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Mrs. Drayton had not very long taken her leave when Annette arrived with the discreet announcement which her mistress had been anticipating with a certain amount of dread.
“The young gentleman for the dancing lessons, milady. I fancy he called himself Prince something or other, but I couldn’t quite catch the name.”
“You can show him into the music room,” Félice directed. “See that the gramophone is in order.”
She changed her slippers and made her somewhat reluctant way downstairs. Charles was trying over a record when she entered, and, although his greeting was entirely correct, she found herself shivering as, with a little bow, he came forward to meet her. He was sleek and well-groomed as ever, but more and more, every time they met, she was conscious of something sinister in his manner, something which inspired her all the time with a vague sense of uneasiness.
“So my little sister has not forgotten,” he said. “Good! What shall we start with? A tango?”
She was curiously anxious to delay the moments of greater familiarity entailed by the dance.
“You would like some tea first?”
“Thank you, no,” he answered promptly. “Some brandy or a cocktail.”
She glanced at the clock.
“For that,” she told him, “you must wait until afterwards. I can scarcely order things of that description whilst I have my dancing lesson. Proceed, if you please, but remember, Charles, I am doing this for the sake of paying you your fee. Make the lesson as short as possible.”
“How cruel, little sister,” he mocked as they began, “and you dance so nicely too! Indeed, it-is very much pleasanter to dance with you than these old ladies who expect so much for their guineas.”
“We will talk, if you please, as little as possible,” she suggested. “It is a habit of mine when dancing.” He laughed mirthlessly, but obeyed.
“You are a little slow upon that turn,” he criticised, when the tune was finished. “You would do better to lean a little more towards me.”
“I prefer my own way,” she rejoined.
He lit a cigarette and began to search through the records. Félice frowned.
“Do you mind not smoking until the lesson is over,” she requested.
“And why not?”
Her eyes flashed.
“You come here as my dancing instructor. It is your own wish that our relationship should not be disclosed. Very well, you must behave as my dancing instructor.”
“A great lady, our little sister has become all at once,” he scoffed. “Very well, she must be humoured, but after the lesson is over, I presume I may be received as an ordinary person.”
“After the lesson is over, I have a few words to say to you,” she announced. “Then you shall have what entertainment you desire.”
He looked at her with an unpleasant gleam in his eyes.
“More serious talk, eh? Félice, I do not enjoy serious talk with you. You are prettier when you laugh. Sometimes when I look at you and think of sister Anna, I wonder how anything as charming as you found its way into our family. You are much admired in London, they tell me.”
“We will dance, if you please,” she proposed icily. He selected a fresh record, after which, without a moment’s pause, she pressed another upon him.
“Now one more tango,” she decided, “and I think we may consider the lesson at an end.”
“I am thirsty,” he complained.
“Afterwards.”
A spice of malice led her to protract the last dance. She even asked his advice about some of the steps. When they had finished, she rang the bell. Charles demanded brandy and Perrier, which was promptly brought.
“And now, dear Félice, the fee, please,” he begged, holding out his hand. “Five guineas is as little as I can come for.”
She handed it to him. He stooped down.
“And a little sisterly kiss?”
She drew away, fighting against the revulsion which she felt must show itself in her face.
“Charles,” she reminded him, “you and the family have decided for yourselves what our terms should be. I am used to them now. I have found all the affection I want in the world and I am happy with it. I need nothing else and prefer to be without it.”
He scowled down at her.
“I shall hope in time,” he said, “to see you become a little less severe.”
“Nothing of the sort will happen with me,” she assured him. “Now I have a serious word to say to you.”
“Then let us sit down,” he pleaded. “I was dancing until six o’clock this morning, and I slept ill.”
They seated themselves side by side on one of the long divans which bordered the far side of the room. Charles dealt generously with his brandy and soda.
“I wish to refer once more,” she began, “to what I said to you the other afternoon. No, don’t look like that, Charles. It is quite necessary. There is a very terrible ordeal before me, and I wish to prepare for it.”
“There is no ordeal at all unless you make it one,” he rejoined angrily.
“You are mistaken. Now listen to me, Charles. You know already the story which Max Drayton, the burglar, tells.”
“I learned it from you.”
“His story is that directly he heard the shot and saw De Besset fall, he was so terrified that he scuttled away for his life.”
“Pooh! That is what he says. Who will believe such a tale?”
“I am terribly afraid that I do,” was the grave rejoinder.
“Then get such foolish ideas out of your head,” he insisted savagely. “De Besset was shot by the burglar. If they haven’t traced the necklace, it’s the fault of the police. He has it somewhere.”
“Charles,” she asked him, “why are you suddenly so prosperous? Paul tells me that you have plenty of money, that you have given up your room in Milden Square. He thinks that you are staying in an hotel.”
The young man was a little taken aback.
“I made some money at the races,” he explained. “A woman too—a woman I dance with at the Legation—gave me some for selling her motor car.”
Félice was silent for several moments. Her mind had travelled back to the old days when she was a child. She tried to recall herself with her English and French governesses. And the others—there were such a crowd of them always, such shadowy, vague figures. Charles? Yes, she remembered him—a tall, gawky youth who had shown signs of growing up like this. She had hated him because she had seen him beat one of the outdoor servants. That was almost the sum total of her recollection of him.
“Charles,” she said, forcing herself back to the present, “we will leave the necklace alone for a moment. I just want you to recall that night. I am going to speak of the thing which we have avoided. You told me when we were dancing that you were in terrible trouble. You said that you must see me alone in my sitting room for a few minutes. It was for that reason that I left my guests and went to bed early.”
He drank off the whole remaining contents of his tumbler at a gulp. Before he spoke, he helped himself again to brandy and mixed with it a very little Perrier water.
“Why do you drag all this up?” he demanded.
“I must understand it clearly. You came to my sitting room, and you