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He explained that he was going the next day to Monte Carlo, which he had never seen, to spend a night or two, but would return in good time for the sailing of the Osway and the hearing of General Lackaday's final decision. On their drive back to Marseilles, Arbuthnot, during a pause in their talk, said: "What I can't understand is this.
"I hope Madame Patou is quite well." Lackaday's smile faded into the mask. "Last night's thunderstorm upset her a little but otherwise yes she is quite well." He rose. Lady Auriol cried: "You're not going already?" His ear caught a new tone, for he smiled again. "I must get back to Clermont-Ferrand. Goodbye, Hylton." We shook hands. "Good-bye, old chap," said I. "We'll meet soon."
"He's a peer of the realm," said I rebukingly, though I cordially agreed with her. "He's not fit to be General Lackaday's ancient butler," she retorted. "Is that your own?" "No. It's Charles's. But I can repeat it if I like." "And all this goes to prove " said I. "Well, don't you see? You are dense. The news that the General had gone to France knocked them all silly. Aunt Auriol's looking rotten.
At every stage of my knowledge I was held in the bond of secrecy. Lackaday's sensitive soul dreaded, more than all the concentrated high-explosive bombardment of the whole of the late German Army, the possibility of Lady Auriol knowing him as the second-rate music-hall artist.
May I ask if you have any warrant for what you're saying?" "In his own handwriting." I gave a brief account of the manuscript. "Where is it?" she asked eagerly. "In my safe in London I'm sorry " In indignation she flashed: "I wouldn't read a word of it." "Of course not," said I. "Nor would I put it into your hands without Lackaday's consent. Anyhow, that's my authority and warrant."
A few moments afterwards they mounted from the lower terrace and came towards us. Lackaday's face was set in one of its tight-lipped expressionless moods. Lady Auriol's cheek was flushed, and though she smiled conventional greeting, her eyes were very serious. "I am sorry to have put into danger the General's health, madame," said she in her clear and British French.
And now the only thing definite was Lackaday's final exodus from the scene, and Auriol's inclination to go off and bury herself in some savage land. Lady Verity-Stewart thought Borneo. They were puzzled.
Why the car at the fantastic rate of one franc fifty per kilometre, to say nothing of the one franc fifty per kilometre for the empty car's return journey? "And Madame was all alone in the automobile," said the porter, by way of reassurance. "Pardon, Monsieur," he added, fading away under Lackaday's glare.
"To get a middle seat in a crowded carriage, for an all-night journey, with the windows shut?" She laughed. "Why is it, my dear Tony, you always seem to pretend there has never been anything like a war?" She went upstairs to cleanse herself and pack. I remained master of the telephone. In the course of time I got on to the Hotel Moderne, Vichy. Eventually I recognized Lackaday's voice.
As far as I could gather, from Lackaday's confessions he had never given Elodie cause for jealousy from the time they had become Les Petit Patou. Her rout of the suggestive Ernestine proved her belief in his insensibility to woman's attractions during the war. She had never heard of Lady Auriol. Lady Auriol, therefore, must have bounded like a tiger into the placid compound of her life.
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