Juggernaut. Alice Campbell
whom she had any extensive conversation. She was a tall and angular Englishwoman, clad always in voluminous black, a wide-brimmed, old-fashioned hat resting uneasily atop her mountain of snowy hair.
"Yes, that is the doctor's house," added Esther in reply to her acquaintance's question. "I'm just off for the day."
"Shall we walk along together then?" suggested the other, slightly modifying her tremendous strides. In spite of her elderly and quaint appearance—rather in the style of an ancient Du Maurier drawing—the lady was a tireless pedestrian, covering miles daily, armed with an umbrella, a water-colour box, and a folding camp-stool. Esther had more than once met her, racing along, not the least impeded by her paraphernalia, her black cloak and veil streaming behind her in the wind.
"Do you know this neighbourhood?" Esther was inquiring, when she noticed that her companion had stopped stock still and was regarding with frank curiosity the Rolls Royce, which had just succeeded in reversing its position.
"I seem to know that car," remarked Miss Paull. "I certainly know the chauffeur's face. Can it be—yes, now I know." She walked on again with a satisfied air. "That car belongs to a countryman of mine; he has a villa over there"—she waved a black-gloved hand—"in the part that they call La Californie."
"Really!"
Esther's tone was one of lively interest. Now she would hear something.
"He's a Mr. Clifford—or no, he is Sir Charles Clifford now, he was knighted for something or other during the war. He's a big mill owner in Lancashire—cotton, you know. Perhaps you've heard of the firm of Seabrook & Clifford?"
Esther had not.
"No, of course not. I forgot you don't know England. It's an important firm, though, several big factories. They make the Seacliff Fabrics. Sir Charles was our Conservative member for years. He has a place near my home, between Chester and Altringham. I've often seen him."
"There is a Lady Clifford with the doctor now. What is she—a daughter-in-law? She's quite young."
"Is she French?"
"Yes."
"Ha! That's his wife. His second wife, of course. He married again about six years ago, some Frenchwoman he met down in this part of the world. There was a great deal of excitement about it at the time, the whole neighbourhood was astonished. It must have been a shock to his family."
"Then he has a family?"
"Only a son, he lost another boy in the war. And then, of course, there is a sister, unmarried, about my own age. I've met her sometimes at charity bazaars and so on."
"Do you know Lady Clifford?"
"Heavens, no! Though I've seen her here in Cannes. I believe she was an actress."
There was no mistaking Miss Paull's sentiments in regard to the stage.
Esther was secretly amused.
"They spend nearly all their time here now," continued the spinster, "though whether on account of Sir Charles's health or because his wife prefers it I can't say. I daresay it wasn't gay enough for her in Cheshire—not enough distractions. You know how it is with these young women who marry old men, they don't want to sit at home and do needlework."
She ended on an expressive note, as though implying more than her delicate maiden mind would permit her to say. Esther thought of the young Englishman in the restaurant at the Casino, and was silent.
Their walk led them through the older, more picturesque part of the town, a portion Esther loved, finding in its steep winding streets and irregular architecture the charm that was missing from the modern cities of her knowledge. Here, she thought, one could imagine anything happening—intrigues, romantic incident, crimes even, all the material that went to form tales of adventure. This was its habitat. From the newer, cleaner streets, the luxurious Promenade de la Croisette, the heterogeneous Route de Grasse, or that region of plutocrats, La Californie, one expected nothing of the kind.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" remarked her companion, echoing her thoughts.
"I am so fond of all this part. When the weather gets a little warmer
I am going to bring my sketchbook out one day and get a few nice bits.
That corner, for instance—delightful, don't you think?"
They dawdled a bit, through a littered street of open markets where they examined the contents of barrows—flowers, cheap lace, stockings, furs, trays of battered coins and bits of china, brass and copper vessels—now and then peering into a provocative alley-way, held by the spell of the exotic. Hatless women with smooth shining heads bustled past them, children in black pinafores played noisily in the gutters, ouvriers in dust-coloured corduroys bound about the waist with red sashes lurched along, often with a clatter of black varnished sabots. In a doorway one of these fellows, a swarthy brigand, was feeding a particularly ill-favoured mongrel, kneeling beside it and admonishing it to eat. "Allez, vite, mange donc, Hélène!" he was saying, and Esther found entertainment in the mangy cur's rejoicing in the name of Hélène.
It was dark now, lights flared in the windows. Leaving the market, they turned into a street of shops which Esther had several times explored, and paused before an antiquaire whose windows showed a display of old majolica, silver-gilt, and Limoges enamel against a Flemish tapestry.
"This is one of my favourite shops," said Miss Paull. "You know it, too? But of course I never buy anything, the things are too dear for my purse. Cannes is like Chester when it comes to antiques—too many tourists."
As she spoke a taxi rattled up the street at a characteristic break-neck speed, stopping abruptly at the shop next door, a dingy jeweller's. From the taxi stepped a woman, young, smartly dressed. She paid the fare, then stood looking somewhat uncertainly at the name on the shop door.
"C'est bien vingt-quatre, madame," said the driver, as if to help her.
"Oui—ça va bien," she replied, but still hesitating.
Esther had turned at sound of her voice just in time to see her gather her silver fox closer about her neck, clutch her red morocco pochette against her chest and enter the shop. The taxi, with a little "cling" of the meter, shot off down the hill. Esther touched her companion's arm.
"That was Lady Clifford who went into that shop," she said.
Miss Paull dropped her tortoiseshell lorgnon.
"Was it? I didn't notice. Where? What shop?"
"This one, just here."
"Really! That's an odd, dirty little place for her to go into!"
She raised her lorgnon again and examined the printing on the door. It was "Abel Klement, achat de bijoux, anciens et modernes." Then, not content with this superficial inspection, she went close to the door and, bending, gazed with frank curiosity into the interior. Lacking her indifference to appearances, Esther made a pretence of looking into the window.
"She's taking something in a small box out of her bag," announced the
Englishwoman after a deliberate scrutiny. "Ah, of course, some bit of
jewellery to be repaired. No, she's not opening the box, after all.
She's following the man out through the door at the back of the shop.
Now she's gone."
Satisfied that she could ascertain no more, Miss Paull turned away from the door.
"Doesn't look at all her sort of shop," she remarked thoughtfully as they pursued their way. "Such a dingy little second-rate place. And why do you suppose she came up in a taxi instead of her own car?"
She appeared to ponder this question so deeply that Esther was amused at what seemed to her a morbid desire to scent a mystery in an affair which, no doubt, had the most ordinary explanation.
"Now I should say," her companion