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by the piquancy of the situation; for the young Jew was the only man
who had ever wittingly met the Lone Wolf face to face….
Why then this sudden awkwardness and embarrassment on the part of the
agent?
Lanyard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
In silence he produced a jewel-case of morocco leather and handed it
over to the Jew, then settled back in his chair, his attitude one of
lounging, but his mind as quick with distrust as the fingers that,
under cover of his cloak, rested close to a pocket containing his
automatic.
Accepting the box with a little bow, the Jew pressed the catch and
discovered its contents. But the richness of the treasure thus
disclosed did not seem to surprise him; and, indeed, he had more than
once been introduced with no more formality to plunder of far greater
value. Fitting a jeweller’s glass to his eye, he took up one after
another of the pieces and examined them under the lamplight. Presently
he replaced the last, shut down the cover of the box, turned a
thoughtful countenance to Lanyard, and made as if to speak, but
hesitated.
“Well?” the adventurer demanded impatiently.
“This, I take it,” said the Jew absently, tapping the box, “is the
jewellery of Madame Omber.”
“I took it,” Lanyard retorted good-naturedly—“not to put too fine a
point upon it!”
“I am sorry,” the other said slowly.
“Yes?”
“It is most unfortunate…”
“May one enquire what is most unfortunate?”
The Jew shrugged and with the tips of his fingers gently pushed the box
toward his customer. “This makes me very unhappy,” he admitted: “but I
have no choice in the matter, monsieur. As the agent of my principals I
am instructed to refuse you an offer for these valuables.”
“Why?”
Again the shrug, accompanied by a deprecatory grimace: “That is
difficult to say. No explanation was made me. My instructions were
simply to keep this appointment as usual, but to advise you it will be
impossible for my principals to continue their relations with you as
long as your affairs remain in their present status.”
“Their present status?” Lanyard repeated. “What does that mean, if you
please?”
“I cannot say monsieur. I can only repeat that which was said to me.”
After a moment Lanyard rose, took the box, and replaced it in his
pocket. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Your principals, of course,
understand that this action on their part definitely ends our
relations, rather than merely interrupts them at their whim?”
“I am desolated, monsieur, but … one must assume that they have
considered everything. You understand, it is a matter in which I am
wholly without discretion, I trust?”
“O quite!” Lanyard assented carelessly. He held out his hand.
“Good-bye, my friend.”
The Jew shook hands warmly.
“Good night, monsieur—and the best of luck!”
There was significance in his last words that Lanyard did not trouble
to analyze. Beyond doubt, the man knew more than he dared admit. And
the adventurer told himself he could shrewdly surmise most of that
which the other had felt constrained to leave unspoken.
Pressure from some quarter had been brought to bear upon that eminently
respectable firm of jewel dealers in Amsterdam to induce them to
discontinue their clandestine relations with the Lone Wolf, profitable
though these must have been.
Lanyard believed he could name the quarter whence this pressure was
being exerted, but before going further or coming to any momentous
decision, he was determined to know to a certainty who were arrayed
against him and how much importance he need attach to their antagonism.
If he failed in this, it would be the fault of the other side, not his
for want of readiness to accept its invitation.
In brief, he didn’t for an instant contemplate abandoning either his
rigid rule of solitude or his chosen career without a fight; but he
preferred not to fight in the dark.
Anger burned in him no less hotly than chagrin. It could hardly be
otherwise with one who, so long suffered to go his way without let or
hindrance, now suddenly, in the course of a few brief hours, found
himself brought up with a round turn—hemmed in and menaced on every
side by secret opposition and hostility.
He no longer feared to be watched; and the very fact that, as far as he
could see, he wasn’t watched, only added fuel to his resentment,
demonstrating as it did so patently the cynical assurance of the Pack
that they had him cornered, without alternative other than to supple
himself to their will.
To the driver of the first taxicab he met, Lanyard said “L’Abbaye,”
then shutting himself within the conveyance, surrendered to the most
morose reflections.
Nothing of this mood was, however, apparent in his manner on alighting.
He bore a countenance of amiable insouciance through the portals of
this festal institution whose proudest boast and—incidentally—sole
claim to uniquity is that it never opens its doors before midnight nor
closes them before dawn.
He had moved about with such celerity since entering his flat on the
rue Roget that it was even now only two o’clock; an hour at which
revelry might be expected to have reached its apogee in this, the
soi-disant “smartest” place in Paris.
A less sophisticated adventurer might have been flattered by the
cordiality of his reception at the hands of that arbiter elegantiarum
the maitred’h�tel.
“Ah-h, Monsieur Lanya_rrr_! But it is long since we have been so
favoured. However, I have kept your table for you.”
“Have you, though?”
“Could it be otherwise, after receipt of your honoured order?”
“No,” said Lanyard coolly, “I presume not, if you value your peace of
mind.”
“Monsieur is alone?” This with an accent of disappointment.
“Temporarily, it would seem so.”
“But this way, if you please….”
In the wake of the functionary, Lanyard traversed that frowsy anteroom
where doubtful wasters are herded on suspicion in company with the
corps of automatic Bacchanalians and figurantes, to the main
restaurant, the inner sanctum toward which the na�ve soul of the
travel-bitten Anglo-Saxon aspires so ardently.
It was not a large room; irregularly octagonal in shape, lined with
wall-seats behind a close-set rank of tables; better lighted than most
Parisian restaurants, that is to say, less glaringly; abominably
ventilated; the open space in the middle of the floor reserved for a
handful of haggard young professional dancers, their stunted bodies
more or less costumed in brilliant colours, footing it with all the
vivacity to be expected of five-francs per night per head; the tables
occupied by parties Anglo-Saxon and French in the proportion of five
to one, attended by a company of bored and apathetic waiters; a string
orchestra ragging incessantly; a vicious buck-nigger on a dais shining
with self-complacence while he vamped and shouted “_Waitin’ foh th’
Robuht E. Lee_”…
Lanyard permitted himself to be penned in a corner behind a table,
ordered champagne not because he wanted it but because it was
etiquette, suppressed a yawn, lighted a cigarette, and reviewed the
assemblage with a languid but shrewd glance.
He saw only the company of every night; for even in the off-season
there are always enough English-speaking people in Paris to make it
possible for L’Abbaye Th�l�me to keep open with profit: the
inevitable assortment of respectable married couples with friends,
the men chafing and wondering if possibly all this might seem less
unattractive were they foot-loose and fancy-free, the women contriving
to appear at ease with varying degrees of success, but one and all
flushed with dubiety; the sprinkling of demi-mondaines not in the
least concerned about their social status; the handful of people
who, having brought their fun with them, were having the good time
they would have had anywhere; the scattering of plain drunks in
evening dress…. Nowhere a face that Lanyard recognized definitely:
no Mr. Bannon, no Comte Remy de Morbihan….
He regarded this circumstance, however, with more vexation than
surprise: De Morbihan would surely show up in time; meanwhile, it was
annoying to be obliged to wait, to endure this martyrdom of ennui.
He sipped his wine sparingly, without relish, considering the single
subsidiary fact which did impress him with some wonder—that he was
being left severely to himself; something which doesn’t often fall to
the lot of the unattached male at L’Abbaye. Evidently an order had
been issued with respect to him. Ordinarily he would have been
grateful: tonight he was merely irritated: such neglect rendered him
conspicuous….
The fixed round of delirious divertissement unfolded as per schedule.
The lights were lowered to provide a melodramatic atmosphere for that
startling novelty, the Apache Dance. The coon shouted stridently. The
dancers danced bravely on their poor, tired feet. An odious dwarf
creature in a miniature outfit of evening clothes toddled from table to
table, offensively soliciting stray francs—but shied from the gleam in
Lanyard’s eyes. Lackeys made the rounds, presenting each guest with a
handful of coloured, feather-weight celluloid balls, with which to
bombard strangers across the room. The inevitable shamefaced Englishman
departed in tow of an overdressed Frenchwoman with pride of conquest in
her smirk. The equally inevitable alcoholic was dug out from under his
table and thrown into a cab. An American girl insisted on climbing upon
a table to dance, but swayed and had to be helped down, giggling
foolishly. A Spanish dancing girl was afforded a clear floor for her
specialty, which consisted in singing several verses understood by
nobody, the choruses emphasized by frantic assaults on the hair of
several variously surprised, indignant, and flattered male
guests—among them Lanyard, who submitted with resignation….
And then, just when he was on the point of consigning the Pack to the
devil for inflicting upon him such cruel and inhuman punishment, the
Spanish girl picked her way through the mob of dancers who invaded the
floor promptly on her withdrawal, and paused beside his table.
“You’re not angry, mon coco?” she pleaded with a provocative smile.
Lanyard returned a smiling negative.
“Then I may sit down with you and drink a glass of your wine?”
“Can’t you see I’ve been saving the bottle for you?”
The woman plumped herself promptly into the chair opposite the
adventurer. He filled her glass.
“But you are not happy tonight?” she demanded, staring over the brim
as she sipped.
“I am thoughtful,” he said.
“And what does that mean?”
“I am saddened to contemplate the infirmities of my countrymen, these
Americans who can’t rest in Paris until they find some place as deadly
as any Broadway boasts, these English who adore beautiful Paris solely
because here they may continue to get drunk publicly after half-past
twelve!”
“Ah, then it’s la barbe, is it not?” said the girl, gingerly stroking
her faded, painted cheek.
“It is true: I am bored.”
“Then why not go where you’re wanted?” She drained her glass at a gulp
and jumped up, swirling her skirts. “Your cab is waiting,
monsieur—and perhaps you will find it more amusing with that Pack!”
Flinging herself into the arms of another girl, she swung away,
grinning impishly at Lanyard over her partner’s shoulder.
VIII THE HIGH HANDEvidently his first move toward departure was signalled; for as he
passed out through L’Abbaye’s doors the carriage-porter darted forward
and saluted.
“Monsieur Lanyarr’?”
“Yes?”
“Monsieur’s car is waiting.”
“Indeed?” Lanyard surveyed briefly a handsome black limousine that, at
pause beside the curb, was champing its bits in the most spirited
fashion. Then he smiled appreciatively. “All the same, I thank you for
the
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