Juan, on his part, felt for this woman a genuine friendship. He, in turn, admired her intellectual power and her indifference to the stupidities of convention. As was usually the case when he was interested, he thought at once that it would be wonderful if Mary were there; and that thought, also as it often did, brought a sigh.
“It seems so appropriate to hear you sigh, Señor de Ventura,” laughed Mrs. Mason. “You look so dark and mysterious and melancholy. Also, you look awfully keen and snippy — horrors — no — I mean snappy. Americanisms amuse me so much, and yet I never can be quite correct in using them.”
“But I am not melancholy,” said her visitor. “How can I be when you have been so gracious as to ask me to dine tonight, thus enabling me to escape the terrors and disappointments of viands prepared by the hotel chef? Hotel chefs have, you know, a secret. They have the best that the world has, in the way of food stuffs, they have expert help in their kitchens and they have every convenience, and yet — with this one secret of theirs they do something to food which no private cook can.
“They disguise all natural flavors, serve you meat which cannot be distinguished — lamb from beef, chicken from pork — and reduce eating to a guessing contest. You guess what you are eating and the chef proves you wrong, every time.”
Mrs. Mason laughed. She did not know that Don Jaime was echoing sentiments which he had heard her express on the Aquitania, before he had made her acquaintance by seeming to swoon in her arms.
“Well, I only hope that my cook comes up to your ideals of what a private cook ought to be,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I think that she has spoiled me, for I have had her for ten years.
“I only wish that I could be so fortunate in a gardener. I have just lost Cordes, a man who really knew his business. He died while I was in America. I have just hired a friend of his, a young fellow who says that he came over on the same ship that we did. He has been in the States but did not find the opportunities there that he thought he would.”
“Ah? Yes, I hope that he will prove satisfactory,” Don Jaime murmured politely. No one could possibly have suspected that he received this information of “Hoofty’s” promptness with satisfaction.
He wanted, desperately, to lead the talk to Mrs. Mason’s neighbor. The women had, it was to be presumed, a great deal in common. Both were young and lovely, both were wealthy, and both were widows much sought after socially. But that would have to wait, no matter how long it might take.
The butler announced dinner and, to his considerable surprise, the stately Don Jaime discovered that he was the only guest. If the beautiful Bertha Mason had been a coquettish woman, he would have suspected that this was a boldly flirtatious move on her part, but the seriousness of her character precluded this view.
His interest quickened as he wondered if it could be possible that the very subject about which he wished to talk with Mrs. Mason, was tire subject about which she wished to talk to him, and if this could be the reason for her most singular honoring of him.
The lady herself brought the matter up, when they were back in the drawing-room, and the butler had left them alone with their coffee.
“Let me assure you that your cook is a woman above price,” said Don Jaime, with deep feeling. “Be careful. I warn you that if trickery of any kind can bring it about, I intend to lure her to my villa at Cannes.”
“She is a wonder,” replied Mrs. Mason simply, “and you would not be the first one who made that statement in jest and then tried it in all seriousness, unable to refrain from the temptation; but she is a confirmed Londoner.
“A husband — of sorts — lives ‘down Lime’ouse wye’ as she confides to me now and then, and once a week she is gone a day and a night.
“I suspect she and the husband celebrate this event with large quantities of gin, but as she always returns, a bit bleary, but lacking none of her skill, I cheerfully have meals out that day and variously accommodate myself to this peculiarity of hers, which, of course, violates every canon of the servant ethics — which is the reason that she returns.
“But that’s not what I had you to dinner for, Don Jaime,” she ended abruptly. “I mean to eat one of her dinners and talk about her afterward. I should have liked to have some of my friends here to meet you; and in fact I have planned for a little dinner for that purpose in a few days, if you will honor me.”
“Madame, you are too kind.”
“But now, to-night, I want to talk to you very confidentially. You see, I know that there is no one in the world who can understand the strange things that I am going to say as well as yourself.”
The Don gazed back at her earnestly, trying to be sure that his face betrayed nothing of his astonishment. What could she be about to say? His mind raced swiftly from one possibility to another while he maintained his quiescent, politely inquiring pose, but he was utterly unprepared for what followed.
“You are so well qualified to help people who have mysteries on their hands — my dear Mr. Juan Murphey!” she said, and threw herself back in her chair to chuckle with amusement, as well she might, for Juan allowed his lower jaw to drop in astonishment.
“My dear Mr. Murphey, I beg you to collect your features!” she said. “I assure you that I came into possession of this secret, not through any failure on your part to maintain your role, nor any slip on the part of the incomparable Michael, most learned of valets, but through a letter which I received from Miss Mary Smith!”
“From — Mary?”
“Aha! That’s a potent name, or I’m mistaken. Well, dear Mr. Murphey, in order to keep your eyes from really rolling out onto the floor, let me tell you quickly.
“You see, I have been a client of Mary Smith’s for several years, and I had an interview with her on the morning of the day when your Mrs. Hexter came in with a specimen of writing.
“Yes… yes — you see! I know a good deal about it. Mary has usually written to me at our place in Kent. She did not know my London address, for, in fact, I have not used this house a great deal — not usually more than the two months of the social season — well, after I left her office, I remembered that this year I intend to stay in town longer, and before I left the hotel I dropped her a line, giving her this one.”
“I see, I see — the address was next door—”
“Yes! Mary got that letter of mine just after you and I had sailed away on the Aquitania. She sat right down and wrote me an account of things, and asked me to speak to you. I got the letter a few hours afterward.”
“A few hours afterward, eh? What won’t that woman do next? How did she get it to the ship?”
“Said she had a client who was a rum runner and had the fastest high-powered engine-driven boat on the Atlantic coast. He ran along side and sent the letter up.
“The captain was purple with rage, but I soothed him. I said it was a letter of supreme importance. I knew that it must be, the moment that I saw Mary’s peculiarly-shaped envelope.”
“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Juan, “Mary is worse than I am so far as having queer clients is concerned. I suppose the rum-runner shows her the handwriting of people he does business with and asks her if he can take their checks. To think of your knowing Mary! Why didn’t you say so on board ship?”
Mrs. Mason’s smiling face sobered.
“I tell you the truth, I was afraid to. At first, I thought that it was a good joke, letting you go on with the impersonation. You do it wonderfully. Are you really Spanish?”
“Partly.”
“You know Mary. She’s a perfect graveyard, so far as secrets are concerned. I vaguely knew that she knew you, but I had no idea that you were close friends, nor anything about you. I’m dying to see what you really look like. But, of course, the complexion is yours.”