The Red Rat's Daughter by Guy Boothby (books to read in your 20s .txt) 📕

made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped. She turned and faced him, and as she did so she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision on some important point.

"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. He could bear it no longer.

"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel sure that you are not happy. Will you not trust me and let me help you? You know how gladly I would do so."

"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob, vanished into the studio. For some moments he stood waiting where he was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to Park Lane. His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not rid himself of the recollection of the girl's face, and he felt as sure as a man could well be that something was amiss. But how was he to help her? At any rate he was going to try.

The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio. He rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him. He rang again, but with the same result.

Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off for the Warwick Road. Reaching the house, the number of which Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell. When the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.

"Miss Petrovitch?" said the girl, as if she were surprised. "She is not here, sir. She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning."


CHAPTER VII


When Browne heard the maid's news, his heart sank like lead. He could scarcely believe his ill-fortune. Only a moment before he had been comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide the happiness of his life. Now his world seemed suddenly to have turned as black as midnight. Why had she left England so suddenly? What had taken her away? Could it have been something in connection with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein's of which he had heard so much of late? Then another idea struck him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness on the previous afternoon. The maid who had opened the door to him, and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.

"Can you tell me at what hour they left?" Browne inquired. "I was hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning."

"I can tell you what the time was exactly," the girl replied. "It was on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab."

"Are you quite certain upon that point?" he asked.

"Quite certain, sir," she answered. "I know it was nine o'clock, because I had just carried in the first floor's breakfast; and a precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual to the minute. There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom. As soon as she read them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill. 'I leave for Paris in an hour's time, Mrs. Jimson,' says she, sort of short-like, for I heard her myself; 'so make me out my bill and let me have it quickly.'"

"And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having to leave London at such short notice?" Browne asked, not without a little trepidation.

"Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you," the girl replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard. "She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl says. Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying, her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame were at it hammer and tongs.

"I suppose they left no message for any one?" Browne inquired, refusing to comment on what the girl had just told him.

"Not as I know of, sir," the young woman replied. "But if you will just wait a minute I'll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson. She will be sure to know."

Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six minutes. Then the girl returned and shook her head.

"There's no message of any sort, sir," she said; "at least not as Mrs. Jimson knows of."

"Thank you," said Browne simply. "I am much obliged to you."

As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl's hand. The bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside the pavement, had already produced. Not only would she have told him all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have expressed her sympathy with him.

Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to him, and he turned to the girl again.

"You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?" he inquired. "I have a particular reason for asking the question."

"Hush, sir!" she whispered. "If you really want to know it, I believe I can find out for you. Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs. Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her. I know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you'll just wait a minute longer, I'll see if I can find it for you and copy it out. I won't be a minute longer than I can help."

Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action, Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand. This time she was somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in her hand, a small slip of paper. He took it from her, and, once more thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.

"Home, Williams," he cried to his coachman, "and as quickly as possible. I have no time to spare."

As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him. Upon it, written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would have fought the world to obtain.

"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."

"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly. "Now I know where to find them. Let me see! They were to leave London in an hour from nine o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling _via_ Newhaven and Dieppe. Now, there's a train from Charing Cross, _via_ Dover and Calais, at eleven. If I can catch that I shall be in Paris an hour and a half after them."

He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in which to pack his bag and to get to the station. However, if it could be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive faster. Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once. Being a well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.

Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at Charing Cross Station. It was not until he was comfortably installed in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the full meaning of what he was doing struck him. Why was he leaving England? To follow this girl. And why? For one very good reason--_because he loved her_! But why _should_ he have loved her, when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe? Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met. And yet she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.

So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she had had a good crossing. He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent. Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores of France loomed larger. Never before had the coast struck him as being so beautiful. He entered the train at Calais with a fresh satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was bringing him closer to the woman he loved. The lights were lit in the cafes and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.

Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him to-night. The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had previously known. On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant out, and looked upon Paris by night. The voice of the great city spoke to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music. Once more he was sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same air, and hearing the same language.

Shutting the window at last, he washed off the