Madame Claire was glad she was not included in the ban of silence. She was much interested in the affair. She was also—though she took care not to let Judy see it—a little excited. It was not, she felt, one of those incidents that seem to have no consequences, nor leave any mark. Something new, she believed, had been set in motion, and that something new meant to poke a disturbing finger into Judy’s life. But she forbore to ask too many questions.

She heard about it the next day, and Judy told her that Noel had already talked to Major Stroud over the telephone, and had learned that Major Crosby was still unconscious.

“He told Noel we were not to worry—the doctor’s orders I believe—and then he went on to say that he’d once been unconscious for twenty-eight hours himself, and had come to at the end of it as lively as a cricket. But then he’s a hopeless optimist, and you never can believe optimists.”

“You and Noel seem to have taken him to your hearts from the first,” commented Madame Claire. “Chip, I mean. Well, I’d back your judgments against anybody’s.”

“I think you would have felt like that too. But he isn’t going to be easy to know,” said her granddaughter.

“Isn’t he? Why?”

“He’s very shy,” answered Judy. “He had the shyest rooms I ever saw. Not a photograph to be seen, nor an ornament, nor even a novel. You know, you can guess at such a lot if there are things like that about to help you. No, there wasn’t a single clue. But the greatest clue, in a way, was the lack of clues. As though, because of his shyness, he had tried to cover up his tracks. I don’t think he wants to be known.”

“If he had to be knocked down by a motor,” said Madame Claire, “I consider it a fortunate thing that you were in it. After all, it might have been any Tom or Dick—or Miss Tom or Dick.”

“I only wish he might take that view of it,” answered Judy. “What news of Louise?”

Madame Claire hoped to hear more about Chip, but she was always quick to feel when a change of subject was wanted.

“She’s with her people in Norfolk. She wrote Eric that she was enjoying the change, but that she felt it was her duty to come back at the end of the week. Of course Eric wrote to her that she wasn’t to think of him, but that she must stay as long as she felt inclined.”

“How that must have annoyed her! For what she wanted was to come home as a martyr before she was ready. What a woman! Don’t you think it a miracle that Eric doesn’t fall in love with some one else?”

Madame Claire shook her head.

“I doubt if he ever will. He finds consolation in his friends, and in his books, and in his work of course. Eric isn’t a man who falls in love easily. And besides, I can’t help thinking that he still has hopes of Louise.”

“You think he still loves her?”

“Louise is his wife,” answered Madame Claire, “and I believe that it hurts Eric intolerably to feel that the one person in the world who should be nearest to him, and who should understand him the best, deliberately keeps aloof. He feels he has failed—and Eric hates failure.”

“If he has failed, it isn’t his fault,” said Judy. “It isn’t for lack of trying. If he’d been just a nonentity she’d have enjoyed condescending to him. As long as he is what he is—sought-after and charming—she’ll be what she is—jealous and bitter. I don’t see how he stands it.” “Like Eric,” Madame Claire said gently, “I can’t help hoping.”

A day or two later, Judy found her reading a letter from Old Stephen.

“There’s a good deal about Connie,” she told her. “Isn’t it odd the way she seems to be coming into our lives again? Here’s what he says:

“‘And now a few words about Connie and her Count. I’ve talked to him several times, and he’s like some poisonous thing in a stagnant pond. I do wish you could persuade her to leave him, for he insults and humiliates her at every turn. She confessed to me yesterday what I already suspected—that he had gambled away most of his money and much of hers at Monte Carlo, and that he is constantly demanding more. I think it would be advisable for Eric to come here if he possibly can. She is frightened, and her nerves are on edge. I suppose he threatens her, poor woman. What do you think ought to be done?’”

“He stopped there,” said Madame Claire, “and finished the letter next day. I’ll read you the rest.

“‘I was interrupted yesterday by Miss McPherson, who wouldn’t let me write more. So I left the letter open, and I’m glad I did, for there’s a sequel. Connie left here this morning for Paris, without a word to anybody. I thought she would have written me a letter to say good-bye, but she hasn’t. I don’t know what brought matters to this head, but I suspect it had something to do with Mademoiselle Pauline, the dancer, with whom the Count has been spending much of his time, and more, I imagine, of his money. Miss McPherson, who has her human side, has taken a considerable interest in Connie’s affairs, and tells me she is sure there was a scene of some sort last night. However that may be, Connie has gone. They told me at the office that she went to Paris, but left no forwarding address. Well, my dear Claire, I fear all this will distress you, but you have a brave heart, and would wish to know. If you have any idea where Connie would be likely to have gone, to what friends or to what hotel, I cannot help thinking it would be wise to send Eric to look for her. I say this because she seemed to me a desperately unhappy woman.’

“That’s all about that,” said Madame Claire, putting the letter away.

“What do you think ought to be done?” Judy asked her. “Eric is coming here to-night, and I’ll talk it over with him. If he can spare the time to go to Paris, I think it would be a good thing.”

“But if he doesn’t know where she is?”

“I think I can guess,” answered her grandmother. “Years ago, before the children were grown up, we used to go and stay at a little private hotel off the Avenue de la Grande ArmÉe. In the autumn I recommended it to a friend of your mother’s, and she was delighted with it. Judging from her description, I don’t think it can have changed much. She told me that the granddaughter of the old Madame PeritÔt remembered me perfectly and said that Connie, whom she described as ‘la belle Madame,’ often went there when she wished to be quiet. I feel sure she would wish to be quiet now, and I believe that if Eric goes there he will find her.”

“Do you want him to bring her to London?” inquired Judy.

“I think I had better leave that to him,” answered Madame Claire.

* * * * * *

Eric went to Paris the day following. He had no idea, when he left, whether he would try to persuade Connie to come back to London or not. He would decide that when he had seen her. Nor did he explain matters to Louise, to whom the very name of his once beautiful sister was anathema. He sent her a wire, however, which said merely, “Called out of town for few days. Probably back Monday.”

He had been working very hard, and welcomed a change of scene. He had not been out of England since serving with his regiment in France, and later in Italy, from which campaign he was invalided home shortly before the Armistice. He was now member for a London borough, having given up soldiering for politics. His rather disconcerting honesty and policy of no compromise won him more friends in the former calling than in the latter, and though he had enthusiastic friends he had equally whole-hearted enemies, among whom he began to fear he must number his wife.

The thought of a lifelong companionship with a woman who disliked, or seemed to dislike his every attribute, appalled him. He had a way of reducing problems to their simplest form, and being a clear thinker, saw facts in all their nakedness. Louise was his wife. He had tried to make her happy. She either liked him or she did not. If she did not like him, why live with him? And if she did like him, why not show that she did? It came to that. Other women liked him. Why could not his wife? He had never tried to please any other woman as he had tried to please her. The thing was an enigma. They could have had such delightful times together, for they had everything—health, youth, money, friends. Her coldness was inexplicable. She was not only cold to him, but to all men, and to most women. If she had cared for any one else he would have found a way to release her. He tried to put it out of his mind on the journey to Paris, and thought instead of Connie. He had been so proud of her beauty in the old days. He remembered her at dances, surrounded by respectfully admiring young men. How she had queened it for a while! And then—Petrovitch!

From Calais he shared a compartment with a rather charming woman with whom he fell easily into talk. He had a gift of nonsense which, when he cared to use it, most people—his wife of course excepted—found irresistible. So they sparred pleasantly till the train neared Paris. But in the end she struck a too personal note, talking about herself and her affairs with an astonishing lack of reserve, whereupon he liked her less. When they separated she gave him her address, but he forgot both it and her. She never forgot him. If he had liked her more they would have parted friends, or on the way to friendship, which would have annoyed Louise, who only made friends with people she had known or known of for years. But her candor was without simplicity, and her impulsiveness not without calculation, so she passed out of his life, for he was fastidious about women.