CHAPTER XVI.

MAN AND WOMAN

Etta Wyndcliffe, the incomparable chaperon, of dainty frock and exquisite etiquette, entered Sibell’s room just after finishing her coffee and rolls, as she was in the act of taking up her strong, well-oiled ski-boots. To get into ski-ing kit is always a troublesome operation for a girl; the heavy socks, the “turn-overs,” the Norwegian bindings at the ankles, all go to irritate the wearer in the early morning.

“Drat this infernal lace!” Sibell exploded aloud just as her aunt opened the door.

“Do you know, dear, I’ve just had a wire, and I must go to London this afternoon!” exclaimed her ladyship fussily. “Isn’t this the limit, just when I was enjoying myself so very much here? Yet I’m ever so glad we came to Gurnigel. I shall come again.”

“Is it very urgent, auntie? Can’t you wait till Friday week? We’re due to go down to the Riviera then, aren’t we?”

“No. I must go to-day. I’ve some urgent business with my bank, my dear. You and Brinsley can remain here, and I’ll meet you on the Riviera. There is no need whatever for you to return to London.”

“But it’ll be so horribly dull here without you, auntie,” the girl said.

“Well, dear, I’m afraid I must go. It’s imperative,” she said. “I’m just going to pack. I’ll get the concierge to ’phone down to Berne for a sleeper to-night. The motor-car to Berne goes at half-past three, I hear.”

“Yes, auntie. But all this is very disappointing!” declared the pretty girl, in ignorance of the real reason of her aunt’s sudden desire to return to London.

“I know, dear. But those horrible bankers have a nasty habit of calling your immediate attention to any little overdraft you may happen to have. And one can’t afford to neglect to call upon the good-looking manager and cajole him into straightening things out.”

And she smiled at the many recollections of how she had borrowed money upon all sorts of frail security.

“Well, we’re going out for an hour’s run with John,” said her niece, “so we’ll be back before noon. Can I help you to pack?”

“Not at all. Bevan is seeing to everything,” her ladyship replied, and then left the room to go down to the concierge.

That gay little snow-bound world of winter sports, notwithstanding all the petty jealousies and bickerings of little, unknown people, was a world of its own, a happy coterie of devotees of winter sports.

The one man in the whole hotel who laughed at it all was Mr. Gordon Mitchell. He was a stout, smiling, hail-fellow-well-met man, to whose initiative was due the opening of Gurnigel in winter. He was a popular artist whose work adorned one of the best London illustrated papers, an irresponsible Bohemian bachelor who had not a single care in the world, and who moved up and down Europe as Society went from pillar to post throughout the four seasons.

He always dubbed himself “the looker-on,” for he sketched assiduously and saw most of the games, whether it be at Deauville, Le Touquet, Dinard, or Biarritz in summer, the Riviera in spring, Scotland in the autumn, or winter in the Engadine or the Bernese Oberland. It was he who, one spring day, had passed Gurnigel in his car and, looking up at the huge white façade of the colossal hotel, wondered why it had never been opened in winter.

His chauffeur told him that it was a summer resort only.

“Well,” he said, “it must be opened in winter. I will see that it is opened.”

And he saw to it, with the result that at that moment all the four hundred odd rooms were occupied, while the servants’ quarters were also invaded by visitors.

The other Swiss _hôteliers_ had stood aghast at Gurnigel’s brilliant success. Some resorts had not been half full that season. Indeed, two winter-sports centres had not opened at all. And yet Gurnigel was overflowing.

But it was due, they all knew, to Mr. Gordon Mitchell, the lover of Switzerland, and they knew that, being a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan, he was open to do his best to advertise and attract visitors to every place in turn in the glorious Bernese Oberland.

In that spirit Mr. Gordon Mitchell watched the course of events. He was one of those old-young travellers, wanderers to and fro across Europe, who loved to see young folk enjoy themselves, and, though something of an old fogey and stickler for etiquette, could perform to perfection the duties of a floor-manager of any ballroom. Indeed, his performances upon the drum in an amateur band were well known in every resort in Switzerland.

At half-past three that afternoon, as Lady Wyndcliffe descended the snowy steps to enter the big, yellow automobile of the Swiss Federal Post--one of those long, powerful motor-cars of the mountains--Mr. Mitchell, bare-headed, bowed over her hand and wished her _bon voyage_.

“You have my address,” her ladyship said with a merry smile. “Now if you don’t call on me, I’ll never forgive you, Mr. Mitchell! As I’ve told you, I know lots of artistic friends of yours of the Savage and the Ham Bone. You’ll call? Promise me. And do look after Sibell and Brinsley for me, won’t you?” she added mischievously.

The others heard it, and were much impressed.

“We’ll look after Mr. Mitchell for you, auntie!” cried Sibell in defiance, waving her hand merrily as Etta, in her magnificent sable coat, climbed into the big autobus.

Shouts, hand-waves, and a low bow from the black frock-coated concierge with keys upon his shoulders, and the post automobile, with heavy chains on all four wheels, started down the steep, slippery hill on the long, winding highroad to the Swiss capital.

Then, when Lady Wyndcliffe had gone, Sibell and her lover took a luge and, seated together upon it, started down the steep run at an exhilarating pace, both yelling “_Achtung!_” as warning to any pedestrians in their path.

Yet all day Sibell could not put from herself the remembrance of that dark man of mystery who, dressed as a cavalier, had told her such a strange, remarkable story. A hundred times she wondered why he had made that queer inquiry regarding the identity of Albert Ashe. What could he know of her aunt’s butler?

At luncheon she had scrutinized every table, but had failed to identify her masked informant. Some visitors had left by the early morning autobus at eight o’clock, so she concluded that he must have been among them.

She longed to be able to tell Brinsley of what the stranger had said, but she saw that she would be compelled to await the cryptic message in the personal column of _The Times_.

So the days passed--bright, sunlit days, with cloudless skies and perfect snow, and frosty nights, brilliant and starlit, most perfect weather for winter sports. At last one afternoon the post came in. She saw the page carry _The Times_ to the reading-room, and pounced eagerly upon it. Yes, the message was there at the top of the second column, addressed to her. But it was in the negative.

Brinsley Otway was to be kept in ignorance of the plot against them!

That same afternoon was dark and rainy in London, as Lady Wyndcliffe climbed the stairs of some bachelor chambers in Duke Street, St. James’s, and rapped upon a door, which was quickly opened by her ex-butler, Ashe.

“Well, Etta?” he asked, and, having ushered her into a cosy little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning, and placed a chair for her, he said, “How did you get on?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the pretty woman wearily, throwing her furs carelessly upon the couch. “The fact is, I haven’t screwed up enough courage to face it.”

“What?” cried the man, glaring at her. “Don’t be a fool! Why, don’t you see that every day brings us nearer disaster? Every hour! Suppose he goes to the police? They’ll soon find you, and it will then be too late for him to withdraw. You must see him to-night--at once.”

“I can’t! I--I really can’t,” cried the white-faced woman in desperation. “Suppose he turns hostile, and gives me into custody?”

“He won’t do that if you are clever and don’t lose your head, Etta. You know he was in love with you, and may still be for all we know,” he said.

“Not after what has passed,” she replied, shaking her head. “I ruined him!”

“He’s not the only man ruined by a woman, my dear girl,” replied Ashe lightly. “Put on your best smile and a little sob-stuff, and he’ll soon forgive. Tell him you have come to him to make amends.”

“How can I possibly make amends for it all?” she asked bitterly.

“Pretend penitence and make all sorts of promises,” he urged. “Get on the right side of him, and he won’t harm you. But you must see him. Don’t let him hunt you out. You are not at West Halkin Street, are you?”

“No, I’m at the Grosvenor, under another name--Mrs. Wilcox.”

“As I’ve told you, he is at the Carlton,” said Ashe.

“No. He’s left there--gone to Manchester, and staying at the Midland. I was told so this morning when I rang them up.”

“Then you must go to Manchester to-night. Stay at the Midland, and see him in the morning. That’s my advice,” said the man, who was standing with arms akimbo on the hearthrug before her.

“But what am I to say?” she cried in despair. “What can I say?”

“Say that you heard he was back in England, and that you travelled at once from Switzerland to see him and to ask his forgiveness, and beg him to allow bygones to be bygones. He’ll do so, no doubt, if you play your cards cleverly. Once he becomes friendly, then we shall be able to deal with him and settle accounts.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that, Albert. It horrifies me,” she cried, covering her face with her hands, a habit of hers whenever she heard anything unpleasant.

“Well, my dear girl, we’ve got to face the music, haven’t we? It’s no use trying to evade the issue,” he said. “The first step is for you to appease him. And in order to do so, you must follow him to Manchester. Send a page to his room with a message that Mrs. Wilcox wishes to see him on a private matter. When a strange woman calls upon a man, he always becomes intrigued. Don’t announce yourself, as he might resent it.”

“But he might refuse to see me,” she protested.

“He won’t. He’s essentially a lady’s man, as you know.”

“But is there no other way?” she asked. “I feel so terrified lest he should call in the police and give me into custody. Think of the scandal of it all!”

“He won’t do that, provided you give him the real sob-stuff. And you know how to do that all right. I recollect one or two encounters you had with Wyndcliffe. You’re a damned fine actress, Etta, when you think it worth your while. And it is well worth it in this case, I assure you. Upon your trip to Manchester depends the liberty of us both, so the sooner you screw up courage the better.”

“Couldn’t you go and face him for me?”

“I!” cried the man, staring at her. “Why, I’d be bundled into the police-station within five minutes. Dear Rupert doesn’t love me--and never will!”

The woman paused for some minutes, her dark, apprehensive eyes gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

“But how can I make it up with him?” she faltered at last in a dull, broken voice quite unusual to her. “Think how I have treated him; of the sacrifice he made for me!”

“Oh, don’t wax romantic, my dear Etta,” he laughed. “Simply ask his forgiveness, say you still love him and all that, and----”

“And suppose he has discovered that I’ve married Wyndcliffe. What then, eh?” she interrupted.

The man pulled a wry face, but, after a moment’s silence, replied:

“I don’t see how he can know. You did not use your own name when you became Lady Wyndcliffe. Besides, you are Mrs. Wilcox, a widow, now.”

“But suppose he has discovered it, how am I to act?” she demanded. “What excuse can I make?”

“He won’t have found it out--not yet, at least. Therefore if you act at once and boldly you’ll hold all the honors in your hands. Take my advice and leave by the diner to Manchester this evening, sleep calmly at the Midland to-night, and look your prettiest and brace yourself up for to-morrow morning.”

“I dread the ordeal, Albert,” declared the unhappy woman.

“I have no doubt you do, my dear girl. But, as I have already said, we must call the music and Rupert must dance to our tune--if we are to get out of this unholy tangle.”

“He may have seen my portrait in the illustrated papers,” she remarked.

“No. He’s been in America all the time, in a place where he didn’t see papers”--and he grinned.

The woman drew a long breath, and he noticed that her jaw was twitching. Her nerves were unstrung. So he poured her out some brandy, which she swallowed at a gulp.

“It all remains with you, Etta,” he said very seriously, putting his hand upon her shoulder and bending over her. “Get him out of his present hostile mood. Promise him everything--to return to America with him if he wants you to do so; anything. Because once he resumes his friendship--and he will do so if you play the game properly--then all will be plain sailing for us in the future.”

“You mean--I know what you mean!” she whispered hoarsely, staring at him with horrified eyes. “You mean that I am to--to lure him to his death!”