John did not see Christina grab the gun up from the table, or fire it. He was looking at Jules; and Jules, the Marquis and Upson were all looking at him, waiting to hear whether he would decide to write the letter to his mother. Christina had taken advantage of that moment. She had stretched out her hand as though to pick up the glass she had set down a few moments before and finish the drink the Marquis had given her; instead, she snatched the automatic that Upson had left lying within a few inches of his own hand, aimed it, and pressed the trigger.
Simultaneously with the crash of the pistol, the Marquis clasped his right shoulder. Reeling back, he collapsed on a Louis Seize settee. It was as well for him that he did, as Christina sent a second shot at him. It thudded into the Gobelin tapestry behind his head.
Upson was the first to move. The Marquis had hardly staggered under the impact of the bullet before the airman swung a blow at Christina’s head. She ducked it as she fired her second shot, sprang away and turned the pistol on him. There was murder in her eyes. Seeing it, his face blanched and he made a futile gesture, throwing out his hands as though to ward off the bullet.
There was barely four feet between them; so had it not been for John he would certainly have been shot. But, as he had struck out at Christina, John had swung round on his other side, run in, and struck at him. The blow landed squarely on the side of his face. He was already slightly off balance and it sent him spinning. Christina’s third shot sang harmlessly over his shoulder.
Jules was standing near the table on which was the tray of drinks. Snatching up a bottle of Dubonnet by the neck, he flung it at Christina. The cork came out as it flew through the air, and the sticky liquid splashed all over her face and neck, but the bottle missed her.
Letting out a scream of rage, she ran towards him, firing as she went. With extraordinary agility he flung himself aside, pirouetted like a ballet dancer and kicked her on the thigh. She went over with a crash and the pistol exploded for the fifth time. Her fourth shot had missed Jules, but the fifth paid an unexpected dividend. At that moment the door by which the valet had left the room opened, and he poked his head in. The bullet fired at random splintered the woodwork within an inch of his chin. His eyes popping with fright, he jerked back his head and slammed the door shut again.
As Christina measured her length on the floor Jules ran at her, but John was in the act of rushing at him. They collided. John’s rush had carried him half across the room, so there was more force behind it. Jules went over backward, striking his head hard on the parquet floor. He rolled away, then struggled to his knees, but remained there grasping a chair with one hand and swaying from side to side, temporarily incapable of further action.
Christina was up again, the automatic still clutched in her hand. The Marquis had also staggered to his feet, and with his sound arm was clutching a silken bell-rope. As he jerked it up and down a bell could be heard clanging in the distance. Christina had pitched forward to within a few feet of him. No sooner was she up than she pointed her gun at his heart. Only just in time to stop her from committing murder, John knocked it aside. The bullet shattered the centre panel of a cabinet displaying a beautiful Sèvres dinner service.
The tinkle of glass and china merged into the thunder of feet charging across the parquet. As John and Christina stood together Upson was coming at them from behind with a chair raised above his head. They swung round to face him. For a second it seemed certain that it must fell one, or both, of them.
There was no time to step aside; no time even for Christina to bring up her pistol. John gave her a push that sent her reeling back on to a chaise longue. Lowering his head he went right in under the chair and butted the airman in the stomach. Upson lost his grip on the chair; it crashed to the floor behind John’s back. He managed to keep his feet, but Upson went over backwards, the breath driven from his body, and lay writhing in agony.
From the time Christina had fired her first shot, not one of these violent, kaleidoscopic actions had occupied more than ten seconds; yet in this bare minute or two the crack of the shots and the clanging of the bell had roused the house. The sound of running feet could be heard pounding along a corridor somewhere beyond the door through which the valet had poked his head.
As Christina pushed herself up from the chaise longue on to which John had thrust her, he grasped her arm, turned her towards the double doors by which they had been brought in, and cried: ‘Quick! The servants are coming! This way, or they’ll catch us!’
Still clutching the pistol, she ran through into the hall. He darted after her, but as he slammed the door behind him he had the presence of mind to swing round and turn the big ornate key that protruded from the lock. In three strides he reached the head of the short flight of stone stairs. Christina was halfway down them. Suddenly she lurched sideways, let out a yell, and fell, sprawling the last few steps.
‘You hurt?’ he panted, helping her to her feet.
She took a couple of steps and screwed up her face with pain. ‘It’s my ankle. It twisted under me.’
The little automatic had been dashed from her hand, but had not exploded. John stooped, grabbed it up, put on the safety-catch and slipped it into his pocket as he cried anxiously, ‘Will it bear you? Can you possibly manage to run?’
‘It has got to,’ she gasped, her eyes flashing with determination.
‘Well done! Here, lean on my shoulder.’
She flung an arm round his neck, and together they trotted across the stone flags to the outer door. On emerging from it they could hear loud banging on the doors of the salon, and excited shouts. Jules was yelling for the servants—‘Marcel! Henri! Frederick! Where the devil are you?’
As the fugitives ran out into the garden, by contrast with the brightly lit interior of the château it seemed pitch black. The moon had now set and the stars gave only a pale light in the open spaces between the trees. Their instinct was to take the way they had come and head down the broad central walk for the harbour. But no help was to be expected there, and, after a second, John realised that they would stand a better chance of getting away if they could find a side entrance to the grounds. Swerving to the right, he ran Christina along under the terrace till they got to the end of the building. A wall continued from it, in which there was a tall arch with a wrought-iron gate leading to a stable-yard.
By the time they reached the arch, the windows of the salon had been flung open and several people had run out on to the terrace. Jules was shouting to the servants, ‘Get out into the garden. Quick now! Quick!’
John pushed open the iron gate. As he did so a furious barking started and a big wolfhound came bounding from a kennel towards him. Christina screamed and he swiftly pulled the gate shut. At that instant two men ran out from the main door of the house. Hearing the barking and the scream, they swerved to the right and came racing towards the stables.
The second John had the gate shut, he and Christina made a dash for a path that led down the side wall of the garden. It was screened from the château by a belt of trees and thick shrubs which hid it in almost total darkness.
One glance in each direction, and his heart sank with dismay. It gave on to the road leading up from the harbour to the carriage entrance of the château, and on, inland. On its far side was a steep bank topped by another wall, which ran unbroken both ways as far as he could see. Behind them they could hear the flying feet of their pursuers nearing the stables. Christina was moaning with pain, and the tears were running down her face. The road between the two walls was like a long, curved corridor, and in it there was no scrap of cover. Once out on it, the stars would give enough light for them to be seen. However game Christina’s effort, within two hundred yards they must be run down and caught.
Pulling her back, John whispered, ‘We must hide: it’s our only chance.’
He drew her swiftly with him down the path, through a postern gate which he left wide open on purpose, and then in among the bushes. They stood there with their hearts pounding, trying to still the rasping of their breath.
It was none too soon. Jules’s men darted towards the dark path, and along it they came upon the open postern. As John had hoped, they ran through it. He gave them a minute, fearing that, seeing no one up or down the road, they might come back. Then, after a mutter of voices, he heard their running steps again as they headed towards the nearest bend, which lay up the slope.
Coming out from their cover, John and Christina continued to follow the path, but now at a quick walk and making as little noise as possible. Temporarily they had escaped from the likelihood of immediate capture; but people calling to one another from the centre of the garden told them that Jules, Upson, and perhaps some of the other servants had come out to join in the hunt; and where the shrubbery was thinnest John twice caught the flash of torches.
He knew that now there was little chance of slipping unseen out of the gate down by the port, and was desperately casting about for some place where they might hope to lie concealed when the hunt moved in their direction. By this time they were nearly at the bottom of the garden and could see part of the wall that ran parallel with the shore. Above it showed the starry sky, but at the corner where the two walls met a patch of blackness reared up to double their heights, its faint outline having the appearance of a square, topped by a triangle. After a second John realised what it was, and whispered: ‘That’s a gazebo just ahead of us. With luck they will think we got away along the road. They may not look in there. Anyhow, it’s our best bet. We must chance it.’
Swiftly but cautiously, they covered the short distance to the end of the path and made their way up the curving wooden stair they found there. The door of the gazebo was not locked, but it squeaked a little and, fearful of being heard, when they had crept inside they closed it gently behind them. For a moment they could see nothing, then panels of greyness showed the position of the windows and they realised that the place was hexagonal with a window in each of its sides except that occupied by the door. By groping about they found that it held basket chairs with cushions in them, a table and a low cupboard. Lowering themselves into two of the chairs, they subconsciously stilled their breathing while listening anxiously for sounds outside.
Muffled now by the wooden walls of the garden house, they could still hear the calls of the searchers. Once they caught the quick tread of heavy feet nearby, and the reflected glow from a torch lighted one of the windows on the garden side; but after a quarter of an hour of agonising apprehension no sound had reached them for several minutes, so it seemed that the search had been abandoned.
Till then neither of them had dared to speak from fear that one of Jules’s people might be hunting about in the shrubbery beneath them; but now John thought it safe to ask in a whisper: ‘How is your ankle?’
‘Not too bad,’ Christina whispered back. ‘It gave me hell while we were running; but since I’ve had it up on a chair the pain has eased a lot. I don’t think it’s sprained—only twisted.’
‘It ought to have a cold compress on, but there’s no hope of that. Still, I could bind it up tightly, and that may help when we have to move again. Shall I try what I can do?’
By this time their eyes had become a little accustomed to the darkness; so he could just make out her nod. ‘I wish you would; but do you think you can see enough?’
‘We could use my cigarette-lighter, but I don’t like to risk it. This place may be visible from the house.’ As he spoke he knelt down and groped about till he found her foot. Having taken off her shoe, he felt the ankle gently with his finger-tips. It was swollen, but not very much. Getting out his silk handkerchief, he folded it on the seat of a nearby chair, as well as he could by touch, cornerwise into a long strip. Then he said: ‘You had better take off your stocking.’
She undid the suspender and rolled it down for him. He peeled it off and for a moment held her bare foot in his palm. It was cool, firm and delightfully smooth. His hand closed round it easily, and on an impulse he remarked: ‘You were grumbling this afternoon about the size of your feet. I can’t think why. This is a lovely little foot.’ The words were scarcely out when he regretted them from the sudden fear that she might take the compliment as an amorous overture. He had experienced how swiftly she could be aroused to uncontrollable passion during the dark hours, and the last thing he wished for was to have to repel advances of which she would be ashamed in the morning light.
His fears were not altogether unfounded. After a second’s hesitation, she said very softly, ‘If you like to kiss the place, that might make it well.’
Instead, he laid on the bandage. It was the handkerchief he had used to bathe his face in the cabin, so it was still damp and cold. As it touched her she gave a little gasp, and, to distract her mind from the thoughts on which he felt sure it was running, he told her about the use to which he had put it; then, as he drew the bandage tight and tied the pointed ends in a knot a few inches above her heel, went on to describe the hurts he had received on the yacht.
The ruse served to some extent, as she immediately became all concern. Then leaning forward she found and stroked his face, as she murmured, ‘Poor John! You’ve had a frightful time. And all for my sake. But I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you.’
He got her stocking on over the bandage, then told her to pull it up; but she gave a low laugh.
‘No; you do it for me, darling. I’m glad you like my feet; although you’d find them much bigger than you think if you saw them. Of my legs, though, I have real reason to be proud. They are a lovely shape and above the knees as soft as satin. Just feel, here by my suspenders.’
Suddenly taking his hand, she pulled it forward till it touched the inner side of her thigh on a line with the top of her other stocking. The flesh there was like a cushion of swansdown under a taut-stretched skin of tissue-thin rubber; it had that indefinable quality of being cool at first touch, then instantly radiating heat. The back of his fingers were pressed for only a second against it. Jerking them away, he tore his hand from hers, and snapped: ‘That’s quite enough of that! Do it up yourself.’
For a moment she was silent, then she said in a voice near to tears, ‘Oh, John, you are unkind. Have you been playing with me? Don’t you love me at all?’
His mouth had suddenly become dry. He swallowed, but his words came huskily in the darkness. ‘If you want to be seduced, ask me to fix your stockings for you tomorrow afternoon. But I’m damned if I’ll make love to you now, while you are under some accursed influence.’
She sighed. ‘But it’s now I want you to. I’d make you if I wasn’t so tired.’
He laughed a little grimly. ‘You would probably succeed if I wasn’t so tired myself. My ribs are still giving me problems, and I’m one big ache all over. It must be past four o’clock, too; so it is over twenty hours since we had any sleep, except for our nap in the olive grove.’
‘That was nice.’ Her tone was warm at the memory. ‘But I’m such a stupid little fool in the daytime. I was nervous of you then.’
‘I like you better when you are like that, because you are your real self.’
‘What is my real self?’ she asked cynically. ‘My feelings are as real by night as they are by day. I shall be the way you like me best again soon, though. The change always comes an hour or so before dawn, and I can feel it coming on. But you can’t have it both ways. If they find us here and we have to try to escape again I’ll probably behave like an hysterical schoolgirl, and I’ll never have the pluck to fire that gun.’
‘Don’t worry. I have it, and I felt it over soon after we got in here. There are still two bullets left in it. They should be enough to give us a sporting chance of a break-out if we are found here, but it looks as if they have made up their minds that we got away along the road. The thing that troubles me is your ankle. I should like to give them another half-hour, then go out and reconnoitre. If no one is about it would be the perfect opportunity to slip away inland behind the château. No one would ever find us up there in the maquis. But there is always the chance that we might be spotted leaving the garden and have to run for it again; and, anyway, I’m sure your ankle would never stand up to a long tramp over broken ground up into the hills.’
‘No, John. I’m afraid I should let you down if we tried that. Still, if they don’t look for us here soon, it is very unlikely that they will tomorrow; so we could stay here in hiding all day. By the evening my ankle will be much stronger and we could slip away soon after dark.’
‘We’ll be jolly hungry and thirsty by then; but it would certainly be our safest plan.’
‘A day’s fasting won’t do either of us any great harm. If you agree, let’s try to get some sleep now.’
‘All right,’ he said, standing up. ‘There is a bigger chair here with a pull-out for the legs. I’ll pile some cushions on it and you had better have that.’
When he had arranged the chair, she rested one hand on his shoulder and pulled herself up beside him. Quietly, with no hint of seduction in her voice, she asked, ‘Do you care about me at all, John? Tell me honestly. I want to know.’
‘I can only say that in a very short time I have grown very fond of you,’ he hedged. ‘I’ve already told you that I refuse to make love to you except in the daytime.’
‘You are still afraid of me,’ she whispered, ‘but you needn’t be. The windows are lighter already, with that pale light that comes before dawn. But I still have enough shamelessness left to tell you something. I love you. You may think that is just because I’ve never been kissed by any other man. It’s not. It’s something deep inside me. I know that at night my wanton thoughts might make me easy game for anybody; but during the day, although I am shy and awkward, I long every bit as much to feel your lips on mine. I love you. I love you terribly. I’d die for you, John, if I had the chance.’
He could find no words with which to reply, and after a moment she went on, ‘Even if you are only a little fond of me, do something for me, please. Let’s lie down in the chair together. I want to feel your arms round me. You have been so gallant in the way you have protected me; but at any time my enemies may prove too much for you. We may never have this chance again. Although you can’t tell me that you love me, let me go to sleep making believe that you do.’
Gently he lowered her on to the pile of cushions, then lay down beside her and took her in his arms. She put her cheek against his, but made no attempt to kiss him. Her limbs relaxed and she gave a sigh of contentment. On a sudden impulse that overbore all his scruples, he murmured, ‘I love you, Christina. I love you,’ and drew her more closely to him.
For making love the pile of cushions on the long basket chair was quite adequate, but not for a prolonged sleep. It was too narrow, and beneath the cushions its arms dug into their backs. Dozing was all that either of them could manage, and some three hours later John kissed Christina lightly on the forehead, then got up.
He did so cautiously, as it was now full daylight; and if he showed himself above the level of the window-sills of the gazebo there was a risk that he might be seen. First he peeped out on the garden side. He could see no one in it, and the iron roller blinds of the château windows were all down. A glance at his watch showed him that it was just after half-past seven, so the lack of activity was not surprising in view of the fact that its occupants could not have got to bed much before half-past four.
Still crouching, he crossed to one of the windows overlooking the shore. That, too, presented a peaceful early morning scene, but a disappointing one. John had hoped to see there at least a few fisherfolk who, in an emergency, could be called on for help. There was not a soul to be seen and it was quite clear now that the little harbour was a strictly private one. The only craft in it were a twenty-foot sailing yacht, a sailing dinghy, a speedboat and Upson’s seaplane. The big yacht in which they had been brought there was still lying at anchor about a quarter of a mile beyond the point of the breaker. Alongside it were the launch in which they had come ashore and another more powerful vessel that looked like a converted submarine-chaser.
He was just wondering if they could get out of the garden unobserved, swim out to the speed-boat and make off in it, when the submarine-chaser cast off from the yacht and turned her nose in towards the harbour. In a graceful curve she rounded the point of the mole, reversed her engines, and manoeuvred a little until her pilot had brought her skilfully alongside its outer end. Two sailors with lines jumped ashore and she was swiftly made fast. A moment later a gangway was put out and a group of people landed from her.
Suddenly John jerked himself erect and gave a shout. ‘Christina! We’re saved! There’s Mother! I’d know that absurd hat of hers anywhere. And there’s C.B.! They’ve got the police with them. Hurrah! They must have found out where the yacht had gone, and come to rescue us.’
Christina had still been dozing. She scrambled to her feet and joined him at the window. Both of them could make out the group clearly now, as it advanced along the mole. In addition to Molly Fountain and C.B. it consisted of a very tall old man with a drooping grey moustache, and three men in uniform.
‘Come on!’ cried John. ‘Let’s go down and meet them. But how is your ankle? Is it up to walking?’
She tried her weight on it. ‘Yes, it’s much better. I’ll be all right if you give me your arm. Oh, John, what wonderful luck their coming and finding us here.’
As she spoke they turned to look at one another. It was the first time they had done so in daylight since the evening before. Neither realised what a sight they themselves presented, and grinned at the marks of battle on the other.
‘You are in a mess,’ Christina laughed. ‘Your chin’s all swollen and you have a glorious black eye.’
‘You look as if you had been dragged through a hedge backwards, yourself,’ he retorted cheerfully. ‘The sticky liquor from that bottle Jules shied at you has collected so much dirt that you’ll have to scrape it off your neck with a knife; and your hair is a veritable bird’s-nest.’
As he spoke he took the little automatic out of his pocket, and added, ‘I’ll keep this handy, just in case anyone tries to stop us between here and the gate. Come along now! Let’s go!’
When he opened the door of the gazebo the garden still appeared to be deserted; so they went down the steps to the path. On their way to the gate he said, ‘Now that the police have been brought into this we ought to be careful what we say. If I had had the wit and the chance to snatch this gun last night I have no doubt I should have shot someone with it myself; but such acts usually have repercussions. Mind, I don’t think there is the least likelihood of the Marquis bringing an action against you. He would find it much too difficult to explain away his part in the affair. I’m only a bit worried that wounding with firearms may be what is termed a crime against the state. If so, and the French police are told about it, they would have no option but to arrest you; so I think we had better skip your grand performance with the heavy armaments.’
‘Tell them what you like,’ she shrugged. ‘I was mad as a hatter at the time; so I suppose it’s lucky I didn’t kill someone; but I’m not feeling a bit like Two-gun Annie now.’
‘May be,’ he answered with a smile. ‘But it would be pretty mean of me to let them infer that I rescued you, when it was really you who rescued me. I think I’ll say—’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, John! I could never have got away without you. The less you say about my part in it, the better. They are much more likely to believe that you slew all the dragons and carried me away across your shoulder. Anyhow, I’ll leave all the talking to you.’
On reaching the gate they found that it was not locked, so they walked straight out on to the hard; and there, now only fifty feet away, were the group from the submarine-chaser.
With exclamations of surprise, followed by shouts of delight, the rescuers joined the rescued. Molly was so overcome at seeing her boy safe and sound that she dared not kiss him from fear of bursting into tears; so, much to his surprise, she shook him vigorously by the hand. With a laugh, he picked her up and hugged her. Then, in turn, she hugged Christina. C.B. introduced the tall old man as ex-Inspector Malouet, and the senior police officer as Sergeant Bouvet. The next ten minutes passed in a gabble of questions and explanations.
It emerged that they were on the island of Port Cros, the smallest of the three main islands known as the Iles d’Hyères. The de Grasses had long owned the château and a fine estate there, but otherwise it was almost uninhabited. On arriving at St Tropez, Malouet had suggested it as the most likely place for the yacht to have taken Christina, as in any public harbour along the coast the arrival of a vessel of her size would at once have been reported. After a lengthy discussion with the local police, he had persuaded them to cooperate by getting the customs temporarily to place at his disposal one of the fast craft they used for the prevention of smuggling. On reaching the Ile de Port Cros they had boarded the yacht with a search warrant. Her Captain had refused all information, so they had spent an hour going through her; then, having drawn blank, they had just come ashore to pursue their enquiries at the château.
John gave an abbreviated version of what had happened to him and Christina, concluding with their escape to the gazebo. When he had done, Sergeant Bouvet said: ‘It appears that Mademoiselle accepted an invitation to go aboard the yacht, and that Monsieur joined her there in an irregular manner. However, that could not excuse the treatment to which you allege that you were later subjected. Does either of you wish to make a charge? If so, I must take down your deposition in detail.’
‘Hold yourself, my son, hold yourself,’ said the elderly Malouet, patting him kindly on the shoulder. ‘Your enthusiasm does you credit, but there is more in this matter than appears on the surface. If you will permit me, I should like to talk privately with these young people before they commit themselves to any legal action.’
‘But of a certainty, Monsieur,’ replied the sergeant, and from his tone it was clear that he regarded the ex-inspector with a sentiment akin to veneration. ‘It is a privilege to have your guidance in such an affair, and you have only to make your wishes known to me.’
Malouet favoured him with a courteous little bow. ‘Since you are so kind, I suggest that we should all return to our ship. For the time being I think it would be as well if we made it as difficult as possible for anyone to trace Mademoiselle’s movements. I am, therefore, loath to take her back to St Tropez. Perhaps on your way there you could land us at some little-frequented place. Later, should it be decided that a charge is to be preferred, you may be sure that I shall lose no time in getting in touch with you.’
‘As you will, Monsieur. Let us go back on board, then. Have you as yet decided whereabouts you would like us to land you?’
For a minute or two the old man did not reply; but when they had covered about fifty paces towards the submarine-chaser he said, ‘If we take the route between the islands and the coast we must pass a little place called Cavalaire. The village is on a shallow, sandy bay, facing eastward; but it is not that I have in mind. To the south of it there is a headland, and on the headland is a small hotel called the Sur Mer. In the old days it was owned by a man named Gandini and was famous for its good food, as he was once a maître d’hôtel at the Negresco. He has long since sold it, but it has a private bay on which we could be landed from a boat.’
‘I know it!’ The sergeant waved an airy hand. ‘You are as good as there already, Monsieur. A perfect spot to go ashore discreetly, observed only by a handful of people. So early in the year I doubt if even the hotel itself will be open.’
‘I had rather hoped it would,’ Malouet confessed, ‘as I am beginning to feel the need for my petit déjeuner. But if it is not, we can walk down to the village, hire a car there, and drive to some other small place for a meal, before progressing further.’
Ten minutes later they were on board and the vessel had cast off. Having installed Molly, Christina, Monsieur Malouet, C.B., and John in the after-cabin, Sergeant Bouvet tactfully withdrew; so they were able to talk more freely.
Rounding the western point of the Ile de Port Cros, they left the much larger Ile de Porquerolles on their left, and headed in towards Cap Benat on the mainland. Meanwhile, John and Christina gave the old walrus-moustached ex-inspector a more detailed account of what had happened to them during the night, suppressing only Christina’s hectic performance with the gun. Then Malouet asked her to tell him of her earlier meetings with the de Grasses, and anything else she could remember having a possible bearing on her case that had occurred since she had come to the South of France, and she did so while the low-throbbing craft carried them swiftly across the bay towards Le Lavendou.
Although it was still only the first week in March, no cold or boisterous wind disturbed the serenity of their short voyage. The sun was shining in an almost cloudless sky of pale blue, and its rays could already be felt, promising another day of pleasant warmth. The sea still held the greeny-blueness of early morning, but its surface was unruffled by white horses and the wave crests were hardly perceptible except where they creamed upon the rocks along the shore. Behind them lay the Iles d’Hyères, now holding the suggestion of romance that always attaches to green islands set at a distance in a sparkling sea. Ahead rose up the indented coast of the mainland, with its rocky foreshore, verdant slopes and background of snow-topped mountains.
The twenty miles was soon covered and by half-past eight the ex-submarine-chaser was nosing her way into a small bay with rugged cliffs on either hand. A dinghy was lowered, Sergeant Bouvet and the captain of the vessel were taken leave of with warm thanks for their help, and the shore party were landed on a flat shelf of rock at the foot of the right-hand promontory, from which visitors to the hotel bathed in summer.
Slowly they made their way up the rough, steep path to the hotel. It was a small two-storey building, having only a dozen bedrooms and a single salon, the whole length of its ground floor on the seaward side being devoted to a covered terrace which served as its restaurant. It had not yet been opened for the season, but the proprietor and his wife readily agreed to provide breakfast for their unexpected visitors. A small boy was despatched on a bicycle to buy croissants in the village, ‘Monsieur’ set about his preparations for making a big ham omelette, and ‘Madame’ showed her guests up to five bedrooms that had fixed basins, so that they could freshen themselves up after their night out.
John was still in his shirt-sleeves, putting the finishing touches to his hair with a borrowed comb, when there came a gentle knock on the door of the room he had been given. On his calling, ‘Come in,’ Christina limped in and closed the door behind her.
She held out her left hand. The middle of the engagement finger was covered with a thick lather, and she said, ‘I’ve come for you to get your ring off. The knuckle is still a bit swollen, but I think you will be able to wriggle it over now I’ve made it slippery with soap.’
‘Why do you want to take it off?’ he asked in surprise.
‘You said you would this morning. You promised to just after you had had your fight with Jules in the cabin of the yacht.’
‘I wasn’t speaking seriously. I said that only to pacify you at the time. You know how different you become from your real self at night.’
She coloured, looked quickly away from him, and stammered, ‘I … I’d rather not talk about last night. I mean about … about what occurred between us. Although my memory of it is a bit blurred now, I know that I behaved abominably. I feel terribly ashamed.’
‘You needn’t be.’ He smiled, cutting her short. ‘You were really very sweet once we had settled down in the summer-house.’
‘It was you who were sweet to me. You said you loved me, and I shall never forget that.’ Her words came out in a rush now. ‘I know you don’t really, and that you probably said it only to comfort me, but please don’t admit it, or protest that you do, out of kindness. You see, you may have really meant it just for that brief time. Anyhow, I’d like to believe so, because it will be a lovely memory to take away with me.’
‘Take away!’ he echoed. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
She extended her hand again. ‘That is why I want you to have back your ring. I’ll have no more use for it now, even for make-believe. I thought it all out while we were dozing early this morning. I have repaid your mother’s kindness by causing her a night of desperate anxiety about you, and I brought you into a situation where you might have lost your life, or anyhow have been seriously injured. That isn’t right. This horrible affair is a matter for myself and my father. If anyone is responsible for me, it is he; so I have decided that the time has come when I must disobey his orders. I am going back to join him in England.’