, never. 
 No man has ever really stirred my heart. I have never 
 known what love is till now. I never thought I 
 should. I never wished to. You were right when 
 you said that I wanted nothing but gold gold and 
 applause gold and admiration but always gold first. 
 Had you come to me yesterday, mon ami, I might 
 have made you any promise you desire, but you are 
 just a few hours too late." She pressed her hands to 
 her palpitating bosom. "For now there is something 
 born within me something that has sprung to life 
 within my breast and it is sweet and fresh and tender, 
 and I feel that I must guard it as a mother guards her 
 young. That is why I was hard just now, why I 
 laughed, for it was as if you were attacking that which 
 I cherish." 
 
 Zelie's eyes shone fiercely, and yet Lord Martyn 
 had never before seen so much humanity in her face. 
 He knew that his mission had failed, that it was hope- 
 less, and for a few moments anger mastered him. His 
 heavy hands fell upon the girl's shoulders, and she 
 bent under their weight. He could have killed her 
 with one blow, and yet it was she who had mastered 
 him. 
 
 "Woman witch!" he cried, "thing of evil! have 
 you not a single spark of human feeling in your breast? 
 Hasn't a little charity been born in you at the same 
 time as this love? Don't you know that you are rob- 
 bing another of all that makes life happy for her? 
 Was it no lesson to you that Cecily Cuthbert should 
 call you murderess? For Donald Ransom does not 
 love you, I say. It is not love that he offers you. You 
 have ensnared him, you vile sorceress of lust and pas- 
 sion! His heart belongs to Lady Beatrice Clewer
 
 293 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 it will never be yours! You cannot inspire love 
 you!" 
 
 "What do I care?" Zelie drew up her lithe body, 
 and met the burning hate of the man's gaze with de- 
 fiance. "It is I who win. Donald has taught me to 
 love him, and by that love I shall hold him fast. What 
 is Lady Beatrice Clewer to me? What is any man or 
 woman in the whole world to me, except the one 
 being I love ? Why, I should not care if the earth were 
 drenched through and through with their tears aye, 
 or with their blood!" 
 
 She spoke with a wild fervour that was not without 
 its finer side. For Zelie was not to be judged by 
 ordinary standards, as none knew better than Lord 
 Martyn himself. Her very cruelty and heartlessness, 
 her utter lack of human sympathy all these were 
 but as Nature had bestowed them upon the primeval 
 creatures of which Zelie was the prototype. Could 
 she be blamed because she was a living expression of 
 primitive instinct? 
 
 "Blame the inherent cruelty of things," Martyn 
 muttered to himself as his hands fell to his sides. 
 
 "Ah! Zelie! Zelie!" he added aloud. "It is useless 
 for me to argue with you. You have beaten me, and 
 left me without a weapon I who could strangle the 
 life out of you with one of my hands !" He addressed 
 her in a tone of intense sadness. "There will be more 
 tears and mourning about your path, Zelie, more pain 
 and bloodshed, and it is I who am to blame, not you 
 yourself, who know no better." 
 
 He extended his large hands. "See!" he cried. 
 "They are stained already and the tears that have 
 fallen upon them and are to fall cannot wash away 
 the marks! But listen to me, Zelie, for what I tell 
 you is true, even though I am looking into the future.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 293 
 
 Your eyes are dry now, but they will be wet. You 
 say that love is born in your breast, you who have 
 never known love. Do you understand what that 
 means ? It means that the soul within you is awaken- 
 ing that you will be a woman like other women. And 
 the birth pangs will not be easy, Zelie, nor will the 
 soul that is born to you bring anything but sorrow 
 and despair!" 
 
 He left her upon that and made his way slowly to 
 the street. As he emerged from the stage door a 
 newsboy thrust a late edition of an evening paper 
 before him. 
 
 "Result of the great murder trial! Here you are, 
 guv'nor!" cried the urchin. "Scene in court!" The 
 boy was carrying a bill on which the words appeared 
 in huge letters. 
 
 So the end had been reached sooner than Martyn 
 had expected. He purchased a paper, and paused 
 under a street lamp to inspect the stop-press news. He 
 had no doubt in his mind as to the verdict. 
 
 But as he read the brief paragraph to its conclusion 
 he started, and his hands trembled so that he could 
 scarcely hold the paper. 
 
 A cry escaped his lips. "My God! No! no! It 
 isn't possible! it isn't possible!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 "HAVE met with accident. Come to me. OWEN/' 
 
 The telegram had been despatched from a central 
 London hospital. The thin pink paper fluttered from 
 Robin's hand to the floor, and he sat quite still for a 
 minute, staring at the picture upon which he was 
 engaged. It was a landscape, painted in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Selwood, and he was putting the finishing 
 touches to it in his studio. He had leased a cottage 
 upon the Manor estate, and had resided there ever 
 since Owen's flight except for the time which he had 
 spent in vain pursuit of his friend. 
 
 The picture had been commissioned by Lord Mar- 
 tyn, who had manifested an interest in the young artist, 
 a disposition to lend him a helping hand. He had 
 given Robin certain introductions, of which the latter 
 had made good use, so that future prospects appeared 
 bright, and there was no need for him to bury himself 
 once more in the forest of Fontainebleau. He had, 
 indeed, removed his belongings from his former home 
 and settled definitely in England. 
 
 "Poor fellow! poor Owen!" Robin rose, and began 
 rummaging among the papers upon his writing-table 
 for a time-table. "Of course I'll go to him go by 
 the very next train. God grant it may not be anything 
 really serious." 
 
 There was no train to London, however, for another 
 294
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 295 
 
 two hours. Selwood was on a branch line where 
 there was little traffic. Robin decided that he would 
 walk over to the Manor and tell Lavender that he 
 might be absent for a day or two it was just as well 
 that he had the opportunity. And in the meanwhile 
 he would send a telegram to Owen announcing his 
 approaching arrival. 
 
 He would not tell Lavender the true object of his 
 journey. There were reasons why he could not do 
 so. As he plodded along across the fields, taking a 
 short cut to the Manor a pleasant walk through wood 
 and over meadow he meditated, with a half-smile, a 
 smile that was tinged with sadness and self-sympathy, 
 upon the curious state of affairs that had come into 
 being since the departure of Owen from Selwood. 
 
 It was all due to Robin's kindness of heart and 
 weakness of character. He could not bear to give 
 pain, and he had shrunk from the task of breaking 
 to Lavender the news of her lover's perfidy. She 
 did not know even to-day that Owen was already 
 a married man ! 
 
 It had all come about so naturally, so quietly, and 
 Robin had found himself involved in a maze of sub- 
 terfuge a maze from which he could only extricate 
 himself by disavowing all the stories which he had 
 concocted before he knew what he was about. One 
 excuse had led to another, one small lie had demanded 
 a bigger to back it up, and so it had gone on till the 
 tangle was past remedy. 
 
 For Lavender was so terribly distressed that day 
 when Owen had departed for London without a word 
 of explanation, leaving the girl who loved him so 
 devotedly at a time when she needed him most. How 
 could Robin have spoken the truth then? It was 
 beyond his power to do so. She pressed him with
 
 296 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 questions. Had he not had a long talk with Owen, 
 been taken into the confidence of the latter? 
 
 So Robin began his tissue of inventions. Owen 
 felt his position as a poor man engaged to a rich girl. 
 His funds were running short that was the secret 
 which had been harassing him for weeks and making 
 him so unlike himself. He was too proud to confess 
 the truth to Lavender. He had gone away to work 
 to re-establish his position and he had begged 
 Robin to explain matters to his fiancee. 
 
 "But the money is nothing to me!" Lavender cried. 
 "It is Owen's by right, and would have been his but 
 for dear mother's sudden and tragic death. Oh ! won't 
 he look at it like that and come back to me?" 
 
 Robin was obliged to entrench himself behind the 
 standpoint of Owen's invincible pride. He succeeded 
 in comforting the girl for the time being, which was 
 his main object that day. "She will learn the truth 
 when Owen writes," he told himself. "She will be 
 better able to bear it then." 
 
 But Owen never wrote. The days passed, and no 
 letter came. Lavender began to fret once more. 
 
 And then always to avert the evil day to keep 
 those dear eyes from shedding tears, Robin adopted 
 desperate, foolish means. He himself wrote letters, 
 and signed them with Owen's name. There was no 
 difficulty about the handwriting. The lovers had never 
 corresponded, Owen having been at Selwood from 
 the beginning of the engagement to the day of his 
 flight. 
 
 It was quite easy to send the letters to a friend in 
 Paris and have them posted from there. In these 
 communications Owen professed to be very busy set- 
 tling his affairs and making arrangements for the fu- 
 ture; he was building himself up a position; as soon
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 297 
 
 as this was established he would return and claim 
 Lavender as his wife; he would no longer feel then 
 that he was taking undue advantage of his fiancee's 
 wealth. 
 
 And all the while Robin knew how hopeless it was, 
 how futile. There were days when an avowal trem- 
 bled upon his lips ; then he would purse them tightly 
 together. "Another time, another time," he would 
 mutter to himself. "I shall find a way out. Lavender 
 mustn't be made to cry." 
 
 And so it went on. Robin spoke to no one of Owen's 
 marriage, not even to Lord Martyn, whom he saw 
 frequently in those days. But he made an effort to 
 trace his friend, fearing for his future, and guessing 
 that Zelie would have none of him; but though he 
 did his utmost, both in London and Paris, his search 
 was fruitless. He returned to Selwood, drawn there 
 by the magnetism of Lavender, and the tragic farce 
 was continued as before. 
 
 For Robin suffered acutely. He and Lavender were 
 thrown much together, and she was far too natural 
 and healthy-minded to conceal from him that she was 
 glad of his company, that she had a strong liking for 
 him, as Owen's friend, and that the sympathy which 
 had sprung up between them was agreeable to her. 
 
 Once she ventured to question him as to why he 
 had never married, and in a burst of confidence Robin 
 told her all about his never- forgotten love affair ; how 
 the girl to whom he had given his heart had been 
 stricken down by consumption, how he had married 
 her when she had but a few weeks of life to look for- 
 ward to, how their honeymoon a brief honeymoon, 
 spent in the forest of Fontainebleau had terminated, 
 as they both knew it must, in the bride being laid 
 to rest in a quiet little cemetery, hedged in by giant
 
 298 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 trees, where the grass was always green, and where 
 wild flowers, which she loved so dearly, grew in pro- 
 fusion. 
 
 That Lavender was the living image of his dead 
 love, this fact Robin kept to himself, as closely as he 
 kept the secret of the adoration he bore her. For 
 Lavender was not for him, so he told himself over 
 and over again, with his blundering lack of self-confi- 
 dence ; how could she care for him when she had given 
 her heart to Owen? Owen, so handsome and clever; 
 Owen, who had proved so false ? 
 
 And so Robin's days were bitter-sweet; yet he 
 prayed night and morning that they might endure 
 a little longer, and he could see no other way to secure 
 this but by keeping up the deception which he had 
 already practised successfully for so many weeks. For 
 when Lavender knew the truth, as she must at last, 
 she would be angry; she would never forgive him; 
 she would not understand ; and then he must go, there 
 would be nothing for it but that ; but, oh ! might God 
 grant that that day should not come soon ! 
 
 The letters which he wrote to Lavender in Owen's 
 name came to have a weird fascination for him. Very 
 soon after he had begun writing them the girl com- 
 plained to him that Owen expressed himself coldly, 
 that his letters were not lover-like. She did not com- 
 plain a second time. Robin put into his effusions all 
 the passion of his own heart, all the longing desire 
 he bore. Owen was almost forgotten as the burning 
 words flowed from a ready pen. Once he had actu- 
 ally signed his own name, but discovered the mistake 
 in time. 
 
 Of course, he received Lavender's replies. He treas- 
 ured them as holy things. At first he did not intend 
 to read them, but there were questions to be answered ;
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 299 
 
 it was necessary to show a knowledge of what she had 
 written. The pain of it, at first, was almost more 
 than he could bear, but by degrees, in some extraordi- 
 nary fashion, he began to forget Owen and associate 
 himself with the letters, so that he looked for their 
 coming with the keenest desire. 
 
 Robin pondered upon these matters as he made his 
 way to the Manor. For how long could he keep up 
 the deception ? How would it all end ? He knew that 
 he had been a fool, and yet it was love the deepest, 
 tenderest love, which had inspired folly. 
 
 Lavender and Mrs. Foxhall, her chaperon, were in 
 the garden sunning themselves upon the lawn. The 
 elder lady had the day's paper spread out before her, 
 and she had evidently been reading from it aloud. 
 Robin noticed at once that there was a look of concern 
 upon the girl's face. 
 
 "Isn't this a terrible thing, Mr. Clithero?" she said, 
 after the formal words of greeting had been spoken. 
 "Mrs. Foxhall has been reading me all the particulars. 
 I could hardly believe it true." 
 
 "I'm afraid I haven't looked at the morning paper," 
 Robin admitted, "so I don't know what has happened. 
 I had some work I wished to finish in a hurry. Will 
 you tell me all about it ?" 
 
 "It's about the murder of that poor Mr. Aldis at 
 Chamney," explained Lavender. "You know that 
 the trial of the Frenchman, whom everybody believed 
 guilty, was nearing its end." 
 
 "The verdict was not expected till Monday," put 
 in Robin. 
 
 "No. But the case came to an unexpected con- 
 clusion. The prisoner has been put back pending 
 fresh inquiries. It appears that last night, just before 
 the closing of the court, a woman stood up and accused
 
 300 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 herself of the murder. She cried out that she could 
 bear it no longer, that she must not let the innocent 
 suffer for her crime. She was overwrought and hys- 
 terical, I'm sure, for it isn't possible I can't believe 
 it's possible." 
 
 "A woman?" Robin looked his surprise, and 
 wondered. 
 
 "Yes. Cecily Cuthbert, the actress, you know. She 
 cried out that it was jealousy which made her do the 
 deed; that she loved the man she killed, and that she 
 had not known a moment's rest since she struck the 
 blow. Remorse had tortured her. There was a ter- 
 rible scene in court, it appears, for she screamed, and 
 denounced another woman, the dancer Zelie is the 
 name she goes by, I think the French girl who was 
 at Chamney the night of the murder, and whose dan- 
 cing made me shudder as the real cause of the trag- 
 edy, the murderess though her hands were not stained 
 with blood. Oh! isn't it terrible? I remember Miss 
 Cuthbert quite well. I thought her so pretty and 
 graceful not at all the sort of woman that one can 
 associate with a crime." 
 
 "No." Robin set his teeth. "If it had been the other 
 woman, Zelie, there would have been no cause for 
 wonder. Guilty or no, Miss Cuthbert was right in 
 denouncing that tiger cat as a murderess she is one 
 of those who lure men, body and soul, to destruction. 
 There is venom on her lips, and she has no heart, no 
 warm, human blood in her veins, no soul. She is 
 what she showed herself as that night at Chamney 
 the eternal temptress, a creature fashioned from the 
 mist of ages." 
 
 He spoke with unwonted vehemence, and Laven- 
 der gazed at him in some surprise ; then her eyes grew 
 troubled.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 301 
 
 "Oh! is she as bad as that, Mr. Clithero?" Lavender 
 clasped her hands nervously. "But but Owen knows 
 her, doesn't he? They talked together at Chamney 
 that night. I didn't say anything about it, but I wasn't 
 quite happy." 
 
 Robin laughed shortly, and a trifle awkwardly, re- 
 alising that he was on dangerous ground. He found 
 some excuse for Owen, and then brought the conver- 
 sation back, as quickly as he could, to the subject of 
 the trial and Cecily Cuthbert's confession. 
 
 Mrs. Foxhall was quite in her element in discussing 
 this. She loved sensational cases. She adjusted her 
 spectacles upon her nose, and read out paragraphs 
 from the newspaper report. "I confess I am as sur- 
 prised as everybody else must be," she declared. "I 
 had quite made up my mind that this French creature 
 Bibi Coupe-vide what a name to go by! was 
 guilty. And I think so still, and am sure that he'll be 
 found guilty in the end." She spoke with finality, and 
 as if her word was law. Then she rose and bustled off 
 to the house, having duties to attend to. 
 
 Lavender accompanied Robin to the gates of the 
 park. He had told her that he was going to London 
 on business, and might be absent for a day or two. 
 
 "I had a letter from Owen this morning," she said 
 with a smile one of those smiles which repaid Robin 
 for all that he had suffered by his deception, "and he 
 says that he is getting on wonderfully, so it may not 
 be so very long now before he returns to me. That 
 foolish pride of his when he need never have gone 
 away at all ! But, oh ! I do admire him for it ! I do, 
 and I have no doubt about his love for me now 
 he writes so sweetly, so tenderly. And it was all for 
 the best, after all, for we couldn't have been married 
 this year, while he and I are still in mourning."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 Robin reached London early in the afternoon, and 
 made his way direct to the hospital where Owen was 
 lying. Here he was expected, and the ward sister 
 supplied him with particulars of the accident before 
 conducting him to the bedside of the patient. 
 
 "I'm afraid there is no hope, Mr. Clithero. It is 
 very doubtful if your friend lives through the night. 
 Have you seen much of him lately?" The sister had 
 keen grey eyes, and Robin felt that she was scrutinising 
 him closely. 
 
 No hope ! Robin shuddered, for the recollection of 
 Lavender's happy words when he left her at Selwood 
 Park gates flashed through his brain. "He says he 
 is getting on wonderfully it may not be long before 
 he returns to me." And all the while Owen lay here, 
 mangled and shattered, at death's door. How tragic 
 it was, how infinitely tragic! 
 
 "No," Robin replied, "I have not seen Mr. Mayne 
 for some months." 
 
 "It appears that he has been addicted to drugs. 
 We have had information from the landlady of the 
 house where he was living. Not only that he has 
 been drinking heavily. He went home last night in 
 a maddened and irresponsible condition. Towards 
 morning he was seized with violent delirium. The 
 people of the house sought to restrain him, but he 
 escaped from them and flung himself out of the win- 
 dow. He has received an injury to his spine besides 
 other hurts from which he cannot recover. He re- 
 gained consciousness in the hospital, and was able to 
 give us your address he said that he had no other 
 friends. Only he kept repeating the name of Zelie, 
 and I found out that he was thinking of the French 
 girl who dances at the Star Theatre. So I sent a mes- 
 sage to her but she has not come."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 303 
 
 "Does he know that you sent that message ?" Robin 
 put the question anxiously. 
 
 "Yes. And since then he has never taken his eyes 
 from the door. But she will not come. I'm sure of 
 that from the way she received the messenger one 
 of our porters. He says, Mr. Clithero, that her eyes 
 lit up when she read the note, and that she laughed 
 she laughed!" 
 
 "Curse her!" muttered Robin under his breath. 
 Then he asked if he might be taken to his dying friend. 
 
 He bit his lip to keep the tears back when he stood 
 by the partially-screened bed in the long ward and 
 gazed down upon the poor shattered thing that, not 
 so many months ago, had been a man, a man of splen- 
 did physique and robust health, one whom men envied 
 and women admired his friend, Owen Mayne. 
 
 This was he whom Robin had set up on a pedestal 
 and made a hero of. This was he whose good looks, 
 whose easy manners and quick wit, had won so many 
 hearts, who might have risen to proud heights be- 
 cause of the talent that was in him; above all, this 
 was he upon whom Lavender had bestowed her love, 
 he for whose return she was waiting, picturing him 
 to herself the proud lover, the man that he ought to 
 have been. And he lay here, his face contorted, dis- 
 coloured, hideous, the hand of death upon him ! Oh ! 
 the pity of it! 
 
 "Curse her !" repeated Robin, gulping down the lump 
 that had risen in his throat. "It is she, Zelie, who has 
 brought him to this." 
 
 It was true that Owen's eyes had been fixed upon 
 the door. His bed was placed close to it. There was 
 a faint glimmer in them as the sister appeared with 
 a visitor, then the light had died out and the lids fell. 
 Apparently he had not recognised his friend.
 
 304 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "He is going fast," whispered the sister. 
 
 Robin stooped over the bed. There were red marks, 
 like scratches, upon Owen's forehead and cheek and 
 lip. 
 
 "We don't know how he received those wounds," 
 said the sister; "they did not happen in his fall. He 
 had them when he went home last night. But they 
 are superficial, and of no importance." 
 
 "They look as if they had been done with a claw," 
 Robin said, with an involuntary shudder. "The wild 
 beast has left her mark upon him," he added to him- 
 self, but without any idea in his mind of how nearly 
 he spoke the truth. 
 
 An hour later Owen roused himself and stared wildly 
 at Robin, who was still seated quietly by the bed. 
 
 "Has she come?" The words were breathed in a 
 moan. 
 
 Robin bent forward and rested his hand on that of 
 the dying man. "It is I, Robin," he said. "Don't 
 you know me, Owen?" 
 
 There was faint recognition in the dull eyes, but 
 the question was repeated mechanically: 
 
 "Has she come?" 
 
 Robin hesitated, then he lied splendidly lied as it 
 was his nature to lie, if by so doing he might spare 
 pain. 
 
 "Yes she came an hour ago Zelie, your wife. You 
 were unconscious, and did not waken. She kissed 
 you on the brow and lips, Owen. She sat here by the 
 bedside longing for you to recognise her. Then she 
 had to go her profession, you understand. But she 
 promised to return to-morrow." 
 
 Robin spoke the last word with a catch of his breath. 
 For the words of the sister were in his mind as he
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 305 
 
 uttered them. She had said that her patient would 
 not live through the night. 
 
 "Thank God for that! but, oh! why didn't I feel 
 that she was here? Still, thank God and to-morrow 
 I shall see her to-morrow !" 
 
 Robin was repaid for his lie by the change that 
 came over the sick man's face a change that was al- 
 most startling. The haunting look of agony, the ap- 
 palling restlessness of spirit, gave place to a calmer 
 and more placid mien; the horrible contortion of fea- 
 ture vanished; the lips ceased to twitch convulsively; 
 the eyes regained a feeble lustre. 
 
 Owen's thin fingers responded a little to the pressure 
 of Robin's hand. "It was good of you to come, old 
 friend," he murmured brokenly. "There was no one 
 I wanted to see but Zelie and you." 
 
 "There is someone else who loves you." Robin 
 bent low over the bed so that his whispered words 
 should be heard. 
 
 "Lavender? Ah! poor Lavender! I was a brute 
 to her. I have had the measure of my offending meted 
 out to me. I deserve what I have got. She ought to 
 hate me." 
 
 "Owen, she doesn't know. I tell you this, as it may 
 make you happier. I never told her I was afraid 
 of breaking her heart. She still thinks you are true 
 to her that you will return. I deceived her for her 
 own sake." 
 
 There was a pause. Owen turned his head upon 
 the pillow his brain was slow to absorb Robin's 
 words. 
 
 "Is this true?" he murmured faintly. 
 
 "It is God's truth! Lavender loves you believes 
 in you." 
 
 "Then she need never know. She will mourn for me
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 without knowing me for the scoundrel I am. Robin, 
 how can I thank you?" 
 
 He lay quite still for a few minutes, but his lips 
 moved, and Robin, bending over him, could distin- 
 guish a few words of what he muttered. It seemed 
 as if his mind was wandering. His eyes were closed. 
 
 "The statue in the wood the old legend we looked 
 upon it together when we plighted troth when we 
 first kissed. It was an evil omen she said so. And 
 it has come about like the story. The lover was 
 false but she never knew she never knew! Killed 
 in a duel God! haven't I been fighting a duel with 
 myself? She gazed upon his dead body let Lavender 
 gaze upon mine ! But she never knew !" 
 
 Presently Owen re-opened his eyes and spoke more 
 normally. "You've been good to me, Robin, and I 
 hope you may be repaid as you deserve. Teach Lav- 
 ender to love you win her for yourself. She will 
 turn to you in time, when she has ceased to mourn 
 for one who was not worthy of her tears. But keep 
 the truth from her to the end if you can." 
 
 "Shall I send for her, Owen?" 
 
 The dying man shook his head weakly. "Not till 
 I am dead. Would you have her hear the name of 
 Zelie upon my lips, meet Zelie herself, perhaps ? No" 
 a smile parted his lips "let me die happy in the 
 knowledge that my wife cares for me that she came 
 when I called her that she will be here to-morrow 
 for I'll live through the night, that my eyes may feast 
 upon her face once more that she will be here to kiss 
 me again before I go to the unknown. Ah! the kiss 
 of Zelie the kiss of Zelie!" 
 
 "God! may he die before dawn!" Robin breathed 
 the prayer from the depth of his heart, breathed it for 
 his dying friend's sake.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 307 
 
 And it was in the silent watches of the night that 
 the end came. Owen was unconscious for hours be- 
 fore he breathed his last. Robin hardly stirred from 
 the bedside. 
 
 There was no suffering. Owen seemed lost in a 
 happy dream. There was a smile upon his lips as 
 he babbled of bygone days, days when the world had 
 smiled upon him, when the future was bright with 
 promise. 
 
 And then it seemed as if Zelie came to him, as if 
 she were stooping over him. Owen lifted his feeble 
 arms and in imagination he seemed to be clasping her 
 to his breast no doubt her lips were pressed to his 
 and death bestowed upon him that which life had 
 denied the kiss of Zelie. 
 
 He died with that name upon his lips. 
 
 "It is the end," said the sister. "The end is peace." 
 
 Robin bowed his head, and tears brimmed in his 
 eyes. "She has done her worst," he muttered. "The 
 vampire woman has claimed her prey."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THERE was an inquest, of course, but it revealed noth- 
 ing of the inner tragedy of Owen Mayne's life. A 
 comparatively unknown young artist had given way 
 to the temptation of drink and drugs, and had thrown 
 himself out of a window in an access of frenzy that 
 was all that the world need know. 
 
 That he was scarred by the panther's claw, that it 
 was his wild, insatiable passion for Zelie which had led 
 to his death that she was actually his wife besides 
 Zelie herself, who naturally maintained silence, Robin 
 was the only living being acquainted with the actual 
 facts. And dearly as he would have loved to hold this 
 "snake woman" up to public ignominy, he held his 
 tongue for Lavender's sake. 
 
 Had he been able, he would have spared her the 
 knowledge of Owen's fall into evil habits as well 
 the degrading circumstances of his death. He would 
 have played his drama of kindly deception to the end. 
 But the publicity of the inquest prevented this. Lav- 
 ender was bound to learn that the man she loved, and 
 whom she believed to have been working to gain an 
 honourable position for her sake, had given himself 
 up to the craving for insidious poisons. 
 
 But beyond this her knowledge did not extend. 
 Robin saw to it that Lavender should not suspect her 
 dead lover of further deception. For this purpose he 
 actually travelled to Paris, telling Lavender that the 
 journey was necessary for the settling of Owen's af- 
 fairs. He returned with a glowing account of the 
 work wholly imaginary which Owen was supposed 
 
 308
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 309 
 
 to have accomplished, and he expended all his ready 
 money in hunting up and purchasing some of the 
 signed sketches and pictures which his late friend had 
 disposed of, and these he brought back to Lavender 
 in proof of his assertion. 
 
 The girl never doubted the genuineness of the let- 
 ters she had received. By a fortuitous circumstance, 
 Owen had only just moved into the rooms where he 
 met with his death, and no reference was made at the 
 inquest as to where he had lived prior to this. Also 
 Robin in his letters had always represented Owen as 
 journeying frequently to and fro between Paris and 
 London. 
 
 Lavender was prostrated with grief, and for some 
 days after the funeral, a quiet funeral, at which there 
 were no other mourners than herself and Robin, she 
 was in danger of falling seriously ill. For as long as 
 he lived Robin would never forget the scene when 
 the girl, summoned to London by telegram, stood at 
 the bedside of the dead man and gazed dry-eyed upon 
 the face that had regained its beauty in death. He 
 had heard the legend of the statue in the wood, and 
 had understood Owen's allusion to it. 
 
 "She never knew that her lover was false." The 
 words impressed themselves upon his brain as he 
 marked the horror and despair, the sense of irremedi- 
 able loss, which the girl's eyes expressed. 
 
 "How she loved him!" Robin felt then, more than 
 ever before, the hopelessness of his own love. And 
 there would be no more letters to write never again 
 could he pour out his soul in those passionate effusions 
 which had become so strangely dear to him. 
 
 A week after the funeral Mrs. Foxhall took Lav- 
 ender back to Selwood. It was then that Robin went 
 to Paris, where he stayed some eight days. Upon
 
 310 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 the day of his return to London he had travelled by 
 night he met Lord Martyn in Piccadilly. 
 
 They lunched together at a club. Robin marvelled 
 at the change which had come over his companion. 
 Martyn had the appearance of a man who had suf- 
 fered some deep and abiding sorrow. He had lost 
 his easy cynicism, his nonchalant laissez-aller of man- 
 ner. He sat with his broad shoulders hunched, and 
 his cheeks were sallow as if his splendid health had 
 given way. He ate but sparingly. 
 
 He questioned Robin about Owen's death. "I have 
 my suspicions that he, too, may have been a victim 
 of that worker of evil, Zelie. She first came to Eng- 
 land looking for him. I saw them together at Selwood. 
 Am I right, Clithero?" 
 
 Robin admitted the fact without revealing the secret 
 of the actual relationship. "She killed him," he said 
 between his clenched teeth. "But Miss Percivale 
 doesn't know this I trust she never may." 
 
 "Another victim of the panther!" Martyn rested 
 his head wearily upon his hand. "Another death to 
 my score for I feel myself responsible for all this, 
 Clithero. It was I who set the wild beast free, to tear 
 and rend and devour. Where will it end God ! where 
 will it end?" 
 
 His burden was heavy upon him. Robin, who did 
 not know the full intensity of that burden, could find 
 no words of comfort. 
 
 "Do you know what she has done?" Martyn leant 
 forward over the table, speaking with the utmost in- 
 tensity. He had endured his sorrow in silence so long 
 it was a relief to pour out his soul to sympathetic 
 ears. "There is one being in the world I love my 
 god-daughter, Lady Beatrice Clewer. You know her. 
 She was engaged to a man whom she loves, and who
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 311 
 
 loves her Donald Ransom. I'll swear that he loves 
 her still, in spite of all. But Zelie has infatuated him 
 has made him false to his vows. He has broken 
 the engagement definitely, alleging some feeble excuse 
 a silly letter or so which Beatrice penned to another 
 man when she was little more than a child just a 
 schoolgirl freak. The letters were brought to him 
 by a blackmailer instigated, I'll swear, by Zelie her- 
 self. And now I've only heard it to-day Donald 
 has declared his intention of making Zelie his wife! 
 Think of it ! My God ! It will break Beatrice's heart !" 
 
 Lord Martyn broke off, and there was a hoarse 
 sound in his throat that was like a groan. He was 
 suffering suffering acutely his brain on the rack. 
 
 "And I can do nothing nothing," he resumed. 
 "That's the hell into which I have been thrust my 
 punishment. I, who set the panther free, must stand 
 by and watch while the living, bleeding hearts are 
 torn from the breasts of those I care for. Stephen 
 Aldis he was my friend Mayne, too and there is 
 poor Cecily Cuthbert languishing in prison, a self- 
 avowed murderess. They say that her mind is giving 
 way. Beatrice this trouble will kill her, I tell you 
 and Donald he is not to blame because he has fallen 
 prey to an enchantress but she will throw him over 
 when she has tired of him, or if she holds him to her 
 if she really loves, as she pretends, it will be worse 
 for him, far worse. His fate is sealed. But Zelie 
 goes on triumphing, battening on the blood of her vic- 
 tims, and I I am powerless!" 
 
 Lord Martyn gulped down a glass of brandy which 
 he had ordered, and which had just been set before 
 him. It was the mellowest "fine champagne" a 
 brandy that was the boast of the club and at ordinary 
 times Martyn would have sipped it delicately, enjoy-
 
 312 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 ing its bouquet and rare savour with the palate of a 
 connoisseur, but now it was not the taste of it that he 
 required it was because his nerves were unstrung, 
 and all on edge, that he committed what he himself 
 a short while ago would have been the first to con- 
 demn as little less than a crime. 
 
 He found a sympathetic listener in Robin Robin 
 who hated Zelie as much as it was in his power to 
 hate any living being. And Martyn grew calmer after 
 a few moments, something of his old mastery, his dis- 
 dain of difficulties, returning to him. Had he not 
 fought his way through life when there were over- 
 whelming odds against him, so should he acknowledge 
 himself beaten now beaten by a woman ? 
 
 "Thank heaven, the season is at an end, and Zelie 
 is going away to America. Let them keep her there. 
 The British public is fickle, and there will be a new 
 favourite by the winter. I'll see to that myself. I'll 
 crush this monster I let loose I'll crush her yet !" 
 
 He struck the table with his clenched fists large, 
 powerful fists so that the glass rattled. "I'll drive 
 her back to the gutter!" he declared. 
 
 Robin, having been away in Paris, was not ac- 
 quainted with all that had happened during his ab- 
 sence. He had been too busy to study the English 
 newspapers. So it was now, from Lord Martyn's lips, 
 that he learned the final result of the trial of Bibi 
 Coupe-vide. Bibi had been found not guilty, and dis- 
 charged. It was shown without a doubt that the knife 
 with which Aldis had been killed was the property of 
 Cecily Cuthbert. The story she told against herself 
 was further corroborated by the discovery of blood- 
 stains upon the gown she had worn that fatal night, 
 and by her wild demeanour when she was seen rush- 
 ing back to the house and locking herself in her room
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 313 
 
 at a time which tallied exactly with that which the 
 police and the doctors had set down allowing for 
 her flight from the summer-house after the committal 
 of the crime. 
 
 And she persisted in the truth of her self-condemna- 
 tion. "I was mad with jealousy," she declared. "I 
 loved Stephen Aldis, and believed that he loved me, 
 too. He was always good to me. Then came that 
 witch Zelie and won him from me. There were 
 passionate scenes, and Stephen cast me off. I goaded 
 him to fury I know it. Then some evil spirit awoke 
 within me, and I vowed that no other woman should 
 know the kisses of his lips. The sight of Zelie drove 
 me mad, for I hated her oh ! how I hated her ! That 
 night in the arbour I thought I had won Stephen 
 back but I hadn't he had been drinking, and he in- 
 sulted me he didn't know what he said. I ran away, 
 sobbing, but I lurked close by. And then came Zelie 
 I saw them together. I saw him take her in his 
 arms I saw him stoop to kiss her my blood was on 
 fire. She tore herself away I think she laughed 
 and he stood there at the door of the arbour alone. 
 I pressed my hands to my breast, and I felt the handle 
 of the knife I don't know why it was there, but I 
 think I had some idea of killing myself if Stephen 
 was cruel to me that night. And then a mist came 
 before my eyes, and something within me said, 'Strike ! 
 strike!' I couldn't resist it I struck the blow fell 
 before he even realised that I was there and it was 
 just as if the dagger sunk into my own heart. Then 
 I heard footsteps, and I fled back madly to the house." 
 
 Zelie herself was called, and corroborated this state- 
 ment, so far as her own presence in the summer-house 
 was concerned. She had wandered into the garden 
 with a friend the now deceased Owen Mayne and
 
 314 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 had sent him back to the castle for a wrap. While 
 waiting for him she had accidentally found her way 
 to the arbour and had been surprised there by Stephen 
 Aldis, who had attempted to kiss her. He had been 
 drinking, and she was afraid of him. She had con- 
 trived to free herself from him and had run away. 
 She knew nothing of what happened after that. It 
 was not true that she had ever wilfully sought to win 
 the actor's affection; she had merely regarded him 
 as a friend; in fact, their acquaintance had been of 
 very short duration. 
 
 Upon this evidence there was nothing 'for it but to 
 acquit Bibi, and acquitted he accordingly was. Cecily 
 Cuthbert was put back to stand her trial for the mur- 
 der of Stephen Aldis, but it was now reported that 
 she had broken down and showed signs of an unhinged 
 mind. 
 
 And to Zelie it had meant nothing but advertise- 
 ment. She had committed no act for which the public 
 could condemn her. On the contrary, they flocked 
 to see her, and the Star Theatre was reaping a harvest 
 such as it had never known. 
 
 "Radcliffe chuckles whenever we meet," said Mar- 
 tyn between his clenched teeth, "and blesses me by all 
 his gods. And do you know what he has done now? 
 He has engaged Bibi to dance with Zelie for the last 
 week of the season. They start to-night. I under- 
 stand the demand for seats has been enormous, past 
 all precedent. It is hateful, hideous beyond words; 
 but Radcliffe knows his business, which means that 
 he knows the world." 
 
 A little later, as the two men sat in the smoking- 
 room, with coffee and cigars, a telegram was brought 
 to Lord Martyn. His cheeks, sallow already, paled 
 as he read the missive.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 315 
 
 "It is from Lady Beatrice," he said. "She begs me 
 to come to her at once. I I'm afraid there's some- 
 thing wrong, Clithero." 
 
 He pushed back his chair, and rose. His fingers 
 kept closing and unclosing upon the pink paper. He 
 forced a smile. "Of course it must be all right," he 
 muttered ; "why, she's sent the telegram herself. For- 
 give me, Clithero, I'm nervous to-day out of sorts. 
 But you'll excuse me if I leave you? I'm glad we met 
 and have had a talk." 
 
 They passed out into the street together. Here 
 Martyn hailed a taxi-cab, gave a hurried direction 
 to the driver, shook Robin's hand, and was gone. 
 
 Robin had business of his own to attend to, busi- 
 ness which occupied him the best part of the afternoon. 
 It was eight o'clock before he returned to the rooms 
 in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, where he 
 always stayed when in town. 
 
 He had been making his preparations for leaving 
 England once and for ever. He was quite sure that 
 it was wisest for him to do so. To live on at Selwood 
 was an impossibility he would have no rest, no ease 
 of mind, while seeing Lavender day after day. Life 
 would be one long torture for him. He had performed 
 his duty and now he must do his utmost to forget. 
 Let him go back to the memory of his dead love 
 the love of that sweet ghost who had been his con- 
 stant companion till he met Lavender when she had 
 left him, as it seemed to Robin, with a faint kiss upon 
 his brow, as though she were content. And yet that 
 was a mistake for there could be no warm, living 
 love for Robin. Yes, he must go away. 
 
 He ordered some dinner anything that was going 
 it didn't matter. The dinner was brought to him, 
 together with a letter. The letter was from Lavender,
 
 316 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 and as Robin read it he breathed hard, and deep colour 
 mantled his cheeks. He pushed his food away almost 
 untouched. 
 
 Lavender wanted him. That was the purport of 
 her letter. She had heard from his landlady at the 
 cottage that he meditated leaving Selwood altogether. 
 Why should he do so? Why should he want to take 
 himself out of her life she was so alone and friend- 
 less? She begged him in pretty phrases, which evi- 
 dently came straight from her sad heart, to reconsider 
 his decision. 
 
 And after this there could be no hesitation on 
 Robin's part. Lavender wanted him that was enough. 
 "Go to her!" he cried fervently. "Of course I'll go 
 to her I won't wait. I'll go back to Selwood to- 
 morrow." 
 
 His cheeks burned, the blood seemed on fire in his 
 veins. He clasped his hands in the attitude of prayer. 
 "Oh! my love!" he cried, "if you could but love me, 
 too not of the fullness of your heart I don't ask 
 for that which you could never bestow again but 
 of your sympathy and kindness because I, like your- 
 self, have loved and lost!" 
 
 Then, as he spoke the words aloud, it seemed to 
 him as if that gentle spirit, whose face was like the 
 face of Lavender, came back once more, bent over 
 him, and whispered in his ear whispered of hope and 
 courage and love. "Be of good heart go to her 
 she wants you." 
 
 And so Robin set himself to write a letter to Lav- 
 ender in which he told her that he would return to 
 Selwood no later than the next day, and his pen 
 seemed to glide over the paper, words formed them- 
 selves, and he found an eloquence of phrasing of which 
 he could hardly have believed himself capable.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 317 
 
 This was the first letter that he had ever written 
 in his own name to Lavender. How glad he was that 
 he had taken the precaution to disguise his handwrit- 
 ing when he penned those missives which professed 
 to come from Owen! 
 
 He took the letter to the post himself, and when 
 he returned it was to find a visitor awaiting him. 
 Lord Martyn, his face pallid and white as the dead, 
 rose from a chair as Robin entered his sitting-room, 
 and tottered rather than walked towards him. 
 
 "She's dead, Clithero !" Martyn gasped. "My sweet, 
 innocent child, my Beatrice! She has fallen victim, 
 too! Dead dead dead!" The words came in a de- 
 spairing wail. 
 
 "My God, man! Is it true?" Robin's own happi- 
 ness was thrust aside. He was all sympathy for the 
 sorrow of his friend. 
 
 "True? Yes, it's true. She took poison after send- 
 ing that telegram to me. She had been in a morbid, 
 melancholic condition for days. I was afraid for 
 her, but her stepmother didn't seem to realise the 
 danger. Plenty of marriages get broken off, she said, 
 and girls don't die of broken hearts nowadays. But 
 they do, they may kill themselves. Clithero, she died 
 at once she was dead before I reached the house." 
 
 The strong man sank down into a chair and hid 
 his face in his hands. His agony was appalling to 
 witness. Sobs shook his heavy frame. The claws of 
 the panther were at his heart. 
 
 At last he lifted his head. "You wonder to see 
 me suffering like this?" he muttered. "Clithero, I'll 
 tell you the truth a secret that has never been 
 breathed to living soul. Beatrice was my daughter 
 my own child!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 BIBI COUPE-VIDE, attired in the conventional Apache 
 costume, ready to go on the stage, confronted Zelie 
 with sombre, menacing eyes. He had forced his pres- 
 ence upon her as she herself completed her theatre 
 toilette. 
 
 "Is this true what I have been told of you, Zelie, 
 ma gosse?" he inquired. "I want to know." 
 
 "What?" She turned with an impatient gesture. 
 She was busy painting her lips. 
 
 "That you are going to marry an Englishman 
 this Sir Donald Ransom, whom I have seen you with? 
 He brought you to the theatre to-night. He kissed 
 you at the stage door. I saw it yes, with my own 
 eyes I saw it." 
 
 Zelie shrugged her shoulders. She did not wish to 
 be bothered. It was not by her desire that Bibi was 
 dancing at the Star Theatre that night. Indeed, after 
 his acquittal, she had done her utmost to induce him 
 to leave the country. She had, as usual, been gen- 
 erous with promises which she had no intention of 
 keeping. She had given him money almost lavishly 
 as an inducement, and as a sort of indication of 
 what she would do in that indefinite future when she 
 and her petit homme the endearing term which still 
 came easily to her lips should be reunited. 
 
 Bibi had taken the gold, and seemed disposed to 
 fall in with her proposals. He was sick of England 
 a dirty country, where innocent men, like himself, 
 
 318
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 319 
 
 could be thrown into prison, and even be threatened 
 with their lives. Then he had had trouble with Al- 
 phonse Lereux, who, it appeared, had made free with 
 the remaining two incriminating letters which Bibi 
 had looked to for putting himself in funds. Lereux 
 had taken the high hand, threatening certain revela- 
 tions concerning a violent assault upon a night porter 
 at the Northumberland Hotel, revelations which might 
 send Bibi back to the prison from which he had come 
 and Bibi had had quite enough of that prison. 
 
 So Bibi would have returned quietly to Paris had 
 not Mr. Radcliffe appeared upon the scene with the 
 offer of a brief engagement at the Star Theatre at a 
 salary which was quite sufficient to ensure an imme- 
 diate acceptance. Zelie had objected, but her greedy 
 soul yielded to the inducement of a proportionate in- 
 crease to her own salary. It really didn't matter 
 very much that Bibi should remain in London for an- 
 other week. 
 
 Nevertheless, in her heart of hearts Zelie wished 
 that Bibi had been convicted and hanged. Then he 
 would have been out of her way once and for all, 
 cleared from her path as Owen Mayne already was. 
 
 It was quite true that she had promised to marry 
 Sir Donald Ransom. She was free to do so now. He 
 was infatuated with her, and for her sake had thrown 
 honour to the winds. But this had not been without 
 a struggle on Zelie's part. For the first time in her 
 life she really loved the handsome young explorer 
 had touched her heart as no other man had ever been 
 able to touch it. She had made up her mind to win 
 him for herself alone, and had deliberately set about 
 doing so. She was utterly callous as to the pain she 
 might inflict upon Lady Beatrice; what did Lady 
 Beatrice or any woman matter to her? The only
 
 320 TWO APACHES OF. PARIS 
 
 impelling factor in Zelie's breast was the primitive in- 
 stinct of fighting for what she herself desired. And 
 Sir Donald, a strong man among men, had been wax 
 in the hands of the enchantress, woman. 
 
 And now Bibi was manifesting an inclination to 
 make himself a nuisance. It was that jealousy of his 
 that peculiar description of jealousy which is typi- 
 cal of his kind. Your Apache does not mind "affairs" 
 intrigues in which his womankind are concerned, 
 for they are likely to be remunerative to himself, but 
 there must be no talk of love, the "affair" must not 
 be one of the heart. Therein lies the distinction, the 
 one point that counts. 
 
 Zelie had vowed to Bibi that love had played no 
 part, should play no part in her schemes, and he had 
 believed her. To whatever height she may have raised 
 herself she was still la gosse a Bibi! Or so he had 
 believed until that day, when some French employe 
 at the theatre had told him of the rumour that the 
 dancing girl was going to marry the handsome Eng- 
 lishman who occupied a stage-box every night that 
 she performed, and with whom one could tell it from 
 the way she looked at him she was madly in love. 
 Bibi had watched for himself after that, and he had 
 seen enough to make his heart beat wrathfully within 
 him. 
 
 Hence he had confronted her with a direct accusa- 
 tion. And now Zelie only shrugged her shoulders and 
 regarded him scornfully. There was a smile of disdain 
 upon her painted lips. 
 
 She was not going to take the trouble to lie to him 
 any more. She was filled that night with a sense of 
 delirious elation, of realised power. For Donald had 
 yielded to all that she desired ; he had inserted a notice 
 in the papers that his engagement to Lady Beatrice
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 321 
 
 Clewer was definitely at an end. And she, on her 
 side, was ready to repay him at last for the sacri- 
 fices he had made on her behalf. She had whispered 
 her promise in his ear that evening when he left her 
 at the stage-door a promise ratified by a kiss, that 
 kiss of which Bibi Coupe-vide had been witness. 
 
 Why should she worry her head about such scum 
 as Bibi at such a time? Let him have the truth, since 
 he forced her to speak. She was proud of the avowal. 
 
 "Answer me," he said roughly, taking a step for- 
 ward. 
 
 Zelie drew herself up, and Bibi was constrained to 
 realise that this was not the same Zelie whom, at one 
 time, he had been able to bully after the manner of his 
 class who expected nothing better. He was thick- 
 skinned, had all the brutality of his ignorance, but her 
 scorn lashed him till he writhed. 
 
 "Flf answer you fast enough," she retorted. "Don't 
 think that I'm afraid. You dare not strike me now 
 as you did in the past. I'd have you taken by your 
 shoulders and thrown out into the street. I have but 
 to ring the bell" she stretched out her hand and 
 touched it "and they would come at once." 
 
 Bibi's eyes contracted to mere slits, but he made no 
 further threatening gesture. "Go on !" he growled. 
 
 "You ask me if I am going to marry this English- 
 man," Zelie resumed, "and I answer 'Yes.' Why am 
 I going to marry him? Because I love him." She 
 rested her hands on her hips, and her black eyes 
 sparkled and glowed. "Do I speak clearly? Do you 
 understand me? It's because I love him. I shall give 
 myself to him for love. And the blood is dancing in 
 my veins my senses are on fire because I am long- 
 ing for his kisses on my lips. You saw him kiss them 
 but he shall kiss again when you do not see soon
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 very soon not the kiss that a man gives a woman in 
 the street at the stage door, as you saw it ah! no. 
 There, have I said enough?" 
 
 She was speaking to wound, to sting. She had for- 
 gotten her discretion the need for it with such a man 
 as Bibi Coupe-vide. Love was new to her real love 
 and to her savage, untamed nature it seemed right 
 to proclaim her love, to make no secret of it. Besides, 
 Bibi had goaded her to the avowal by the very ab- 
 surdity of his claims upon her Bibi Coupe-vide and 
 Sir Donald Ransom, could they be mentioned together 
 in the same breath? 
 
 Bibi recoiled, and his head seemed to sink between 
 his shoulders. "You mean that? It's true?" 
 
 "Why should I say it if it were not true?" 
 
 "Then you lied to me when you spoke of our being 
 united again in Paris one day?" 
 
 "Yes, I lied to you." Zelie spoke with insolent care- 
 lessness. "After this week, when your engagement 
 ends, I hope I may never look upon your ugly face 
 again. I loathe the sight of it ! I hate you !" 
 
 Bibzi crouched, and for a moment he appeared like 
 a wild beast about to spring. Zelie's hand went to the 
 bell. There was a look in Bibi's eyes which, despite 
 her arrogant elation of spirit, sent a cold shudder down 
 her spine. She wished that she had been more dis- 
 creet ; this man, like all his sex, might have been quite 
 easily managed if she had gone the right way about it. 
 
 Her dresser appeared almost immediately. Bibi 
 pulled himself together, standing in his usual slouch- 
 ing attitude. The scowl upon his face appeared natural 
 to him. 
 
 "You must go now, mon ami," said Zelie in a suave 
 tone of voice. "I must finish my toilette. We meet 
 again upon the stage."
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 323 
 
 "Yes, we meet again," mumbled the man. He re- 
 garded her for a moment from under his dark brows, 
 then without another word he shuffled from the room. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Robin Clithero and Lord Mar- 
 tyn were making their way to the Star Theatre. Zelie 
 did not appear till about half-past ten o'clock, and 
 it yet wanted a quarter of an hour to that time. Mar- 
 tyn had declared his intention of standing up and pub- 
 licly denouncing the dancer, and nothing that Robin 
 could say would make him swerve from this decision. 
 So Robin had quickly decided to stand by his friend 
 and support him through the inevitable scene that must 
 ensue. 
 
 It was madness sheer madness, of course but 
 Robin understood the state of mind into which Martyn 
 had been thrown. The secret, so long kept, had been 
 revealed to him. Lady Beatrice Clewer, lying dead by 
 her own hand, was Martyn's child, his daughter. 
 
 The story was a romance, and it was told in broken 
 tones, so that Robin had to exercise his intellect to 
 put two and two together. He gathered, however, 
 that Beatrice's mother was not in reality the wife of 
 the Earl of Albyn as Beatrice and the earl himself 
 had always supposed nor had the earl ever had a 
 living child of his own. 
 
 Beatrice was the daughter of Lord Martyn and of 
 a beautiful French girl, whose station in life was so 
 high that any alliance between her and the young Eng- 
 lishman, who had not then succeeded to the title, nor 
 had any expectation of doing so, was utterly out of 
 the question. Fondly as they loved each other, they 
 might not marry. Here was the beginning of Martyn's 
 grudge against society against mankind at large. 
 
 They loved in secret. Finally they agreed to elope 
 together, disastrous as the consequences might be.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 There was a reason which made this course necessary. 
 Unfortunately, Martyn was taken ill, and lay for many 
 weeks at the point of death. His recovery was de- 
 spaired of. 
 
 While he lay helpless thus Beatrice made her ap- 
 pearance in the world a child of sorrow, all the more 
 so since her birth cost her mother's life. The tragedy 
 had to be hushed up, and the question arose what was 
 to be done with the waif of humanity that might 
 threaten the good name of a distinguished .family. The 
 mother was dead, the father not expected to recover. 
 
 It happened that Lady Albyn had just given birth 
 to a still-born daughter. The earl was away from 
 home at the time. His passionate desire for a child 
 was well known to the family to which Beatrice's 
 mother belonged. They approached the countess with 
 a scheme of substitution, a scheme that was eagerly 
 accepted. There were but few who knew the facts, 
 and they were bound to secrecy. 
 
 Martyn himself would never have known of what 
 had been done had not a hot-headed brother of the 
 dead girl revealed the truth to the Englishman upon 
 his recovery from his illness. A duel was the con- 
 sequence a duel in which Martyn shot in the air, and 
 himself received a wound which sent him back to his 
 sick-bed for a further long period. Only his strength 
 of constitution pulled him through for himself, he 
 had no wish to live. He had grown to hate the world 
 and his fellow-men. 
 
 It was worse for him later on, when his health was 
 restored to him. He could not claim his child as his 
 own. For her own sake it was impossible. Why should 
 she be branded all her life as a love-child? Further- 
 more, the Earl of Albyn was Martyn's dearest friend 
 at that time, and his joy and happiness over his sup-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 325 
 
 posed daughter were such that Martyn whose grudge 
 was always against the race of mankind, not the indi- 
 vidual could not find it in his heart to undeceive 
 him. 
 
 And so Lord Martyn accepted the ruling of fate, and 
 became god-father no more to his own child. How 
 often he had been tempted to open his arms to her 
 and avow the truth, none but himself knew. His iron 
 will and his interest in the girl's future had alone kept 
 him silent. For, as it was, she had a splendid position 
 and an honoured name ; what could he offer her in re- 
 turn but disgrace? 
 
 Such was Lord Martyn's story as it was revealed 
 to Robin revealed under the stress of circumstances 
 a secret that would remain a secret to the end, as 
 far, at least, as Robin's fidelity was concerned. 
 
 "I saw it once in a vision," groaned the unhappy 
 man, "that the blow I must take against society would 
 redound upon myself. Yet I went on I set the pan- 
 ther free. And now the claws of the wild beast, wet 
 as they are with my child's blood, are rending at my 
 heart. But Zelie shall not exult" he raised his clasped 
 hands above his head "I have spared her too long 
 spared her because she is not a creature of to-day, and 
 because I have said 'She does not know' ; but now 
 my child's blood calls for vengeance God let me 
 strike and die!" 
 
 And so it was that, in spite of Robin's efforts to 
 dissuade him, Martyn avowed his resolution of going 
 to the theatre. And Robin, whose heart bled for his 
 friend's desperation and despair, felt bound to accom- 
 pany him. 
 
 "I'm sorry, my lord," said the man at the box office, 
 "but there isn't a seat to be had in the house." 
 
 This was a matter of small importance to Martyn,
 
 326 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 who had free entry to any part of the theatre. "Never 
 mind," he replied. Then he asked quickly, "Is Sir 
 Donald Ransom here?" 
 
 The clerk had no need to consult his lists. "You 
 will find him in the stage-box, my lord," he replied. 
 "But I'm afraid Mile. Zelie is half through her dan- 
 cing," he added. "She came on a little earlier than 
 usual to-night. However, the Danse du Neant is still 
 to come." 
 
 "We will find Sir Donald," said Martyn quickly. 
 "The stage-box." There was a curiously strained in- 
 flection in his voice as he spoke the words. "Nothing 
 could be better." 
 
 "Donald does not know yet," he whispered in 
 Robin's ear as they moved away together. 
 
 An attendant escorted them to the door of the 
 box and tapped softly. A profound silence reigned 
 throughout the theatre Zelie was dancing. 
 
 After a moment the door was opened by Donald 
 himself Robin could hear his muttered ejaculation of 
 impatience at the disturbance. The vast auditorium 
 was practically in complete darkness, and it was only 
 by the light from the corridor without that the occu- 
 pant of the box recognised his visitor. 
 
 "Martyn Harry you !" 
 
 There had, of course, been strained relationship be- 
 tween the two. Lord Martyn had expostulated with 
 Sir Donald upon his behaviour, at first gently, but later 
 with heat. And the latter, conscious of being alto- 
 gether in the wrong, despising himself at heart for 
 his folly and cruelty, had borne reproaches ill he had 
 found his only refuge in roughness and brutality. He 
 had spoken harshly of Lady Beatrice what sort of 
 wife would a girl make who was capable of penning 
 love letters to a popular actor? And all the while he
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 327 
 
 had known himself mean and cowardly his soul as 
 well as his body was in the siren's grip. 
 
 The attendant closed the door after Martyn, followed 
 by Robin, had entered. There at the back of the box 
 the darkness seemed almost profound. The orchestra 
 was making soft, lilting music. Robin recognised the 
 melody. He knew that Zelie had almost reached the 
 end of that part of her performance which preceded 
 the Danse du Neant. She was portraying the Eternal 
 Temptress in the character of some Court beauty of 
 the eighteenth century. He had only to advance to 
 the front and glance to his left, where a ruddy glow 
 indicated the stage, to see the dancer herself, to be 
 so near to her that a spring and a few steps might 
 place him by her side. It was the stage-box. 
 
 Martyn and Sir Donald were standing confronting 
 each other. The younger man was breathing heavily, 
 wrathfully. The elder had gained a remarkable com- 
 posure. His brain-storm seemed to have passed away 
 now that he was about to carry out an indomitable 
 purpose. 
 
 "Donald, she is dead/' he said quietly. "You have 
 killed her. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 "She? Who? In Heaven's name, what do you 
 mean ?" Sir Donald fell back, the hands which he had 
 raised in angry protest dropping to his sides. 
 
 "You know what I mean to whom I refer. Beatrice 
 is dead. You have slain a pure, sweet girl, crushed 
 the life out of a loving heart for the sake of that! 
 Look, man ! Look !" 
 
 Martyn's heavy hand dropped on the young man's 
 shoulder, thrusting him forward to the front of the 
 box. The stage was in full view now. They stood in 
 the light. 
 
 "My God dead ! It's a lie it can't be true !"
 
 328 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 "Slain for that!" repeated Martyn, the weight of 
 his hand growing heavier. 
 
 The lilt of the music had changed to a wail now. 
 Zelie stood in the centre of the stage, slim and lithe, 
 her form but lightly covered with gauzy, filmy drapery 
 for, save in the final dance, she still disdained elab- 
 orate accessories of costume and scenery to indicate 
 the particular epoch or character that she represented 
 and in her hands, uplifted above her head, she held 
 a cluster of red roses. Gradually the bare white arms 
 were lowered until the flowers were on a level with 
 her smiling, cruel mouth; then, as her lips touched 
 them, the blossoms fell to pieces, scattering in a shower 
 of scarlet petals to her feet. And it was as if every 
 petal was a drop of blood. 
 
 The curtain fell amid a storm of applause, but the 
 theatre remained in darkness. Donald Ransom had 
 sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands. The 
 quivering of his shoulders betokened the agony he 
 endured. Once Robin caught the sound of a low moan. 
 Lord Martyn stood silently by his side. He had the 
 appearance of one who is waiting for the fulfilment 
 of destiny. 
 
 "Body and soul" Robin was muttering the words 
 to himself as he gazed at his two companions "she 
 destroys them body and soul." He was thinking of 
 Harry Martyn as he had known him strong of body 
 and spirit, steadfast of purpose a man whose nature 
 it was to be unyielding to the end. "What I have 
 done, I have done," was his motto. But Zelie had 
 broken him he had repented him of the blow which he 
 had struck against society repented because he him- 
 self had been sorely smitten. The fineness of the man's 
 character had been undermined Zelie had abased his 
 spirit if she had had no dominion over his body. And
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 329 
 
 how would he behave now now that personal grief 
 had driven him to despair? Would his strength be 
 restored to him for one brief moment even as to 
 Samson after the shearing of his locks? 
 
 And Donald Ransom, quivering there in a torment 
 of self-reproach, freed for the time being from the 
 spell of the enchantress what of him? The world 
 had honoured him, he had held his head high and 
 with cause he had never forfeited his self-respect 
 till Zelie had obsessed him. But now he was like a 
 whipped child, his very manhood seemed to have fallen 
 from him, he was an object of scorn. 
 
 "The vampire has absorbed his spirit as she has 
 sucked his blood," Robin whispered to himself; "he 
 will never lift his head again." 
 
 And with the rest, the other victims of the Snake- 
 woman, had it not been the same? Body and soul 
 the worker of evil she had destroyed them all. 
 
 "She is not fit to live !" Robin muttered. "Is there 
 not one to slay the monster?" 
 
 The curtain rose again. A burst of applause, which 
 sounded strange and weird in the darkened house, her- 
 alded the first appearance of Bibi Coupe-vide since his 
 trial. The Danse du Neant had commenced. 
 
 Robin had seen the dance many a time, and loathed 
 it. He abhorred the slow, voluptuous waltz tune, the 
 suggestive pauses, the sensual abandonment of music 
 and gesture. Zelie, in her close-fitting black dress, a 
 rose between her lips and at the side of her head, her 
 hair parted and drawn back tightly over her ears, 
 seemed to him a more wicked and ill-omened figure 
 than when she appeared with the glamour of the past 
 to leaven the vice which every step of her dancing 
 portrayed. 
 
 And the evil of it all was more obvious to him now
 
 330 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 than ever before. Zelie and Bibi put a fierceness into 
 their dancing which was terrifying in its intensity. 
 There was not a member of the audience who did not 
 hold his breath, spell-bound. When the man raised 
 his fist it was as if every nerve in his body was a-tingle 
 with the desire to strike indeed; one felt that he was 
 dominated by but one idea to crush, subdue, or kill 
 this piece of frail femininity that fell in voluptuous 
 attitudes in his arms, only to withdraw, laughing, 
 mocking, defiant. 
 
 And Zelie her eyes shone as they had never shone 
 before, her sharp white teeth flashed from behind 
 straight red lips, and there were many who saw her 
 dance that night who shuddered and turned away their 
 heads as from the vision of something too intense for 
 the understanding of merely human eyes. 
 
 For how were they to know that here was hate 
 most primitive of emotions lust, wrath unbridled all 
 the evil passions that heart of man can conceive 
 not merely portrayed by capable actors, but actually 
 -existent? Zelie and Bibi were not acting every ges- 
 ture, every movement of that wild dance was true 
 ,to one as to the other. To those who watched, it was 
 art ; but to the man and woman upon the stage it was 
 Astern reality. 
 
 Now and again the lips of the dancers moved, and 
 it was evident that they spoke together, though none 
 might know the words that passed between them. Only 
 Zelie laughed and mocked, and her eyes were like 
 sparkling emeralds as now and again she turned them 
 in the direction of the box which she knew and which 
 Bibi knew to be occupied by her lover. In the gloom 
 of the auditorium she could not see what was passing 
 there, nor who stood by his side, nor how he sat hud- 
 dled together in his chair, an abject figure of distress.
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 331 
 
 And the more she mocked, the fiercer and more 
 determined grew the face of her partner in the dance. 
 Ugly and vile at the best of times, it was hideous now. 
 Bibi Coupe-vide was animal as Zelie was animal, and 
 the instincts of the beasts were running riot in their 
 breasts. Once the man held the woman tightly to him, 
 and his lips sought hers, while she stiffened her body 
 in his embrace and thrust him from her with all her 
 force ; then, when her resistance was overpowered, she 
 struck him upon the cheek, struck him with her 
 clenched fist. And the vast audience held its breath at 
 this astounding demonstration of art. 
 
 And so they swayed and swung, now in each other's 
 arms, now apart, crouching as if preparing for a 
 spring, for a fresh attack, and it was at one of these 
 moments, when Zelie had been thrown to her knees 
 close under her lover's box, that Robin noticed Lord 
 Martyn raise his hand, and the light from the stage 
 glinted for a moment upon the muzzle of a pistol. 
 
 "My God ! Martyn ! What are you about to do?" 
 
 Robin clasped his friend's arm, and the movement 
 saved Zelie for the time being, for the next moment 
 she had sprung back into Bibi's arms, and the pair 
 were whirling round the stage in a frenzied waltz. 
 
 Martyn turned furiously upon Robin. "Damn you, 
 Clithero ! he muttered. "Why did you interfere with 
 me? I would have shot her down then shot her as 
 I'd shoot a mad dog! That's the way I propose to 
 make public protest. But there's time yet they'll be 
 apart again presently. I've only to wait." 
 
 A few minutes earlier Robin had asked himself if 
 there was no one to slay the beast. But now he had 
 not thought of this! Yet, though he shuddered, he 
 felt, in some vague, indescribable manner, that what 
 Martyn was about to do, what he had come to the
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 theatre with the fixed intention of doing", was really 
 no more than might have been expected of the man 
 so Samson, of the shorn head, had seized the pillar of 
 the temple and overwhelmed his enemies. The world 
 had no punishment to inflict upon Zelie, worker of 
 evil, so he who gave her to the world must be the one 
 to mete out the penalty she deserved. 
 
 But it was murder murder! Robin stood in pain- 
 ful suspense and hesitation. What was he to do? He 
 could not allow Martyn to carry out his fell inten- 
 tion. Should he give the alarm? Should he throw 
 himself upon his friend and wrench the revolver from 
 his hand? At any moment now the opportunity to 
 shoot might present itself. 
 
 Martyn did not seem to anticipate any further oppo- 
 sition from Robin. He had taken up his position at 
 the front of the box, and the hand that held the re- 
 volver rested lightly upon the velvet-covered ledge. 
 He was prepared. Donald Ransom saw nothing, real- 
 ised nothing of what was about to happen he had 
 lifted his head, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed upon 
 the stage upon Zelie. 
 
 "I must seize his arm again prevent him shoot- 
 ing." So Robin muttered to himself. Then he, too, 
 waited, watching. 
 
 Suddenly it seemed to him as if the couple upon 
 the stage were no longer dancing, but actually strug- 
 gling with each other. If it were indeed art, then it 
 was the very acme of realism. But presently his sus- 
 picions were confirmed. Zelie gave vent to a loud cry : 
 
 "Let me loose gredin rogue vagabond !" 
 
 Bibi did not let her loose. With one arm he grasped 
 her the tighter. Something flashed in his right .hand. 
 Not a soul in that vast audience but held his breath, 
 worked up to fever heat of excitement by the extraor-
 
 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 333 
 
 dinary performance upon the stage. From high up 
 in the gallery someone ventured to applaud, to whistle 
 an immediate cry of "hush!" followed this mani- 
 festation of feeling. 
 
 "He means it my God he means it !" The words 
 escaped from Robin's lips, but they were drowned in 
 a shriek from Zelie such a shriek as surely had never 
 before been heard upon the stage of the Star Theatre. 
 
 "He is killing me help murder !" 
 
 The knife was lifted, and fell so swiftly that few in 
 the audience witnessed the blow. Only Zelie staggered 
 forward, then once more the arms of the man encir- 
 cled her, and his lips were pressed against her lips 
 as she reeled against him. For a few moments he 
 upheld her, then she slipped from his grasp and fell 
 to her knees. 
 
 Applause broke forth from the greater part of the 
 house, but there were some who hissed, and cried "It 
 is too much !" while others stared at their friends and 
 at the stage with blanched faces wondering, doubting, 
 fearing. 
 
 And very soon the ghastly truth became self-evident. 
 Those in the front could see the life blood welling 
 from Zelie's breast, staining her dress and the boards 
 of the stage at her feet. At that moment Robin re- 
 membered the shower of rose petals, and shuddered. 
 
 Then, as Zelie collapsed, lying prone upon the 
 ground, Bibi, still holding the fatal knife, bent over 
 her and broke into a fit of sobbing, moaning as a wild 
 animal may moan for its mate. He saw nothing of 
 the great mass of people whom his act had thrown 
 into wild confusion almost panic heard nothing of 
 the frightened screams which went up from every side 
 as women rushed for the doors, or fainted where they
 
 334 TWO APACHES OF PARIS 
 
 sat; knew nothing save that Zelie was dead, and by 
 his hand. 
 
 Donald Ransom sprang from the box to the stage. 
 He rushed upon Bibi with clenched fists. He was 
 followed by others. Then, swiftly, the curtain fell. 
 
 Lord Martyn had dropped his revolver to the floor. 
 He threw up his arms despairingly, then sank into a 
 chair. 
 
 Robin laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Thank 
 God!" he cried fervently. "You have been spared a 
 crime !" 
 
 Martyn broke into a wild laugh. "Spared a crime !" 
 he exclaimed, and his tone was one of utter despair. 
 "Is there no mercy in Heaven? I had asked but this 
 that my hand might slay. But now even that has 
 been taken from me. My daughter's blood has cried 
 to me for vengeance in vain !" 
 
 Sobs convulsed his frame; but as for Zelie, the 
 Snake- woman, the worker of evil the curtain had 
 fallen upon her for the last time. 
 
 THE END
 
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