which the police may favour him, at an early date.”
“I think you are a fiend,” said Henderson, leaving the room.
“I don’t think I am,” said Ernest Adair, aloud, to himself, after her departure. “Indeed, I may say that I am sure I cannot be a fiend, because there are such manifest interpositions of Providence in my favour. What a very remarkable piece of good fortune it was that, instead of following Mrs. Lygon to the station, I resolved to remain in Boulogne, and see Jules Dufour about that other matter. And again, how fortunate that the said Jules had not recovered his night of gambling and drinking, and thereupon could not appear until the afternoon. Then, what an extraordinarily good thing it was that I happened to think of watching the arrivals from England, and that I should hear Mr. Arthur Lygon announce his advent on the soil of France. Again it was a thing which really shows how I am favoured of fate, that he should believe that extremely respectable official whom I sent to throw himself in his way, and give him the exact time for the departure of the Paris train, which train my friend Mr. Lygon thereby missed. Well, in all these successes, I had some share; and I will not affect to be over-grateful to fortune, but in this last matter I claim no credit at all. Could I dream that a railway accident would occur for the express purpose of sending out of Versailles that gentleman whose presence there was so pecuculiarly objectionable to me at the moment? No, I must distinctly dispute my friend Matilda’s proposition, and assert, on the contrary, that I am not a fiend.”
Ernest Adair either found pleasure in this kind of mocking self-communing with himself, or it had become a habit which he could not shake off. But, to do him justice, he never indulged in it at a time when it might have been dangerous, and it was a a favourite phrase with him that the melodramatic expedient of an overheard soliloquy could not be fairly introduced in the drama of his life. But to talk to himself was Adair’s custom, as it is with many men, who will avow that they never seem thoroughly masters of a plan, or thoroughly prepared for an interview, until they have held actual discourse with themselves upon it, and have had a sort of private rehearsal of what is to come. It has been held that talking to oneself is a sign of weakness, although the wittiest men have defended the practice by the wittiest suggestions; but there is perhaps a greater weakness, and that is the attempt to base a general psychological rule upon an accidental habit.
Adair had to wait longer than pleased him in the little room at the inn, nor did the questionable absinthe which he obtained there tend to make his hour pass the more agreeably.
But at length his spy returned, hurriedly, from the house, which stood but a few hundred yards from the Place d’Armes.
“Victory, eh?” he said.
“Madame is actually out, and on her way to meet—
“To meet where—where?”
“Near the Fountain of Neptune.”
“What, in the gardens here?”
“Yes.”
“Good child—excellent Matilda—embrace Monsieur Silvain on my behalf at the first opportunity,” said Adair, hastily gathering up his cap and gloves.
“You will meet her, or she will see you. I could scarcely get away in time to run round.”
“My dear Matilda,” said Ernest Adair, “is there anything disreputable about me, which should make me avoid the eyes of your mistress?”
“Oh, I cannot understand you,” said the girl.
“Probably not,” he replied. “All in good time. Nay, you are a meritorious agent, and deserve the confidence of your principal. I will behave better to you than Mrs. Urquhart does, in that respect. I have no desire that the two ladies should have much opportunity of talking confidentially in the gardens, because I very much want to know what they say, and listening in the open air is not a very easy thing. Therefore, my dear Matilda, Madame Silvain that is to be, I shall endeavour to drive the ladybirds home, and therefore, at the right moment, I shall permit Mrs. Urquhart to see that I am in the neigbourhood.”
“I can see her coming,” said the girl, looking out of a side window.
“Very elegantly dressed, and in a way that does her maid the highest honour,” said Adair. “That fair complexion of hers reminds me of my own beloved land—and now I think is just the time to go out. Remember, Madame Silvain, from the moment they return, you are to be all ear, except that you are to be also all eye, as I shall be particularly curious about any letters that may arrive during Mrs. Lygon’s visit. And find out whether the Scotch giant sends any word of his intention to come home. Good child!”
He touched her black hair with his neatly gloved hand, and went out. The girl dashed her hand impatiently over the place he had touched, as if to blot out the impression of his having done so, and then looked to see the meeting between him and her mistress. But though from the door of the inn she could see Mrs. Urquhart entering the gates of the palace, Mr. Adair did not join her, nor could the girl catch any glance of him on her way home.
The fact simply was that Ernest Adair had gone in another direction, and long before Mrs. Urquhart had passed through the court yard, he was in the gardens. How he managed this is not of much consequence; persons with Ernest Adair’s private advantages over their fellows have frequently means of obtaining singularly irregular admission to all sorts of places, especially in France.
CHAPTER XVII.
