Beyond the Mist
Late in the evening of the most unnerving day Dora Fenner had ever spent, she found herself walking along the ramparts between two men who gave her a strange, unnatural sense of security. She had walked along the ramparts once before that day, but then the Pension Paula had been ahead of her, waiting like an evil influence to draw her in. Now it was behind her, blotted out by a whispering darkness. Every step she took increased the distance that separated her from that hateful place, and augmented the number of intervening elms; and every step reduced the distance to a little peaceful sanctuary of whose existence she had only known for a few short hours—the quiet cabin of a yacht, perhaps swaying gently when velvet water was ruffled by a night breeze. There would be no disturbing or frightening personalities around. Only friendliness, expressed by a young man whose interest she was accepting without understanding, and by “an old man and a small boy” who, besides adding their own warm note, would soothe any frowns of Mrs. Grundy. What lay beyond the sanctuary was hidden by an impenetrable mist which she made no attempt to pierce. She was too tired.
But all at once Hazeldean pierced the mist himself.
“Worrying?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Not more than I can help,” she answered.
“That means you’re worrying,” he replied. “Well, of course you are! But don’t forget all the things I’ve told you.”
“What things?”
She knew, but she wanted him to repeat them.
“About my sticking to you,” he said. “Shall I tell you how long I mean to stick to you?” He waited a moment, while Kendall increased his pace and drew ahead. “Until I see you looking as happy as you look in that painting by your father.”
“I’m afraid that will be a long time.”
“I hope not. But the longer it is, the longer I’ll stick. In fact, I shall probably go on sticking to you until you dismiss me.”
“Oh!”
“So don’t forget it. What you want is something to hang on to—something that will prevent you from feeling as though you’re drifting about like a rudderless ship. Well, you’re hanging on to me!”
“I—I seem to be.”
“Unless, of course, you can give me the address of anybody else to hang on to?”
“No, I can’t!”
“Hooray! Even if that’s selfish. By the way, Miss Fenner, policemen aren’t really so bad, are they? I think that commissaire is a most charming gentleman. I even liked the gendarme, with his snub nose. Did you notice his nose?”
“Had he one?”
“We’ve all got noses.”
“Don’t make me laugh, or I’ll cry!”
“That wouldn’t hurt you, though perhaps you’d better wait till we get to the Spray. Yes, he had a snub nose. But the chap I like best is old Kendall. Kendall of Ours. Look how considerately he’s accelerated. If he accelerates much more, we’ll lose him, and we mustn’t do that, because there’s a car waiting for us at the bottom of the next steps. Shrewd fellow, Kendall—knows when he’s wanted, and knows when he’s not. Hullo—what’s up?”
“Nothing,” said Dora, “but I just feel a bit weak.”
“All empty like?”
“Yes.”
“And head going round and round like?”
“Yes.”
“And knees a bit wobbly like?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re a pair, because I feel all empty like, and my head’s going round like, though my knees aren’t quite wobbly like. Isn’t all this lucky? It gives us a logical excuse for holding each other up.”
He put his arm round her.
“Now I am crying,” she said, as he drew her closer beside him.
“And I told you to wait!” he reprimanded her. “All right, have it your own way, only do it softly, or Kendall will hear. Ah, here are those steps!”
They turned into the little opening that twisted down to the bottom of the wall. They emerged at La Porte des Dunes, and saw through the archway the smudge of a waiting car. Behind them brooded the Haute-Ville, seeming drowsily to watch them go. It contained its joys, but to them it was just a bad dream, saving that it contained the spot where they had met.
Kendall watched them enter the car with a smile. Their world was not his, but he understood it, and though he had not heard a word of their conversation, he could have written a fairly accurate report of its tenor.
“Where?” he asked Hazeldean. “You know where you left your boat.”
“Quartier Saint-Pierre,” answered Hazeldean, and named the exact spot.
The car ran down the wide hill, then turned into the narrow shopping streets that led in the direction of the quay. Soon the quay itself came into view, with dark shapes and little lights upon it. “Here we are!” called Hazeldean. The car slowed down and stopped. A moment later he exclaimed, “Wait a minute! Is this right?… I’m not sure…”
He jumped out. Two figures loomed at him. A large one and a small one. His eye brightened at their familiar shapes.
“Hallo, Bob!” he cried. “Where’ve you moved her to? I thought I’d mistaken the spot.”
He glanced at the vacant water-space where, earlier, the Spray had been.
“I ain’t moved ’er,” answered Bob.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought, mebbe, you ’ad, sir, while we was lookin’ for you at Wimereux.”
“Looking for me—at Wimereux?”
As he repeated the astonishing words, Kendall joined him gravely.
“So that’s how they did it!” he murmured. “Well, we don’t need much more to complete the evidence!”
“Bob! Who told you to look for me at Wimereux?” demanded Hazeldean, sharply.
“Grey-’aired gent, it was, sir,” replied Bob.
“Yes! Go on!”
“’E come along—”
“Alone?”
“I see a lidy with ’im, sir,” interposed the boy, eagerly, “before they got ’ere, that was, but when they got ’ere, she’d bin lef’ be’ind.”
“I never seed no lidy,” muttered Bob, unhappily.
“No, gran’fer didn’t, but I did,” insisted Joe, “but when I look again, she’s be’ind something.”
“Well—carry on, Bob,” said Hazeldean, “and look sharp!”
“’E come along,” repeated Bob, “and ’e sez,’Is that the Spray?’ and I sez, ‘Ay, ay,’ and ’e sez, ‘Owner’s name ’Azeldean?’ and I sez, ‘Ay, ay,’ and then ’e sez, ‘Well, ’e’s got some bizziness at Wimereux, that’s my ’otel,’ ’e sez, ‘and ’e’s got to stay the night, and ’e wants you there too, and to take along a bag of ’is things.’ ‘Wot’s the ’otel?’ I sez. ‘’Otel Ongleterre,’ ’e sez, ‘a tram will get you there in twenty minutes, and ’e wants you at once, ’cos one of you may ’ave to bring a message back to someone at the Casino before ’e goes.’” Bob paused rather guiltily, and gulped. “So we went, sir. And—and there wasn’t no ’Otel Ongleterre, the on’y Ongle was Ongles and Bans, but you weren’t there, so arter waitin’ awhile, sir, we came back with our bags”—the bags were on the ground beside him—“and the boat was gone.”
Hazeldean glanced at Dora, who had now joined them from the car and who was listening in astonishment to this new development.
“If you’re thinking about me, you mustn’t!” she exclaimed, quickly.
“I am thinking about you, and I must!” he answered.
“Yes, everything shall be thought of,” said Kendall, “and I can take you to a good hotel that will cover the immediate situation. But, do you know what I’m thinking of?”
“What?”
“The luck of some people who don’t deserve it. Look!”
He pointed to the water. White shapes were creeping along the surface, wiping more solid substance out.
“The mist,” said Kendall. “It’s back again.”