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The sunlight streamed down into the little grey courtyard of the Leon D'or at Bonestre. Sir Leslie Borrowdean, in an immaculate grey suit, and with a carefully chosen pink carnation in his button-hole, sat alone at a small table having his morning coffee. His attention was divided between a copy of the Figaro and a little pile of letters and telegrams on the other side of his plate. More than once he glanced at the topmost of the latter and smiled.
Mrs. Mannering and Hester came down the grey stone steps and crossed towards their own table. The former lingered for a moment as she passed Sir Leslie, who rose to greet the two women.
"Another glorious day!" he remarked. "What news from Leeds?"
"None," she said. "My husband seldom writes."
Sir Leslie smiled reflectively, and glanced towards the pile of papers at his side.
"Perhaps," she remarked, "you know better than I do how things are going there."
He shook his head.
"I have no correspondents in Leeds," he answered.
At that moment a puff of wind disturbed the papers by his side. A telegram would have fluttered away, but Blanche Mannering caught it at the edge of the table. She was handing it back, when a curious expression on Borrowdean's face inspired her with a sudden idea. She deliberately looked at the telegram, and her fingers stiffened upon it. His forward movement was checked. She stood just out of his reach.
"No correspondents in Leeds," she repeated. "Then what about this telegram?"
"You will permit me to remind you," he said, stretching out his hand for it, "that it is addressed to me."
Her hands were behind her. She leaned over towards him.
"It can be addressed to you a thousand times over," she answered, "but before I part with it I want to know what it means."
Borrowdean was thinking quickly. He wanted to gain time.
"I do not even know which document you have—purloined," he said.
"It is from Leeds," she answered, "and it is signed Polden. 'Parkins found, has made statement, appears to-night.' Can you explain what this means, Sir Leslie Borrowdean?"
Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper, but there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes. There were few traces left of the woman whom once before he had found so easy a tool.
"I cannot tell you," he answered. "It is not an affair for you to concern yourself with at all."
"Not an affair for me to concern myself about!" she repeated, leaning a little over towards him. "Isn't it my husband against whom you are scheming? Don't I know what low tricks you are capable of? Isn't this another proof of it? Not an affair for me to concern myself about, indeed! Didn't you worm the whole miserable story out of me?"
"My dear Mrs. Mannering!"
She checked a torrent of words. Her bosom was heaving underneath her lace blouse. She was pale almost to the lips. The sudden and complete disuse of all manner of cosmetics had to a certain extent blanched her face. There was room there now for the writing of tragedy. Borrowdean, still outwardly suave, was inwardly cursing the unlucky chance which had blown the telegram her way.
"Might I suggest," he said, in a low tone, "that we postpone our conversation till after breakfast time? The waiters seem to be favouring us with a great deal of attention, and several of them understand English."
She did not even turn her head. Thinner a good deal since her marriage, she seemed to him to have grown taller, to have gained in dignity and presence, as she stood there before him, her angry eyes fixed upon his face. She was no longer a person to be ignored.
"You must tell me about this—or—"
"Or?" he repeated, stonily.
"Or I will make a public statement," she answered. "If you ruin my husband's career, I can at least do the same with yours. Politics is supposed to be a game for honourable men to play with honourable weapons. I wonder if Lord Redford would approve of your methods?"
"You can go and ask him, my dear madam," he answered. "I am perfectly ready to defend myself."
"Defend! You have no defence," she answered. "Can you deny that you are plotting to keep my husband out of Parliament now, just as a few months ago you plotted to bring him back? You are making use of a personal secret, a forgotten chapter of his life, to move him about like a puppet to do your will."
"I work for the good of a cause and a great party," he answered. "You do not understand these things."
"I understand you so far as this," she answered. "You are one of those to whom life is a chessboard, and your one aim is to make the pieces work for you, and at your bidding, till you sit in the place you covet. There isn't much of the patriot about you, Sir Leslie Borrowdean."
He glanced down at his unfinished breakfast. He had the air of one who is a little bored.
"My dear lady," he said, "is this discussion really worth while?"
"No," she answered, bluntly, "it isn't. You are quite right. We are wandering from the subject."
"Let us talk," he suggested, "after breakfast. Give me back that telegram now, and I will explain it, say, in the garden in half an hour. I detest cold coffee."
"You can do like me, order some fresh," she said. "If I let you out of my sight I know very well how much I shall see of you for the rest of the day. Explain now if you can. What does that telegram mean?"
"Surely it is obvious enough," he answered. "The man Parkins, whom you told me was dead, is alive and in Leeds. He has seen Mannering's name about, has been talking, and the press have got hold of his story. I am sorry, but there was always this possibility, wasn't there?"
"And this telegram?" she asked.
"I know Polden, the editor of the paper, and he referred to me to know if there could be any truth in it."
"These are lies!" she declared. "You were the instigator. You set them on the track."
"I have nothing more to say," Borrowdean declared, coldly.
"I have," she said. "I shall take this telegram to Lord Redford. I shall tell him everything!"
A faint smile flickered upon Borrowdean's lips.
"Lord Redford would, I am sure, be charmed to hear your story," he remarked. "Unfortunately he started for Dieppe this morning before eight o'clock, and will not be back until to-morrow."
"And to-morrow will be too late," she added, rapidly pursuing his train of thought. "Then I will try the Duchess!"
He started very slightly, but she saw it.
"Sit down for a moment, Mrs. Mannering," he said.
She accepted the chair he placed for her. There was a distinct change in his manner. He realized that this woman held a trump card against him. Even in her hands it might mean disaster.
"Blanche—" he began.
"Thank you," she interrupted, "I prefer 'Mrs. Mannering.'"
He bit his lips in annoyance.
"Mrs. Mannering, then," he continued, "we have been allies before, and I think that you will admit that I have always kept faith with you. I don't see any reason why we should play at being enemies. You have a price, I suppose, for that telegram and your silence. Name it."
She nodded.
"Yes, I have a price," she admitted.
"Remember that, after all, this is not a great issue," he said. "If your husband does not get in for Leeds he will probably find a seat somewhere else."
"That is false," she answered, "If your man Polden publishes Parkins's story my husband's political career is over, and you know it. Do keep as near to the truth as you can."
"I will give you," he said, "five hundred pounds for that telegram and your silence."
She rose slowly to her feet. A dull flush of colour mounted almost to her eyes. Borrowdean watched her anxiously. Then for a moment came an interruption. The Duchess was descending the grey stone steps from the hotel.
She had addressed some word of greeting to them. They both turned towards her. She wore a white serge dress, and she carried a white lace parasol over her bare head. She moved towards them with her usual languid grace, followed by her maid carrying a tiny Maltese dog and a budget of letters. The loiterrers in the courtyard stared at her with admiration. It was impossible to mistake her for anything but a great lady.
"You have the air of conspirators, you two!" she said, as she approached them. "Is it an expedition for the day that you are planning?"
Blanche Mannering turned her back upon Borrowdean.
"Sir Leslie," she said, "has just offered me five hundred pounds for a telegram which I have here and for my silence concerning its contents. I was wondering whether he had bid high enough."
The Duchess looked from one to the other. She almost permitted herself to be astonished. Borrowdean's face was dark with anger. Blanche Mannering's apparent calmness was obviously of the surface only.
"Are you serious?" she asked.
"Miserably so!" Blanche answered. "Sir Leslie has strange ideas of honour, I find. He is making use of a story which I told him once concerning my husband, to drive him out of political life. Duchess, will you do me the favour to let me talk with you for five minutes, and to make Sir Leslie Borrowdean promise not to leave this hotel till you have seen him again?"
"I have no intention of leaving the hotel," Sir Leslie said, stiffly.
Berenice pointed to her table.
"Come and take your coffee with me, Mrs. Mannering," she said.
Mannering passed through the day like a man in a nightmare. He addressed two meetings of working-men, and interviewed half a dozen of his workers. At mid-day the afternoon edition of the Yorkshire Herald was being sold in the streets. He bought a copy and glanced it feverishly through. Nothing! He lunched and went on with his work. At three o'clock a second edition was out. Again he purchased a copy, and again there was nothing. The suspense was getting worse even than the disaster itself. Between four and five they brought him in a telegram. He tore it open, and found that it was from Bonestre. The words seemed to stare up at him from the pink form. It was incredible:
"Polden muzzled. Go in and win."
The form fluttered from his fingers on to the floor of his sitting-room. He stood looking at it, dazed. Outside, a mob of people, standing round his carriage, were shouting his name.