‘What’s that?’ he asked sharply, of a salesman in white.

’Order for orange-blossom, sir.  A single sprig only.  Rather a curious order, sir.’

‘You can supply it?’

‘Without doubt, sir.’

‘Who is the customer?’

‘Mr. Francis Tudor,’ replied the salesman, looking at a paper.  ’No. 7, the Flats.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said; and thought:  ‘My life is over.’

He gazed with unseeing eyes into the green and shady recesses of the palmarium, where water trickled and tinkled.

What was the power, the influence, the lever, which Francis Tudor was using to induce Camilla to marry him—­him whom, on her own statement, she did not love?  And could Louis Ravengar be in earnest, after all, with his savage threats?

CHAPTER IX

‘WHICH?’

‘And when I decide, the thing is as good as done.’  Those proud, vain words of his, spoken to Louis Ravengar with all the arrogance of a man who had never met Fate like a lion in the path, often recurred to Hugo’s mind during the next few weeks.  And their futility exasperated him.  He had decided to win Camilla, and therefore Camilla was as good as won!  Only, she had been married on the very morning of those boastful words by license at a registry-office to Francis Tudor.  The strange admixture of orange-blossom and registry-office was not the only strange thing about the wedding.  It was clear, for example, that Tudor must have arranged the preliminaries of the ceremony before the bride’s consent had been obtained—­unless, indeed, Camilla had garbled the truth to Hugo on the previous night; and Hugo did not believe this to be possible.

Albert Shawn had brought the news hour by hour to Hugo.

After the wedding, the pair drove to Mr. Tudor’s flat, where Senior
Polycarp paid them a brief visit.

Then Hugo received by messenger a note from Tudor formally regretting that his wife had left her employment without due notice, and enclosing a cheque for the amount of a month’s wages in lieu thereof.

And then Mr. and Mrs. Tudor had departed for Paris by the two-twenty Folkstone-Boulogne service from Charing Cross.  And the gorgeous flat was shut up.

Albert Shawn had respectfully inquired whether there remained anything else to be done in the affair, far more mysterious to Albert than it was even to Hugo.

‘No,’ Hugo had said shortly.

He was Hugo, with extraordinary resources at hand, but a quite ordinary circumstance, such as ten minutes spent in a registry-office, will sometimes outweigh all the resources in the world when the success of a scheme hangs in the balance.

What could he do, in London or in Paris, civilized and police-ridden cities?

Civilization left him but one thing to do—­to acknowledge his defeat, and to mourn the incomparable beauty and the distinguished spirit which had escaped his passionate grasp.  And to this acknowledgment and this mourning he was reduced, feeling that he was no longer Hugo.