He went on as far as the Opéra, for he knew from his mother that
Margaret's rehearsals were taking place there, by the kindness of the
director, who was on very friendly terms with Schreiermeyer. But the
motor was not to be seen. Logotheti, who could hardly have entered
disguised as his own chauffeur, and who would not leave the machine
unguarded in the street, had possibly left Margaret at the door and
gone away. Lushington got off his bicycle and went in under the covered
way to the stage door.
In answer to his questions, the keeper told him that Mademoiselle da
Cordova was rehearsing, and would probably not come out for at least
two hours. Lushington asked the man whether he had seen Logotheti. No,
he had not; he knew Monsieur Logotheti very well; he knew all the
subscribers, and particularly all those who were members of the 'high
finance.' Besides, every one in Paris knew Monsieur Logotheti by sight;
every one knew him as well as the column in the Place Vendôme. He had
not been seen that morning. The door-keeper, who had absolutely nothing
to do just at that hour, was willing to talk; but he had nothing of
importance to say. Monsieur Logotheti came sometimes to rehearsals. A
few days ago he and Mademoiselle da Cordova had left the theatre
together. The keeper smiled, and ventured to suppose that Mademoiselle
da Cordova was 'protected' by the 'financier.' Lushington flushed
angrily and went away.
It had come already, then; what the man had said this morning, he would
say to-morrow and the next day, to any one who cared to listen,
including the second-class reporters who go to underlings for
information; Margaret's name was already coupled with that of a
millionaire who was supposed to protect her. Ten days ago, she had been
unassailable, a 'lady'--Lushington did not particularly like the
word--a young English girl of honourable birth, protected by no less a
personage than Mrs. Rushmore, and defended from calumny by that very
powerful organisation for mutual defence under all circumstances, which
calls itself society, which wields most of the capital of the world,
rewards its humble friends with its patronage and generally kills or
ruins its enemies. That was ten days ago. Now, the 'lady' had become an
'artist,' and was public property. The stage doorkeeper of a theatre
could smilingly suggest that she was the property of a financier, and
no one had a right to hit him between the eyes for saying so.
Lushington had been strongly tempted to do that, but he had instantly
foreseen the consequences; he would have been arrested for an
unprovoked assault, the man would have told his story, the papers would
have repeated it with lively comments, and Margaret's name would have
been dragged through the mud of a newspaper scandal. So Lushington put
his hands in his pockets and went away, which was by far the wisest
thing he could do.