The Yellow Crayon

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THE YELLOW CRAYON

By E. Phillips Oppenheim




CHAPTER I

It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the
darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its
way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor in
strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees
and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, resting
for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple
splendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair, there sat a man, his arms
folded, his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then, so had he
sat for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of glad
living things, which alone broke the deep silence of the house, seemed
neither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned to
stone, his forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth set
close and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approached
him, had set food by his side, which now and then he had mechanically
taken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in darkness and in
light, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight, and the songs of the
birds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake below
the lawns.

At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He stretched
out his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left within his
reach. Almost immediately a man, pale-faced, with full dark eyes and
olive complexion, dressed in the sombre garb of an indoor servant, stood
at his elbow.

“Duson.”

“Your Grace!”

“Bring wine--Burgundy.”

It was before him, served with almost incredible despatch--a small
cobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape, on which were beautifully
emblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly and deliberately.
When he set the glass down it was empty.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York this
evening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms.”

“For how many days, your Grace?”

“We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of the most
trustworthy, who will remain as caretakers.”

The man’s face was as immovable as his master’s.

“And Madame?”

“Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for her
maid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal belongings
remain absolutely undisturbed.”

“Has your Grace any further orders?”

“Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?”

The man’s head moved in respectful assent.

     “To Felix,
       “No 27, Rue de St.  Pierre,
         “Avenue de L’Opera, Paris.
    “Meet me at Sherry’s Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven
     p.m.--V.  S.”

“It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York leaves
at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five minutes.”

The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“The Duc de Souspennier remains here--or at the bottom of the lake--what
matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom you
engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan of
English proclivities.”

“Very good, sir!”

“Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriage
starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to see
me.”

The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from his
chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He leaned
heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him. Slowly
his eyes traveled over the landscape.

It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretched
the gardens--Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here and
there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge bordered
the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. A
wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rolling
park, with little belts of pine plantations and a few larger trees here
and there. In the far distance the red flag was waving on one of the
putting greens. Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,--his pipe
in his mouth, and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin watched, and the
lines in his face grew deeper and deeper.

“I am an old man,” he said softly, “but I will live to see them suffer
who have done this evil thing.”

He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than was
usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charmingly
furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in their
vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly he
threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture, examining
as though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the Sevres
china, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisite
portraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights and
grey dawns of Corot.