The Mischief Maker | Page 4

him.
"If it were upon any other errand, madame," he continued, leaning
towards her, "believe, I pray you, that no one would leave this room to
become your escort more willingly than I."
She turned away.
"You will not leave me already?" he begged.
"Monsieur," she declared, as she threw open the door before he could
reach it, "if I thought that there were many men like you in the world, if
I thought--"
She never finished her sentence. The emotions which had seized her
were entirely inexpressible. He shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear lady," he said, "let me assure you that there is not a man of
the world in this city who, if he spoke honestly, would not feel exactly
as I do. Allow me at least to see you to your automobile."
"If you dare to move," she muttered, "if you dare--"
She swept past him and down the stairs into the street. She threw
herself into the corner of the automobile. The chauffeur looked around.
"Where to, madame?" he inquired.
She hesitated for a moment. She had affairs of her own, but the thought
of the child's eyes came up before her.
"Back to the hospital," she ordered. "Drive quickly."
They rushed from Paris once more into the country, with its spring
perfumes, its soft breezes, its restful green, but fast though they drove
another messenger had outstripped them. From the little chapel, as the
car rolled up the avenue, came the slow tolling of a bell. Madame
Christophor stood on the corner of the lawn alone. The invalid chair

was empty. The blinds of the villa were being slowly lowered. She
turned around and looked toward the city. It seemed to her that she
could see into the rooms of the man whom she had left a few minutes
ago. A lark was singing over her head. She lifted her eyes and looked
past him up to the blue sky. Her lips moved, but never a sound escaped
her. Yet the man who sat in his rooms at that moment, yawning and
wondering where to spend the evening, and which companion he
should summon by telephone to amuse him, felt a sudden shiver in his
veins.

CHAPTER II
AN INDISCREET LETTER
The library of the house in Grosvenor Square was spacious, handsome
and ornate. Mr. Algernon H. Carraby, M.P., who sat dictating letters to
a secretary in an attitude which his favorite photographer had rendered
exceedingly familiar, at any rate among his constituents, was also, in
his way, handsome and ornate. Mrs. Carraby, who had just entered the
room, fulfilled in an even greater degree these same characteristics. It
was acknowledged to be a very satisfactory household.
"I should like to speak to you for a moment, Algernon," his wife
announced.
Mr. Carraby noticed for the first time that she was carrying a letter in
her hand. He turned at once to his secretary.
"Haskwell," he said, "kindly return in ten minutes."
The young man quitted the room. Mrs. Carraby advanced a few steps
further towards her husband. She was tall, beautifully dressed in the
latest extreme of fashion. Her movements were quiet, her skin a little
pale, and her eyebrows a little light. Nevertheless, she was quite a
famous beauty. Men all admired her without any reservations. The best
sort of women rather mistrusted her.

"Is that the letter, Mabel?" her husband asked, with an eagerness which
he seemed to be making some effort to conceal.
She nodded slowly. He held out his hand, but she did not at once part
with it.
"Algernon," she said quietly, "you know that I am not very scrupulous.
We both of us want success--a certain sort of success--and we have
both of us been content to pay the price. You have spent a good deal of
money and you have succeeded very well indeed. Somehow or other, I
feel to-day as though I were spending more than money."
He laughed a little uncomfortably.
"My dear Mabel!" he protested. "You are not going to back out, are
you?"
"No," she replied, "I do not think that I shall back out. There is nothing
in the whole world I want so much as to have you a Cabinet Minister. If
there had been any other way--"
"But there is no other way," her husband interrupted. "So long as Julien
Portel lives, I should never get my chance. He holds the post I want.
Every one knows that he is clever. He has the ear of the Prime Minister
and he hates me. My only chance is his retirement."
Mrs. Carraby looked at the letter.
"Well," she said, "I have played your game for you. I have gone even to
the extent of being talked about with Julien Portel."
Her husband