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Updated: May 5, 2025
At the sight of his master he nearly dropped the tray. "It's all right," Duncombe said, smiling. "We had a little spill, and I've lost my bag. Pack me some more things quickly." "Very good, sir," Groves answered, and withdrew precipitately. De Bergillac laid his hand upon Duncombe's arm. "There is only one thing, my friend," he said. "I trust that it is Mr.
Duncombe was fuming with anger, but he had discretion enough to remain silent. "Do you play Bridge?" the Baron asked, as they entered the card-room. "Occasionally," Duncombe assented. "I will go and see if I can find any men," the Baron remarked. "I will leave my young friend De Bergillac to entertain you. The Vicomte de Bergillac Sir George Duncombe."
"Phyllis," the Marquise said, "this is the Vicomte de Bergillac, and he brings you messages from some one or other. Your affairs are quite too complicated for my little head. Sit down and let him talk to you." "If Monsieur le Vicomte has brought me messages from the right person," Phyllis said with a smile, "he will be very welcome.
The pity of it is that it has failed. Sir George, I go to Paris to-night. I offer you a safe conduct if you care to accompany me. L'affaire Poynton does not exist any more." "Can you give me ten minutes to change my clothes?" Duncombe asked eagerly. "No more," De Bergillac answered. "I will get rid of our friend here." There was a knock at the door. Groves entered with coffee.
"If I could put back the clock a single hour," Spencer muttered. "Never mind! Williams, more sheets!" De Bergillac took his leave. He had telephoned for his motor, which was waiting outside. He gave the order to drive to his rooms. On the way he passed the great pile of buildings in the Louvre. In a room at the extreme end of the pile a light was burning. De Bergillac looked at it curiously.
He greeted his uncle with graceful affection. Before the other man, although his appearance was homely and his dress almost untidy, he bowed very low indeed, and accepted his proffered hand as a mark of favor. The Duc de Bergillac was tall, sallow, with black moustache and imperial. He possessed all the personal essentials of the aristocrat, and he had the air of one accustomed to command.
The door of the room was locked, and a sentry stood outside in the passage. The three men were busy making history. The man who occupied the seat at the head of the table was the Monsieur Grisson to whom Guy Poynton, at the instigation of the Duc de Bergillac, had told his story. It was he who was spokesman. "The situation," he said, "is one which bristles with difficulties.
Spencer, whose recovery during the last few days had been as rapid as the first development of his indisposition, had just changed for dinner, and was lighting a cigarette d'appertit when, without waiting to be announced, the Vicomte de Bergillac entered the room. Spencer, with lightning-like intuition, knew that his time was come. "Off with your coat, man, and get your code books out.
De Bergillac tapped his breast-pocket. "It is here," he said. Duncombe turned to Monsieur Louis. "My arrest, then," he remarked, "was part of the game?" "Exactly!" De Bergillac answered. "This little document entrusted to your care by the young English lady was worth one million francs to the man who suborned our friend here. It was worth while this little enterprise.
"I think the only two Frenchmen I have met are the Marquis and that languid young man with the green tie, the Vicomte de Bergillac, wasn't it?" The Marquise watched her charge closely. "Well," she said, "he is comme il faut, is he not? You find him more elegant, more chic than your Englishmen, eh?" Phyllis shook her head regretfully.
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