The Motor Maid Part 40

"I thought so," said I. "It was like you."

"I want to talk to you," he explained.

"But I don't want to talk to you," I objected.

"You'll be sorry if you're rude. What I came to say is for your own good."

"I doubt that!" said I, looking anxiously down one avenue of trees after another, for a figure that would have been doubly welcome now.

"Well, I can easily prove it, if you'll listen."

"As you have longer legs than I have, I am obliged to listen."

"You won't regret it. Now, come, my dear little girl, don't put on any more frills with me. I'm gettin' a bit fed up with 'em."

(I should have liked to choke him with a whole mouthful of "frills," the paper kind you put on ham at Christmas; but as I had none handy, I thought it would only lead to undignified controversy to allude to them.)

"I had a little conversation about you with the d.u.c.h.esse de Melun night before last," Bertie went on, with evident relish. "Ah, I thought that would make you blush. I say, you're prettier than ever when you do that!

It was she began it. She asked me if I knew your name, and how Lady T.

found you. Her Ladys.h.i.+p couldn't get any further than 'Elise,' for, if she knew any more, she'd forgotten it; but thanks to your friend the shuvver, I could go one better. When I told the d.u.c.h.ess you called yourself d'Angely, or something like that, she said 'I was sure of it!'

Now, I expect you begin to smell a rat--what?"

"I daresay you've been carrying one about in your pocket ever since," I snapped, "though I can't think what it has to do with me. I'm not interested in dead rats."

"This is your own rat," said Bertie, grinning. "What'll you give to know what the d.u.c.h.ess told me about you?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Well, then, I'll be generous and let you have it for nothing. She told me she thought she recognized you, but until she heard the name, she supposed she must be mistaken; that it was only a remarkable resemblance between my stepmother's maid and a girl who'd run away under very peculiar circ.u.mstances from the house of a friend of hers. What do you think of that?"

"That the d.u.c.h.ess is a cat," I replied, promptly.

"Most women are."

"In _your_ set, perhaps."

"She said there was a man mixed up with the story, a rich middle-aged chap of the name of Charretier, with a big house in Paris and a new chateau he'd built, near Fontainebleau. She gave me a card to him."

"He's sure not to be at home," I remarked.

Bertie's face fell; but he brightened again. "Anyhow you admit you know him."

"One has all sorts of acquaintances," I drawled, with a shrug of my shoulders.

"You're a sly little kitten--if you're not a cat. You heard me say I thought of calling at the chateau."

"And you heard me say the owner wasn't at home."

"You seem well acquainted with his movements."

"I happened to see him, on his way south, at Avignon, some days ago."

"Did he see you?"

"Isn't that my affair--and his?"

"By Jove--you've got good cheek, to talk like this to your mistress's stepson! But maybe you think you won't have difficulty in finding a place that pays you better--what?"

"I couldn't find one to pay me much worse."

"Look here, my dear, I'm not out huntin' for repartee. I want to have an understanding with you."

"I don't see why."

"Yes, you do, well enough. You know I like you--in spite of your impudence."

"And I dislike you because of yours. Oh, do go away and leave me, Mr.

Stokes."

"I won't. I've got a lot to say to you. I've only just begun, but you keep interruptin' me, and I can't get ahead."

"Finish then."

"Well, what I want to say is this. I always meant we should stop at Fontainebleau."

"Oh--you damaged your stepfather's car on purpose! He would be obliged to you."

"Not quite that. I intended to get them to have tea here, and while they were moonin' about I was going to have a chat with you. I was goin'

to tell you about that card to Charretier, and somethin' else. That the d.u.c.h.ess asked me where we would stop in Paris, and I told her at the best there is, of course--Hotel Athenee. She said she'd wire her friends you'd run away from, that they could find you there; and if Charretier wasn't at Fontainebleau when we pa.s.sed through, these people would certainly know where to get at him. I warned you the other night, didn't I? that if you wouldn't be good and confide in me I'd find out what you refused to tell me yourself; and I have, you see. Clever, aren't I?"

"You're the hatefullest man I ever _heard_ of!" I flung at him.

"Oh, I say! Don't speak too soon. You don't know all yet. If you don't want me to, I won't call on Charretier. Lady T. and her tuft-huntin' can go hang! And you shan't stop at the Athenee to be copped by the d.u.c.h.ess's friends, if you don't like. That's what I wanted to see you about. To tell you it all depends on yourself."

"How does it depend on myself?" I asked, cautiously.

"All you have to do, to get off scot free is to be a little kind to poor Bertie. You can begin by givin' him a kiss, here in the poetic and what-you-may-call-'em forest of Fontainebleau."

"I wouldn't kiss you if you were made of gold and diamonds, and I could have you melted down to spend!" I exclaimed. And as I delivered this ultimatum, I turned to run. His legs might be longer than mine, but I weighed about one-third as much as he, which was in my favour if I chose to throw dignity to the winds.

As I whisked away from him, he caught me by the dress, and I heard the gathers rip. I had to stop. I couldn't arrive at the hotel without a skirt.

"You're a cad--a _cad_!" I stammered.

"And you're a fool. Look here, I can lose you your job and have you sent to the prison where naughty girls go. See what I've got in my pocket."

Still grasping my frock, he scooped something out of an inner pocket of his coat, and held it for me to look at, in the hollow of his palm. I gave a little cry. It was Lady Turnour's gorgeous bursting sun.

"I nicked that off the dressin' table the other night, when you weren't looking. Has Lady T. been askin' for it?"