The Chink in the Armour

A small, shiny, pink card lay on the round table in Sylvia Bailey’s sitting-room at the Hôtel de l’Horloge in Paris.

She had become quite accustomed to finding one or more cards⁠—cards from dressmakers, cards from corset-makers, cards from hairdressers⁠—lying on her sitting-room table, but there had never been a card quite like this card.

Although it was pink, it looked more like a visiting-card than a tradesman’s advertisement, and she took it up with some curiosity. It was inscribed “Madame Cagliostra,” and underneath the name were written the words “Diseuse de la Bonne Aventure,” and then, in a corner, in very small black letters, the address, “5, Rue Jolie, Montmartre.”

A fortune-teller’s card? What an extraordinary thing!

Like many pretty, prosperous, idle women, Sylvia was rather superstitious. Not long before this, her first visit to Paris, a London acquaintance had taken her to see a noted palmist named “Pharaoh,” in Bond Street. She had paid her guinea willingly enough, but the result had vaguely disappointed her, and she had had the feeling, all the time she was with him, that the man was not really reading her hand.

True, “Pharaoh” had told her she was going abroad, and at that time she had no intention of doing so. The palmist had also told her⁠—and this was really rather curious⁠—that she would meet, when abroad, a foreign woman who would have a considerable influence on her life.

Madame Cagliostra began dealing out the cards on the table. First slowly, then quickly, she laid them out in a queer pattern; and as she did so she muttered and murmured to herself. Then a frown came over her face; she began to look disturbed, anxious, almost angry.

Sylvia, in spite of herself, grew interested and excited. She was sorry she had not taken off her wedding-ring. In England the wise woman always takes off her wedding-ring on going to see a fortune-teller. She was also rather glad that she had left her pearls in the safe custody of M. Girard. This little house in the Rue Jolie was a strange, lonely place.

Suddenly Madame Cagliostra began to speak in a quick, clear, monotonous voice.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the cards, which now and again she touched with a fat finger, and without looking at Sylvia, she said:

“Madame has led a very placid, quiet life. Her existence has been a boat that has always lain in harbour⁠—” She suddenly looked up: “I spent my childhood at Dieppe, and that often suggests images to me,” she observed complacently, and then she went on in quite another tone of voice:⁠—

“To return to Madame and her fate! The boat has always been in harbour, but now it is about to put out to sea. It will meet there another craft.

Till she had thrown that little brooch into the sea, she had been persistently unlucky at play.

“Your friend,” murmured Madame Cagliostra, now addressing herself to Anna and not to Sylvia, “should dispossess herself as quickly as possible of her necklace, of these round balls. They have already brought her ill-fortune in the past, they have lowered her in the estimation of an estimable person⁠—in fact, if she is not very careful, indeed, even if she be very careful⁠—it looks to me, Madame, as if they would end by strangling her!”

Sylvia became very uncomfortable. “Of course she means my pearls,” she whispered. “But how absurd to say they could ever do me harm.”

“Look here,” said Anna Wolsky earnestly, “you are quite right, Madame; my friend has a necklace which has already played a certain part in her life. But is it not just because of this fact that you feel the influence of this necklace so strongly? I entreat you to speak frankly. You are really distressing me very much!”

Madame Cagliostra looked very seriously at the speaker.

“Well, perhaps it is so,” she said at last. “Of course, we are sometimes wrong in our premonitions. And I confess that I feel puzzled⁠—exceedingly puzzled⁠—today. I do not know that I have ever had so strange a case as that of this English lady before me! I see so many roads stretching before her⁠—I also see her going along more than one road.

“I ask you, Madame, to leave Lacville! I ask permission to tell you frankly and plainly that it is not a place to which you ought to have been brought.”

He spoke with great emphasis.

Sylvia looked up at him. She was bewildered, and though not exactly offended, rather hurt.

“But why?” she asked plaintively. “Why should I not stay at Lacville?”

“Oh, well, there can be no harm in your staying on a few days if you are desirous of doing so. But Lacville is not a place where I should care for my own sister to come and stay.” He went on, speaking much quicker⁠—“Indeed, I will say more! I will tell you that Lacville may seem a paradise to you, but that it is a paradise full of snakes.”

“Snakes?” repeated Sylvia slowly. “You mean, of course, human snakes?”

He bowed gravely.

“Every town where reigns the Goddess of play attracts reptiles, Madame, as the sun attracts lizards! It is not the game that does so, or even the love of play in the Goddess’s victims; no, it is the love of gold!”

There was a pause, and another knock. Then it was not Anna?

“Entrez!”

The commissionaire by whom Sylvia had sent her note to Madame Wolsky walked into the room. To her great surprise he handed her back her own letter to her friend. The envelope had been opened, and together with her letter was a sheet of common notepaper, across which was scrawled, in pencil, the words, “Madame Wolsky est partie.”

Sylvia looked up. “Partie?” The word puzzled her. Surely it should have been “Sortie.” Perhaps Anna had gone to Paris for the day to bank her large winnings. “Then the lady was out?” she said to the man.

“The lady has left the Pension Malfait,” he said, briefly. “She has gone away.”

“There must be some mistake!” Sylvia exclaimed, in French. “My friend would never have left Lacville without telling me.”

The commissionaire went on: “But I have brought back a motor-cab as Madame directed me to do.”

She paid him, and went downstairs hurriedly. What an extraordinary mistake! It was out of the question that Anna should have left Lacville without telling her; but as the motor was there she might as well drive to the Pension Malfait and find out the meaning of the curt message, and also why her own letter to Anna had been opened.

If Anna had gone into Paris for the day, the only thing to do was to go for a drive alone. The prospect was not exhilarating, but it would be better than staying indoors, or even in the garden by herself, all afternoon.