The end of her honeymoonBelloc Lowndes


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THE END
OF HER HONEYMOON


BOOKS BY MIRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
PUBLISHED BY charl Es scribner’s sons
The end or her Honeymoon
(postage extra) net, $1.25
MARY PECHELL . . . . . . . . net, $1.30
THE CHINK IN THE ARMOUR . . . . . net, $1.3o
JANE OGLANDER - - - - - - - - net, $1.25


º, ºf tº Kºr. 7 ºzova /7/3 ºz.).
The End
of Her Honeymoon
By
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes
Author of “The Uttermost Farthing,” “The Chink in the
Armour,” etc., etc.
* * * * * *
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
~ * ~ *
I913


Copyright, 1913, by
CHARLEs ScRIBNER's SoNs
Published September, 1913


THE END
OF HER HONEYMOON


---- ~~）* ~~~~-


THE END
OF HER HONEY MOON
CHAPTER I
“Cocher? l’Hôtel Saint Ange, Rue Saint Angel”
The voice of John Dampier, Nancy's three-weeks
bridegroom, rang out strongly, joyously, on this the
last evening of their honeymoon. And before the
lightly hung open carriage had time to move, Dampier
added something quickly, at which both he and the
driver laughed in unison.
Nancy crept nearer to her husband. It was tire-
some that she knew so little French.
“I’m telling the man we're not in any hurry, and
that he can take us round by the Boulevards. I
won’t have you seeing Paris from an ugly angle the
first time—darling!”
“But Jack? It's nearly midnight! Surely there'll
be nothing to see on the Boulevards now?”
“Won’t there? You wait and see—Paris never
goes to sleep!”
And then–Nancy remembered it long, long after-
wards—something very odd and disconcerting hap-
3


4 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
pened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon.
The horse stopped—stopped dead. If it hadn't been
that the bridegroom's arm enclosed her slender,
rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown
out.
The cabman stood up in his seat and gave his
horse a vicious blow across the back.
“Oh, Jack!” Nancy shrank and hid her face in
her husband's arm. “Don’t let him do that! I can’t
bear it!”
Dampier shouted out something roughly, angrily,
and the man jumped off the box, and taking hold of
the rein gave it a sharp pull. He led his unwilling
horse through the big iron gates, and then the little
open carriage rolled on smoothly.
How enchanting to be driving under the stars in
the city which hails in every artist—Jack Dampier
was an artist—a beloved son!
In the clear June atmosphere, under the great arc-
lamps which seemed suspended in the mild lambent
air, the branches of the trees lining the Boulevards
showed brightly, delicately green; and the tints of
the dresses worn by the women walking up and down
outside the cafés and still brilliantly lighted shops
mingled luminously, as on a magic palette.
Nancy withdrew herself gently from her husband's
arm. It seemed to her that every one in that merry,
slowly moving crowd on either side must see that he
was holding her to him. She was a shy, sensitive


6 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
*
clever, devil-may-care artist, unconventional in all his
ways, very much a Bohemian, knowing little of his
native country, England, for he had lived all his
youth and working life in France—and she, in every-
thing, save an instinctive love of beauty, which,
oddly yet naturally enough, only betrayed itself in her
dress, the exact opposite!
A commission from an English country gentleman
who had fancied a portrait shown by Dampier in
the Salon, had brought the artist, rather reluctantly,
across the Channel, and an accident—sometimes it
made them both shiver to realise how slight an
accident—had led to their first and decisive meet-
Ing.
Nancy Tremain had been brought over to tea, one
cold, snowy afternoon, at the house where Dampier
was painting. She had been dressed all in grey, and
the graceful velvet gown and furry cap-like toque
had made her look, in his eyes, like an exquisite
Eighteenth Century pastel.
One glance—so Dampier had often since assured her
and she never grew tired of hearing it—had been
enough. They had scarcely spoken the one to the
other, but he had found out her name, and, writing,
cajoled her into seeing him again. Very soon he
had captured her in the good old way, as women—or
so men like to think—prefer to be wooed, by right of
conquest.
There had been no one to say them nay, no one to


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 7
comment unkindly over so strange and sudden a
betrothal. On the contrary, Nancy's considerable
circle of acquaintances had smilingly approved.
All the world loves a masterful lover, and Nancy
Tremain was far too pretty, far too singular and
charming, to become engaged in the course of nature
to some commonplace young man. This big, ugly,
clever, amusing artist was just the contrast which
was needed for romance.
And he seemed by his own account to be making a
very good income, too! Yet, artists being such eccen-
tric, extravagant fellows, doubtless Nancy's modest
little fortune would come in useful—so those about
them argued carelessly.
Then one of her acquaintances, a thought more
good-natured than the rest, arranged that lovely,
happy Nancy should be married from a pleasant
country house, in a dear little country church. Bra-
ving superstition, the wedding took place in the last
week of May, and bride and bridegroom had gone
to Italy—though, to be sure, it was rather late for
Italy—for three happy weeks.
Now they were about to settle down in Dampier's
Paris studio.
Unluckily it was an Exhibition Year, one of those
years, that is, which, hateful as they may be to your
true Parisian, pour steady streams of gold into the
pockets of fortunate hotel and shop keepers, and
which bring a great many foreigners to Paris who


8 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
otherwise might never have come. Quite a number
of such comfortable English folk were now looking
forward to going and seeing Nancy Dampier in her
new home—of which the very address was quaint and
unusual, for Dampier's studio was situated Impasse
des Nonnes.
They were now speeding under and across the vast
embracing shadow of the Opera House. And again
Dampier slipped his arm round his young wife. It
seemed to this happy man as if Paris to-night had
put on her gala dress to welcome him, devout lover
and maker of beauty, back to her bosom.
“Isn’t it pleasant to think,” he whispered, “that
Paris is the more beautiful because you now are in
it and of it, Nancy?”
And Nancy smiled, well pleased at the fantastic
compliment.
She pressed more closely to him.
“I wish—I wish ” and then she stopped, for
she was unselfish, shy of expressing her wishes, but
that made Dampier ever the more eager to hear, and,
if possible, to gratify them.
“What is it that you wish, dear heart?” he asked.
“I wish, Jack, that we were going straight home to
the studio now—instead of to an hotel.”
“We'll get in very soon,” he answered quickly.
“Believe me, darling, you wouldn’t like going in
before everything is ready for you. Mère Bideau has


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 9
her good points, but she could never make the place
look as I want it to look when you first see it. I’ll
get up early to-morrow morning and go and see to
it all. I wouldn’t for the world you saw our home
as it must look now—the poor little living rooms
dusty and shabby, and our boxes sitting sadly in
the middle of the studio itself!”
They had sent their heavy luggage on from Eng-
land, and for the honeymoon Nancy had contented
herself with one modest little trunk, while Dampier
had taken the large portmanteau which had been
the useful wedding present of the new friend and
patron in whose house he had first seen his wife.
Swiftly they shot through the triple arch which
leads from the Rue de Rivoli to the Carousel. How
splendid and solitary was the vast dimly-lit space.
“I like this,” whispered Nancy dreamily, gazing up
at the dark, star-powdered sky.
And then Dampier turned and caught her, this
time unresisting, yielding joyfully, to his breast.
“Nancy?” he murmured thickly. “Nancy? I’m
afraid!”
“Afraid?” she repeated wonderingly.
“Yes, horribly afraid! Pray, my pure angel, pray
that the gods may indulge their cruel sport else-
where. I haven’t always been happy, Nancy.”
And she clung to him, full of vague, unsubstantial
fears. “Don’t talk like that,” she murmured. “It
—it isn’t right to make fun of such things.”


Io THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
“Make fun? Good God!” was all he said.
And then his mood changed. They were now
being shaken across the huge, uneven paving stones
of the quays, and so on to a bridge. “I never really
feel at home in Paris till I’ve crossed the Seine,” he
cried joyously. “Cheer up, darling, we shall soon
be at the Hôtel Saint Ange!”
“Have you ever stayed in the Hôtel Saint Ange?”
she said, with a touch of curiosity in her voice.
“I used to know a fellow who lived there,” he said
carelessly. “But what made me pick it out was the
fact that it's such a queer, beautiful old house, and
with a delightful garden. Also we shall meet no
English there.”
“Don’t you like English people?” she asked, a
little protestingly.
And Dampier laughed. “I like them everywhere
but in Paris,” he said: and then, “But you won't be
quite lonely, little lady, for a good many Americans
go to the Hôtel Saint Ange. And for such a funny
reason—”
“What reason?”
“It was there that Edgar Allan Poe stayed when
he was in Paris.” •,
Their carriage was now engaged in threading nar-
row, shadowed thoroughfares which wound through
what might have been a city of the dead. From
midnight till cock-crow old-world Paris sleeps, and
the windows of the high houses on either side of the


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON II
deserted streets through which they were now driving
were all closely shuttered.
“Here we have the ceremonious, the well-bred,
the tactful Paris of other days,” exclaimed Dampier
whimsically. “This Paris understands without any
words that what we now want is to be quiet, and by
ourselves, little girl!”
A gas lamp, burning feebly in a corner wine shop,
lit up his exultant face for a flashing moment.
“You don't look well, Jack,” Nancy said suddenly.
“It was awfully hot in Lyons this morning—”
“We stayed just a thought too long in that carpet
warehouse,” he said gaily,– “And then—and then
that prayer carpet, which might have belonged to
Ali Baba of Ispahan, has made me feel ill with envy
ever since! But joy! Here we are at last!”
After emerging into a square of which one side was
formed by an old Gothic church, they had engaged
in a dark and narrow street the further end of which
was bastioned by one of the flying buttresses of the
church they had just passed.
The cab drew up with a jerk. “C'est ici, mon-
sieur.”
The man had drawn up before a broad oak porte
cochère which, sunk far back into a thick wall, was
now inhospitably shut. -
“They go to bed betimes this side of the river!”
exclaimed Dampier ruefully.
Nancy felt a little troubled. The hotel people


I2 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
knew they were coming, for Jack had written from
Marseilles: it was odd no one had sat up for them.
But their driver gave the wrought-iron bell-handle
a mighty pull, and after what seemed to the two
travellers a very long pause the great doors swung
slowly back on their hinges, while a hearty voice
called out, “C'est vous, Monsieur Gerald? C'est vous,
mademoiselle?”
And Dampier shouted back in French, “It’s Mr.
and Mrs. Dampier. Surely you expect us? I wrote
from Marseilles three days ago!”
He helped his wife out of the cab, and they passed
through into the broad, vaulted passage which con-
nected the street with the courtyard of the hotel.
By the dim light afforded by an old-fashioned hang-
ing lamp Nancy Dampier saw that three people had
answered the bell; they were a middle-aged man (evi-
dently mine host), his stout better half, and a youth
who rubbed his eyes as if sleepy, and who stared at
the newcomers with a dull, ruminating stare.
As is generally the case in a French hotel, it was
Madame who took command. She poured forth a
torrent of eager, excited words, and at last Dampier
turned to his wife:–“They got my letter, but of
course had no address to which they could answer, and
—and it's rather a bore, darling—but they don’t
seem to have any rooms vacant.”
But even as he spoke the fat, cheerful-looking
Frenchwoman put her hand on the young English-


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 13
man's arm. She had seen the smart-looking box of
the bride, the handsome crocodile skin bag of the
bridegroom, and again she burst forth, uttering again
and again the word “arranger.” -
Dampier turned once more, this time much re-
lieved, to his wife: “Madame Poulain (that's her
name, it seems) thinks she can manage to put us up
all right to-night, if we don’t mind two very small
rooms—unluckily not on the same floor. But some
people are going away to-morrow and then she'll
have free some charming rooms overlooking the gar-
den.” -
He took a ten-franc piece out of his pocket as he
spoke, and handed it to the gratified cabman:-‘‘It
doesn’t seem too much for a drive through fairy-
land”—he said aside to his wife.
And Nancy nodded contentedly. It pleased her
that her Jack should be generous—the more that she
had found out in the last three weeks that if generous,
he was by no means a spendthrift. He had longed
to buy a couple of Persian prayer carpets in that
queer little warehouse where a French friend of his
had taken them in Lyons, but he had resisted the
temptation—nobly.
Meanwhile Madame Poulain was talking, talking,
talking—emphasising all she said with quick, eager
gestures.
“They are going to put you in their own daughter's
room, darling. She's luckily away just now. So I


14 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
think you will be all right. I, it seems, must put up
with a garret!”
“Oh, must you be far away from me?” she asked
a little plaintively.
“Only for to-night, only till to-morrow, sweetheart.”
And then they all began going up a winding stair-
case which started flush from the wall to the left.
First came Madame Poulain, carrying a candle,
then Monsieur Poulain with his new English clients,
and, last of all, the loutish lad carrying Nancy's trunk.
They had but a little way to go up the shallow
slippery stairs, for when they reached the first tiny
landing Madame Poulain opened a curious, narrow
slit of a door which seemed, when shut, to be actually
part of the finely panelled walls.
“Here's my daughter's room,” said the landlady
proudly. “It is very comfortable and charming.”
“What an extraordinary little room!” whispered
Nancy.
And Dampier, looking round him with a good deal
of curiosity, agreed.
In the days when the Hôtel Saint Ange belonged
to the great soldier whose name it still bears, this
strange little apartment had surely been, so the Eng-
lish artist told himself, a powdering closet. Even
now the only outside light and air came from a small
square window which had evidently only recently
been cut through the thick wall. In front of this
aperture fluttered a bright pink curtain.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 17
“No, monsieur, no. Our clientèle is mostly French.
We have only this young lady, her brother, and their
father, monsieur. The father is a Senator in his own
country—Senator Burton. They are very charm-
ing people, and have stayed with us often before.
All our other guests are French. We have never
had such a splendid season: and all because of the
Exhibition!”
“I’m glad you are doing well,” said Dampier cour-
teously. “But for my part”—he shrugged his shoul-
ders—“I’m too much of a Parisian to like the Exhibi-
tion.”
Then he turned to Nancy: “Well, you'll be quite
safe, my darling. Monsieur and Madame Poulain
are only just through here, so you needn’t feel lonely.”
And then there came a chorus of bonsoirs from host,
from hostess, and from the lad who now stood wait-
ing with the Englishman's large portmanteau hitched
up on his shoulder.
Dampier bent and kissed his wife very tenderly:
then he followed Monsieur Poulain and the latter's
nephew up the stairs, while Madame Poulain stayed
behind and helped Mrs. Dampier to unpack the few
things she required for the night.
And Nancy, though she felt just a little bewildered
to find herself alone in this strange house, was yet
amused and cheered by the older woman's lively
chatter, and that although she only understood one
word in ten.


18 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
Madame Poulain talked of her daughter, Virginie,
now in the country well away from the holiday crowds
brought by the Exhibition, and also of her nephew,
Jules, the lad who had carried up the luggage, and
who knew—so Madame Poulain went to some pains
to make Nancy understand—a little English.
Late though it was, the worthy woman did not seem
in any hurry to go away, but at last came the kindly
words which even Nancy, slight as was her knowl-
edge of French, understood: “Bonsoir, madame.
Dormez bien.”


CHAPTER II
NANCY DAMPIER sat up in bed.
Through the curtain covering the square aperture
in the wall which did duty for a window the strong
morning light streamed in, casting a pink glow over
the peculiar little room.
She drew the pearl-circled watch, which had been
one of Jack's first gifts to her, from under the big,
square pillow.
It was already half-past nine. How very tiresome
and strange that she should have overslept herself
on this, her first morning in Paris! And yet—and
yet not so very strange after all, for her night had
been curiously and disagreeably disturbed.
At first she had slept the deep, dreamless sleep of
happy youth, and then, in a moment, she had sud-
denly sat up, wide awake.
The murmur of talking had roused her—of eager,
low talking in the room which lay the other side of
the deep cupboard. When the murmur had at last
ceased she had dozed off, only to be waked again
by the sound of the porte cochère swinging back on
its huge hinges.
It was evidently quite true—as Jack had said—
that Paris never goes to sleep.
I9


20 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Jack had declared he would get up and go over to
the studio early, so there was nothing for it but to
get up, and wait patiently till he came back. Nancy
knew that her husband wouldn’t like her to venture
out into the streets alone. He was extraordinarily
careful of her—careful and thoughtful for her com-
fort.
What an angel he was—her great strong, clever
Jack!
A girl who goes about by herself as much as Nancy
Tremain had gone about alone during the three
years which had elapsed betwixt her leaving school
and her marriage, obtains a considerable knowledge
of men, and not of the nicest kind of men. But Jack
was an angel—she repeated the rather absurdly in-
congruous word to herself with a very tender feeling
in her heart. He always treated her not only as if
she were something beautiful and rare, but something
fragile, to be respected as well as adored. . . .
He had left her so little during the last three weeks
that she had never had time to think about him as
she was thinking of him now; “counting up her
mercies,” as an old-fashioned lady she had known as
a child was wont to advise those about her to do.
At last she looked round her for a bell. No, there
was nothing of the sort in the tiny room. But Nancy
Dampier had already learned to do without all sorts of
things which she had regarded as absolute necessities
of life when she was Nancy Tremain. In some of the


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON 21
humbler Italian inns in which she and Jack had been
so happy, the people had never even heard of a bell!
She jumped out of bed, put on her pretty, pale blue
dressing-gown—it was a fancy of Jack's that she
should wear a great deal of pale blue and white—
and then she opened the door a little way.
“Madame!” she called out gaily. “Madame Pou-
lain?” and wondered whether her French would run
to the words “hot water”—yes, she thought it would.
“Eau chaude”—that was hot water.
But there came no answering cry, and again, this
time rather impatiently, she called out, “Madame
Poulain?”
And then the shuffling sounds of heavy footsteps
made Nancy shoot back from the open door.
“Yuss?” muttered a hoarse voice.
This surely must be the loutish-looking youth who,
so Nancy suddenly remembered, knew a little Eng-
lish.
“I want some hot water,” she called out through
the door. “And will you please ask your aunt to
come here for a moment?”
“Yuss,” he said, in that queer hoarse voice, and
shuffled downstairs again. And there followed, float-
ing up from below, one of those quick, gabbling inter-
changes of French words which Nancy, try as she
might, could not understand.
She got into bed again. Perhaps after all it would
be better to allow them to bring up her “little break-


22 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
fast” in the foreign fashion. She would still be in
plenty of time for Jack. Once in the studio he would
be in no hurry, or so she feared, to come back—espe-
cially if on his way out he had opened her door and
seen how soundly she was sleeping.
She waited some time, and then, as no one came,
grew what she so seldom was, impatient and annoyed.
What an odd hotel, and what dilatory, disagree-
able ways! But just as she was thinking of getting
up again she heard a hesitating knock.
It was Madame Poulain, and suddenly Nancy—
though unobservant as is youth, and especially happy
youth—noticed that mine hostess looked far less well
in the daytime than by candle-light.
Madame Poulain's stout, sallow face was pale, her
cheeks puffy; there were rings round the black eyes
which had sparkled so brightly the night before.
But then she too must have had a disturbed night.
In her halting French Mrs. Dampier explained that
she would like coffee and rolls, and then some hot
Water.
“C'est bien, mademoiselle!”
And Nancy blushed rosy-red. “Mademoiselle?”
How odd to hear herself so addressed! But Madame
Poulain did not give her time to say anything, even
if she had wished to do so, for, before Mrs. Dampier
could speak again, the hotel-keeper had shut the door
and gone downstairs.
‘And then, after a long, long wait, far longer than


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 23
Nancy had ever been made to wait in any of the
foreign hotels in which she and her husband had
stayed during the last three weeks, Madame Poulain
reappeared, bearing a tray in her large, powerful
hands.
She put the tray down on the bed, and she was
already making her way quickly, silently to the door,
when Nancy called out urgently, “Madame? Ma-
dame Poulain! Has my husband gone out!”
And then she checked herself, and tried to convey
the same question in her difficult French—“Mon
mari?” she said haltingly. “Mon mari?”
But Madame Poulain only shook her head, and
hurried out of the room, leaving the young English-
woman oddly discomfited and surprised.
It was evidently true what Jack had said—that
tiresome Exhibition had turned everything in Paris,
especially the hotels, topsy-turvy. Madame Pou-
lain was cross and tired, run off her feet, maybe; her
manner, too, quite different now from what it had
been the night before.
Nancy Dampier got up and dressed. She put on
a pale blue linen gown which Jack admired, and a
blue straw hat trimmed with grey wings which Jack
said made her look like Mercury.
She told herself that there could be no reason why.
she shouldn’t venture out of her room and go down-
stairs, where there must surely be some kind of pub-
lic sitting-room.


24 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Suddenly remembering the young American's in-
terchange of words with his sister, she wondered,
smiling to herself, if she would ever see them again.
How cross the young man's idle words had made
Jack! Dear, jealous Jack, who hated it so when
people stared at her as foreigners have a trick of
staring. It made Nancy happy to know that people
thought her pretty, nay beautiful, for it would have
been dreadful for Jack, an artist, to marry an ugly
WOIIla.Il. . . .
Locking her box she went out onto the shallow
staircase, down the few steps which led straight under
the big arch of the porte cochère. It was thrown
hospitably open on to the narrow street now full of
movement, colour, and sound. But in vivid contrast
to the moving panorama presented by the busy, lane-
like thoroughfare outside, was the spacious, stone-
paved courtyard of the hotel, made gay with orange
trees in huge green tubs. Almost opposite the porte
cochère was another arch through which she could
See a glimpse of the cool, shady garden Jack re-
membered.
Yes, it was a strangely picturesque and charming
old house, this Hôtel Saint Ange; but even so Nancy
felt a little lost, a little strange, standing there under
the porte cochère. Then she saw that painted up on a
glass door just opposite the stairs leading to her
room was the word “Bureau”: it was doubtless there
that Jack had left word when he would be back.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 25
She went across and opened the door, but to her
surprise there was no one in the little office; she
hadn’t, however, long to wait, for Madame Poulain's
nephew suddenly appeared from the courtyard.
He had on an apron; there was a broom in his
hand, and as he came towards her, walking very,
very slowly, there came over Nancy Dampier, she
could not have told you why, a touch of repulsion
from the slovenly youth.
“I wish to know,” she said, “whether my husband
left any message for me?”
But the young man shook his head. He shuffled
first on one foot and then on the other, looking mis-
erably awkward. It was plain that he did not know
more than a word or two of English.
“I am sure,” she said, speaking slowly and very
distinctly, “that my husband left some kind of mes-
sage with your uncle or aunt. Will you please ask
one of them to speak to me?”
He nodded. “Si, mademoiselle,” and walked
quickly away, back into the courtyard.
“Mademoiselle” again! What an extraordinary
hotel, and what bad manners these people had! And
yet again and again Jack had compared English and
French hotels—always to the disadvantage of the
former. * ,
Long minutes went by, and Nancy began to feel
vexed and angry. Then there fell on her listening
ears a phrase uttered very clearly in Madame Poulain's


26 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
resonant voice: “C'est ton tour maintenant! Vas-y,
mon ami!”
And before she had time to try and puzzle out the
sense of the words, she saw Monsieur Poulain's portly
figure emerge from the left side of the courtyard, and
then—when he caught sight of the slim, blue-clad
figure standing under his porte cochère—beat a hasty
retreat. .
Nancy's sense of discomfort and indignation grew.
What did these people mean by treating her like this?
She longed with a painful, almost a sick longing for
her husband's return. It must be very nearly eleven
o'clock. Why did he stay away so long?
A painful, choking feeling—one she had very, very
seldom experienced during the course of her short,
prosperous life, came into her throat.
Angrily she dashed away two tears from her eyes.
This was a horrid hotel! The Poulains were hate-
ful people! Jack had made a mistake—how could
he have brought her to such a place? She would tell
him when he came back that he must take her away
now, at once, to some ordinary, nice hotel, where the
people knew English, and where they treated their
guests with ordinary civility.
And then there shot through Nancy Dampier a
feeling of quick relief, for, walking across the court-
yard, evidently on their way out, came a pleasant-
looking elderly gentleman, accompanied by the girl
whom Nancy had seen for a brief moment standing


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 27
on the landing close to her bedroom door the night
before.
These were English people? No, American of
course! But that was quite as good, for they, thank
heaven! spoke English. She could ask them to be
her interpreters with those extraordinary Poulains.
Jack wouldn’t mind her doing that. Why, he might
have left quite an important message for her!
She took a step forward, and the strangers stopped.
The old gentleman—Nancy called him in her own
mind an old gentleman, though Senator Burton was
by no means old in his own estimation or in that of
his contemporaries—smiled a very pleasant, genial
smile.
Nancy Dampier made a charming vision as she
stood under the arch of the porte cochère, her slender,
blue-clad figure silhouetted against the dark back-
ground by the street outside, and the colour coming
and going in her face. -
“May I speak to you a moment?” she said shyly.
“Why certainly.”
The American took off his hat, and stood looking
down at her kindly. “My name is Burton, Senator
Burton, at your service! What can I do for you?”
The simple little question brought back all Nancy's
usual happy confidence. How silly she had been
just now to feel so distressed.
“I’m Mrs. Dampier, and I can’t make the hotel
people understand what I say,” she explained. “I


28 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
mean Monsieur and Madame Poulain—and the
nephew—I think his name is Jules—though he is sup-
posed to speak English, is so very stupid.”
“Yes, indeed he is!” chimed in the girl whom her
brother had called “Daisy.” “I’ve long ago given
up trying to make that boy understand anything,
even in French. But they do work him most awfully
hard, you know; they have women in each day to
help with the cleaning, but that poor lad does every-
thing else—everything, that is, that the Poulains
don’t do themselves.”
“What is it that you can’t make them understand?”
asked Senator Burton indulgently. “Tell us what
it is you want to ask them?”
“I only wish to know at what time my husband
went out, and whether he left any message for me,”
answered Nancy rather shamefacedly. “You see the
hotel is so full that they put us on different floors,
and I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“I’ll find that out for you at once. I expect
Madame Poulain is in her kitchen just now.”
The Senator turned and went back into the court-
yard, leaving his daughter and the young English-
woman alone together.
“The Poulains seem such odd, queer people,” said
Nancy hesitatingly. -
“D'you think so? We've always found them all
right,” said the girl, smiling. “Of course they’re
dreadfully busy just now because of the Exhibition.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 31
When they were half-way up the Senator joined
them, and a few moments later when they had
reached the second landing, he put a key in the lock
of a finely carved door, then he stood back, cour-
teously, to allow his daughter's guest to walk through
into the small lobby which led to the delightful
suite of rooms which the Burtons always occupied
during their frequent visits to Paris.
Nancy uttered an exclamation of delight as she
passed through into the high-pitched, stately salon,
whose windows overlooked one of those leafy gardens
which are still the pride of old Paris. “This is de-
lightful!” she exclaimed. “Who would ever have
thought that they had such rooms as this in the
Hôtel Saint Ange!”
“There are several of these suites,” said Daisy
Burton pleasantly. “In fact, a good many French
provincial people come up here, year after year, for
the winter.”
While Mrs. Dampier and his daughter were ex-
changing these few words the Senator remained silent.
Then—“Is your brother gone out?” he said abruptly.
“Yes, father. He went out about half an hour
ago. But he said he'd be back in ample time to take
us out to luncheon. He thought we might like to
go to Foyot's to-day.”
“So we will. Daisy, my dear—?” He stopped
short, and his daughter looked at him, surprised.
“Yes, father?”


32 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave me with this
young lady for a few moments. I have something
to say to her which I think it would be as well that I
should say alone.”
Nancy got up from the chair on which she had
already seated herself, and fear flashed into her face.
“What is it?” she cried apprehensively. “You’re
not going to tell me that anything's happened to
Jack!”
“No, no,” said the Senator quickly, but even as he
uttered the two short, reassuring little words he
averted his eyes from Mrs. Dampier's questioning
anxious eyes.
His daughter left the room.
“What is it?” said Nancy again, trying to smile.
“What is it, Mr. Burton?”
And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair,
sat down too.
“The Poulains,” he said gravely—he was telling
himself that he had never come across so accom-
plished an actress as this young Englishwoman was
proving herself to be—“the Poulains,” he repeated
very distinctly, “declare that you arrived here last
night alone. They say that they did not know, as
a matter of fact, that you were married. You do not
seem to have even given them your name.”
Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, “There
must be some extraordinary mistake,” she said quietly.
“The Poulains must have thought you meant some


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 33
one else. My husband and I arrived, of course
together, late last night. At first Madame Poulain
said she couldn't take us in as the hotel was full.
But at last she said that they could give us two small
rooms. They knew our name was Dampier, for
Jack wrote to them from Marseilles. He and I were
only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our
honeymoon. My husband, who is an artist, is now
at his studio. We’re going to move there in a day
or two.”
She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and
the Senator felt oddly relieved by her words.
He tried to remember exactly what had happened,
what exactly the Poulains had said, when he had gone
into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the left of the
courtyard. .
He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he
had explained, in his very good French, to Madame
Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of a
young English lady, whether her husband, a gentle-
man named Dampier, had left any message for her.
And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in a
rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice
that she feared the young lady was toquée—i.e., not
quite all right in her head—as, saving Monsieur le
Sénateur's presence, English ladies so often were!
At great length she had gone on to explain that the
young lady in question had arrived very late the
night before, and that seeing that she was so young


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 35
When his daughter came into the room, “There's
been some mistake,” said Senator Burton briefly.
“It’s my fault, I expect. I can’t have made it clear
to Madame Poulain whom I meant. She has con-
fused Mrs. Dampier with some English lady who
turned up here alone late last night.”
“But we turned up late last night,” said Nancy
quickly. “Very, very late; long after midnight.”
“Still, my brother and I came in after you,” said
Daisy Burton suddenly. And then she smiled and
reddened. Mrs. Dampier must certainly have over-
heard Gerald's remark.
“It was an awful job getting a cab after that play,
father, and it must have been nearly one o'clock
when we got in. As we felt sure this side of the
house was shut up we went up that queer little
back staircase, and so past the open door of Mrs.
Dampier's room,” she explained.
To the Senator's surprise, Mrs. Dampier also grew
red; indeed, she blushed crimson from forehead to chin.
“My brother thought you were French,” went on
Daisy, a little awkwardly. “In fact, we both thought
you must be Madame Poulain's daughter. We knew
that was Virginie's room, and we’ve always been
hearing of that girl ever since we first came to stay
in Paris. She used to be at a convent school, and
she's with her grandmother in the country just now,
to be out of the Exhibition rush. The Poulains sim-
ply worship her.”


36 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
The Senator looked very thoughtful as he walked
downstairs behind the two girls. The mystery was
thickening in a very disagreeable way. Both hotel-
keepers had stated positively that the “demoiselle
anglaise,” as they called her, had slept in their
daughter's room. . . .
But what was this the lady who called herself Mrs.
Dampier saying?
“My husband and I realised you thought I was
Mademoiselle Poulain,” said Nancy, and she also
spoke with a touch of awkwardness.
Senator Burton put out his right hand and laid
it, rather heavily, on his daughter's shoulder.
She stopped and turned round. “Yes, father?”
“Then I suppose you also saw Mr. Dampier,
Daisy?”
Eagerly he hoped for confirmation of the charming
stranger's story. But—
“No,” she said reluctantly. “We only saw Mrs.
Dampier and the Poulains, father—they were all in
the room together. You see, we were outside on
the dark staircase, and just stopped for a minute on
the landing to say good-night to the Poulains, and
to tell them that we had come in.”
“I suppose, Mrs. Dampier, that by then your hus-
band had already gone to his room?” But in spite
of his efforts to make his voice cordial the Senator
failed to do so.
“No, he hadn’t gone upstairs then.” Nancy


38 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
lains not to have more help in, but French people
were like that!
Senator Burton knew that these good folks were
trying to amass as large a dowry as possible for
their adored only child. Virginie was now of mar-
riageable age, and the Poulains had already se-
lected in their own minds the man they wished to
see their son-in-law. He was owner of an hotel at
Chantilly, and as he was young, healthy, and reputed
kind and good-tempered, he had the right to expect a
good dowry with his future wife. The fact that this
was an Exhibition Year was a great stroke of luck
for the Poulains. It almost certainly meant that
their beloved Virginie would soon be settled close to
them in charming salubrious Chantilly. . . .
The proprietress of the Hôtel Saint Ange now stood
close to Senator Burton and his companion. Her
voluble tongue was stilled for once: she was twisting
a corner of her blue check apron round and round in
her strong, sinewy-looking fingers.
“Well, Madame Poulain,” the American spoke very
gravely, “there has evidently been some strange
misunderstanding. This lady asserts most positively
that she arrived here last night accompanied by her
husband, Mr. Dampier.”
A look of—was it anger or pain?—came over
Madame Poulain's face. She shook her head de-
cidedly. “I have already told monsieur,” she said
quickly, “that this lady arrived here last night alone.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 39
I know nothing of her husband: I did not even know
she was married. To tell you the truth, monsieur, we
ought to have made her fill in the usual form. But
it was so late that we put off the formality till to-day.
I now regret very much that we did so.”
The Senator looked questioningly at Nancy Dam-
pier. She had become from red very white. “Do
you understand what she says?” he asked slowly,
impassively.
“Yes—I understand. But she is not telling the
truth.”
The Senator hesitated. “I have known Madame
Poulain a long time,” he said.
“Yes—and you’ve only known me a few minutes.”
Nancy Dampier felt as though she were living
through a horrible nightmare—horrible and at the
same time absurd. But she made a great effort to
remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman.
So she added quietly: “I can't tell—I can't in the
least guess—why this woman is telling such a
strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth
of what I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name
is John Dampier. He is an artist, and has a studio
here in Paris.”
“Do you know the address of your husband's
studio, Mrs. Dampier?”
“Of course I do.” The question stung her, this
time past endurance. “I think I had better have
a cab and drive there straight,” she said stiffly


40 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Please forgive me for having given you so much
trouble. I’ll manage all right by myself now.”
Every vestige of colour had receded from her face.
There was a frightened, hunted expression in her
blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of con-
cern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should
this poor girl—she looked even younger than his
daughter—pretend that she had come here accom-
panied, if, after all, she had not done so?
Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly,
and there was no very pleasant expression on her face.
“Well,” she said at last, “that comes of being too
good-natured, Monsieur le Sénateur. I never heard
of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse
us of P Does she think we made away with her
friend? She may have arrived with a man—as to
that I say nothing—but I assert most positively that
in that case he left her before she actually came
into the Hôtel Saint Ange.”
“Will you please ask her to call me a cabi’’’ said
Nancy trembling.
And he transmitted the request; adding kindly in
English, “Of course I am coming with you as far
as your husband's studio. I expect we shall find
that Mr. Dampier went there last night. The Pou-
lains have forgotten that he came with you: you
see they are very tired and overworked just now—”
But Nancy shook her head. It was impossible
that the Poulains should have forgotten Jack.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 41
Madame Poulain went a step nearer to Senator
Burton and muttered something, hurriedly. He hesi-
tated.
“Mais si, Monsieur le Sénateur.”
And very reluctantly he transmitted the woman's
disagreeable message. “She thinks that perhaps as
you are going to your husband's rooms, you had
better take your trunk with you, Mrs. Dampier.”
Nancy assented, almost eagerly. “Yes, do ask
her to have my trunk brought down! I would far
rather not come back here.” She was still quite col-
lected and quiet in her manner. “But, Mr. Burton,
hadn't I better pay? Especially if they persist in
saying I came alone?” she smiled, a tearful little smile.
It still seemed so—so absurd.
She took out her purse. “I haven’t much money,
for you see Jack always pays everything. But I’ve
got an English sovereign, and I can always draw a
cheque. I have my own money.”
And the Senator grew more and more bewildered.
It was clear that this girl was either speaking the
truth, or else that she was a most wonderful actress.
But, as every man who has reached the Senator's age
is ruefully aware, very young women can act on oc-
casion in ordinary every day life, as no professional
actress of genius ever did or ever will do on a stage.
Madame Poulain went off briskly, and when she
came back a few moments later, there was a look of
relief, almost of joy, on her face. “The cab is here,”


42 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
she exclaimed, “and Jules has brought down madame's
trunk.”
Nancy looked at the speaker quickly. Then she
was “madame” again? Well, that was something.
“Three francs—that will quite satisfy us,” said
Madame Poulain, handing over the change for her
English sovereign. It was a gold napoleon and a
two-franc piece. For the first time directly address-
ing Mrs. Dampier, “There has evidently been a
mistake,” she said civilly. “No doubt monsieur left
madame at the door, and went off to his studio last
night. I expect madame will find monsieur there,
quite safe and sound.”
Senator Burton, well as he believed himself to be
acquainted with his landlady, would have been very
much taken aback had he visioned what followed his
own and Mrs. Dampier's departure from the Hôtel
Saint Ange.
Madame Poulain remained at the door of the porte
cochère till the open carriage turned the corner of the
narrow street. Then she looked at her nephew.
“How much did she give you?” she asked roughly.
And the young man reluctantly opened a grimy hand
and showed a two franc piece.
She snatched it from him, and motioned him back
imperiously towards the courtyard.
After he had gone quite out of sight she walked
quickly up the little street till she came to a low,


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 43
leather-bound door which gave access to the church
whose fine buttress bestowed such distinction on
the otherwise rather sordid Rue Saint Ange. Push-
ing open the door she passed through into the dimly-
lit side aisle where stood the Lady Altar.
This old church held many memories for Madame
Poulain. It was here that Virginie had been chris-
tened, here that there had taken place the funeral ser-
vice of the baby son she never mentioned and still
bitterly mourned, and it was there, before the High
Altar, to the right of which she now stood, that she
hoped to see her beloved daughter stand ere long
a happy bride.
She looked round her for a moment, bewildered by
the sudden change from the bright sunlit street to the
shadowed aisle. Then she suddenly espied what she
had come to seek. Close to where she stood an
alms-box clamped to the stone wall had written upon
it the familiar legend, “Pour les Pauvres.”
Madame Poulain took a step forward, then dropped
the three francs Nancy Dampier had just paid her,
and the two francs she had extracted from Jules's
reluctant hand, into the alms-box.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 45
Senator Burton looked up at the cabman: “Better
not take off the lady's trunk just yet,” he said quickly
in French, and though Nancy Dampier made no
demur, she looked surprised.
They began walking up the shaded path, for above
the low walls on either side sprang flowering shrubs
and trees.
“What a charming place!” exclaimed the Senator,
smiling down at her. “How fond you and your hus-
band must be of it!”
But his companion shook her head. “I’ve never
been here,” she said slowly. “You see this is my
first visit to Paris. Though I ought not to call it a
visit, for Paris is to be my home now,” and she smiled
at last, happy in the belief that in a few moments she
would see Jack.
She was a little troubled at the thought that Jack
would be disappointed at her coming here in this
way, with a stranger. But surely after she had
explained the extraordinary occurrence of the morn-
ing he would understand?
They were now opposite No. 3. It was a curious,
mosque-like building, with the domed roof of what
must be the studio, in the centre. Boldly inscribed
on a marble slab set above the door was the name,
“John Dampier.”
Before the bell had well stopped ringing, a sturdy
apple-faced old woman, wearing the Breton dress
Jack so much admired, stood before them.
Nancy of course knew her at once for Mère Bideau.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 47
“I beg of you to enter,” said Mère Bideau again.
“Monsieur and madame may like to visit the studio?
I do not say that it is very tidy—but my master's
beautiful paintings are not affected by untidiness—”
and she smiled ingratiatingly.
This important-looking gentleman, whom her
shrewd Parisian eyes and ears had already told her
was an American, might be an important picture-
buyer; in any case, he was evidently gravely dis-
appointed at not finding Mr. Dampier at home.
“My master may arrive any moment,” she said
again; “and though I’ve had to put all the luggage
he sent on some time ago, in the studio—well, mon-
sieur and madame will excuse that!”
She stood aside to allow the strangers to step
through into the little passage.
The Senator turned to Nancy: “Hadn't we better
go in and wait?” he asked. “You must remember
that if Mr. Dampier has gone to the hotel they will
certainly tell him we are here.”
“No,” said Nancy in a low voice, “I would rather
not go in-now. My husband doesn’t want me to
see the place until he has got it ready for me.” Her
lips quivered. “But oh, Mr. Burton, where can Jack
be? What can he be doing?” She put her hands
together with a helpless, childish gesture of distress.
Then, making an effort over herself, she said in a
more composed voice, “But I should like you to go
in and just see some of Jack's pictures.”


48 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
With a smiling face Mère Bideau preceded the
Senator down a sunny corridor into the large studio.
It was circular in shape, lighted by a skylight, and
contained a few pieces of fine old furniture, now in-
congruously allied to a number of unopened packing-
cases and trunks.
Mère Bideau went on talking volubly. She was
evidently both fond and proud of her master. Sud-
denly she waved her lean arm towards a large, am-
bitious painting showing a typical family group of
French bourgeois sitting in an arbour.
“This is what won Mr. Dampier his first Salon
medal,” she explained. “But his work has much
improved since then, as monsieur can see for himself!”
and she uncovered an unframed easel portrait. It
was a really interesting, distinguished presentment
of a man. “Is not this excellent?” exclaimed Mère
Bideau eagerly. “What expression, what strength
in the mouth, in the eyes!”
Senator Burton, had the circumstances been other,
would perhaps have smiled at the old woman's en-
thusiasm, and at her intelligent criticism. But now
he simply nodded his head gravely. “Yes, that is
a very good portrait,” he said absently. “And—
and—where are the living rooms?”
“This way, monsieur!” Then, with some surprise,
“Would monsieur care to see the appartement? Then
I presume monsieur is a friend of my master.”
But the Senator shook his head quickly. “No,


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 49
no, I don’t want to see the rooms,” he said. “I was
only curious to know if Mr. Dampier actually lived
here.”
As there was a suite of living rooms attached to
the studio, why had the Dampiers gone to an hotel?
“Yes, monsieur, there are three beautiful bed-
rooms, also a bath-room, and a room which was not
used by us, but which my master is going to turn into
a little salon for his lady. As for their meals—”
she shrugged her shoulders—“they will have to be
served as heretofore in the studio.” Then, “Does
monsieur know the new Madame Dampier?” enquired
Mére Bideau a trifle anxiously.
“Yes,” he answered uncomfortably. “Yes, I do
know her.”
“And if monsieur will excuse the question, is she
a nice lady? It will make a great difference to
me—” -
“Yes, yes—she is very charming, very pretty.”
He could not bring himself to inform the good
woman that the lady who had come with him, and
who was now waiting outside the house, claimed to
be Mrs. Dampier. It would be too—too unpleasant
if it turned out to be—well, a mistake!
The Senator was telling himself ruefully that
though there was now ample evidence of the existence
of John Dampier, there was no evidence at all as yet
that the artist had ever been at the Hôtel Saint Ange:
still less that the young Englishwoman who had just


50 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
now refused to accompany him into the studio was
John Dampier's wife. However, that fact, as she had
herself pointed out rather piteously, could very soon
be put to the proof.
Slowly Senator Burton left the studio and made
his way into the open air, where Nancy was waiting
for him.
“Well?” he said questioningly. “Well, Mrs.
Dampier, what is it that you would like to do
now?”
“I don’t know what I ought to do,” said Nancy
helplessly. She had again become very pale and she
looked bewildered, as well as distressed. “You see
I felt so sure that we should find Jack here!”
“The only thing I can suggest your doing,” the
American spoke kindly, if a little coldly, “is to come
back with me to the Hôtel Saint Ange. It is prob-
able that we shall find Mr. Dampier there, waiting
for you. A dozen things may have happened to
him, none of which need give you any cause for
anxiety.” He pulled out his watch. “Hum! It's
close on twelve—yes, the only thing to do is to go
back to the hotel. It's almost certain we shall find
him there—” it was on his lips to add, “if he really
did come with you last night,” but he checked him-
self in time.
“But Mr. Burton? Suppose Jack is not there?”
“If he doesn’t return within the next two or three
hours, then I will consult with my son, who, young


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 51
though he be, has a very good head on his shoulders,
as to what will be the best step for you to take.
But don’t let's meet trouble half-way! I have little
doubt that we shall find Mr. Dampier waiting for
you, vowing vengeance against the bold man who
has eloped, even with the best of motives, with his
wife!” he smiled, and poor Nancy gave a quivering
smile in return.
“I should so much have preferred not to go back
to that hotel,” she said, in a low voice. “I do hope
Jack won’t make me stay on there for the next two
or three days.”
And with the remembrance of what she had con-
sidered to be the gross insult put upon her by Ma-
dame Poulain, Nancy Dampier reddened deeply,
while her new friend felt more and more bewildered
and puzzled.
On the one hand Senator Burton had the testi-
mony of three trustworthy persons that the young
Englishwoman had arrived alone at the hotel the
night before; and against this positive testimony
there was nothing but her bare word.
Very, very reluctantly, he felt compelled to be-
lieve the Poulains' version of what had happened.
He could think of no motive—in fact there was no
motive—which could prompt a false assertion on
their part.
As they were driving back, each silent, each full
of painful misgivings, the kindly American began to


52 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
wonder whether he had not met with that, if rare yet
undoubted, condition known as entire loss of memory.
If, as Madame Poulain had suggested, Mr. Dampier
had left his wife just before their arrival at the hotel,
was it not conceivable that by some kind of kink in
Mrs. Dampier's brain—the kind of kink which brings
men and women to entertain, when otherwise sane,
certain strange delusions—she had imagined the
story she now told with so much circumstantial detail
and clearness? -
When they were nearing the hotel, Nancy put her
hand nervously on her companion's arm.
“Mr. Burton,” she whispered, “I’m horribly afraid
of the Poulains! I keep thinking of such dreadful
things.”
“Now look here, Mrs. Dampier—” Senator Bur-
ton turned, and looking down into her agitated face,
spoke gently and kindly—“though I quite admit to
you these people's conduct must seem inexplicable, I
feel sure you are wronging the Poulains. They are
very worthy, respectable folk—I’ve known them long
enough to vouch for that fact. This extraordinary
misunderstanding, this mistake—for it must be
either a misunderstanding or a mistake on some one's
part—will soon be cleared up, so much is certain:
till then I beg you not to treat them as enemies.”
y
And yet even Senator Burton felt taken aback
when he saw the undisguised annoyance, the keen


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 53
irritation with which their return to the Hôtel Saint
Ange was greeted by the woman to whom he had just
given so good a certificate of character.
Madame Poulain was standing on the street side
of the open porte cochère, as the carriage drove down
the narrow street, and the American was astonished
to see the change which came over her face.
An angry, vindictive, even a cruel expression swept
over it, and instead of waiting to greet them as the
carriage drew up at the door she turned abruptly
away, and shuffled out of sight.
“Wait a moment,” he said, as the fiacre drew up,
“don’t get out of the carriage yet, Mrs. Dampier—”
And meekly Nancy obeyed him.
The Senator hurried through into the courtyard.
Much would he have given, and he was a careful man,
to have seen the image he had formed of Jack Dam-
pier standing on the sun-flecked flagstones. But the
broad space stretching before him was empty, de-
serted; during the daylight hours of each day the
Exhibition drew every one away much as a honey
cask might have done a hive of bees.
Madame Poulain did not come out of her kitchen
as was her usual hospitable wont when she heard
footsteps echoing under the vaulted porte cochère, and
so her American guest had to go across, and walk
right into her special domain.
“We did not find the gentleman at his studio,” he
said shortly, “and I presume, Madame Poulain, that
he has not yet been here?”


54 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
She shook her head sullenly, and then, with none
of her usual suavity, exclaimed, “I do not think,
Monsieur le Sénateur, that you should have brought
that demoiselle back here!”
She gave him so odd–some would have said, so
insolent a look, that the Senator realised for the first
time what he was to realise yet further in connection
with this strange business, namely, that the many
who go through life refusing to act the part of good
Samaritans have at any rate excellent reasons for
their abstention.
It was disagreeably clear that Madame Poulain
thought him a foolish old man who had been caught
by an adventuress's pretty face. . . .
To their joint relief Monsieur Poulain came stroll-
ing into his wife's kitchen.
“I’ve been telling Monsieur le Sénateur,” ex-
claimed Madame Poulain, “that we do not wish to
have anything more to do with that young person
who asserts that she arrived here with a man last
night. Monsieur le Sénateur has too good a heart:
he is being deceived.”
The hotel-keeper looked awkwardly, deprecatingly,
at his valued American client. “Paris is so full of
queer people just now,” he muttered. “They keep
mostly to the other side of the river, to the Opera
quarter, but we are troubled with them here too,
during an Exhibition Year!”
“There is nothing at all queer about this poor
young lady,” said Senator Burton sharply—somehow


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 55
the cruel insinuation roused him to chivalrous de-
fence. But soon he changed his tone, “Now look
here, my good friends”—he glanced from the husband
to the wife—“surely you have both heard of people
who have suddenly lost their memory, even to the
knowledge of who they were and where they came
from? Now I fear—I very much fear—that something
of the kind has happened to this Mrs. Dampier! I
am as sure that she is not consciously telling a lie as I
am that you are telling me the truth. For one thing,
I have ascertained that this lady's statement as to
Mr. John Dampier having a studio in Paris, where
he was expected this morning, is true. As to who
she is herself that question can and will be soon set at
rest. Meanwhile my daughter and myself”—and
then he hesitated, for, well as he knew French, Sen-
ator Burton did not quite know how to convey his
meaning, namely, that they, he and his daughter,
meant to see her through. “My daughter and my-
self,” he repeated firmly, “are going to do the best we
can to help her.”
Madame Poulain opened her lips—then she shut
them tight again. She longed to tell “Monsieur le
Sénateur” that in that case she and Poulain must
have the regret of asking him to leave their hotel.
But she did not dare to do this.
Her husband broke in conciliatingly: “No doubt
it is as Monsieur le Sénateur says,” he observed;
“the demoiselle is what we said she was only this


56 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
morning—” and then he uttered the word which in
French means so much and so little—the word
“toquée.”
There came another interruption. “Here come
Mademoiselle Daisy and Monsieur Gerald!” exclaimed
Madame Poulain in a relieved tone.
The Senator's son and daughter had just emerged
across the courtyard, from the vestibule where ended
the escalier d'honneur. There was a look of keen, alert
interest and curiosity on Gerald Burton's fine, in-
telligent face. He was talking eagerly to his sister,
and Madame Poulain told herself that surely these
two young people could not wish their stay in Paris
to be complicated by this—this unfortunate business
—for so the Frenchwoman in her own secret heart
designated the mysterious affair which was causing
her and her worthy husband so much unnecessary
trouble.
Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they
had expected to have, but they had not thought it
would take this very strange and tiresome shape.
But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly
disappointed in her hope that Daisy and Gerald Bur-
ton would try and dissuade their father from having
anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier.
“Well, father?” the two fresh voices rang out, and
the Senator smiled back well pleased. He was one
of those fortunate fathers who are on terms of full
confidence and friendship as well as affection with


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 57
their children. Indeed Senator Burton was spe-
cially blessed; Daisy was devoted to her father, and
Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease:
the young man had done well at college, and now
seemed likely to become one of the most distinguished
and successful exponents of that branch of art—
architecture–modern America has made specially
her own.
“Well?” said the Senator, “well, Daisy, I suppose
you have told your brother about this odd affair?”
As his daughter nodded, he went on:—“As for me, I
have unfortunately nothing to tell. We found the
studio, and everything was exactly as this poor young
lady said it would be—with the one paramount excep-
tion that her husband was not there! And though his
housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr. Dampier
every moment, she has had no news of him since he
wrote, some days ago, saying he would arrive this
morning. It certainly is a very inexplicable busi-
ness—” he looked helplessly from one good-look-
ing, intelligent young face to the other.
“But where is Mrs. Dampier now?” asked Daisy
eagerly. “I do think you might have told me before
you took her away, father. I would have loved to
have said good-bye to her. I do like her so much!”
“You won’t have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dam-
pier's at the door, sitting in a carriage,” said her
father drily. “I had to bring her back here: I didn't
know what else to do.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 59
“And now,” said Daisy Burton persuasively, “you
must come upstairs with us, and we'll get Madame
Poulain to send us up a nice déjeuner to our sitting-
room.”
And so the Senator found part of his new problem
solved for him. Daisy, so much was clear, had deter-
mined to befriend—and that to the uttermost—this
unfortunate young Englishwoman.
But now there arose another most disagreeable
complication.
Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms
akimbo, to see what was going on. And, as if she
had guessed the purport of Miss Burton's words, she
walked forward, and speaking this time respectfully,
even suavely, to “Monsieur le Sénateur,” observed,
“My husband and I regret very greatly that we can-
not ask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have
no vacant room—no room at all!”
And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had
stood apart from the discussion, saying nothing, sim-
ply looking intently, sympathetically at his sister and
Mrs. Dampier—took a hand in the now complicated
little human game.
“Father!” he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp
tones. “Of course Mrs. Dampier must stay on here
with us till her husband comes back! If by some
extraordinary chance he isn’t back by tonight she
can have my room—I shall easily find some place
outside.” And as his father looked at him a little


CHAPTER IV
THE afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of
the four people who spent it together in the pleasant
salon of the Burtons' suite of rooms the hours, nay
the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged
before.
Looking back to that first day of distress and be-
wilderment, Nancy later sometimes asked herself what
would have happened, what she would have done,
had she lacked the protection, the kindness—and
what with Daisy Burton almost at once became the
warm affection—of this American family?
Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel
that they understood, and, in a measure, shared in
her distress, but they also helped her to bear her
anguish and suspense.
Although she was not aware of it very different
was the mental attitude of their father.
Senator Burton was one of those public men of
whom modern America has a right to be proud. He
was a hard worker—chairman of one Senate com-
mittee and a member of four others; he had never
been a brilliant debater, but his more brilliant col-
leagues respected his sense of logic and force of char-
6I


62 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
acter. He had always been unyielding in his con-
victions, absolutely independent in his views, a man
to whom many of his fellow-countrymen would have
turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of
clear and honest counsel.
And yet now, as to this simple matter, the Sen-
ator, try as he might, could not make up his mind.
Nothing, in his long life, had puzzled him as he was
puzzled now. No happening, connected with another
human being, had ever so filled him with the dis-
comfort born of uncertainty.
But the object of his—well, yes, his suspicions, was
evidently quite unconscious of the mingled feelings
with which he regarded her, and he was half ashamed
of the ease with which he concealed his trouble both
from his children and from their new friend.
Nancy Dampier was far too ill at ease herself
to give any thought as to how others regarded her.
She had now become dreadfully anxious, dreadfully
troubled about Jack.
Much of her time was spent standing at a window
of the corridor which formed a portion of the Bur-
tons’ “appartement.” This corridor overlooked the
square, sunny courtyard below; but during that first
dreary afternoon of suspense and waiting the Hôtel
Saint Ange might have been an enchanted palace of
sleep. Not a creature came in or out through the
porte cochère—with one insignificant exception: two
workmen, dressed in picturesque blue smocks, clat-


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 63
tered across the big white stones, the one swinging
a pail of quaking lime in his hand, and whistling
gaily as he went.
When a carriage stopped, or seemed to stop, in the
street which lay beyond the other side of the quad-
rangular group of buildings, then Nancy's heart
would leap, and she would lean out, dangerously far
over the grey bar of the window; but the beloved, and
now familiar figure of her husband never followed on
the sound, as she hoped against hope, it would do.
At last, when the long afternoon was drawing to
a close, Senator Burton went down and had another
long conversation with the Poulains.
The hotel-keeper and his wife by now had changed
their tone; they were quite respectful, even sympa-
thetic:
“Of course it is possible,” observed Madame Pou-
lain hesitatingly, “that this young lady, as you your-
self suggested this morning, Monsieur le Sénateur, is
suffering from loss of memory, and that she has imag-
ined her arrival here with this artist gentleman. But
if so, what a strange thing to fancy about oneself!
Is it not more likely—I say it with all respect,
Monsieur le Sénateur-that for some reason unknown
to us she is acting a part?”
And with a heavy heart “Monsieur le Sénateur”
had to admit that Madame Poulain's view might be
the correct one. Nancy's charm of manner, even
her fragile and delicate beauty, told against her in


64 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
the kindly but shrewd American's mind. True, Mrs.
Dampier—if indeed she were Mrs. Dampier—did
not look like an adventuress: but then does any ad-
venturess look like an adventuress till she is found
to be one?
The Frenchwoman suggested yet another theory.
“I have been asking myself,” she said, smiling a little
wryly, “another question. Is it not possible that
this young lady and her husband had a quarrel?
Such incidents do occur, even during honeymoons.
If the two had a little quarrel he may have left her
at our door—just to punish her, Monsieur le Sénateur.
He would know she was safe in our respectable hotel.
Your sex, if I may say so, Monsieur le Sénateur, is
sometimes very unkind, very unfeeling, in their
dealings with mine.”
Monsieur Poulain, who had said nothing, here inter-
vened. “How you do run on,” he said crossly. “You
talk too much, my wife. We haven't to account for
what has happened!”
But Senator Burton had been struck by Madame
Poulain's notion. Men, and if all the Senator had
heard was true, especially Englishmen, do behave
very strangely sometimes to their women-folk. It
was an Englishman who conceived the character of
Petruchio. He remembered Mrs. Dampier's flushed
face, the shy, embarrassed manner with which she
had come forward to meet him that morning.
She had seemed rather unnecessarily distressed at


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 65
not being able to make the hotel people understand
her: she had evidently been much disappointed that
her husband had not left a message for her.
“My son thinks it possible that Mr. Dampier may
have met with an accident on his way to the studio.”
A long questioning look flashed from Madame Pou-
lain to her husband, but Poulain was a cautious soul,
and he gave his wife no lead.
“Well,” she said at last, “of course that could be
ascertained,” and the Senator with satisfaction told
himself that she was at last taking a proper part in
what had become his trouble, “but I cannot help
thinking, Monsieur le Sénateur, that we might give
this naughty husband a little longer—at any rate
till to-morrow—to come back to the fold.”
And the Senator, perplexed and disturbed, told
himself that after all this might be good advice.
But when he again went upstairs and joined the
young people, he found that this was not at all a plan
to which any one of the three was likely to consent.
In fact as he came into the sitting-room where Nancy
Dampier was now restlessly walking up and down,
he noticed that his son's hat and his son's stick were
already in his son's hands.
“I think I ought to go off, father, to the local Com-
missaire of Police. There's one in every Paris dis-
trict,” said Gerald Burton abruptly. “Mrs. Dam-
pier is convinced that her husband did go out this
morning, even if the Poulains did not see him doing


66 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
so; and she and I think it possible, in fact, we are
afraid, that he may have met with an accident on
his way to the studio.”
As he saw by his father's face that this theory did
not commend itself to the Senator, the young man
went on quickly:-‘‘At any rate my doing this can
do no harm. I might just inform the Commissaire
that a gentleman has been missing since this morning
from the Hôtel Saint Ange, and that the only theory
we can form which can account for his absence is that
he may have met with an accident. Mrs. Dampier
has kindly provided me with a description of her hus-
band, and she has told me what she thinks he might
have been wearing.”
Nancy stopped her restless pacing. “If only the
Poulains would allow me to see where Jack slept last
night!” she cried, bursting into tears. “But oh,
everything is made so much more difficult by their
extraordinary assertion that he never came here at
all! You see he had quite a large portmanteau with
him, and I can’t possibly tell which of his suits he
put on this morning.”
And the Senator looking down into her flushed,
tearful face, wondered whether she were indeed tell-
ing the truth—and most painfully he doubted,
doubted very much.
But when Gerald Burton came back at the end of
two hours, after a long and weary struggle with
French officialdom, all he could report was that to


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 67
the best of the Commissaire's belief no Englishman
had met with an accident that day. There had been
three street accidents yesterday in which foreigners
had been concerned, but none, most positively none,
to-day. He admitted, however, that all his reports
were not yet in.
Paris, from the human point of view, swells to
monstrous proportions when it becomes the back-
ground of a great International World's Fair. And
the police, unlike the great majority of those in the
vast hive where they keep order, have nothing to
gain in exchange for the manifold discomforts an
Exhibition brings in its train.
At last, worn out by the mingled agitations and
emotions of the day, Nancy went to bed.
The Senator, Gerald and Daisy Burton waited up
some time longer. It was a comfort to the father to
be able to feel that at last he was alone for a while
with his children. To them at least he could un-
burden his perplexed and now burdened mind.
“I suppose it didn’t occur to you, Gerald, to go to
this Mr. Dampier's studio?”
He looked enquiringly at his son.
Gerald Burton was sitting at the table from which
Mrs. Dampier had just risen. He looked, if a trifle
weary, yet full of eager energy and life—a fine spec-
imen of strong, confident young manhood—a son of
whom any father might well be fond and proud.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 69
From something Mrs. Dampier said, I gather he is a
plain-looking chap.”
And then Daisy laughed heartily, for the first time
that day. “Why, she adores him!'” she cried, “she
can’t have told you that.”
“Indeed she did! But you weren't there when I
made her describe him carefully to me. I had to
ask her, for it was important that I should have
some sort of notion what the fellow is like.”
He took out his note-book. “I’ll tell you what I
wrote down, practically from her dictation. “A tall
man—taller than the average Englishman. A loosely-
hung fellow; (he doesn't care for any kind of sport, I
gather). Thirty five years of age; (seems a bit old
to have married a girl—she won’t be twenty till next
month). He has big, strongly-marked features, and
a good deal of fair hair. Always wears an old
fashioned repeater watch and bunch of seals. Was
probably wearing this morning a light grey tweed
suit and a straw hat.” Gerald looked up and
turned to his sister, “If you call that the descrip-
tion of a good-looking man, well, all I can say is that
I don’t agree with you, Daisy!”
“He’s a very good artist,” said the Senator mildly.
“Did you go into his studio, Gerald?” -
“Yes, I did. And I can’t say that I agree with
you, father: I didn’t care for any of the pictures I
saw there.”
Gerald Burton spoke rather crossly. Both his


70 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
father and sister felt surprised at his tone. He was
generally very equable and good-tempered. But
where any sort of art was concerned he naturally
claimed to speak with authority.
“Have you any theory, Gerald”—the Senator
hesitated, “to account for the extraordinary dis-
crepancy between the Poulains' story and what Mrs.
Dampier asserts to be the case?”
“Yes, father, I have a quite definite theory. I be-
lieve the Poulains are lying.”
The young man leant forward across the round
table. He spoke very earnestly, but even as he spoke
he lowered his voice, as if fearing to be overheard.
Senator Burton glanced at the door. “You can
speak quite openly,” he said rather sharply. “You
forget that there is the door of our appartement as well
as a passage between this room and the staircase.”
“No, father, I don’t forget that. But it would be
quite easy for anyone to creep in. The Poulains
have pass keys everywhere.”
“My dear boy, they don't understand English!”
“Jules does, father. He knows far more English
than he admits. At any rate he understands every-
thing one says to him.”
Daisy broke in with a touch of impatience. “But
with what object could the Poulains tell such a stupid
and cruel untruth, one, too, which is sure to be found
out very soon? If this Mr. Dampier did arrive here
last night, well then, he did—if he didn’t, he didn't!”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 71
“Yes, that's true,” Gerald turned to his sister.
“And though I’ve given a good deal of thought to it
during the last few hours—I can’t form any theory
yet as to why the Poulains are lying. I only feel
quite sure that they are.”
“It’s a curious thing,” observed the Senator mu-
singly, “that neither of you saw this Mr. Dampier
last night—curious, I mean, that he should have just
stepped up into a cupboard, as Mrs. Dampier says
he did, at the exact moment when you were outside
the door.”
Neither of his children made any reply. That
coincidence still troubled Daisy Burton.
At last,-‘‘I don’t see that it's at all curious,”
exclaimed her brother hastily. “It’s very unfortu-
nate, of course, for if we had happened to see him
the Poulains couldn’t have told the tale they told you
this morning.”
The Senator sighed. He was tired—tired of the
long afternoon spent in doing nothing, and, to tell
the truth, tired of the curious, inexplicable problem
with which he had been battling since the morning.
“Well, I say it with sincere regret, but I am in-
clined to believe the Poulains.”
“Father!” His son was looking at him with sur-
prise and yes, indignation.
“Yes, Gerald. I am, for the present, inclined not
only to believe the Poulains’ clear and consistent
story, but to share Madame Poulain's view of the
case—”


72 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“And what is her view?” asked Daisy eagerly.
“Well, my dear, her view—the view, let me remind
you, of a sensible woman who, I fancy, has seen a
good deal of life—is that Mr. Dampier did accompany
his wife here, as far as the hotel, that is. That then,
as the result of what our good landlady calls a ‘que-
relle d'amoureux,’ he left her—knowing she would be
quite safe of course in so respectable a place as the
Hôtel Saint Ange.”
Daisy Burton only said one word—but that word
was “Brute!” and her father saw that there was the
light of battle in her eyes.
“My dear,” he said gently, “you forget that it
was an Englishman who wrote “The Taming of the
Shrew.’”
“And yet American girls—of a sort—are quite
eager to marry Englishmen!”
The Senator quickly pursued his advantage. “Now
is it likely that Madame Poulain would make such
a suggestion if she were not telling the truth? Of
course her view is that this Mr. Dampier will turn
up, safe and sound, when he thinks he has sufficiently
punished his poor little wife for her share in their
“lovers' quarrel.”
But at this Gerald Burton shook his head. “We
know nothing of this man Dampier,” he said, “but
I would stake my life on Mrs. Dampier's truthful-
ness.”
The Senator rose from his chair. Gerald's atti-
tude was generous; he would not have had him other-


74 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Daisy Burton felt surprised. Gerald was the best
of brothers, but he didn't often kiss her good-night.
There had been a strange touch of excitement, of
emotion, in his manner to-night. It was natural
that she herself should be moved by Nancy Dam-
pier's distress. But Gerald? Gerald, who was gen-
erally speaking rather nonchalant, and very, very
critical of women?
“Gerald's tremendously excited about this thing,”
said Daisy thoughtfully. She was two years younger
in years than her brother, but older, as young women
are apt to be older, in all that counts in civilised life.
“I’ve never seen him quite so—so keen about any-
thing before.”
“I hope he will have got a comfortable room,”
said the Senator a little crossly. Then fondly he
turned and took his daughter's hand. “Sleep well,
my darling,” he said. “You two have been very
kind to that poor little soul. And I love you both for
it. Whatever happens, kindness is never lost.”
“Why, what d'you mean, father?” she looked down
at him troubled, rather disturbed by his words.
“Well, Daisy, the truth is,”—he hesitated—“I
can’t make out whether this Mrs. Dampier is all she
seems to be. And I want to prepare you for a pos-
sible disappointment, my dear. When I was a young
man I once took a great fancy to someone who—well,
who disappointed me cruelly—” he was speaking
very gravely. “It just spoilt my ideal for a time—I


76 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Then what do you think of the Poulains?” he
asked quietly—“the Poulains, whom you have
known, my dear, ever since you were fifteen—on
whose honesty and probity I personally would stake
a good deal. What do you think about them?”
Daisy began to look very troubled. “I don't know
what to think,” she faltered. “The truth is, father,
I haven’t thought very much of the Poulains in the
matter. You see, Madame Poulain has not spoken
to me about it at all. But you see that Gerald be-
lieves them to be lying.”
“Gerald,” said the Senator rather sharply, “is still
only a boy in many things, Daisy. And boys are
apt, as you and I know, to take sides, to feel very
positive about things. But you and I, my darling
—well, we must try to be judicial—we must try to
keep our heads, eh?”
“Yes, father, yes—we must, indeed”; but even as
she said the words she did not quite know what her
father meant by “judicial.”
And Gerald Burton? For a while, perhaps for an
hour, holding his heavy bag in his hand, he wandered
about from hostelry to hostelry, only to be told ev-
erywhere that there was no room.
Then, taking a sudden resolution, he went into a
respectable little café which was still open, and where
he and his father, in days gone by, had sometimes
strolled in together when Daisy was going about


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 77
with friends in Paris. There he asked permission
to leave his bag. Even had he found a room, he
could not have slept—so he assured himself. He
was too excited, his brain was working too quickly.
Talking busily, anxiously, argumentatively to him-
self as he went, he made his way to the river—to the
broad, tree-lined quays which to your true lover of
Paris contain the most enchanting and characteris-
tic vistas of the city.
Once there, his footsteps became slower. He thrust
his hands into his pockets and walked along, with eyes
bent on the ground.
What manner of man could John Dampier be
to leave his young wife—such a beautiful, trusting,
confiding creature as was evidently this poor girl—
in this cruel uncertainty? Was it conceivable that
the man lived who could behave to this Mrs. Dampier
with the unkindness Gerald's father had suggested
—and that as the outcome of a trifling quarrel? No!
Gerald Burton's generous nature revolted from such
a notion.
And yet—and yet his father thought it quite pos-
sible! To Gerald his father's views and his father's
attitude to life meant a great deal more than he was
wont to allow, either to that same kind indulgent
father or to himself; and now he had to admit that
the Senator did believe that what seemed so revolt-
ing to him, Gerald, was the most probable explana-
tion of the mystery.
The young man had stayed quite a while at the


78 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
studio, listening to Mère Bideau's garrulous confi-
dences. Now and again he had asked her a question,
forced thereto by some obscure but none the less
intense desire to know what Nancy Dampier's hus-
band was like. And the old woman had acknowl-
edged, in answer to a word from him, that her
master was not a good-tempered man.
“Monsieur” could be very cross, very disagreeable
sometimes. But bah! were not all gentlemen like that?
—so Mère Bideau had added with an easy laugh.
On the whole, however—so much must be ad-
mitted—she had given Dampier a very good charac-
ter. If quick-tempered, he was generous, considerate,
and, above all, hard-working. But—but Mère Bideau
had been very much surprised to hear “Monsieur”
was going to be married—and to an Englishwoman,
too! She, Mère Bideau, had always supposed he
preferred Frenchwomen; in fact, he had told her so
time and again. But bah! again; what won’t a
pretty face do with a man? So Mère Bideau had
exclaimed 'twixt smile and sigh.
Gerald Burton began walking more quickly, this
time towards the west, along the quay which leads
to the Chamber of Deputies.
The wide thoroughfare was deserted save for an
occasional straggler making his weary way home after
a day spent in ministering to the wants and the pleas-
ures of the strangers who now crowded the city. . . .
How wise he, Gerald Burton, was now showing


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 79
himself to be in thus spending the short summer
night out-of-doors, d la belle étoile, as the French so
charmingly put it, instead of in some stuffy, perhaps
not overclean, little room!
But soon his mind swung back to the strange
events of the past day!
Already Nancy Dampier's personality held a
strange, beckoning fascination for the young Amer-
ican. He hadn’t met many English girls, for his
father far preferred France to England, and it was
to France they sped whenever they had time to do
so. And Gerald Burton hadn’t cared very much for
the few English girls he had met. But Nancy was
very, very different from the only two kinds of her
fellow countrywomen with whom he had ever been
acquainted—the kind, that is, who is closely chap-
eroned by vigilant mother or friend, and the kind who
spends her life wandering about the world by herself.
How brave, how gentle, how—how self-controlled
Mrs. Dampier had been! While it was clear that
she was terribly distressed, and all the more distressed
by the Poulains’ monstrous assertion that she had
come alone to the Hôtel Saint Ange, yet how well she
had behaved all that long day of waiting and sus-
pense! How anxious she had been to spare the Bur-
tons trouble.
Not for a single moment had he, Gerald Burton,
felt with her as he so often felt with women—awk-
ward and self-conscious. Deep in his inmost heart he


8o THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
was aware that there were women and girls who
thought him very good-looking; and far from pleas-
ing him, the knowledge made him feel sometimes shy,
sometimes even angry. He already ardently wished
to protect, to help, to shelter Mrs. Dampier.
Daisy had been out of the room for a moment,
probably packing his bag, when he had come back
tired and weary from his fruitless quest, and Mrs.
Dampier, if keenly disappointed that he had no news,
had yet thanked him very touchingly for the trifling
trouble, or so it now seemed, that he had taken for
her.
“I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't
been for your kind father, for your sister, and—and
for you, Mr. Burton.”
He walked across the bridge leading to the Champs
Elysées, paced round the Arc de Triomphe, and then
strolled back to the deserted quays. He had no wish
to go on to the Boulevards. It was Paris asleep, not
Paris awake, with which Gerald Burton felt in close
communion during that short summer night.
And how short is a Paris summer night! Soon
after he had seen the sun rise over an eastern bend
of the river, the long, low buildings which line the
Seine below the quays stirred into life, and he was
able to enjoy a delicious, a refreshing plunge in the
great swimming-bath which is among the luxuries
Paris provides for those of her sons who are early-
morning toilers.


CHAPTER V
NANCY DAMPIER sat up in bed.
Long rays of bright sunlight filtering in between
deep blue curtains showed her a large, lofty room,
with panelled walls, and furniture covered with blue
damask silk.
It was more like an elegant boudoir in an old
English country house than a bedroom, and for a
moment she wondered, bewildered, where she could be.
Then suddenly she remembered — remembered
everything; and her heart filled, brimmed over, with
seething pain and a sharp, overwhelming sensation
of fear.
Jack had gone: disappeared: vanished as if the
earth had swallowed him up! And she, Nancy, was
alone in a foreign city where she did not know a sin-
gle soul, with the paramount exception of the Amer-
ican strangers who had come to her help in so kindly
and so generous a fashion.
She pushed her soft hair back from her forehead,
and tried to recall, step by step, all that had happened
yesterday.
Two facts started out clearly—her almost painful
82


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 83
gratitude to the Burtons and her shrinking terror
of the Poulains, or rather of Madame Poulain, the
woman who had looked fixedly into her face and lied.
As to what had happened to Dampier, Nancy's
imagination began to whisper things of unutterable
dread. If her Jack had been possessed of a large
sum of money she would have suspected the hotel
people of having murdered him. . . .
But no, she and Jack had come to the end of the
ample provision of gold and banknotes with which
they had started for Italy. As is the way with most
prosperous newly-married folk, they had spent a good
deal more on their short honeymoon than they had
reckoned to do. He had said so the day before yes-
terday, in the train, when within an hour of Paris.
Indeed he had added that one of the first things they
must do the next day must be to call at the English
bank where he kept an account.
She now told herself that she had to face the
possibility, nay the probability, that her husband
had met with some serious accident on his way to
the Impasse des Nonnes. Nancy knew that this had
been Gerald Burton's theory, and of her three new
kind friends it was Gerald Burton who impressed her
with the greatest trust and confidence. He, unlike
his father, had at once implicitly believed her ver-
sion of what had taken place when she and Jack ar-
rived at the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The bedroom door opened, cautiously, quietly, and


84 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Daisy Burton came in carrying a tray in her pretty
graceful hands.
Poor Nancy! She felt confused, grateful, and a
little awkward. She had not realised that her nerv-
ous dread of Madame Poulain would mean that this
kind girl must wait on her.
“I came in before, but you were sound asleep.
Still, I thought I must wake you now, for father wants
to know if you would mind him going to our Embassy
about your husband? It's really my brother's idea.
As you know, Gerald thinks it almost certain that
Mr. Dampier met with some kind of accident yes-
terday morning, and he isn't a bit satisfied with the
way the local Commissaire de Police answered his
enquiries. Gerald thinks the only way to get attended
to in Paris is to make people feel that you are impor-
tant, and that they will get into trouble if they don’t
attend to you promptly!”
Even as she was speaking Daisy Burton smiled
rather nervously, for both she and Gerald had just
gone through a very disagreeable half-hour with their
generally docile and obedient father.
The Senator did not wish to go to the American
Embassy—at any rate not yet—about this strange
business. He had pleaded with both his young peo-
ple to wait, at any rate, till the afternoon: at any mo-
ment, so he pointed out, they might have news of
the missing man: but Gerald was inexorable.
“No, father, that's no use; if we do nothing we


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 85
shan’t get proper attention from the police officials
till to-morrow. If you will only go and see Mr. Cur-
tis about this business I promise to take all other
trouble off your hands.”
And then the Senator had actually groaned—as if
he minded trouble!
“Mr. Curtis will do for you what he certainly
wouldn’t do for me, father. Daisy can go with you
to the Embassy: I’ll stay and look after Mrs. Dam-
pier: she mustn't be left alone, exposed to the Pou-
lains' insolence.”
And so the matter had been settled. But Senator
Burton had made one stipulation:—
“I won’t go to the Embassy,” he said firmly, “with-
out hearing from Mrs. Dampier's own lips that such
is her wish. And, Daisy? Gerald? Hearken to me
—neither of you is to say anything to influence her
in the matter, one way or the other.”
And so it was with a certain relief that Daisy Bur-
ton now heard her new friend say eagerly:
“Why of course! I shall only be too grateful if
your father will do anything he thinks may help me
to find Jack. Oh, you don’t know how bewildered
and how frightened I feel!”
And the other answered soothingly, “Yes, indeed
I do know how you must feel. But I expect it will
be all right soon. After all, Gerald said—”—she
hesitated a moment, and then went on more firmly
—“Gerald said that probably Mr. Dampier met with


86 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
quite a slight accident, and that might be the reason
why the tiresome Commissaire de Police knew noth-
ing about it.”
“But if it was a slight accident,” Nancy objected
quickly, “Jack would have let me know at once!
You don’t know my husband: he would move heaven
and earth to save me a minute's anxiety or trouble.”
“I am sure of that. But Gerald says that if Mr.
Dampier did try and arrange for you to be sent a
message at once, the message miscarried—”
It was an hour later. The Senator had listened in
silence while his young English guest had expressed
in faltering, but seemingly very sincere, tones, her
gratitude for his projected visit to the American
Embassy. Nay, she had done more. Very earnestly
Mrs. Dampier had begged Senator Burton and his
daughter not to give themselves more trouble over
her affairs than was absolutely necessary.
And her youth, her beauty, her expression of pitiful
distress had touched the Senator, though it had not
shaken his belief in the Poulains' story. He did
however assure her, very kindly and courteously,
that he grudged no time spent in her service.
And then, while Gerald Burton accompanied his
father and his sister downstairs, Nancy Dampier was
left alone for a few minutes with her own troubled
and bewildered thoughts.
She walked restlessly over to one of the high


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 87
windows of the sitting-room, and looked down into
the shady garden below. Then her eyes wandered
over the picturesque grey and red roofs of the old
Paris Jack Dampier loved so well.
Somehow the cheerful, bright beauty of this June
morning disturbed and even angered poor Nancy.
She remembered with distaste, even with painful
wonder, the sensations of pleasure, of amusement,
of admiration with which she had first come through
into this formal, harmoniously furnished salon, which
was so unlike any hotel sitting-room she had ever
seen before.
But that had been yesterday morning—infinitely
long ago.
Now, each of the First Empire pieces of furniture
seemed burnt into her brain: and the human faces of
the dull gold sphinxes which jutted from each of the
corners of the long, low settee seemed to grin at her
maliciously.
She felt unutterably forlorn and wretched. If only
she could do something! She told herself, with a
sensation of recoil and revolt, that she could never
face another day of suspense and waiting spent as
had been the whole of yesterday afternoon and
evening.
Going up to the brass-rimmed round table, she
took up a book which was lying there. It was a
guide to Paris, arranged on the alphabetical principle.
Idly she began turning over the leaves, and then


88 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
suddenly Nancy Dampier's cheeks, which had be-
come so pale as to arouse Senator Burton's com-
miseration, became deeply flushed. She turned over
the leaves of the guide-book with feverish haste,
anxious to find what it was that she now sought there
before the return of Gerald Burton.
At last she came to the page marked M.
Yes, there was what she at once longed and dreaded
to find! And she had just read the last line of the
paragraph when Gerald Burton came back into the
IOOmn.
Looking at him fixedly, she said quietly and in
what he felt to be an unnaturally still voice, “Mr.
Burton? There is a place in Paris called the Morgue.
Do you not think that I ought to go there, to-day?
It says in this guide-book that people who are killed
in the streets of Paris are taken straight to the
Morgue.”
The young American nodded gravely. The Com-
missary of Police had mentioned the Morgue, had in
fact suggested that those who were seeking John
Dampier would do well to go there within a day or
tWO.
Nancy went on:—“Could I go this morning? I
would far rather go by myself, I mean without saying
anything about it to either your father or to your
sister.”
He answered quickly, but so gently, so kindly, that
the tears sprang to her eyes, “Yes, I quite under-


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 89
stand that. But of course you must allow me to
go with you.”
And she answered, again in that quiet, unnaturally
still voice, “Thank you. I shall be grateful if you
will.” Then after a moment, “Couldn't we start
soon—I mean now?”
“Why yes, certainly—if you wish it.”
Without saying anything further, she went to put
on her hat.
Gerald Burton's notions as to the Morgue were in
a sense at once confused and clear. He had known of
the place ever since he could read. He was aware
that it was a building where all those who die a
violent death are at once taken: he imagined it
further to be a place where morbid curiosity drew
daily many tourists. In fact in an old guide-book of
which his father was fond he remembered that there
ran a Sentence:-
The Morgue is certainly one of the most curious
and extraordinary sights of Paris, but only those who
are in the enjoyment of good nerves are advised to
visit it.
As he waited for Mrs. Dampier the young man’s
face became very, very grave. Till now he had not
envisaged the possibility that John Dampier, this
unknown man across the current of whose life he, Ger-
ald Burton, had been thrust in so strange and un-
toward a manner, might be dead.


90 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Sudden death—that dread possibility which is
never far from any one of us—never haunts the mind
of normal youth.
But now there came to Gerald Burton a sudden
overwhelming understanding of the transience not
only of human life, but what means so much more
to most sentient human beings, the transience of
such measure of happiness as we poor mortals are
allowed to enjoy.
His imagination conjured up Nancy Dampier as
he had first seen her standing in Virginie Poulain's
little room. She had been a vision of lovely girl-
hood, and yes, far more than that—though he had
not known it then—of radiant content.
And now?
His unspoken question was answered by Mrs. Dam-
pier's return into the room. He looked at her
searchingly. Yes, she was lovely—her beauty rather
heightened than diminished, as is so often the case
with a very young woman, by the ordeal she was
going through, but all the glow and radiance were
gone from her face.
“I ought to have told you before,” he said impul-
sively, “that—that among the men who were taken to
the Morgue yesterday morning there was no one who
in the least answered to the description you have
given me of Mr. Dampier—so much the Commissary
of Police was able to inform me most positively.”
And Nancy drew a long convulsive breath of relief.


92 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
being paymaster, but some sure instinct had already
taught him how to treat Nancy Dampier—he real-
ised she preferred not adding a material to the many
immaterial obligations she now owed the Burton
family.
A quarter of an hour's quick driving brought them
within sight of the low, menacing-looking building
which is so curiously, in a sense so beautifully, sit-
uated on the left bank of the Seine, to the right of
Notre Dame.
“Mrs. Dampier? I beg you not to get out of the
carriage till I come and fetch you,” said Gerald ear-
nestly, “there is no necessity for you to come into the
Morgue unless—” he hesitated.
“I know what you mean,” she said quietly. “Un-
less you see someone there who might be Jack. Yes,
Mr. Burton, I’ll stay quietly in the carriage till you
come and fetch me. It's very good of you to have
thought of it.”
But when they drew up before the great closed door
two or three of the incorrigible beggars who spend
their days in the neighbourhood of the greater Paris
churches, came eagerly forward.
Here were a fine couple, a good-looking English-
man and his bride. True, they were about to be
cheated out of their bit of fun, but they might be
good for a small dole—so thought the shrewder of
those idlers who seemed, as the carriage drew up, to
spring out of the ground.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 93
One of them strolled up to Gerald. “M'sieur can-
not go into the Morgue unless he has a permit,” he
said with a whine.
Gerald shook the man off, and rang at the closed
door. It seemed a long time before it was opened
by a man dressed like a Paris workman, that is in a
bright blue blouse and long baggy white trousers.
“I want to view any bodies which were brought in
yesterday. I fear I am a little early?”
He slipped a five franc piece into the man's hand.
But the silver key which unlocks so many closed
doors in Paris only bought this time a civil answer.
“Impossible, monsieur! I should lose my place.
I could not do it for a thousand francs.” And then
in answer to the American's few words of surprise
and discomfiture, “Yes, it's quite true that we were
open to the public till three years ago. But it's
easier to get into the Elysée than it is to get into the
Morgue, nowadays.” He waited a moment, then he
murmured under his breath, “Of course if monsieur
cares to say that he is looking for someone who has
disappeared, and if he will provide a description, the
more commonplace the better, then—well, monsieur
may be able to obtain a permit! At any rate mon-
sieur has only to go along to the office where per-
mits are issued to find that what I say is true. If
only monsieur will bring me a permit I will gladly
show monsieur everything there is to be seen.” The
man became enthusiastic. “Not only are there the


94 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
bodies to see! We also possess relics of many great
criminals; and as for our refrigerating machines—ah,
monsieur, they are really in their way wonders! Well
worth, as I have sometimes heard people say, coming
all the way to Paris to see!”
Sick at heart Gerald Burton turned away—not,
however, before he had explained gravely that his
wish in coming to the Morgue was not to gratify idle
curiosity, but to seek a friend whose disappearance
since the morning before was causing acute anxiety.
The man looked at him doubtfully—somehow this
young gentleman did not look as people generally
look who come to the Morgue on serious business.
The janitor was only too familiar with the signs—
the air of excitement, of dejection, of suspense, the
reddened eyelids. . . . But, “In that case I am sure
to see monsieur again within a few minutes,” he said
politely.
Nancy had stepped down from the carriage.
“Well?” she said anxiously. “Well, won't he let
you in?”
“We shall have to get an order. The office is only
just over there, opposite Notre Dame. Shall we dis-
miss the cabp”
“Yes,” she said. “I would far rather walk across.”
Still followed by a troop of ragged idlers, they ha-
stened across the great space in front of Notre
Dame and so to the office of the Morgue.
At first the tired official whose not always easy


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 95
duty it is to discriminate between the morbid sight-
seer and the anxious relative or friend, did not be-
lieve the American's story. He, too, evidently
thought that Gerald and the latter's charming,
daintily dressed companion were simply desirous of
seeing every sight, however horrible, that Paris has
to offer. But when he heard the name “Dampier,”
his manner suddenly changed. There came over his
face a sincere look of pity and concern.
“You made enquiries concerning this gentleman
yesterday?” he observed, and Gerald Burton, rather
surprised, though after all he need not have been,
assented. Then the Commissary of Police had been
to some trouble for him after all? He, Gerald, had
done the man an injustice.
“We have had five bodies already brought in this
morning,” said the clerk thoughtfully. “But I'm
sure that none of them answers to the description we
have had of madame's husband. Let me see–Mon-
sieur Dampier is aged thirty-four—he is tall, dressed
in a grey suit, or possibly a brown suit of clothes, with
a shock of fair hair?”
And again Gerald Burton was surprised how well
the man remembered.
The other went into another room and came back
with a number of grey cards in his hand. He began
to mumble over the descriptions, and suddenly Ger-
ald stopped him.
“That might be the person we are looking for!”


96 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
he exclaimed. “I mean the description you've just
read out—that of the Englishman?”
“Oh no, monsieur! I assure you that the body here
described is that of a quite young man.” And as the
American looked at him doubtfully, he added, “But
still, if you wish to make absolutely sure I will make
out a permit; and madame can stay here while you
go across to the Morgue.” Again he looked pityingly
at Mrs. Dampier.
Nancy shook her head. “Tell him I mean to go
too,” she said quietly.
The man looked at her with an odd expression. “I
should not myself care to take my wife or my sister
to the Morgue, monsieur. Believe me her husband
is not there. Do try and dissuade the poor lady.”
As he spoke he averted his eyes from Nancy's flushed
face.
Gerald Burton hesitated: it was really kind of this
good fellow to feel so much for a stranger's distress.
“Won't you stay here and let me go alone to that
place? I think you can trust me. You see there is
only one body there which in any way answers to
the description.”
“Yes, I quite understand that, but I'd rather go
too.” Her lips quivered. “You see you've never
seen Jack, Mr. Burton.”
“I’m afraid this lady is quite determined to go
too,” said the young American in a low voice; and
without making any further objection, the French-


CHAPTER VI
THE janitor of the Morgue, remembering Gerald
Burton's five-franc piece, and perchance looking for-
ward to another rond, was wreathed in smiles.
Eagerly he welcomed the two strangers into the
passage, and carefully he closed the great doors be-
hind them. - -
“A little minute,” he said, smiling happily. “Only ... "
one little minute! The trifling formality of showing
your permit to the gentleman in the office must be
gone through, and then I myself will show monsieur
and madame everything there is to be seen.”
“We do not wish to see everything,” said Gerald
Burton sharply. “We simply wish to see—” he
hesitated—“body Number 4 ” he lowered his
voice, but Nancy understood enough French to know
what it was that he said.
With a blind, instinctive gesture she put out her
hand, and Gerald Burton grasped it firmly, and for
the first time a look of pity and of sympathy came
across the janitor's face.
Tiens! tiens! Then it was true after all? These
young people (he now took them for a brother and
98


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 99
sister) were here on business, not, as he had sup-
posed, on pleasure.
“Come in and wait here,” he said gravely. “This
is the doctors' room, but madame can sit here for a
moment while the formalities are gone through.”
He flung open a door, and showed them into a
curious, old-fashioned looking sitting-room, strangely
unlike the waiting-room which would have been
found attached, say, to an American or British
mortuary.
An ornate writing-table filled up one corner of the
room, and, opposite the two windows, covering the
whole of the blank wall, was a narrow glass case
running from floor to ceiling.
From this case young Burton quickly averted his
eyes, for it was filled with wax models of heads
which might have been modelled from the denizens
of Dante's Inferno.
“I’m afraid I must now leave you for a moment,”
he said gently; “sit over here, Mrs. Dampier, and
look out on the river.”
And Nancy obeyed with dull submission. She
gazed on the bright, moving panorama before her,
aware, in a misty, indifferent way, that the view was
beautiful, that Jack would have thought it so.
This bend of the Seine is always laden with queer,
picturesque craft, and just below the window by
which she sat was moored a flat-bottomed barge
which evidently served as dwelling place for a very
• *****"…
8:27:33


Ioo THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
happy little family. One end of the barge had been
turned into a kind of garden, there was even a vine-
covered arbour, under which two tiny children were
now playing some absorbing game.
And this glimpse of ordinary normal life gradually
brought a feeling of peace, almost of comfort, to
Nancy's sore heart. She wondered if she would ever
be happy again—happy as those little children play-
ing outside were happy, without a thought of care in
the world: that had been the kind of simple, unques-
tioning happiness she too had thoughtlessly enjoyed
till the last three days.
When Gerald Burton came back he was glad rather
than grieved to see that tears were running down her
face.
But a moment later, as they followed their guide
down a humid, dark passage her tears stopped, and
a look of pinched terror came into her eyes.
Suddenly there fell on their ears loud, whirring,
jarring sounds.
“What's that?” cried Nancy in a loud voice. Her
nerves were taut with suspense, quivering with fear
of what she was about to see.
And the janitor, as if he understood her question,
turned round reassuringly. “Only our refrigerating
machines, madame. We think them wonderfully
quiet, considering. They whirr on night and day,
they are never stilled. As for me—” he added
jovially—“I would miss the noise very much. But


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. Ior
as I lie in bed listening to the sound I know that
all is well. It would be a very serious thing indeed
for us if the machines stopped, even for ten min-
utes—” he shook his head mysteriously.
Nancy breathed a little more easily. She had not
understood what it was exactly that he had said, but
his voice had sounded cheerful and kind: and she
remained for a while ignorant of the meaning and
object of the machines by which they passed quickly
in a great room filled with moving wheels, and, even
on this hot June day, full of icy breaths.
As they came to the end of the engine-room their
guide turned round and gave the young American
a quick, warning look. “C'est ici,” he said, under his
breath. And Gerald stepped quickly in front of
Mrs. Dampier.
“Is what we are going to see very horrible?” he
whispered hurriedly. “I wish this lady to be spared
as far as may be from seeing anything especially pain-
ful.”
“As to horrible—well, it depends, monsieur, on
what is thought horrible! A good many of my pen-
sioners have been dangerous customers in their time—
but now? Fortunately, monsieur, the dead cannot
bite!” and he smiled at his own grim joke.
Gerald Burton shuddered involuntarily, but as he
and Nancy followed the man from the engine-room
he gave a sigh of relief, for they had emerged into a
wide, airy shed.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 103
{
in an hour ago! She was run over, killed by an omni-
bus—such a pity, for she is such a nice fresh-looking
lady: not more than about thirty years of age. We
expect her family any moment; they will know her by
her wedding ring, and by a little locket with a child's
hair in it.”
Even as he was speaking the man was opening a
small, inconspicuous door, situated close to that which
gave into the refrigerating-engine room.
Gerald's arm slipped down from Nancy's shoulder.
She had put out her hand gropingly, as a blind child
might have done, and he was now holding the poor
little hand tightly clasped in his firm grasp.
There came a harsh rumbling sound, and then
there was wheeled out into the open yard an inclined
plane hitched up on huge iron wheels. To the in-
clined plane was bound a swathed, rigid figure.
“Here is Number 4,” said the man in a subdued
tone. “I will uncover his face so that madame and
monsieur may see if it is the gentleman for whom
they are seeking.”
A strange tremor shot through Gerald Burton.
He was shaken with a variety of sensations of which
the predominant feeling was that of repulsion. Was
he at last about to gaze at the dead face of the man
who, with the one paramount exception of that same
man's wife, had filled his mind and thoughts to the
exclusion of all else since he had first heard the name
of John Dampier? Was he now to make acquaint-


104 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
ance with the stranger who had yet in so curious and
sinister a way become his familiar?
Nancy gently withdrew her hand from his: lean-
ing slightly forward, she gazed at the swathed stark
form which might possibly—so much she had told
herself at once—be that of John Dampier.
Very slowly the man drew off that portion of the
sheet which covered the upper part of the body, and,
as he did so, Gerald Burton heard the woman stand-
ing by his side utter a long, fluttering sigh of relief.
Thank God it was not Jack—not her Jack!
The fine, well-cut face was that of a man about
Gerald Burton's own age. The features were stilled
in the awful immobility of death: but for that immo-
bility, the dead man lying there before them might
have been asleep.
“An Englishman,” said the janitor thoughtfully,
“or perchance an American? A finely built fellow,
monsieur. A true athlete. Not a wound, not a
touch! Just dropped dead yesterday afternoon in a
public gymnasium.”
“How extraordinary it is,” observed Gerald Bur-
ton in a low voice, “that he has not yet been claimed
by his friends—”
“Oh no, monsieur, not extraordinary at all! We
in this country write to our children every day when
we are separated from them—that is if we can afford
the stamps. Not so English or American people.
They think their children are sure to be all right. In
2


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 105
about a fortnight we shall have enquiries for Num-
ber 4, hardly before then.”
“And by that time,” said Gerald slowly, “I sup-
pose the poor fellow will have been buried.”
“Oh no, monsieur—” the man laughed, as if the
other's remark struck him as being really very funny.
“Why, we keep some of them as long as fifteen
months! Those drawers are full of them—” he
pointed to the long black chests which lined one side
of the shed. “Would monsieur like to see some of
my pensioners? I have men, women, ay, and chil-
dren too, cosily tucked away in there.”
A low exclamation of horror escaped from Nancy
Dampier's lips. She turned ashily pale. At last she
understood what it was the janitor was saying. . . .
The man looked at her with kindly concern.
“Tiens!” he said, “isn’t that strange? It happens
again and again! People like madame come here—
quite quiet, quite brave; and then, though overjoyed
at not finding the person they came to seek—they
suddenly shudder and turn pale; sometimes I have
known them faint!”
“Kindly let us out by the shortest and quickest
way,” said Gerald quickly.
“Pardon, monsieur, the law exacts that Number
4 must remain in your presence for a quarter of an
hour.” The man shrugged his shoulders. “You see
Some people, especially ladies, are apt to think after-
wards that they may have made a mistake: that
their sight was at fault, and so on. That is why this


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 107
penetrated those shuttered receptacles and showed
him on the face of each occupant that strange ironic
smile with which the dead husk of man seems often
to betray the full knowledge now possessed by the
spirit which has fled. That riddle of existence, of
which through the ages philosophers and kings had
sought the key, was now an open book to all those
who lay here in the still majesty of death. Yes, they
could well afford to Smile—to smile at the littleness
which denied to their tenements of flesh the smallest
symbol of belief that death was not the end of all.
His companion had also marked the absence of
any sign of the Christian's hope in this house of death,
and through her mind there ran the confused recol-
lection of holy words:—
“It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorrup-
tion. It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory.
“Behold, I shew you a mystery; we shall not all
sleep. . . .
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is
thy victory?”
Comfortable words! They seemed, merely by their
flight through the tense ganglia of her brain, to break
into the awful loneliness of these recent tabernacles
of the spirit, and bestow on them the benison denied
them in its pride by the human family from whose
bosom they had been torn. -
Then swiftly her mind turned to the thought of
those who were still watching and waiting, in that


ro8 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
misery of suspense of which she now knew each pang.
Every one—surely every one—of these dead who
now surrounded her, silent, solitary, had been loved
—for love comes in some guise to all poor human
creatures. Those mouths, cheeks, eyes, those rip-
pling waves of woman's hair, had been kissed—ah,
how often. The perishing flesh had been clasped
heart to heart. . . .
There came over her soul a great rush of pity for
those others, the vast and scattered company, mourn-
ing, mourning, and yet reaching out in wild hope
and desire for their loved ones, whose bodies were all
the while here. They did not know, yet hither came
winging unerringly, like flights of homing doves, their
myriad prayers, their passionate loving thoughts and
wistful thirsty longing for one word, one kiss, one
touch of the hand. . . . Surely such thoughts and
prayers sanctified this charnel-house.
She herself was of that company—that company
who were not sure. Some, doubtless, obstinate, re-
fused to believe that death in any form had over-
taken the missing; others feared to come here and
look. She had not feared. . . .
The janitor spoke to her, and she started vio-
lently.
“You are quite convinced, madame, that Number
4 is not he whom you seek?”
These words, that question, evidently embodied a
formula the man was bound to use.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 109
Mrs. Dampier bent her head.
“You, monsieur, also have no doubt?”
“None at all,” said Gerald briefly.
With a sudden movement the man put the sinister
carriage in motion, but when he had got it close to
the door of the mortuary, he stopped a moment:—
“We have many compliments on our brancard,” he
said cheerfully. “It is very ingenious, is it not?
You see the wheels are so large that a mere touch
pushes it backwards and forwards. It is quite easy
to wheel back into place again.”
Gerald Burton took out a five-franc piece. He
left Nancy Dampier standing, an infinitely pathetic,
forlorn little figure, in the sunlit portion of the yard,
and approached the man.
“We must go now,” he said hurriedly. “I sup-
pose it is quite easy to leave by the way we came in
—through the engine-room?”
“One moment, monsieur, one moment! Before
showing you out I must put Number 4 back with his
other companions. There is no fear of his being
lonely, poor man! We had five brought in this morn-
ing.”
They had not long to wait before the concierge
joined them again.
“Won't monsieur and madame stay and just see
everything else there is to be seen?” he asked eagerly.
“We have the most interesting relics of great crimi-
nals, notably of Troppman. Troppman was before


IIo THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
my time, monsieur, but the day that his seven vic-
tims were publicly exposed there—” he pointed
with his thumb to the inconspicuous door through
which he had just wheeled Number 4—"ah, that
was a red-letter day for the Morguel Eighteen thou-
sand people came to gaze on those seven bodies.
And it was lucky, monsieur, that in those days we
were open to the public, for it was the landlord of
their hotel who recognised the poor creatures.”
He was now preceding his two visitors through the
operating theatre where are held the post-mortems.
From thence he led them into the hall where they
had first gained admission. “Well, monsieur, if you
really do not care to see our relics—?” He opened
the great door through which so few living men
and women ever pass.
Gerald Burton and Nancy Dampier walked out
into the sunlight, and the last thing they saw of the
Morgue was the smiling face of the concierge—it was
not often that he received ten francs for doing his
simple duty.
“Au plaisir de vous revoir, monsieur, madame: au
plaisir de vous revoir l’ he said gaily. And as the
courteous old French mode of adieu fell upon their
ears, Gerald Burton felt an awful sensation of horror,
of oppression, yes and of dread, steal over him.
Nancy Dampier, looking up at her companion,
suddenly forgot herself. “Mr. Burton,” she exclaimed,
her voice full of concern, “I’m afraid this has made you


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON III
feel ill? I oughtn't to have let you come here!”
And it was she who in her clear, low voice told the
cabman the address of the Hôtel Saint Ange.
Gerald Burton muttered a word of half-angry ex-
cuse. He was keenly ashamed of what he took to
be his lack of manliness. *
But during the weeks, aye and the months that
followed he found himself constantly haunted by
the gentle, ironic words of farewell uttered by the
concierge of the Morgue: “Au plaisir de vous revoir,
monsieur, madame: au plaisir de vous revoir!”
A


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 113
they were shown by a courteous janitor into the
pleasant, airy waiting-room where a large engraving
of Christopher Columbus, and a huge photograph of
the Washington Monument, welcome the wandering
American.
Even in this waiting-room there was an air of
cheerful activity, a constant coming and going, which
showed that whatever might be the case with the
Embassy, the Consulate, at any rate, was very much
alive. -
“Mr. Senator Burton? Glad to see you, sir! What
can we do for you?” The words fell with a cheering,
refreshing sound on the Senator's ears, though the
speaker went on a trifle less cordially, “We are sim-
ply overwhelmed with business just now! You can
imagine—but no, no one could imagine, the length,
the breadth, the scope of what people think to be our
duties in an Exhibition Year!”
The distinguished visitor and his daughter were
being shown into the Consul’s own pleasant study.
Now this spacious, comfortable apartment is hung
with fine engravings of the White House and of the
Capitol, and Senator Burton felt a thrill of yearning
as well as of pride when he gazed at these familiar,
stately buildings which looked so homelike and dear
when seen amid alien surroundings.
And as he sat down, and prepared to state his busi-
ness, there suddenly came over this kindly American
a curious feeling of misgiving, of self-rebuke. Had


114 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
he remained at home in Washington, content with
all his familiar duties and pleasures, he would never
have been brought into this association with a strange,
unpleasant life-story.
But he soon shook off this feeling of misgiving, and
as the curious tale he had to tell was being listened to,
kindly and patiently, he felt glad indeed that he had
at last found a fellow-countryman in whom to con-
fide, and on whose advice he could rely.
But when Senator Burton had finished speaking,
the American Consul shook his head. “I only wish
we could help you!” he exclaimed. “But we can do
nothing where a British subject is concerned. We’ve
quite enough to do looking after those of our own
people who disappear in Paris! Would you be sur-
prised to learn, Mr. Senator, that four of our coun-
trymen have completely vanished within the last two
days?” And as Daisy uttered a little exclamation
of incredulous dismay, “Don’t feel so badly about it,
my dear young lady, I quite expect all four of them
to turn up again, after having given us and their
friends a great deal of useless, expensive worry.”
“What I really want,” said the Senator earnestly,
“is not your official assistance, but a word of practi-
cal advice. What is it this unfortunate young lady,
Mrs. Dampier, ought to do? We’ve tried the Com-
missaire de Police of the quarter, and he's perfectly
useless: in fact my son, who's seen him twice, doesn’t
believe a word he says.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 115
The Consul gave what Senator Burton felt to be
a very French shrug of the shoulders.
“That don’t surprise me! As regards the lower
branch of the service the police here is very under-
staffed. The only thing for you to do is to take this
poor lady to the British Consulate. They are driven
to death there, just as we are here, and they'll nat-
urally snatch at any excuse to avoid an extra job.
But of course if this Mrs. Dampier is, as you say, a
British subject—well, they’re bound to do something
for her. But you may believe me when I say, Mr.
Senator, that there's probably nothing really mys-
terious about the case. You may find this Mr. Dam-
pier at the hotel when you return there. It may
interest you to learn”—he hesitated, and glanced at
his young countrywoman—“that among our coun-
trymen who vanish, I mean in a temporary way, there
are more married men than bachelors.”
And with that enigmatic pronouncement the genial
Consul courteously and smilingly dismissed Senator
Burton and his daughter.
The same afternoon saw the Senator and Mrs.
Dampier on their way to the British Consulate.
The day before Nancy had been unwilling to leave
the hotel for even the shortest space of time, now
she seemed sunk into apathetic despair—and yet,
as they drove along together, the Senator still doubted,
still wondered in the depths of his heart, whether


116 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
the lovely young woman now sitting silent by his
side, was not making a fool of him, as she had cer-
tainly done of his two children.
He caught himself again and again thinking of her
as “Nancy;” already his daughter and she were on
Christian-name terms with one another; and as for
Gerald, he had put everything else aside to devote
himself entirely to solving the mystery of John Dam-
pier's disappearance.
At last they reached the British Consulate, and
the American could not help feeling a thrill of pride
as he mentally compared the Office where he had
been that morning and that which represented, in
this shabby side street, the commercial might and
weight of the British Empire.
The waiting-room into which they were shown was
a gloomy apartment looking on to an inner courtyard,
and Senator Burton's card did not produce the magic
effect it had done at the American Consulate; in fact
he and his companion had to take their turn with a
crowd of other people, and the time they were kept
waiting seemed very long.
At last, however, they were ushered into the study
of the courteous Briton whose difficult and sometimes
exasperating duty it is to look after the rights and
interests of the motley world composed of those
Englishmen and Englishwomen who make a short
or long sojourn in Paris. Once they were in his
presence nothing could have been kinder and more


118 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
yourself that no kind of street accident befell Mr.
Dampier yesterday morning?”
The Senator shook his head dubiously; there was
a look of hesitation, of unease, on his face.
“Perhaps it would be as well,” said the Consul
suavely, “for Mrs. Dampier to go and wait awhile in
the next room. Then you and I, Mr. Senator, might
go into the matter more thoroughly?”
Unsuspiciously Nancy Dampier fell in with the
plan.
And then, at last, Senator Burton was able to open
out his heart, and, as the British Consul listened to
the American's version of all that had taken place,
when he realised how entirely the story of this young
lady, who called herself Mrs. Dampier, was uncor-
roborated, his face became graver and graver.
“From the little opportunity I have had of judg-
ing, she impresses me as being a truthful woman,”
he said musingly. “Still, what I now know puts a
very different complexion on the story as told me
just now by her.”
“That is exactly what I feel,” said the Senator
sighing. “From something you said just now I gather
that you have heard of this Mr. John Dampier?”
“Why, yes, indeed I have—I know his name as
being that of a distinguished English artist living in
Paris; but he has never troubled me individually,
and I can answer for it that he is very little known to
our colony here. He evidently lives only amongst


I2O THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
“One word more, Mr. Senator. If there is no
news of this Mr. John Dampier by to-morrow, you
must persuade Mrs. Dampier to write, or even to
telegraph for her friends. For one thing, it isn't at
all fair that all this trouble should fall on an entire
stranger, on one not even her own countryman! I
cannot help seeing, too, that you do not altogether
believe in Mrs. Dampier and her story. You can’t
make up your mind—is not that so?”
The American Senator nodded, rather shame-
facedly.
“I might advise you to go to the Préfecture de
Police, nay, I might communicate with them myself,
but I feel that in the interests of this young lady it
would be better to go slow. Mr. Dampier may re-
turn as suddenly, as unexpectedly, as he went. And
then he would not thank us, my dear sir, for having
done anything to turn the Paris Police searchlight
on his private life.”
The Consul got up and held out his hand. “For
your sake, as well as for that of my countrywoman,
I hope most sincerely that you will find Mr. Dampier
safe and sound when you get back to the Hôtel Saint
Ange. But if the mystery still endures to-morrow,
then you really must persuade this poor young lady
to send for one of her relatives—preferably, I need
hardly say, a man.”
“At what time shall I expect your clerk?” asked
Senator Burton. “I think I ought to prepare the
Poulains.”


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON I.21
“No, there I think you're wrong! Far better let
him go back with you now, and hear what they have
to say. Let him also get a properly signed statement
from Mrs. Dampier. Then he can come back here
and type out his report and her statement for refer-
ence. That can do no harm, and may in the future
be of value.”
He accompanied the American Senator to the door.
“I wish I could help you more,” he said cordially.
“Believe me, I appreciate more than I can say your
extraordinary kindness to my ‘subject.’ I shall, of
course, be glad to know how you get on. But oh,
if you knew how busy we are just now! When I
think of how we are regarded—of how I read, only
the other day, that a Consul is the sort of good fellow
one likes to make comfortable in a nice little place
—I wish the man who wrote that could have my
‘nice little place’ for a week, during an Exhibition
Year! I think he would soon change his mind.”
Mrs. Dampier was not present at the, to Senator
Burton, odious half-hour which followed their return
to the Hôtel Saint Ange.
At first the French hotel-keeper and his wife re-
fused to say anything to the Consular official. Then,
when they were finally persuaded to answer his ques-
tions, they did so as curtly and disagreeably as pos-
sible. Madame Poulain also made a great effort to
prevent her nephew, young Jules, from being brought


124 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
poor little Nancy alone in her dreadful suspense and
grief—just that I may enjoy myself?”
And the Senator had felt ashamed of his selfish-
ness. Yes, it had been most unfeeling of him to
want to go and gaze on some of the few masterpieces
American connoisseurs have left in Europe, while
this tragedy—for he realised that whatever the truth
might be it was a tragedy—was still in being.
It was good to know that thanks to the British
Consul's word of advice his way, to-day, was now
clear. The time had come when he must advise Mrs.
Dampier to send for some member of her family.
Without giving his children an inkling of what he
was about to say to their new friend, Senator Burton
requested Nancy, in the presence of the two others,
to come down into the garden of the Hôtel Saint
Ange in order that they might discuss the situation.
As they crossed the sun-flecked cheerful courtyard
Nancy pressed unconsciously nearer her companion,
and averted her eyes from the kitchen window where
the hotel-keeper and his wife seemed to spend so
much of their spare time, gazing forth on their do-
main, watching with uneasy suspicion all those who
came and went from the Burtons' apartments.
As the young Englishwoman passed through into
the peaceful garden whose charm and old-world
sweetness had been one of the lures which had drawn
John Dampier to what was now to her a fatal place,
she felt a sensation of terrible desolation come over


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 125
her, the more so that she was now half conscious that
Senator Burton, great as was his kindness, kept his
judgment in suspense.
They sat down on a wooden bench, and for awhile
neither spoke. “Have you found out anything?”
she asked at last in a low voice. “I think by your
manner that you have found out something, Mr.
Burton—something you don’t wish to say to me be-
fore the two others?”
He looked at her, surprised. “No,” he said sin-
cerely, “that is not so at all. I have found out noth-
ing, Mrs. Dampier—would that I had! But I feel
it only right to tell you that the moment has come
when you should communicate with your friends.
The British Consul told me that if we were still with-
out news, still in suspense, this morning, he would
strongly advise that you send for someone to join
you in Paris. Surely you have some near relation
who would come to you?”
Nancy shook her head. “No. I daresay it may
seem strange to you, Senator Burton, but I have no
near relations at all. I was the only child of a father
and mother who, in their turn, were only children.
I have some very distant cousins, a tribe of acquaint-
ances, a few very kind friends—” her lips quivered
“but no one—no one of whom I feel I could ask that
sort of favour.”
Senator Burton glanced at her in dismay. She
looked very wan and fragile sitting there; whatever


I26 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
the truth, he could not but feel deeply sorry for
her.
Suddenly she turned to him, and an expression of
relief came over her sad eyes and mouth. “There
is someone, Mr. Burton, someone I ought to have
thought of before! There is a certain Mr. Stephens
who was my father's friend as well as his solicitor;
and he has always managed all my money matters.
I’ll write and ask Mr. Stephens if he can come to me.
He was more than kind at the time of my marriage,
though I'm afraid that he and Jack didn’t get on
very well together.”
She looked up in Senator Burton's face with a be-
wildered, pleading look, and he suddenly realised how
difficult a task such a letter would be to her, sup-
posing, that is, that the story she told, the story in
which even now the Senator only half believed—
Were true.
“I’ll go up and write the letter now,” she said,
and together they both went, once more, indoors.
But Gerald Burton, when he heard of the pro-
posed letter to Mrs. Dampier's lawyer, made an ab-
rupt suggestion which both the Senator and Nancy
welcomed with eagerness.
“Why shouldn’t we telephone to this Mr. Stephens?”
he asked. “That would save a day, and it would be
far easier to explain to him all that has happened by
word of mouth than in a letter—” He turned to
Nancy, and his voice unconsciously softened: “If


128 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Nancy Dampier's story. He himself would have
staked his life on the truthfulness of this woman
whom he had only known three days.
At last the sharp, insistent note of the telephone
bell rang out, and he stept up into the call-box.
“Mr. Stephens' office?” He spoke questioningly:
and after what seemed a long pause the answer came,
muffled but audible. “Yes, yes! This is Mr. Ste-
phens' office. Who is it wants us from Paris?” The
question was put in a Cockney voice, and the Lon-
don twang seemed exaggerated by its transmission
over those miles and miles of wire by land, under the
sea, and then by land again.
“I want to speak to Mr. Stephens himself,” said
Gerald Burton very distinctly.
“Mr. Stephens? Yes, he's here all right. I'll take
a message.”
“Make him come himself.”
“Yes, he's here. Give me your message—” the
words were again a little muffled.
“I can’t send a message. You must fetch him.”
Gerald Burton's stock of patience was giving way.
Again there was an irritating pause, but it was broken
at last.
“Who is it? I can't fetch him if you won't say
who you are.”
“I am speaking on behalf of Mrs. Dampier,”
said Gerald reluctantly. Somehow he hated uttering
Nancy's name to this tiresome unknown.


130 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
The anxious question sounded very, very clear.
“There is something very wrong with Mrs. Dampier
—can you hear me clearly?”
“Yes, yes. What is wrong with her?”
“Mrs. Dampier is in great trouble. Mr. Dampier
has disappeared.”
The strange thing which had happened was told
in those four words, but Gerald Burton naturally went
on to explain, or rather to try to explain, the extraor-
dinary situation which had arisen, to Nancy's law-
yer and friend.
Mr. Stephens did not waste any time in exclama-
tions of surprise or pity. Once he had grasped the
main facts, his words were few and to the point.
“Tell Mrs. Dampier,” he said, speaking very dis-
tinctly, “that if she has no news of her husband by
Friday I will come myself to Paris. I cannot do so
before. Meanwhile, I strongly advise that she, or
preferably you for her, communicate with the police
—try and see the Prefect of Police himself. I myself
once obtained much courteous help from the Paris
Prefect of Police.”
Gerald stept down from the stuffy, dark tele-
phone box. He turned to the attendant:-‘‘How
much do I owe you?” he asked briefly.
“A hundred and twenty francs, Monsieur,” said
the man suavely.
The Senator drew near. “That was an expensive
suggestion of yours, Gerald,” he observed smiling,


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 131
as the other put down six gold pieces. And then he
said, “Well?”
“Well, father, there's not much to tell. This Mr.
Stephens will come over on Friday if there's still no
news of Mr. Dampier by then. He wants us to go
to the Prefecture of Police. He says we ought to try
and get at the Prefect of Police himself.”
There came a long pause: the two were walking
along a crowded street. Suddenly Gerald stopped and
turned to the Senator. “Father,” he said impul-
sively, “I suppose that now, at last, you do believe
Mrs. Dampier's story?”
The young man spoke with a vehemence and depth
of feeling which disturbed his father. What a good
thing it was that this English lawyer was coming to
relieve them all from a weight and anxiety which was
becoming, to the Senator himself, if not to the two
younger people, quite intolerable.
“Well,” he said at last, “I am of course glad to
know that everything, so far, goes to prove that Mrs.
Dampier's account of herself is true.”
“That being so, don't you think the Hôtel Saint
Ange ought to be searched?”
“Searched?” repeated Senator Burton slowly.
“Searched for what?”
“If I had charge of this business—I mean sole
charge—the first thing I would do would be to have
the Hôtel Saint Ange searched from top to bottom!”
said Gerald vehemently.


132 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Is that Mrs. Dampier's suggestion?”
“No, father, it's mine. I had a talk with that boy
Jules last night, and I’m convinced he's lying. There's
another thing I should like to do. I should like to go
to the office of the ‘New York Herald’ and enlist
the editor's help. I would have done it long ago if
this man Dampier had been an American.”
“And you would have done a very foolish thing,
my boy.” The Senator spoke with more dry decision
than was his wont. “Come, come, Gerald, you and
I mustn't quarrel over this affair! Let us think of
the immediate thing to do.” He put his hand on his
son's arm.
“Yes, father?”
“I suppose that the first thing to do is to take this
Mr. Stephens' advice?”
“Why, of course, father! Will you, or shall I, go
to the Prefecture of Police?”
“Well, Gerald, I have bethought myself of that
courteous President of the French Senate who wrote
me such a pleasant note when we first arrived in Paris
this time. No doubt he would give me a personal
introduction to the Prefect of Police.”
“Why, father, that's a first rate idea! Hadn't you
better go right now and get it?”
“Yes, perhaps I had; and meanwhile you can tell
the poor little woman that her friend will be here on
Friday.”
“Yes, I will. And father? May I tell Daisy that


CHAPTER IX
IN all French public offices there is a strange mingling
of the sordid and of the magnificent.
The Paris Prefecture of Police is a huge, quadran-
gular building, containing an infinity of bare, and to
tell the truth, shabby, airless rooms; yet when Sen-
ator Burton had handed in his card and the note
from the President of the French Senate, he was taken
rapidly down a long corridor, and ushered into a
splendid apartment, of which the walls were hung
with red velvet, and which might have been a recep-
tion room in an Italian Palace rather than the study
of a French police official.
“Monsieur le Préfet will be back from déjeuner in
a few minutes,” said the man, softly closing the door.
The Senator looked round him with a feeling of
keen interest and curiosity. After the weary, baf-
fling hours of fruitless effort in which he had spent the
last three days, it was more than pleasant to find
himself at the fountainhead of reliable information.
Since the far-off days when, as a boy, he had been
thrilled by the brilliant detective stories of which
French writers, with the one outstanding exception of
Poe, then had a monopoly, there had never faded from
I35 -


136 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Senator Burton's mind that first vivid impression of
the power, the might, the keen intelligence, and yes,
of the unscrupulousness, of the Paris police.
But now, having penetrated into the inner shrine
of this awe-inspiring organism, he naturally preferred
to think of the secret autocratic powers, and of the
almost uncanny insight of those to whom he was
about to make appeal. Surely they would soon probe
the mystery of John Dampier's disappearance.
The door opened suddenly, and the Paris Prefect of
Police walked into the room. He was holding Sen-
ator Burton's card, and the letter of introduction
with which that card had been accompanied, in his
sinewy nervous looking hand.
Bowing, smiling, apologising with more earnest-
ness than was necessary for the few moments the
American Senator had had to await his presence, the
Prefect motioned his guest to a chair.
“I am very pleased,” he said in courtly tones, “to
put myself at the disposal of a member of the Amer-
ican Senate. Ah, sir, your country is a wonderful
country! In a sense, the parent of France—for was
not America the first great nation to become a Re-
public?”
Senator Burton bowed, a little awkwardly, in re-
sponse to this flowery sentiment.
He was telling himself that Monsieur Beaucourt was
quite unlike the picture he had mentally formed, from
youth upwards, of the Paris Prefect of Police.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 137
There was nothing formidable, nothing for the mat-
ter of that in the least awe-inspiring, about this tired,
amiable-looking man. The Prefect was also lacking
in the alert, authoritative manner which the layman
all the world over is apt to associate with the word
“police.” -
Monsieur Beaucourt sat down behind his ornate
buhl writing-table, and shooting out his right hand
he pressed an electric bell.
With startling suddenness, a panel disappeared
noiselessly into the red velvet draped wall, and in
the aperture so formed a good-looking young man
stood smiling.
“My secretary, Monsieur le Sénateur-my secre-
tary, who is also my nephew.”
The Senator rose and bowed.
“André? Please say that I am not to be disturbed
till this gentleman's visit is concluded.” The young
man nodded: and then he withdrew as quickly, as
silently, as he had appeared; and the panel slipped
noiselessly back behind him.
“And now tell me exactly what it is that you wish
me to do for you,” said the Prefect, with a weary sigh,
which was, however, softened by a pleasant smile.
“We are not as omnipotent as our enemies make us
out to be, but still we can do a good deal, and we could
do a good deal more were it not for the Press! Ah,
Monsieur le Sénateur, that is the only thing I do not
like about your great country. Your American Press


138 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
sets so bad, so very bad, an example to our poor old
World!”
A thin streak of colour came into Monsieur Beau-
court's cheek, a gleam of anger sparkled in his grey
eyes.
“Yes, greatly owing to the bad example set in
America, and of late in England too, quite a number
of misguided people nowadays go to the Press before
they come to us for redress! All too soon,” he shook
a warning finger, “they find they have entered a
mouse-trap from which escape is impossible. They
rattle at the bars—but no, they are caught fast!
Once they have brought those indefatigable, those
indiscreet reporters on the scene, it is too late to draw
back. They find all their most private affairs dragged
into the light of day, and even we can do very little
for them then!”
Senator Burton nodded gravely. He wished his
son were there to hear these words.
“And now let us return to our muttons,” said the
Prefect leaning forward. “I understand from the
President of the Senate that you require my help in
a rather delicate and mysterious matter.”
“I do not know that the matter is particularly
delicate, though it is certainly mysterious,” and then
Senator Burton explained, in as few and clear words
as possible, the business which had brought him there
—the disappearance, three days before, of the English
artist, John Dampier, and of the present sad plight
of Dampier's wife.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON. 139
Monsieur Beaucourt threw himself back in his
chair. His face lit up, it lost its expression of apa-
thetic fatigue; and his first quick questions showed
him a keen and clever cross-examiner.
At once he seized on the real mystery, and that
though the Senator had not made more of it than he
could help. That was the discrepancy in the ac-
count given by the Poulains and by Mrs. Dampier
respectively as to the lady's arrival at the hotel.
But even Monsieur Beaucourt failed to elicit the
fact that Senator Burton's acquaintance with Mrs.
Dampier was of such short standing. He assumed
that she was a friend of the Burton family, and the
Senator allowed the assumption to go by default.
“The story you have told me,” the Prefect said at
last, “is a very curious story, Monsieur le Sénateur.
But here we come across stranger things every day.
Still, certain details make the disappearance of this
English gentleman rather stranger than usual. I
gather that the vanished man's wife is a charming
person?” -
“Extremely charming!” said the Senator quickly.
“And I should say quite truthful—in fact this dis-
crepancy between her account and that of the Pou-
lains has worried and perplexed me very much.”
“Do not let that worry you,” said the other
thoughtfully. “If this young lady, your friend, be
telling the truth, it is very probable that the Poulains
began to lie in the hope of avoiding trouble for them-
selves: having lied they found themselves obliged to


140 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
stick to their story. You see just now our hotel-keep-
ers are coining gold, and they do not like this very
pleasant occupation of theirs interrupted, for even the
best of reasons. If this gentleman left the hotel the
same night that he arrived there—as I can see you
yourself are inclined to believe, Monsieur le Séna-
teur—then you may be sure that the hotel people,
even if they did see him for a few moments, would
not care to admit that they had done so. I therefore
advise that we put them and their account of what
took place out of our minds. From what you tell
me, you have already done what I may call the usual
things?”
“Yes,” said Senator Burton frankly. “My son
and I have done everything which common sense
could suggest to us. Thus we at once gave a de-
scription of the missing man to the police station of
the quarter where both the Hôtel Saint Ange and Mr.
Dampier's studio are situated. But, owing doubt-
less to the fact that all your officials are just now very
busy and very overworked, we did not get quite as
much attention paid to the case as I should have
liked. I do not feel quite sure even now that the
missing man did not meet with a street accident.”
“I can ascertain that for you in a moment.”
Again the Prefect pressed a pedal. A panel, and
this time a different panel from the first, slid back,
and again the secretary appeared.
Monsieur Beaucourt said a brief word or two, and a


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 141
few moments later a tabulated list, written in round-
hand, lay before him.
“Here are all the accidents which have occurred
in Paris during the last ninety hours.”
He ran his eyes down the list; and then, rising,
handed the sheets to Senator Burton.
“I think this disposes of the idea that an accident
may have befallen your friend in the streets,” said
the Prefect briefly.
And the Senator, handing back the list, acknowl-
edged that this was so.
“May I ask if you know much of the habits and
way of life of this vanished bridegroom?” asked the
Prefect thoughtfully. “I understand he belongs to
the British Colony here.”
“Mr. Dampier was not my friend,” said the Sen-
ator hurriedly. “It is Mrs. Dampier 22
“Ah, yes—I understand—the three weeks’ bride?
It is she you know. Well, Monsieur le Sénateur, the
best thing you and I can do is to look at the artist's
dossier. That is quite likely to provide us with a
useful clue.”
The Senator felt a thrill of anticipatory interest.
All his life he had heard of the dossiers kept by the
Paris police, of how every dweller in the great city,
however famous, however obscure, had a record in
which the most intimate details of their lives were set
down in black and white. Somehow he had never
quite believed in these French police dossiers.


142 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Surely you are not likely to have a dossier of Mr.
Dampier?” he exclaimed, “he is a British subject,
and, as far as I know, a perfectly respectable man.”
The Prefect smiled. “The mere fact that he is an
English subject living in Paris entitles him to a dos-
sier. In fact everybody who is anybody in any kind
of society, from that frequented by the Apaches to
that of the Faubourg Saint Germain, has a dossier.
And from what you tell me this artist, who won a
Salon medal, and who has already had a distinguished
career as a painter, is certainly ‘somebody.” Now,
please tell me exactly the way to spell his surname
and his Christian name. English names are so per-
plexing.”
Very clearly the Senator spelt out—first the word
“John” and then the word “Dampier.”
And as, under his dictation, the Prefect of Police
wrote the two distinctive names of the missing man,
there came a look of frowning perplexity and inde-
cision over his face.
“It's an odd thing,” he muttered, “but I seem to
have heard that name quite lately, and in some
strange connection! Now what could it have been?
As you probably know, Monsieur le Sénateur, there
is a French form of that name, Dampierre. But no
—it is that John which puzzles me—I am quite sure
that I have heard the name ‘John Dampier’ quite
recently.”
“Isn’t it likely,” suggested the Senator, “that the


144 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
which came over the listener's face. There gathered
on Monsieur Beaucourt's features a look of quick
surprise, followed—yes, unmistakably—by a frown
of dismay.
Putting his free hand over the tube, he withdrew
it from his ear and applied it to his lips. “Yes,
yes,” he said rapidly, “enough, enough! I quite
understand. It is, as you say, very natural that I
should have forgotten.”
And then he looked quickly across at the Senator.
“You are right, Monsieur le Sénateur: Mr. Dam-
pier's name was put before me only yesterday as that
of an Englishman who had disappeared from his
hotel. But I took him to be a passing visitor. You
know quite a number of the tourists brought by
the Exhibition disappear, sometimes for two or three
days—sometimes—well, for ever! That, of course,
means they have left Paris suddenly, having got into
what the English call a “scrape.” In such a case a
man generally thinks it better to go home—wiser if
sadder than when he came.”
There followed a pause.
“Well, Monsieur le Sénateur,” said the Prefect,
rising from his chair. “You may rest assured that
I will do everything that is in my power to find your
friend.”
“But the dossier?” exclaimed Senator Burton. “I
thought, Monsieur le Préfet, that I was to see Mr.
Dampier's dossier?”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 145
“Oh, to be sure—yes! I beg your pardon.”
Again he whistled down the tube. “Picot?” he
exclaimed, “I still require that dossier! Why am I
kept waiting in this way?”
He listened for a few moments to what his invisible
subordinate had to say, and then again he spoke down
the funnel, and with a certain pettish impatience.
“The last entry is of no importance—understand
me—no importance at all! The gentleman for whose
benefit I require the dossier already knows of this
Mr. Dampier's disappearance.”
A moment later a clerk knocked at the door, and
appeared with a blue envelope which he laid with a
deep bow on the Prefect's table.
It was not a very large envelope, and yet Senator
Burton was surprised at its size, and at the num-
ber of slips of paper the Prefect of Police withdrew
from it.
“I do not suppose, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you
have ever seen one of our dossiers—in fact I may tell
you that very few people outside this building ever
do see one. By the way, a great deal of nonsense
is talked about them. Roughly speaking, a dossier
is not a history of the individual in question; it sim-
ply records what is being said of him. For instance,
the day that I became Prefect of Police my dossier
was brought to me—”
He smiled wearily. -
“Your dossier?” repeated the Senator in amaze-
nent.


146 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Yes, my dossier. I have had it bound, and I keep
it as a curiosity. Everything that had ever been
written about me in the days when I was a Member
of the Chamber of Deputies is there. And what
really made me feel angry was the fact that I had
been confused with more than one of my namesakes,
in fact certain misdeeds that these worthy folk had
committed were actually registered in my dossier!”
He stopped speaking for a moment, and took up
the blue envelope.
“But now let us consider this Mr. John Dampier.
You will see that he bears the number “16909,’ and
that his envelope is blue. Had this gentleman ever
had anything to do with the police, were he, to put it
plainly, of the criminal class, this envelope would be
yellow. As for the white envelopes, they, Monsieur
le Sénateur, have to deal with a very different sort
of individual. We class them briefly under the gen-
eral word “Morals.’”
As he spoke the Prefect was looking swiftly through
the Dampier dossier, and not till he had glanced at
every item did he hand the envelope to his American
visitor.
Senator Burton could not but admire the intelli-
gent way the dossier had been prepared, and kept up
to date.
On the top sheet were carefully gummed various
entries from the biographical dictionaries in which
mention was made of John Dampier and his career.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 147
There followed a eulogistic newspaper article con-
taining an account of the picture which had won the
artist his Médaille d’Honneur at the Salon two years
before. Then came a piece of foolscap headed “Gen-
eral remarks,” and here were written the following
words:– “Lives quietly; is popular with his fellow
artists; has few debts; does not frequent the British
Colony.”
The Senator looked up quickly. “Well, there is
not much to learn from this!” he said. And then,
“I notice, Monsieur le Préfet, that there was another
entry which has been removed.”
“Yes,” said the Prefect. “That last entry was
only added the day before yesterday, and told of
Monsieur Dampier's disappearance. It is being writ-
ten up now, Monsieur le Sénateur, with a note ex-
plaining your kind interest in him, and telling of your
visit to-day.”
Senator Burton rose from his chair. He could not
have told exactly why, but he had the impression that
his courteous host had suddenly become anxious to
get rid of him.
But this impression was evidently erroneous. Even
after they had cordially shaken hands, the Prefect
of Police seemed in no hurry to let him go.
“One moment, Monsieur le Sénateur?” he looked
earnestly into the American's frank face. “I feel
bound to tell you that I am convinced there is more
in this mysterious disappearance than appears on


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 149
There was a pause. “God forbid,” said the Pre-
fect suddenly, “that I should accuse this unfortunate
man of anything heinous! But—but, Monsieur le
Sénateur? You must have learnt through our Press,
through those of our newspapers which delight in
dragging family scandals to light, the amazing story
of Count Bréville.”
The Senator was impressed, in spite of himself, by
the other's manner.
“I don’t remember the name,” he said thought-
fully.
“Count Bréville,” said the Prefect slowly, “was a
man of deservedly high reputation, in fact one of the
pillars of the Royalist party. He had a wife who
adored him, a large family whom he adored, and they
all lived an idyllic country life. Well, one day the
Count's coat, his hat, his pocket-book (which was
known to have been full of bank-notes, but which
was now empty) were found on the parapet of a
bridge near his château. It was given out—it was
believed that a dastardly crime had been committed.
And then, by a mere accident, it was brought to my
notice—for there was nothing in the Count's dossier
which could have led me to suspect such a thing—
that a charming governess who had been in the em-
ployment of his Countess for some four or five years
had suddenly left to join her family in the New World,
and that her travelling companion was strangely like
her late employer!”


150 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Yes,” said Senator Burton uncomfortably, “I
think I do remember something of that story now.”
“All the world was let into the secret,” said the
Prefect regretfully, “for the family had confided,
from the first, in the Press. They thought—what
did they not think, poor, foolish people? Among
other things they actually believed that the Count
had been murdered for political reasons. But no,
the explanation was far more simple. That high-
minded man, that Christian gentleman, this father
of charming children whom he apparently adored,
had gone off under a false name, leaving everything
that was dear to him, including his large fortune, to
throw in his lot with the governess!”
The Prefect came closer to Senator Burton. He
even lowered his voice. “I had the Countess here,
Monsieur le Sénateur, in this room. Oh, what a
touching, what a moving interview! The poor woman
was only anxious to have back her husband with
no questions asked, with no cruel reminders. And
now he is back—a broken man. But had he been an
artist, Monsieur le Sénateur, would the Count have
been traced? Of course not! Would he have re-
turned? No, indeed! The Prefect of Police can do
many things, Monsieur le Sénateur, but as I said just
now, he cannot force an unwilling husband back to
his wife, especially if that husband has already
crossed the frontier. Come, Monsieur le Sénateur,
confess that some such explanation of Mr. Dampier's
disappearance has already occurred to you?”


152 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
said the Prefect quickly. “I will arrange for it to
be done to-morrow morning at eleven. Perhaps you,
Monsieur le Sénateur, will inform the hotel people
that a Perquisition is about to take place.”


CHAPTER X
As he walked away from the Prefecture of Police,
Senator Burton told himself that the French were
certainly a curiously casual people.
How strange that the Prefect should have asked
him to break the news of what was to happen at
eleven o'clock the next morning to the Poulains! In
America—and he supposed in England also-the
hotel-keeper would have received a formal notifica-
tion of the fact that his house was about to be searched,
or, in the case that foul play was suspected, no warn-
ing at all. But here, in Paris, it was thought enough
to entrust a stranger with a message concerning so
serious a matter.
Of everything that had happened in connection
with this extraordinary Dampier affair, perhaps this
having to tell the Poulains that their hotel was to
be searched was the most disagreeable and painful
thing of all to their American friend and kindly client.
The Senator was now very sorry, that, in deference
to his son's wish, he had made such a suggestion.
On his return to the hotel he was surprised to find
a woman he had never seen before installed in Ma-
I53


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 155
But I also am busy. I have my own work to attend
to just as much as anybody else; and my three
children are all working at the Exhibition.”
The Senator left the eager gossip, and began walk-
ing round the courtyard. He felt quite wretched.
Jules, at no time a very intelligent lad, had evidently
been terrified out of his wits by the questionings and
the cross-questionings to which he had been subjected.
And then—and then—no doubt Gerald was in a
measure also responsible for the lad's state! Sen-
ator Burton had been very much annoyed when his
son had told him of what had happened the night
before—of how he had accused the Poulains' nephew
of lying—of knowing something of the Dampier af-
fair. . . .
He was just about to go upstairs when he saw Mon-
sieur and Madame Poulain emerging from the porte
cochère. They both looked tired, hot, and dispirited.
He walked forward to meet them.
“I am very sorry to hear this news about Jules,”
he began quickly. “I hope you are not really anx-
ious about him?”
Madame Poulain stared at him fixedly, reproach-
fully. “It is all this affair,” she said with a heavy
sigh. “If it had only been the police, our own police,
we should not have minded, Monsieur le Sénateur—
we are honest people—we have nothing to fear from
the police,” she lifted her head proudly. “But when
it came to that impudent young man—”


156 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
For a moment the Senator was at a loss—then he
suddenly remembered:—“You mean the gentleman
attached to the British Consulate?” he said uncom-
fortably. And as she nodded her head, “But surely
it was quite reasonable that he should come and ask
those questions. You must remember that both Mr.
and Mrs. Dampier are English people. They have a
right to the protection and help of their Consulate.”
“I do not say to the contrary, monsieur. I am
only telling you the truth, namely that that English
lawyer—for lawyer I suppose he was—terrified Jules.
And had it not been that I and my husband are con-
scious of of our innocence, Monsieur le Sénateur,
he would have terrified us also. Then your son at-
tacked Jules too. Surely the matter might have
been left to the police—our own excellent police.”
“I am glad you feel as you do about the police,”
said the Senator earnestly, “for as a matter of fact
the Prefect of Police, whom I have just been consult-
ing about Mr. Dampier's disappearance, suggests that
the Hôtel Saint Ange be searched.”
“Searched?” exclaimed Monsieur Poulain, staring
at the Senator.
“Searched?” shrieked Madame Poulain indig-
nantly.
“Yes,” said Senator Burton quietly, and trying
to speak as if a police Perquisition of a respectable
hotel was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“They are sending their men at eleven to-morrow


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 157
morning. Let me add that they and Mrs. Dampier
are most eager to study your convenience in every
way. They would doubtless choose another time
should eleven o'clock be inconvenient to you.”
Madame Poulain was now speechless with indig-
nation, and yes, with surprise. When at last she did
speak, her voice trembled with pain and anger.
“To think,” she said, turning to her husband, and
taking for the moment no notice of her American
client—“to think that you and I, Poulain, after hav-
ing lived here for twenty-one years and a half, should
have our hotel searched by the police—as if it were the
resort of brigands!” She turned to the Senator, and
quietly, not without a measure of dignity, went on:—
“And to think that it is you, Monsieur le Sénateur,
who we have always thought one of our best patrons,
who have brought this indignity upon us!”
“I am very, very sorry for all the trouble you are
having about this affair,” said Senator Burton ear-
nestly. “And Madame Poulain? I want to assure
you how entirely I have always believed your state-
ment concerning this strange business.”
“If that is so then why all this—this trouble, Mon-
sieur le Sénateur?” Husband and wife spoke sim-
ultaneously.
“I wonder,” exclaimed the Senator, “that you can
ask me such a question! I quite admit that the first
twenty-four hours I knew nothing of this unfortunate
young woman whose cause I championed. But now,


158 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
Madame Poulain, I have learnt that all she told me
of herself is true. Remember she has never faltered
in the statement that she came here accompanied by
her husband. I, as you know,” he lowered his voice,
“suppose that in so thinking she is suffering from a
delusion. But you cannot expect my view to be
shared by those who know her well and who are
strangers to you. As I told you only this morning,
we hope that towards the end of this week Mrs.
Dampier's lawyer will arrive from England.”
“But what will happen then?” cried Madame Pou-
lain, throwing up her hands with an excited, pas-
sionate gesture. “When will this persecution come
to an end? We have done everything we could; we
have submitted to odious interrogatories, first from
one and then from the other—and now our hotel is to
be searched! None of our other clients, and remem-
ber the hotel is full, Monsieur le Sénateur, have a
suspicion of what is going on, but any moment the
affair may become public, and then—then our hotel
might empty in a day! Oh, Monsieur le Sénateur”—
she clasped her hands together—“If you refuse to
think of us, think of our child, think of poor little
Virginie!”
“Come, come, Madame Poulain!”
The Senator turned to the good woman's husband,
but Poulain's usually placid face bore a look of low-
ering rage. The mention of his idolised daughter
had roused his distress as well as anger.


CHAPTER XI
“I suppose we ought to start in about half an hour,”
said the Senator genially. They were sitting, he and
Gerald, at breakfast.
Madame Poulain, with the adaptability of her kind
—the adaptability which makes the French inn-
keeper the best in the world, always served a real
“American breakfast” in the Burtons' salon.
As his son made no answer to his remark, he went
on, “I should like to be at the station a few minutes
before the Hamworths' train is due.”
Senator Burton was sorry, very, very sorry indeed,
that there was still no news of the missing man, on
this third morning of Dampier's disappearance. But
he could not help feeling glad that poor little Mrs.
Dampier had stayed in bed; thanks to that fact he
and his children were having breakfast together, in
the old, comfortable way.
The Senator felt happier than he had felt for some
time. What a comfort it would be, even to Gerald
and to Daisy, to forget for a moment this strange,
painful affair, and to spend three or four hours with
old friends!
Gerald looked up. “I’m not coming, father. You
162


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 163
will have to make my apologies to the Hamworths.
Of course I should have liked to see them. But Mrs.
Dampier has asked me to be present at the search.
Someone ought, of course, to be there to represent
her.” He jerked the words out with a touch of de-
fiance in his voice.
“I’m sorry she did that,” said the Senator coldly.
“And I think, Gerald, you should have consulted me
before consenting to do so. You see, our position
with regard to the Poulains is a delicate one—”
“Delicate?” repeated Gerald quickly. “How do
you mean, father?”
“We have known these people a long while. It is
fifteen years, Gerald, since I first came to this hotel
with your dear mother. I have received nothing but
kindness from Madame Poulain, and I am very, very
sorry that she now associates us in her mind with this
painful business.”
“All I can say is, sir, that I do not share your sor-
row.”
The Senator looked up quickly. This was the
first time—yes, the very first time that Gerald had
ever spoken to him with that touch of sarcasm—some
would have said impertinence—which sits so ill on
the young, at any rate in the view of the old. Per-
haps Gerald repented of his rude, hasty words, for it
was in a very different tone that he went on:—
“You see, father, I believe the whole of Mrs.
Dampier's story, and you only believe a part. If I


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 165
“Father! Surely you don’t want me to leave
Nancy this morning of all mornings? She ought not
to be alone while the search is going on. She wanted
to be actually present at it, didn’t she, Gerald?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, but Daisy and I
persuaded her that that was not necessary, that I
would be there for her. It seems that Mr. Dampier
had a very large portmanteau with him. She is sure
that the Poulains have got it hidden away.”
“She has told Gerald exactly what it is like,”
chimed in Daisy.
The Senator looked from one to the other: he felt
both helpless and indignant. “The Hamworths are
among the oldest friends we have in the world,” he
exclaimed. “Surely one of you will come with me?
I’m not asking you to leave Mrs. Dampier for long,
Daisy.”
But Daisy shook her head decidedly. “I’d rather
not, father—I don’t feel as if I wanted to see the Ham-
worths at all just now. I'm sure that when you ex-
plain everything to them, they will understand.”
Utterly discomfited and disappointed, and feeling
for the first time really angry with poor Nancy Dam-
pier, Senator Burton took his departure for the sta-
tion, alone.
Perquisition?
To the French imagination there is something ter-
rifying in the very word. And this justifiable terror


166 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
is a national tradition. To thousands of honest folk
a Perquisition was an ever present fear through the
old Régime, and this fear became acute terror in the
Revolution. Then a search warrant meant almost
certainly subsequent arrest, imprisonment, and death.
Even nowadays every Frenchman is aware that at
any moment, and sometimes on the most frivolous
pretext, his house may be searched, his most private
papers ransacked, and every member of his household
submitted to a sharp, informal interrogation, while
he stands helpless by, bearing the outrage with what
grace he may.
Gerald Burton, much as he now disliked and sus-
pected Monsieur and Madame Poulain, could not but
feel sorry for them when he saw the manner in which
those hitherto respectable and self-respecting folk
were treated by the Police Agent who, with two sub-
ordinates, had been entrusted with the task of search-
ing the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The American was also surprised to see the eager-
ness with which the Poulains had welcomed his pres-
ence at their unpleasant ordeal.
“Thank you for coming, Monsieur Gerald; but
where is Monsieur le Sénateur?” asked Madame Pou-
lain feverishly. “He promised—he absolutely prom-
ised us that he would be here this morning!”
“My father has had to go out,” said Gerald cour-
teously, “but I am here to represent both him and
Mrs. Dampier.” -


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 167
A heavy frown gathered over the landlady's face.
“Ah!” she muttered, “it was a dark day for us when
we allowed that lady to enter our hotel!”
Gerald, putting a strong restraint on his tongue,
remained silent, but a moment later, as if in answer
to his feeling of exasperation and anger, he heard the
Police Agent's voice raised in sarcastic wrath. “I
must ask you to produce the plan before I begin my
Perquisition.”
“But, monsieur,” exclaimed the hotel-keeper pit-
eously, “I cannot give you a plan of our hotel! How
should we have such a thing? The house is said to
be three hundred years old. We have even been told
it should be classed as an Historical Monument!”
“Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his
hotel,” said the Agent roughly. “And I shall report
you for not complying with the law. If a plan of the
Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to
have one made at your own expense.”
“Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done,” said
Poulain resignedly.
“To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!”
said the man, this time addressing Gerald Burton.
“An absolute farce! In such an old house as this there
may be many secret hiding-places.”
“There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel,”
screamed Madame Poulain angrily. “We have no
objection at all to being inspected in the greatest de-
tail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your
job will take some time to carry through.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 171
Having thoroughly examined all the street side of
the Hôtel Saint Ange, the three police emissaries
started their investigations on the other side of the
quadrangle, that which gave on the courtyard and
on the garden.
When the party came round to the rooms occupied
by Senator Burton and his family, Madame Poulain
came forward, and touched the Police Agent on the
arm:-“The lady who imagines that we have made
away with her husband is here,” she whispered.
“You had better knock at the door, and then walk
straight in. She will not be pleased—perhaps she
will scream—English people are so prudish when they
are in bed! But never mind what she says or does:
there is no reason why her room should not be
searched as well as that of everybody else.”
But the woman's vengeful wish was to remain
ungratified.
Nancy Dampier had dressed, and with Daisy's help
she had even made her bed. The Police Agent—
Gerald Burton was deeply grateful to him for it—
treated her with consideration and respect.
“C'est bien! C'est bienſ madame,” he said, just
glancing round the room, and making a quick sign
to his men that their presence was not required there.
At last the weary party, for by that time they were
all very weary, reached the top floor of the Hôtel
Saint Ange.
Here were rough garrets, oppressively hot on a day


172 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
like this, but each and all obviously serving some
absent client of the hotel as temporary dwelling-
place.
Madame Poulain looked quite exhausted. “I
think,” she said plaintively, “I will remain here,
monsieur, at the end of the passage. You will find
every door unlocked. Perhaps we ought to tell you
that these rooms are not as a rule inhabited, or in-
deed used by us in any way. That must excuse their
present condition. But in a season like this—well,
dame! we could fill every cranny twice over!”
Gerald and the three Frenchmen walked along the
corridor, the latter flinging open door after door of
the curious cell-like little bedrooms furnished for the
most part with only an iron bed, a couple of chairs,
and the usual walnut-wood wardrobe.
“What's this?” asked one of the men sharply. “We
find a door plastered up here, Monsieur Poulain.”
But it was Madame Poulain who came languidly
forward from the end of the passage. “Yes,” she
said. “If you wish to see that room you will have
to get a ladder and climb up from the outside. A
young Breton priest died here last January from scar-
let fever, monsieur—” she lowered her voice in-
stinctively—“and the sanitary authorities forced us
to block up the room in this way—most unfortunately
for us.”
“It is strange,” said the man, “that the seal of the
sanitary authorities is not affixed to the door.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 173
“To tell you the truth,” said Madame Poulain
uncomfortably, “the seal was there, but I removed
it. You see, monsieur, it would not have been pleas-
ant, even when all danger of infection was gone, to
say anything to our other clients about so sad an
event.”
The man nodded his head, and went on.
But the incident made a disagreeable impression
on Gerald Burton. And when they all finally came
down to the courtyard, the Police Agents being by
this time on far better terms with Monsieur and
Madame Poulain than they had been at the begin-
ning—on such good terms indeed that they were more
than willing to attack the refreshments the hotel-
keeper had made ready for them—he drew the head
Agent aside.
“There was one thing,” he said, “which rather
troubled me—” -
The man looked at him attentively. “Yes, mon-
sieur?” He realised that this young man, whom he
took for an Englishman, had been present on behalf
of the people at whose request the Perquisition had
been ordered. He was therefore inclined to treat him
with civility.
“I mean that closed room on the top floor,” said
Gerald hesitatingly. “Is there no way of ascer-
taining whether Madame Poulain's story is true—
whether, that is, the room was ever condemned by
the sanitary authorities?”


174 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
-
“Yes,” said the Agent, “nothing is easier, mon-
sieur, than to find that out.”
He took a note-book out of his pocket, tore out a
sheet, and wrote a few lines on it. Then he called
one of his subordinates to him and said a few words
of which Gerald caught the sense. It was an order
to go to the office of the sanitary inspector of the dis-
trict and bring back an answer at once.
In a quarter of an hour the man was back.
“The answer is ‘Yes,” he said a little breathlessly,
and he handed his chief a large sheet of paper, headed:
VILLE DE PARIs,
Sanitary Inspector's Department.
In answer to your question, I have to report
that we did condemn a room in the Hôtel Saint
Ange for cause of infectious disease.
The Police Agent handed it to Gerald Burton. “I
felt sure that in that matter,” he observed, “Madame
Poulain was telling the truth. But, of course, a Per-
quisition in a house of this kind is a mere farce, with-
out a plan to guide us. Think of the strange winding
passages along which we were led, of the blind rooms,
of the deep cupboards into which we peeped! For all
we can tell, several apartments may have entirely
escaped our knowledge.”
“Do you make many of these Perquisitions?”
asked Gerald curiously.
“No, monsieur. We are very seldom asked to


CHAPTER XII
BUT it is far easier to form such a resolution and to
make such a promise as that which Gerald Burton
had made to Nancy Dampier than it is to carry it
Out.
The officials of the Prefecture of Police grew well
accustomed to the sight of the tall, good-looking
young American coming and going in their midst, and
they all showed a sympathetic interest in his quest.
But though the police officials were lavish in kindly
words, and in permits and passes which he found an
open sesame to the various places where it was just
conceivable that John Dampier, after having met
with some kind of accident, might have been carried,
they were apparently quite unable to elucidate the
growing mystery of the English artist's disappearance.
Early on the Friday morning Gerald Burton tele-
phoned to Nancy Dampier's friend and lawyer the
fact that they were still entirely without any clue
to the whereabouts of the missing man. And, true
to his word, Mr. Stephens arrived in Paris that same
evening. -
He found his poor young client awaiting him in the
company of the new friends to whom she owed so
177


178 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
deep a debt of gratitude, and this lessened, to a cer-
tain extent, the awkwardness of their meeting. Even
so, the shrewd, kindly Englishman felt much shocked
and distressed by the change which had taken place
in Nancy.
Just a month ago he had seen her standing, most
radiant as well as prettiest of brides, by her proud
husband's side. Perhaps because she had had so
lonely a girlhood there had been no tears at Nancy
Tremain's wedding, and when he had put her in the
carriage which was to be the first little stage of her
honeymoon, she had whispered, “Mr. Stephens? I
feel as if I was going home.” And the lawyer had
known all that the dear, to her till then unfamiliar,
word—had meant to her.
And now, here she was with strangers, wan, strained
and unutterably weary-looking; as she stood, her hand
clasped in his, looking, with dumb anguish, up into
his face, Mr. Stephens felt a thrill of intense anger
against John Dampier. For the present, at any rate,
he refused to entertain the theory of crime or acci-
dent. But he kept his thoughts entirely to himself.
The irruption of any human being into a small and,
for any reason, closely welded together set of people
produces much the same effect as does the addition
of a new product to a chemical mixture. And the
arrival of the English lawyer affected not only Nancy
herself but, in varying ways, Senator Burton and his
SOIl.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 179
A very few moments spent in the Englishman's
company brought to the American Senator an im-
mense measure of relief. For one thing, he was sin-
cerely glad to know that the poor young stranger's
business was about to pass into capable and evidently
most trustworthy hands: also a rapid interchange of
words the first time they were left alone together put
an end, and that for ever, to Senator Burton's uneasy
suspicions—suspicions which had persisted to the end
—as to Mrs. Dampier's account of herself.
Whatever else was obscure in this strange story,
it was now clear that Nancy had told nothing but
the truth concerning her short, simple past life. And
looking back the Senator found it difficult, as a man
so often finds it difficult when he becomes wise after
an event, to justify, even to himself, his former atti-
tude of distrust.
As to Gerald Burton, he felt a little jealousy of
the lawyer. Till the coming of Mr. Stephens it was
to him that Mrs. Dampier had instinctively turned
in her distress and suspense; now she naturally con-
sulted, and deferred to the advice of, the older man
and older friend.
But Mr. Stephens was not able to do more than had
already been done. He listened to what all those
about him had to say concerning John Dampier's
disappearance, and he carefully went over the ground
already covered by Senator Burton and his son. He,
too, saw the British Consul; he, too, was granted a


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 181
curious days he spent in Paris seeking for John Dam-
pier. He was there a whole week, and every succeed-
ing day was packed with anxious, exciting interviews
and expeditions, each of which it was hoped might
yield some sort of clue. But what remained indelibly
fixed on the English lawyer's screen of memory were
three or four at the time apparently insignificant con-
versations which in no case could have done much
to solve the problem he had set himself to solve.
The first of these was a short conversation, in the
middle of that busy week, with Nancy Dampier.
After the first interview in which she had told him
her version of what had happened the night of her
own and her husband's arrival in Paris, he had had
very little talk with her, and at no time had he ex-
pressed any opinion as to what could have happened
to John Dampier. But at last he felt it his duty to
try and probe a little more than he had felt it at first
possible to do into the question of a possible motive
or motives.
“I’m afraid,” he began, “that there's very little
more to do than has been already done. I mean, of
course, for the present. And in your place, Nancy,
I should come back to England, and wait there for
any news that may reach you.”
As she shook her head very decidedly, he went
on gravely:—“I know it is open to you to remain in
Paris; but, my dear, I cannot believe that your hus-
band is in Paris. If he were, we must by now, with


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 185
turbed Nancy's lawyer, and that though he did not
in the least share in his companion's view. But still
he felt disturbed, perhaps unreasonably so consider-
ing how very little he still knew of the speaker. He
was indeed almost as disturbed as he would have been
had it been his own son who had suddenly put for-
ward a wrong and indeed an untenable proposition.
He turned and faced Gerald Burton squarely.
“I cannot agree with you,” he spoke with con-
siderable energy, “and I am sorry you have got such
a notion in your mind. I am quite sure that John
Dampier is alive. He may be in confinement some-
where, held to ransom—things of that sort have hap-
pened in Paris before now. But be that as it may,
it is my firm conviction that we shall have news
of him within a comparatively short time. Of course
I cannot help seeing what you suspect, namely, that
there has been foul play on the part of the Poulains.
But no other human being holds this theory but
yourself. Your father—you must forgive me for say-
ing so—has known these people a great deal longer
than you have, and he tells me he would stake every-
thing on their substantial integrity. And the police
speak very highly of them too. Besides, in this world
one must look for a motive—indeed, one must always
look for a motive. But in this case no one that we
know—I repeat, Mr. Burton, no one that we know of
—had any motive for injuring Mr. Dampier.”
Gerald Burton looked up quickly:—“You mean by


186 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
that there may be someone whom we do not know of
who may have had a motive for spiriting him away?”
Mr. Stephens nodded curtly. He had not meant
to say even so much as that.
“I want you to tell me,” went on the young Amer-
ican earnestly, “exactly what sort of a man this John
Dampier is—or was?”
The lawyer took off his spectacles; he began rub-
bing the glasses carefully.
“Well,” he said at last, “that isn't a question I
find it easy to answer. I made a certain number of
enquiries about him when he became engaged to Miss
Tremain, and I am bound to tell you, Mr. Burton,
that the answers, as far as they went, were quite sat-
isfactory. The gentleman in whose house the two
met—I mean poor Nancy and Dampier—had, and
has, an extremely high opinion of him.”
“Mrs. Dampier once spoke to me as if she thought
you did not like her. husband?” Gerald Burton
looked straight before him as he said the words he
felt ashamed of uttering. And yet—and yet he did
so want to know the truth as to John Dampier!
Mr. Stephens looked mildly surprised. “I don’t
think I ever gave her any reason to suppose such a
thing,” he said hesitatingly. “Mr. Dampier was
eager, as all men in love are eager, to hasten on the
marriage. You see, Mr. Burton”—he paused, and
Gerald looked up quickly:-
“Yes, Mr. Stephens?”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 187
“Well, to put it plainly, John Dampier was madly
in love”—the speaker thought his companion winced,
and, rather sorry than glad at the success of his little
ruse, he hurried on:—“that being so he naturally
wished to be married at once. But an English mar-
riage settlement—especially when the lady has the
money, which was the case with Miss Tremain— ,
cannot be drawn up in a few days. Nancy herself
was willing to assent to everything he wished; in fact
I had to point out to her that it is impossible to get
engaged on Monday and married on Tuesday! I
suppose she thought that because I very properly
objected to some such scheme of theirs, I disliked
John Dampier. This was a most unreasonable con-
clusion, Mr. Burton!” -
Gerald Burton felt disappointed. He did not be-
lieve that the English lawyer was answering truly.
He did not stay to reflect that Mr. Stephens was not
bound to answer indiscreet questions, and that when
a young man asks an older man whether or no he
dislikes someone, and that someone is a client, the
question is certainly indiscreet.
In a small way the painful mystery was further
complicated by the attitude of Mère Bideau. Bribes
and threats were alike unavailing to make the old
Breton woman open her mouth. She was full of sus-
picion; she refused to answer the simplest questions
put to her by either Mr. Stephens or Gerald Burton.


188 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
And the lawyer felt a moment of sharp impatience,
as business men are so often apt to feel in their deal-
ings with women, when, in answer to his remark
that Mère Bideau would be brought to her knees
when she found her supplies cut off, Nancy, with
tears running down her cheeks, cried out in protest:
—“Oh, Mr. Stephens, don’t say that! I would far
rather go on paying the old woman for ever than that
she should be brought, as you say, to her knees.
She was such a good servant to Jack: he is—he was
—so fond of her.”
But Mère Bideau's attitude greatly disconcerted
and annoyed the Englishman. He wondered if the
old woman knew more than she would admit; he
even suspected her of knowing the whereabouts of
her master; the more impenetrable became the mys-
tery, the less Mr. Stephens believed Dampier to be
dead.
And then, finally, on the last day of his stay in
Paris something happened which, to the lawyer's
mind, confirmed his view that John Dampier, having
vanished of his own free will, was living and well—
though he hoped not happy—away from the great
city which had been searched, or so the police assured
the Englishman, with a thoroughness which had never
been surpassed if indeed it had ever been equalled.


CHAPTER XIII
WITH Mr. Stephens' morning coffee there appeared
an envelope bearing his name and a French stamp,
as well of course as the address of the obscure little
hotel where the Burtons had found him a room.
The lawyer looked down at the envelope with great
surprise. The address was written in a round, copy-
book hand, and it was clear his name must have been
copied out of an English law list.
Who in Paris could be writing to him—who, for
the matter of that, knew where he was staying, apart
from his own family and his London office?
He broke the seal and saw that the sheet of note-
paper he took from the envelope was headed “Pré-
fecture de Police.” Hitherto the police had addressed
all their communications to the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The letter ran as follows:
DEAR SIR, -
I am requested by the official who has the Dam-
pier affair in hand to ask you if you will come here
this afternoon at three o'clock. As I shall be
present and can act as interpreter, it will not
be necessary for you to be accompanied as you
were before. Yours faithfully,
IVAN BAROFF.
189


190 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
What an extraordinary thing! Up to the present
time Mr. Stephens had not communicated with a
single police official able to speak colloquial English;
it was that fact which had made him find Gerald Bur-
ton so invaluable an auxiliary. But this letter might
have been written by an Englishman, though the sig-
nature showed it to be from a foreigner, and from a
Pole, or possibly a Russian.
Were the police at last on the trail of the missing
man? Mr. Stephens’ well-regulated heart began to
beat quicker at the thought. But if so, how strange
that the Prefect of Police had not communicated with
the Hôtel Saint Ange last night! Monsieur Beau-
court had promised that the smallest scrap of news
should be at once transmitted to John Dampier's wife.
Well, there was evidently nothing for it but to
wait with what patience he could muster till the
afternoon; and it was characteristic of Nancy's legal
friend that he said nothing of his mysterious appoint-
ment to either the Burtons or to Mrs. Dampier. It
was useless to raise hopes which might so easily be
disappointed.
Three o'clock found Mr. Stephens at the Prefec-
ture of Police.
“Ivan Baroff” turned out to be a polished and
agreeable person who at once frankly explained that
he belonged to the International Police. Indeed while
shaking hands with his visitor he observed pleasantly,
“This is not the kind of work with which I have, as


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 19,
a rule, anything to do, but my colleagues have asked
me to see you, Mr. Stephens, because I have lived in
England, and am familiar with your difficult lan-
guage. I wish to entertain you on a rather delicate
matter. I am sure I may count on your discretion,
and, may I add, your sympathy?”
The English lawyer looked straight at the suave-
spoken detective. What the devil did the man mean?
“Certainly,” said he, “certainly you can count on
my discretion, Monsieur Baroff, and—and my sym-
pathy. I hope I am not unreasonable in hoping that
at last the police have obtained some kind of clue
to Mr. Dampier's whereabouts.”
“No,” said the other indifferently. “That I re-
gret to tell you is not the case; they are, however,
prosecuting their enquiries with the greatest zeal—
of that you may rest assured.”
“So I have been told again and again,” Mr.
Stephens spoke rather impatiently. “It seems strange
—I think I may say so to you who are, like myself, a
foreigner—it seems strange, I say, that the French
police, who are supposed to be so extraordinarily
clever, should have failed to find even a trace of this
missing man. Mr. John Dampier can’t have van-
ished from the face of the earth: dead or alive, he
must be somewhere!”
“There is of course no proof at all that Mr. Dam-
pier ever arrived in Paris,” observed the detective
significantly.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 193
He waited a moment.
But the English lawyer made no sign of having
understood what the other wished to imply. “They
have all talked to me,” he said mildly, “Senator Bur-
ton, Mr. Burton, Miss Burton; every conceivable pos-
sibility has been discussed by us.”
“Indeed? Well, with so many clever people all
trying together it would be strange if not one hit upon
the truth!” The detective spoke with good-natured
SarCaSIm.
“Perhaps we have hit upon it,” said Mr. Stephens
suddenly. “What do you think, Monsieur Baroff?”
“I do not think at all!” he said pettishly. “I am
far too absorbed in my own tiresome job—that of
keeping my young Princes and Grand Dukes out of
scrapes—to trouble about this peculiar affair. But
to return to what I was saying. You are of course
aware that Mr. Gerald Burton is convinced, and very
foolishly convinced (for there is not an atom of proof,
or of anything likely to lead to proof), that this Mr.
Dampier was murdered, if not by the Poulains, then
by some friend of theirs in the Hôtel Saint Ange.
The foolish fellow has as good as said so to more than
one of our officials.”
“I know such is Mr. Burton's theory,” answered
Mr. Stephens frankly, “and it is one very difficult to
shake. In fact I may tell you that I have already tried
to make him see the folly of the notion, and how it is
almost certainly far from the truth.”


194 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“It is not only far from the truth, it is absolutely
untrue,” said the Russian impressively. “But what
I now wish to convey to the young man is that should
he be so ill-advised as to do what he is thinking of
doing he will make it very disagreeable for the lady
in whom he takes so strangely violent an interest—”
“What exactly do you mean, Monsieur Baroff?”
“This Mr. Gerald Burton is thinking of enlisting
the help of the American newspaper men in Paris.
He wishes them to raise the question in their jour-
nals.”
“I do not think he would do that without con-
sulting his father or me,” said Mr. Stephens quickly.
He felt dismayed by the other's manner. Monsieur
Baroff's tone had become menacing, almost discour-
teous.
“Should this headstrong young man do anything
of that kind,” went on the detective, “he will put an
end to the efforts we are making to find Mrs. Dam-
pier's husband. In fact I think I may say that if
the mystery is never solved, it will be thanks to his
headstrong folly and belief in himself.”
With this the disagreeable interview came to an
end, and though the English lawyer never confided
the details of this curious conversation to any living
Soul, he did make an opportunity of conveying Ivan
Baroff's warning to Gerald Burton.
“Before leaving Paris,” he said earnestly, “there
is one thing I want to impress upon you, Mr. Burton.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 195
Do not let any newspaper people get hold of this
story; I can imagine nothing that would more dis-
tress poor Mrs. Dampier. She would be exposed to
very odious happenings if this disappearance of her
husband were made, in any wide sense of the word,
public. And then I need not tell you that the Paris
Police have a very great dislike to press publicity;
they are doing their very best—of that I am con-
vinced—to probe the mystery.”
Gerald Burton hesitated. “I should have
thought,” he said, “that it would at least be worth
while to offer a reward in all the Paris papers. I find
that such rewards are often offered in England, Mr.
Stephens.”
“Yes—they are. And very, very seldom with any
good result,” answered the lawyer drily. “In fact
all the best minds concerned with the question of
crime have a great dislike to the reward system. Not
once in a hundred cases is it of any use. In fact it
is only valuable when it may induce a criminal to
turn “King's evidence.” But in this case I pray you
to believe me when I say that we are not seeking to
discover the track of any criminal—” in his own
mind he added the words, “unless we take John
Dampier to be one!”
It was on the morning of Mr. Stephens’ depar-
ture from Paris, in fact when he and Senator Burton,
who had gone to see him off, were actually in the sta-


198 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
“Yes, as fascinating as she's pretty!”
“Well, she had plenty of chances of making a good
marriage—but no one touched her heart till this big,
ugly fellow came along. So of course I had to make
the best of it!” He waited a moment and then went
on. “I ought to tell you that at my suggestion Dam-
pier took out a large insurance policy on his own life:
I didn't think it right that he should bring, as it were,
nothing into settlement, the more so that Nancy had
insisted, on her side, that all her money should go to
him at her death, and that whether they had any
children or not! You know what women are?” he
shrugged his shoulders.
“If that be so,” observed the Senator, “then money
can have had nothing to do with his disappearance.”
“I’m not so sure of that! In fact I’ve been won-
dering uneasily during the last few days whether,
owing to his being an artist, and to his having lived
so much abroad, John Dampier could have been fool-
ish enough to suppose that in the case of his disap-
pearance the insurance money would be paid over to
Mrs. Dampier. That, of course, would be one impor-
tant reason why he should wish to obliterate himself
as completely as he seems to have done. I need
hardly tell you, Mr. Senator, that the Insurance Office
would laugh in my face if I were to try and make
them pay. Why, years will have to elapse before
our courts would even consider the probability of
death.”


200 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
not know what sort of a time she will come back to:
I fear that most of her friends will feel exactly as I
feel; they will not believe that John Dampier has
disappeared save of his own free will—and some of
them will suppose it their duty to tell her so!”
“It is the view evidently held by the French police,”
observed the Senator.
The English lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “Of
course it is! The fact that Dampier had hardly any
money on him disposes of any crime theory. A won-
derful thing the Paris police system, Mr. Burton!”
And the other cordially agreed; nothing could have
been more courteous, more kind, more intelligent,
than the behaviour of the high police officials, from
the Prefect himself downwards, over the whole busi-
In CSS.
Mr. Stephens glanced up at the huge station clock.
“I have only five minutes left,” he said. “But I
want to say again how much I appreciate your ex-
traordinary kindness and goodness to my poor client.
And, Mr. Senator? There's just one thing more I
want to say to you—” For the first time the Eng-
lish lawyer looked awkward and ill at ease.
“Why yes, Mr. Stephens! Pray say anything you
like.”
“Well, my dear sir, I should like to give you a very
sincere piece of advice.” He hesitated. “If I were
you I should go back to America as soon as possible.
I feel this sad affair has thoroughly spoilt your visit


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON 201
to Paris; and speaking as a man who has children
himself, I am sure it has not been well, either for Miss
Daisy or for your son, to have become absorbed, as
they could hardly help becoming, in this distressing
business.”
The American felt slightly puzzled by the serious-
ness with which the other delivered this well-meant
but wholly superfluous advice. What just exactly
did the lawyer mean by these solemnly delivered
words?
“Why,” said the Senator, “you're quite right, Mr.
Stephens; it has been an ordeal, especially for my girl
Daisy: she hasn’t had air and exercise enough during
this last fortnight, let alone change of thought and
scene. But, as a matter of fact, I am settling about
our passages to-day, on my way back to the hotel.”
“I am very glad to hear that!” exclaimed the other,
with far more satisfaction and relief in his voice than
seemed warranted. “And I presume that your son
will find lots of work awaiting him on his return home?
There's nothing like work to chase cobwebs from the
brain or—or heart, Mr. Senator.”
“That's true: not that there are many cobwebs in
my boy's brain, Mr. Stephens,” he smiled broadly
at the notion.
“Messieurs! Mesdames! En voiture, s'il vous plait.
En voiture—1”
A few minutes later Mr. Stephens waved his hand
from his railway carriage, and as he did so he won-


202 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
dered if he himself had ever been as obtuse a father as
his new American friend seemed to be.
As he walked away from the station Senator Burton
made up his mind to go back on foot, taking the office
of the Transatlantic Steamship Company on his way.
And while he sauntered through the picturesque, lively
streets of the Paris he loved with so familiar and
appreciative an admiration, the American found his
thoughts dwelling on the events of the last fort-
night.
Yes, it had been a strange, an extraordinary ex-
perience—one which he and his children would never
forget, which they would often talk over in days to
come. Poor little Nancy Dampier! His kind, fa-
therly heart went out to her with a good deal of af-
fection, and yes, of esteem. She had behaved with
wonderful courage and good sense—and with dignity
too, when one remembered the extraordinary position
in which she had been placed with regard to the Pou-
lains.
The Poulains? For the hundredth time he won-
dered where the truth really lay. . . . But he soon
dismissed the difficult problem, for now he had reached
the offices of the French Transatlantic Company.
There the Senator's official rank caused him to be
treated with very special civility; at once he was
assured that three passages would be reserved for
him on practically what boat he liked: he suggested


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 208
the Lorraine, sailing in ten days time, and he had
the satisfaction of seeing good cabins booked in his
Iname. -
And as he walked away, slightly cheered, as men
are apt to be, by the pleasant deference paid to his
wishes, he told himself that before leaving Paris he
must arrange for a cable to be at once dispatched
should there come any news of the mysterious, and
at once unknown and familiar, John Dampier. Mrs.
Dampier would surely find his request a natural one,
the more so that Daisy and Gerald would be just as
eager to hear news as he himself would be. He had
never known anything take so firm a hold of his son's
and daughter's imaginations.
On reaching the Hôtel Saint Ange the Senator went
over to Madame Poulain's kitchen; it was only right
to give her the date of their departure as soon as pos-
sible.
“Well,” he said with a touch of regret in his voice,
“we shall soon be going off now, Madame Poulain.
Next Tuesday-week you will have to wish us bon
voyage!”
And instead of seeing the good woman's face cloud
over, as it had always hitherto clouded over, when
he had sought her out to say that their stay in Paris
was drawing to a close, he saw a look of intense relief,
of undisguised joy, flash into her dark expressive
eyes, and that though she observed civilly, “Quel


ſ
/
204 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
dommage, Monsieur le Sénateur, that you cannot stay
a little longer!”
He moved away abruptly, feeling unreasonably
mortified.
But Senator Burton was a very just man; he
prided himself on his fairness of outlook; and now he
reminded himself quickly that their stay at the Hôtel
Saint Ange had not brought unmixed good fortune
to the Poulains. It was natural that Madame Pou-
lain should long to see the last of them—at any rate
this time.
He found Gerald alone, seated at a table, intent on
a letter he was writing. Daisy, it seemed, had per-
suaded Mrs. Dampier to go out for a walk before
luncheon.
“Well, my boy, we shall have to make the best of
the short time remaining to us in Paris. I have se-
cured passages in the Lorraine, and so we now only
have till Tuesday-week to see everything in Paris
which this unhappy affair has prevented our seeing
during the last fortnight.”
And then it was that the something happened, that
the irreparable words were spoken, which suddenly
and most rudely opened the Senator's eyes to a truth
which the English lawyer had seen almost from the
first moment of his stay in Paris.
Gerald Burton started up. His face was curiously
pale under its healthy tan, but the Senator noticed
that his son's eyes were extraordinarily bright.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 205
“Father?” He leant across the round table. “I
am not going home with you. In fact I am now
writing to Mr. Webb to tell him that he must not
expect me back at the office for the present: I will
cable as soon as I can give him a date.”
“Not going home?” repeated Senator Burton. "
“What do you mean, Gerald? What is it that should
keep you here after we have gone?” but a curious
sensation of fear and dismay was already clutching
at the older man's heart.
“I am never going back—not till John Dampier is
found. I have promised Mrs. Dampier to find him,
and that whether he be alive or dead!”
Even then the Senator tried not to understand.
Even then he tried to tell himself that his son was
only actuated by some chivalrous notion of keeping
his word, in determining on a course which might
seriously damage his career.
He tried quiet expostulation: “Surely, Gerald, you
are not serious in making such a decision? Mrs. Dam-
pier, from what I know of her, would be the last to
exact from you the fulfilment of so—so unreasonable
a promise. Why, you and I both know quite well
that the Paris police, and also Mr. Stephens, are con-
vinced that this man Dampier just left his wife of his
own free will.”
“I know they think that! But it's a lie!” cried
Gerald with blazing eyes. “An infamous lie! I
should like to see Mr. Stephens dare suggest such a


206 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
notion to John Dampier's wife. Not that she is his
wife, father, for I'm sure the man is dead—and I
believe—I hope that she's beginning to think so
too!”
“But if Dampier is dead, Gerald, then—” the
Senator was beginning to lose patience, but he was
anxious not to lose his temper too, not to make him-
self more unpleasant than he must do. “Surely you
see yourself, my boy, that if the man is dead, there's
nothing more for you to do here, in Paris?”
“Father, there's everything! The day I make sure
that John Dampier is dead will be the happiest day
of my life.” His voice had sunk low, he muttered
the last words between his teeth; but alas! the Sen-
ator heard them all too clearly.
“Gerald!” he said gravely. “Gerald? Am I to
understand—”
“Father—don't say anything you might be sorry
for afterwards! Yes, you have guessed truly. I love
Nancy! If the man is dead—and I trust to God he
is—I hope to marry her some day. If–if you and
Mr. Stephens are right—if he is still alive—well
then—” he waited a moment, and that moment was
the longest the Senator had ever known—“then,
father, I promise you I will come home. But in that
case I shall never, never marry anybody else. Daisy
knows,” went on the young man, unconsciously deal-
ing his father another bitter blow. “Daisy knows
—she guessed, and—she understands.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 209
The Senator's whole expression has changed in the
two years. He used to look a happy, contented man;
now, especially when he is alone and his face is in
repose, he has the disturbed, bewildered expression
men's faces bear when Providence or Fate—call it
which you will—has treated them in a way they feel
to be unbearably unfair, as well as unexpected.
And yet the majority of mankind would consider
this American to be supremely blessed. The two
children he loves so dearly are as fondly attached to .
him as ever they were; and there has also befallen
him a piece of quite unexpected good fortune. A
distant relation, from whom he had no expectations,
has left him a fortune “as a token of admiration for
his high integrity.”
Senator Burton is now a very rich man, and be-
cause Daisy fancied it would please her brother they
have taken for the summer this historic English manor
house, famed all the world over to those interested
in mediaeval architecture, as Barwell Moat.
Here he, Daisy, and Nancy Dampier have already
been settled for a week; Gerald only joined them yes-
terday from Paris.
Early though it is, the Senator has already been up
and dressed over an hour; and he has spent the time
unprofitably, in glancing over his diary of two years
ago, in conning, that is, the record of that strange,
exciting fortnight which so changed his own and his
children’s lives.


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON 2 II
Senator finds it only too easy, on this beautiful June
morning, to go back, in dreary retrospective, over
these two long years.
Gerald had not found it possible to keep his rash
vow; there had come a day when he had had to go
back to America—indeed, he has been home three
times. But those brief visits of his son to his own
country brought the father no comfort, for each time
Gerald left behind him in Europe not only his heart,
but everything else that matters to a man—his in-
terests, his longings, his hopes.
Small wonder that in time Senator Burton and
Daisy had also fallen into the way of spending nearly
the whole of the Senator's spare time in Europe, and
with Nancy Dampier.
Nancy? The mind of the watcher by the window
turns to her too, as he visions the slender, graceful
figure now pacing slowly by his son's side.
Is it unreasonable that, gradually withdrawing her-
self from her old friends, those friends who did not
believe that Dampier had left her save of his own
free will, Nancy should cling closer and closer to
her new friends? No, not at all unreasonable, but,
from the Senator's point of view, very unfortunate.
Daisy and Nancy are now like sisters, and to the
Senator himself she shows the loving deference, the
affection of a daughter, but with regard to the all-
important point of her relations to Gerald, none of
them know the truth—indeed, it may be doubted if
she knows it herself.


212 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
But the situation gets more difficult, more strained
every month, every week, almost every day. Sen-
ator Burton feels that the time has come when some-
thing must be done to end it—one way or the other
—and the day before yesterday he sought out Mr.
Stephens, now one of his closest friends and advisers,
in order that they might confer together on the mat-
ter. As he stands there looking down at the two
figures walking across the dewy grass, he remembers
with a sense of boding fear the conversation with
Nancy's lawyer.
“There's nothing to be done, my poor friend, noth-
ing at all! Our English marriage laws are perfectly
clear, and though this is a very, very hard case, I for
my part have no wish to see them altered.”
And the Senator had answered with heat, “I can-
not follow you there at all! The law which ties a
living woman to a man who may be dead, nay, prob-
ably is dead, is a monstrous law.”
And Mr. Stephens had answered very quietly,
“What if John Dampier be alive?”
“And is this all I can tell my poor son?”
And then it was that Mr. Stephens, looking at him
doubtfully, had answered, “Well no, for there is a
way out. It is not a good way—I doubt if it is a right
way—but still it is a way. It is open to poor little
Nancy to go to America, to become naturalized there,
and then to divorce her husband, in one of your
States, for desertion. The divorce so obtained would


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 213
be no divorce in England, but many Englishmen and
Englishwomen have taken that course as a last re-
sort—” He had waited a moment, and then added,
“I doubt, however, very, very much if Nancy would
consent to do such a thing, even if she reciprocates—
which is by no means sure—your son's—er—feeling
for her.”
“Feeling?” Senator Burton's voice had broken,
and then he had cried out fiercely, “Why use such an
ambiguous word, when we both know that Gerald is
killing himself for love of her—and giving up the
finest career ever opened to a man? If Mrs. Dam-
pier does not reciprocate what you choose to call his
‘feeling’ for her, then she is the coldest and most
ungrateful of women!”
“I don't think she is either the one or the other,”
had observed Mr. Stephens mildly; and he had
added under his breath, “It would be the better for
her if she were- Believe me the only way to force
her to consider the expedient I have suggested—”
he had hesitated as if rather ashamed of what he was
about to say, “would be for Gerald to tell her the
search for Mr. Dampier must now end—and that
the time has come when he must go back to America
—and work.”
Small wonder that Senator Burton found it hard
to sleep last night, small wonder he has risen so early.
He knows that his son is going to speak to Nancy, to
tell her what Mr. Stephens has suggested she should


214 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
do, and he suspects that now, at this very moment,
the decisive conversation may be taking place.
II
Though unconscious that anxious, yearning eyes are
following them, both Nancy Dampier and Gerald
Burton feel an instinctive desire to get away from the
house, and as far as may be from possible eavesdrop-
pers. They walk across the stretch of lawn which
separates the moat from the gardens in a constrained
silence, she following rather than guiding her com-
panion.
But as if this charming old-world plesaunce were
quite familiar to him, Gerald goes straight on, down
a grass path ending in what appears to be a high
impenetrable wall of yew, and Nancy, surprised,
then sees that a narrow, shaft-like way leads straight
through the green leafy depths.
“Why, Gerald?” she says a little nervously—they
have long ago abandoned any more formal mode of
address, though between them there stands ever the
spectre of poor John Dampier, as present to one of
the two, and he the man, as if the menacing shadow
were in very truth a tangible presence. “Why, Ger-
ald, where does this lead? Have you ever been here
before?”
And for the first time since they met the night be-
fore, the young man smiles. “I thought I'd like to


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 215
see an English sunrise, Nancy, so I’ve been up a long
time. I found a rose garden through here, and I
thought it would be a quiet place for our talk.”
It is strangely dark and still under the dense ever-
green arch of the slanting way carved through the
yew hedge; Nancy can only grope her way along.
Turning round, Gerald holds out his strong hands,
and taking hers in what seems so cool, so impersonal
a grasp, he draws her after him. And Nancy flushes
in the half darkness; it is the first time that she and
Gerald Burton have ever been alone together as they
are alone now, and that though they have met so very,
very often in the last two years.
Nancy is at once glad and sorry when he suddenly
loosens his grasp of her hands. The shadowed way
terminates in a narrow wrought-iron gate; and be-
yond the gate is the rose garden of Barwell Moat, a
tangle of exquisite colouring, jealously guarded and
hidden away from those to whom the more familiar
beauties of the place are free.
It is one of the oldest of English roseries, planned
by some Elizabethan dame who loved solitude rather
than the sun. And if the roses bloom a little less
freely in this quiet, still enclosure than they would
do in greater light and wilder air, this gives the rosery,
in these hot June days, a touch of austere and more
fragile beauty than that to be seen beyond its enla-
cing yews.
A hundred years after the Elizabethan lady had


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 217
She prays God that nothing of what she is feeling
shows in her face; and Gerald is far too moved, far
too doubtful as to what he is to say to her, and as to
the answer she will make to him, to see that she looks
in any way different from what she always does look
in his eyes—the most beautiful as well as the most
loved and worshipped of human creatures.
“Tell me!” she gasps. “Tell me, Gerald? What
is it you want to say to me? Don’t keep me in sus-
pense—” and then, as he is still dumb, she adds
with a cry, “Have you come to tell me that at last
you have found Jack?”
And he pulls himself together with a mighty effort.
Nancy's words have rudely dispelled the hopes with
which his heart has been filled ever since his father
came to his room last night and told him what Mr.
Stephens had suggested as a possible way out of the
present, intolerable situation. -
“No,” he says sombrely, “no, Nancy, I have
brought you no good news, and I am beginning to
fear I never shall.”
And he does not see even now that the long quiv-
ering sigh which escapes from her pale lips is a sigh of
unutterable—if of pained and shamed—relief.
But what is this he is now saying, in a voice which
is so unsteady, so oddly unlike his own?
“I think—God forgive me for thinking so if I am
wrong—that I have always been right, Nancy, that
your husband is dead—that he was killed two years
ago, the night he disappeared—”


218 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
She bends her head. Yes, she too believes that,
though there was a time when she fought, with des-
perate strength, against the belief.
He goes on breathlessly, hoarsely, aware that he is
making what Mr. Stephens would call a bad job of
it all: “I am now beginning to doubt whether we
shall ever discover the truth as to what did happen.
His body may still lie concealed somewhere in the
Hôtel Saint Ange, and if that is so, there's but small
chance indeed that we shall ever, ever learn the truth.”
And again she bends her head.
“I fear the time is come, Nancy, when the search
must be given up.”
He utters the fateful words very quietly, very gen-
tly, but even so she feels a pang of startled fear. Does
that mean—yes, of course it must mean, that Gerald
is going away, back to America?
A feeling of dreadful desolation fills her heart.
“Yes,” she says in a low tone, “I think you are right.
I think the search should be given up.”
She would like to utter words of thanks, the con-
ventional words of gratitude she has uttered innu-
merable times in the last two years—but now they
stick in her throat. -
Tears smart into her eyes, stifled sobs burst from
her lips.
And Gerald again misunderstands—misunderstands
her tears, the sobs which tear and shake her slender
body. But he is only too familiar with the feeling


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 219
which now grips him—the feeling that he must rush
forward and take her in his arms. It has never
gripped him quite as strongly as it does now; and
so he steps abruptly back, and puts more of the stone
rim of the fountain between himself and that forlorn
little figure.
“Nancy?” he cries. “I was a brute to say that.
Of course I will go on! Of course we won’t give up
hope! It's natural that I should sometimes become
disheartened.”
He is telling himself resolutely that never, never
will he propose to her the plan his father revealed to
him last night. How little either his father or Mr.
Stephens had understood the relation between him-
self and Nancy if they supposed that he, of all men,
could make to her such a suggestion.
And then he suddenly sees in Nancy's sensitive
face, in her large blue eyes that unconscious beckon-
ing, calling look every lover longs to see in the face
of his beloved. . . .
They each instinctively move towards the other,
and in a flash Nancy is in his arms and he is holding
her strained to his heart, while his lips seek, find,
cling to her sweet, tremulous mouth.
But the moment of rapture, of almost unendurable
bliss is short indeed, for suddenly he feels her shrink-
ing from him, and though for yet another moment he
holds her against her will, the struggle soon ends, and
he releases her, feeling what he has never yet felt


THE END OF HER HONEY MOON 22I
phens' suggestion, but carefully as he chooses his
words he feels her shrinking, wincing at the images
they conjure up; and he tells himself with impatient
self-reproach that he has been too quick, too abrupt—
that he ought to have allowed the notion to sink into
her mind slowly, that he should have made Daisy, or
even his father, be his ambassador.
“I couldn’t do that!” she whispers at last, and he
sees that she has turned very white. “I don’t think
I could ever do that! Think how awful it would be
if-if after I had done such a thing I found that poor
Jack was not dead? Some time ago—I have never
told you of this—some friend, meaning to be kind,
sent me a cutting from a paper telling of a foreigner
who had been taken up for mad in Italy, and confined
in a lunatic asylum for years and years! You don’t
know how that story haunted me. It haunted me
for weeks. You wouldn’t like me to do anything I
thought wrong, Gerald?”
“No,” he says moodily. “No, Nancy—I will
never ask you to do anything you think wrong.” He
adds with an effort, “I told my father last night that
I doubted if you would ever consent to such a thing.”
And then she asks an imprudent question:—“And
what did he say then?” she says in a troubled, un-
happy voice.
“D'you really want to know what he said?”
She creeps a little nearer to him, she even takes his
hand. “Yes, Gerald. Tell me.”


224 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
thinks that Dampier may be alive after all. If you
don’t mind I’d rather not talk about her just now.”
And then the Senator tells himself, for the hun-
dredth time in the last two years, that they have now
come to the breaking point—that if Nancy will not
take the only reasonable course open to her, then that
Gerald must be nerved to make, as men have so often
had to make, the great renouncement. To go on as
he is now doing is not only wrong as regards himself,
it is wrong as regards his sister Daisy.
There is a man in America who loves Daisy—a
man too of whom the Senator approves as much as
he can of anyone who is anxious to take his daughter
from him. And Daisy, were her heart only at leisure,
might respond; but alas! her heart is not at leisure,
it is wholly absorbed in the affairs of her brother and
of her friend.
At last the high ritual of English afternoon tea
brings them out all together on the lawn in front of
the house.
Deferentially consulted by the solemn-faced, suave-
mannered butler, who seems as much part of Barwell
Moat as do the gabled dormer windows, Daisy Burton
decides that tea is to be set out wherever it generally
is set out by the owners of the house. Weightily she
is informed that “her ladyship” has tea served some-
times in that part of the garden which is called the
rosery, sometimes on the front lawn, and the butler


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 225
adds the crypticinformation, “according as to whether
her ladyship desires to see visitors or not.”
Daisy does not quite see what difference the fact
of tea being served in one place or another can make
to apocryphal visitors, so, with what cheerfulness she
can muster, she asks the others which they would
prefer. And at once, a little to her surprise, Nancy
and Gerald answer simultaneously, “Oh, let us have
tea on the lawn, not—not in the rosery!”
And it is there, in front of the house, that within
a very few minutes they are all gathered together,
and for the first time that day Senator Burton's
heart lightens a little.
He is amused at the sight of those three men—the
butler and his two footmen satellites—gravely ma;-
king their elaborate preparations. Chairs are brought
out, piles of cushions are flung about in bounteous
profusion, even two hammocks are slung up—all in
an incredibly short space of time: and the American
tenant of Barwell Moat tells himself that the scene
before him might be taken from one of the stories of
his favourite British novelist, good old Anthony Trol-
lope.
Ah me! How happy they all might be this after-
noon were it not for the ever present unspoken hopes
and fears which fill their hearts! -
Daisy sits down behind the tea-table; and the cloud
lifts a little from Gerald's stern, set face; the three
young people even laugh and joke a little together.


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 227
Now, at last, Daisy Burton understands the but-
ler's cryptic remark! Here, in front of the house
escape from visitors is, of course, impossible. She
feels a pang of annoyance at her own stupidity for
not having understood, but there is no help for it—
and very soon three people, a middle-aged lady and
two gentlemen, are advancing over the green sward.
The Senator and his daughter rise, and walk for-
ward to meet them. Gerald and Nancy remain be-
hind. Indeed the young man hardly sees the stran-
gers; he is only conscious of a deep feeling of relief
that the solicitous eyes of his father and sister are
withdrawn from him and Nancy.
Since this morning he has been in a strange state
of alternating rapture and despair. He feels as if he
and Nancy, having just found one another, are now
doomed to part. Ever since he held her in his arms
he has ached with loneliness and with thwarted long-
ing; during the whole of this long day Nancy has
eluded him; not for a single moment have they been
alone together. And now all his good resolutions—
the resolutions which stood him in such good stead
in that dark, leafy tunnel—have vanished. He now
faces the fact that they cannot hope, when once more
alone and heart to heart, to be what Nancy calls
“reasonable.” . . .
Suddenly he comes back to the drab realities of
everyday life. His father is introducing him to the
visitors—first to the lady: “Mrs. Arbuthnot—my


228 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
son, Gerald Burton. Mrs. Dampier—Mrs. Arbuth-
not.” And then to the two men, Mr. Arbuthnot and
a Mr. Dallas.
There is a quick interchange of talk. The new-
comers are explaining who and what they are. Mr.
Robert Arbuthnot is a retired Anglo-Indian official,
and he and his wife have now lived for two years in
the dower house which forms part of the Barwell Moat
estate.
“I should not have called quite so soon had it not
been that our friend, Mr. Dallas, is only staying with
us for two or three days, and he is most anxious to
meet you, Mr. Senator. Mr. Dallas is one of the
Officers of Health for the Port of London. He read
some years ago” —she turns smilingly to the gentle-
man in question—“a very interesting pamphlet with
which you seem to have been in some way concerned,
about the Port of New York.”
The Senator is flattered to find how well Mr. Dallas
remembers that old report of which he was one of the
signatories. For a moment he forgets his troubles;
and the younger people—Mrs. Arbuthnot also-re-
main silent while these three men, who have each
had a considerable experience of great affairs, begin
talking of the problems which face those who have
Vast masses of human beings to consider and legis-
late for.
Mr. Dallas talks the most; he is one of those cheer-


232 THE END OF HER HONEY MOON
pleasant Americans—for she takes Nancy to be an
American too.
But the sudden silence—so deep, so absolute that
it reminds Mrs. Arbuthnot of the old saying that
when such a stillness falls on any company some-
one must be walking over their graves—is suddenly
broken.
Mr. Dallas jumps to his feet. He is one of those
men who never like sitting still very long. “May I
have another lump of sugar, Miss Burton? We were
speaking of Paris, talk of muzzling the press, they
know how to muzzle their press in grim earnest in
Paris! Talk of suppressing the truth, they don’t
even begin to tell the truth there. The Tsar of Rus-
sia as an autocrat isn't in it with the Paris Prefect of
Police!”
And two of his listeners say drearily to themselves
that Mr. Dallas is a very ignorant man after all. He
is evidently one of the many foolish people who
believe the French police omnipotent.
But the Englishman goes happily on, quite uncon-
scious that he is treading on what has become for-
bidden ground in the Burton family circle. “The
present man's name is Beaucourt, a very pleasant
fellow! He told me some astounding stories. I won-
der if you'd like to hear the one which struck me
most?”
He looks round, pleased at their attention, at the


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 231
silence which has again fallen on them all, and which
he naturally takes for consent.
Eagerly he begins: “It was two years ago, at the
height of their Exhibition season, and of course Paris
was crammed—every house full, from cellar to attic!
Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that there were more
than five hundred thousand strangers in the city for
whose safety, and incidentally for whose health, he
was responsible!”
He waits a moment, that thought naturally im-
presses him more than it does his audience.
“Well, into that gay maelstrom there suddenly ar-
rived a couple of young foreigners. They were well-
to-do, and what impressed the little story particularly
on Monsieur Beaucourt's mind was the fact that they
were on their honeymoon—you know how sentimen-
tal the French are!”
Mr. Dallas looks round. They are all gazing at
him with upturned faces—never had he a more polite,
a more attentive circle of listeners. There is, how-
ever, one exception: his old friend, Mr. Arbuthnot,
puts his hand up to conceal a yawn; he has heard the
story before.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, these young peo-
ple—Monsieur Beaucourt thinks they were Amer-
icans—had gone to Italy for their honeymoon, and
they were ending up in Paris. They arrived late
at night—I think from Marseilles—and most prov-


232 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
identially they were put on different floors in the
hotel they had chosen in the Latin Quarter. Well,
that very night—”
Mr. Dallas looks round him triumphantly. He
does not exactly smile, for what he is going to say is
really rather dreadful, but he has the eager, pleased
look which all good story-tellers have when they
have come to the point of their story.
“I don't believe that one man in a million would
guess what happened!” He looks round him again,
and has time to note complacently that the son of
his host, who has risen, and whose hands grip the
back of the chair from which he has risen, is staring,
fascinated, across at him.
“A very, very strange and terrible thing befell
this young couple. That first night of their stay in
Paris, between two and three the bridegroom devel-
oped plaguel Monsieur Beaucourt tells me that the
poor fellow behaved with the greatest presence of
mind; although he cannot of course have known what
exactly was the matter with him, he gave orders that
his wife was not to be disturbed, and that the hotel
people were to send for a doctor at once. Luckily
there was a medical man living in the same street;
he leapt on the dreadful truth, sent for an ambulance,
and within less than half an hour of the poor fellow's
seizure he was whisked away to the nearest public
hospital, where he died five hours later.”


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 233
Mr. Dallas waits a moment, he is a little disap-
pointed that no one speaks, and he hurries on:—
“And now comes the point of my story! Mon-
sieur Beaucourt assures me that the fact was kept
absolutely secret. He told me that had it leaked out
it might have half emptied Paris. French people
have a perfect terror of what they call ‘la Peste.” But
not a whisper of the truth got about, and that though
a considerable number of people had to know, inclu-
ding many of the officials connected with the Prefec-
ture of Police. The Prefect showed me the poor
fellow's watch and bunch of seals, the only things, of
course, that they were able to keep; he really spoke
very nicely, very movingly about it—”
And then, at last, the speaker stops abruptly. He
has seen his host's son reel a little, sway as does a
man who is drunk, and then fall heavily to the
ground.
It is hours later. The sun has long set. Gerald
opens his eyes; and then he shuts them again, for he
wants to go on dreaming. He is vaguely aware that
he is lying in the magnificent Jacobean four-post bed
which he had been far too miserable, too agitated to
notice when his father had brought him up the night
before. But now the restful beauty of the spacious
room, the fantastic old coloured maps lining the walls,
affect him agreeably, soothe his tired mind and brain.


234 THE END OF HER HONEYMOON
During that dreamy moment of half-waking he has
seen in the shadowed room, for the lights are heavily
shaded, the figures of his father and of Daisy; he now
hears his father's whisper:—“The doctor says he is
only suffering from shock, but that when he wakes
he must be kept very quiet.”
And Daisy's clear, low voice, “Oh, yes, father.
When he opens his eyes perhaps we'd better leave
him with Nancy.”
Nancy? Then Nancy really is here, close to him,
sitting on a low chair by the side of the bed. And
when he opened his eyes just now she really had bent
her dear head forward and laid her soft lips on his
hand. It was no dream—no dream—
And then there comes over him an overwhelming
rush of mingled feelings and emotions. He tries to
remember what it was that had happened this after-
noon—he sees the active, restless figure of the Eng-
lishman dancing queerly up and down as it had
seemed to dance just before he, Gerald, fell, and
he feels again the horrible wish to laugh which
had seized him when that dancing figure had said
something about Beaucourt having spoken “very
nicely—”
“Curse Beaucourt! Such a fiend is only fit for the
lowest depths of Hell.”
Again he opens his eyes. Did he say the ugly
words aloud? He thinks not, he hopes not, for Daisy


THE END OF HER HONEYMOON 235
only takes their father's hand in hers and leads him
from the room.
“Nancy?” he says, trying to turn towards her.
“Do we know the truth now? Is my search at an
end?” -
“Yes,” she whispers. “We know the truth now
—my dearest. Your search is at an end.”
And as she gets up and bends over him, he feels her
tears dropping on his face.
THE END


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