They sipped their brandies in companionable silence. After an interval, Somerset offered, "If it
'
s any consolation, your uncle was inordinately proud of your military exploits in Spain. As of course was your mother, poor lady.
"
"Yes. I owe the old boy a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. But as for you—you seem to have done well for yourself.
"
"Thank you. I
'
ve no complaints. As you know, I became secretary to Sir Charles on your uncle
'
s death. When Sir Charles became ambassador to France, I came with him.
"
"You were always a modest fellow, James. A secretary is scarcely to be compared to an
attaché
.
"
"Who says it
'
s not? Oh, '
attaché
'
has a ring to it, I
'
ll give you that. But no secretary worth his salt sees himself in the role of a mere clerk. Tact and diplomacy are the stock-in-trade of both professions. Tell me, what are your plans, now that you
'
ve resigned your commission?
"
Dalmar gave the older man an eloquent look. "My dear James, as we both know perfectly well, you are about to sketch my future for me. Though investigating a murder is scarcely in my line. If it
'
s cloak-and-dagger stuff you are after, you would have done better to approach Ransome.
"
"Oh, you mean the mysterious Englishman who was at the scene of the crime? Forget it. It
'
s merely a whim of my own. A loose end. I don
'
t suppose we shall ever know who he was. Well, it
'
s very evident, the fellow doesn
'
t wish his identity to be discovered.
"
With the merest trace of exasperation, Dalmar exclaimed, "What, James? Is the Englishman a red herring you introduced to throw us off the scent?
"
Somerset laughed. "No. You misjudge me. It
'
s just that…
well
…
I suppose I have a suspicious mind. His presence there that night may mean something, or it may mean nothing at all.
"
"Then why don
'
t you stop beating about the bush and get to the point?
"
Without further prevarication, Somerset selected a paper from his desk and proffered it to the Earl. "From Monique Dupres to one Bailey
'
s Pr
ess in London. This appears to b
e a copy of a letter she sent. As you can see, the lady was trying to sell her memoirs. Note, item, Dukes: Argyle, Beaufort, Richmond, Wellington; Marquesses: Anglesey, Worcester; Earls: Dalmar, Jersey, Yarmouth; Viscounts: Castlereagh and so on down the line, and these are only the ones she used as bait.
"
Having quickly scanned the letter, Dalmar whistled. "Good God! These diaries must rival Burke
'
s peerage.
"
"You
'
ve got it. But lacking something of the latter work
'
s innocence.
"
"Where are the diaries now?
"
"
That, my dear boy, is a moot question.
"
Dalmar returned the letter to the other
'
s hand. "Bailey
'
s Press,
"
he mused. "I can
'
t say I
'
m familiar with the name.
"
"
That
'
s not surprising. At one time, as I understand, it was quite respectable. In the last number of years, it
'
s degenerated into a spurious outfit which publishes a desultory bill of fare— you know, the occasional book of poetry, or philosophy to leaven an unrelenting diet of frivolity, or worse, obscenity. Well you must have read
The Confessions of a Footman
?
It was all the rage when it first came out.
"
"Did Bailey
'
s publish that? I thought it was hilarious.
"
"Well, of course it was,
"
answered Somerset, in no wise discomposed by his lordship
'
s humorous bent. "Just the same, you
'
re not like to laugh when you find your own prestigious title blazoned for all the world to read between the purple bindings of a Bailey
'
s special edition.
"
A crooked smile played upon Dalmar
'
s lips. "Purple bindings? Sounds like a woman
'
s caprice, if I know anything of females.
"
"Funny you should say that. Among Miss Dupres
'
s possessions there was also a b
ank draft drawn on the account of an Englishwoman, Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn.
"
"Ah,
"
said the Earl noncommittally, and accepted the scrap of paper which Somerset tendered. The signature at the bottom seemed to jump out at him.
Somerset fixed the younger man with a look of keen interest. He smiled. "So,
"
he said, "I
'
ve found the fly to bait my line.
"
Catching that look, compounded of devilry and rank smugness, Dalmar sheepishly admitted, "All right. I
'
m interested. Now shall we get down to brass tacks? I have a few questions of my own I wish to pursue. Evidently you think Mrs. Joceyn has the diaries. And you suspect that she will use them as a tool for blackmail or sell them to the highest bidder?
"
Somerset inclined his head gravely and the Earl continued, "What I want to know is this. Do you think that there is some connection between Monique Dupres
'
s death and the diaries?
"
"It had occurred to me. Oh, I know that the French are satisfied that Zeitler slit her throat in a fit of jealousy. But he
can
'
t be questioned, can he? And
so
many coincidences and so close upon one another, in my opinion, are highly suspect. I wouldn
'
t mind getting a look at those diaries, I can tell you. It
'
s just possible that among all the titillating morsels there may be a real scandal concealed, something unexpected.
"
"A motive for murder?
"
"It had occurred to me.
"
"If what you say is true, then Mrs. Jocelyn may be in some danger.
"
With a very steady look, Somerset replied, "Not if she
'
s the murderess.
"
Equally grave, Dalmar answered, "She
'
s not.
"
"Can you give her an alibi? It would gratify me if you could. We old men, you know, like to maintain a few illusions. And she is of the softer sex, and English to boot.
"
Dalmar recognized that Somerset
'
s question, so casually thrown out, was not an idle one. There was a slight tensing of his jaw before he answered, "The lady spent the night with me.
"
"Does she have the diaries?
"
Something flickered briefly in the steel of Dalmar
'
s eyes. After a moment he said, "It would not surprise me if she had.
"
His tone became crisper. "Is that what this is all about, James? You want me to destroy the diaries?
"
"Not unless it
'
s unavoidable. I should like to take a peek at them, remember? But at all costs, those memoirs must not be published.
"
"How so? If they are published, you
'
ll get your peek at them. And as for the scandal they are likely to cause in Court circles, that is a mere commonplace nowadays, surely?
"
Setting his empty glass aside, Somerset observed, "Frankly, I don
'
t give a fig for Court circles. But these diaries could shake the government to its very foundations. It would be tragic to see so many fine men brought down.
"
Before Dalmar took his leave, Somerset cautioned him. "Mind your step, David. If there is a murderer loose, both you and Mrs. Jocelyn stand in some danger. Don
'
t ever forget it. No need to alarm the lady, though. All things considered, I think it
best to say nothing of Monique Dupres
'
s unhappy fate. Yes, I think that is our best approach.
"
"Why?
"
asked Dalmar.
"Any number of reasons. You
'
ll just have to trust my judgment, my boy.
"
Before the Earl could protest, Somerset went on hastily, "If you start by telling her that there is a murderer on the loose, who knows what she might do? I am not a fool, David. Don
'
t you think I put two and two together? She ran away from you once, didn
'
t she? My advice to you is to gain the lady
'
s confidence. And you won
'
t do that by frightening her from the outset.
"
Hours later, at his rooms in the Palais Royal, as he absently watched his man pack his trunks and bags for the journey to England, Dalmar was still reflecting on the impulse which had provoked him to accept Somerset
'
s office.
The infamy that might accrue to his own already tarnished name if the diaries were published, he discounted as a trifling irritation. Of all the gentlemen of distinction who were like to be embarrassed by the broadcast of their private lives, he deemed that he, a single man, had least to forfeit. There was no wife or family waiting for him in England; no sire or dame to whom such a scandal would occasion pain; no position of eminence in government circles to jeopardize. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say, "Publish and be damned.
"
That Annabelle Jocelyn was in some sort involved in the ugly business, however, had stayed the refusal which sprang to his lips. He remembered the hatbox, and Annabelle
'
s almost desperate attachment to it that evening, and the suspicion that she had possession of the diaries became a solid conviction. But who was she? And where was she? These questions continued to tease his mind.
She had slipped through his fingers while he had been immobilized, confined to his sickbed. And for those first few hours after he had awakened, he had chafed at his impotence, in a fever of impatience to discover what had become of the woman who had shared his bed and decamped in the wee hours of the morning without a word of explanation. Nor would he ever forget the fears he had entertained for her safety
till Ransome undertook to find out what had become of her.
When he learned that Mrs. Jocelyn had left the Hotel Breteuil tha
t very morning in the hired calè
che of an English gentleman, and that her servants and baggage had followed at a more leisurely pace, he
'
d felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Outwardly, when Ransome had given him the intelligence, he
'
d preserved a mask of impassivity, philosophically shrugging off the whole affair as of no moment.
Whether or not he
'
d fooled his friend he had no way of knowing. He thought not. But he could not hide from himself the resentment which gnawed at him.
He
'
d claimed her in the fullest sense of the word
…
that much he remembered. Evidently, like so many of her kind, the lady had regarded the act of love as a commonplace. That he himself habitually took his pleasures with no more thought than to satisfy an appetite, he discounted as of little significance. It was the way of men. But that a woman should use him in like manner when for the first time he
'
d felt himself respond at some deeper level was a bitter pill to swallow.
He
'
d resolved to put the jade from his mind. To his disgust, he
'
d found that Annabelle Jocelyn
'
s image was not to be easily shaken. She haunted him at odd moments. He
'
d observe some lady with an elegant bonnet, and without conscious thought he
'
d find himself comparing her to Annabelle and that air of hers, a compound of bravado and sauciness, as she
'
d sported her ridiculous
chapeau
with its broken plumage when he
'
d escorted her through the galleries. Nor could he descend the stairs to his rooms or cross the gardens of the Palais Royal without reliving every minute of that escapade which had almost cost him his life. Like any callow youth, he had exulted in the danger, savoring the opportunity of demonstrating to the woman of his choice that the offer of his protection was no empty boast. Like a knight entering the lists for his lady, he
'
d wanted to prove his mettle. Later, though this part was hazier, he had claimed his reward. And though she had accepted him with such sweet surrender, in the morning, while he still slept, she had crept from his bed and had gone straight to the arms of "The Milksop.
"
The wound to his dignity outweighed every other feeling of revulsion.