The monster of Grammont

By George Goodchild

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The monster of Grammont
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The monster of Grammont

Author: George Goodchild


        
Release date: May 28, 2026 [eBook #78776]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Mystery League, Inc., 1930

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78776

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONSTER OF GRAMMONT ***




 THE MONSTER
 OF GRAMMONT

 BY
 GEORGE GOODCHILD




 THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, INC.
 PUBLISHERS 1930 NEW YORK




 [COPYRIGHT]

 COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY
 THE MYSTERY LEAGUE, Inc.
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 FIRST EDITION




 CONTENTS

 I. Ghosts
 II. A Delay
 III. The Monster
 IV. Fouchard
 V. Baffled
 VI. The Unexpected
 VII. Bertha
 VIII. Suspense
 IX. Counterplot
 X. Theories
 XI. The Crimson Trail
 XII. The Second Victim
 XIII. The Conspirators
 XIV. A Night of Terror
 XV. The Coup
 XVI. Bondage
 XVII. Wallace Escapes
 XVIII. Wallace Has a Little Luck
 XIX. Blind Alleys
 XX. Bertha Is Scared
 XXI. A Proposal
 XXII. The Meeting
 XXIII. A Call for Help
 XXIV. Check!
 XXV. The Final Blow
 XXVI. Yolande’s Ordeal
 XXVII. The Book
 XXVIII. Prisoners
 XXIX. The Fuse
 XXX. The Count
 XXXI. Conclusion




 CHAPTER I.
 GHOSTS

The bronzed, healthy-looking driver of the Bentley car put his foot
harder on the accelerator pedal, and averted his head to hear the
crackle of the exhaust as the sleek automobile sped along the
undulating tree-lined Route Nationale. For the past three hours that
white, arrow-like road had held his eyes, and he was “killing” it as
fast as safety would permit, for main routes at the best were inclined
to be monotonous.

While the speedometer needle wavered between the sixties and seventies
his travelling companion was endeavouring to find their exact position
on a large-scale French road map, a feat of considerable difficulty
for which the execrable road surface was largely responsible.

“Steady, old man!” he said, as the wheels struck a deep cassis,
causing a jarring of springs and a slight dither in the steering.
“This isn’t Brooklands.”

“It’s about as unlovely. We’ll cut off at the next turning.”

Speed was reduced as bad _pavé_ was encountered on the outskirts of a
straggling village. It was exactly like a dozen others passed through
that morning--two rows of tall, bare houses, with lime-washed walls
and green shutters, a café, a comestible, and a pump surrounded by
ample troughs, at which a few women were engaged in washing clothes.
At the far end were two garages, each provided with a red petrol-pump
bearing the familiar word “_Essence_,” the price in the one case being
ten francs, and in the other ten francs fifty centimes, for what was
precisely the same brand of fuel.

“Wonderful folk!” said the driver.

The car almost leaped the last ten yards of appalling _pavé_, and
seemed to purr with satisfaction as the tyres found a better surface.
On either hand sunlit fields stretched away to a hazy horizon, and
here and there blue-bloused peasants were making the first hay. But
periodically war-scars came to view, for it was the summer of 1920,
and but a bare two years since the Germans made their last retreat
that was to end five years of unmitigated horror.

The elder man folded up his map and placed it beside him. He was of
smaller build than his young companion, and, judging from his face, of
a more complaisant temperament. But, like the driver, he bore all the
signs of abundant health and vitality. The pair had brought the car
across the Channel a few days before, with the object of making a
month’s tour of north and mid-France. No route had been laid down, and
more often than not they slept in towns they had had no intention of
visiting.

“Ralph!”

The driver averted his head.

“Turn left beyond the bridge. There’s a road that appears to go right
through the forest.”

The car slowed down, and the acute bend was taken. Soon it was evident
that the change of direction was justified. The first blush of summer
lay over everything, and the dust-laden trees of the Route Nationale
gave place to the rich, rain-washed hues of early June. The serpentine
road became a joy, for it held surprises at every bend and pleaded for
less speed and more appreciation.

Ralph Wallace banished his tense expression, and displayed his strong,
white teeth in a smile. Speed-hog as he was, he was not so abandoned
as not to be able to appreciate the natural joys of the quiet and
refulgent by-ways. Lately he had had a surfeit of speed--a luxury that
the straight roads of France offer to young “bloods” who own a
ninety-miles-an-hour car.

“Give me a cigarette, Connie,” he begged.

Julian Conrad, the passenger, handed over the required article and
lighted it in Wallace’s mouth, for the Bentley was now ambling along
at a cycle pace. As Conrad turned his head one might have noticed a
thin, straight scar extending from the corner of the left eye to the
edge of the firm mouth. But the surgeon had made a neat job of it, and
the sun had browned his skin to such an extent that this memento of
the war could only be seen at close range.

The delightful road began to ascend, and on the right of it the land
slipped away gradually, forming a verdant valley in which were
scattered a few farms. Here and there were cattle, but in small
numbers. It was chickens that predominated. Every farm seemed to
thrive on poultry, and what cattle there were appeared to be thin and
out of condition. After half an hour’s pleasant amble the road reached
the summit of the long incline. A gap in the immediate timber brought
to view one of the pleasantest vistas yet encountered. A mile or so in
the distance was a beautiful château--a dream of architectural
beauty, gleaming white amid the many shades of green, built on the
edge of a great chasm.

“Stop a moment,” said Conrad, laying his hand on that of his
companion’s. “By Jove, I had no idea we were in this district.”

“What district?”

“The Marne. I know that place quite well--I ought to.”

“You mean the château?”

“Yes--the Château Grammont. I must have mentioned it to you at some
time or other.”

“You may have, but I have the rottenest memory for names.”

The eyes of Conrad were filled with a new light. A short time ago he
had been dreaming lazily--drinking in the natural beauties of the
country in subconscious fashion. Now into his mind had come something
stirring--vital. The lips became compressed for a few seconds. Then
they opened again, and a little sigh escaped him, for the memories
that were revived by the fair sight before him were very mixed.
Wallace looked at him interrogatively.

“It’s just the same as it was when I saw it--four years ago. Dropping
on it like this, in June sunlight, with the birds singing, stirs one a
bit.”

“You know it?”

“Yes. I spent what I think was the happiest month of my life there.”

“Ah, the war?”

“Yes--the war. We had been knocked to pieces twenty miles farther
north. Jove, that was a ruddy business. I was laid out at the end of
it. No wound of any sort--just sheer fatigue. I was on the way to an
absolute breakdown when they sent me down for a rest. I had no idea I
was going to a place like that. There was a score or so of us in
all--slight wounds and knock-outs. We each had a month in which to
recuperate--and we did. It was quite a voluntary business. The owner
of the château was a Monsieur Fallières. I think he had a title, but
at any rate he never used it. He had been rendered unfit for further
service in the earlier campaign, and gave up half his wonderful home
to the cause. Everything was gratis and _ad lib_. We played tennis,
bowls, badminton, rode fine horses in the Forêt de Grammont-- It was
all done with such grace, too. We were just members of a house-party,
and madame and her daughters were as charming as if we had known them
for half a century.”

“They still lived there?”

“Yes. There were two little girls of seven and eight, and another,
named Yolande, who I think was sixteen. She was at school somewhere on
the coast, but was home on holiday at that period. We used to pet her
a lot. I hope we didn’t spoil her.”

“I expect you did--if she was pretty.”

“She was pretty enough--not the conventional prettiness, either. I
often thought I would like to paint her. Well, thank God their fine
old home was saved to them.”

“Did the line never reach as far as that?”

“Later, I believe; but all the pressure was taken off this sector. I
think I read that the Germans held the château for some months, and
then the line was pushed back. You were lucky to have missed that
bloody business, Ralph.”

“You are making me wonder whether I was lucky,” said Wallace, with a
laugh. “Another six months and I should have had a taste of it. I
remember I nearly wept with regret when the Armistice found me doing
foot-drill and ‘physical jerks’ on Salisbury Plain.”

“No book that will ever be written can convey to you half the misery,
horror, and suffering. These little diversions gain all their beauty
by comparison with the background against which they stand. Well, here
we are again in God’s peace and sunshine. Men must be mad ever to give
them up.”

“I’ve often told you you have missed your vocation in life, Conrad,”
said Wallace. “You ought to have entered the Church. Of course, I
quite agree with you, but the fact is that most young men feel they
ought to be allowed to act like savages before they adopt the only
possible point of view towards legalised murder. I’m getting a bit
hungry, aren’t you?”

“I’m past that stage. I remember there is a fair-sized town about
twenty kilometres farther on. I’ll consult the map. This road ought to
lead somewhere.”

Wallace got the car moving again. They were presumably still in the
Forêt de Grammont, and the road narrowed until there was not room for
another vehicle to pass; but, since they had met nothing for the past
hour, Wallace did not worry greatly about this. His mind was divided
equally between the beautiful woodland scenery and the behaviour of
the car. It was a recent acquisition, and pleased him immensely, for
he had an engineering mind. He loved to feel the smooth output of
power, the easy and complete control. A squeak or the slightest
foreign mechanical noise would have brought him flat on his back, or
executing a half somersault to solve the mystery.

“Can’t find the road at all,” muttered Conrad. “That’s the worst of
French maps--always unreliable.”

At that moment two riders came to view. One was a man of about fifty
and the other a pretty woman who bore so striking a resemblance to the
man that Wallace concluded immediately she was his daughter. They were
coming in the direction of the car, and it was obvious that there was
not sufficient room for them to pass with safety. Wallace promptly put
his near-side wheels into the ditch and waited, which act of roadside
courtesy was acknowledged when the riders got level with the car.
Wallace was admiring the well-groomed mounts, and the poise of the
riders, when he realised that the man had stopped and was gazing
intently at Conrad.

“And how does Major Conrad find France after this long absence?” he
asked with a smile.

Conrad dropped the map in his surprise, and then slowly his eyes
brightened with recognition.

“Monsieur Fallières!” he exclaimed. “I should not have recognised you
had you not spoken. This is a most pleasant surprise. Until a few
minutes ago I had no idea we were within twenty miles of the Château
Grammont. How do you do, sir?”

He stood up and grasped the extended hand with obvious pleasure.

“You remember Yolande?” asked Fallières.

“Yolande!” Conrad blushed a little as he removed his hat and bowed
towards the beautiful girl. “Surely this cannot be the young lady who
used to----”

“--who used to tease you so much,” she added with a smile. “Yes, I
remember you now quite well, but all the credit is due to my father,
who never forgets a face.”

“Well, well, it is a very happy meeting. I have so often recalled the
enjoyable time I spent at the château when things were so different.
But allow me to introduce my friend--Mr. Ralph Wallace. A few minutes
ago I was speaking of you.”

Wallace shook hands from the driver’s seat. He could now understand
what Conrad had meant about Yolande’s beauty not being conventional.
She was dark, like her father, and a trifle pallid, but her features
were perfectly moulded and well balanced. She sat her horse as a woman
does who spends most of her days in the saddle, and smiled at him with
her eyes rather than with her mouth.

“Are you aware that your car is headed for an almost impassable
marsh?” she asked.

“I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, we are exploring. Mr. Conrad is
supposed to be the pilot, but I am afraid he is not thoroughly
qualified. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that we are trespassing.”

“You are on private property. The public road through the Forêt is
three miles back. But, if you like to risk the marsh, you can join the
other road farther on.”

“Don’t let my daughter tempt you to such a disastrous act, monsieur,”
put in Fallières. “No car can cross the marsh. Besides, I am going to
insist that you and my old friend join us at _déjeuner_.”

“Really!”

“Yes, yes,” put in Yolande. “We are only ten minutes from the
château, and you must lunch somewhere, mustn’t you?”

“I think we may consider the matter settled,” said Fallières. “If you
will drive the car another hundred yards you will find a place where
you can turn it. We will lead the way.”

The horses were walked past, and a few minutes later the car was
following them through the leafy glade. Conrad was still chuckling at
the coincidence.

“He has changed a lot,” he said. “Looks more than ten years older. He
did not mention madame. I wonder----”

“So that is Yolande!” mused Wallace.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have known her. By Jove, her beauty hasn’t deserted
her; but she looks rather pensive. In the old days she was like
quicksilver--so animated. I flatter myself I taught her how to
pronounce an English ‘r.’”

The château came to view through a long avenue. It was of Norman
architecture, and situated on the crest of a sharp rise, from where it
commanded a fine view of the country round about. Its four white
turrets gleamed in the sunlight, and as they approached it the massive
surrounding walls commanded their attention. Its size was deceptive
seen from a distance, for there was plenty of space about it, which
had the effect of dwarfing its enormous dimensions.

“Quite a feudal affair,” said Wallace.

“Yes, one of the finest in France. Fallières is enormously rich.”

“What is the quaint building at the end?”

“The chapel. Jove, how familiar it all seems! Yes, the old place has
suffered a bit. I can see signs of renovation. The chapel appears to
have had a new roof.”

Arrived outside the main entrance, the horses were taken by a groom.

“Welcome to the Château Grammont,” said Fallières to Wallace. “There
is a garage near the stables, but perhaps you would like to leave the
car here. It is quite shady.”

Wallace agreed, and he and Conrad went to remove some of the dust they
had gathered. The place had been brought up to date in every respect.
A power plant supplied electricity, and there were modern fittings
everywhere, and a plentiful supply of hot water. Notwithstanding,
there was nothing incongruous. All that was necessarily modern was
well concealed. It was evident that Fallières took a pride in this
magnificent place--a veritable storehouse for the antiquarian, and a
realm sacred to the soul of an architect. Young Wallace, brought up in
an atmosphere far different, felt just a trifle overawed.

“The place must have a hundred rooms,” he ejaculated. “Hold me,
Conrad, or I’ll lose myself.”

“It is enormous, but Fallières is doing good work in using his wealth
to preserve this for the nation. Look, we used to play tennis out
there. That’s a fine court--the fastest I’ve ever played on.”

Wallace moistened his lips. At sports he excelled, having got his blue
at Oxford some years before. He was reckoned to be one of the best
middle-weight amateur boxers in the kingdom, and had to his credit the
hundred yards and the high-jump records of his college.

Lunch proved to be a most pleasant affair. It was inevitable that
Fallières should revive the past, and, although Wallace had thought
he had heard quite enough about the war, he found himself listening to
the conversation with considerable interest, for, in this very room
where they now sat, German officers had eaten their fill, and there
was little doubt that many a dreadful deed had been perpetrated within
those surrounding walls.

“Well, it is all past, father,” said Yolande. “And we have suffered
less than some.”

“Yes--less than some. One life in a family of five,” he said sadly.
“We did not expect it, for we had so long been immune. There were
rumours, but I disregarded them. Then, in the middle of the night,
there was terrible gunfire, and shells fell quite near. Retreating
troops passed, and we were told to flee at once. The line was broken
and the Germans were sweeping forward.… Yolande was away at school,
but I and my other two children and their dear mother left by car; the
servants as best they could. The roads were under fire and the car
broke down. In that terrible ordeal we lost the dearest woman in the
world----”

“Madame!” murmured Conrad.

He nodded and bent his head, but in an instant he raised it again,
with the light of pride in his fine eyes.

“There are things we must accept, messieurs. Shall we take coffee on
the terrace? It affords a splendid view of the valley.”

They adjourned to the wide terrace at the back of the château. From
there the land fell away abruptly, and the château was heavily
buttressed against a possible landslide. Across the verdant valley
wound a small river, entering the dark forest half a mile farther on.
It was a sight most pleasing to the eye, and it was almost impossible
to imagine that the ghastly game of war had ever been played there.

“May I see your car?” enquired Yolande of Wallace. “I am very
interested in cars, and we see few English ones here.”

Wallace was on his feet in an instant. Though modest of his own
achievements, he was enormously proud of the car. They left Conrad and
Fallières taking a second liqueur.




 CHAPTER II.
 A DELAY

Wallace had invariably found that the task of explaining any sort of
mechanism to a woman was a most thankless one. He would not have been
at all surprised if the beautiful Yolande had asked him what all the
dials on the dash were for, and he did not for a moment expect her to
evince any interest in what lay under the bonnet of the car. Pleased
as he was to show her his toy, it was not his sole reason for leaving
Conrad and Fallières talking about the past.

Yolande herself was the other reason. All through the excellent
luncheon he had found his gaze drawn to the oval, dark face of the
girl, and it had set him wondering what was the cause of her obvious
discomposure. The long eyelashes had a habit of coming down and almost
obscuring the soft, romantic eyes, and she would sit motionless for
quite a few seconds, until some remark of her father’s awakened her to
consciousness of her immediate surroundings. Notwithstanding, he felt
that she was not naturally pensive and pallid. There had been moments
when the eyes moved quickly, flashing like rare jewels in the sunlight
that streamed through the casement windows. Certainly this girl was
arrestive and fascinating in many respects.

She now stood a few yards from the car, admiring its rakish lines.
Then, to his positive amazement, she put quite a technical question
about the engine, and begged him to lift the bonnet. Her interest and
enthusiasm were called forth immediately, and she fired off questions,
as rapidly as a machine-gun, about torque, engine-balance,
compression, and what not. Wallace, who already knew his “baby,” from
back axle to radiator, found the keenest enjoyment in explaining every
detail.

“Beautiful!” she said. “I think I should like to have one like it. Our
present car is quite a good one, but too big for me. The chauffeur is
away with it now, taking my two sisters to school. There was an
epidemic, and they were sent home.”

“What make is it?”

“A Hispano-Suiza.”

“You won’t find anything much better than that.”

“But I want something of my own; something to get chummy--that’s the
word--something to get chummy with.”

“Your command of English is wonderful.”

“We have had so many chances of practising it. During the war we had
hundreds of English officers here. One could not help learning
English.”

“I suppose not. But, tell me, aren’t you a little lonely here--so far
from any big city?”

For a moment she did not answer, but turned her eyes upwards to where
the time-worn château walls towered in the blue. Then she smiled as a
young bird fluttered from the ivy that climbed over the western
turret.

“At times--perhaps,” she murmured. “My father has not yet quite
recovered from the loss of my--my mother, and I do not go about so
much as I might. I think I remind him of my mother, and it helps in a
way. Of course, we have house-parties at times. At least, we did have
until-- Tell me, is Mr. Conrad just a friend or a relative?”

“A friend--a kind of guardian, though there isn’t a great difference
in our ages--now. It was curious how we came together. My father was a
colonel in the artillery, and Conrad got a commission in the same
corps. For two years they were always together, and got to be very
real friends. I was at school in England at the time. Then a chance
shell killed my father. Connie--I always call him that--Connie was
with him when he died. Of course, he knew all about me, and he told my
father not to worry on my account, and promised to be a sort of
guardian to me. Well, he has been all that and more. Fortunately my
father was a man of means, so there was never any economic problem,
but Connie was always on hand to get me out of any scrape, and I’ve
been in a few. He’s just the best kind of fellow that ever was--a
man’s man, if you understand. Connie never preached. When at times I
used to play the fool, Connie used to make me feel pretty small, and
all in about six words. I remember once I acted like a goat. I knew it
all the time, and yet I refused to admit it and pretty nearly
alienated myself completely. Lord, Connie came up to the scratch at
the last moment. He got my thoughts absolutely. ‘You’re fuming, my
lad, because you know I know what an ass you are,’ he said. ‘You’re
aching to take it out of me. Well, come on!’ Before I knew what had
happened he had hit me in the face and was framing up in pugilistic
fashion. I fancied myself at that game, and his blow hurt. I went for
him good and well. For half an hour we knocked each other about, but I
couldn’t get anything over him, and all the while I was having it
knocked into me what an ungrateful little pup I was. We’ve never
quarrelled since. I say, forgive me telling you all this. It must be
awfully boring.”

“It is very interesting,” she said. “I think I like him more than ever
now.”

“No one could help it,” he replied simply. “He’s an engineer by
profession--turbines--and I’m part of the concern. I really yearned to
be a professional racing motorist, but Connie wouldn’t hear of it. No
doubt he was wise.”

“I am sure he was.”

“Anyway, we get on awfully well, and have many a ding-dong battle at
tennis or golf. He’s pretty good at all games.”

She measured him up with her eyes as if to intimate that he, too,
ought to shine in that respect, in which she was not wrong. Then they
wandered into the flower-garden, where they met Fallières and Conrad.
Time passed all too quickly, and they were surprised to find it was
four o’clock.

“We shall certainly have to leave if we are to make Rheims this
evening,” said Conrad.

“It is not a good road,” put in Yolande. “For fifty miles it is full
of pot-holes.”

They ultimately entered the car, and then a peculiar thing happened.
The engine refused to start. Wallace stroked his chin and looked at
the various controls.

“Plenty of petrol?” asked Conrad.

“Half a tank. That’s curious. I’ve never known her jib before.”

He jumped out and lifted the bonnet. So far as he could see there was
nothing wrong, but when he tested the plugs he discovered that no
current was passing. For half an hour he tinkered about with leads and
plugs--all in vain.

“Well, I’m beaten!” he ejaculated. “She has run faultlessly for five
thousand miles, and then suddenly goes on strike. I suppose there is
no garage within reasonable distance?”

“None,” replied Fallières. “I doubt if it is possible to get anything
done to-night. There is really no reliable garage between here and
Rheims. I could telephone there, but I doubt if a man would come
before the morning.”

“I’ll fix it somehow,” said Wallace desperately. “Take a walk, Connie,
and leave it to me.”

“I think a cup of tea might be more acceptable,” suggested Yolande. “I
will get some prepared. When you have solved your problem, Mr.
Wallace, you will find us on the terrace.”

Half an hour later Wallace joined the tea-party, looking very
disgusted. The car had beaten him. Nothing would induce it to start,
and he felt his ignominy greatly.

“You are all hot and bothered,” said Yolande. “Drink this tea and
accept the inevitable. What does it matter? You may as well stay the
night here as in Rheims.”

“Certainly,” agreed her father. “I will telephone to Rheims and get a
good electrician here early to-morrow morning. May we call that
settled?”

“It is extremely kind of you,” replied Conrad. “I do hope it will not
inconvenience you.”

“It will afford us considerable pleasure.”

Wallace echoed his friend’s thanks, and later went to help some of the
servants push the car into the garage. He was not greatly disappointed
in the change of plan, but the mysterious trouble with the car got on
his nerves. It was his baby. Coming downstairs before dinner, he
strolled into the garden trying to think of a possible solution. His
meandering brought him within sight of the garage. The door was slid
back, and he caught a glimpse of a light skirt near the car.

Considerably puzzled, he walked closer, his footsteps being muffled by
the velvety lawn. Now the owner of the skirt came clearly to view. It
was Yolande, and she was engaged in tinkering with the switchbox.
Before his eyes she changed two wires on their terminals and put the
cover back. The next moment she turned and saw him.

“Putting the car right?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes. I--” Her face went crimson with embarrassment, as she realised
from his expression that he correctly divined what she had been up to.
“There--is nothing wrong,” she stammered.

“Nothing wrong!”

“I mean--” She faced him boldly. “I mean that I put it wrong in order
to prevent your going.”

“I don’t understand why. It is extremely pleasant here, but, all the
same----”

“I will explain. Come yonder.”

She led him to a seat in a sheltered nook on the northern side of the
château, and for some moments gazed pensively at the falling shadows.
It was clear to him that, despite her outward control, she was
agitated, but about what he could not imagine.

“It looks calm here, does it not?” she asked.

“Delightful.”

“It is all a delusion. I am terribly afraid--and so is my father. Yet
we are not frank with each other. He believes that I am ignorant
of--of certain occurrences, and, out of love for me, he wants to keep
me ignorant. But I know. I discovered years ago. The servants talk
among themselves, too. No one could live here and remain ignorant.”

“What is it that frightens you?”

“A form--a horrid, gaunt form that periodically seems to get active.
It makes strange noises--noises not human.”

Wallace felt like smiling, for he had not an ounce of superstition in
his make-up. It was the sort of story one might expect to hear of an
ancient château enclosed in a dense forest, and yet Yolande was not
the type of woman one would imagine to be hysterical.

“Has anyone ever seen this--apparition?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Severin the butler--and I.”

“You! When?”

“When I first left school--nearly two years ago. I never locked the
door of my room, because I was always afraid of fire. One night I was
awakened from sleep by a sound. The moonlight was streaming through
the window, and illumined by it was a horrid shape. It was standing
erect, not two yards from my bed, and nearly reached the ceiling. It
was like a monk, with a kind of cowl over the head. All I saw except
the cowl and gown were two awful eyes, and hands like talons. Ugh!”

She shuddered at the memory of this incident, and seemed to get a
little closer to him, for darkness was coming down.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“I tried to scream, but could not utter a sound. Paralysed with
fright, I watched the thing turn and disappear through the door.”

“It wasn’t imagination?”

“No--no!”

“And you did not tell your father?”

“No. I thought he would laugh at me. But on another occasion I heard
queer noises in the corridor. I slipped out of bed and unlocked my
door. I saw my father, looking pale, creeping along the corridor with
a pistol in his hand. As soon as he saw me he hid the pistol and tried
to behave as if nothing was amiss. Many servants leave us. Severin
does not say why, but he is staunch and does not want this evil thing
made public gossip.”

“Has the château a reputation for being haunted? I mean, is it a
tradition?”

“Oh, yes. The first Marquis of Grammont was murdered in his bed
centuries ago. There was a volume of records in the library, and some
old manuscripts concerning the history of the château, but the
Germans stole them before they left, as they did many other things.”

“When did you come here?”

“Shortly before the war. The old Grammont family became defunct, and
the estate came into the market. My father inherited great wealth from
my grandfather, who had a big ironworks in Lorraine. He wanted to
preserve this lovely old place. We heard about its being haunted, but
paid no attention to it. Often we heard strange noises, but it is only
of recent date that our lives have been made unbearable. My poor
father is ageing under the strain, but he is courageous and will not
give up his stewardship.”

“It all sounds so fantastic that one scarcely knows what to say,” he
mused. “I have never come into contact with such a thing before, and
you must pardon my scepticism.”

“It is natural that you should think me imaginative, but what I am
telling you is true. Have you noticed anything strange about the
appointments of the château?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, there are no mirrors in any of the reception-rooms. As fast as
we put them in they are smashed.”

“Smashed!”

“Yes. We noticed it first after the Germans had been here. Every
mirror was smashed and the pieces taken away. We thought the enemy
troops had done it to provide themselves with shaving mirrors, but,
when they were replaced, one by one they were smashed again.”

“How strange!”

“Then there is something worse. Things are befouled with muck and mud,
as if some monster hated bright and beautiful things. Severin usually
manages to remove these signs early in the morning, but I discovered
it. We had a big house-party last autumn. It ended abruptly. I--I
can’t go into details. It is too disgusting.”

“This is the strangest story I have ever heard. You do not think there
is any danger to--to life or limb?”

“I don’t know. If this monster is of the supernatural, it might not
have the power to harm us, but----”

“You have doubts.”

“Well, less than a year ago a servant on the estate was found dead in
the forest. There was no mark of violence on his body, and it was
concluded that he died from heart failure, but close to where the body
was found there was a huge footprint--a monstrous thing nearly
fourteen inches long. The police were puzzled, but they could find no
other. The verdict was inevitable, but I am sure that poor man saw the
Monster face to face and died from shock.”

She narrated this in a voice that was quite calm, and it would have
given the biggest sceptic pause. But the healthy-minded Wallace still
found it difficult to accept these alleged facts.

“You have never seen this form--this monster--since that night years
ago?” he asked.

“Not until to-day.”

“To-day!”

“I caught a glimpse of it this morning in the northern gallery just
before we went riding--the gowned and hooded figure, and the two
baleful eyes. I seemed to read in them a warning. It’s no use, I can’t
explain, but I feel--I know--that some tragedy is pending. When we met
you so unexpectedly and you came here, I could not resist the
temptation to do--what I did. You are two strong men--and I wanted
help. There are other men in the servants’ hall, but they are far
away, and they are faint-hearted, except Severin. And he is growing
old now.”

“I see. I wish we were in a position to aid you. It would give me the
greatest joy in the world to fall up against this queer person. But
that sort of thing never happens when you want it. Don’t you think it
would be wise to confide in your father, and urge him to notify the
police?”

“Yes. I fear it must come to that. But there was no time to-day. I
will speak to him to-night.”

“In the meantime, am I to regard this as confidential? There is my
friend Conrad. He has not the slightest idea of these strange
happenings.”

“Please do not tell him,” she begged. “I would not have told you but
for the fact that you discovered me tampering with your car. Can you
forgive me?”

“Don’t worry about that. If our presence here gives you the slightest
sense of security, we are more than happy to be here.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later the gong sounded, and Wallace led Yolande in to
dinner.




 CHAPTER III.
 THE MONSTER

The party was waited on by two pretty French maids, while Monsieur
Severin served the wine. The latter interested Wallace. He was
somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age, with a cadaverous face
and small, bird-like eyes. Although he fulfilled his functions
perfectly, he had a habit of constantly looking over his shoulder,
which detracted from his deportment considerably. Having heard what he
had heard, Wallace could not do other than ascribe these frequent
nervous acts to the Monster. Severin evidently expected him
everywhere. He was like a man at his last gasp, hiding his terror by a
commendable effort of will.

“We must give Severin a rest,” said Fallières. “I am afraid he is
approaching a nervous breakdown.”

“Has he been with you long?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, yes. Nearly twenty-five years now. An excellent fellow, and a
connoisseur in wines.”

“I can quite believe that,” said Conrad, as he lifted his glass.

“There! I quite forgot to telephone to Rheims about the car,” said
Fallières. “I will do so immediately after dinner.”

“You need not bother,” put in Wallace. “The car is in going order.”

“You have discovered the trouble?”

“Mademoiselle and I--between us. It was nothing much.”

“Splendid! These trivial accidents are very annoying.”

“Talking about accidents,” said Conrad, “I regret that I have had one
in my room. Rather an inexplicable one, too.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No damage to myself--but to your property, monsieur. I can’t imagine
how it happened. I went to the bathroom, and on returning found the
dressing-table mirror shattered to atoms. It was lying on the floor,
and seemed to have suffered a severe blow. The window was open, but
there was no wind that could have blown so heavy an article to the
floor.”

The face of Fallières went pallid, and Yolande started noticeably.
Conrad was evidently at a loss to understand this rather strange
reception.

“It--it is of no consequence whatever,” stammered Fallières, after a
brief pause. Then, recovering his equanimity, “This is an unfortunate
place for mirrors, Mr. Conrad. We do not seem to be able to keep a
mirror intact for more than a few weeks. There seems to be an evil
spirit here who hates them.”

“Well, it means seven years’ bad luck for me, anyhow,” replied Conrad
with a laugh. “I suppose you find your family quite small now that
your two younger children are away?”

“_Too_ small. I like to have young people about me. I like their
laughter--their high spirits. I am a little concerned about Yolande,
too. I fear it is not much of a life for a young woman, imprisoned in
a kind of hermitage.”

“Father!” remonstrated Yolande. “You know I love the château, and the
beautiful country.”

“Because it is home to you. I wish you would go away for a period. A
change is good for everyone. There is Uncle Bernard at Nice and your
cousins----”

“You know we never get on together. Are you anxious to be rid of me,
father?”

He smiled and touched her arm affectionately, then he decided to
confide a little in his guests.

“To be quite frank, there is something a little strange about the
château. If I were a superstitious man I should put the estate into
the market and seek for a place that was less charged with the spirits
of the past, but I am rational enough to set at defiance strange signs
and warnings----”

“Warnings!” said Conrad.

“One might interpret them as such. Now, Yolande, I am making your
flesh creep.”

“It has crept before now,” she said, with a wan smile. “I know what
you mean, father. It is everybody’s secret, and we all try to keep it
from each other for fear of ridicule.”

Fallières stroked his chin reflectively. This assertion evidently did
not surprise him greatly, but he was obviously a little distressed.

“This is very interesting,” said Conrad. “But of course every château
has its family ghost. Usually they are accounted for by rats in the
walls, or wind in the chimneys.”

Yolande shot him a swift glance, but held her peace. At that moment
Severin came in to inform her that she was wanted on the telephone,
and, as the call was a long-distance one, she left at once.

“This is no rat in the walls, monsieur,” said Fallières, “nor wind in
the chimneys. It is a perplexing, worrying mystery. Something that can
be seen and touched walks this old place intermittently. For periods
it seems to sleep, and peace reigns, but suddenly it becomes
active--and its activity is daily increasing. But you are right to be
sceptical. I was sceptical until I was compelled to accept the truth.”

“But if it is human, surely the remedy is simple.”

“What is the remedy?”

“To lay hands on it and deal with it.”

“I have tried to for years. See, I do not go about unprepared.”

He produced an automatic pistol from his hip pocket and smiled as he
gazed on it.

“Not a very nice thing for a gentleman to carry about in his own home
in the twentieth century,” he said. “I think it is better to lock your
door to-night. I am sorry to have to advise that.”

Conrad began to take him seriously for the first time. He looked at
Wallace, whose face was like the Sphinx.

“What do you make of this, Ralph?” he asked.

“Frankly, I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. But, by Jove, I’d like to meet this thing. Has anyone
ever really seen it face to face?”

“Yes--Severin.”

“Someone else has,” blurted Wallace.

Fallières stared at him in surprise.

“I--I am afraid I have betrayed my trust,” murmured Wallace. “Well,
perhaps it doesn’t matter so much now. Your daughter saw it years
ago--in her room.”

“Great God!”

“Did she tell you that?” asked Conrad.

Wallace nodded, and hoped Fallières would not question him further,
for he was not anxious to relate the incident of the car to the stern
old man. But the horror of this discovery was sufficient temporarily
to stun Fallières.

“She must leave,” he said. “I will send her down to Nice. I fear that
these happenings are working up to a crisis. For myself, I mean to
stay. Nothing shall drive me from this place.”

“Well spoken,” said Conrad. “There must be an explanation--a very
simple one. We live in the twentieth century, and ought not to
tolerate superstition.”

“Is it superstition? Who breaks the mirrors and befouls the
furnishings? What is it that utters horrible noises in rooms and
galleries? What was it my daughter saw? I admit it may have been a
hallucination, brought about by a dream and by the gossip in the
servants’ hall; but, on the other hand, I should have to be insane to
believe that all I have heard was due to my own imagination.”

When Yolande reappeared, they changed the conversation quickly. At her
father’s request she agreed to play for them, and for two hours the
sweet strains of music filled the place. It changed the brooding
atmosphere at once.

“Do you sing?” asked Yolande of Wallace. “I have lots of English
songs.”

He was not unwilling, for he possessed a very fair baritone voice and
knew a whole host of songs. She proved to be an excellent accompanist,
and in one or two duets their voices blended well.

“Bravo!” said Fallières. “That was charming. Yolande seldom has an
opportunity of singing duets. Find another, please.”

Thus the evening passed, and at midnight the party retired. Before
going to his room, Wallace stepped on to the terrace with Yolande to
get a last breath of fresh air. A brilliant moon illumined the valley
and the dark forest.

“Thank you for changing my wires over,” he said. “This has been a most
enjoyable evening. I should not brood too much on that other business.
I feel sure there must be a very simple solution that you will
discover before long.”

“I wish there were,” she replied.

“What a queer yarn that was,” mused Conrad, as he sat and smoked a
cigarette in Wallace’s room. “Of course there is nothing in it. They
have let themselves get into that state.”

“I wonder.”

“Then I am surprised at you. A young hefty lump of bone and muscle
prepared to accept fairy-tales! Shame on you!”

“Fallières doesn’t strike me as being hysterical, nor does Yolande.”

“Well, what will you do if you meet _IT_?” jested Conrad.

“Hit it as hard as I know how.”

“If it is not human, I don’t think that will disconcert it much.”

“It will disconcert me if I don’t find something to stop my fist. What
a curious day it has turned out! I quite imagined we should be
sleeping in Rheims to-night.”

“What does the poet say? ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men----’
Jove, what a night! A full moon and not a breath of wind. These are
sensible windows.”

He pushed the casement open wider and leaned out. They were on the
side of the château facing the valley, and the drop from the window
to earth proper was tremendous, for below the level of the ground
floor there was nearly a hundred feet of buttress.

“Fine place to commit suicide,” he said, flinging the end of his
cigarette into the abyss. “There it goes, down--down-- What was that?”

“I heard nothing.”

“I thought I heard a cry--kind of snarl. Must have been fancy.”

“Imbibing the atmosphere,” said Wallace. “Now turn out. I’m going to
bed.”

But Conrad still stood by the window with his head inclined to one
side.

“I could have sworn----”

The next moment a reverberating report came from within the building,
followed by a loud yelling.

“Good God!” ejaculated Conrad. “That is Fallières’s voice. He is only
three rooms away. There is something wrong.”

“Come on,” said Wallace, and made for the door.

In the corridor they saw Yolande running towards them, clad in a
kimono, and some distance behind her old Severin, with an antiquated
firearm in his hand.

“I heard a shot,” she gasped, “and a voice that sounded like my
father’s.”

“Which is his room?”

“There.”

Wallace rapped on the door, and, receiving no reply, opened it
immediately. The room was empty, but the bed had been occupied, and
across the pillow was a long streak of blood. On the floor was an
automatic pistol, still warm.

“Queer!” muttered Conrad. “How could he have left the room?”

Wallace flung open the wardrobe cupboard and looked under the bed. He
turned round on Severin.

“You heard the shot?”

“Yes, m’sieu. I ran up the stairs and along the passage immediately.
The master never came that way or I should have seen him.”

Wallace went to the window, which was partly open, but below was the
same abyss that fronted his own room.

“He shot at something,” said Conrad. “Look, the bullet is embedded in
the wall here. He must have missed.”

“It was the Monster,” croaked Severin, crossing himself. “Always he
comes at the full moon.”

“Full moon--fiddlesticks!” retorted Conrad. “How could anyone get into
this room? The question is, where is Monsieur Fallières?”

Wallace heard a low sob, and turned to see Yolande totter. He caught
her in his arms, and under Severin’s guidance carried her to her room.
Having sent for a maid, he went back to Conrad. The latter was sitting
on the bed, stroking his chin reflectively.

“I don’t like the look of this,” he said.

“Nor do I. Gad, it’s a bit uncanny. It seems impossible that anyone
could have left the room by the door without being observed in the
passage. But we mustn’t draw premature conclusions. I am going to
gather together a search-party.”

“That seems to be the obvious thing to do. Let us make a start at
once.”

The nerve-shattered Severin was found and some half-dozen male
servants were mustered. The main apartments of the château were
quickly ransacked, but there remained a very large number of
unoccupied rooms and annexes, and these took time. Ultimately the
possibility of finding Fallières inside the château was abandoned.
The extensive vaults were explored, but these provided no clue of any
kind towards the solution of the mystery.

“The next thing is to make a search under the window of Fallières’s
room,” said Wallace. “We shall need lanterns or torches.”

To reach this spot necessitated the descent of many flights of steps
leading from the terrace. That part of the cultivated grounds of the
château was given up to rock-gardens, interspersed with winding
gravel paths, by means of which, after a considerable detour, the more
exotic flower-gardens could be reached. Severin pointed out
Fallières’s still-lighted window, and the party walked to a spot
immediately beneath it. Thick ivy scrambled up the wall, but there was
no sign of any disturbance, and the freshly-raked gravel path showed
no footprints but their own.

A search was made among the neighbouring bushes, but all in vain. They
returned by the long path, and ultimately reached the château, tired
out and baffled. Conrad dismissed the servants, and he and Wallace
went and sat in the drawing-room.

“In the circumstances there is only one thing left to be done,” said
Conrad.

“Notify the police?”

“Yes. What the etiquette is in such matters I don’t know, but I should
imagine Paris will act immediately when it concerns a man so widely
known as Fallières. I will telephone the Préfecture now. I daresay
there will be considerable delay.”

He put the call through, and returned to yarn with Wallace until he
was rung. Neither of them was a nervous man, but both looked very grim
and thoughtful.

“We haven’t seen half the château,” said Wallace. “There were lots of
passages that Severin passed by.”

“I noticed that--but the place is such a maze. Of course Severin was
scared stiff.”

An hour passed before the telephone bell rang. Conrad went to the
instrument, and was engaged in conversation for some minutes. At
length he came back.

“It appears I ought to have informed the local police,” he said. “But,
anyway, they are going to act at once. A good man is leaving Paris by
the next train. I’m afraid we shall not be able to leave in the
morning.”

“Rather not. I’m keen on seeing this thing through. It looks
remarkably like murder to me.”

The first glad light of the dawn appeared in the eastern sky before
they rose and went to their rooms. Even then Wallace did not undress,
but reclined on his bed, with ears alert. Sometimes in the dead
silence he thought he heard a woman sobbing.




 CHAPTER IV.
 FOUCHARD

Both Wallace and Conrad rang for their _petit déjeuner_ at a very
early hour, for their minds were too full of the hideous tragedy of
the preceding night to permit of comfortable repose. Severin, who
looked as if he had not been to bed, informed them that his young
mistress had passed a bad night, but refused to rest in her room. She
was now dressing.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Conrad.

“That depends upon Yolande.”

“You think she will be glad of our company for a bit?”

“Don’t you think that is probable? This man from Paris will turn the
place upside down, and ask a lot of painful questions. One thing is
certain--Fallières is either seriously wounded or dead.”

“But where is he?”

“That is the crux of the whole mystery. Connie, do you think the old
boy is to be trusted?”

“You mean Severin?”

“Yes. He acts very strangely at times. I had a feeling last night that
he was deliberately avoiding certain parts of the château; and he was
seen in the corridor immediately after we heard the shot fired.”

“You are not suggesting that Severin shot his master and then hid him
somewhere?”

“It’s as good a solution as any we have struck.”

“Incredible. Fallières spoke most highly of Severin. No, Severin is
only suffering from fright. You forget that Severin has seen this
alleged monster, and we have not.”

“It is hard to believe in monsters in the full light of day. I wonder
if we are all going mad.”

“Mad or not, Fallières is missing. We should have to be mad indeed to
believe that he is perpetrating some practical joke. No, I fear we are
up against grim fact.”

He turned as he heard a footstep behind him, and Yolande entered the
room. Her face was deathly pale, and it was evident that she had not
slept.

“_Bon jour!_” she said. “I suppose there is no news?”

“None. I ’phoned to the Préfecture of Police last night, and a good
man was despatched immediately. He should be here at any moment.”

“Thank you.”

She sat down limply, and Conrad took her hand in fatherly fashion.

“You must not worry too much,” he murmured. “I admit the situation is
baffling, but hope must not be abandoned.”

“I feel so powerless,” she replied. “Where is one to look--what is one
to do?”

“Keep a stiff lip.”

“I am not going to break down,” she said. “Nor will I leave a stone
unturned to solve this terrible mystery. For too long we have
tolerated it. You have breakfasted?”

“Yes.”

“And you will soon be leaving?”

“That rests with you, mademoiselle. I am indebted to your father in
many ways, and if I could be of the least assistance, you have only to
command me. I know I can speak for my young friend here.”

“Rather!” put in Wallace.

“Then stay,” she pleaded. “If this strange thing is to be brought to
bay, it will need the strength and wits of men. I need your help, God
knows.”

Wallace breathed a sigh of relief. He had the adventurous spirit, and
his blood was boiling at the atrocity that had been committed.
Man-hunt or ghost-hunt, it was all the same to him. He was brimming
over with vitality, and wanted nothing more than to get to grips with
this alleged monster.

“We will consider that settled,” said Conrad calmly.

A few minutes later a servant entered with a card. It bore the name of
Arnaud Fouchard, no more.

“Fouchard,” mused Conrad. “I have heard that name.”

“He is from the Préfecture of Police,” whispered Yolande. “It is the
dreaded Fouchard. All France knows of him.”

“Good! He has certainly lost no time.”

The great Fouchard was shown in. He was in plain clothes and of most
unprepossessing appearance. His face was like that of a Mongolian, and
he wore a scrubby little beard and moustache. In size he was
diminutive, but there was an alertness about him that reminded one of
a galvanised wire. He bowed low to Yolande.

“You are Monsieur Fouchard?” she said.

“At your service. Of course you are Mademoiselle Fallières?”

She nodded, and introduced Wallace and Conrad as two friends of the
family--and guests.

“Now we can go ahead,” he said. “I gathered that Monsieur Fallières
is missing and that you suspect foul play.”

“That is so,” replied Conrad. “He disappeared from his room at about
twelve-thirty last night.”

“Hm! Why do you suspect foul play?”

“His bed had been occupied, and there is blood on the pillow.”

“I will look at the room.”

Yolande stayed below while Wallace and Conrad went to the room with
the officer. Nothing had been touched since the night before, except
that Conrad had possessed himself of the pistol. Fouchard examined the
pillow and the floor, and then walked to the window.

“Nasty drop!” he muttered. “Tell me exactly what occurred, so far as
you are able.”

Conrad narrated the incident, while Fouchard made minute shorthand
notes in a huge pocket-book. All the while he made queer facial
contortions.

“Where is the pistol?” he snapped.

Conrad produced it from his pocket.

“Hm! One shot fired. I wish you had left it where you found it,
monsieur,” he said irritably. “How can you expect me to sort things
out if you play about with the evidence? Where did you find this?”

Conrad pointed out the spot a trifle huffily, for he objected to the
tone of Fouchard.

“When did you arrive here?” asked Fouchard.

“Yesterday.”

“Hm! You know Monsieur Fallières intimately?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the case. But if you insist, I
do not know him intimately. It was an old friendship unexpectedly
revived.”

“You were in your room when the shot was fired?”

“Yes--I have already said so.”

“Was Monsieur Fallières at all apprehensive last night--before he
retired?”

“Well--yes, he was. You may as well know the truth about this place,
monsieur. It is common gossip that it is haunted----”

“Haunted! Pah!”

“Yes, I guessed you would say that. I am only giving you the facts as
we have heard them. Mademoiselle Fallières will corroborate. The
story goes that a huge creature runs amok here, making horrid noises
at nights, and breaking mirrors. This kind of thing has been going on
for two years. Because of this, Monsieur Fallières was always armed.
The theory is that this monster came through the window and attacked
Monsieur Fallières----”

“And carried him away? I ask you, monsieur, could any living creature
carry a burden down that wall?”

Wallace, who was looking out of the window, suddenly made an
ejaculation. Fouchard swung round on him.

“Here is something I didn’t notice before,” he said. “Look, there is
an iron spike driven between two blocks. If one could reach that, it
would be easy to step on to the ivy and mount to the north tower. The
roots are astonishingly thick.”

Fouchard gazed at the projecting iron and the ivy and shook his head.

“Quite impossible!”

“I don’t agree,” retorted Wallace. “Why, I could do it myself.”

“We are merely wasting time,” snapped Fouchard.

“_You_ are,” replied Wallace. “I’ll show you whether it is
impossible.”

Before Conrad could stop him, he stepped through the window, and,
clinging to the projecting iron, found a secure footing on the thick
ivy that went trailing towards the tower.

“Take care!” warned Conrad.

“It’s as tough as old Harry,” he called back, and went on with the
agility of an acrobat.

In ten minutes he was seated astride the wall some thirty feet above
them, close to where the northern turret soared upwards. The acute
angle formed by the roof of the château prevented him from using his
feet, so he moved along the parapet leap-frog fashion until the round
wall of the tower brought him to a halt.

“Come back!” yelled Conrad.

He laughed and waved his hand, then made his way back again, entering
the window without much difficulty.

“I could have climbed the tower,” he said. “The ivy goes right up to
the window. All the way along the ivy was worn, as if someone else had
used it. In two places it was broken.”

“A splendid feat,” said Fouchard. “But it gets us no further. You
forget that you had no burden to carry, and you appear to be
exceptionally agile.”

“There are other people in the world equally agile.”

“Is there a man who could do that with another man on his back? No, it
is impossible.”

“It’s the only solution that fits, anyway.”

“It doesn’t fit. Personally, I am convinced that Monsieur Fallières
never made his exit through that window. Had he done so, we should
expect to find his mangled body down below.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders, and Fouchard intimated that he wished
to interrogate some of the servants. They let him go his way.

“Is he an idiot, or is it only bluff?” asked Wallace.

“I’m not sure. He looks a capable kind of person, but it is possible
that he has formed some other theory that he is not willing to
divulge.”

“Well, if he had treated me with any kind of respect at all I would
have told him something else. Conrad, I saw blood marks on that ivy in
three different places. Incredible as it may sound, the person or
thing that entered Fallières’s room climbed the ivy as I did, with
Fallières on his back. By Jove, I can appreciate a feat of that
size!”

“That is astounding.”

“I know.” His face grew serious. “Conrad, I’m wondering whether it is
anything human we are up against.”

“But why should he--or it--want to do such a thing?”

“If he had killed Fallières he might want to dispose of the body.
After all, you cannot bring a conviction without identifying the
corpse.”

Conrad winced. The whole affair was so fantastic it was difficult to
think logically. He thought he ought to have laughed at the theory of
a monster, but what was it that had entered Fallières’s room and
performed that astounding feat of acrobatics along the face of the
château?

“A bit uncanny, this,” he confessed.

“Interesting if it wasn’t for the fact of Fallières’s disappearance.
We’ve got to explore that tower--and without delay. Come, while friend
Fouchard is interviewing the servants.”

They found the place with some difficulty. It was approached through a
gallery on the second floor of the big building. That end of the
château had not been occupied for a long period, and there was little
in the way of furniture. The turret itself was reached by a spiral
staircase, the space being so confined that one’s shoulders touched
the walls on either side. The chamber at the top was circular, and a
veritable masterpiece in architecture. The slabs of stone that
comprised it were beautifully dressed, and there was no sign of decay.
The chamber was bare save for a single oak seat near the leaded
window.

“What a view!” exclaimed Conrad. Then, excitedly, “There is blood here
too. Look!”

Wallace nodded as he gazed at the unmistakable stains on the
window-sill. He slipped the bolt of the window and poked his head
outside. A narrow gallery surrounded the turret, and over the low wall
scrambled the invincible ivy.

“There used to be a door leading to the gallery,” said Conrad. “It was
here. You can see where it has been filled in. Probably some member of
the Grammont family committed suicide a century or two ago. But I can
scarcely yet swallow the fact that our mysterious friend carried a
man’s body up the tower and through this window.”

“I wouldn’t care to try it myself,” agreed Wallace.

“But isn’t the evidence conclusive?”

“Fairly. But where is Fallières?”

“The whole thing is sunk in mystery. It looks as if the corridor
through which we came connects up with the four turrets. One thing is
certain, the whole château will have to be searched if we are to hope
for any success. There are vaults and heaven knows what underneath.”

“We must get Severin to pilot us round again. I can’t understand why
Fouchard should waste time interrogating the servants while there is
yet a chance of finding Fallières alive.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Fallières’s mysterious assailant would not have run off with the
body except with the object of hiding it away. He would take good care
life was extinct.”

“The whole business is most gruesome. Let us find Monsieur Fouchard
and see what conclusion he has arrived at.”

“If any,” added Wallace.




 CHAPTER V.
 BAFFLED

When they reached the ground floor Monsieur Fouchard was discovered
fully occupied. He was sitting at a table with his note-book before
him rapping out questions to Severin, whose nervousness was clearly
manifested.

“You endorse this ridiculous story of a strange being who haunts the
château, Monsieur Severin?”

“How can one help it?” stammered the old man. “If monsieur were in my
place he would know it is true.”

“You have heard noises?”

“Awful noises.”

“Frequently?”

“Yes.”

“You have discovered things missing?”

“Many things.”

“What?”

“Food, wine and----”

“Food and wine are always missing in big establishments. But I will
get to the point. Have you ever seen a strange person anywhere in the
château?”

Severin trembled visibly and then nodded his head.

“Ah, we are getting warmer! Where did you see this person, and in what
circumstances?”

“It was in the long west gallery--a year ago. He--it came towards me
and stopped within a few yards of me. Monsieur, I was terrified. I
tried to turn and run but could not. For a full minute he stood there
laughing at me and then--then I think I lost my senses. When I came to
there was nothing to be seen.”

“You saw it plainly--as you see me now. It was no shadow--no trick of
the lighting?”

“_Mon Dieu_, it was in broad daylight. He was immense and covered by a
robe--like a monk. A cowl was over his head and only his eyes and nose
were visible. Cruel eyes and a hooked nose. When he laughed at me it
was like no sound I had ever heard before.” Then in a burst of
hysteria, “It was he who killed the master--I know it.”

“That will do, Monsieur Severin,” said Fouchard. “There is no other
servant who has seen this creature?”

“No one, but all have heard him. No one in the village will come to
the château. They all know.”

“Hm! That will do for the present.”

Severin shuffled out and Fouchard put his book into his pocket. He
turned and glared at Wallace and Conrad.

“The hallucination of an old man,” he grumbled.

“It was no hallucination,” said Yolande quietly. “Severin is getting
old, but he has all his senses. I know it was no hallucination because
I too have seen this--this thing, and the description agrees
perfectly.”

Fouchard raised his bushy eyebrows at this.

“I had no idea.”

“It was nearly two years ago. I am afraid you will have to accept
facts. There is something in this château--man, beast, or
spirit--that comes and goes and hides itself away successfully. I fear
it has murdered my poor father.”

“Mademoiselle, I beg you not to draw premature conclusions,” urged
Fouchard. “I mean to have every inch of the château and the precincts
searched to-day. I trust you will permit me to use the servants as I
think fit?”

“Do anything you wish. My one desire is to know the truth about my
father.”

“Then we will get to work.”

He bowed and left the room. Yolande came across to Wallace and Conrad.

“What do you think of him?” she asked.

“I am not sure whether he is not bluffing us,” said Conrad. “I think
he objects to our presence here, and Wallace has already stroked him
the wrong way.”

“I don’t see why we should not all work together amicably,” said
Wallace. “After all, we have a common object in view. I happened to
discover something and immediately he pooh-poohed it; out of
professional jealousy, I suppose. He has made up his mind not to
accept Severin’s story.”

“What have you discovered?” asked Yolande.

Wallace hesitated, but she divined immediately that he had something
unpleasant to narrate and encouraged him.

“Please don’t keep anything from me. I have suffered a terrible blow,
but I am trying to fight this thing. I have made up my mind to stay
here whatever happens. If this creature is human he must be brought to
justice. I want to know everything.”

“Well, I discovered that your father’s room was apparently entered by
the window. Certainly his body was taken out that way. The north tower
could be reached by climbing the ivy--I have done it myself.”

“But with a big burden as my father would have been?”

“I think that even that is not impossible. At any rate, I found traces
of--of blood in several places, also on the window-sill in the tower.”

“It--it is incredible!”

“I know. But you must remember that, immediately after the shot was
fired, there were several persons in the corridor. Neither your father
nor his assassin could have left the room on that side without being
seen.”

“That is true, but to take a human body up-- You have been to the
tower?”

“Yes. The trail ends there. I have an idea that your father is
somewhere in this house.”

“Fouchard is now organising a search. Oh, if one could only entertain
the faintest hope!”

They said nothing, for there was nothing of comfort to be said. It
seemed so certain that Fallières had breathed his last in this world.

At the suggestion of Wallace they took the Bentley and made a tour of
the district, leaving the search for the missing man in the hands of
Fouchard. The trip was beneficial to Yolande. She fell in love with
the car and for a time at least pushed the spectre into the
background. The forest embraced many thousand acres and was dotted
with woodmen’s huts, for it supplied fuel for the whole district. Here
and there were war-time scars, but it had not suffered greatly, and
the income from timber rights was considerable.

“The Germans made good use of it,” said Yolande. “After the occupation
of the château they were able to withdraw with very few casualties.”

“Are the woodmen in your employ?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, no. They hold their cottages on small rentals, and have certain
timber rights. My father employs a ranger who sees that the younger
trees are preserved. He lives in the forest.”

In order to keep her from thoughts of her father, Wallace suggested
she should drive the car. She accepted with obvious joy and quickly
made herself acquainted with the controls. He watched her eyes
brighten as she made a burst of speed along the straight road.

“I am in love with it,” she said. “I feel I would like to head for
some distant place--Nice or Biarritz. It is a more lovable--more
intimate machine than the Hispano. That reminds me that Watkins is due
back this evening.”

“Who is Watkins?”

“The chauffeur. Yes, he is English, and most capable. We engaged him
because he understands electrical matters, and is able to look after
the power plant for the house. He speaks French--terrible French.”

On the homeward journey the old spectre began to rear its ugly head
again. An atmosphere of gloom was entered immediately the towers of
the château came to view. Wallace gazed at Conrad and saw that his
friend’s mouth was firmly set. Yolande looked pale, and her small
hands were clenched in her lap.

For the rest of the day the two guests prowled around the château,
exploring outbuildings. When evening came, they had discovered
nothing. Of Fouchard there had been no sign since the morning. Severin
informed them that he had seen the detective going towards the forest.

“Has he sent the servants to make a search?” asked Wallace.

“Not to my knowledge, monsieur. The gardeners have been working in the
greenhouse, and the indoor staff is in the servants’ hall.”

“Looks as if his search party comprises himself,” growled Conrad.
“Mysterious devil!”

Shortly before dinner the two men were sitting in front of the
château enjoying the wonderful sunset. But with the declining sun
came an eerie sensation. Wallace laughed suddenly.

“What’s the matter?” ejaculated Conrad.

“We’re getting nervy, old man. It’s this sense of impotence. If only
we were at grips with the problem it would be better. Where the devil
is one to start?”

“We ought to have carried out a more thorough search on our own,” said
Conrad. “I thought Fouchard was going to do it on a grand scale.
Whatever may be his attitude, I am going to waste no more time. Let us
collar Severin in the morning and ransack the place. If only we find
Fallières’s body, that will be something achieved. The tension must
be terrible for Yolande. She is magnificently courageous, but I am
sure it would be better for her to know the worst than to be kept in
this awful suspense.”

“I’m with you. But what on earth is Fouchard doing?”

“Here comes Yolande. Perhaps she has news.”

Yolande was half way across the courtyard, and the two men were making
towards her when she suddenly stopped and uttered a cry. Her eyes were
turned towards the north tower which was silhouetted against the
crimsoning sky. Wallace looked up and gasped at what he saw. Standing
in the narrow gallery that surrounded the tower was an immense figure,
clad like a Capuchin monk. The arms were folded and it stood perfectly
still--looking down into the wide courtyard.

“Look!”

“My God!” ejaculated Conrad.

“That is--he,” said Yolande in a weak voice.

Wallace caught her by the arm and pointed to the garage.

“The chauffeur has just returned. Please go and talk to him--it is
safer. There is just a chance we may collar that thing.”

“Yes--yes. But take care. Oh, take care!”

“Have no doubt on that score,” he replied grimly.

She turned away and he swung round on Conrad, who was watching the
still figure on the tower.

“Now’s the time, Connie. Have you got that pistol?”

“No, worse luck. Fouchard took it.”

“Never mind. We can pick up something on our way. There’s no time to
waste. I reckon I can get into the top gallery before he can leave it.
Follow me!”

With this he bolted for the main entrance. Conrad lost no time in
following. Older man as he was, he was fit in wind and limb, and was
good in an emergency. By the time he reached the hall, Wallace was out
of sight. His eye caught a gleam of shining steel and he wrested a
short sword from its hangings. With a low growl of excitement he
followed hot on the heels of his young friend.

Panting, he reached the first landing, but Wallace had outstripped him
easily. He made up the next flight of stairs at breakneck pace and
eventually emerged into the top gallery. Dark as it was, he could see
Wallace ahead of him with an awful-looking bludgeon in his hand.
Wallace turned and beckoned him. He joined him in a few seconds.

“Any sign?” he whispered.

“No. But I don’t think he could have got away in the few seconds it
has taken me to get here. I believe we have him cornered.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“The trouble lies in the tower itself. It is so infernally dark. I
wish we had brought an electric torch. There is no lighting up there.
Anyway, you hang on to me. He ought not to floor the pair of us.”

“No, but we ought to have taken the precaution of laying in firearms.
If he happens to have an automatic----”

“Better not think about it. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

They crept along the remainder of the gallery and came to the entrance
to the tower. Wallace pushed open the door slowly and then crept
through. Before them was the dark, forbidding stone spiral staircase.
Wallace slipped off his shoes and when Conrad had done likewise the
ascent began.




 CHAPTER VI.
 THE UNEXPECTED

In the pitch darkness the two men mounted the stone steps, fully
expecting a savage assault at any moment. So quiet was everything that
the sound of their breathing seemed tremendous. Wallace took comfort
from the fact that a revolver bullet would have to be fired within a
yard or two to inflict any injury--close enough for him to use the
cudgel to effect.

Round and round they went, each counting the steps mentally. There
were sixty-three of them all told. Outside the door, Conrad was
enabled to come to the side of his companion. He gripped the
dangerous-looking sword tighter as Wallace opened the door.

“Empty!”

The ejaculation leaped from Wallace’s lips. The interior was well
lighted by the sunset, and the window was bolted on the inside. Conrad
passed his hand across his brow, which was clammy with perspiration.

“Gone!” he said. “How the devil----”

“He may be outside.”

“How could he fasten the window behind him?”

“How does he manage to perform all these astonishing tricks?”

He was not satisfied until he had opened the window and climbed
through it in order to see if the mysterious figure was making a
retreat along the ivy. But there was no sign of him. He rejoined his
companion.

“He must have slid along the corridor like lightning,” he said. “He
had to climb through the window, descend sixty-three stairs, and run
the whole length of the corridor while I was getting up stairs. I
could have sworn it was impossible.”

“We are evidently dealing with a creature of amazing agility. By Jove,
what a size it was--at least seven feet.”

“Big men as a rule are not very agile. But, assuming he beat us in the
race, where did he vanish to?”

“There are the other towers and probably many outlets--old staircases
and so forth.”

“It is very disappointing.”

“It is--in a way. Yet I think we were mad to attempt to nab him with
nothing but a club and an old sword. This man is a killer--have no
doubt about that. In future I am going to carry something more deadly
than an antique sword.”

“What are we to do now?”

“Nothing until the morning. We’ll take the car and run into the
nearest place that has firearms for sale. This game has long passed
the pastime stage. I think I can hear the dinner-gong. Lord, I can do
with a bottle of wine.”

On reaching the lower regions, they were surprised to find Yolande in
conversation with a stranger. He was a portly individual, and had a
rough bandage round his head.

“Well?” asked Yolande excitedly.

“We were too late. He had vanished.”

“I feared he would.”

“His good luck won’t hold for ever,” said Wallace. “If I could have
knocked two seconds off my time I believe we should have got him.”

Yolande shook her head, and then suddenly burst a surprise upon them.

“This gentleman is Arnaud Fouchard,” she said.

“Fouchard--Arnaud Fouchard!” gasped Conrad, staring at the new
arrival.

“Yes, monsieur--_the_ Arnaud Fouchard.”

“But we-- I don’t understand this.”

“I should have arrived early this morning, but there seems to have
been a little conspiracy afoot. There was but one conveyance at the
station and I engaged it. I admit I was badly tricked. The driver
stopped the car some four miles from the château and swore he had a
puncture. He was clever enough to hit me here with the handle of the
jack and to deposit my body in a foul pit. That is a little incident I
shall not forget in a hurry.”

“Great Scott! But who was the man who came-- I get you now. That
little wretch with the scrubby beard was the man who drove you?”

“Precisely. He removed my card-case and my money. I was hoping I
should find him here.”

“He has not returned since this morning.”

“Nor will he return.”

“I am not quite clear on this,” said Wallace. “Why should that man
want to masquerade as you?”

“Merely to get inside the house and to keep me off the trail for a
bit. He certainly succeeded in knocking me out for ten hours, but here
I am.”

“This gets more and more involved,” said Conrad. “He must have had an
important object.”

“Yes, a keen desire to know how much you knew about this--this
mysterious disappearance. He had an opportunity of questioning
everybody, and, having learned all he wanted to know, he vanished.”

“But how could he have known you were on your way to the château?”
asked Yolande.

“There we approach the edge of the conspiracy--whatever it may be.
Someone in this house knew that a message had gone to Paris over the
telephone--someone in touch with our masquerading friend. There is but
one train from Paris to Arveyes after midnight. There were few
passengers, and I think I am fairly well known to most people with
criminal tendencies. That brings three persons into the case--the
phantom whom I believe you have just seen, the man with the scrubby
beard who knocked me out, and the person in the château who
communicated with the latter.”

“It may have been the Monster who overheard,” suggested Yolande.

“Possibly--but I doubt it.”

“You had better join us at dinner,” said Yolande. “You are looking
fatigued, and some refreshment will revive you.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a smile. “Fortunately ‘Bluebeard’ left my
suit-case with my injured person. I will join you very soon.”

Severin was called and, taking the suit-case, showed Fouchard to his
room. Yolande sighed as she turned to the other two.

“What will happen next?” she asked pensively.

“At any rate, a little progress has been made,” said Wallace. “We now
know that there is more than one person in this business. And I
certainly like the real Fouchard better than the false.”

“Are there any servants in the house whom you have cause to mistrust?”
enquired Conrad.

“I know of none. But we are changing them so often that it is
difficult to say. Severin of course knows more about them than I. We
engaged three new ones a month ago.”

Fouchard was not long in changing his clothes and removing most of the
signs of his adventure. He seemed a jovial kind of personage and not
at all secretive. His appetite was enormous and he made the most of
the excellent meal. Yolande, however, ate very little. It was obvious
that, despite her patience and fortitude, she was suffering from
terrible anxiety.

“You have heard all about this affair?” asked Wallace of Fouchard,
when the last course was served.

“Mademoiselle has put me in possession of most of the facts. It would
be vain to pretend that I have any theory to propound so far. The only
thing that is evident is that certain persons are in league to achieve
some object as yet unknown.”

“Yet this has been going on for two years.”

“Big schemes require time. The fact that this has been going on for so
long leads one to the conclusion that great things are at stake. If I
can only lay hands on that little ruffian who molested me, I warrant I
will make him talk up.”

“Is that as important as laying hands on the Monster?”

Fouchard stroked his chin. It was clear that the phantom puzzled him
deeply. He could see no logical connection between the breaking of
mirrors and the befouling of furniture, and the perpetration of any
ordinary crime.

“This flinging of muck savours of Sadism,” he mused.

“What is Sadism?” asked Wallace.

“A kind of moral perversion. There was a Marquis de Sade who delighted
in propagating a new cult. It is not a pleasant subject and is better
left alone. But I should like to provide a test. Has mademoiselle any
objection to having a big mirror installed in one of the
reception-rooms?”

“I’ll do anything that will help,” replied Yolande.

“Very good. But there are more pressing duties. I want to get the
lay-out of the château. At the same time we can institute a search
for Monsieur Fallières. I propose to make a start in half an hour.”

This was more like business, and Wallace became enthusiastic
immediately. There were no firearms in the château, but Fouchard was
well prepared. He possessed a small armoury and offered to lend the
other two men automatics, which offer they accepted.

“I want to be frank about this,” he said. “The circumstances attending
the disappearance of Monsieur Fallières point to the existence of
considerable danger. I suggest that it might be advisable if
mademoiselle were to pay a visit to some friends.”

Yolande shook her head determinedly.

“I know there is danger,” she added. “I feel that my poor father has
been savagely murdered, but I refuse to leave this place. For years he
faced the danger, and I will face it too. Please act as if I were not
here.”

“Very well. One thing, however, I would advise. Severin informed me
that your room was some distance from the other occupied rooms. I
would counsel you changed it for one nearer mine, or of these two
gentlemen.”

She agreed to have this change made immediately, and chose the room
next to that occupied by Wallace, access to which there was positively
none except by the door.

“Now we will call Monsieur Severin,” said Fouchard.

When the butler heard what was required of him he displayed distinct
signs of nervousness. Apparently there were parts of the château
which he preferred to let alone after darkness had fallen.

“We want to go all over the place, monsieur,” said Fouchard. “In every
room, cupboard, and corner.”

“But there are parts of the château unlighted,” stammered Severin.

“Watkins will provide you with electric torches,” said Yolande and
overcame that obstacle.

“Very good, mademoiselle,” mumbled Severin. “I will get them at once.”

“I suppose he _is_ to be trusted,” said Conrad.

“You need have no doubt about that. He is merely nerve-shattered. Poor
Severin--I shall have to give him a holiday.”

A few minutes later Severin presented himself again. He carried two
large hand-lamps, and asked if the gentlemen were ready.

“Quite ready,” said Fouchard. “You would prefer to stay here,
mademoiselle?”

“Yes. I am a little fatigued.”

“I’ll take one of those lamps,” said Fouchard. “I think we will make a
start at the top and work our way down. Lead on!”

Then began an excursion which was somewhat eerie. The top gallery of
the château had no illumination of any kind, and the electric lamps
had to be brought into use. As Wallace had surmised, the four towers
were identical, and were connected by the gallery which entirely
circumscribed the big building. Their boots echoed on the flagstones,
and the lamps threw strange shadows. Severin advanced slowly, talking
a lot, probably to bolster up his nerves. From the western gallery
there was an old staircase leading to the lower floor.

“We will go down there on our return,” said Fouchard. “Now I shall be
glad if you will show me where you found the bloodstains, Monsieur
Wallace.”

Severin nearly dropped the lamp at this remark. In the north tower
Wallace pointed out the stains, and explained how it was possible to
reach it from several rooms on the first floor by climbing the ivy. He
expected that Fouchard would ridicule his theory about the carrying of
Fallières’s body, but he merely inclined his head.

“This part seems to be plain sailing,” he said. “There seem to be but
two ways down--the main staircase, and the passage we passed just now.
We will descend.”

The alternative staircase was a curious affair. It wound between the
walls and took an enormous distance to connect with the lower floor.
Here the business was much more complicated, for the building had
evidently been altered at several periods and there were all kinds of
connecting passages and dead ends.

“Quite a maze!” said Fouchard. “One needs a plan to get the hang of
it.”

Suddenly there was a curious squeak, and something dark hit him in the
face.

“Only a bat,” he muttered. “Ah, that is better. We can now see what we
are doing.”

This as Severin found an electric light switch and illuminated the
surroundings. There were a dozen or so rooms, mostly unfurnished, and
in all of them the patient Fouchard went. Severin with his huge bunch
of keys opened all sorts of queer chambers, and in every case things
were in order. The ground floor was equally well searched, and Severin
led the way to the cellars.

These vaults extended the full length of the château in a series of
arches. A portion of the space was given up to wine-bins, which were
plentifully stocked. Here and there was an electric light, but on the
whole the place was gloomy, and very damp. In one spot the water had
percolated through the walls, leaving a thin layer of mud on the
ground. Fouchard was stepping gingerly over this when he noticed
something and stooped down. Bringing the light of the electric lamp to
his aid, he observed two enormous footprints.

“Interesting!” he said. “Our monster walks here, and his last visit
was within twenty-four hours.”

“What a foot!” gasped Conrad. “Why, it is four inches longer than
mine.”

“The foot of a seven-foot man, unless he is abnormal in that respect.
They point this way. Lead on, Severin!”

But Monsieur Severin collapsed on an old keg. His lips moved
nervelessly and he shook his head.

“I have never been farther than this, monsieur. I--I am afraid I feel
unwell.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Fouchard in a sympathetic voice. “Stay here
and rest while we investigate.”

To stay there alone was not at all to Severin’s taste. He pulled
himself together, and averred that the faintness had passed.

“I’ll go first,” said Fouchard. “I want to see if there are any more
footprints.”

So Monsieur Severin insinuated his person between Fouchard and
Wallace, and seemed to be much more at ease. Fouchard kept the beam of
the electric lamp fixed on the ground, but no more footprints came to
view. They came up against a blank wall covered with cobwebs and snail
trails, and the passage took a sharp bend to the left.

“Catacombs!” said Fouchard. “Hello, what is that?”

Stooping down, he picked up a small shining object. It proved to be a
hairpin.

“The third side of the triangle,” he said. “The woman in the case. A
blonde, I fancy.”

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked Conrad.

“It is hypothetical, but I doubt if any woman other than a blonde
would use tortoiseshell hairpins. They do not go well with dark hair.
How many blonde women are there in the establishment, Monsieur
Severin?”

“I can remember only two.”

“Hm! We will see them later. I presume that in the ordinary way none
of the female staff would come down here?”

“No, monsieur.”

Fouchard seemed quite delighted with his discovery, and moved forward
at a quicker pace. A series of recesses came to view. Some of them
contained old gardening tools and empty kegs. In one of them Fouchard
noticed a very large wine-barrel standing on its end.

“A fine fellow that,” he said.

“It was used as a rain-water tub,” explained Severin. “But it began to
leak and was brought down here six months ago. It is now a receptacle
for empty bottles.”

“My God--look at that!”

The cry came from Conrad, and his finger was pointing to a dark patch
at the base of the huge vessel. A low cry came from Fouchard. In a
moment he pulled aside the covering and flashed the torch inside the
barrel.

“At last,” he said.

“You mean----”

“We have found Monsieur Fallières.”

With tense expressions all gazed inside. The late owner of the
château lay on a pile of bottles, face upturned, and his throat cut
from ear to ear.




 CHAPTER VII.
 BERTHA

Conrad shuddered as he gazed at the limp corpse. Here was all that
remained of their charming host. The man who had done so much for the
Château Grammont now lay in a wine-barrel, drenched in his own blood.

“This is monstrous!” he said. “He was one of the finest gentlemen in
France.”

“My poor master!” almost sobbed Severin.

“Poor Yolande!” said Wallace, whose thoughts naturally turned to the
bereaved daughter.

“A savage affair,” mused Fouchard. “The work of a razor if I am not
mistaken. There are some curious anomalies here. The murderer goes to
all the trouble to remove the corpse from the bedroom, performing an
acrobatic feat along the ivy. At tremendous risk he somehow transports
the body through the house, and then he has no more sense than to hide
it here. There were fifty better places. Yes, it is somewhat strange.”

“Where does this woman come in?” asked Conrad.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where our scrubby-bearded masquerader
comes in either. What is most puzzling of all is the motive.”

“What is to be done now?”

“I must get into touch with the local police. So long as it was a mere
disappearance I could act alone, but now murder is obvious I am bound
to notify the local authorities. I am afraid the château will be
bombarded with a lot of dunderheads and journalists.”

“We have to break the news to Yolande. Poor--poor girl,” said Conrad.

“I think she has accepted the fact already,” said Fouchard. “It must
have been obvious.”

He replaced the top of the barrel, and resumed his investigations.
Nothing new came to light, and ultimately the quartet stood in the
hall of the château.

“Who--who will tell her?” whispered Conrad.

“It would come best from you, I think,” replied Fouchard.

“Very well.”

The exceedingly painful task was carried out. Yolande’s face went as
pale as death, and for a moment she looked as if she would collapse,
but she recovered herself.

“I--I knew it,” she said in a strangled voice. “Thank you--thank you
for all you have done. I--I think I will go to my room now.”

She left them--a pathetic little figure with a vast load of sorrow on
her young head. Wallace bit his lip as she vanished, and felt a queer
lump rise in his throat. Fouchard swung round on Severin whose eyes
were full of tears.

“What of these two blonde women--who are they?”

“One is Thérèse--a chambermaid. She comes from Provence and is
young--not yet eighteen. She has been with us for six months.”

“Fair hair?”

“Yes.”

“Long?”

“No--very short. She looks almost like a boy. I can vouch for her
respectability, monsieur, for she is the daughter of an old friend of
mine.”

“And the other?”

“An older woman. She is called Bertha, and is Swiss, I believe.”

“Long hair?”

“Yes, monsieur. A large head of hair, coiled up in plaits. One might
call it red.”

“Ah! How long has she been here?”

“A month. She was engaged as a parlourmaid.”

“I would like to see this Bertha. Find some excuse to send her in
here. A little cognac might be a good thing after our investigations.”

Severin bowed and went out. Fouchard flung himself into a chair and
bit his finger nails.

“I shall not ring up the police now,” he said. “Perhaps you would be
good enough to drive me into Arveyes early in the morning. We can
bring the doctor and the local officer back with us.”

“Certainly,” said Wallace.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and a woman entered
with cognac and glasses. She was extremely well built and
good-looking. Her age might have been anything between twenty-eight
and thirty-five. Fouchard pretended not to see her, but it was fairly
evident that he had her under observation the whole time. She put the
tray on the table. Fouchard suddenly stared straight at her.

“I seem to remember you, mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly in French.
“Yes, I am sure of it.”

“I do not remember monsieur,” she replied.

“Then I have a better memory than you. It was at Lyons, I believe. In
a hotel called----”

“You are mistaken. I have never been in Lyons.”

“That is strange. Was it Switzerland?”

“It is true I come from Switzerland, but all the same I think monsieur
is mistaken.”

“Was it Geneva?”

“I come from Berne,” she said. “I am Bernois.”

Fouchard suddenly changed from French into a peculiarly guttural
language. Bertha laughed and made some reply.

“Well, one can always be mistaken,” said Fouchard. “Pour out the
cognac please.”

While she filled the three glasses Wallace noticed a dexterous
movement of Fouchard’s hand. It was done so swiftly that he did not
realise at the moment what it signified.

“Thank you,” said Fouchard. “Please leave the decanter.”

She walked majestically from the room, and Fouchard sighed as she
closed the door.

“I am fortunate in being able to speak Swiss-German,” he said. “In
fact, I speak it better than she does. Our charming Bertha was never
born anywhere outside Germany.”

“So she lied?”

“Oh, yes--she was compelled to. I like her hairpins too.”

He opened his hand and displayed a hairpin, which with that dexterous
movement which Wallace had observed, he had contrived to extract from
her abundant hair.

“Now we have a beautifully matched pair, I think.”

From his waistcoat pocket he produced the one he had picked up in the
cellar. They were exactly alike.

“That means she----”

“It means we have really made a start. It is a curious thing that
there is nearly always a woman mixed up in any crime or mystery. Some
of them are hard nuts to crack, and Bertha, I imagine, comes into that
category. It was Bertha who heard Monsieur Conrad talking to Paris on
the telephone, and it was Bertha who at once communicated with our
whiskered friend in order that he should delay my arrival. Yet you
probably noticed she was perfectly composed while she was here. A
brazen-faced woman that.”

“Pretty, too,” said Conrad.

“The pretty ones are the worst. Excellent cognac this.”

He was now in the best of humours, quite unlike his two companions,
who were not used to such grim situations, and whose minds were
occupied with the awful tragedy that had been enacted so recently.

“It grows late,” said Conrad. “I think I will retire.”

“I too,” said Wallace.

“I think it would be wise to keep your doors locked,” said Fouchard.
“People who run amok with razors are awkward visitors.”

“A thick-skinned devil,” said Conrad as they walked up the stairs. “He
is just beginning to enjoy himself.”

Wallace read for an hour or so in bed, for his brain was far too
active to permit of sleep. His life so far had been singularly free of
unpleasant incidents--apart from the loss of his parents. With ample
means at his disposal, he had enjoyed himself in a healthy, moderate
fashion, and had never troubled to delve into the gloomy side of life.
A murder read about in the papers was not a very exciting business.
One felt too far away from it, the assassin and victim assuming the
rôle of more or less lifeless puppets. They were scarcely more real
to him than Othello or any other character of drama.

The affair at the château aroused very different feelings.
Excitement, sympathy, and repugnance were strangely mixed. Here he was
in the very arena--no longer a spectator, but a participant. There was
danger too, without doubt, or the case-hardened Fouchard would not
have given warning. Despite his lack of “nerves” he could not help
experiencing a certain apprehension. The fear of injury or even
violent death had never crossed his mind. What he loathed was the idea
of being taken unawares, as Fallières had been. If only this phantom
form would come into the open and wage battle!

His eyes wandered from the printed page every few minutes, and his
ears were alert for any strange sound. Then he laughed as he reflected
that with all his youth and strength he was not proof against spectres
born of the nocturnal stillness, and of the tragic and inexplicable
happenings of the past two days.

He slept at last and did not open his eyes until the morning sun
flooded the room. He went to the garage quite early and found Watkins
washing the Hispano car. The chauffeur had already heard of the
discovery of the night before and could talk of nothing else.

“I nearly ran over a black cat on my way back,” he whispered
confidentially. “Is there any clue, sir?”

“Not yet,” replied Wallace guardedly. “It is a very sad business.”

He got his own car out and drove it to the main entrance in order to
save time. Conrad came down and intimated that he would stay at the
château while Wallace drove Fouchard into Arveyes.

“Sleep well?” enquired Wallace.

“Devil a bit. I had awful dreams. Shall you be back to lunch?”

“I suppose so. It depends how long Fouchard takes to do his business.
Ah, here he comes.”

“All ready?” said Fouchard cheerily. “That’s a very neat little car.
Looks like a thoroughbred.”

“I flatter myself it is.”

“Well, let us make a start. I want to get back as soon as possible.”

He seated himself beside Wallace, and the car moved down the drive. It
was a dead straight road to Arveyes, and they entered the dirty little
town in half an hour. The police station was a single room in a
five-story building, and the “gendarmerie” consisted of two men. They
received the famous Fouchard as they might a foreign potentate.
Wallace saw it all through the window, and smiled at the stagelike
gesticulations and the look of blank amazement that followed the
reception of the news.

After some delay, Fouchard appeared with one of the officers. A doctor
was picked up at the end of the narrow street, and Fouchard announced
that he was ready to return. In the back seat the doctor and the
gendarme were in agitated conversation. Wallace overheard snatches
from time to time, though their voluble French was not easy to follow.

“Murdered! _Mon Dieu!_ It will be the talk of the countryside.”

“Ah, monsieur le docteur, the château has a bad reputation. One hears
strange stories. No woman from the village will work there. They
say----”

“Nothing like a murder to appeal to the common mind,” whispered
Fouchard. “I warrant that within half an hour every living soul in
Arveyes knows what has happened, and every one of them will have a
theory.”

They were speeding along the straight road at a fine rate when Wallace
noticed a car approaching. As the road was narrow he slowed down in
order to pass without undue risk. It was when the other car was within
fifty yards that Fouchard uttered a loud ejaculation. His eyes were
riveted on the driver of it, and Wallace suddenly realised why. It was
the little man who had masqueraded as Fouchard on the day before.

“Stop!” said Fouchard.

But Wallace had already jammed on the brakes. He looked for some place
to turn the car, but there was none.

“I’ll lose him if I go on. I am going to risk turning here,” he said.
“Lean over to the right.”

He put the car on full lock and took the sloping bank. The wheels
mounted until the car was at a fearful angle, and the passengers went
pallid, but he knew the lock to an inch and the wheels came down to
the horizontal plane, with the bonnet of the car facing the
disappearing vehicle. Two quick gear changes and he was in “top” and
treading on the accelerator.

“We’ve got him now, I guess,” he said. “Hold tight!”

The note of the exhaust rose higher and higher, and Fouchard saw the
speedometer needle register fifty--fifty-five--sixty, sixty-five,
seventy.

“_Mon Dieu!_” he gasped.

Still the hand moved round, but slower than before.

“What are we doing?” asked Wallace whose eyes were on the road.

“Seventy-four--seventy-six.”

“I thought it was child’s play,” he growled. “Gosh, I don’t know what
he has got there, but I can’t gain an inch.”

“Seventy-eight,” said Fouchard. “He has taken the road for Lefroy.
Take care--it is a bad turning.”

The speedometer needle made a rapid movement backwards, and Wallace
took the bend at fifty. Far ahead of him was the fugitive car. He
fumbled with the controls, determined not to be beaten. A little less
air and a touch on the ignition control brought the best from the
willing engine. Eighty miles an hour was reached, and then eighty-two.

“I’ve got her all out,” he shouted. “I can’t get another mile from
her. And I’m damned if we are gaining.”

“If only I had got his number,” moaned Fouchard.

“There are some binoculars in the pocket--your side. They are good
ones. I’ll hang on while you get the number.”

Fouchard dived for the pocket. In a few seconds the glasses were at
his eyes.

“Got it!” he cried triumphantly. “You can let him go now.”

“He’s going,” replied Wallace dismally. “He is five miles an hour
better at least. Why, the thing looked like a transmogrified Ford.
This is the saddest day of my life.”

At the next turning he put the car round and ambled to the château at
a respectable “forty.”




 CHAPTER VIII.
 SUSPENSE

A few days later Monsieur Fallières’s body was laid to rest in the
little cemetery behind the chapel. A verdict of murder by person or
persons unknown was brought in, and the whole French Press was full of
the strange story. As Fouchard had prognosticated, the château was
bombarded with reporters eagerly seeking for more details.

“Have nothing to do with those fellows,” said Fouchard. “They’ll twist
anything you say to make a new story. It is a pity the thing has
become public property.”

“What are the local police doing?”

“They have left the case to Paris. It is more or less in my hands.”

“What about the car we chased?” asked Wallace. “Have you made any
enquiries?”

“Yes. But the number was a false one. It happened to be the number of
a big Renault owned by a respectable lawyer in Paris. These people are
leaving nothing to chance.”

“And Bertha?”

“I have not done with Bertha yet. She needs careful watching. If I
arrested her we should defeat our own ends. I rely upon Bertha to lead
us to the solution. Mademoiselle is sending her on an errand this
afternoon--during which time I shall break into her room and interest
myself in her belongings.”

In the meantime Yolande was making a brave attempt to rise above her
bereavement. Strangely enough, she did not go into full mourning, but
merely changed from her light summer attire into a darker dress.

“It was always my father’s wish,” she explained. “He held strong
opinions on the subject. Death he regarded as a mere change--a
stepping-stone into a freer existence. He would not have wished me to
wear mourning.”

“You are wonderful,” said Wallace admiringly. “I know how deep was
your affection. I shall never be happy until I know that your father
is avenged.”

“I only want justice, not vengeance,” she said.

“Won’t you come for a walk? It is a beautiful morning and the woods
afford some shelter from this sweltering sun.”

“I think I should like to.”

He found a walking stick and they left the château, taking the
footpath that led to the higher land. On the previous day all the
woodmen had joined the police in beating the whole district, but all
to no purpose.

“It was good of you to stay,” she said. “It has been a great comfort
having friends at hand.”

“It was generous of you to accommodate us. We had no fixed programme
and had made arrangements to be away a month. Only a week has yet
passed, although it seems thrice as long.”

“I fear you must have seen quite enough of the château by this time.”

“Not a bit. It is quite a novelty staying here, and--and I want to
help--if I can.”

“You have helped already by your companionship. Look, there is Jacques
Renan’s little girl picking flowers. She is a sweet child.”

The little mite in the print dress turned her head and saw the
approaching pair. She ran forward with her hands full of fragrant
flowers and offered them to Yolande.

“_Merci, ma petite_,” she said, and lifted the child in her arms to
kiss the dimpled cheeks.

“How pretty she is,” said Wallace.

“S-sh! You must not make her vain.”

“But she does not understand English?”

“I think any woman understands a compliment, no matter in what tongue
it is spoken. How I envy these peasants! They have no great château
to trouble about--no conspiracies against their existence.”

“And how they envy you,” he replied.

“Only because they do not know that wealth is nothing in itself.
Jacques chops and sells his logs. He has a comfortable home and a good
wife. They have health and strength--and love.”

“Love is denied no one.”

“Is it not? You forget that I have lost the one I loved most in the
world.”

“I had not forgotten. How could I?”

“Forgive me,” she said. “That was an undeserved rebuke.”

“How well you speak English,” he said. “I wish I could hope to speak
French half as well.”

“Then you must marry a French woman,” she said. “It is the only way
the English ever get to speak French. Shall I introduce you to a nice
girl I know?”

He laughed, for he was pleased that she could indulge in banter at
such a moment.

“I am not a marrying man,” he said. “I fear I have caught the
complaint from Conrad.”

She kissed the child again and put her on her feet.

“Can you lend me a franc?” she asked.

He produced the coin, and she slipped it into the child’s hand and
told her to buy bonbons.

“Would that we could purchase happiness so easily,” she sighed.

They walked on through the leafy vista, with birds carolling on all
sides. In an open space they saw Jacques cutting logs with his queer
little hand-saw--a narrow strip of metal fixed in a frame that was
like an elongated fret-saw. He raised his hat as he saw Yolande, and
begged to offer her his condolences.

“Thank you, Jacques!” she said. “I hope your wife is well.”

“_Elle va bien_,” he replied.

“A splendid man,” she said to Wallace. “He rose to the rank of captain
in the war. But he is very modest of his achievements, and never
mentions them.”

For two hours they roamed through the woody glades, and Wallace got a
new insight into the character of Yolande. Mistress of the château
and the vast forest lands, she was at heart the simplest woman on
earth. He told himself that many a girl of her years would have
suffered from a sense of her own importance, for there was no doubt
that she was fabulously rich. But all her interest was in the simpler
things of life--the birds and flowers with which the forest abounded,
in cities and towns that she had visited, and people she had met, at
school and elsewhere.

“So you are an engineer?” she said.

“I hope to be. As yet I fear I am an encumbrance.”

“I do not believe it. But it must be splendid to make things that
work. If I were a boy I should beg you to take me as an apprentice. I
suppose if every woman had the choice of sex almost all would choose
to be men.”

“It is very fortunate they have no such option.”

“You like women?”

“I don’t get on with them, anyway.”

“I will never believe that.”

“It is true. The only girl I ever got to know intimately told me I was
an insufferable prig. Probably there was a great amount of truth in
it. Connie was present at the time, and thought it was the greatest
joke on earth. She had asked me how I liked her dress and I said it
was awful.”

Her laughter rang through the woods, but she stopped it quickly, as if
she were ashamed to give vent to amusement at such a time.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said softly. “Connie said he
remembered you as one who was always laughing--always merry. You are
going to be merry again.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “How frank you are, and how good to want to cheer
me up when I need it so much.”

Her eyes were turned on him and he felt their full power. Since he was
a stripling he had persuaded himself that women were creatures of
another world so far as he was concerned--that he had small interest
in them. Now this dark-eyed Yolande was undermining that conclusion.

“You shall be decorated for your bravery in telling a woman that her
dress was awful,” she said, and, detaching a flower from the bunch
which the child had given her, she slipped it into his buttonhole.
There came a mad desire to kiss the white hand that lay so near his
cheek, but he had not the courage to do so.

Then the white turrets of the château came to view, and banter and
pleasant repartee were at an end. They seemed to spell tragedy as they
reared themselves above the stately pile, and the ivy-clad one on the
northern corner was more than ever brooding. Fair as this picture was,
to Wallace it seemed like a blot on the landscape, for it was sapping
the happiness of the girl beside him. Somewhere within those walls
that had withstood many a siege, and seen many a strange sight, was an
evil thing. It had to be expelled by some means or other, but as yet
success seemed far away.


That afternoon Fouchard carried out his project of examining Bertha’s
room. He spent about half an hour there, and when he came down his
face revealed the fact that the search had not been entirely vain.

“I found a letter,” he confessed. “It does not throw a great deal of
light on the subject, but it is interesting and I made a copy of it.
The original was in German, but I knew enough of the language to
translate it. Here it is.”

Wallace and Conrad bent over the sheet of paper. It was dated a
fortnight previous and written from a place called Steyn, near
Nuremberg. Fouchard’s writing was abominable, but between them they
managed to get the sense of it.


 “Dear Bertha--_So there are foundations for your suspicions. It
 seems incredible to me. I am applying for a passport, and should be
 with you in a few days. It looks as if we may require Heinrich’s help,
 but he is in Berlin at the moment. I am writing him telling him the
 whole story, and asking him to follow as soon as possible._

                                                     “Niels.”


“This settles the question of Bertha’s nationality,” said Conrad.

“There was never any doubt about that. The point is--who is Niels?
Presumably, he is the little man with the whiskers. Heinrich has
apparently not arrived yet. I wonder what their game is? What were
Bertha’s suspicions, and why is Niels incredulous?”

“The circle grows,” said Wallace. “First it was merely the Monster.
Then came Niels, then Bertha, now Heinrich. We have Bertha under
observation, but the others are yet free agents.”

“Unfortunately, Bertha is fully aware of the danger--of the fact that
she is being watched. She will never reveal her hand in these
circumstances. I think it will be necessary for you two gentlemen to
bid adieu to the château and for me to return to Paris.”

“What?” ejaculated Wallace.

“A sham departure. Once these conspirators believe the coast is clear
they will get to work again. An immediate departure would be too
obvious. I shall receive a telegram from Paris in a day or two
purporting to call me back. You two might notify your intention of
taking the road again. Domestic servants are notorious publicity
agents, and everyone in the house will get to know our intentions
immediately.”

“But what then?” asked Conrad. “Personally, I hate the idea of leaving
mademoiselle just now.”

“I don’t think she is in any great danger.”

“But Fallières was murdered.”

“Well, we will confide in mademoiselle and ask her to join us in
flight. It would be quite natural for her to want a change of scenery
after that sanguinary affair.”

“But what do you propose to do exactly?” asked Wallace.

“I shall take the train from Arveyes and get out at the next station.
I suggest that you should pick me up there in your car. We can then
motor back to the forest. I have discovered an excellent vantage point
at the top of Mont des Pins. Severin must aid us in this. If there are
any strange movements in the house, he will switch on a red light
which I shall fix in one of the windows. The road runs immediately
below the Mont des Pins. You can motor us to the château in two
minutes. If Niels is in the house we ought to be able to prevent his
escape.”

“That sounds hopeful,” said Wallace. “You think Niels will come
immediately he gets to know of our departure?”

“I do. Otherwise what is he doing in the neighbourhood?”

Yolande was apprised of the scheme, and fell in with it at once. But
while this was being put into operation Fouchard carried out a project
which he had had in mind for some days. A new sideboard with a large
mirror above it was brought into the château and placed in the
dining-hall. Severin gaped when he saw it.

“Monsieur, it is madness,” he said.

Fouchard laughed and walked out with Wallace.

“It is mere curiosity,” he said. “Because I can’t fit in that part of
the business with any theory. What does the breaking of mirrors
signify?”

“What does it all signify?”

Fouchard had not long to wait for a response to his test. They had not
gone to bed for more than an hour when there was a tremendous crash
from downstairs. It brought Fouchard and Wallace into the corridor at
once.

“The mirror,” said Fouchard grimly. “This is the very devil.”

He leapt down the stairs three at a time, with Wallace close behind.
The latter had forgotten his pistol, but Fouchard was prepared. He
held the black Browning in his hand, and made for the door of the
dining-hall. As he opened it something tremendously big and awful
broke through it. Fouchard was flung off his feet and hit his head
violently against the skirting. Wallace, all unprepared for this
astonishing attack, was hit a sickening blow in the jaw. He fell on
his knees over Fouchard’s sprawling body and groaned with pain. When
he regained his full senses the big form had disappeared.

“_Sacré!_” ejaculated Fouchard.

Wallace scrambled to his feet and dashed madly along the passage. But
at the end he halted, for dead silence reigned. He came back to
Fouchard feeling savage and humiliated.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” he said.

Fouchard pulled his coat tighter and rubbed his damaged head. His
habitual calm was gone, and he looked as savage as a tiger.

“Like a damned cyclone,” he muttered. “How does he get here? Where
does he live?”

He pushed open the door of the dining-hall, which had swung to in the
scuffle. The new mirror was smashed to fragments, and on the floor was
a beautiful chair with a leg torn from it. The severed leg lay on the
top of the sideboard.

“This is no ordinary creature,” said Fouchard in an awed voice. “There
are not six men alive who could have done that. Broken off as if it
were a matchstick!”




 CHAPTER IX.
 COUNTERPLOT

Despite the unexpected incident of the mirror Fouchard was still
keen on carrying out his project, for a further search of the château
failed to locate the hiding-place of the strange being in the monkish
robe.

“If Bertha and her friends are working in concert with that creature,
there is every hope we may find them together,” he said. “Failing
this, I may be successful in bagging Niels.”

“But if you consider it advisable to give Bertha a length of rope, why
not Niels?” asked Conrad. “I fear you are rather inconsistent,
Fouchard.”

Fouchard laughed harshly. There was logic in Conrad’s remark, and the
detective was obviously a trifle nettled. He did not like to admit
that his personal vanity was the dominating counsellor. Bertha might
have a little run, but not the man who had worsted him and carried out
the successful masquerade. After all, he was very human.

“Suppose nothing happens, and Severin sends no signal,” suggested
Wallace. “Are you proposing that we should camp on the Mont des Pins
indefinitely?”

“Something will happen,” he snapped impatiently. “Those people will
waste no time. I have taken Severin into my confidence. There was no
alternative, and I believe he is absolutely trustworthy. He is going
to watch Bertha’s movements from the time we leave the château. It is
understood you leave to-morrow. I shall be called away the same
evening, and mademoiselle will decide to accompany me as far as Paris.
The train leaves Arveyes at 6.25 and should arrive at Moselle round
about seven o’clock. Mademoiselle and I will alight there, and shall
expect to see you.”

“We’ll be there,” promised Wallace. “I suppose it is necessary to go
as far as Moselle?”

“Absolutely. The train will be watched at Arveyes if I am any judge of
Bertha’s mentality.”

The plan was carried out to the letter. There were quite pathetic
farewells on the following morning, just before the Bentley moved out
of the drive. Old Severin was given some money and told to distribute
it among the staff, not forgetting Bertha. Stowed away in the car were
blankets and provisions, in case no sign came from Severin on the
first night.

“I wonder if anything will come of it?” mused Wallace.

“Fouchard seems to think so. Let us pray that it will not rain
to-night. It would not be very pleasant camping out in a deluge. I
shall suggest dropping Yolande at a hotel.”

“She wouldn’t hear of it. She is just as keen as we are to get to the
bottom of the mystery, and wants to be in at the kill, so to speak.”

“How far is this place--Moselle?”

“I make it, thirty-odd miles.”

“We’ve got the whole day to waste.”

“I propose we run into Rheims. I have need of some decent
tobacco--_tabac de luxe_, as they call it here.”

“We must not miss that train whatever happens.”

“We won’t miss it.”

They thereupon made a speed burst for Rheims and arrived there in good
time for an early lunch. It was Conrad’s first sight of the city since
the days of the war, when it had been a pitiful wreck. He was
astonished to discover a new city. There were streets and streets of
fine stone buildings, and scarcely any sign of the ravages of war. The
scarred cathedral was in process of renovation, and the whole place
was completely changed.

“No wonder the French want indemnities,” he said. “This must have cost
a nice pile of money.”

“Probably explains why there is no unemployment in France.”

“Yes, reconstruction--and the big army. It’s difficult here to realise
what we have experienced this last week. I am beginning to think it
was all a dream.”

“I wish it were,” said Wallace. “But that big shape that nearly gave
me the count was not part of any dream. Fouchard is dying to meet
Niels face to face, but I would willingly kiss Niels if I could only
meet the phantom.”

“I hope you won’t.”

“Why?”

“He has too great a love for naked razors. No, this is no time for
heroics. We are up against big things, and I don’t like the look of it
at all. Of course, you are young and aching for any kind of
excitement, but I’ve had my full share and more. I want to take you
back to England intact.”

Wallace laughed as he finished his coffee. He felt that so far he had
had no run for his money. The other side had scored all the points.

“Curious thing how Fate works,” he mused. “A fortnight ago I had no
idea there was such a place as the Château Grammont, nor such a
person as Yolande Fallières. I thought we were going drifting across
France in haphazard fashion until we got sick of it and returned to
the roast beef of old England. Now here we are as deeply embroiled in
this perplexing mystery as if we were first cousins of Fallières.
What impresses me most is the courage of Yolande.”

Conrad shot him a swift glance, for there was a curious softness in
his voice as he mentioned Yolande. He was now staring through the
window with eyes that were apparently focused on nothing in
particular. Conrad thought he understood, but like a wise man he said
nothing.

They left the city an hour later, and drove easily in the direction of
Arveyes and Moselle. They were obliged to pass through the forest
again, but were enabled to give the château a fairly wide berth.
Wallace discovered that his fan-belt wanted tightening, and Conrad got
out of the car while the adjustment was being made. Lying just off the
road was a kind of disused mine with a man cracking rock close by. He
tried his French on the workman, and was told that twenty years ago
tin was discovered there. A certain quantity was mined, but in less
than two years the valuable metal petered out and the business was
abandoned. They chatted for a few minutes and then Wallace sounded his
horn.

“All serene!” he cried. “We’d better take the turning to the left, for
we are not far from the château.”

Conrad agreed, and the journey was continued. They reached Moselle far
too early, and spent an hour in walking round the old town, which had
some wonderful architecture to display. The train, to their
astonishment, arrived punctually, and Fouchard and Yolande alighted
from it.

“Here we are!” said Fouchard. “Bertha wasn’t risking anything. At the
booking-office there was rather a queer fellow behind me. I had the
sense to take tickets to Paris. A wicked waste of money, but it had to
be done.”

“I almost wished I were going to Paris,” said Yolande. “But Paris will
keep. Are we going straight back now?”

“Yes,” replied Fouchard. “I suggest taking the other route in order to
miss Arveyes.”

“You direct me,” said Wallace.

In an hour they were on the road close to the Mont des Pins. Wallace
drove the car as far into the shelter of the trees as was possible,
and looked to Fouchard for instructions.

“We must watch in turn,” said the detective. “From the top of the hill
the château is clearly visible. Severin has placed a red-shaded
electric lamp on a table by the third window on the first floor. If
that lights up it means we are wanted at the château. It is now eight
o’clock. I propose to take first spell. If one of you would relieve me
at about one o’clock it would leave but three hours before daylight.”

“No. Let us share up the time fairly,” said Wallace.

But Fouchard was obdurate. He was not in the least tired, he averred,
and if necessary he was quite prepared to watch the whole night.

“I’ll take a few sandwiches and a bottle of wine,” he added. “This
path leads direct to the summit.”

He thereupon left them, and Wallace commenced to prepare a meal.
Fortunately the night was warm and there was no sign of wind. Under
the light of an inspection lamp they made quite a good meal. Later,
Yolande was tucked in the back seat with some rugs round her and urged
to sleep.

“I could not sleep for anything in the world,” she said. “It is good
to be in the fresh air. The odour of the pines is wonderful.”

For some time they talked about anything but the business at hand.
Despite Yolande’s assertion she fell into a doze, while the two men
smoked immoderately. It was nearly midnight when Fouchard came running
down the path.

“The signal has come,” he said. “There is not a minute to spare.”

Wallace uttered a low hiss of excitement and entered the car
immediately. Fouchard and Conrad followed, and Yolande was awakened
from her slumbers by the starting of the engine.

“Are we-- Severin has signalled?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The car moved over the uneven ground on to the road. A moment later it
was speeding towards the château. The downhill stretch of road was
covered at a tremendous speed, and in a few minutes the car pulled up
outside the lodge.

“Stop the engine,” said Fouchard. “It may be heard.”

The gate was closed, but a pull on the bell brought the lodge-keeper
from his bed. He blinked to behold the party.

“Open the gate, Pierre,” said Yolande. “Quick, and make no noise.”

“_Oui_, mademoiselle.”

“You had better stay with Pierre,” said Fouchard. “This time I
insist.”

“Very well.”

“Take care,” whispered Yolande, as they left her in Pierre’s keeping.
“There is danger, I fear.”

“Danger for Niels and company,” growled Fouchard, as he moved forward
in the darkness.

Wallace and Conrad followed, and the trio soon arrived outside the
château. A vague form came running towards them. It turned out to be
Severin.

“What has happened?” asked Fouchard. “Speak quickly, and softly.”

“I watched the woman carefully, monsieur. I think she signalled from
her bedroom soon after you had left. She came down later and stayed in
the servants’ hall. At ten she went to bed. I hid myself in a linen
cupboard close to her room, and at twelve o’clock she opened her door
and went down the stairs. I followed and saw her open the door and let
in two men.”

“Two!”

“Yes, monsieur. It was too dark to see who they were, but I heard one
say, ‘Heinrich has just arrived--most fortunate.’”

“Go on.”

“They all went along the passage, and a little later I heard the door
of the cellar squeak. It is the only door that does that. I crept
along, but did not see them.”

“You mean they are in the cellar now?”

“Yes.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Not two minutes. I ran straight back here, because I saw the lights
of the car.”

“Good! There is no other way out of the vaults?”

“None.”

“Then I fancy we have them. Come!”

They hurried along the passage and soon reached the entrance to the
cellar. Severin pushed open the door carefully to prevent its habitual
squeak.

“Are we to come?” asked Conrad.

“Just as you wish--but tread lightly.”

They followed him down the stairs, Severin bringing up the rear.

“Lock that door,” whispered Fouchard.

“I have done so,” replied Severin.

The place was in pitch darkness, but a whispered message to Severin
brought a flood of light. Simultaneously a voice yelled “_Achtung_,”
and a burly figure was seen blocking their path. Fouchard whipped out
his pistol.

“Move an inch and I fire!” he cried.

Then out went all the lights and there was a scampering of feet.
Wallace produced the pocket-torch which he had brought with him, and
flashed it. He saw the form of their late obstructor vanishing around
a corner and Fouchard a few yards behind him. Then there was a flash
and a loud report mingled with a groan of pain. The torch revealed the
fugitive on the ground with Fouchard leaning over him.

“Watch that door!” yelled Fouchard.

Wallace ran back, but on rounding the end arch and flashing his light,
perceived that the door was open. He ran up the stairs and stood
listening. For a few seconds there was no sound, and then he heard an
engine start up, and cursed under his breath. It was evident that
Niels had flown and that Bertha had got safely to her room. Severin
was not the only man who had a key to the cellar!

He repaired to the cellar again and found Fouchard with his victim.

“They got away,” he said.

“Damn! One of them had a duplicate key. We’ve muddled this badly. One
of us ought to have stayed upstairs. The wire has been cut somewhere.
Take your torch and see if you can-- No, it would take too long. Help
me with this fellow.”

They got the wounded man on to his feet and piloted him upstairs.
Fouchard led the way into the library and the prisoner was put into a
chair. He proved to be a comparatively young man of powerful build,
and he was in considerable pain, for Fouchard’s bullet had lodged in
his leg. The detective fastened two handkerchiefs together and made a
temporary bandage.

“Now, friend Heinrich, you won’t hurt for a bit,” he said grimly. “I
think I will have a look in your pockets.”

The result of his search was a wallet containing money and some
visiting cards, some business letters, and a pipe. He hunted for a
weapon, but found none.

“Lucky for you, my friend,” he said. “A revolver would have got you
five years.”

Severin came forward with a small slip of paper in his hand. He had
found it in the cellar, he said. Fouchard pursed his lips as he
perused it. It contained some figures and a name:


                                  27
                                  31
                                  36
                               Steinbech


“A key to something,” he mused. Then turning to Heinrich. “Now, my
friend, perhaps you would like to explain what you are doing in this
place?”

“What do you think?” asked Heinrich coolly.

“What I think may have a considerable effect upon the sentence you
will get,” snapped Fouchard. “It is not nice for a young fellow like
you to be implicated in a savage murder.”

“You go too fast. It may interest you to know that a few hours ago I
was across the frontier. I can produce a passport to prove that.”

“Your passport won’t help you much. You are in a pretty tight fix, and
I advise you to tell the truth.”

Heinrich smiled and shook his head.

“You have caught me--like a thief. What explanation do you expect me
to make?”

“What did you come to steal?”

“What is there to steal in a wine-cellar?”

“Don’t answer me back like that,” Fouchard thundered. “You are in
league with certain other people. You will find that a French prison
is not a very comfortable abode. Tell me what I want to know and I may
make things easier for you. What do these figures mean?”

“That is simple,” replied Heinrich. “I dropped that slip of paper. It
is a system for winning money at roulette. I proposed to visit Monte
Carlo during my stay in France. A friend was good enough to furnish me
with this admirable system.”

“You amazing liar!” roared Fouchard. “Do you think I am so ignorant of
roulette that I could swallow such a story? There is no system there.
What does ‘Steinbech’ mean?”

“That is a code word for my bank to wire me money if I should need
more than my present small capital. Of course the system fails at
times--at least it calls for more----”

“Silence! Enough of this fooling. I am not in the mood for it. You are
resolved to keep your mouth closed?”

Heinrich’s expression changed to one of great seriousness. He winced
as he moved his injured leg.

“I have nothing to say,” he added.

“Very well. I will ring for the police to come and take charge of
you.”

He left the room to go to the telephone. Wallace could not but admire
the fortitude of the man, faced as he was with his loss of liberty for
a considerable period.

“Why don’t you give us a hint,” he said. “You don’t look like a
criminal, and there has been murder committed here.”

“If I could help you I would, but I am pledged to secrecy. All I say
is ‘take care.’ There is greater danger here than you imagine.”

Nothing would wring another word from him, and half an hour later the
local police called and took him away.

“So much for my ruse,” sighed Fouchard. “There is a lot hidden in this
piece of paper if one only had the wit to understand it.”

“The figures are undoubtedly a key to something,” said Conrad.
“Something they are dead keen on finding. How to apply them is the
problem. Then the name ‘Steinbech.’ What can that possibly imply?”

Fouchard shrugged his shoulders. He had the sense to see that nothing
in this world would make Heinrich divulge what he knew. The figures
were puzzling because they might refer to a thousand different things.
Their very simplicity magnified the difficulties.

“It is like shoving at nothing,” he averred. “Would you kindly go and
escort mademoiselle back, monsieur. There is nothing more to be done
to-night.”

Wallace was delighted to carry out this task. He told Yolande exactly
what had happened, and she shook her head in bewildered fashion. The
picture of Heinrich and that of the Monster with his murderous razor
did not harmonize at all.




 CHAPTER X.
 THEORIES

Fouchard was busy early the next morning pacing out the cellar, and
counting flagstones in every direction. He eventually came up looking
nettled and out of temper.

“Any luck?” asked Wallace.

“None. I’ve juggled with those figures until I am tired. I’ve applied
them in half a hundred ways, and they lead me to a dead end every
time.”

“Perhaps they have nothing to do with this case.”

“I’ll stake my life they have. Those people went to the cellar last
night with a definite object in view. These figures form the key to
what they wanted.”

“It must be of considerable value to cause them to take so much
trouble. Anyway, how do you link this up with the murder of
Fallières?”

“There is no link--yet. I don’t know what part the phantom plays. It
is possible that he, too, is after the same thing as the other party.”

“But there is evidence that he has been active for years.”

“Why not? If this unknown thing is of great value, a desperate
criminal would spend half his life trying to locate it. He apparently
has a way of getting into this house that is unknown to the other
gang--even to us. This man is a killer, while the others are merely
crooks. But Bertha and her friends know of this man.”

“You think so?”

“I am positive. Now it looks as if Niels and Bertha have scored over
the assassin and discovered a clue.”

“You refer to the figures?”

“Yes. If we could apply them correctly we should at least get down to
motives.”

“I don’t agree,” said Conrad. “What conceivable motive could there be
in the murder of Fallières in his own room?”

“Suppose the Monster was there all the time. Suppose he had climbed in
and hidden himself. When he believed Fallières was asleep he tries to
escape. Fallières wakes up and takes the pistol from under his
pillow. He shoots, and the intruder silences him with the razor.”

“A good story, but it doesn’t satisfy me. There is the breaking of
mirrors to be accounted for, the befouling of the place, the cries
that are heard----”

“A plan to scare the occupants in order that this strange man may have
greater freedom to search for what he is after.”

But Conrad shook his head. It was all too far-fetched to his way of
thinking.

“My dear sir,” said Fouchard, “you are welcome to the alternative
theory--that of a ghost, a discarnate soul engaged in haunting the
scenes of his earthly existence. The servants believe that.”

“I am content to keep an open mind,” retorted Conrad. “I think if we
were honest we should admit that we have no clues of any real value. I
mean so far as they concern motives.”

“I agree,” said Wallace.

Fouchard walked out in a huff, but a few minutes later he was called
to the telephone, where he received news that caused him to be even
more annoyed. They overheard him carrying on in extremely rapid
French, telling the man at the other end that he was nothing but an
idiot, who deserved to be discharged immediately. He strode into the
room and glared at Wallace.

“What is the matter?”

“For a pack of unadulterated idiots I commend you to the provincial
police,” he said. “They have let that fellow escape.”

“Not really!”

“They put him into the lock-up all right, but apparently there has
been no prisoner there for about five years. The window was barred,
but the bricks and mortar were rotten. Well, he managed to get out
despite his game leg. Now they are going to start rushing all over the
country, as if their feeble intellects could be matched against those
crooks. Well, we shall see him again.”

“You are optimistic.”

“I know these birds. Nothing will put them off the scent. They will
bide their time and come creeping here again. I’d give five years of
my life to know what it is they are after.”

He wandered off to make a new tour of discovery, and the worthy
Watkins came in to report that he had found the trouble with the
lights in the cellar. The wire had been cut clean through.

“Don’t like that place,” he confided. “I always feel cold down the
spine when I go down there. This is a terrible place for lighting
troubles. Fuses go by the dozen, and blessed if I know why. It’s the
worst system I’ve ever struck.”

Wallace had promised to accompany Yolande to Rheims in her car, and
looked forward to driving the enormous Hispano, which she had agreed
he should do.

“Careful with the throttle,” said Conrad.

“I’m always careful.”

Conrad had also been invited, but somehow he felt that these two would
have a better time without him. After their departure he went to the
library to find a book to read. While he was there Bertha came in to
dust the place. She apologised, and made to leave, but he told her
there was no need, as he would be gone in a few minutes. She thereupon
commenced her duties.

“Monsieur Fallières must have been a great reader,” he remarked.

“He was,” she replied.

“It is a terrible loss to mademoiselle.”

He was curious to see how she would take this. Her equanimity was
wonderful. She shook her head sadly, and was not afraid to meet his
eyes.

“I am more than sorry for her,” she said. “She is a most considerate
mistress, and loved monsieur deeply.”

“The affair is most mysterious. It invests the place with a bad
atmosphere.”

“It does indeed. I fear that two of the maids will be leaving this
week. Most of the servants are badly frightened.”

“Are you not frightened?”

“I am a little nervous--at nights,” she said. “Some of the maids make
it worse by talking about it too much. I heard that you and Monsieur
Wallace had also gone, but I am glad it was not true.”

“Why are you glad?” he asked with a smile.

“On mademoiselle’s account. She needs company just now. She is brave
to stay here at all after--after such a terrible affair.”

“You are right,” he said. “She is courageous.”

There was a long pause, during which he selected a book from the case.

“Do you think Monsieur Fouchard has any hopes of discovering the
murderer?” she asked.

“Fouchard is never without hope.”

“Ah! He looks clever.”

“He is much cleverer than he looks. I fancy that very soon we shall
hear satisfactory news--something that will explain everything.”

“I hope so,” she said. “This would be a beautiful place if only all
the strange happenings would cease. I pray that the day will soon
come.”

He left the library feeling that she was the most consummate natural
actress he had ever met, and the biggest hypocrite. Her soft tongue
literally rang with sincerity, and yet it was but a few hours since
she had escaped from the cellar. She prayed for the day when the
trouble would pass from the Château Grammont! Of all the
impudence----

Taking a seat on the terrace, he started to read the book. It was in
French, and a personal narrative of the war in Champagne. Its chief
interest lay in the fact that it covered the battle-front in the
neighbourhood of the château, some of which he was acquainted with.
For two hours he beguiled the time pleasantly enough. Then Fouchard
returned, looking hot and tired.

“I’ve had a long walk,” he said. “Nothing like a walk to blow the
cobwebs from one’s brain. I wonder if one could get an _apéritif_? We
will try.”

He rang the bell, and Severin appeared. Conrad seldom took any
refreshment before lunch, but Fouchard asked for a mixed vermouth with
a piece of citron and Severin grinned pleasantly and said he would
bring it _tout suite_.

“Severin looks quite merry this morning,” mused Fouchard. “I thought
he was going to crack up.”

“He is pretty tough.”

“He needs to be. You know, I have a good mind to arrest Bertha and
charge her with the murder of Fallières.”

Conrad closed his book and stared at Fouchard incredulously.

“Arrest Bertha!”

“A mere ruse. I could put her in a very awkward position. In France
the criminal code is very different from that of England. Bertha would
be judged guilty until she was able to prove her innocence. What would
she and her friends do when they realised that the gallows were in the
background? Why, reveal their hand.”

“But you know they are innocent.”

“I suspect they are. But if such an act provided a short cut, it would
be justified.”

Severin entered with two bottles and a glass. Fouchard watched him as
he poured out the drink.

“You are looking sprightly this morning, Monsieur Severin,” he said.
“Is it perchance your birthday?”

“No, monsieur, but one must not always be gloomy. I am glad because I
think we are nearing a period of peace and quiet.”

“What do you mean?”

“The moon has passed the full, monsieur.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“All the disturbances that have happened here have taken place round
about the full moon. I have remarked upon it so many times.”

“Well I’m blessed! There is no limit to superstition. Can you beat
that, Mr. Conrad?”

“It certainly is an extraordinary assertion,” returned Conrad. “Akin
to the belief that ghosts cease to walk when the cock crows. But do
you seriously believe that, Severin?”

“I cannot help it, monsieur. I have observed the fact so many times.
Was not Monsieur Fallières murdered on the very night of the full
moon?”

“That is true, but it might have happened any night.”

“I think not,” he replied stubbornly. “We shall hear little more from
the phantom for three weeks or so. You are sure you will not join
Monsieur Fouchard?”

“Quite sure.”

Severin departed, and Fouchard laughed as he raised his glass.

“A quaint old man,” he said.

“I suppose there is nothing in it?”

“Old women’s talk. What on earth has the full moon to do with these
remarkable happenings?”

“I have certainly heard similar opinions expressed. In fact, we had a
curious fellow in my own regiment who swore that the moon had a
strange effect upon him. Certainly he behaved in an extraordinary
fashion at those periods. His bewitching took the form of insobriety.
At all other times he was a most moderate drinker.”

“Astrological nonsense! Science would not countenance such a
possibility.”

“Science isn’t infallible.”

“Nothing is. Wonderful stuff this! Fallières knew where to procure
the finest wines and spirits. No, monsieur, with all due respect to
your story about your military friend, I cannot swallow such a
hypothesis. Severin would have us believe that the Monster sleeps for
three solid weeks, and wakes up when the moon is approaching the full.
Then he roams at large with a razor in his pocket, cutting throats and
breaking mirrors. Moonshine, my dear sir!”

“Perhaps. But in this world it is never wise to be too dogmatic. I
hope you won’t carry out that ruse you mentioned.”

“Oh, Bertha? I am sorely tempted.”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“She would guess your object immediately, and you would kill the goose
that lays the golden egg. Your first scheme was the correct one. Give
her plenty of rope, and watch her.”

“I know, but my trouble is that I am an exceedingly busy man. At any
moment I may be recalled to Paris. What have I to report? I have found
a paper that I cannot decipher. I have arrested a man and lost him
again. I have actually seen the queer creature who I am convinced
murdered Fallières. But everything is in pieces. I cannot coordinate
things at all. I have attained a certain amount of fame, deservedly or
undeservedly, and I will confess that my successes have all been due
to finding the motive first. Where is the motive here?”

“It certainly is vague.”

“Vague! It is absent. Now, according to Severin, I must wait until the
next full moon before the dominating character in this conspiracy
reveals himself.”

“Isn’t patience one of the attributes of the master sleuth-hound?”

“One requires the patience of Job for this affair. I’ve been over the
château again and again, and how this assassin gets into it is beyond
me.”

“You are sure it is flesh and blood?”

“I shall be more sure when I have lodged half a dozen bullets in his
giant carcass, as I shall do at the first opportunity,” he growled.




 CHAPTER XI.
 THE CRIMSON TRAIL

During the next few days it became evident that Fouchard had quite
abandoned the idea of arresting Bertha. A lot of his time was occupied
with the column of figures, from which he ultimately confessed he
could discover nothing.

“A red herring,” he grunted. “Flung across the trail in order to waste
our time. We have a whole mountain of brains arrayed against us.
Niels, Heinrich, and Bertha--a redoubtable trio. I’m sick at losing
Heinrich.”

“It’s strange that Bertha should stay on here, when she undoubtedly
knows we suspect her,” said Wallace.

“A remarkable woman--not the criminal type by any means. I found her
reading a volume of Plotinus in the garden yesterday, in the original
Greek.”

“Humbug, perhaps.”

“That’s what I thought. I even tried to catch her, for I had read
Plotinus in a translated version. I failed, though. She knew the stuff
from alpha to omega.”

“And you aren’t going to arrest her?”

“No. It wouldn’t work. I will admit that at the moment I am somewhat
hopelessly bogged.”

He left them a little later, and they saw him walking round and round
a radiant flower-bed, with his hands behind his back, evidently
inventing new theories to fit this remarkable case.

“I’ve got an idea that when we leave the château we shall be as far
from any solution as we are now,” mused Conrad.

“I’d hate to leave it under those circumstances,” replied Wallace.
“Think of Yolande in this grim place, with scarcely any
neighbours----”

“You’re thinking rather a lot about her, aren’t you?”

“How can one help doing so? You told me yourself that you remembered
her best as a gay, bird-like spirit, full of fun and laughter. Well,
that has gone. She still has the courage to smile, but the burden she
is carrying is obvious enough. I wish we could induce her to
leave--sell up this place and seek peace elsewhere.”

“It would be waste of breath to try. There is a lot to be said for
aristocracy, despite your Socialistic tendencies. Yolande’s ancestors
went to the guillotine with a smile on their faces. Do you expect
their descendant to flee from danger?”

“But this is different. There is little to be gained by staying on. No
doubt the French Government would take over the château as a historic
antique. No Government could ever let a place like this fall into
decay.”

“Perhaps not, but there are other considerations. There are the
tenants. Would they fare as well under such a change of ownership?
Half of them never pay any rent. In addition, there is pride. That, I
think, is the deciding factor.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am. You wouldn’t think so well of Yolande if she did what
you try to persuade yourself is the sensible thing. It is because she
faces this danger with a stout heart that you, my dear Ralph, are
falling hopelessly in love with her.”

“Eh?”

“Deny that if you can.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders and stared out at the bright blossoms.

“You’re right, Connie,” he said in a low voice. “I’d hate to be
thought a sloppy sentimentalist, but the château, the air we breathe,
the brooding mystery that lurks here, all spell ‘Yolande’ to me. She
doesn’t know--yet. I wouldn’t have her know while this horrible shadow
hangs over her. But when I think of what happened to poor Fallières,
within a few yards of us, and reflect how easy it might be----”

“Steady!”

“Well, it has to be taken into consideration. Look, there goes
Bertha--to cut flowers for the house, apparently.”

Conrad raised his eyes and saw the fine figure of the parlourmaid
enter the garden. She was garbed in the becoming dress of the domestic
staff of the household, and it suited her colouring perfectly. They
watched her moving among the flowers, cutting suitable blossoms, for
Yolande loved to have flowers in her bedroom and also in the
dining-hall. Bertha entered the house again by way of the terrace,
with her arms full of roses, delphiniums, and asters. She displayed
her gleaming, perfect teeth as Conrad gazed admiringly at the floral
treasures.

“Monsieur is fond of flowers?” she asked in slightly broken English.

“All but the blind must be,” replied Conrad.

“Even the blind may smell.”

“Is mademoiselle down yet?”

“She will not be long. Since her maid left I have had the honour of
waiting upon her. It is sad that one so gracious and beautiful should
be made to suffer so deeply. It would be better if she left the
château.”

“You think so?”

“_Zut!_ It is not obvious? Monsieur has seen and heard enough to
understand that there is great danger here. The servants whisper among
themselves, and more will be leaving soon.”

“And you--are you not afraid?”

Conrad gazed at her intently. But Bertha never turned a hair. She
shrugged her perfect shoulders and raised the blossoms to her
straight, firm nose.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But life is full of threats. One extra should
not matter much. All who live must die.”

“So Shakespeare said,” put in Wallace. “But there are pleasanter ways
of dying than having one’s throat cut from ear to ear.”

“Then monsieur should take the wiser course,” she retorted.

“And run away? You are a trifle inconsistent, Bertha. Just now you
were advising mademoiselle to vacate the place, and immediately on top
of that you quote Shakespeare.”

“Women are always inconsistent from the moment they are born. If they
were not so, men, with all their mighty logic, would fail to be
interested in them.”

“That’s one for you, Ralph,” said Conrad, with a laugh.

Bertha laughed too--a rich, ringing peal that echoed along the
terrace. Then she gave a half curtsey and went about her business.
Conrad’s eyes followed her until her red heels disappeared through the
door.

“By Jove, she’s wonderful!” he said.

“You mean her self-possession?”

“Well--yes.”

“Connie!”

“What now?”

“You’re interested in her.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Don’t hedge. I noticed you when--when she looked at you with her
siren-eyes. She would have offered you a rose if I hadn’t been
present.”

“Don’t talk such rubbish!” snapped Conrad.

“I wish it was rubbish.” Wallace became serious. “That damned woman
has more brains than all of us put together. She’s angling for you,
Connie; one antagonist the less when she hooks you. Whenever she
passes you she turns her head ever so slightly--just enough for you to
see the corner of her eye. Great Scott! Julian Conrad, late Major of
the R.G.A., and a parlourmaid who mixes in very strange company----”

Conrad stood up, and for the first time in his life Wallace saw real
anger in his eyes.

“You’re an idiot, Ralph,” he snapped. “Not only an idiot, but an
insufferable snob. So much for your Socialism!”

“Connie!”

“You annoy me.”

“I meant to,” said Wallace, with a grin. “The fact is, old man, that
crowd is going to beat us unless we stir ourselves. The woman in the
case is always the danger--especially when she is as attractive as
Bertha is. Perhaps I went too far. I’m sorry. Come--shake!”

Conrad gripped the proffered hand a trifle shamefacedly, for he was
painfully aware that his display of anger only went to prove that
Wallace’s accusation was not entirely unfounded. It was a fact that
Bertha impressed him tremendously. Through thirty-five years of life
he had managed to steer a celibate course, only to hit up against this
remarkable woman when he had come to believe that the passions of
youth were dead for ever. There was something in her voice, in her
carriage, that affected him strangely. That she was playing a clever
game he felt convinced, but, all the same, his nerves never failed to
tingle whenever Bertha loomed in sight.

“A dangerous place for all of us,” he said. “Was it a holiday trip we
planned, Ralph?”

“No, an adventure--and we’re getting it. Ah, here comes Yolande.”

She approached them with a smile on her face, and bade them remain
seated, whilst she took a chair next to Wallace. Attached to her dress
was one of the roses that Bertha had recently gathered. It had a
gleaming dew-drop upon it. Wallace thought it looked like a fallen
tear from the beautiful eyes.

“Where is the great Fouchard?” she asked.

Wallace inclined his head towards the garden, and Fouchard came to
view at that moment, still walking round and round the great bed of
delphiniums.

“Seems completely baffled,” said Conrad. “I can sympathise with him,
for we are confronted with a most perplexing enigma.”

“Bertha could solve it if she would,” said Yolande.

“So could Heinrich or Niels, but there is no hope of getting any clue
from them. It is evident that they are operating against us,” said
Wallace.

“Bertha’s conduct is the strangest. I purposely got her to act as a
temporary lady’s-maid to me. Her conduct is all that could be desired.
Sometimes I see her watching me--in the mirror. Her face is
sympathetic--almost sad. This morning she begged me to go away from
here. Either she is the most wonderful actress in the world, or she is
sincerely sympathetic. What--what is one to believe?”

“The former,” said Wallace emphatically. “We know she let those two
men into the house. She is no more faithful to you than--than the
Monster is. How is it possible to believe she is anything other than a
conspirator in this mysterious plot?”

“Might not there be some element that we have overlooked?” pleaded
Conrad. “Neither she nor her companions may be implicated in the
actual crime.”

“Then why are they behaving so mysteriously? At any rate they are
house-breakers--robbers.”

“My head aches with it all,” said Yolande. “Shall we go and look at
the orchids?”

Conrad declined politely, but Wallace was quite willing. They left the
terrace and walked through the most exotic part of the wonderful
garden. With the gaunt château obscured from view, they were
immediately transplanted into a veritable Garden of Eden. Yolande
seemed to breathe more freely as they got farther from the scene of
terror.

“How fortunate it was that I met you and Mr. Conrad that morning,” she
said. “You have helped me--so much.”

“I wish I could feel that. Both Conrad and I feel that we are pretty
useless specimens. But Fouchard is beat also, so we must not take our
failure too deeply to heart. You are still determined to stay here?”

“Yes. Whatever may happen.”

“I admire you immensely,” he blurted out.

“Because I do not run away--as I sometimes am tempted to do?”

“Not only for that. You have borne so much sorrow with so brave a
heart. Of course I know nothing about women, but I never imagined that
any woman would--would act as you have,” he said lamely.

“You--you mustn’t pay me undeserved compliments. At heart I am very
much afraid. It is the unknown that is so awful. I have the feeling
that these terrible events are not yet over. Last night--last night I
dreamed it--it was you.”

She shuddered and, unconsciously perhaps, her hand went out and
gripped his. Wallace felt his blood scampering through his veins.
There came the desire to take her in his arms and tell her that, no
matter what happened, he would never forsake her--that in less than
two weeks she had captivated his heart and soul. It was on the tip of
his tongue when he heard running feet on the gravel path behind, and
turned to see the chauffeur, very out of breath and red in the face.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he gasped. “Monsieur Fouchard asked me to find
you. He would like to speak to you immediately.”




 CHAPTER XII.
 THE SECOND VICTIM

The urgent summons from Fouchard left no doubt in Wallace’s mind
that the mystery had yielded a new feature. He and Yolande hurried
back to the house and found Fouchard in earnest conversation with some
of the servants. Yolande’s face fell when she saw this, for the news
looked anything but good.

“What is it, Fouchard?” she asked.

“Severin is missing.”

“Missing?”

“It was brought to my notice that Severin’s room had not been slept in
last night, nor is he to be found about the château.”

“But we saw him at ten o’clock last night,” said Wallace.

“Some of the servants saw him at eleven, just before he locked up.
When he did not put in an appearance this morning they presumed he was
unwell. The chambermaid ultimately made the discovery.”

The servants whom Fouchard had been questioning were dismissed, and
the quartette looked at each other--Yolande with fear and
apprehension, Wallace and Conrad in speechless surprise, and Fouchard
with ill-concealed rage.

“You don’t think Severin is in this conspiracy?” asked Conrad.

“No--no,” said Yolande. “I fear--I fear----”

It was obvious what she feared, and Fouchard inclined his head grimly.

“But this is appalling!” said Conrad. “It was Severin who was so sure
that nothing would happen until the moon----”

“Superstitious rot!” snapped Fouchard. “I never paid the slightest
heed to it. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to search
the whole place. I am deeply sorry, mademoiselle--I scarcely expected
this.”

“There is no sign of any struggle in Severin’s bedroom?”

“None--nor in any other room. I have already been through most of the
occupied rooms.”

“Let us make a start,” pleaded Wallace, whose impatience was manifest
in his twitching limbs.

Fouchard nodded, and soon the three men were probing in every dark
corner. Wallace had persuaded Yolande to await them on the terrace,
for he anticipated another ghastly discovery. The vaults were tackled
last of all, and there their worst expectations were realised. The
body of Severin was found lying flat on the floor at the far end of
the vault, with his throat cut. He was quite dead, and his limbs were
stone cold.

“Ghastly!” exclaimed Conrad.

“No attempt to hide the corpse this time,” mused Fouchard. “It must
have happened last night.”

“But what was Severin doing down here? He dreaded the place, and
certainly would not have come down here close to midnight.”

“Don’t ask me any questions,” snapped Fouchard. “I have already asked
myself every conceivable question that has any bearing on these
horrible crimes. Now I’ll have the idiots from Arveyes down
here--wasting time.”

Yolande was apprised of the discovery. She made a brave attempt to
control her emotions, but Severin had been a beloved and faithful
servant and the blow was heavy. Wallace’s heart ached as he gazed upon
that beautiful, troubled face.

“This is hell, Connie,” he said. “Where is it going to end? If
Fallières and Severin, why not you and me--or Yolande? God, it is
maddening to feel so helpless.”

Fouchard got into touch with Arveyes, and again the local police and
the doctor arrived. The servants now were completely terrified. Three
maids packed their bags as soon as the police had done with them, and
others talked of going. But Bertha, though pale of face, displayed no
desire to go.

“What do you know of this?” snapped Fouchard, banishing discretion in
his ignominy.

“I?”

“Yes--you. You were not on the best of terms with Severin--I happen to
know that.”

Bertha started, but her eyes did not waver. She glared back at
Fouchard until that worthy winced.

“Do you dare accuse me?” she asked hoarsely.

“I’ve the best of reasons for making that remark.”

Here the magistrate from Arveyes interrupted. He was a pompous little
man, and objected to Fouchard stealing his thunder.

“I am examining the witnesses, Monsieur Fouchard,” he said haughtily.
“I should like to know what these two gentlemen know of this affair. I
understand they have been staying in the château for a considerable
period--in fact, the exact period covering the two crimes.”

“Monsieur, they are my guests and friends,” objected Yolande.

Notwithstanding, Wallace and Conrad were compelled to answer a
multitude of questions, mostly to satisfy the vanity of the little
magistrate. Fouchard was so disgusted he strode out of the room.

“This is the limit!” said Wallace later. “We seem to be getting
dragged into it. The idiot!”

“I am so--so sorry,” said Yolande. “I fear I have been the means of
submitting you to great indignity.”

“It isn’t your fault, Yolande,” replied Wallace with a smile. “I
suppose he only did what he thought was his duty. After all, we are
strangers to him. Poor old Severin!”

The remains of Severin were removed later, and Fouchard put in an
appearance at dinner, for he missed as few meals as possible at the
château.

“Baffled!” he said. “Who is going to be the next, I wonder?”

“S-sh!” ejaculated Wallace angrily.

“I am sorry. But these are grim facts, monsieur. I can find no motive
for either crime, and one is led to the conclusion that no one in this
place is immune. Mademoiselle, you must leave at once. I insist!”

But Yolande shook her head. The second tragedy, following so close
upon the first, only served to harden her resolution. Wallace
flinched, but flashed a look of admiration across the table.

“But it is madness--” said Fouchard.

“I stay, monsieur. Let us not waste words.”

“_Zut!_” he grunted. “It is not for me to give orders.”

He got on with the meal, and for some time no conversation passed.
Fouchard’s disgruntlement vanished at about the same rate as the
courses, so that when coffee was served he was almost normal again.

“Of course Bertha had no hand in Severin’s death,” he said suddenly.

“But you practically accused her!”

“Only to see how she would take it. She is in league with the Monster
in some way, but cold-blooded murder is not in her line. I am not so
certain about Niels. I don’t think he would fight shy of anything that
would gain him his ends.”

“And what are his ends?”

“Ah! There you have me.”

“Something in this château?”

“It would appear so.”

“You think that the objects of Niels’s party and of the Monster are
identical?”

“They must be. If we only knew what that object was half our work
would be done. I am wondering whether it would be of any use to
endeavour to come to terms with Bertha.”

“Come to terms!”

“Why not? I presume that all of us want justice done for these two
cold-blooded murders. If Bertha can help us to get our man she
deserves what wealth or treasure lies hidden here.”

“If any,” put in Conrad.

“We could at least promise her a free hand.”

“Yolande would never consent to any parley with that party,” said
Wallace. “It would be like hoisting the white flag. Besides, it is
absolutely certain that Bertha will not give anything away. Whatever
the secret is, they would die rather than reveal it.”

“Yes,” mused Fouchard. “But the woman might speak if I could put her
two confederates in jail with long sentences to serve. While she hopes
to achieve her end she is fearless. I’d have no difficulty in
convicting Heinrich and Niels if only I could land them, but they are
elusive fish.”

“Yet they must be living somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

“I have tried everything, and the people at Arveyes have been busy in
that direction. They seem to have dug themselves in very securely.”

On the following day Fouchard made another small discovery. He was
engaged in perambulating his favourite corner of the garden when he
noticed a man loitering outside. He promptly secreted himself behind a
bush, and ultimately saw the loiterer climb over the low wall and slip
a letter between two loose bricks in one of the supporting columns of
the terrace.

Two minutes later the letter was in his possession. He came into the
house looking more perplexed than ever, and helped himself to a drink
before he divulged what it was that was troubling him.

“Another!” he said.

“Another what?” enquired Conrad.

“Can you read German?”

“Fairly well.”

“Then have a look at that.”

Conrad took the roughly-opened envelope and extracted a single sheet
of paper. He translated the contents for Wallace’s edification:


 “Dear Bertha--_Am joining Niels to-night. Come if you can to the
 usual place--to-morrow at seven o’clock._

                                                   “Walther.”


“Who the devil--” gasped Conrad. “Has Bertha seen this message?”

“No. But she is going to. I shall put it back where I found it, and
trust to our little Bertha to lead us to the lair.”

“Whew!” said Wallace, mopping his brow. “This is an invasion. Did you
see the man who brought the note?”

“Yes. He couldn’t have helped us. He was a peasant, and there is no
doubt the note was given him with instructions what to do, and a
reward. Had I apprehended him it would have placed our cunning friends
on the _qui vive_. I must get a fresh envelope and replace this
message without delay.”

He went off, and Conrad sat shaking his head, while Wallace chewed the
end of a cigarette. The gathering forces of the other side made it
abundantly clear that they had not the slightest intention of
abandoning their quest.

“Niels, Heinrich, Bertha, now Walther,” chanted Wallace. “What a
collection!”

“And the Monster.”

“Five sets of clever brains--against three. I wonder what Fouchard
will do if he successfully runs them to earth? Personally I don’t
believe it will help at all. They will all keep their mouths shut, and
we shall be exactly where we are, without even the chance of getting
wise to their motives.”

“You heard what he said. He will jail the men and try to coerce
Bertha.”

“What a hope! If Bertha could have spoken she would have done so
before. I am afraid Fouchard is at his wits’ end, and is likely to
bungle things.”

Fouchard made all his plans that evening. Hopeful of a round-up, he
had brought the local police into his scheme. Bertha was to be trailed
from the moment she left the house, and the whole party arrested _en
bloc_.

“For the time being you and I are to have a holiday,” said Conrad.

He did not seem very disappointed, and Wallace could not help feeling
that he was relieved not to have to assist in arresting the woman in
the case. Yolande was duly informed of what was pending.

“Do you think it will lead to any good?” she asked Wallace.

“I have doubts about it. It is obvious that Fouchard is still smarting
from injured pride. He is dying to lay hands on Niels, who collared
him so cleverly.”

“Bertha is the greatest mystery,” she replied reflectively. “I do not
know what to think about her. While I have every reason to believe
that she is conspiring to rob me--of something, I have got to like
her. She is gentle, sympathetic, and altogether the most efficient of
maids. I wonder what her relations are with those men?”

“She may be in their power--compelled to do their bidding. We must
wait and see what to-morrow will bring.”

A bitter disappointment was in store for Fouchard, for on the
following evening Bertha did not leave the château at all. Fouchard
crept back after hours of impatient waiting, having missed his dinner
in the bargain.

“Baulked again,” he said savagely.

“She hasn’t been there?”

“No--the minx! That letter was genuine enough, but she must have seen
me take it. Confound the woman!”

“And what now?” asked Conrad sweetly.

“I don’t know--I wish I did. These are hard nuts to crack. They are
all eyes, and ears, and brains.”

“They are indeed,” sighed Yolande. “One feels all the time that one is
being watched. I would give almost everything I possess to have
justice done, and to live in peace again.”




 CHAPTER XIII.
 THE CONSPIRATORS

In a small farmhouse, situated some twenty-five miles from the
château and lying well off the main road, two men sat and smoked in
the dusk of evening. One of them was Heinrich, and the other man
called Walther. Heinrich still wore a bandage round his leg where
Fouchard’s bullet had punctured it, and when he got up to light the
hanging lamp he limped slightly. Walther was a striking personality.
He was over six feet in height and extremely well proportioned. His
hair was as fair as a Swede’s, and was set off by wide-set, vivid blue
eyes.

“It is a strange business,” he mused. “At first I was incredulous, but
of course I was compelled to change my mind. How did you manage to get
into this place?”

“Datel passes as an Alsatian, but he is an old friend of Niels. He is
away at the moment. It’s time Niels was back.”

“What time did Bertha say?”

“Eight o’clock. It is now half-past eight, and Niels ought to do the
journey in less than half an hour.”

“Thirty miles!”

“The car is wonderful, and Niels drives it like mad. That young
Englishman will give Niels a certificate to that effect. He once tried
to catch him.”

“What have these two Englishmen to do with the business?”

“Nothing. They happened to be staying with Fallières when--when it
happened.”

“Horrible!”

“Yes. It ruined things, for it brought Fouchard down. But the
Englishmen are a danger all the same. The young one is keen on
mademoiselle, and is an awkward customer to deal with. His friend is
also to be reckoned with. But for them mademoiselle would have fled
and we should have had the place to ourselves.”

“It is a dangerous game.”

“Yes, and the sooner we gain our ends the better.” He glanced at the
clock again. “I hope there has been no mishap with Niels. Fouchard has
every place watched.”

“It was a narrow escape last time. If Bertha had not seen Fouchard
taking the letter-- Good idea of Niels to leave her that pigeon.”

Heinrich nodded, and then started as he heard the rising drone of an
engine.

“Niels!”

“Good!”

A minute later Niels entered with Bertha. The latter nodded at
Heinrich and shook Walther’s hand warmly.

“So you got here safely?” she asked.

“Not without some trouble at the frontier. Why am I wanted at all?”

“Niels thought it best.”

The diminutive Niels, obviously the eldest of the party, pursed his
thin lips, and, after offering Bertha a chair, sat down himself. His
small, wiry body seemed bursting with vitality, and his beady eyes
flashed as if illumined by an inner light.

“Things are in a mess,” he said. “We didn’t bargain on the forces that
oppose us. The death of Severin has made things more dangerous still.”

“We--we ought to have prevented that,” said Bertha. “It is horrible.”

“How could we prevent it?” he snapped. “On the one occasion when we
were so near success we were frustrated. But there must be no more
failures. We have to prepare the ground in advance.”

“Yes,” agreed Heinrich. “I suppose there is no shadow of doubt about
this? You must remember that up to now none of us has seen anything.”

“We shall,” retorted Niels. “Have no doubt about that. Steinbech’s
information leaves no room for doubt. And the messages--who could have
sent those but-- Did you hear a sound?”

“A rat in the rafters,” said Heinrich. “The place is infested with
them. What is the next step, Niels?”

“We have to get rid of the two Englishmen.”

Bertha started at this. She looked keenly at Niels, and then shook her
head.

“I will not be a party to bloodshed, Niels,” she said firmly. “If it
cannot be achieved without that, I am done with it.”

“It never entered my mind,” growled Niels. “But I want them out of the
way. We can deal with Fouchard afterwards.”

“But Mademoiselle Fallières!” ejaculated Bertha. “Without her guests
she----”

“Precisely. Mademoiselle will quickly pack her bag and vacate the
château. That is what I am aiming at.”

“You make a mistake, Niels,” said Bertha. “You do not know her so well
as I. She has the courage of a lion. Though she is full of terror, she
will not run away. For her sake I would rather those men stayed.”

“It is impossible. I mean to have my way, Bertha, for I have thought
over every alternative, and none promises the slightest measure of
success. And we must all act in harmony. What do you say, Heinrich?”

“I agree. I think Niels is right, Bertha. The two Englishmen are
obstacles to success. We cannot hope to deal with three determined men
at one time. What is your plan, Niels?”

“It involves some risk--to myself. I shall endeavour to lure the
younger one after me by exposing myself--in the car. He has a fast
car, and will give chase. His friend may accompany him, in which case
we shall bag the two together.”

“Presuming we accomplish that much--what then?”

“I shall make it impossible for them to interfere for a few days at
least.”

“You intend to keep them prisoners here?” asked Bertha.

“No. That would be too risky. It would mean that one of us would be
out of action--looking after them. We cannot afford that. I had in
mind Rupert.”

“Rupert!”

“He is lying off Gervaise at this moment, and will stay there until he
hears from me.”

“But they may get back,” said Walther.

“Only after considerable delay. As an alternative there is
Frankenstein’s clinic. They would be as safe there as anywhere in the
world. You, Walther, could certify their insanity.”

“No,” gasped Bertha. “That would be horrible. We have nothing against
those men--except that they are in the way. Frankenstein’s hospital
would drive them crazy. Besides, it is over the frontier, and not so
simple a matter to arrange as the Rupert idea.”

“You seem to have a rather keen regard for those men, Bertha,” said
Niels, half closing one eye. “Since the younger one is half in love
with Mademoiselle Fallières, I presume it is the elder one that has
made an appeal to your impressionable heart.”

“Niels!”

“I warn you that love plays second fiddle in this business. Don’t let
your heart run away with your head.”

Bertha’s face went scarlet, and she glared at the speaker in a way
that would have frozen him had he been the type of man to be
susceptible to such facial expressions of contempt.

“You are a devil, Niels,” she said. “What I fear is that you overreach
yourself, and do something in a moment of passion that we shall live
to regret. I will have nothing to do with the Frankenstein idea.
Rupert can accomplish all that is necessary.”

“I agree,” said Walther.

“Very well. That will suit me. I will take the car to-morrow in the
direction of the château. The valley road can be seen from the
terrace. If that young speed-fiend sees me--as I hope he will--I shall
head for Morgins. You remember the ruins on the corner of the Rheims
road, Heinrich?”

“Yes.”

“I shall allow him to overtake me there--close to the big oak. You and
Walther will wait there. If the two come, the matter will be more
difficult, but we shall be three to two--and prepared.”

His auditors nodded, and Niels went into a few more details. Bertha
was clearly the most agitated of the four, for she saw the breaking up
of a small romance. Yet the thing at stake was big and important
enough to warrant this sacrifice. She inclined her fine, intelligent
head in agreement.

“There is nothing for me to do?” she asked.

“Not yet. But watch Fouchard and advise me if anything untoward
happens. I will put the pigeon back in the cage in the forest
to-morrow. Send a message if necessary.”

“And if you want to communicate with me? The old hiding-place is
useless now.”

“I will leave a note in the pigeon-cage. Perhaps a code would be
safest.” He thought for a moment. “We will use the alphabet backwards;
you understand. It is crude, but good enough in the circumstances.”

“And you will use no more force than is necessary, Niels?”

“Why should I?” he replied impatiently. “Are there any further
suggestions?”

“Everything seems clear and simple enough. I suppose those two men
will be armed?” said Walther.

“It is possible.”

“Hm!”

“I warn you to take care,” said Bertha, waving her finger. “They are
both athletic, and the younger one in particular is a born fighter. If
he thinks he is fighting for the happiness of Mademoiselle Fallières
he may shoot to kill.”

“Yet you insist that we should treat him with the gentlest care?”
retorted Niels. “He is to shoot to kill, while we must handle him as
if he were a sucking dove.” His brow came down. “Are not we fighting
for something, too--something as dear to us as anything----”

“Let us not quarrel,” begged Heinrich. “Walther here is equal to two
men, if it comes to a scuffle. I was thinking, Niels; suppose that
young man should overtake you before you reach the ambush--what then?”

“Then I should deserve all I got. Trust me. I know his car, and I know
mine. I am ten miles an hour faster, and the road I shall take is
fairly straight. A puncture might complicate matters, but I shall put
on brand-new tyres. Bertha having an objection to spanners as agents
of unconsciousness, we must get Walther to use one of his violent
anæsthetics.”

“I seem to be needed here,” sighed Walther.

“You will be needed later,” said Niels, with a grim look on his
curious face.

“So I imagine. Well, Bertha, cheer up. We are not going to fail this
time. In a fortnight at most we ought to be back in Germany.”

“Yes, but even then----”

“Don’t dwell on that,” said Niels, in a quieter voice. “Let us meet
our troubles as they come. Whatever happens, keep silent. A single
word--the smallest hint of what we want--would ruin everything. Once
the truth were known the end is inevitable. You must realise that.”

“Yes--I do. But I am sorry for that poor girl, who has lost so much.
She suspects me, but at times she acts as if she trusted me. If I
could only tell her----”

“Madness!” hissed Niels. “Banish that idea from your mind for ever.”

“I have. Don’t catechise me. You seem to forget it was I who first put
you on the track, Niels.”

“So it was. But what I daily fear is that everything may be ruined by
a display of sentiment. We cannot afford to be sentimental. It is a
grim fight, and we have to go through with it. Well, I fancy we have
discussed everything. You must get back to the château.”

Bertha nodded, but seemed to tremble. The good-looking Heinrich stood
up and limped towards her. He grasped her hands and looked at her
affectionately.

“Be of brave heart, baroness,” he said. “You are playing a difficult
part, and we shall never forget it.”




 CHAPTER XIV.
 A NIGHT OF TERROR

Wallace, fresh from his morning tub, and brimming over with health,
found Yolande sitting on the terrace, turning over a pile of
newspapers which had just arrived. On the front page of the uppermost
one he saw a huge headline: “Incredible Happenings at the Château
Grammont.”

“You are down early,” he said to Yolande.

“Yes. I could not sleep. Look at all these! The château has at last
become famous.”

“Don’t read them,” he begged.

“I have no intention of doing so. Theories--theories--and all based
upon hearsay, for I have not given an interview to a single reporter.”

“I think you are wise. Have you seen Conrad this morning?”

“I think he finds a certain attraction in the garden. Bertha is
cutting some flowers.”

“So you have noticed that?”

“How can one help noticing--when a man is in love?”

“I thought he was absolutely immune. Of course, he won’t admit
it--psychological interest he calls it. But it’s all wrong--all
wrong.”

“A kind of treachery, you think?”

“Well--it isn’t nice.”

“I don’t blame him. Bertha is a living contradiction, and Conrad is
only human. There is so much that is grim and ghastly about this
château that we ought to welcome the invasion of Cupid, in whatever
guise he cares to come. I have never known Bertha do a single unkind
thing, and that leads me to think that she is a tool who cannot help
herself. She is not the ordinary type of maid. It is easy to see
that.”

“She is extraordinary enough, I’ll admit.”

“And beautiful.”

“Well--yes.”

“Why hesitate? Perhaps you are not interested in blondes. They say
that a fair man never sees much in a blonde.”

“There’s a lot in that,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “But
that’s not the reason. I can’t forget that Bertha is mixed up in this
mystery. How can we possibly exonerate her without knowing what part
she is really playing. Innocently or not, she is responsible for some
of the suffering you have endured. You can’t expect me to love her, in
the circumstances.”

“I don’t want you to love her,” she retorted with a smile. “But in
this baffling enigma we must not draw premature conclusions. Since
Bertha has acted as my maid I have had time to appreciate her sympathy
and goodness of heart. Again, last night, she begged me to leave the
château.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course.”

“Yet there is real danger, Yolande; you know that?”

“Who should know it better than I?”

“Then--is it wise?”

“Now you are going to tempt me! I can bear anything but that. It isn’t
mere foolish bravado that keeps me here. It is the thought of my
father, who endured so much--and yet stayed. I have taken over that
custodianship, for good or ill. You would think less of me if I fled
before the threatening shadows that lurk in these walls, and I should
despise myself to my last day.”

She raised her head proudly, but Wallace saw the brooding spirit of
fear in her eyes, and he realised how much courage it needed to
withstand what must be a constant temptation. What he was dreading was
the rapidly approaching day when his holiday would be ended, and
Yolande must be left alone to fight the unseen danger.

“Why not invite some friends down for the summer?” he suggested. “Fill
the château with them and----”

“They would not come--again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Last year we had a big house-party. There was a terrible scene one
night--I shall never forget it. Our guests left their rooms and
crowded into the reception rooms. Most of them had heard awful
noises--running of feet, growling. Two of them swore they had seen a
gigantic form on the landing.”

“The Monster!”

“It must have been. On the next day most of them went--raising all
kinds of excuses. Very soon not one was left. It was humiliating.”

Conrad sauntered back, striving to look perfectly innocent. He gave
them “good-morning” and then turned over the pile of
newspapers--“Monster Haunts Famous Château”; “Baffling Mystery of the
Château Grammont”; “The Phantom Murders.”

“Don’t wallow in them,” pleaded Wallace.

“I’ve been thinking,” mused Conrad. “I suppose there _is_ a Monster
here? It is possible we have been tricked.”

“Tricked?”

“Certain persons want possession of the château for some purpose
unknown. It would not be difficult for one of them to play the part of
a huge demented creature, with the object of causing the place to
become abandoned.”

“You mean Niels or Heinrich?”

“Why not? A lot can be done with packed heels, a voluminous cloak, and
extras.”

“But we have seen the thing!”

“In a half-light. An artist in make-up can do extraordinary things.”

“But the murders----”

“That is just the point. It gives a motive for them which on any other
theory is missing. The murders might have been committed to prevent
identification. You will recall that on every occasion the face has
been concealed by the hood.”

“No,” said Wallace. “It sounds too improbable. But, if it were true,
it would not alter facts very much.”

“It cuts out the Monster as an entity, and leaves us with Niels and
company only.”

“And Bertha,” rapped Wallace.

“Yes--and Bertha,” agreed Conrad slowly. “But I’ll never believe she
countenanced murder. Does she look that sort of woman?”

“Looks count for nothing. Are you forgetting that it was Bertha who
let Niels and Heinrich into the château when she thought the coast
was clear? Was that the act of an innocent person?”

“It might be the act of one who is compelled to serve other persons. I
don’t know, but the more I see of Bertha the more convinced I am that
she had nothing whatever to do with those grim and ghastly tragedies.”

At dinner that evening Conrad mentioned his theory to Fouchard, who
had been absent most of the day. Fouchard pressed his lips together
and seemed reluctant to express an opinion. The celebrated
sleuth-hound was fast approaching a state bordering on desperation,
for he had spent several hours in the vaults with the list of cryptic
figures without discovering anything worth mentioning. He ate
savagely--almost indecently.

“It is a joke in Paris,” he admitted at last.

“A joke!”

“At headquarters, I mean. Those infernal journalists have concentrated
on the Monster and skipped all the rest. They know what makes a good
story--with the vulgar public. Have you read those accounts?”

“No.”

“_Zut!_ They have gone farther than a Monster. They have made him the
devil incarnate--something with horns and cleft feet, and breathing
brimstone. _Tiens!_ I must make an arrest.”

“Eh?”

“I have nothing to show for my work here--nothing. I have enough
evidence to convict the woman of aiding and abetting, and, by heaven,
I will!”

“You won’t,” said Yolande quietly.

“And why not?”

“Because, monsieur, you have brains, and you know that the Monster is
no figure of the imagination, no masquerade of any of those others. He
is as real as you or I, and is the pivot on which all these strange
and awful happenings revolve.”

“So he is,” he growled. “But they won’t leave me alone. I have a
rival--Cochet, who loves to express opinions in matters which do not
concern him. He has come to the same conclusion as Monsieur Conrad
here, with the result that I am looked upon as an idiot who is
hoodwinked by a masquerading servant.”

Fouchard’s personal vanity was his weak point, and evidently his
professional rival was playing against it. It took two liqueurs to
reduce him to a state of equanimity, after which he was quite charming
again.

“I think mademoiselle ought to take a little holiday,” he said. “Not a
prolonged one. Say a week at Aix or Paris.”

“Sound idea,” said Wallace immediately.

“You see----”

Suddenly the lights went out, and the place was plunged into darkness.
Yolande uttered a little cry, and Wallace, who was close to her, gave
her his hand, which she took willingly.

“The power seems to have gone off,” said Conrad. “The light outside
has failed, too.”

“I will send for Watkins,” said Yolande. “Mr. Wallace, the bell is by
the fireplace. Will you ring it, please?”

Wallace moved to where he thought the fireplace lay. Feeling his way
forward, he ultimately found the wall, and then the bell-push. In
response to his ring a maid appeared with a candle in her hand.

“Marie, the light has failed. Go over to the garage and ask Watkins to
come here. In the meantime, send in some candles.”

While they were waiting for the illumination a strange thing happened.
There was a noise from the direction of the casement window, and a
blast of cool air entered the room. Yolande’s hand closed on
Wallace’s--tightly. Then someone coughed--a deep, rasping cough like
that of a sheep. It was quite close to Wallace, and he concluded that
Conrad or Fouchard was moving about.

“Have you been sleeping in a field, Connie?” he asked banteringly.

“That was Fouchard,” said Conrad’s voice from the rear.

“_Tiens!_ I never coughed. Why----”

“Ralph!”

The cry came from Yolande’s lips--an ejaculation of awful terror that
caused Wallace to jump in his chair. He put his arms round Yolande and
drew her closer to him. Her mouth came close to his ear.

“Something here,” she whispered. “It--it touched me.”

Wallace had no matches, but he possessed a very reliable petrol
pipe-lighter. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he found this and
gave the small wheel a twist. The spark ignited the wick, and
simultaneously cries came from Fouchard and Yolande, for standing
close to the fireplace was the hooded form of the Monster. An
involuntary movement of Yolande’s hand caused the miniature torch to
fall to the floor, and it went out.

“The window!” cried Fouchard. “Watch that door, Wallace!”

But Wallace with Yolande in his arms was slow to act. He heard a
scuffling of feet, and the noise caused by a falling chair. Then
Fouchard’s voice called for help.

“Where are you?”

“Here. I’ve got him. Lend a hand, quick!”

“Coming.”

He blundered in the direction of the cry. But at that moment the door
opened and a maid appeared carrying two candlesticks. She suddenly
uttered a piercing cry, and something big and vague struck the
candlesticks from her hand and sent her sprawling. Wallace helped her
to her feet and retrieved one of the candlesticks--with the candle
still burning. He held it above his head, and saw Fouchard on the
floor clinging desperately to a struggling form.

“Conrad!” he gasped. “Fouchard, what are you doing?”

Fouchard had seen the familiar face, and he went crimson with
humiliation.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you, monsieur?” he asked.

“Tell you--with your fingers round my throat! Did you see him, Ralph?”

“Yes, but he went through the door while you were strangling each
other. Hullo--that’s better!”

The light had come on again, and four pairs of eyes gazed at each
other in temporary bewilderment. Fouchard recovered his wits first. He
produced a pistol from his hip pocket and moved towards the door.

“He’s not far away,” he growled. “Must have come in through the
window--but why?”

Yolande winced as a demoniacal laugh came from the direction of the
servants’ hall. Off went Fouchard at a run.

“Take care,” warned Conrad.

“I’m taking a hand in this,” said Wallace.

“Connie, will you stay with mademoiselle?”

But Wallace had gone flying along the corridor after Fouchard. At the
end he found two startled servants, clinging to each other. Then he
swore loudly as the lights went out again. Unfamiliar with that part
of the building, he scarcely knew where to turn.

“Fouchard!” he yelled.

No reply came, and he felt his way along the passage until he reached
a closed door. He turned the handle, but it was bolted from inside. A
low whispering was heard from the other side of the door.

“Open!” he said.

“_Qui va la?_”

“Monsieur Wallace.”

The door was opened, and he found himself standing on the threshold of
the enormous kitchen, which was illuminated by several candles. The
cook was grasping a stout rolling-pin, and his assistant was armed
with a flat-iron.

“_Hélas_, monsieur! we have seen the devil.”

“Where?”

“Here. _O mon Dieu_--he was terrible!”

Taking one of the candles, he went back along the passage. Again he
called Fouchard’s name, but that worthy seemed to have disappeared
completely. After more wandering about, he returned to the room where
he had left Yolande and Conrad.

“I can’t find Fouchard,” he said. “Has he been back?”

“No.”

“Uncanny! The servants are all scared to death. Here is the light
again!”

Two minutes later Watkins came in, looking dirty and very disturbed in
his mind.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “I was coming across when the fuse
went again. Can’t understand it at all. Whoever wired this château
must have had some strange ideas. I’ll have to go all over the wiring
to-morrow.”

“I think you had better bring some electric torches into the house,
Watkins, in case this should happen again. Buy a new supply
to-morrow.”

Watkins went away shaking his head. He was not so much scared as
worried, for he took a great pride in his work.

“I must go and find Fouchard,” said Wallace. “He must have gone into
the cellar.”

He was leaving the room when Fouchard came back. There was limewash on
his coat and dirt on his face, but what took their gaze was a big,
rusty razor which he carried in his left hand.

“You--you saw him?” asked Yolande.

“No--but I felt him. He slashed at me with this, but missed. I could
have got him if by the rottenest piece of luck my pistol had not
jammed. Well, I have achieved something.”

“The razor?”

“Not only that. I have marked the murderer for life. When we find him
he will have from eight to twelve teeth-marks on one of his wrists--I
don’t know which. That caused him to drop his lethal instrument.”

“Didn’t you see where he went?”

“No. He hit me with the force of a battering-ram and laid me out for
half a minute. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of my ribs has gone.
But I think that settles any doubt as to whether there is a Monster or
not, and whether he is human. He tasted human enough to me.”

Fouchard opened the razor and displayed a jagged blade. Yolande
shuddered, and Wallace bade him put the horrible weapon away, for it
was reminiscent of things best forgotten. To Fouchard, however, it was
a priceless trophy. At last he had something to report to
headquarters.




 CHAPTER XV.
 THE COUP

The wonderful spell of fine weather showed signs of breaking up.
Seen from the terrace of the château, the landscape presented a
gloomy aspect, sunk in the shadow of an overcast sky. It seemed like
the natural aftermath to the night of terror that had passed.

“Storm brewing,” said Conrad.

“Looks like it. There is scarcely a breath of wind.”

“Do you realise that our holiday is nearly at an end?”

“Yes--worse luck.”

“You don’t want to go back?”

“I am thinking of Yolande--of what happened last night. To leave her
here in the circumstances would be--appalling.”

“Fouchard will remain.”

“Suppose he goes? He has hinted at the possibility of his being called
back to Paris. In any case he won’t stay here indefinitely--and the
Monster may.”

“Fouchard may clear up the business before he leaves.”

“I wish I could think he would.”

When Yolande joined them she showed signs of the ordeal through which
she had passed, and she informed them that more servants were leaving,
while she had not yet been successful in engaging any others to take
the places of the last batch that had absconded.

“The agents write to say that no servants will consent to come here.
The newspapers are too full of the tragedies that have taken place. I
am left with a cook, two maids, and Bertha, excluding Watkins and a
gardener who lives out. Soon I shall have to cook my own food,” she
added, with a wan smile.

Wallace was staring down at the road which wound through the valley. A
car was coming down it, and he recalled the fact that it was the first
car he had ever seen on that road.

“Where does it lead?” he asked Yolande.

“It joins the main road beyond the château. It is seldom used by
anything other than the carts of the peasants and woodmen.”

“That thing _is_ moving,” said Conrad, as the car approached them.

Wallace made no reply, but his eyes were fixed intently on the car. It
seemed familiar--strangely familiar. When it was almost directly
beneath the château he uttered a cry of astonishment.

“What----?”

“That’s Niels!” he gasped. “I’ll swear to it. It’s the car I followed
that evening-- Here’s a chance. I’ll get him this time. Where is
Fouchard?”

“Gone for a walk. Wait--I’ll come!”

He apologised to Yolande and, grabbing his hat, ran after Wallace.
Before he reached the garage Wallace had the car out. Conrad dived
through the open door and sat down.

“Hold on!”

Two quick gear-changes and the Bentley was tearing down the drive with
Watkins staring after it, and scratching his head. Once through the
gate, Wallace changed to “top.” The responsive car sailed round the
bend and emerged in the main road.

“There he goes!” cried Conrad, pointing to a cloud of dust ahead of
them.

“Sit tight and hold your breath. I did a bit of tuning-up yesterday.”

The accelerator pedal went lower and lower, and the crackle from the
exhaust rose higher. Hedges and fields streamed by--faster and faster.
To Conrad everything seemed blurred, and the white ribbon of road
seemed to be rushing at them, while the car appeared to remain
stationary except for a slight side movement. The cloud of dust in
front became more distinct. Soon the rear part of the other car could
be seen.

“We’re gaining,” said Wallace, “and I’m not warmed up yet. I fancy
this will be an unlucky day for Niels. Look at the little
blighter--grinning at us!”

“So long as he limits it to grinning I don’t mind.”

“He won’t be able to do that if he makes the pace much hotter. Roads
bad here. Farther on it’s dead straight for about ten miles. We are
barely doing seventy.”

“Is that all? Steady! By Jove, that was a near thing.”

This as Wallace took the sharp bend at speed. It resulted in a
nerve-wracking skid which, but for the most skilful handling of the
car, would have ended disastrously.

“We gained two hundred yards by that.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

The straight portion of the road was now entered. Wallace sighed as he
saw the tall poplars vanish in the distance, and let the car have her
head. The needle moved around the dial swiftly under the wonderful
acceleration, and the crackle of the exhaust became a continuous roar.
To Wallace it was sheer joy, but Conrad regarded it differently. He
was not used to having himself flattened out against the cushion, nor
to having his lungs supercharged with oxygen. He found it difficult to
breathe, and all he could see was the tail of the fugitive car getting
nearer and nearer.

“What are you going to do--pass him?” asked Conrad.

“Ditch him if he won’t slow up.”

But when both cars were within a hundred yards of each other Wallace
found the intervening space increasing. It was incredible, for the
speedometer was close upon the “ninety” mark.

“Well I’m--” he gasped.

“There’s a level crossing ahead!” cried Conrad suddenly. “And a man is
waving. The bar is coming down.”

Niels did not hesitate for a second. Wallace saw the leading car rush
beneath the falling bar. It bounced alarmingly on the uneven ground,
but got its equilibrium again and went streaming down the open road.

“Damn!” grunted Wallace, and slammed on all his brakes. Conrad was
nearly flung over the low windscreen as the Bentley decelerated with
frightful abruptness and came to a dead stop with its bonnet within
two yards of the stout bar.

“_Sacré!_” yelled the man in charge. “_Pourquoi_----”

Wallace did the most sensible thing. He apologised in his best French
and, seeing that no train was yet in sight, waved a hundred-franc note
under the nose of the irate man. It was the magic Sesame, and half a
minute later the Bentley was across the lines, and hurtling after the
almost invisible car.

“It’s all or nothing now,” said Wallace. “Damn it, the Bentley ought
to beat that thing, whatever it is.”

“I’m not so sure. But for heaven’s sake don’t brake like that again,
without giving warning. You nearly lost me.”

“Sorry. She’s getting warmed up beautifully. We’re gaining again.”

“Very little.”

Away went the straight road like a knife-edge, over hill and dale into
the hazy distance. The air was charged with a sickening odour.

“Castor oil,” said Wallace.

A blinding flash of lightning struck down, and instantly the thunder
crashed. The threatened storm had broken. The last reverberations had
scarcely died away when dense rain lashed down. Conrad tried to put up
the hood, but their great speed prevented it.

“Can’t stop,” shouted Wallace. “Keep your head down or you’ll be
flayed.”

This was no exaggeration, and Conrad crouched low, while Wallace
pushed his face closer to the screen for protection. The other car was
lost for a minute or two in the deluge, but it loomed in sight
again--much nearer.

“He’s beaten. I’m going to push him into the ditch. Look out for
yourself!”

The ensuing tactics were nerve-wracking. The Bentley slowly overtook
the mystery car. Soon a few lengths separated them. Through the
lashing rain and pools of water the churning wheels buzzed. Wallace
was drawing out with the object of getting alongside when Conrad
uttered a wild yell, for the right-hand steering gave the passenger a
better view of the road. Wallace swerved in, and a big closed car,
coming in the opposite direction, missed his rear wheel by inches. It
permitted the fugitive car to draw away again.

“Rotten luck! Keep your eyes skinned, Connie!”

“This is hell!” protested Conrad, outraged.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime, and we can’t afford to miss it. I’ll
get him again. He’s not so good on mud.”

Up crept the Bentley, foot by foot. Wallace caught a glimpse of
Niels’s face. It was set and grim, and, like them, he was drenched to
the skin. He was about to overtake again when another car came towards
them. The driver glared at the apparent madman of the road.

“The devil is with him,” groaned Wallace. “I’m dreading that my petrol
will give out. I know I hadn’t much when I started. Confound this
rain!”

Grim-faced and shivering with cold, Conrad peered through the bottom
of the windscreen. He was just beginning to realise that the fires of
youth were burning out. It was Wallace who got all the thrills. Conrad
would have preferred a hand-to-hand combat. There were different
grades of courage.

“Now,” said Wallace. “We ought to get him here.”

Again he steered towards the centre of the road. The bonnet of the
Bentley passed the rear wheels of the other car. They were actually
side by side on a road that allowed scarcely any margin. Niels’ head
moved slightly towards Wallace.

“Stop--or I’ll ditch you!”

Niels seemed to slow down a little, but did not stop at once. Owing to
the opposite positions of the steering-wheels on the two cars,
Wallace’s head came within three feet of Niels. He yelled at him with
all his might:

“If you don’t stop I’ll smash you to blazes!”

Niels gave a quick glance at the three-foot ditch on his right and
began to slow down. At the corner, close to a tumbledown farm, Wallace
put the Bentley across the bows of the other car, and caused Niels to
complete his braking abruptly.

“Quick, Connie!”

Both of them leapt from the car and made for Niels. Wallace was quite
prepared for a fierce resistance, perhaps with a firearm thrown in,
but Niels merely thrust his unkempt little head forward and glared at
them.

“Are you mad?” he snapped.

“Not quite. You’re coming with us, and the less you have to say about
it the better.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You’ll find out later. Come out of that car!”

“You are playing a dangerous game, monsieur.”

“Come out!”

Niels shook the water from his cap and stepped into the road. At that
moment two figures emerged from the shelter of a big tree on the
opposite side. One was Walther and the other Heinrich, and both of
them carried pistols.

“Hands up!”

Wallace swung round, and saw Walther pointing his pistol at his head,
whilst Heinrich covered Conrad.

“Tricked!” said Wallace bitterly.

Events moved swiftly after that. Niels produced a pistol and pushed
the barrel into Wallace’s back, whilst Walther produced a pad from his
pocket. In a twinkling he clapped this over Wallace’s nose. It did its
work with remarkable speed, and a few seconds later Conrad was
similarly treated.

“Get them into the car--quick!” said Niels.

This was done and the hood erected over the unconscious victims, after
which they were searched and disarmed.

“What about that other car?” asked Heinrich.

“You had better take it to Roche’s garage. Ask them to store it for
the time being.”

“I can’t drive it.”

“Then Walther can. Yes, that is better, for Walther is a complete
stranger. We will wait here for you, Walther. How soon will the
effects of that stuff work off?”

“Half an hour. It will give us time to bind them.”

“Good.”

Walther stepped into the Bentley, examined the controls, and then
started off down the filthy road.

“Everything according to plan,” said Niels, rubbing his hands. “We
will have them in Rupert’s hands before long.”




 CHAPTER XVI.
 BONDAGE

Wallace opened his eyes to stare in wonderment at two pairs of bound
legs in his proximity. It took him a full minute to realise that the
nearer pair was his own, and that his hands were similarly bound
behind his back. Those facing him belonged to Conrad, whose face he
could see as a whitish splodge in the gloom. There was another pair of
legs mixed up with the mass of human extremities, and, tracing these
upwards with his eyes, he saw they supported a big, muscular body,
above which was a face which he had seen before.

His head throbbed so painfully that it was difficult to sort out the
incidents of the immediate past. Conrad recovered consciousness while
he was engaged in this attempt, and sat blinking at him like a
bewildered owl.… Things became clearer after a while. He recognised
the other occupant of the car as the man who had doped him--Walther
unquestionably.

From the front of the vehicle came low voices. Niels’s was immediately
recognised, and the other, he guessed, belonged to Heinrich. Yes, it
was clear enough now. He had run his neck right into the noose that
the wily Niels had dangled before him. And here they were speeding
along a road in the drenching rain--bound whither?

“Connie!”

“Hullo! Where the devil are we?”

“God knows.”

Walther grinned down at them, and moved his enormous legs to give them
a little more room, which was sorely needed, for the back part of the
car was not constructed to carry three persons.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Wallace.

“For an excursion. The air of the Château Grammont is apt to become
enervating.”

Wallace bit his lip in his ignominy. He put the blame entirely upon
himself, and felt keenly sorry for Conrad, whom he had got into this
plight. The bonds which held his legs had been tightly fixed, and were
cramping him painfully.

“Is there any necessity to keep us trussed up like chickens?” he
asked.

“It depends upon yourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will free your legs if you will give me your word of honour not to
start any trouble.”

“How could we--with our hands bound behind our backs?”

“Well, I will risk it, but if you try any tricks I shall be compelled
to send you to sleep for another spell.”

He produced a knife and freed their legs, after making sure that the
other fastenings were tight. The two prisoners stretched their aching
limbs so far as it was possible. All the while the powerful engine was
propelling the vehicle at a great speed. Wallace, with his mechanical
interest aroused, inclined his head a little to one side, listening to
a high whirring sound.

“Supercharger,” he said. “I’ll bet it’s doing thirty thousand revs.”

“I don’t care if it’s doing a million,” growled Conrad. “This is a
nice ending.”

Niels, hearing the conversation, looked over the partition and
scowled.

“Are you mad, Walther?” he asked.

“They won’t hurt,” replied Walther. “I’ll be responsible for them.”

“Look here,” said Wallace. “What’s the game? This is a pretty risky
proceeding.”

“Not half so risky as sojourning in the Château Grammont. You ought
to be grateful to us.”

“You want to get us out of the way, eh?”

“Wonderful powers of deduction!” said Walther. “Well, I fancy we are
well on the way to success in that respect.”

It seemed true enough, for the car was now putting up a terrific pace,
and Wallace tried to take a bearing from the sun; but that orb was
totally obscured by rain-clouds.

“You might as well tell us our destination,” he said. “It can make no
difference to you. I’ll admit that you have scored a point or two.”

“We are on our way to--the sea,” said Walther.

“The coast!”

“Repeating your recent deductive reasoning, you will conclude that a
short sea trip is in store for you. You are correct, sir.”

“Very funny!” said Wallace. “Ve-ry funny!”

Conrad gave a wan smile.

“I suppose you are Walther?” he asked.

“You are well informed.”

“Glad to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. What do you think of this car?”

“Not bad, but a bit noisy on gears,” said Wallace.

“We will have that seen to,” replied Walther calmly. “You will admit
it wanted catching, eh?”

“It’s a fake job.”

“So it is--just a little hotted up for emergency. My cousin made it
himself--with a little outside help.”

“Your cousin! So ‘monkey-face’ is your cousin?”

Niels heard this. He poked his head over the partition and looked like
murder.

“All right, Niels,” said Walther cheerily. “It’s astonishing what
truths come from the mouths of children. Look ahead or you’ll pile us
up in the ditch.”

“Watch those two,” growled Niels. “They are not to be trusted.”

“You see,” said Walther, “my more experienced relative has doubts
about your integrity.”

The two chaffing prisoners relapsed into silence, and for a long time
nothing was heard but the peculiar noise of the supercharger and the
whirring of the tyres on the wet road. Hour after hour the pace was
maintained, Niels avoiding all big towns. Once Wallace caught a
glimpse of a distant structure--a towering mass of iron that he could
not help but recognise.

“The Eiffel Tower!” he exclaimed.

“We are skirting Paris,” informed Walther. “Think of the cafés, the
boulevards, the Folies-Bergère. How much wiser it would have been for
you to have spent your holiday there instead of at the Château
Grammont.”

“We haven’t done with the Château Grammont yet,” said Wallace. “The
tables may be turned, my friend.”

“Possibly. I always believed in the law of equilibrium. But time is
the chief factor. I’m afraid you will miss your tea. Niels does not
stop for anything when he is on the road.”

The big tower faded away into the distance, and a little later the
rain ceased. But the roads were waterlogged, and the rushing car sent
up fountains of mud as it careered on its way to the coast. Wallace
became sunk in reflection. He thought of Yolande at the château. She
would be wondering what had become of them, and wonder would merge
into fear when the night came down. He thought of the creature who ran
amok between those ancient walls--the razor----

“What about my car?” he asked suddenly. “Do you intend to steal it?”

“I think not. I am sure Niels much prefers his own.”

“What have you done with it?”

“You will know later. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“Sleep!”

A little later Wallace overheard the German word for petrol. A hope
was born. If Niels had to stop to fill his tank there might be a
chance to enlist the help of the people at the garage. Their bonds
would be evidence of abduction, and the French had little love for
their late foes. But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for the
car pulled up on a deserted road and Heinrich filled the tank from a
big reservoir which was bolted to the running-board.

On went the car again, in the gathering gloom. Darkness made little
difference to the speed, for brilliant headlights illuminated the road
for half a mile ahead. At last the brine-laden air gave warning that
the sea was not far away. They ran for some miles through flat
country, with dunes on either side, and ultimately came to a halt with
the sea breaking on the sand close by.

“Here we are!” said Walther. “An hour before our time.”

Niels and Heinrich got out of the car and flashed a torch towards the
sea. Immediately an answer came back, and the men waited in silence.
Soon Wallace heard the creaking of oars, and then the beaching of a
boat.

“Bring them out, Walther!”

The two prisoners breathed a sigh of relief to be able to stretch
their muscles. It was a wonderful night, with a sky rain-washed and
free of cloud. The stars shone like fairy lamps, and in the west a
crescent moon hung low. Looking across the bay, Wallace could see a
fine, white yacht, with steam up. And coming towards them was a man in
nautical garb--an officer, apparently. The boat which had brought him
was on the marge of the softly breaking sea.

A conversation ensued, but it was in rapid German--too fast for either
Wallace or Conrad to translate. The upshot was they were escorted to
the waiting boat and driven aboard. A few minutes later they were
moving across the moonlit sea towards the yacht, with the officer
between them.

“You are my guests,” he said, in good English. “I trust you will like
the yacht.”

“I doubt it,” grunted Wallace. “I suppose you realise that this is a
kidnapping business?”

“An unpleasant word. Here we are!”

He cut their bonds in order to permit them to climb the ladder. But
this act was off-set by the display of a revolver. They reached the
deck and were driven into the saloon, which proved to be a most
comfortable affair--and roomy.

“I will come again later,” said the officer, and went out, locking the
door after him.

“Phew!” said Wallace. “And that’s that!”

“The car is moving.”

“Going back to the château. What a devil of a plight we are in! It’s
my fault, Connie. I was too impetuous. I ought to have suspected a
plot.”

“By Jove, we’re moving! Quick work that!”

“Where the devil are we bound for?”

“I wish I knew. The skipper--I suppose he is the skipper--treated
Niels as if he were in his employ. Why, this boat is the plaything of
a millionaire. What does it all mean?”

“It beats me.”

“It can only mean that what is hidden at the château is of the
greatest value to certain persons.”

“Yes--yes. But I’m starving.”

“So am I. Have a cigarette.”

They sat and smoked for some time, and then the officer appeared
again.

“That’s right. Make yourselves at home. Dinner will be served in a few
minutes. Through the door yonder you will find a lavatory, and all you
need. The dining saloon is downstairs--under this.”

“Thanks! Are you the captain?”

“Yes.”

“And may we know where you intend taking us?”

“I will tell you later. Dinner is waiting, and we observe punctuality
here.”

They were glad to take advantage of the well-fitted lavatory. But
their clothes were sodden and creased, and rendered them sorry
objects. They were remarking on this when a seaman knocked and
entered. He could speak no word of English, but he brought with him
two suits of duck and a bundle of collars.

“Well, I’m damned!” ejaculated Wallace.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 WALLACE ESCAPES

Dinner with the skipper--who formally introduced himself as Captain
Michels--was a welcome affair, for both Wallace and Conrad were
famished. There was a varied assortment of dishes, and wine in plenty.
The whole thing was so unexpected and so illogical in the
circumstances that Wallace still wondered whether he was dreaming.

“Sorry your cabins weren’t ready,” said the captain. “We have been
giving the yacht a clean-up. But everything will be in order by the
time you turn in.”

“Thanks!” said Wallace. “This is a queer sort of business, isn’t it?”

“I know nothing. I have instructions to make you comfortable and to
land you at a certain place.”

“Whose instructions?”

“The owner’s.”

“Who is the owner--Niels?”

“That, sir, is quite a private matter.”

“Then you don’t know why we are here--why we have been kidnapped?”

“Not kidnapped?”

“Be frank,” said Wallace. “You are holding us by force.”

“I haven’t exercised any--so far.”

“It is force all the same. We were dragged here by the scruffs of our
necks--so to speak, and there is little difference in our position to
being in jail with chains round our ankles.”

“Except the dinner,” said Michels, with a smile. “I am sure they do
not serve such meals in jail.”

“You mean to carry out your instructions?” asked Conrad.

“To the letter. I am employed for that.”

“Despite the illegality?”

“It is not for me to question orders. Have a cigar?”

Conrad frowned, but took one. Wallace shook his head and preferred a
cigarette.

“Of course, I understand that you two gentlemen have been interesting
yourselves in certain matters. I know no details, but I am assured
that the atmosphere of the yacht is a healthier one than that of the
place whence you came.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” said Wallace. “Well, to get to the
point, what do you intend to do with us?”

“Land you safely in your native country. There is no hurry; we shall
round the coast at half speed. But on Sunday I think you will be able
to return to your homes.”

“Sunday!” gasped Wallace. “Why, it is only Wednesday!”

“That is so.”

“But I’ve left a car there--by the side of the road--and it contains
our passports, _triptiques_----”

“I was told to inform you that it can be shipped across the Channel if
you apply to Monsieur Roche, of the garage near Moulins. Your
excellent organisation--the A.A.--would doubtless manage the whole
thing for you.”

Wallace sat and fumed. It looked as if Niels had made all the running.
If Michels intended landing them somewhere on the coast on Sunday
night, it would be Monday before they could get to London, and
valuable time would be lost whilst the business of fresh passports was
settled. A full week must elapse before he could return to the
château. During that period anything might happen. Moreover, his
holiday would be up.

“These employers of yours are strange people, captain,” he said
boldly.

“Determined people, Mr. Wallace.”

“Don’t argue, Ralph,” pleaded Conrad. “We must make the best of it.
Things might be much worse.”

“How could they be?”

Later Wallace went below to look at the engines, and for half an hour
his professional interest was held. Their cabins were side by side and
splendidly appointed, and nothing was left undone that would add to
their comfort. A seaman brought in their clothes, dried and pressed.

“Alice in Wonderland,” said Wallace. “Here are a gang of housebreakers
owning a yacht that must have cost a fortune. What do you make of it?”

“I can’t make head or tail of it. I wonder if Bertha is a paid
employee, or really in the swindle?”

“Hang Bertha! I wonder what it is they are after.”

“Sunday!” mused Conrad. “That Engineering Congress takes place on
Wednesday. I shall just be able to get there, thank heavens! I
must--I’m chairman.”

“You mean you--you will stay in England?”

“Well--naturally. The Congress will cover four days, and business
calls. Had you forgotten we have a factory?”

“Almost. I’m sorry, Connie. But, you see, I can’t help thinking
of--of----”

“Yolande.”

“Yes. What is the use of pretending? I love that girl; but, even if I
didn’t, I should feel I ought not to leave her--in that ghastly
château. I tell you, it’s a nightmare to me to think of what might
happen there at any moment--to-night even.”

“There is Fouchard.”

“Isn’t it obvious that if they have gone to all this trouble to get
you and me out of the way they will do the same for Fouchard? They
want to empty the château.”

“Yes, I think that is true.”

“It’s damnable--horrible.”

“You are thinking of the--Monster?”

“Of course. The killing is his work. He is different from the others.
I don’t believe there is any connection between the Monster and
Niels’s party. But they seem to have one thing in common--the
knowledge of something of tremendous value hidden in the château.”

“But if Fouchard is missing Yolande will go.”

“She might--ultimately. But suppose--suppose she left it too late?
That Thing, Man, Monster--whatever it is--murdered poor Fallières
savagely, and even Severin, who was an old man and offered no kind of
an obstacle. Do you think he will stop at that?”

Conrad was silent, for, like Wallace, he realised the deadly danger
for a woman placed as Yolande was placed. But business was business,
and it was of the utmost importance that he should be back in London
within a week.

“We seem to have shot our bolt,” he said.

“Shot! Well, I’ve done nothing, except to get bowled over by that
seven-foot devil, and suffocated by Walther. I’ve never had a chance
to do anything to help. That’s what irritates--I’ve no battle-wounds
to show.”

“Better sleep on it to-night. At least, nothing can be done now. We
are as harmless as caged canaries.”

But Wallace did not feel like turning in. His brain was uncommonly
active, and his nerves at concert pitch. Leaving Conrad, he went on
deck and walked up and down under the stars. The moon was still
hanging in the western sky, and he could see the French coastline
clearly, with scattered lights on the downs. The yacht was making up
the Channel at leisurely speed.

Three hundred miles beyond that strip of sea and those wind-swept
downs was the Château Grammont--and the girl who had made so deep an
impression upon him. He could feel the spell of her even
now--something dragging at his heart, whispering apprehensively. A
seaman was singing a shanty softly, but it was in German, and he did
not understand the words. Yet, like all such songs, he guessed there
was a woman in it--a woman left in the last port, just as he had left
one at the château.

A mad idea came to him. It was driven home by the twinkling lights and
that haunting song. He looked down at the sea; it was placid as a
millpond. Pensively he walked back to Conrad’s cabin, and found that
worthy partly undressed.

“Hullo! Not going to bed?”

“Not yet. Connie, I want you to come outside. Slip on your coat.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I want to show you something.”

Conrad put on his coat and followed Wallace on deck. They went to the
port side of the ship, and Wallace pointed to the lights on shore.

“How far would you say those were?” he asked.

“Difficult to say; two miles at least.”

“Not more?”

“Might be three. It’s a wonderfully clear night.”

“And do you remember that when we joined the yacht the tide was just
on the flow? I recall the waves creeping----”

Conrad suddenly realised the significance of this. He grasped Wallace
by the arm firmly.

“Don’t be insane!”

“I should be insane if I let a chance slip. To-morrow we may be in
mid-channel. It’s a risk, but I’m going to take it.”

“What! Three miles?”

“I’ve done as much before, in a less calm sea. Look, there’s a big
town farther along--probably Dieppe. With any luck I could reach the
château by to-morrow morning.”

“I won’t permit it.”

“Sorry, Connie, but I shall have to go without permission. Will you
lend me all the money you have left? I may want to hire, or even buy,
a car on the moment.”

“No!” replied Conrad firmly. “Rather than see you fling your life away
I will warn the skipper.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would do the same thing yourself if you were in my boots.
Seriously, old man, I can get across that bit of sea if I’m right
about the tide.”

“And if you aren’t?”

“We won’t discuss that. Come on, I’ve got to get into my own clothes.
Hunt up that money.”

He bundled Conrad into his cabin, and went through the connecting door
to his own, in order to change his attire. Conrad fought with his
conscience, but gave way at the end, for he had a fine appreciation of
Wallace’s physical abilities.

“Why not take a life-belt?” he whispered.

“Couldn’t swim in the thing. I’ll put the notes in this old
tobacco-tin. And I’ll drop you a wire as soon as I can. Let’s stroll
along the deck--innocently.”

Conrad was breathing hard, for he was not in love with the project,
but Wallace, standing on the threshold of freedom, was as keen as a
hound in the chase. They turned by the wheel, and then got amidships,
where it was absolutely deserted.

“Now’s my chance,” whispered Wallace. “Good-bye, old man!”

“Good luck!”

He ran lightly to the side, and, mounting the rail, dived cleanly,
striking the ocean without a splash. Conrad, with his heart beating
furiously, watched his head reappear, and saw the powerful arms strike
out towards the French shore.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 WALLACE HAS A LITTLE LUCK

Wallace turned his head as he swam, and saw the yacht slipping away.
He had no doubt that his escape was completely unobserved by any of
the crew, and now success rested upon his swimming powers. He soon
realised that he had been correct about the tide, but there was a
strong easterly set in the current, which threatened to hold him up.
He was a powerful swimmer, and he put every ounce of energy into his
strokes, for he calculated that, once free of the easterly flow,
progress would be easy.

For half an hour he battled with it, and then was greatly relieved to
find himself drifting in on a good tide. The blaze of lights grew
appreciably nearer every few minutes, and his heart began to beat a
new note.… In less than an hour his feet touched bottom and he waded
through the surf on to the beach.

It was Dieppe--he knew it quite well; and the town was yet noisy with
traffic, for the season had commenced, and Dieppe kept late hours. His
first thought was for dry clothing, but how to procure such at that
late hour was a problem. His last resource was a gendarme who was
stationed outside the Casino.

“Pardon, m’sieur,” he said. “I have had an accident--in a boat. Can
you help me obtain some clothes?”

He had to repeat this twice before the gendarme understood. Then the
latter stroked his enormous moustache, and debated the matter
mentally. The subtle display of a hundred-franc note was instrumental
in assisting him towards a quick decision.

“If m’sieur will come with me, perhaps the matter may be arranged,” he
said.

Wallace went with him up several side-streets, and ultimately stood
outside a small shop, over which the owners lived. The gendarme
knocked, and after a few minutes’ wait the door was opened by
“Madame.” A little rapid conversation mingled with much handwork did
the trick, and the gendarme pocketed the note and went back to his
post. Madame let him in, and switched on the light in the shop. It was
packed with clothing of every conceivable kind, from women’s “undies”
to men’s blue jumpers. He selected the best outfit he could find, and
changed into it behind a screen, while madame yawned and made mental
calculations as to how much the job was worth. He was appallingly
overcharged, but it was a relief to discard his late saturated
apparel. Wrapping the drenched garments in a sheet of brown paper, he
bade her “_Bon-soir_” and departed.

A clock in the main street informed him that the hour was one A.M.,
and he took it for granted there would be no train to either Arveyes
or Rheims that night. The only alternative was a car. He started on
the garages, but not one of them had a driver who could undertake a
long night journey at a moment’s notice, and none of them would
consider lending him a car.

Bitterly disappointed, he wandered in the direction of the Casino. The
urge was strong upon him. To sleep while Yolande was in danger was
impossible. It occurred to him that he might telephone to her, but on
making enquiries he was told there would be a delay of three
hours--perhaps more. Cursing all the French systems of communication,
he stared through the portico at the queue of cars waiting for the
baccarat fiends. There were Hispanos, Rolls-Royces, long, gleaming
Renaults with their typically Continental bodies, a hotted-up Bugatti,
Fiats, Lancias, and a magnificent American Packard.

Some had chauffeurs waiting, with sphinx-like patience, for their
lords and masters, others were in charge of no one. The Packard
attracted him, but he was afraid it would have some kind of
thief-proof gadget. The French were more careless. He decided upon the
biggest Renault--for several reasons. It lay away from the bright
lights, and was at the end of the queue, with its bonnet turned the
other way. Moreover, it possessed a fine spot-light which would aid
him in finding his way.

Contemplated larceny was a new sensation, and he didn’t like it much.
But there was Yolande to consider!… He walked down the steps and went
straight to the car. The door was unlocked and the gear-lever free.
Gulping, he switched on the ignition and put his hand on the
self-starter button. Immediately the engine started, and he moved
forward. Then he gasped as a hand was held up and his late friend--the
gendarme--stopped him. But it was only a traffic signal, to permit an
approaching car to turn the corner. Fortunately the gendarme did not
recognise the tense face behind the windscreen.

On the outskirts of the town he found a signpost marked “Rheims,” and
he recalled it was the Rheims road which Niels had joined coming from
the château. He depressed the pedal, and away slid the great car. It
was a “bus” compared with, the lively Bentley, but it had unlimited
power and was the acme of comfort. The great blazing lights rendered
driving remarkably easy, and soon he was out in the country. The
straight road lured him to speed--Yolande seemed to be at the other
end of it, calling for him.

He bumped over the interminable cassis and level crossings, took bends
so fast that the long chassis objected and slewed her tail round
alarmingly at times. But the miles were flying! Once or twice he
slowed down to concentrate the spot-light on a signpost.… For two
hours he maintained an exceedingly high speed--too high for the type
of car--and then he became aware that things were not going well with
the engine. He heard a knock which slowly developed into a bad noise.

“Big end!” he muttered.

His diagnosis was soon beyond doubting. A horrid thud-thud offended
his ears. He tried giving it more oil, but to little effect. Soon it
became apparent that to drive the car much farther would end in
smashing up the whole engine. At fifteen miles an hour he ambled
noisily towards the next village. But on the outskirts he stopped, for
he had no doubt the village boasted a gendarmerie. To sleep in the car
did not appeal to him in the least, for he had little doubt that
telephone bells would soon be ringing all over the country anent a
stolen Renault.

The long main street was illuminated with light from a big building on
the left, and to his surprise and joy he discovered a remarkably
inviting hotel, called the Hôtel de la Poste. He entered the place
and rang the bell. An exhausted waiter appeared.

“Have you got a room? My car has broken down along the road.”

The waiter mumbled something and went away. A few seconds later the
landlord turned up.

“Sorry to be so late,” said Wallace, “but I have had a breakdown. Have
you a room for the night?”

“Yes, m’sieur. You are fortunate in finding us open. But we had
another party of late arrivals. Would m’sieur care for anything to
eat?”

“I won’t bother you----”

“But it is no trouble. Some soup, a little fish, an omelette, or----”

“I’ll have an omelette and half a bottle of _vin ordinaire_.”

“Certainly, m’sieur. _Tout de suite!_ The dining-room is to the
right.”

Wallace nodded and hung up his hat on the hall-stand. Then he became
alert, for the garment next his hat was a brown overcoat that seemed
strangely familiar, and another hat that he could have sworn-- He
recalled what the landlord had said about “another party.” Diving his
hand into the pocket of the brown coat, he found an automatic pistol.
He was about to replace it when he changed his mind and retained it.

His meal was brought in quick time, and he ate it very reflectively.
If Niels and his friends had taken that road, it was not at all
unlikely that they would rest for the night after the exertion of
driving which they had already undergone. The waiter brought cheese
and biscuits.

“Have you got a garage here?” asked Wallace.

“_Oui, m’sieur._”

“My car is stranded along the road--quite near. If I could get a
little petrol I think I could drive it into the garage. Is it too much
trouble?”

The plea, accompanied by a twenty-franc note, lifted the tired waiter
from depression to elation.

“It is no trouble. I will get the key.”

Wallace saw him take the key from a hook inside the office. He
followed him to the garage. On the door being opened, the first thing
Wallace saw was Niels’s mud-bespattered speedster! He received a
_bidon_ of petrol from the waiter, and pretended to go to his car.
After loitering for ten minutes, he came back and reported dismally
that the car would not start.

“Shall I help m’sieur push it in?”

“It is too big. Never mind; it will not hurt until the morning. Sorry
to trouble you.”

The door was locked again and the key hung upon its nail. A few
minutes later Wallace went to his room. The next move was obvious, and
it removed from him the fear of being hauled up for car-theft. That,
he thought, would not apply to Niels’s case, for Niels would not dare
to approach the police.

For an hour he waited, killing some of the time by looking up the
route to the château from a book of maps which he had picked up in
the hall. Then he decided to make the attempt. Creeping downstairs, he
found the office and removed the key. The front door of the hotel had
double bolts, and a lock of the Yale type which could be opened from
within without a key.

In a few minutes he was in the garage. He examined the car by means of
the “dash” light, and got the hang of the controls. The tank was
nearly empty, but there were scores of _bidons_ of spirit to hand. He
took a dozen of these and dumped them inside the car. Reckoning his
bill roughly, he left enough money to pay it under a spanner on a
bench. There was a slope to the main road, and it enabled him to run
down without using the engine. Once there, he started up, and,
switching on his headlights, went streaking up the road.

Here was something live--something to please the heart of an engineer.
The supercharger was operated from the accelerator pedal, and came
into action at about half-throttle. Its whirring--almost
shrieking--note heralded astounding acceleration. He realised now why
he had never succeeded in overhauling it. It was a track-car, and one
capable of over a hundred miles an hour.

Through the soft night he sped, alternately worrying about Yolande and
grinning to think how circumstances had conspired to turn the tables
on Niels. A hundred miles was knocked off before he stopped dead, and
realised that he had come to the end of his petrol. He got out, and
refilled the tank from the _bidons_. Incidentally he made another
small discovery. In the pockets of the car were two more pistols, and
a batch of papers which proved to be his passport and _triptiques_,
also Conrad’s.

A beautiful dawn broke across the fields, and some of the mental
shadows fled. It surprised him to find himself feeling fresh and
unfatigued, but he ascribed it to the joy of the road in the early
morn, and the feel of a willing car beneath him. On the straightest
stretch of road he could not let the thing out, and hills did not seem
to exist.

Half an hour later he got a shock. Early as it was, he saw a gendarme
on the fringe of the village, with his hand up. His heart quaked, and
he pulled up the car. The gendarme looked at a piece of paper which he
held in his hand, and scrutinised the number-plates and other points.

“What’s wrong?” asked Wallace innocently.

“_Ca va!_ I am looking for a Renault, m’sieur, that was stolen in
Dieppe last night.”

“A Renault? That is curious. I saw a Renault--blue--parked on the side
of the road just outside Vesaires.”

“A closed car?”

“Yes.”

“_Voilà!_ I will telephone Vesaires. _Merci, m’sieur!_”

“Don’t mention it! Cheerio!”

He was now but some fifty miles from Grammont, and the thought was
pleasing. Possibly all was well there, for at least Niels and his
friends were counted out for the time being. He wished there were some
means of getting into touch with Conrad, but it looked as if no news
could possibly reach him for days yet.

Already the sun was drying up the mud, and the rain-washed fields and
trees were gay with colour. He played with the car like a child with a
new and wondrous toy, and before he had exhausted its tricks he saw in
the distance the white turrets of the Château Grammont, towering
above the trees in the forest that surrounded it.

A run of twenty minutes through a leafy vista brought him to the main
gate. It was locked, but old Pierre came out and opened it. On second
thoughts Wallace left the car outside and walked up the drive. The
first person he saw was Fouchard, pacing to and fro among the roses,
hands behind his back and head forward.

“Hullo, Fouchard!”

Fouchard swung round and gazed at him in amazement.




 CHAPTER XIX.
 BLIND ALLEYS

“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Fouchard. “This is a surprise! What has
happened--and where is Monsieur Conrad?”

“That’s rather a long story,” said Wallace. “But Yolande--is she all
right? Have things been quiet here?”

“Mademoiselle is far from all right, but the sight of you ought to
revive her. When you failed to return we took it for granted that you
had run your necks into the noose.”

“So we did--like a couple of idiots.”

Fouchard suddenly pulled him aside, so that they were both covered by
a big flowering shrub.

“Bertha,” he whispered. “I don’t want her to see you yet. We may be
able to make capital out of your return. There’s a shady nook yonder,
and a seat. Come and tell me exactly what transpired.”

Wallace accompanied him to the spot in question, and there told him
what had taken place since the preceding morning. Fouchard listened
intently, and revealed surprise when the yacht was mentioned.

“We are dealing with a curious crowd,” he mused. “It was a good stroke
on your part to get Niels’s car. What have you done with it?”

“I left it outside the drive.”

“We must hide it.”

“Why should I? The blighters collared mine----”

“I don’t want Bertha to see it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bertha knows Niels’s programme. At this moment she believes
that you and Conrad are safely aboard the yacht, bound for the English
coast.”

“You don’t want her to see me?”

“Yes--later, but not that car. If she sees that she will conclude that
Niels is not back, and then I shall lose an excellent chance of
finding out where that crowd is hiding.”

“You think she will go there?”

“No. But your presence here will come as a tremendous surprise, and
she will at once communicate with Niels to warn him that something has
gone wrong.”

“By what means?”

“That I hope to discover.”

Wallace nodded, but he thought that Fouchard was concentrating too
much upon Niels and his confederates, when the real trouble was
centred in the Monster. Personally, he could not see that the possible
arrest of Niels would help matters much, for, whatever the secret was,
Niels was not the type of man to be coerced into revealing it.

“I’ll take the car farther into the wood,” he said. “There are many
splendid hiding-places. While I am gone, will you break the news to
Yolande?”

Fouchard nodded, and Wallace left the château and carried out his
project. When he returned, Yolande was downstairs, waiting for him on
the terrace. She gripped his hand somewhat emotionally, and held it,
her own trembling like a leaf.

“It is a wonderful relief,” she murmured. “All night I have been
thinking--thinking horrible things. But why--why did you take all that
risk?”

“I wanted my car.”

“I see.”

“But that wasn’t the chief reason, Yolande.”

“What--what then?”

“I wanted to be near you. It was only when I was far away that I
properly realised the hideous danger that threatens you. I don’t mean
from Niels’s party. They are desperate enough, but are not murderers.
In any case, Conrad had to get back to England, but I am not so
important a personage. If you will let me, I want to try and help
solve this perplexing mystery.”

“There is no one more welcome here.”

“That reminds me. Do you think Watkins could put me up over the
garage? Of course, Conrad’s departure alters things-- I mean, it
scarcely seems the thing to--to----”

A little look of disappointment passed over her face. Then she laughed
amusedly.

“Oh, you English, you are so prudish! I may have Fouchard in the
house, but not you.”

“Of course, it’s all rot, and Grundyish----”

“That’s a new word--I must remember it,” she said. Then, shaking her
beautiful head, “I am afraid there is no room over the garage. It
looks as if I must get a housekeeper at once to chaperone me.”

“That’s enough,” he said. “I’ll defy convention. Where is the charming
Bertha?”

“In the garden.”

“Does she know--about me?”

“Not yet. Fouchard told me not to say anything. Poor Bertha! The more
I see of her the more I am convinced that she is a paid tool of those
men. But I have tried to buy her over and have failed. Of course, she
knows that we suspect her of being an accomplice.”

“Yet she stays.”

“They compel her to. If Bertha would only speak I feel sure we should
learn much.”

“Here she is.”

Bertha approached the terrace by the garden steps. As usual, her arms
were full of freshly picked flowers, and her attention was so much
centred on their beauty that for a few seconds she did not see the two
figures before her. When at last she raised her eyes and saw Wallace,
there was a fleeting look of astonishment, but she quickly covered it
by a wonderful display of innocence.

“They are a little damaged,” she said. “There was much wind
yesterday.”

“Put them in the hall, Bertha.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“That’s got her guessing,” mused Wallace. “I’ll bet she is wondering
what on earth has happened.”

Fouchard crept in like a spectre, and looked after the vanishing
Bertha.

“I want her watched--every moment from now,” he said. “Will you come,
Mr. Wallace?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go into the garden while I stay here. She is going to signal--or send
some kind of warning. If she passes you, follow her. I’m going to
guard the telephone.”

He disappeared into the house.

“Not a pleasant job,” said Wallace. “If it were Niels----”

“I’ll come with you,” said Yolande.

“Do.”

He thought she seemed brighter this morning than she had been for many
days. Despite the sinister atmosphere of the château, he was glad to
be back again with the woman who caused him more mental anxiety and
heart palpitation than anything he had yet experienced. She stopped by
a bed of bright flowers and picked a sprig, fixing it in his
buttonhole with her white, shapely fingers.

“Rosemary--for remembrance,” she said.

“Is it necessary?”

“Necessary?”

“To wear a reminder.”

“Is your memory so good?” she said teasingly.

“If I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget this château, these
flowers, and--and you.”

“Is that a vow?”

“More than that--a sacred oath. Yolande, up to now I have been pretty
helpless. Everything is so jumbled up. If it would only come to a
straight fight--in the open----”

“You have been more helpful than you can possibly imagine,” she
murmured. “Women are by nature timid, though they may succeed in
keeping a tight lip. At times I’m terribly afraid, not of what might
happen--to me, but of the Unknown. I’m superstitious; all women are,
however much they pretend not to be. I find myself wondering whether
there is such a thing as the supernatural----”

“Rot!”

“But isn’t it strange that, despite our precautions, that--that
assassin gets into the château? Niels and the others experience
difficulties, but not the Monster. He seems to come and go as if he
were not human.”

“We shall discover his secret--in time.”

“I am beginning to doubt it. Fouchard, with all his experience, seems
to make little headway.”

“Fouchard is crazy about Niels. He cannot forget that Niels once made
him look foolish.”

“It isn’t only that,” she replied, in defence of her countryman.
“Fouchard believes that Niels is the key to the whole thing. Whatever
Niels wants is also the Monster’s object. He thinks he can bring
enough pressure upon Niels to compel him to make a full confession.”

“He will never succeed.”

Yolande’s quick eyes saw Bertha leave the terrace. She whispered this
fact to Wallace, and they drew into the shelter of a magnificent yew.
Bertha came down the path, and, with a quick look round, cut across
the garden and climbed over the wall with the agility of a youth.

“Gone towards the forest,” said Wallace. “Hullo--here is Fouchard!”

“Did you see her?” asked Fouchard.

“Yes. She scaled the wall--yonder.”

“I thought as much. Come along!”

Wallace murmured his excuses to Yolande and went off with the
detective. They quickly got on to Bertha’s trail, for they could see
her white cap and apron moving among the pines.

“Hefty woman that!” said Wallace.

“Cunning as they make ’em--in Germany.”

“She has cut off to the left.”

“We mustn’t lose her. What the devil is she up to?”

Again they saw Bertha. She was bending over something that was hidden
in the bracken. The next moment there was a flutter of wings, and a
blue bird rose above the pines, hesitated, and then flew towards the
south.

“A pigeon!” said Wallace.

“Yes--the messenger.”

“Cute dodge!”

“Not cute enough. Quick! Don’t let her see us!”

Bertha passed by them and headed for the château. When she had
disappeared, Fouchard beckoned Wallace forward. The found the
pigeon-cage in the bracken--but nothing else. Fouchard did not seem to
be half so disappointed as Wallace had expected.

“It’s as good as the other way,” he mused.

“What is?”

“The pigeon is gone, but another one will take its place, in order
that Bertha may always have a messenger at hand. When the next bird is
put in the cage we may find a means to bring Niels to us in quick
time.”

“I see. And then?”

“Then I shall arrest him, and charge him with the murders of Monsieur
Fallières and Severin.”

“What good will that do?”

“I can get him convicted.”

“Though innocent?”

“_Zut!_ I will force the truth from Bertha’s lips. I have no more time
to waste. Niels is the key, and I will use him.”

They spent that afternoon in going to the garage of Monsieur Roche,
where the Bentley was found. The enterprising garage-owner had taken
it upon himself to clean and polish the car, for which service Wallace
was pleased to reward him handsomely.

“Do you know the man who brought the car in?” asked Fouchard.

“No, m’sieur. He was a complete stranger to me. I understood that the
owner had met with a slight accident, and that he would give
instructions about collecting the car.”

There seemed to be no reason for doubting his statement, and Wallace
drove the Bentley back to the château.




 CHAPTER XX.
 BERTHA IS SCARED

Though Fouchard kept the empty pigeon-cage under close observation,
it remained empty for several days. He would sit among the trees for
hours on end waiting for the arrival of the pigeon which was going to
convey his faked message to Niels. But every evening he came to the
château with disappointment writ large on his countenance.

“Seem to have deserted us,” he mused. “What have you done with their
car?”

“It is still in the garage,” said Wallace. “Perhaps you were wrong in
thinking they would replace the pigeon.”

“It is the obvious conclusion. They must keep in touch with Bertha,
and the telephone is too dangerous.”

“Mightn’t we be able to save time by having another shot at the
cryptogram?” asked Wallace.

“Waste of mental energy,” grunted Fouchard. “I have been over every
inch of the cellar, and can see nothing to which the figures might
apply. Only the man who wrote them knows what they mean.”

“Yet they must have reference to the cellar,” said Yolande, “for Niels
and Bertha were there when you disturbed them.”

“True. But I’ve done all that mortal man can do. What is anyone to
gather from that?”

He produced the slip of paper and laid it on the table. Wallace picked
up and ran his eye over the inscription:


                                    27
                                    31
                                    36
                                 Steinbech.


“If the figures refer to measurements, where on earth does Steinbech
come in?” he mused.

“But are we justified in assuming that it has any connection
whatsoever with the mystery?” asked Yolande. “Heinrich said it was a
system for playing roulette. There are thirty-six numbers in roulette,
and it might be that.”

“Bunkum!” snorted Fouchard. “They were going straight to the place to
which these figures have reference--the place where we shall
eventually find the solution to this mystery. I made a blunder
there--I should have held my hand for a bit, and we should have seen
exactly what this priceless hidden thing is that has caused a party of
sophisticated people to turn house-breakers. But it is no use crying
over spilt milk. I yet have hopes of making Niels or Bertha talk up.”

He put the slip of paper away, for Wallace had no suggestions to put
forward. For the past few days there had been no disturbance of any
kind at the château, and Wallace and Yolande had spent some
delightful hours in the garden, and in the beautiful Forêt de
Grammont.

“Have you written to Mr. Conrad?” she asked.

“Yes. But he cannot possibly get my letter until to-morrow at the
earliest. He will be relieved to know I am in the land of the living.”

“He did not raise any objections to your--coming back here?”

“Not many. Connie understands.”

“Understands your interest in this mystery?”

He nodded, though he felt like telling her that his interest was
divided between it and her.

“He was always good-natured, generous,” she said. “I remember when he
first came here, looking pallid and thin from the dreadful ordeal of
war. I got to like him so much, and he used to romp with me and laugh
at my quaint English. But he never mentioned you.”

“How could he? He didn’t even know I existed. It was after that that
he met my father.”

“I had forgotten. How different life was then. There were my mother
and father and----”

She gulped and turned her head away, but her spirit was too fine to be
crushed by painful memories, and soon she was smiling again.

“At least life is always offering something new, and I am fortunate in
having a garden of my own. Do you believe that flowers have
sensibility? Sometimes I think they have. When I am sad they seem just
a little sad too, but when I am gay every bloom seems to nod on its
stalk and turn its head around. When I laugh I imagine the petals
shake in the sunshine. Childish, isn’t it?”

“Yes--adorably childish.”

That was the side of her nature which he loved most--even more than
the stubborn pride which enabled her to face the danger that existed.
She had managed to retain that most lovable thing in life--childhood’s
simplicity.

When next they saw Fouchard his impatience was getting beyond control.
Despite his vigil in the forest, nothing had happened to further his
object. His faked message, couched in his best German, still remained
in his pocket-book, for there was no feathered messenger to carry it
to its destination.

“By some means or other they must have anticipated my game,” he
grumbled. “They have as many eyes as a fly.”

“You think they are back?” asked Yolande.

“Yes. The lure is here. But there must be a change of plan. Of course,
the people at Arveyes are keeping their eyes skinned, but if they
discover anything at all I shall be surprised.”

“Things are very quiet here,” said Wallace.

Fouchard pointed to the moon, which had just risen. It was nearly at
the full.

“According to poor old Severin, we may expect matters to liven up
shortly,” he said. “He was so certain that the moon had something to
do with it.”

“I am almost ready to believe anything,” said Yolande. “But, of
course, there is nothing in that idea.”

“Nothing. Old women’s superstition.”

“And how are things in Paris?” asked Wallace.

“Not too good for me. They are inclined to take the view that these
tragedies are of the common type, with robbery as motive. The Monster
they write down as a thing of the imagination. That reminds me that I
must return to Paris next week. I have to appear at an important
trial.”

“Next week! But you will come back here?”

“I hope so. I don’t know how long this trial will take, but I shall
have no peace of mind until I get at the bottom of this business. I’ve
got three or four days in which to land Niels, and I’m going to do it.
Nothing would please me more than to have him as a travelling
companion.”

Wallace begged Yolande to play the piano, which she had not done for
some time. Soon the romantic strains of a Chopin Nocturne were being
borne on the warm night air, while Fouchard, left alone with the
Benedictine bottle, enjoyed himself a lot. Wallace was coaxed to sing,
and gave an extremely good rendering of Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia?”

“Splendid,” said Yolande, looking up at him with her face aflame with
appreciation. “Try another one.”

“Do you know ‘The Erl King’?” asked Fouchard.

“Why not the ‘Dead March’?” retorted Wallace.

Yolande chose the _encore_ piece for him. It was Schubert’s
masterpiece, “Impatience,” which called for more passion than Wallace
imagined he possessed. But to-night, with Yolande’s hair almost
brushing his hand, and the magnetism of her presence strong upon him,
he felt in the mood for some outlet to his pent-up emotions. But she
was lost in the music, and did not appear to realise that he was
singing this _to_ her.

Ere the last note died away there was a rude interruption. A ringing,
demoniacal laugh came from without, and a great clod of turf was flung
through the half-open window. It fell on the top of the grand piano
and slithered across it, shedding brown earth over Yolande’s dress.

“The devil!” ejaculated Fouchard, springing to his feet.

“Don’t go!” called Yolande.

But Fouchard had already passed through the window, with a pistol
gripped in his hand. Wallace ached to follow him, but he feared to
leave Yolande alone.

“That has happened before,” she said, trembling.

“It’s uncanny--that laugh!”

“The same awful voice. It spoiled that wonderful song--and I was
beginning to believe that things were getting better. Did you see
anything?”

“No.”

She sat nestling close to him on the settee, and he could feel her
heart beating rapidly. It was clear that her nerves were getting
unstrung, and that there was a limit to her endurance. When Fouchard
returned he shook his head despondently.

“Not a sign of anyone,” he said. “I found a bare place on the lawn
outside where the turf had been torn up.”

“Ring the bell, m’sieur,” begged Yolande. “The room is in a terrible
mess.”

A maid came in response to Fouchard’s ring. Yolande pointed to the
dirt and grass, but the girl did not seem to understand. She appeared
to be extremely agitated, and stood nodding her head like a mandarin
doll.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she stammered at last. “There is a strange
noise from Bertha’s room. We have all heard it, but are afraid to go
in.”

“What kind of a noise?” asked Fouchard.

“_Mon Dieu_--terrible! moaning and sobbing.”

Wallace looked at Fouchard, and Fouchard pressed his thin lips
together. Yolande gripped the end of the settee.

“I’ll go up,” said Fouchard. “You had better stay with your mistress.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Wallace.

“No--you go with Fouchard,” insisted Yolande. “You--you may be
needed.”

The two men hurried into the servants’ quarters, and a scared maid led
them to Bertha’s room. As soon as they approached it the noise was
audible. It was as if someone were trying to call for help, but was
prevented from saying anything articulate. Fouchard pushed open the
door.

The room was lighted, and Bertha was sitting in a chair by the
dressing-table, her two arms bound to the back of it by a sheet which
had been taken from the bed. In her mouth was a sponge--brutally
inserted, it appeared, for her lips were bleeding. It was not the
normal Bertha, but a terrified woman, with staring eyes and blanched
cheeks. Fouchard removed the sponge, while Wallace undid the tightly
knotted sheet.

“Water!” gasped Bertha.

Wallace filled a glass from the carafe and held it to her lips. She
drank deeply, and took the handkerchief which he offered to remove the
blood from her lacerated mouth.

“Now tell us what happened,” asked Fouchard.

“My--my head is swimming.”

“Give her time,” pleaded Wallace. “I suggest we go downstairs.
Mademoiselle will be anxious to hear what has transpired here.”

Fouchard was agreeable, and the badly shaken Bertha accompanied them
to the drawing-room. The maid, having cleared up the mess, was
dismissed.

“Now,” said Fouchard, “we would like to hear exactly what happened in
your room.”

Bertha had now recovered some of her habitual composure. She fidgeted
a little, and was obviously disinclined to go into details. Fouchard
had expected this.

“It is better to tell the truth,” he said bitingly. “We want no
imaginary version.”




 CHAPTER XXI.
 A PROPOSAL

Bertha bridled at Fouchard’s remark, and, to the detective’s
chagrin, she shrugged her shoulders and was silent.

“Hm!” he grunted. “As I thought. You----”

“Wait!” cried Yolande. “I would like to speak to Bertha myself.”

“As you wish--as you wish.”

“Bertha,” said Yolande, in a well-controlled voice. “It is useless
beating about the bush. I know you are not the ordinary type of maid.
You came into my service with an ulterior motive--isn’t that so?”

Bertha hesitated, and then inclined her head.

“Good! Monsieur Fouchard--all of us, in fact--know that you are in
league with certain other persons, and that these persons and yourself
have a very definite object in view. Do you admit that?”

“Yes. Mademoiselle Fallières, I want you to know that I have done my
utmost to be loyal to you----”

“Loyal!” laughed Fouchard scoffingly.

“Be silent, please!” said Yolande.

“Monsieur Fouchard may laugh, but it is true,” resumed Bertha. “You
have treated me with kindness, even though you have known for some
time that I have been masquerading. It is because of that that I have
begged you so often to leave this château----”

“That is out of the question--but continue.”

“It is true we have a definite object in view. I cannot tell you more,
for I am pledged to silence. But connected with the achieving of that
object there is considerable danger.” Her voice grew tenser. “Why do
you not take warning from what has already happened. The danger is not
from us, but from another.”

“The creature who came into your room this evening?” put in Fouchard.

“Yes.”

“Is he also after the same thing as you?” queried Wallace.

“I can tell you no more. If it were not that I have a great regard for
Mademoiselle Fallières I would not have said so much. Before I leave
the château I want to warn you again to take great care.”

“So you are leaving me?” said Yolande.

“It is impossible to stay longer, now that you know I am a
masquerader.”

“But I have known it for some time. Bertha, are you being threatened
in any way--by those men? Are you a free agent?”

“Yes. Quite--quite free.”

“And do you imagine that I am going to let you slip away so easily?”
asked Fouchard bluntly. “I have kept my hands off you because it
happened to suit me, but----”

“You are thinking of arresting me?”

“I am--and I can make things very uncomfortable for you. By your
silence you are attempting to defeat the ends of justice.”

“I am in your hands,” said Bertha calmly. “But you make a mistake if
you think you can convict me of anything. I know the law fairly well,
m’sieur. I can prove a complete alibi in respect of the two murders.”

“But you know who did them,” snapped Fouchard.

“So do you, m’sieur.”

Fouchard ground his teeth at this. It was then that Yolande formulated
an idea that had taken root during the last two minutes.

“I propose an armistice,” she said.

“What?”

“Wait, m’sieur! Bertha here is but one of a party of four. Suppose we
meet the other three at a round-table conference, and talk things
over?”

Fouchard was aghast at the bare suggestion, and Wallace was a little
taken aback.

“As soon as I lay hands on Niels I shall arrest him,” threatened
Fouchard.

“No, you will not,” said Yolande.

“And why not?”

“Because I am making a special request of you. I want to be able to
assure Bertha on our words of honour that we will cease to wage war
against each other for twelve hours commencing to-morrow at noon. And
I want to beg Bertha to bring her friends here in order that I may put
before them an important proposal.”

“What?” asked Fouchard.

“That can be discussed later.”

“But it is preposterous! Here are a gang of house-breakers,
kidnappers, and----”

“The idea is good,” interrupted Wallace. “What has either side to lose
by adopting it? What do you say, Bertha?”

“Is mademoiselle serious?”

“Perfectly serious. I would give much for peace. Fouchard--you will
consent?”

“For twelve hours?”

“No longer. If we fail to come to an agreement, we continue where we
left off. Isn’t it reasonable enough?”

“I think it is insane,” grumbled Fouchard. “But if it is
mademoiselle’s sincere request, I can only answer, _noblesse oblige_.”

“Good man!” said Wallace. “What do you think about it, Bertha? Will
your friends accept?”

“I cannot say. But if M’sieur Fouchard will permit me to leave the
château without making any attempt to follow me, I will do my best to
bring about a meeting here to-morrow evening at eight o’clock.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Fouchard,” said Yolande. “And thank you, Bertha. I think
we should be friends and not foes.”

“Would to God it were possible!”

 * * * * * * *

On the following afternoon Niels and his two accomplices were talking
together in their retreat over a cup of tea. Walther and Heinrich were
their usual placid selves, but Niels wore an expression of impatience.

“Rupert’s carelessness has ruined everything,” he said. “To let that
young devil escape----”

“You can’t blame Rupert altogether,” said Heinrich. “Not one man in a
thousand would have risked a three-mile swim in the Channel at
nighttime. That young man has my admiration.”

“He has my car,” snarled Niels. “We have to start all over again.”

“Time is with us,” said Walther. “We know that Fouchard must go to
Paris in a few days. It will leave us to deal with the man Wallace.”

“The other man may be back by then. The whole scheme has been ruined
by those two infernal Englishmen.”

“But----”

They all started as the door latch moved, and then uttered
ejaculations of surprise and welcome as Bertha entered the room. Niels
gazed at her a trifle suspiciously, for Niels had cause to believe
that Bertha was becoming too attached to Yolande.

“What now?” he asked.

“I saw him last night.”

“What!”

“He entered my room. Oh, horrible--horrible. I was frightened, and
tried to run, but he lashed me to a chair and gagged me. Then he
produced a razor. I thought my last moment had come, but he laughed
madly and went out.”

“Do you think he recognised you?”

“I don’t know. I felt I was choking, and tried to cry out. Some of the
servants must have heard me, but they were too scared to come it. They
brought Fouchard.”

“Well?”

“Fouchard questioned me. Ultimately we went down to mademoiselle. Of
course, I could not say much.”

“What do you call _much_?” asked Niels.

“Nothing at all about--what we want. They--they know all about
me--about my connections with you men.”

“That was obvious.”

“I told mademoiselle I would leave at once.”

“Why?”

“Because the situation is impossible. Her interest and ours conflict
so much that I refuse to masquerade any longer.”

“You can’t,” said Walther, “since she already knows.”

“What I mean is that I prefer to be an open foe--if that is the right
word. But wait! At the end she made a strange suggestion. She wants me
to bring you three to a kind of armistice conference. She says she has
an important proposal to put forward that may be acceptable to----”

“Splendid!” scoffed Niels. “And we are to walk up there and hold out
our hands for M’sieur Fouchard to slip his pretty bracelets over.
Really!”

“Let me finish!” said Bertha. “There is more sense in this than you
imagine. Fouchard has given his word of honour that he will keep this
armistice to the letter--twelve hours from noon to-day. You can trust
him, Niels. This is no trick. He would not consent at first, but
mademoiselle won him over--with Wallace’s help.”

“Queer situation!” mused Heinrich. “You have no idea what this
proposal embodies?”

“None. She would not even tell Fouchard.”

“It would be madness to go there,” said Niels. “What is there for us
to discuss with them?”

“But if we can trust their words of honour no harm could come of such
a meeting. We have nothing against that party--except that they
obstruct us,” said Heinrich.

“I agree,” put in Walther. “Armistices have a strange way of putting
an end to wars. Bertha is a splendid judge of character. She ought to
be in a position to assure us that there is no trickery behind this
invitation.”

“I will absolutely vouch for them,” said Bertha. “Come, Niels, be
reasonable.”

“So much is at stake,” said Niels grimly. “A false step and all will
be lost. I cannot see that any good can come of this, but I am willing
to fall in with you others. It will be a fine joke to chat with
Fouchard.”

“Eight o’clock to-night, then--at the château.”

“We shall be there. How did you get here?”

“I hired a car at Arveyes, but left it a good distance away. Have no
fear--the driver is an idiot.”

“I’ll drive you back,” said Niels. “We’ve got a wonderful piece of
mechanism that drops spare parts all over the road. We drive it ‘all
out’ at twenty-five miles an hour. Perhaps I may induce mademoiselle
to sell me my own car?”

So Bertha was dropped by Niels in the forest outside the château, for
he was not the type of man to take any unnecessary risk. Bertha at
once conveyed the news of her success to Yolande, who passed it on to
Wallace and Fouchard.

“Most irregular!” grumbled Fouchard. “What has she got up her sleeve?”

“We shall soon know,” replied Wallace.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 THE MEETING

Niels and his confederates arrived punctually on the stroke of
eight, and were shown into the drawing-room. Yolande and Bertha were
not yet present, but Fouchard and Wallace were. The former’s eyes
gleamed when they beheld the shaggy-headed Niels, and Niels returned
the look with interest. But Walther and Heinrich were bland as
usual--even smiling.

“Please sit down,” said Wallace. “Mademoiselle will be here in a few
minutes.”

“So we meet again, Mr. Wallace,” said Niels, as he occupied the big
armchair which was better suited to Walther’s frame.

“Of course! Did you imagine we should not?” replied Wallace.

“I had certain doubts.”

“You probably overlooked the fact that Englishmen are a bit
amphibious.”

“A novel idea--an armistice,” said Walther. “Did it originate with
Monsieur Fouchard?”

“You know it didn’t,” said Fouchard. “But women usually get their way
with men. Make no mistake, my friends--my heart is not in this
table-talk.”

“Nor mine,” said Niels.

Walther waved his big white hand, like the born peacemaker.

“If we start like this, there isn’t much hope of success,” he said.
“At least let us keep the spirit of the thing.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Heinrich. “If m’sieur wants our heads he may have
them to-morrow or the next day. I’m sorry your sea voyage was
curtailed, Mr. Wallace. I quite envied you.”

“Ah--here is mademoiselle!” said Fouchard.

Yolande entered the room with Bertha. She was attired in a black
velvet evening dress which suited her to perfection, and she smiled
and nodded at the men.

“Please be seated,” she said. “I am sorry to be late. Bertha, will you
sit next your--friends?”

Niels was twisting his thumbs impatiently, and Fouchard looked as if
he wanted to get the farce over. But Walther and Heinrich were more
resigned. There was something deeply arrestive in the pale majestic
figure of Yolande, and their eyes were focused on her all the time.

“There is no need for preliminaries,” she said. “Bertha has told you
exactly what has taken place recently. I have not much to say, but I
beg you to consider it carefully. In the first place, may I presume
that none of you have any animus against me or against my friends?”

“Not in the least,” said Walther. “We were compelled to take--certain
steps.”

“Such as kidnapping?” put in Wallace.

“Well--yes.”

“And I am right in assuming that there is something in or about this
château which it is your intention to remove?”

“That is so,” replied Niels.

“It is of value to you?”

“Yes.”

“And to me?”

“No,” said Walther.

“Yes,” added Niels firmly.

“Which of you am I to believe?”

There was no reply to this question, but Bertha looked hard at Niels,
and Walther moved uneasily.

“Once you have what you require you will trouble me no more--is that
so?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes grew a little hard, and the white hands on the polished
walnut table became clenched.

“And the other party in this mystery--the elusive assassin who
murdered my father and Severin--will the removal of what you want
cause him to cease troubling us?”

Niels murmured “Yes,” and the others nodded their heads.

“Then he too wants the same thing?”

“Yes,” said Niels.

“Why hasn’t he located it? He has been haunting this place for two
years--behaving like a demented creature. Does it mean you have a clue
that he does not possess?”

“Yes,” said Walther. “But----”

Niels stopped him with a look. Yolande waited for him to resume, but
was met with a stony silence.

“Well,” she said slowly. “Here is my proposal--my offer. I give you
whatever lies buried here. You are here--on the spot. Take what you
want and leave me in peace.”

“What!” gasped Fouchard.

“I mean it. Remember your promise, Fouchard. They cannot take the
château or the land. I have no use for buried treasure, and if it
rids this place of that other murderous searcher then I shall be well
repaid.”

The visitors were staring at each other curiously. Wallace imagined
there would be an immediate acceptance, but he was wrong. Niels’s face
was like a mask, and Heinrich looked doubtful. It was Bertha who
strove to work for peace.

“Why not, Niels?” she begged. “Mademoiselle is generous. Don’t you
think----”

“Wait!” said Niels. “Mademoiselle Fallières, would you permit us to
be alone for five minutes--no more?”

“Certainly! Let us go to the terrace, Fouchard. Mr. Wallace, will you
get me a wrap from the hall?”

When they had gone, Niels closed the door firmly behind them and came
back to the table.

“They know nothing,” he said. “Nothing!”

“But she has given her word, Niels.”

“Would she keep it--in the circumstances?”

“Yes.”

“But would Fouchard? I tell you it is impossible. Walther--Heinrich,
are you mad, to think of such a thing? You know Fouchard by now. He is
out of sympathy with the whole thing. He might hold his hand to-night,
but not to-morrow. There would be no time. No--I will not have it.”

“I think Niels is right,” said Heinrich. “It requires more time. They
must be got out of the way. Fouchard is the greatest danger--he hates
us, and will never relent.”

“Do you think that, Walther?” asked Bertha.

“I don’t know. I feel almost inclined to take the risk.”

“Risk! There is no question of risk,” rasped Niels. “The outcome would
be inevitable. We must work alone I tell you. Besides, our chances are
better than ever before. Fouchard will go soon, and we have discovered
the other place. It means work--hard work--but there are four of us.
In four days we could achieve it, without coming here at all.”

“That is true.”

“Then have done with this parleying. Our interests are so opposed they
cannot be harmonised by any display of sentiment. I am finished.”

“Yes. There is no more to be said. Shall I ask them to come inside?”

“Wait!” cried Bertha. “I believe you are all wrong. Delay might be
fatal----”

“Call them in,” interrupted Niels. “Bertha, you must leave this in my
hands. I am grateful for all you have done, but the risks are greater
than you believe.”

Bertha said no more, and Walther opened the door and brought Yolande
and the others from the terrace.

“Well?” asked Yolande. “Have you decided?”

“We have,” said Niels. “We appreciate your desire to bring about a
peaceful solution, but it cannot be done. We regret we must decline
your offer.”

“Good!” said Fouchard, with his eyes sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” said Yolande heavily.

“So much for talk,” scoffed Fouchard. “Now, my friends, we know where
we stand. I’ve wasted valuable time, but I’m going to get you before
long.”

“Steady, Fouchard!” pleaded Wallace.

“I fear I must bid you good-bye, mademoiselle,” said Bertha. “I can
stay no longer.”

“I understand.”

“I will get my belongings.”

As she left the room the telephone bell rang. Fouchard went to the
instrument and picked up the receiver.

“Call from London,” he said.

“I expect that is Conrad,” said Wallace. “I had forgotten he could get
through here.”

“Hello--hello! Yes, Mr. Wallace is here. This is Fouchard speaking.
How are you, Mr. Conrad?”

“Does he want me?” asked Wallace.

“Yes.”

Wallace went to the telephone. Conrad’s voice came through quite
clearly. There was about a minute’s conversation and then they were
rung off suddenly. Wallace came to Fouchard.

“He had discovered something,” he said. “He is coming over at once.
Jove, it must be important, for he has appointed a deputy at the
Congress. It has something to do with Steinbech.”

“Steinbech! The name on the paper?”

“So it is. I had forgotten.”

Fouchard swung round to see Niels’s face curiously agitated, and
Walther seemed equally disturbed.

“We seemed to have got on the trail by an accident,” mused Fouchard.
“Does Steinbech convey anything to you, my friend?”

“Nothing!” snarled Niels.

“Well, it does to me, and it does to Mr. Conrad, or he would not be
coming over here. Your decision just now was a trifle premature, it
seems. But it is too late to recant. At last we have the key to the
mystery.”

Niels laughed scornfully, but it was obvious that the whole trio was
startled by this piece of news. When Bertha returned with her bag they
drove off, and Fouchard rubbed his hands.

“We’re on the trail. I knew the key lay in that piece of paper. Did
you see their expressions?”

“It’s a pity we gave them warning,” said Wallace. “But for the moment
I forgot I had heard the name before.”

“But why did they not accept my offer?” asked Yolande.

“They don’t trust us. Obviously the thing they want is of such value
they suspect we may change our minds later. Pity Conrad was cut off
like that. I want more information. Can I telephone him?”

“He is in the provinces. I doubt if you could get on to him. Besides,
he said he was coming at once. If he leaves London to-morrow he may be
here by the evening.”

“Well, we must wait for him. Steinbech--Steinbech, and the figures!
What the devil do they mean?”

“Conrad evidently knows. It looks as if he has stolen all our thunder.
We haven’t been able to see the wood for trees.”

“I wonder if your optimism is justified,” said Yolande. “What did Mr.
Conrad say exactly?”

“He said that by a stroke of wonderful luck he had stumbled across
what might prove to be the key to the solution of this mystery. He
said it all rested with a man named Steinbech, but instead of getting
down to brass tacks he started to tell me how he was walking up a
street in Manchester when he suddenly saw-- The wretched operator cut
me off then.”

“I wonder if he means that he saw this man Steinbech. But he wouldn’t
know him if he did,” mused Fouchard. “It’s a pity he didn’t start his
story two minutes earlier.”

“I suppose he reckoned there was plenty of time. He is always keen to
make a yarn of anything. Anyway we shall be seeing him within
forty-eight hours. What will be Niels’s next move, I wonder?”




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 A CALL FOR HELP

A telegram from Conrad arrived the next morning. It informed Wallace
that he would arrive at Arveyes on the ten o’clock train the following
morning.

“Good!” said Fouchard. “That will still give me two days. I was never
more keen to unravel a mystery in my life. I’ll come along with you
and meet him if I may.”

Wallace was quite agreeable, and he went into the garage to tinker
about with the Bentley. The first thing he saw was Watkins lying in a
corner with his hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Then he noticed
that the captured car was gone.

“Damn!” he muttered, and set the chauffeur free.

“What has happened, Watkins?” he asked.

The chauffeur gasped for breath and rubbed his cramped limbs,
muttering something about “them blasted Huns” under his breath.

“Last night,” he eventually said aloud, “I was just about to turn in
when someone knocked. I thought it was you or M’sieur Fouchard. Lumme!
I had scarcely poked my head outside the door when something was
clapped over my nose. It put me off in a jiff. That’s all I know about
it.”

“They’ve taken their car.”

“So that’s what they were after?”

“Yes. We ought to have put it out of action.”

Fouchard received the news with a scowl.

“So much for their word of honour,” he said. “They used the first
opportunity to bring off a coup.”

“I’m not so sure--this may have happened after midnight. I’m grateful
that they didn’t mess up the Bentley.”

On the following morning the two men set out for Arveyes, arriving
there a trifle early. They discovered that the train was already forty
minutes late, so Fouchard killed time by visiting the local police,
whilst Wallace sat and smoked at the small café next the station.

“Brilliant lot!” grumbled Fouchard on his return. “They haven’t a
notion where Niels and his friends are hiding. Here comes the train.”

When the few passengers had alighted, it became apparent that Conrad
was not amongst them. There was no other long-distance train until the
evening, so they went back to Grammont in the hope of finding a
telegram. But nothing had arrived.

“There would scarcely be time,” said Yolande. “It takes hours and
hours for a telegram to reach us. No doubt he realises that, and will
arrive by the next train.”

“I wonder?” said Fouchard mysteriously.

“You don’t think that Niels----”

“Why not? That man would move heaven and hell to prevent our
discovering his secret. Last night he came and stole his car. They
must have pushed it a good way, for I sleep lightly and heard no
noise. Why did they need the car so urgently?”

“By Jove--yes,” said Wallace. “They had time to get to Calais and
waylay Conrad. I believe you have hit upon the truth, Fouchard.”

“I’m sure of it. We were fools to give them the cue. Without Conrad’s
help we are as we were.”

“Let us wait and see what the next train brings,” pleaded Yolande. “To
kidnap anyone at Calais is not an easy matter.”

So the two men went to the station in the evening, and saw the train
in. There were but a dozen passengers for Arveyes, and no Conrad.

“The devil!” said Fouchard viciously.

Wallace came home alone, for Fouchard had business to attend to in
Arveyes, and said he would walk back later. He had scarcely got the
car into the garage when a small boy was seen nosing round the
château.

“What do you want?” asked Wallace in French.

“_Je cherche_ M’sieur Wallace.”

“I am he.”

The boy produced a piece of paper from his blouse. Some words were
scrawled on it in French--so badly that he could scarcely decipher
them. But at last he succeeded. The message ran:


 “_Am a prisoner at a farm three kilos from Basset. It is called Mont
 Rouge. Messenger writing at my dictation as I cannot use hands.--_

                                                      “Conrad.”


He bade the boy wait and went inside the château to find Yolande. She
saw at once that he had news of some importance.

“A message?”

“Yes--from Conrad. That gang have got him. Do you know a village
called Basset?”

“Yes--it is twenty-five kilometres from here.”

“Read that.”

She did so and pursed her lips reflectively.

“Is it a ruse?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll get the boy in and see what we can wring
from him.”

The wondering boy was duly cross-questioned. His story had every sign
of truth. He lived near Mont Rouge and had lost a kitten. On going
near the farm he heard strange noises. They came from a
cellar--through a grating. At first he ran away, but he crept back
again and saw a face. Gaining courage, he got closer. A man behind the
bars told him to write what he had written, and to bring it along to a
M’sieur Wallace, who would reward him. He did not see anyone else on
the farm. He thought the man who owned the place was away on holiday.

“Sounds genuine enough,” said Wallace. “Let me look up the map.”

He found Basset easily, and its position gave him reason to believe
that at last they had located the hiding-place of Niels.

“I’m going there at once,” he said.

“Better take Fouchard.”

“I left him in Arveyes.”

“You can ring him up at the police station.”

“I’ll try.”

He got on to the gendarmerie, but was informed that Fouchard had just
left, and was on his way back to Grammont.

“I can’t wait, Yolande. When Fouchard comes back tell him where I have
gone. He can come after me. I hate to leave you alone, but I can’t
miss this opportunity.”

“No, you must go, of course. But I wish you were not alone. Why not
take Watkins?”

“I think he is better here,” he said significantly.

Then he remembered an important fact, and asked the boy how he managed
to get to Grammont from so remote a place as Basset. The boy replied
instantly. He had climbed on to the tank of a motorcar after it had
stopped for petrol, and had had a free ride to within a mile of the
château.

“He’s genuine,” said Wallace. “I’ll take him back with me.”

“You--you will take care?” she begged. “I fear they are capable of
violence in an emergency.”

“I know it. But Fouchard will know where I am He ought to arrive an
hour or so after me.”

She went outside the château to see him off, and ere he departed she
gripped his hand warmly.

“Come back soon,” she murmured. “You--you seem part of my very
existence.”

It was so unexpected he let his foot slip on the clutch and the
Bentley almost jumped towards the gate. His heart was thrilled, for it
was the first definite sign of anything more than friendship on her
part. The boy had evidently never been a passenger in a fast car
before, and he sat huddled in the corner of his seat like a frightened
mouse, whilst the Bentley roared down the road.

“Which way?”

“_Tout droit!_”

Ten miles farther on the boy pointed to the left, but he left it
rather late and the car performed a nerve-racking skid.

“_Mon Dieu!_”

“All right, sonny! There are some lights in the distance. Is that
Basset?”

The boy gulped and nodded, and a few minutes later the straggling
village was entered. It was a poverty-stricken district, for the war
had desolated the place, and all kinds of weird and wonderful
dwellings had been built upon the old ruins, out of corrugated iron,
old army huts and so forth. Beyond these there was a network of narrow
roads, and the boy’s local knowledge had to be resorted to at every
few minutes.

At last Mont Rouge came to view. It was a squat farmhouse lying some
distance off the road, and the only vehicular approach was so deep in
mud that Wallace decided to leave the car under some trees, on a kind
of “island” near the junction of the farm-track with the main road.

The boy showed no great desire to approach the dark farm, so Wallace
got a few more details from him, and paid him off. He then climbed
over the fence and made his way across the meadows to where Mont Rouge
could be seen silhouetted against the moonlit sky. So far as he could
see, there was not a gleam of light about the place, and he began to
fear that Conrad must have been taken away since he had sent the
message.

He remembered to bring a small electric torch with him, and with the
aid of this he explored the back of the building, for the boy had
informed him that the grating through which he had seen the face of
Conrad was situated opposite an outhouse. He reached a door and gently
tried the handle. It was locked. The light from the torch revealed
tyre marks not far from him, and he saw that these led into a shed.
But the shed was empty, though there was evidence that a car had been
parked there recently.

At last he found the grating. It was a small affair--less than a foot
in diameter and about the same depth. He knelt down and flashed the
torch through it. Immediately the ray fell on a familiar face, and he
uttered a low cry of joy.

“Connie!”

“Good lad! I wondered if you were coming.”

“Is any of the gang here?”

“I’m not sure. I heard the car leave about three hours ago, but could
not see who was in it.”

“How can I get in?”

“Have you tried the doors?”

“I’ve tried the one close by. Is there another at the front?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go there. Keep quiet--I’ll be with you before very long.”

He went round the house and found the front entrance, but this, like
the back, was in darkness and the door was locked. There was a kind of
portico above it, supported by small pillars over which grew wistaria.
The gnarled trunk gave him footing, and he swarmed on to the top and
tried the bedroom window. It was latched, but there was room between
the sashes through which to insert the blade of his knife. In two
minutes he was inside. It was poorly furnished, contained an old
four-post bed and a few awful prints. The door led him into the
corridor from which a staircase descended. He went down this
cautiously, for the stairs were old and creaked badly.

On reaching the hall he was in a quandary, for there were three doors
leading off, but after a moment’s reflection he chose the farthermost
one, believing that it would lead him to the kitchen and thence to the
cellar. He was turning the handle when he heard a noise from behind,
and swung round to see Walther facing him.

Wallace’s hand dived for his pistol, but Walther divined his intention
and sprang at him like a panther. Despite his big size he was
wonderfully agile, and his hands reached Wallace before the pistol
could be got into action. The torch fell to the floor, but the hall
was well illuminated by a light from the room from which Walther had
emerged.

“Got you!” grunted Walther.

But he sadly underestimated the strength of his opponent. Wallace,
though two stone lighter, was built like a gun, and was literally
spoiling for a fight. He tripped Walther neatly, and the pair fell
with a resounding bump, clutched in each other’s arms. Wallace had the
good fortune to be on top, but his advantage did not last long. With a
Herculean effort Walther flung him backward, and in a second was on
his feet again.

It was now plain pugilism, in which all the odds were on the younger
man. He forgot all about the pistol, and framed up to his stalwart
adversary. Walther had some knowledge of the game, but not enough to
compete with the trained boxer. In the confined space the fight went
on for five minutes--a savage affair in which hard blows were struck.
Then Walther began to show signs of distress. Reduced to the
defensive, he strove to cover his jaw from the lightning drives. But
Wallace was old at the game. He planted his right into the big ribs
and as Walther’s hands came down he drove his left to the jaw.

There came a sound like a horse falling, and Walther’s fifteen stone
lay huddled up on the dirty linoleum. Wallace immediately dragged the
heavy body through the end door. It led to a stone-flagged kitchen and
on one side of it was a capacious larder, with two stout bolts on the
door. He shoved Walther inside and rammed home the bolts.

Retrieving his torch he discovered the door which led to the cellar.
Twelve stone steps led down into the darkness, and there was another
bolted door at the bottom. Inside this, lying on a pile of wood and
coke, was Conrad, trussed like a fowl ready for roasting.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Walther. I had to deal with him. By Jove, they didn’t mean you to
escape!”

“They pushed a filthy rag into my mouth, but I managed to get rid of
it.… Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The car. They’re back!”

Wallace heard it now--and voices. He slashed at the rope with his
knife, and the bonds fell away.

“Quick!” he said. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”

But Conrad was slow, for one of his legs refused to function properly.
Wallace rubbed it for him with all the vigour he possessed.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll get out the way I came in--upstairs and through the bedroom
window. Hurry!”

They reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing smashing blows at
the larder door. As Wallace reached the bedroom landing the front door
opened. He looked back and saw Bertha about to enter. She saw him and
also Conrad at the same moment.

“Niels!”

“Neck or nothing, Connie--come on!”

Both of them jumped clean from the portico on to a soft patch of
pampas grass, and immediately made out of the garden and across the
fields. When they were close upon the road Conrad looked back and saw
two blazing car lights moving slowly--but towards them.

“They’re giving chase,” he said.




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 CHECK!

Wallace found his car and was moving in a few seconds. More by luck
than judgment he found his way through the network of roads into
Basset. From there it was straight going except for two turnings.

“What was it you discovered, Connie?”

“I discovered who Steinbech is, and I think I know what those figures
signify-- By Jove, they’re following--and gaining!”

Wallace could see the reflection of the other car’s lights in his
driving mirror. There were three persons aboard, so it was obvious
that Walther had been set free.

“They are desperate this time,” he said. “They know that you have hit
upon the secret and mean to stop us from using that knowledge.”

Zip! A bullet hit the road alongside the car, and the report followed
later. Wallace set his mouth firmly and “opened out.” At terrific pace
the Bentley roared up the road, but the lights in the driving mirror
seemed no farther away.

Zip! Zip! Two more bullets hit the road and went whining into the air.

“This is the devil!” said Conrad.

“It isn’t us they are aiming at.”

“The tank?”

“No. That wouldn’t pull us up quick enough. The target is a back tyre.
God knows what will happen if they succeed, for the road is as greasy
as pork.”

“Have you got your pistol?”

“In my pocket.”

“I’m going to have a pot at them,” said Conrad. “Hanged if I can sit
here and calmly serve as a target.”

He extracted the pistol and let off two rounds. But it seemed to have
no effect upon the speed of the overtaking car.

“Let ’em come,” muttered Conrad. “I’ll plant a bullet or two in their
front tyres. That ought to cause them some excitement.”

Wallace eased off a trifle, but still maintained a prodigious speed.
The other car came nearer and nearer, and Conrad rested the barrel of
the pistol on the back of the seat. He was about to let loose when a
regular volley came from behind, and simultaneously a different kind
of report was heard closer at hand. Unfortunately the Bentley was just
taking the corner, when the near-side tyre became deflated from a
bullet puncture. The car bumped alarmingly, and got into a frightful
skid. Conrad had a kind of futuristic vision of hedges, signposts, and
telegraph post all jumbled up, and a second later he was flung clean
out of his seat and over the hedge.

Wallace, more prepared for the inevitable, suffered less. He made a
great effort to prevent the car from overturning, and succeeded by
ramming her nose into a heap of sand on the roadside. But the violent
stoppage took the skin off his knees and elbows, and almost stunned
him.

He saw the other car pass the turning and pull up dead. Three figures
leapt from it and made towards him. Vainly he searched for the
pistol--and was dumbfounded to discover suddenly that Conrad was no
longer with him. Niels came running forward with a pistol in his hand.

“Put up your hands!” he snapped.

In reply, Wallace picked up the jack-handle--a fairly heavy bar of
iron--and crouched behind the car.

“Come and get me,” he said.

“Better come quietly.”

“Careful, Niels! Look!”

Walther pointed up the road, and Niels cursed to see car lights
approaching at a great speed. Wallace turned his head sharply and
recognised the oncoming car. It was Yolande’s Hispano, and he had no
doubt that Fouchard was aboard. He waved his hands.

“The police!” exclaimed Heinrich. “Quick!”

The trio beat an instant retreat. Fouchard jumped from the Hispano
before it stopped and ran forward. He was followed by two gendarmes.

“What has happened? Was that Niels?”

“Yes--the whole gang.”

“_Mon Dieu_--after them, Laroche!”

“It’s no use--you haven’t a chance,” said Wallace. “Conrad is lying
somewhere about--injured, I fear.”

“I can’t miss this opportunity.”

“It’s no opportunity. The Hispano can’t look at that car. They are off
already--see! I know where they hang out, and will direct you in a few
minutes. Help me find Conrad.”

Fouchard fumed as the other car went speeding away. In any case, the
Bentley was too much across the road to permit the Hispano to pass.…
They found Conrad over the hedge. He had hit his head against
something and was quite unconscious. Wallace found a nasty wound just
over the right temple.

“Better get him to the château, and call a doctor,” he said, after
they had carried Conrad into the Hispano. “The Bentley seems to be all
right except for a burst tyre, but her beauty is ruined.”

After making sure that nothing else was wrong, Wallace sped them away
and then changed his back wheel. He overtook them before they reached
the château, and was able to help Fouchard carry Conrad to a bedroom.
Yolande came in with agitated face.

“I have rung for a doctor,” she said. “Do you think he is seriously
injured?”

“Impossible to tell. What a rotten time he has had! Did you tell the
doctor it was urgent?”

“Yes. He should be here in a quarter of an hour.”

“There is nothing I can do here,” said Fouchard. “Where exactly is
Niels’s rendezvous?”

Wallace told him how to reach the place, and Fouchard started off
immediately with the excited gendarmes. The doctor lost no time in
coming to the château, and Wallace and Yolande awaited his verdict
anxiously.

“Concussion,” he said. “He has sustained a bad blow, but I think there
is no danger. In all probability he will regain consciousness by
to-morrow morning.”

He did all he possibly could for the unconscious man, and then left,
after promising to call on the morrow.

“He ought to have a nurse,” said Yolande. “But it is impossible to get
one to-night.”

“I’ll shift my bed into his room,” said Wallace. “Poor old Connie! He
seems to receive all the bad knocks.”

“Did he tell you how they managed to capture him?”

“No. There wasn’t time. I had scarcely set him free when Niels
returned. They followed us by car and burst my back tyre with a pistol
shot. But for Fouchard’s timely arrival, the pair of us would have
been taken back to the cellar.”

“And you don’t even know what it is that he has to tell us?”

“That’s the worst of it. He was about to tell me when the gang started
shooting. Here we are right on the verge of the solution, but helpless
until Conrad is able to speak.”

Two hours passed before Fouchard returned with the Hispano. He was
covered with mud and would not say a word until he had had a clean up.
From this fact Wallace deduced that once again the gang had been too
smart for him.

“Well,” said Wallace at last. “Did you find the place?”

“Yes, but the birds had flown. We ransacked it, but found nothing.
They had taken their bags and belongings, so it will be useless
looking there again.”

“They haven’t gone far.”

“I’m not so sure. Now that we have Conrad we can get to the bottom of
this thing. I think they have shot their last bolt.”

“There is another hitch, Fouchard.”

“Eh?”

“Conrad has concussion. We shall learn nothing from him to-night.”

“That is bad luck. I am due in Paris to-morrow night. But I shall not
go.”

“But you said----”

“They will have to do without my evidence for a day or two. I am not
going to Paris before this affair is cleared up. I shall wire them
to-morrow. If it had been me that was thrown out of the car instead of
your friend I could not go to Paris. Very well, I will have concussion
or yellow fever.”

“Splendid!” said Yolande. “If it were not for poor Mr. Conrad I should
feel more hopeful to-night than I have felt for many days. I have an
intuition that we are coming out into the light.”

Fouchard had a big pile of official documents to wade through, so he
offered to do the work in Conrad’s room. Wallace was grateful, but he
suspected that, although Fouchard’s offer was more or less
disinterested, he yet had hopes that Conrad might recover sufficiently
to be able to solve the enigma of the slip of paper.

“I’m glad Fouchard is staying,” said Yolande. “For, despite his
belief, I feel sure that Niels has not yet thrown up the sponge. He
knows that Conrad has made an important discovery, but that may drive
him into making a last furious attempt to outwit us.”

“Perhaps. But we should be able to deal with them.”

They were walking up and down the terrace, with the light of the full
moon full upon them. From a tree in the abyss beneath them an owl set
up an eerie hoot, and Wallace felt Yolande’s hand close upon his arm.

“Only an owl.”

“I dislike them intensely. I heard one on that dreadful night when my
father----”

“Don’t think of that.”

“Most of the horror has gone now. It was the first blow that was
almost unbearable. Do you believe in an after-life?” she added
suddenly.

“I don’t know. I can’t see why there should be. If the soul is
immortal, why cannot it remember what it was before it entered our
bodies on this earth?”

“It may all be there--in our subconscious mind. It seems to me that
all this love which we cherish--the vast pyramid of affection and
devotion that we build up from the day we are born--cannot be
shattered in a moment, as if it never existed. You know, sometimes I
feel that my father is with me--telling me to hold on, to have courage
and all will come right. It has helped to dispel depression, and
sometimes, when I have wakened in the middle of the night in one of
those appalling terrors that are born in dreams, I have imagined I
have seen him smiling at me. Do you think that is rubbish?”

“Why should it be? I’ll admit it has never happened to me. But that is
no argument.”

“Are you never afraid?”

“What is being afraid? I don’t quite know. I certainly get a cold
sensation down my spine when queer things happen that I can’t account
for. I suppose all fear is a kind of ignorance. Even this--this
strange demented being who so consistently eludes us--would not be in
the least fearful if we knew exactly who he was, and all about his
intentions.”

“Aren’t they the same as Niels’s?”

“That is the logical conclusion. Now you’re trembling.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m not afraid--not now, but I dread to
think of the day when you will go--for good.”

“Suppose I don’t go for good?”

“But you must. Your work lies in England, and--well, of course, our
companionship must end. I shall never be able to express my gratitude
to you and Mr. Conrad for your help, and your company when I needed it
so badly.”

“Yolande!”

There was a curious tremor in his voice, and it caused her to draw her
breath quickly.

“When I went away earlier in the evening you said that I--I had become
almost a part of your existence. Is that--quite true?”

“I--I----”

“You meant that?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me know the worst or the best now. I love you, Yolande. It
seems an impertinence to tell you after having known you for only a
month. But I can’t help myself--I love you to distraction. It isn’t
friendship--or sympathy for a woman who has suffered much. Those count
too--but love dominates them. Tell me I’m not asking--too much?”

She hung her head for a moment, and then raised it and looked straight
into his eyes, with orbs that seemed to contain a sacred fire.

“I love you too, Ralph,” she replied softly.

There in the moonlight, on the haunted terrace of the Château
Grammont, he kissed her on the lips, and thought he heard in place of
the hooting owl the carolling of celestial voices.




 CHAPTER XXV.
 THE FINAL BLOW

By the morning Conrad’s condition was little changed, though Wallace
thought that the pulse was a trifle stronger. His own rest had been
very broken, for the doctor had left instructions for hot-water
bottles to be applied to the sides and feet of the unconscious man,
and these had had to be refilled at intervals. The sight of his best
friend lying there so pallid and still affected him deeply, and robbed
him of some of the joy that Yolande’s confession had given birth to.

Fouchard came in at an early hour to see how things were progressing,
but shook his head sadly when he saw the still form. He stayed while
Wallace took his bath, but nothing that he could do would bring a
sound from the closed lips.

“I’m worried about him,” said Wallace. “If anything were to
happen----”

“I don’t think there is any danger. I’ve seen cases of concussion
before. Once they come round they pick up very quickly. It’s such a
pity when he is in possession of valuable information. That paper----”

“Damn the paper! I’m more concerned about Conrad.”

“That’s natural, of course.”

“Have you seen Yolande this morning?”

“Not yet. She said she would send for a nurse.”

“I doubt if she will get one to stay. The château has such an evil
reputation. I wish the doctor would come. He said he would pay an
early visit.”

“Did you see that?” asked Fouchard suddenly. “He moved his lips, I’ll
swear! Look--there it is again!”

There was no doubting it this time. Wallace’s heart beat a new note,
for it was the first movement of any kind that he had observed since
the night before.

“Conrad!” cried Fouchard loudly.

“S-sh! What the devil are you doing?”

“It’s all right--the usual thing. Sometimes a shout will arouse them
to full consciousness. Conrad!”

“I don’t trust your medical knowledge,” grumbled Wallace.

“_Zut!_ I’ve seen men with half their heads blown off brought round
this way. You feel his pulse--it is going well.”

This was true, and there were more slight facial movements.
Fortunately the doctor turned up a few minutes later. He examined the
patient thoroughly and nodded his head.

“Well?”

“I think he is coming round. In any case there is no need for
apprehension. I will leave some calomel pills which must be given to
him as soon as he becomes conscious. Did mademoiselle get a nurse?”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t think she will be required. As a matter of fact, one hears
strange stories about the château. You might get a nurse from Paris,
but in the country where superstition is rife I fear that the grim
happenings here have an effect upon the natives. Well, the pulse is
much better. He is out of danger.”

It was an hour later when Conrad opened his eyes, and tried to focus
them on objects about the room. At last they rested on Wallace’s face.

“Connie!”

The pale face became querulous. Conrad was trying to recall the past,
without much success. It came as a shock to Wallace to realise that he
was not recognised.

“Don’t you know me, Connie?”

“Ralph!”

“Splendid! That’s good enough for the time being. Don’t worry, old
man. It will all come to you in time.”

Fouchard slipped through the door, and smiled joyfully to see the
patient’s eyes open.

“So he’s come round?”

“Yes. But you aren’t going to start bombarding him with questions
yet.”

“It wouldn’t take a minute.”

“He wouldn’t understand. What difference does an hour or two make?”

“Perhaps not. What’s that?”

Wallace called “_Entrez!_” in response to the soft knock on the door,
and a maid entered. He thought she had come to tidy up the room, but
instead she broke into voluble French, with much hand movement. Her
brogue was so strong he did not get the gist of it for a moment, but
Fouchard’s expression, coupled with the mention of “mademoiselle,” was
enough to set his heart bounding.

“What’s that?” he queried.

“Mademoiselle--has vanished.”

“Great heavens!”

Fouchard turned to the trembling girl, wagging his finger at her as if
she were a child.

“You are sure mademoiselle did not sleep in her room last night?”

“_Mais non_, m’sieur. Come and look.”

“Great God!” cried Wallace. “This is terrible!”

They followed the maid into Yolande’s room. There was no sign of any
disturbance, and the bedclothes were turned back neatly. On the pillow
was Yolande’s white nightdress folded up.

“Who saw her last?” asked Fouchard.

“I did,” replied Wallace. “I said good night to her outside her door
at about ten-thirty.”

“This looks bad.”

“Bad!” Wallace became inarticulate with apprehension. His brain seemed
to snap as he thought of the creature who had presumably committed two
foul crimes already. The awful elusive form, with a naked razor--
“What is to be done, Fouchard? What can one do?”

But Fouchard looked stumped. He stood biting his finger-nails
viciously, staring from window to bed and back again. Yesterday he had
been boasting about nearing the solution, and now had happened what
looked like being the most ghastly business of all.

“We--we’ve got to look,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a chance--a
bare chance.”

“Let’s start then--for the love of God!”

“The cellar--where we found the others. And if by a stroke of luck you
see that fiend, shoot--and shoot to kill. But I’m afraid--terribly
afraid----”

Wallace pulled himself together. He dreaded the cellar as he would
hell itself, but there was no time for cowardice of that nature. With
Yolande had gone the very light of his existence. He found himself
filled with insensate rage and hate, and Fouchard’s advice was totally
unnecessary.

They trod the various passages that led to the vaults, looking for
anything that might serve as a clue--but in vain. Fouchard switched on
the light and they descended the steps. So still was everything that
their breathing sounded amazingly loud, and Wallace imagined he could
actually hear the thumping of his heart.

“We’ll start here and examine every yard of the place,” said Fouchard
in a sepulchral voice. “Look out for footprints!”

Under the arches they went, eyes keen and ears alert. There was a damp
patch at the end of the first arcade, but it was unmarked by any
footprint. Wallace winced when he suddenly saw the big barrel in which
Fallières’s body had been discovered. He went to it but it was empty.

“There’s something white!” said Fouchard.

“I can’t----”

“There--ahead!”

Wallace ran to it, and picked it up. It was a cream-coloured
handkerchief--a small embroidered thing with the initials “Y.F.” in
the corner. It exuded the scent of roses.

“Yolande’s!”

“That proves it.”

“He carried her here. She must be here--somewhere.”

“But where?”

Every article that could hide a human form was moved, but the small
handkerchief remained the sole clue. Yolande had disappeared as
completely as if the earth had engulfed her. After an hour of it
Fouchard gave it up, but Wallace went over the place yet again--hoping
against hope.

“It’s no use,” said Fouchard. “We’re beaten.”

“Beaten! She must be somewhere. If he had-- Ugh! It’s too terrible to
think about.”

“We shall make no progress down here.”

“Then what does this handkerchief signify? Why was Fallières’s body
found here--and Severin’s?”

“Yes, I know it is very mysterious but what more can we do? This is a
different case. I believe that Yolande is still alive.”

“You have no grounds----”

“I know. It’s just a feeling. Wherever the Monster is hiding, there we
may hope to find mademoiselle. I am going to try the chapel again.”

“But you told me there was no possibility of anyone hiding there. It
is little more than four bare walls.”

“Still, I will look.”

“Then I shall go up to the gallery. To think of her--with that
Thing----”

He left Fouchard, and for two hours roamed all over the château. At
last he was compelled to accept defeat, and went back to Conrad
feeling that he was going mad. The incapacitated man was making
progress, for he recognised Wallace immediately.

“How are you feeling, old man?” asked Wallace brokenly.

“I--my head. I can’t think what happened to me. Why am I here?”

“Don’t you remember the car--and the accident?”

“Car! Yes, there was a car. You were driving madly and someone was
shooting----”

“Yes--yes. Go on!”

“There was a cellar and a grating--and you were looking through at
me.”

“That was before the accident. Conrad, try to understand me. Yolande
has gone--that devil has got her. We have a slip of paper with figures
on it and a name. You came from England because you had discovered
something. Can’t you remember what it was? It may lead me to Yolande.”

“Yolande! Gone!”

“Yes. God help her! Try to concentrate.”

While Conrad wrestled with the disintegrated segments of his mind,
Fouchard knocked and entered.

“No luck!” he said bitterly. “Why, he is conscious!”

“S-sh! He’s getting a grip on things.” Then he questioned Conrad: “Do
you remember the name Steinbech?”

“Steinbech! Why, that was it--Steinbech. It was a book--I brought it
with me.”

“A book!” gasped Fouchard. “Where is it? What did it contain about
this place?”

“In my luggage--only a small book.” Then, with a great effort: “Why
can’t I think?”

“The devil!” exclaimed Fouchard. “His luggage is missing. Whatever
that book contained we shall not know. That was Niels’s object--to
prevent the book from reaching us.”

“But Conrad will know its contents. Connie, can’t you--can’t you
remember?”

Again came a fearful mental struggle on the part of the sick man.
Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead, and his breathing
became laboured. Wallace winced to see him so distressed.

“Rest, old man,” he said. “It will all come in time. Don’t force it
now.”

“I’m going over to Mont Rouge again,” said Fouchard.

“What for?”

“This book he mentions. If I can find his bag, there may be just a
chance that the volume is still inside it. It may be hours yet before
he is in a fit state to enlighten us, and time is precious.”

“Take the Bentley then--it is faster. Watkins will drive it for you.
But it is a hundred to one that they have destroyed the book.”

“I can’t afford to miss a chance.”

Fouchard went off in a hurry.




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 YOLANDE’S ORDEAL

When Yolande left Wallace at the door of her room, her heart had
been full to overflowing. Out of all the stark horror and pain that
had filled her life for the past month, this great joy had emerged
like a beautiful butterfly from a dead chrysalis. A long time ago she
had persuaded herself that love of that sort was not for her. Her
father’s great bereavement had caused her to take stock of her life.
She knew that in her Fallières saw the image of his dead wife, and,
although he would have been the last man in the world to have demanded
sacrifices, she had arrived at a decision which she thought would help
to compensate him for his loss.

Now Fate had taken affairs into her own hands. The man of destiny had
magically appeared in the almost monasterial precincts of the Château
Grammont. She had started by admiring him, and had ended by realising
that he had started a train of emotions that could never be stilled.

She did not go to bed at once, for this pleasant revelation was such
as to render sleep impossible at the moment. Her lips still tingled
from Wallace’s last kiss, and she wanted that delicious sensation to
remain. In her was a lot of the child--the wondering child that stared
in awe at birds, flowers, and sunshine. She now stared at her own
reflection in the mirror, and wondered what it was exactly that had
caused Wallace to love her. Then she grew a little ashamed to realise
that she could be happy when her father’s murdered body had lain in
the grave for less than a month.

“Still, I love him,” she thought. “I can’t help myself. Daddy
dear--you will understand.”

She extracted a dozen hairpins, and let her abundant tresses fall in
rippling waves over her shoulders. As she brushed them she paused and
smiled, and then laughed softly. Life was all so wonderful, despite
black clouds and pangs of pain. Her eyes wandered to the vase of roses
which had dropped blood-red petals on the dressing-table.

“Poor flowers,” she murmured, “to fade so soon!”

As she lifted her eyes to the mirror, the brush dropped from her
fingers. There in the polished glass, grim and horrible against the
soft decorations of the room, loomed a shape that seemed to freeze the
very blood in her veins. It was the Thing she had seen as a child--the
hooded Monster of the château. Turning, she saw it face to
face--within two yards of her paralysed form. Her mouth opened to give
vent to a scream of terror, but her tongue seemed cloven to the roof
of her mouth, and no sound came.

A long arm came from out of the dirty brown gown. She saw the fingers
and nails--horrid! Within the hood were two bloodshot eyes and a
hooked nose. A moment of unspeakable terror, and then she was caught
up as if she were a child. All power of resistance had gone, and that
pleasant rose-strewn world which she had enjoyed for so brief a spell
vanished like an evening afterglow.

She was being borne swiftly along corridors--she knew not whither, for
her mind had become almost a complete blank. Then something closed
with a hollow thud and acted as a spur to her volition. She tried to
free her arms, but they were held as if by bonds of steel. For the
first time her voice functioned, and gave utterance to a wild shriek.

“Don’t cry--I shall not harm you!”

It was German and she had difficulty in understanding it, for the
voice which spoke the words was like no other voice she had ever
heard. If an ape could talk she thought it would be like this.

“Let me go!” she gasped.

To her surprise she was put down, but a hideous paw still retained her
left arm. She was in a long passage, cemented all over and illuminated
by electric light. It ran straight as an arrow to a door at the end.
Half-dragged, half-led, she reached this door. Her captor kicked it
open with his enormous boot, and she saw steps leading down into a
less well-lighted place. Lying about were all kinds of unusual
things--rusted canteens, helmets, some wooden cases, several strange
instruments. Yet another door confronted them. This bore a big
padlock, with the key in it. The hooded giant turned it, and they
entered a large chamber containing furniture of sorts.

“There!” he grunted, and let her go.

He gathered the folds of the cloak closely around him and stood
looking down at her, holding his queer garment close under his hooked
nose.

“Why--why have you done this?” she pleaded. “Who are you?”

“S-sh! I was just in time. It is safe here. They are a cunning lot up
there. But we shall beat them yet. Did you hear the firing just now?”

The eyes were ablaze. She saw him slip his hand under the robe, and
uttered a low cry as he pulled out an old razor and slowly opened it.

“Better than a gun,” he mumbled. “They do not fear guns. This makes no
noise. Quietly, quietly I move--in the dark, and they do not see.”

He was stropping the blade of the razor over the palm of his hand with
rhythmic, rapid movements. She closed her eyes, expecting death, but
when she opened them again he had put the weapon away, and was hunting
for something in the corner.

Piled there were dozens of wooden boxes, the majority of which were
open. She saw to her astonishment that these were filled with square,
empty tins which exuded a foul smell, and some of the boxes were
stencilled with the War Department mark of the German Government. It
was immediately clear that here was the chief means by which the
Monster had managed to live--field rations abandoned by the Germans in
their hasty retreat from the château. But now the store seemed
practically exhausted, for it was some minutes before her captor found
an unopened tin, and ripped the top off by pulling at the patent
contrivance with which it was provided.

To her surprise the contents appeared to be quite fresh, but the
pervading odour of the piles of old tins was sufficient to sicken her.
He turned out the slab of meat on to a time-worn enamel plate, and
then went searching for a second plate, which he ultimately found.
Dividing the meat into equal portions he set one before her. When she
did not eat at once, he appeared to ascribe it to the fact that she
possessed no knife nor fork, and went searching among the pile of
oddments again, until he found what he wanted. With them he brought a
bottle of wine, already opened, and a large mug.

“We eat now,” he mumbled. “It is safer down here. The wine is good.
You must drink the wine, Minna.”

“I’m not Minna. You’re making a mistake. For pity’s sake let me
go--let me go!”

The hysterical cry had a different effect upon him to anything she
imagined. He made a hideous noise with his mouth, and, dropping the
plate, brandished the knife before her.

“No squealing! I won’t have it. Dying’s nothing. I’ve seen ’em die by
hundreds. We’ve got to hold on here--orders are to hold on.” Then, in
a lower voice: “There are those people prowling about--searching,
searching. But they’re not clever enough by a lot. I’ll get another of
’em to-night--maybe the young one with the blue eyes that drives so
fast, or that other swine with the hair. They’re working back there in
the mine--three of ’em and a woman. I’ve seen ’em-- Drink, Minna,” he
added piteously. “You’re trembling. Of course it’s hard for a woman,
and you should have stayed away.”

She was trying to understand his rambling talk. It was now evident
that he was demented, and that in his present mood he meant her no
harm. On the contrary, he made affectionate gestures, which if
possible terrified her more than his threats. To pacify him and in
order to give her mind a chance to think clearly she made a pretence
to eat.

While she did this he slunk away into the corner with a plate of food
and the remainder of the wine, eating with his back towards her. Some
of her courage was coming back after the initial shock. She realised
that only cool thinking and subtle acting could save her. She had had
no notion of the existence of this vault in which she sat, and
concluded that it must have been tunnelled out during the months when
the château was occupied by the Germans. The scattered array of army
accoutrement was sufficient to endorse this, but where it started and
where it ended were mysteries.

But the biggest mystery was this enormous demented creature, who
apparently lived here. Where did he come from? Then she recalled his
remark about the “three men and a woman” working back in the “mine.”
That he was referring to Niels and his party was certain, and the news
was interesting, for it led her to the conclusion that the underground
passage must lead to the abandoned tin-mine in the forest.

Soon he slouched back to her, carrying a pile of blankets. He spread
these out on the floor, and muttered to himself as he groped about
again. The object of his search proved to be a dirty pillow. This he
patted as if it were something alive, and laid it at the top of the
blankets.

“Sleep time,” he said.

“I’m not tired.”

“Must sleep. I go up above.”

It was what she wished him to do, for the clammy atmosphere of the
place seemed to choke her. With his departure the way might be open
for escape. She thought of Wallace and Fouchard within a few hundred
yards of her--anxiously searching----

“The young one to-night,” he said. “It makes one less--always one less
of the cursed brood.”

He produced his awful razor and began to strop it again. A cold
shudder went down her spine, as she realised the menace to the man she
loved.

“No!” she cried.

He looked at her sternly.

“I do it for you,” he said. “Pah! it is no time for sentiment. We must
fight.”

“Why?”

“That is a foolish question. Minna, you are tired. You do not know
what you are saying. Look at that! A new one I found.” He held up the
naked razor. “There’s the man Fouchard. He’s a smart one--but I’ll get
him too--perhaps at the same time. Sleep well, Minna--sleep well.”

He pulled the obscuring hood even tighter, and walked with remarkable
agility towards the door through which they had entered the place. It
closed after him with a dull thud--like the fall of earth upon a
coffin.

Immediately she rose to her feet, and gave her mind entirely up to the
question of escape. But on reaching the door she found it was bolted
from outside. It was so stoutly built that she had no hope of
battering it down. The only alternative was to try the other door,
which her captor had hinted led to the mine.

Here she was more successful, for the only fastening was on the
inside. It was a heavy iron bolt, which called for all her strength to
withdraw it. When she swung the door open she found herself looking
into a dark opening tunnelled through the earth, and prevented from
collapse by a series of props. It was damp and chilly, and for a
moment she hesitated. But it was only necessary to think of that
terrifying creature who had just left on his murderous quest, to find
the courage to go on.

She moved slowly down the narrow passage, and for a hundred yards it
ran dead straight. Looking behind her she could see the small oblong
of light made by the open door. But now the tunnel took a sharp
turn--beyond which was pitch blackness. With quaking heart she moved
forward, her feet sinking into mud at times. Moreover there were rats.
She could hear them scampering and squealing about her.

The horror seemed less by contrast with the immediate past. Half
suffocated from lack of oxygen, she went on, feeling her way with her
hands. Now there were boards under her feet, and the sound of her
footsteps echoed weirdly. Then water was encountered. It increased in
depth until it was over her ankles. Still she waded on, with her mind
fixed inflexibly on her object.

The passage seemed to widen, for no longer could she feel both walls
by stretching out her arms, and the air seemed less vitiated. How far
she had come she had no idea, but she recalled that the mine was over
a mile from the château--a mile of this!

A little later a terrible doubt entered her mind. She had the feeling
that she was moving round in a circle. So strong was this impression
that she moved away from the crumbling wall, with the idea of finding
the opposite one. She took a dozen steps, but found nothing. Stumbling
over stones and sinking into mud, she moved quicker, but her groping
hands found no obstruction of any kind. She seemed to be
lost--entombed in the bowels of the earth.




 CHAPTER XXVII.
 THE BOOK

Suspense and anxiety were wearing away Wallace’s nerves. Despite
Fouchard’s belief that Yolande was still alive, he found himself
taking a pessimistic view. Fallières had been murdered, then Severin.
A similar attempt had been made upon Fouchard. Why should Yolande be
any more immune than these?

In any case the alternative was equally appalling. He imagined her in
all the sweetness and charm of her youth--in the clutches of that
abysmal Monster. And here he was as helpless as a kitten to intervene.
He paced up and down the sick-room, utterly unable to concentrate his
mind on anything. Niels and the others now were reduced to negligible
proportions. They at least were human in their actions.

He wondered where they were, what they were doing? Whether the
knowledge of Conrad’s yet unrevealed discovery had caused them to
abandon their quest? But again and again his mind reverted to the
dominating factor--the Monster. Seeing Conrad lying quiet with his
eyes closed, he decided to start investigations anew. Beyond the
château proper there were outbuildings--potting-sheds, hot-houses,
and so forth. No place was too trivial to be left unexplored. He found
the gardener, who had heard the news, and went with him to various
sheds and corners. But these places yielded no more information than
the others.

“It is terrible, m’sieur,” said the man. “None of us is safe here.
That is no human shape that walks and slays. I remembered poor M’sieur
Severin saying the same thing a month ago, when the master was
murdered. And always the worst happens when the moon is at the full.”

“There is nothing in that, André.”

“There is much, m’sieur. I would not leave my wife alone at nights
when the moon is full--here.”

Wallace did not feel in the mood to rebuke him for his superstition,
for at least he was basing his remark upon apparent facts.

“She was so sweet,” mused the old gardener, his eyes filling with
tears. “Always a kind word for us poor folk, and a gift of clothing
when the winter came in. What shall we do now?”

“You must not rush to conclusions, André. Your mistress may yet come
back.”

But André had no such hope. To him the thing was sun-clear. The
Monster had made another sacrifice to the devil at the full moon. Even
if Wallace had been in the mood for argument it would have made no
difference. André was only saying what all the peasants were
whispering.

“And I had gathered these figs for her,” he said, holding up a basket
full of purple fruit. “The first this season, m’sieur, and a splendid
lot. She loved figs.”

“You have never seen this creature, André?”

“God be praised--no! But if I should, m’sieur--if I should--then--” He
picked up a mattock and balanced it in his hand, while his kindly eyes
blazed with hate. “I am getting old, but my arms are yet strong.”

“I believe you.”

“And the m’sieur who had the accident--is he recovering?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad. M’sieur, I should tell you that I saw that woman Bertha
this morning.”

“Bertha!”

“She was in the forest alone, as I came towards the château. I always
liked her because she took such an interest in the garden. But somehow
I have felt that she was not what she pretended to be.”

“You are right.”

“She tried to hide when she saw me, but I let her see that it was too
late. Then she came to me, with a face that was very, very pale, and
begged me to say nothing about having seen her. I did not promise
that, for if the mistress had asked me about her I should have to tell
her. _Mon Dieu!_ I did not know then that she--she too had gone.”

“Where did you see Bertha?”

“It was between my cottage and the château. She was not doing
anything--just sitting on a fallen tree deep in thought.”

“You did not see any men--strangers?”

“No.”

Wallace reflected on this as he walked into the château. It certainly
looked as if the gang had not yet given up all hope. They might have
heard what had happened to Conrad, and still believed it was possible
to make a coup before Conrad was able to reveal what he had
discovered. But Wallace’s interest in that direction had waned a
little. What matter hidden treasure when Yolande’s life was in
jeopardy--or worse?

He found Conrad looking considerably better, and he greeted Wallace in
almost his normal style. The latter adjusted the bandage about his
head, for it had slipped and become a trifle loose.

“Thanks, old man! I’m feeling heaps better. Any news?”

“None.”

“You’re worrying a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Connie, there’s something I want to tell you. It was only last
night that I told her--Yolande--what I had been aching to tell her
almost since I first met her.”

“You--you mean you----”

“I love her. That’s the plain truth.” He clenched his fists. “That
makes it all the more terrible. She was happy--I swear she was happier
than she has been for as long as I’ve known her. On top of that comes
this awful bolt. I’ve hunted everywhere--everywhere.”

“I--I understand. Where is Fouchard?”

“Gone to that place where I found you--Mont Rouge. He hopes to find
the book you mentioned. Your bag may be there--somewhere.”

“The book! My mind is still all sixes and sevens. This concussion
business plays the weirdest tricks. It was a book written by a
man--what was his name?”

“Steinbech.”

“That’s it. I saw it somewhere--in a foreign bookseller’s shop in
Manchester.”

“Good! You’re getting it now.”

Conrad passed his hand across his brow several times. Then suddenly
his eyes lighted up, and he dragged himself into a sitting position.

“I was reading it in the train--on my way to Arveyes. Those cunning
devils boarded the train at a wayside station. They doped me, and must
have got me out at the next station--pretended I was taken ill. But
the book! I was reading it when-- Great Scott! I remember. I slipped
it into my pocket!”

“Eh?”

“That’s it--I’m positive. I saw Niels’s ugly face in the corridor--and
Walther. I was expecting trouble, for the train was nearly empty. I
slipped-- Is that my coat over there?”

But Wallace was already making for the garment. He felt in all the
pockets and produced a pipe, tobacco-pouch, and various oddments, but
there was no book.

“Of course they have taken it,” he said gloomily. “No doubt they have
destroyed it by now. But I might get a copy in Paris and----”

Conrad suddenly laughed and beckoned Wallace to him. From the things
which the latter held in his hands Conrad selected a travel-ticket
case bearing Cook’s name.

“I’ll bet they overlooked this,” he said. “Before I was doped I amused
myself in the train by making a rough translation of several passages
from the book in question--passages to which I believe those figures
refer. Here we are--intact.”

From the case he extracted three sheets of paper, covered with
somewhat shaky writing.

“Do you remember the first reference number?” he asked.

“Yes. Twenty-seven.”

“This is it. I made a note of the page on the corner; because it
seemed obvious that the figures were page references. The volume was
entitled _The Grammont Salient_, and it was the title which arrested
my attention. Hear what our friend Steinbech has to say.”

Wallace sat down very close to the bed, and Conrad read what was
written on the first sheet:


 “_The pressure to the north and south of the château continued to
 increase daily, and it soon became evident to General von Urel that
 the château was in grave danger of being recaptured by the enemy, and
 our line forced to retreat beyond the Forêt de Grammont. The château
 was the key to the whole position, and it came to our knowledge that
 the attacking forces had instructions to spare it as much as was
 commensurate with safety. Foreseeing the danger that would follow a
 sudden strong encircling movement, our commanding officer made plans
 to fashion a line of retreat which could be resorted to in the event
 of the château falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to take
 the form of a tunnel leading from the vaults of the château to some
 point farther back in the forest which would give access to our second
 lines…_”


“By Jove!” exclaimed Wallace. “I am beginning to see light. But carry
on.”

“There is no more here. The author goes off at a tangent. Unless I am
very much mistaken, the second figure was thirty-one. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Conrad commenced to read the second excerpt:


 “_It was necessary that the tunnel should run back for at least a
 mile, and considerable difficulty was experienced in finding terrain
 suitable for the work. The problem was solved by the discovery of an
 old mine whose extensive workings ran in an easterly direction. These
 would save the sappers at least a quarter of a mile of tunnelling.
 This site was chosen as the best possible outlet, and our second line
 was advanced a little in order to connect up with it. A company of
 sappers was detailed for the work, and, while the enemy penetrated
 deeper and deeper on our flanks, the work went on.… In spells of four
 hours’ duration the sweating, mud-begrimed crews worked, and our
 hearts beat easier as each day saw another long stretch added to the
 last. All the time the guns were…_”


“Nothing more that is informative,” said Conrad, breaking off. “We saw
that old mine. Do you remember?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t say how this tunnel is approached from the
château.”

“We are coming to that. Our author is inclined to ramble a lot. My
next and last extract is from page thirty-six. That I know agrees with
the figure.”

Wallace’s face became even more eager, for it was apparent that the
last extract was the most important of the three. Conrad cleared his
throat:


 “_Pending the arrival of reinforcements, it was obvious that the
 château must fall, and it was the General’s chief concern to keep the
 existence of the tunnel secret, in order that it might be used again
 in a similar emergency, for we had every reason to believe that the
 withdrawal would be temporary. Means had to be devised to fashion an
 entrance which would render discovery unlikely. The vault was roughly
 comprised of five series of arches running east to west. The third
 series was furnished with wine-bins for almost its entire length, and
 the wall at the western extremity was similarly furnished. It was here
 that the entrance was made. The last section of bins was temporarily
 removed, and an opening excavated through the massive wall. By
 replacing the bins and hingeing them vertically, it was a simple
 matter to use them as a doorway. By skilful carpentry this door closed
 of its own accord, and the wood lining at the back of the bins made
 discovery extremely improbable. The metal hinges were on the inside
 and invisible.… It was a comfort to feel that we had this safe line of
 retreat, for every day…_”


“The rest is of no value to us. As you know, the château was
recaptured and held ever after. It has always been a mystery how the
garrison got safely away, but it is clear enough now.”

“By Jove, and all this time--” Wallace’s hands opened and closed
spasmodically. “She’s there, Connie. I’ll stake my life on it. That’s
where the Monster hides himself away. It accounts for many things that
hitherto were difficult to explain. By some means he got to know of
that secret passage. The Book--he must have seen----”

“No, that was not possible. The book has not been published more than
six months, while the Monster has been here for nearly two
years--according to Yolande. What is his game? What is he after?”

“Niels, too. I’ll bet he is after the same thing.”

“Everything points to that. It may be something left behind by the
Germans in their hurried retreat.”

“They are welcome to it. It is Yolande that matters to me.” He rose,
and his face looked very grim. “I’m going there now, Connie.”

“Wait until Fouchard----”

“I couldn’t wait if my life depended on it. If Yolande is down there
she will be crazy with terror by now. But I fear----”

Conrad knew what he feared, and from his own grim expression it was
evident that he too believed the worst.

“He’s big and murderous, Ralph.”

“All the more reason why I should not waste a moment. When Fouchard
comes, tell----”

“If you go, I go,” said Conrad calmly. “Throw me over my pants and
boots!”

“No. It is impossible!”

“Get out! You’re a first-class fighter, laddie, but you are up against
something supernormal. I’m all right--for pistol-practice, anyway.”

He was already sitting on the bed, and Wallace realised that argument
was useless, for Conrad could be as cantankerous as a mule when he
felt disposed, and he was in that state now.

“You’ve got a second pistol in the car?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good!”

“Oh, hang! I clean forgot--Fouchard has the car. You had better take
this one, and I’ll rely on a bludgeon. Fortunately I have an electric
torch in my pocket. Are you sure you are fit enough to engage in
this?”

“It only required this bit of excitement to complete my cure. Hadn’t
we better leave a note for Fouchard?”

“Good idea! Make it short!”

A short message was left under the medicine bottle, telling Fouchard
where the entrance to the tunnel lay, and then the pair sallied forth
on their quest, Wallace arming himself with a hatchet en route.




 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 PRISONERS

In the meantime, Yolande had suffered every terror that the human
mind could conceive. She had wandered round and round in the
blackness, stumbling against débris, falling into stagnant pools of
water, until exhaustion overcame her, and for a period she lost her
senses completely.

She was awakened by a strange noise--a curious bellowing voice that
reverberated through the cavern. It was calling something--“Minna,”
she thought, and, as her brain became clearer, she realised with a
start of horror that her late captor had returned from his murderous
quest and was searching for her. The voice came nearer and nearer, and
then a soft glow split the darkness. She blinked at the relative
brilliance, and saw that she was near the side of a big excavation,
from which passages branched off in several directions. The light was
shining from an opening immediately opposite her.

With a murmur of horror she slipped behind a mass of rock, and in fear
and trembling waited for the emergence of the seeker. Through a cleft
in the rock she saw him at last. He was holding up a lighted match,
the flickering flame of which threw a great awful shadow across the
propped wall behind him.

“Minna! Minna!”

It was a pitiful cry of despair, but it produced no sympathetic
feeling in her breast. Terrible as that place was, it was preferable
to the company of the insane demon who was now seeking her. She held
her breath in dreadful suspense as he came towards her. But ere he
reached the rock the match burnt down to his fingers and darkness
intervened. She heard the scratch of another match, and moved softly
round one side of the rock as he approached the other. His breath made
a rattling noise in his throat, and at one moment he was within three
yards of her. Then to her great relief he went off at a tangent, still
calling the name.

Fainter and fainter grew the calls, until at last only a murmur was
borne back to her. Believing that he would return by the same passage,
she crept farther round the shielding rock, not daring to move away
lest she should be caught in some less favourable place.

“Minna! Where are you, Minna?”

She shuddered, and waited for a long time before the approaching light
began to throw vague shadows on the walls. Again she saw him--holding
his robe close against his face, as he always did. He did no more than
give a glance about him, before entering another gallery.

Oh, night of horrors! How long it lasted she could not guess. As time
passed, his awful cries grew more and more despairing--like the wails
of a lost soul in Hades. Then, when she felt that her last ounce of
strength was being used up, she saw him make his way back through the
tunnel by which he had come, and the intense darkness reigned again.

Followed another period of oblivion, in which Nature did something
towards balancing the tottering mind. But the old terrors were reborn
upon opening her eyes--to see absolutely nothing. There were two
alternatives for her. One was to go on in the hope of finding an
outlet, and the other was to risk going back to the vault, trusting
that he might not be there. She chose the former.

Hungry and faint, she stumbled along a gallery, but it rapidly
descended, and soon she found deep water that she dared not enter.
Back again to the big chamber, with a hopeless feeling at her heart.
The next attempt was even more alarming, for there was a fall of earth
behind her, due to rotting beams and props. She found herself against
a blank wall, and had to burrow back through loose earth to escape
being buried alive.

Reaching the big chamber, she sat down to recover her breath, and to
consider the next step. Her mind revolted at the idea of returning,
even if she could find the correct gallery; but now the second
alternative was death--madness and death in the inky blackness. And
but last night--was it last night?--she had been in Wallace’s arms,
believing in the goodness of God!

 * * * * * * *

At that moment Wallace and Conrad were making through the vault
towards the secret door. They reached the end wall at the termination
of the third arcade, and Wallace gave a quick glance at the bins
referred to by the chronicler, and his eyes glinted as the neat hinges
came to view.

“By Jove--he was right, Connie!”

But Conrad had collapsed on a box, and was holding his head between
his hands.

“I feel a bit--cheap,” he said. “It will pass off.”

“You oughtn’t to have come. Jove, you’re as pale as death! It’s no
use, Connie--you have overdone it. You’ve got to come back with me.”

“No. I’ll stick it.”

It was evident that he was in no state to continue, and Wallace
gripped him firmly by the arm.

“Come on. The atmosphere is deadly down here. I’ll see you to your
room, and run down again.”

Conrad had little resistance left, and permitted himself to be led
back to the château. He felt better as soon as they emerged into
daylight.

“I don’t like your going, Ralph,” he said. “It’s not a one-man job.
Take Watkins.”

“He has gone with Fouchard.”

“Then the gardener or Pierre.”

“I should have to wet-nurse them. Don’t worry, old man, I shall win
through this all right. Give me that pistol.”

He was off again in a couple of minutes, running at breakneck speed
down the steps and through the vault. He soon reached the end wall,
and hesitated for a second or two before putting his weight on the
wooden structure. It opened immediately--and without a sound. Before
him stretched a long straight passage approached by a dozen steep
steps. The electric illumination surprised him, until he recalled that
Watkins was always complaining about “leakage.” Here was the cause!

He crept along the passage warily, expecting that a creature used to
inhabiting such a place would possess the keenest hearing. Reaching
the door, he examined the pistol to make sure it was loaded and in
working order. Then, seizing the handle of the door, he turned it
slowly and suddenly pushed.

The inner room was empty save for the enormous collection of old army
gear. There were boxes piled in the corner with the German Government
mark stencilled on them, ancient tins of meat, rope, bayonets, and a
box of razors! But what took his attention were two enamel plates with
fragments of food upon them, lying close to the spread-out blankets.
His glance went to the door at the end of the chamber, and, gripping
the pistol tightly, he stole towards it.

All his nerves became braced as he suddenly heard the sound of
approaching footsteps--a kind of shuffle. He moved away to the
wall--in the direction in which the door would swing. A blast of damp
air entered the room as the door swung open, and through it stepped
the strange creature he had prayed to meet face to face for so long.
The shoulders were enormous and hunched, and the tattered, frowsy,
brown robe was gripped round about the chin by a huge talon-like hand.

“Halt!”

The big form stood perfectly still, and from the orifice formed by the
cowl two ferocious eyes glared out.

“Put up your hands! Put them up or I shall shoot!”

Slowly the enormous arms went up, but Wallace was not at all prepared
for what followed. In a flash a powerful hand had snatched the exposed
electric light cable, and the light immediately failed.

“Ha ha! Ha ha ha!”

The demoniacal laughter filled the place. Wallace’s hair seemed to
rise perpendicularly. He fired, once, hoping that the flash would
reveal the exact position of the lunatic, but the brown robe was much
the same colour as the walls, and his shot went wide.

“The little lamb comes to the slaughter! We shall still hold the
château, m’sieur. We shall still hold it! Ha ha ha!”

Wallace could not follow a word of the guttural German, but he was
fully cognisant of what was intended. Again he fired, and the small
flash revealed--something. It was the proximity of the huge form, and
the flash of steel. Out went his left arm to save his throat, and by
wonderful luck his fingers fell upon a thick hairy wrist.
Simultaneously the pistol was knocked from his hand by a smashing blow
from his powerful opponent. It was a life and death struggle now. He
brought his right arm to bear upon the hand that held the razor, and
with a great effort managed to bend the hairy wrist until he heard the
razor clatter to the ground. The next instant his throat was gripped
tightly.

This was more easily remedied. He swung his left arm, and drove it
straight into the creature’s stomach. There came a howl of pain, and
immediately the hands left his windpipe. Delay was fatal now, for he
did not possess the cat-like eyes of this maniac. He followed up with
smashing blows--most of which took effect. Then he tripped and fell,
but managed to bring his adversary down with him.

Young and strong and in perfect condition as he was, he became
doubtful of the outcome of this appalling conflict. His blows became
feebler, and seemed to have little or no effect upon the growling
maniac. He hit out again where he thought the head should be, and the
blow fell upon a shoulder. But it served its purpose, for the big head
jerked back and came into violent contact with the sharp corner of a
metal box. There was a sound like a sigh--and no further resistance.

Gasping, he rose to his feet, and flashed the torch upon the prone
form. What he saw horrified him. The cowl was back and the robe open.
The whole face came to view. But only above the mouth was it a face.
The lower part was so shattered it had ceased to be human.

“Poor devil!” he muttered involuntarily.

He put the cowl over the head, and closed the robe, shuddering as he
did so. With a coil of stout rope he bound the arms and legs firmly,
and then waited for the creature to recover consciousness, with the
object of compelling him to give him some information about Yolande.

But, although he waited for a quarter of an hour, the eyes remained
closed and there was no movement of any kind. He decided to leave him
where he was and pursue his quest. He was soon in the narrow earth
gallery, with the torch dimly lighting the way, and it was not long
before he saw something that caused his heart to beat a higher note.
They were footprints--small footprints mingled with enormous ones. He
ran now--splashing mud all over his clothing.

“Yolande!”

He thought he heard a faint response, but realised it might well be
the echo of his own voice.

“Yolande!”

This time there was no doubt about it. The response was faint and in a
high-pitched voice, and it came from immediately ahead. The torch was
burning dimly, and he feared it might burn out ere he reached her.

“Yolande! Yolande!”

Then he saw a sight that was like heaven opening from the depths of
hell. A figure came to view at the end of the passage. It was muddy
and tattered, and the hair was down and wet. But it was Yolande
notwithstanding--and her arms went out as she saw him.

“Ralph!” she said brokenly.

He seized her in his arms and kissed the pallid lips--the eyes and wet
hair of her.

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

“I knew you would come. I knew it!”

“You are all right?”

“Yes--yes. But I’m hungry--so hungry. Where is he? You--you haven’t
killed him?”

“No. He nearly killed me. I’ve got him safely tied up back there.”

“And you came--alone?”

“I had to. Fouchard was away when we discovered the secret passage.
I’ve lived in hell for nearly twelve hours. But it’s going to be all
right now. My dear, you don’t know----”

She smiled wanly at his inarticulateness. Weak and exhausted as she
was, she _did_ know, and she clung to him as if she feared that at any
moment he might vanish into thin air and leave her again to the
hideous nightmares.

“You--you overpowered him?” she asked incredulously.

“By luck. Of course he is a lunatic.”

“Yes, mad--quite mad. He calls me Minna--mistaking me for someone
else. I owe my life to that--and to you.”

“Let us get back.”

“I hate to see him again. I can’t help remembering that he murdered my
dear father. What--what are you going to do with him?”

“Hand him over to Fouchard. It is Conrad who deserves all the praise.
But for him----”

She pressed his hand, and they went slowly forward towards the lair of
the Monster.




 CHAPTER XXIX.
 THE FUSE

Wallace was totally unprepared for the reception that awaited him.
He had left the Monster unconscious, and bound as securely as it was
possible to bind anything. The door had been left half open, and it
remained so now. The torch was at its last gasp, and he had to shake
it to produce about as much illumination as a glow-worm would give. On
the threshold of the door it gave out completely.

“I’ve got some matches,” he whispered. “Possibly I can join up the
broken electric cable.”

He produced a box and struck a match on it. Immediately the flame
appeared there was a slight sound, followed by a dull thud, a groan
and hideous laughter.

“Ralph!” cried Yolande. “What----”

The place became brilliantly illuminated, and her startled eyes saw
Wallace lying on the floor, and the huge, monkish form standing over
him with a slab of wood in his hand. The look of triumph changed to
one of pleased surprise when he saw Yolande.

“Minna!” he rasped. “You’ve come back!”

“Don’t touch me--you brute!” she screamed.

His puzzled eyes blazed again as they fell upon the inert form of
Wallace. His feeling in that direction was fairly obvious. With an
inarticulate cry he produced his razor. She flew at him and seized his
arm.

“No--no!”

“You are foolish, Minna. We take no prisoners. We have no room for
them--and orders are orders.”

She realised that the only possible way to prevent another appalling
murder was to humour him. Love gave the fillip to her imagination, and
transformed her from a terror-stricken woman to a capable actress.

“Not yet,” she said. “He is a leader; we must keep him for a while.
Later, perhaps--but not now--not now.”

“The swine is dangerous.”

“Oh, no--he is unconscious.”

“Then I will bind him--as he did me. He thinks himself clever, but I
am cleverer. Thought I was stunned. Ha! Ha!”

He handled the rope like an expert, and very soon Wallace was sitting
in the corner, helpless. Recovering from the blow on the head, he
opened his eyes and bit his lip to realise the state of affairs. He
was about to talk to Yolande, but she put her finger to her lips.

“Minna, you must be hungry. It was foolish to wander in the galleries.
We will eat,” said the maniac.

He slouched across the chamber, glaring horribly at Wallace as he
passed him. The removal of a cloth exposed a cold fowl, taken
undoubtedly from the pantry during the night. He was about to carve it
when there was a low booming sound from a distance, and the earth
shook. The awful eyes opened wide, and the chicken was pushed away.

“Guns! At last they come--at last!”

He became as active as a cat, running from door to door and bolting
them with a wild laugh. Then he carried case after case across the
room and built two barricades. From a corner he took a Mauser rifle
and commenced to clean it.

“To the last man,” he said. “Orders are orders.”

Yolande watched him insert a clip of cartridges into the rifle, with
his face twisted in unearthly excitement. That done, he laid the rifle
down, and dug out some more gear from under a tarpaulin. She turned
her face to Wallace and saw his lips frame the word “Unload.” Waiting
until the lunatic was carrying a curious keg with his back towards
her, she quickly opened the breach of the rifle and extracted the
cartridges. Her next intention was to free Wallace, but the crazy
creature gave her no opportunity.

“Be brave, Minna,” he said. “All is prepared. They shall never have
the château.” He patted the rifle. “Eight lives there, but I have a
little surprise--after that. Hee! Hee! It will make them jump. Look!”

He suddenly produced a six-feet length of tubular stuff that looked
like thick string. Yolande had no idea what it was, but Wallace knew,
and his eyes bulged from his head.

“A fuse!”

“Silence--you!” snarled the lunatic. “I should have cut your throat
but for Minna. She hates bloodshed.”

“What is that?” queried Yolande.

“The little ally that will beat the enemy. But you need not worry,
Minna. There will be no pain. Poof!--and then nothing--just nothing!”

He laughed devilishly, and, running across to the big keg, fitted the
end of the fuse into it.

“Melinite!” he said. “I saved it for them. Ha! Ha!”

Her face blanched as she realised his intention. But she thought there
was no immediate danger. By some means or other she had to outwit
him--to set Wallace free and get out of this evil den.

“I’m thirsty,” she complained. “Get me some water, please.”

“Yes--yes. We have wine.”

He managed to find a bottle, but it was empty.

“I’ll get another. Minna must not go thirsty.”

She thought he was going, but he changed his mind at the last moment
and shook his head.

“They are outside. It would not do.”

“No one is there.”

“I know better. My ears are keen. But you can trust me, Minna. They
shall never take us alive.”

He snatched up the rifle, and looked, not towards the door that led
through the vaults, but at the other exit. Yolande started, for she
suddenly heard noises in that direction. The lunatic grinned, and put
his finger to his lips.

“I told you so,” he whispered hoarsely. “But they do not know--the
poor fools!”

There came a banging on the door, followed by heavier noises, as if a
battering-ram was being used. But the stout bolt still held, although
the timbers creaked. A brief silence, and then a tremendous thud. The
bolt snapped and the door bulged inward, bringing down several boxes
from the barricade. Another violent blow forced a passage, and into
the light stepped Niels, followed by Walther and Heinrich, with Bertha
bringing up the rear. The lunatic crouched low and brought the barrel
of the rifle to bear upon Niels.

“Come!” he said. “Come to death--swine!”

“Look out, Niels!”

The warning cry came from Heinrich, and Niels, who was temporarily
surprised by the presence of Wallace and Yolande, skipped aside. A
click came from the rifle.

“It’s not loaded,” cried Yolande. “But take care.”

The crazy man had opened the breach, and realised in a second that
something was wrong, though he did not appear to suspect Yolande.
Quickly he struck a match and lighted the end of the fuse. Then he
stood up and swung the rifle by the barrel. Yolande ran to put her
foot on the travelling light, but he pushed her backwards.

“We are doomed,” she cried. “If----”

It was then that Niels showed his mettle. He made a lightning leap at
the big, obstructing form, and missed the murderous swing of the
rifle.

“Come, Heinrich!” he called.

Before Heinrich and Walther could get across, the fuse had burnt close
to the big canister of explosive. Yolande was awakened from her mental
paralysis. She leapt by the struggling forms and pulled the fuse away
from the deadly explosive. When she turned round the three male
intruders were engaged in a fearful struggle with the madman. Twice
Walther had the rope round the enormous arms, and twice the fiend
broke loose again, dealing frightful blows with hands and feet. In the
background was Bertha, as pallid as death.

“Got him!” cried Heinrich. “Hold on!”

The rope was twisted round the arms and body of the conquered
creature, and Walther held it from behind, whilst the other two men
held an arm each above the binding.

“March!” said Niels.

“It’s--terrible!” almost sobbed Bertha.

“Quick--through the passage!”

They made their exit with their captive uttering awful cries and
struggling fruitlessly. The door slammed, and Yolande sat down and
held her head.

“Yolande!”

She suddenly remembered Wallace, and with a gasp cut his bonds with a
knife.

“Queer!” he muttered.

“I don’t understand. What was that?”

Now the opposite door was being attacked noisily, and in a few seconds
the keen blade of an axe smote through the panel.

“Fouchard!” said Wallace. “It must be.”

He ran to the pile of boxes, and dragged them away after unbolting the
door. Fouchard entered with Conrad.

“I had to come,” said Conrad. “What----”

His eyes fell on Yolande, and he gripped her hand warmly.

“What has happened here?” grunted Fouchard.

“They’ve got him--just now.”

“Who?”

“Niels and the others. They came in in the nick of time. But now----”

Fouchard ran to the other door and shone a torch down the passage.

“Does that lead to the mine?” he snapped.

“It must.”

“Then we can get them by going the other way. By Jove, the whole lot
in one swoop! Come on!”

The whole party then moved up the passage and on through the vault.
Fouchard bolted and barred the door at that end, and set a gendarme to
guard it.

“I must go with Fouchard,” whispered Wallace to Yolande. “You must
rest and refresh yourself. I will be back soon.”

“I’m coming too,” said Conrad. “I’m not going to miss this--if it
kills me.”

The Bentley was just outside the main entrance, and the three men
entered it, Wallace taking the wheel. In less than two minutes they
halted close to the old mine. Like hounds they went through the trees
until they stood on the site of the excavation.

“It is impossible for them to have arrived,” said Fouchard. “I may be
glad of your help, gentlemen.”

“Suppose they fight?” asked Conrad.

“God help them if they do,” grunted Fouchard. “I shall shoot the first
man who shows a gun.”

“There’s a lot about this affair that puzzles me,” said Wallace. “That
madman with the razor would insist upon calling Yolande Minna. It was
only that delusion on his part which saved her from her father’s
fate.”

“Was it he who tied you up?”

“Yes. He was going to slit my throat when Yolande brought her queer
influence to bear on him. We had a narrow shave. He had a big canister
of high explosive, and meant to blow the château sky-high. The
unexpected intervention of Niels prevented that.”

“S-sh!” warned Fouchard. “I don’t want them to hear you.”

“But they must know we are here,” argued Conrad. “It is obvious we
should attempt to hold them up. I’ll warrant----”

“You forget that they left Wallace tied up, and they probably knew I
was away, and that you were laid up in bed--where you ought to be at
this moment. It was their last chance, and they took it. They may
expect opposition from Wallace--but there are three of them, not to
mention Bertha.”

“And the Monster--is he a confederate?”

“You wouldn’t have said so if you saw the way they handled him,” put
in Wallace. “And he did his best to brain Niels with the butt end of a
rifle. Whatever it is they all want, they are at loggerheads. That
poor devil is hopelessly mad. I don’t believe he wants
anything--except Minna. He talked rubbish all the time I was there,
and acted as if----”

“S-sh!” hissed Fouchard. “I heard a noise.”

They crouched behind a heap of debris close to the exit, and very soon
a figure emerged. It was Niels, and he looked around cautiously.
Fouchard, who was nearest, stepped forward and levelled his pistol.

“One word and I shoot,” he said.

Niels’s reply was to kick the pistol from Fouchard’s hand and perform
a disappearing trick that was worthy of Devant.

“_Sacré!_”

“He has gone to warn the others,” said Wallace. “What do we do next?”

Fouchard picked up his pistol ignominously.

“The little rat!” he grunted. “Unless we ferret them out they will
stay there until dark, and make my task more difficult. I’m not going
to wait. I can’t afford to.”

“You’re going down?”

“Yes.”

“I’m with you,” said Wallace. “Connie, hadn’t you better wait for us
at----”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” retorted Conrad. “I’m going to be in at the
finish. We shall need a light down there.”

“My pocket-torch has burnt out, but I have a good Helleson lamp in the
car. I’ll get it.”

He was back in a few minutes, with the lamp in his hand. Warily they
entered the mine.




 CHAPTER XXX.
 THE COUNT

The powerful lamp gave splendid illumination, and revealed to the
trio a veritable network of galleries, many of which were now
impassable. Fortunately the ground was damp, and innumerable
footprints marked the trail of Niels’s gang. The marks led to an old
working that apparently had been recently cleared.

“They have been working here for days,” whispered Fouchard.
“Look--here are marks of blasting. Presumably they gave up all hope of
reaching the tunnel by the château entrance, and devoted all their
energies to forcing a passage this way.”

“Suppose they break for the vault?” asked Conrad.

“They may, but I doubt it. Naturally they will conclude I have a guard
there. The gendarme could hold that door against a hundred attackers.”

“Anyway, they seem to have retreated.”

“Looking for a hiding-place.”

“The passage divides here.”

“There must be footprints.”

“It is hard rock underneath.”

“Then wait--while I try the right passage. Keep the lamp; I’ll use
matches.”

Fouchard went off, and was gone about two minutes. When he returned he
nodded, and pointed along the passage which he had just explored.

“This way!”

“Good!”

The passage was narrow, and they moved along it in single file. Fifty
yards farther on the rock floor gave way to soft earth, and there were
the impressions of boots everywhere. Wallace shone the lamp ahead.

“Looks like a big cavern.”

“Probably.”

“_Zut!_” said Fouchard suddenly. “I swear I saw a form ahead. Take
care!”

Flattened against the damp wall, they moved forward with extreme
caution, and in a few minutes emerged into a wide excavation--the
place where Yolande had spent her dreadful night. Wallace used the
lamplight as a searchlight, and at last its bright beam fell on the
people they sought. They were immediately opposite, close to the
passage which led back to the château.

“Niels!” snapped Fouchard. “The game is up. I warn you to come
quietly.”

Niels turned his grim countenance towards his companions. Bertha
seemed to nod her head, but Walther and Heinrich looked very
undecided. Between them was the madman, glaring into the light like
some sub-human creature of the underworld.

“You hear!” said Fouchard. “The passage is strongly guarded at both
ends. It will avail you nothing to offer resistance. Throw your
firearms over here.”

All the while he was approaching closer. Wallace passed the lamp to
Conrad and produced his pistol for moral effect. Niels squirmed
visibly.

“He’s right,” said Walther. “It’s no use; we’ve failed.”

Niels nodded dejectedly and pitched a pistol across to Fouchard.
Walther and Heinrich followed suit a moment later. Fouchard sighed as
he picked them up.

“Now,” he said, “we will investi----”

It was then the unexpected happened. The huge robed form shook itself
free of the two men. Wallace stared in amazement to see the bonds that
held him snap as if they were string. A startled cry came from Bertha
as the madman leaped at the group.

“Look out!” yelled Walther. “He is insane.”

There was scarcely need to apprise them of this. A great hand went
under the robe, and a razor flashed in the light. Heinrich was the
nearest victim, and at him flew the awful form.

“Walther!”

Walther cleared a rock, but he was two yards away when the razor
hovered over Heinrich’s throat, and a horrible noise came from the
intending assassin. It was then that Fouchard proved his skill. With
Walther almost covering the madman he fired twice. There came a gurgle
that echoed weirdly. The razor missed its mark by a few inches, and
the big brown form crumpled up like a concertina.

“Got him!”

“My God!” cried Niels brokenly, and ran to the still form.

“He’s dead--dead!” said Bertha.

“Stand away!” roared Fouchard.

But they did not heed him in the least. Conrad, focusing the light on
the scene, was amazed to see the savage Niels fondling the huge, dirty
hand of the dead man.

“Max!” he muttered. “Max!”

Fouchard had not yet got it clear. He took control and forced them to
stand away. On going to remove the robe he was stopped by Niels.

“Don’t interfere!” he snapped.

“But----”

Fouchard pulled back the hood and then opened the gown at the front. A
faded uniform came to view--the uniform of a major of the Bavarian
Regiment. But it was not that which caused him to utter a cry of
horror. He had seen what Wallace had already seen. He pulled down the
hood immediately.

“Poor devil!”

“Yes--a tragedy, m’sieur,” said Bertha.

“Now for the rest,” said Fouchard. “What is your little game down
here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Fouchard?” asked Conrad quietly.

“Nothing is obvious.” He glared at Niels. “What is there here that you
want?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Don’t try to----”

“It’s true,” said Bertha. “Don’t you realise yet that the thing we
came to get--no longer exists?”

“You mean--that?”

Fouchard pointed to the poor, dead figure, and Bertha inclined her
head.

“Then who is he? What is he to you?”

“He was my brother,” said Niels.

“So! And what is your relationship to this woman?”

“I am his sister-in-law,” said Bertha. “I am the Baroness von
Kauffman. His brother Max married my sister.”

“Was her name Minna?” asked Wallace.

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“He mistook Mademoiselle Fallières for her. It was that delusion
which saved her life.”

“We will get the details later,” said Fouchard. “In the meantime you
are all under arrest for aiding and abetting. March on. We will remove
the corpse later.”


Yolande heard the news with mingled amazement and relief. She was yet
tired from her adventure, but anxious to hear all the details.
Fouchard, now exceedingly pleased with himself, paraded his prisoners
in the biggest reception-room. They were all looking dejected and
indifferent to whatever Fouchard might do. Bertha smiled wanly at
Yolande as soon as she saw her.

“We have fought and lost,” she said. “I am sorry, mademoiselle. There
was no other course.”

“I am yet in the dark about many points,” said Yolande. “Fouchard has
told me that your one object in coming here was to get this man Max
away.”

“Yes, that is so. We had no other object in mind.”

“But how did he get here? Why did he come here?”

“He has been here ever since this château was occupied by German
troops. He was terribly wounded by a shell, and must have crept back
into the tunnel. He recovered, but only to be a lunatic. My poor
sister heard that he was killed--blown to pieces. She went to America,
and died there soon after.”

“But how did you come to know that he was not dead, but actually
living in this place?”

“It is the strangest story. Six months ago I was visited by an
ex-officer of my brother-in-law’s regiment. He was a very clever
electrician, and among his hobbies was wireless telegraphy. He had
installed a small experimental transmitting set, and was carrying out
experiments on low wavelengths.”

“My father also had a set,” said Yolande.

“That is part of the story. This officer came to me in a perturbed and
puzzled state of mind. He asked me if I believed in spirit
communications. I told him I had never seriously considered the
matter. He then showed me his log-book, and among his notes were some
strange, broken messages purporting to come from Max, and addressed to
Minna--his dead wife. Some of them were quite unintelligible, but
others referred to small incidents in the past which made it appear as
if it were really Max who was communicating.”

“But how did these messages come?” asked Fouchard.

“In the Morse code--and in German. I found myself utterly unable to
accept his theory that a spirit was manifesting in that way. But, on
the other hand, I believed Max to be dead, and it was difficult to
explain the phenomena. I told Niels, but he too was sceptical. Time
passed, and then something happened which caused us considerable
excitement. A message came to the experimenter. It said, ‘Am holding
the devils, Minna. They shall never win the Château Grammont.’ That
was remarkable, because I knew that Max had been in the château when
the French made their successful attack. I conferred with Niels, and
ultimately decided to come to Grammont to see if there was anything in
the fantastic story. I stayed in Arveyes, and there I heard that the
château was haunted--that a big form had been seen by several
persons. About the same time mademoiselle advertised for a
parlourmaid. I got the situation by giving false references.”

“What was your object then?” asked Fouchard.

“I was puzzled. I wanted to see and hear more. One night I got
definite proof that my brother-in-law was alive. I caught a glimpse of
him in this place, and I knew at once that he was insane. I wrote to
Niels begging him to come to me, and he came almost by return. We
talked the matter over, and came to the conclusion that we would tell
the story to Monsieur Fallières, and so clear up the mystery. But
before this could happen murder took place. That altered everything.”

“How?” snapped Fouchard.

“It put my poor brother in a perilous position,” answered Niels. “What
sort of justice would he have got in a French civil court?”

“The same as anyone else,” retorted Fouchard. “Are you suggesting that
we hang lunatics?”

“No. But what would have been the procedure in Max’s case? He would be
certified as insane, and on that account would not be permitted to
plead. He would have been sent to a criminal lunatic asylum for the
rest of his days.”

“Well?”

“It was that thought which settled a momentary indecision. We wanted
to get him home--to his own country. In Germany he might have had
every comfort, every attention. Surely these should not be denied a
man because a grave injury has caused him to commit deeds which in his
normal mind he would have shuddered at?”

“And that is what caused you to refuse my offer?” asked Yolande.

“Yes. It was tempting, but I realised that you were speaking in
ignorance. Even had you been disposed to act so generously when you
had learned the truth, there was M’sieur Fouchard to be considered.
Fouchard had his duty to do. He was bound to act on it and to make an
arrest.”

Fouchard inclined his head at this.

“But under medical treatment--an operation perhaps--your brother might
have recovered his reason.”

“Walther agrees that that was possible. But what then?”

“He would have a fair trial, and in the circumstances I cannot imagine
anything other than a favourable verdict.”

“And repatriation?”

Fouchard compressed his lips, and Niels shook his head.

“It is inconceivable,” he added. “My brother was doomed from the
moment when his crazy brain led him to commit that terrible deed. They
would never repatriate him, and you know it, sir. The alternative was
a life-long incarceration. We had weighed all that, and, reluctant as
we were, we had to go on. Realising the big obstacles which we were up
against, I wrote to my cousin Walther and his brother Heinrich.
Heinrich arrived first, and brought with him some valuable
information. It was contained in a volume written by a man named
Steinbech----”

“We know all about that,” said Wallace.

“With those clues in our hands we decided to make an attempt at
once--on that night when you discovered us in the vaults.”

“I remember,” growled Fouchard.

“Well, we failed, as you know, and after that we never got another
chance, until in desperation we decided to tackle the tunnel from the
other end--the mine. We had abandoned that before because there had
been a big fall of rock since the tunnel was made, and the work of
getting through it was considerable. Again we were too late, and here
is the result.”

“Hm! A queer story,” mused Fouchard. “And when you eventually got him
he did not recognise you?”

“No. He seemed to be obsessed with the idea that the war was still on,
and that he had been delegated to hold the château against the enemy.
He knew none of us. We were all enemies to him. He scarcely recalled
his own name. The one name he remembered well was Minna. He loved his
poor wife dearly.”

“I know that,” said Yolande softly. “It is obvious that he must have
used my father’s wireless set to send those confused messages. It was
dismantled only a few months ago.”

“But how did he get access to the house?” asked Wallace. “So far as I
can see there is no outlet from the vaults except by the main door,
which was always locked.”

“That’s still a mystery,” said Fouchard, stroking his chin.

“No longer a mystery,” put in Yolande. “I discovered the means only a
short time ago.”

Fouchard stared at her, as did the rest.

“When I came back to that awful chamber with--Mr. Wallace, the Monster
had somehow obtained a fowl. I knew at once that he had stolen it from
the pantry, for since Severin’s death I have been compelled to look
after some of the domestic affairs of the house. Before I went to bed
last night I had occasion to go into the pantry, and the fowl was
there. I closed the door behind me. It locks of its own accord.”

“But how----”

“It is so simple, and yet we all overlooked it. The pantry has a
wine-lift, which goes down into the cellar. It is large enough for a
big man to enter, and can be worked from inside by simply pulling a
rope.”

Fouchard bit his lip at this.

“Severin ought to have told me,” he said.

“Poor Severin had no imagination.”

“But we ought to have noticed it in the cellar,” said Wallace.

“It is not easily seen, and I was scarcely aware of its existence,”
replied Yolande. “One might go into the pantry a dozen times without
seeing it.”

But Fouchard was not easily consoled, for he prided himself upon his
powers of observation.

“The lift sheds a great deal of new light,” said Wallace. “It must
have been the means by which he got away on that evening when we saw
him in the turret. Obviously he escaped through that old disused
staircase which leads to the servants’ quarters.”

“Also the body of--” commenced Conrad, and stopped as he saw Yolande
wince.

“But the pantry door would be locked,” objected Fouchard.

“It has a Yale lock and can be opened from the inside,” informed
Yolande. “By slipping the catch he could wander at large and always
have a means of escape. That old staircase comes out immediately
opposite the pantry door.”

“Yes, you have forged the last link,” agreed Fouchard.

“And it accounts for his being able to exist,” said Conrad. “No doubt
he took food from the pantry. Severin admitted that provisions were
missing from time to time.”

“But he did not depend upon the pantry for food,” said Yolande. “The
chamber where he lived was littered with boxes of field-rations which
must have been left by the Germans in their hurried retreat. It is
significant that his visits to the upper part of the house grew more
frequent as his main supply of food gave out. But why--why did he hide
my poor father’s body, and yet leave Severin where we found him?”

“In the worst cases of lunacy one finds recurrent phases of lucidity,”
said Walther. “I imagine that something like that happened immediately
the first crime was committed. Realising what he had done, he
performed that astounding feat along the ivy with his victim. It was
not so with Severin.” He looked at Fouchard. “The next move is yours,
m’sieur.”

“It is for mademoiselle to decide. You have all attempted to defeat
the ends of justice, and, in addition, certain personal injuries have
been inflicted.”

Yolande gazed at Conrad, but Conrad was rapidly recovering and was
singularly free from spite.

“Leave me out of it, please,” he begged. “I have to return to England
in a day or two. I am quite willing to regard my little injury as the
result of a complete accident.”

“And you--Ralph?”

Conrad stared at this form of address, and Wallace blushed a trifle.

“I have nothing to say,” he said, “except that in similar
circumstances I think I should have acted just as the Baroness and her
friends have.”

“Hm!” said Fouchard.

“In that case I do not feel disposed to go any further in the matter,”
said Yolande. “All that remains for us all is to try to forget it.”

“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Fouchard. “Still, I shall experience
some little difficulty in forgetting a certain bump on my head.”

Niels stepped forward with a smile on his face--the first smile that
any of them had seen for a long time.

“I tender you my sincere apologies, m’sieur,” he said. “It was a
brutal and sudden attack that no man could possibly have foreseen. I
had you at a mean disadvantage. I should regard it as an honour to
shake hands with the famous Fouchard.”

That settled Fouchard, who never could resist flattery.




 CHAPTER XXXI.
 CONCLUSION

It was summer again in the beautiful Forêt de Grammont when a
gleaming, re-painted Bentley car drew up at the lodge of the château,
and drew old Pierre from his after-_déjeuner_ siesta. He rubbed his
eyes as he beheld the ringer of the bell.

“Hullo, Pierre. _Il fait beau temps!_”

“Monsieur Wallace! And mademoiselle!”

Yolande came from behind, and shook Pierre’s large, flabby hand with a
smile on her beautiful face.

“Not mademoiselle any longer--Madame Wallace!”

“_Hélas!_ And you have come to see the old home?”

“Of course we have. I hope the Government is treating you well,
Pierre, since they took the château off my hands.”

“Excellently. I am to have a pension in ten years. We have lots of
visitors--English, Americans, all sorts. I show them the rooms where
the Monster walked, and some are generous--some are not. But the
tunnel has been bricked up.”

“Perhaps that is as well.”

“Mademoiselle--pardon--madame would like the key?”

“Yes.”

“And shall I----”

“No. Finish your sleep, Pierre. We should be able to find our way
about.”

She and her husband of three months’ standing walked arm in arm
towards the well-remembered entrance. Nothing was changed, and Wallace
found himself reviving every little incident that had taken place
there a year before.

“Look, that is where I first saw the Monster, Yolande,” he said,
pointing to the ivy-clad tower.

“What wonderful things have happened since then!”

“Yes. Do you regret them?”

“No. It was a wrench giving up the château to a Government
department, but, after all, it is a thing that should be enjoyed by
the many and not reserved to the few.”

They entered the château and wandered through the rooms, which were
excellently kept. There was a visitors’ book in the hall, containing
many names, from all parts of the world.

“Why, look at that!” exclaimed Wallace suddenly.

It was the signature of Baroness von Kauffman, in the firm handwriting
of Bertha, and dated but a few days before.

“So she has been lured back--like us.”

“A fine woman.”

“Yes. I always liked her. I often wonder whether she was not just a
little bit in love with Conrad.”

Wallace laughed mysteriously.

“What is the matter?”

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

“If you can trust me.”

“Well, Connie is spending his holiday at Baden-Baden next month.”

“I don’t see----”

“The Baroness lives there.”

“Ralph--you don’t mean----”

“I know nothing much. But I happen to have seen various envelopes
bearing the Baden-Baden postmark, and Connie seems to treat the rest
of the correspondence as negligible when those letters arrive.”

“Oh, I hope something----”

“Yolande! You wish to see the confirmed bachelor beaten and done for?”

“Why not? He needs someone to look after him. Someone with a will,
like Bertha has, to compel him to buy warmer vests when the winter
comes.”

He laughed in his complete happiness, and they ultimately left the
château and entered the garden. It was here that Yolande found her
childhood again. All the bright, sweet friends of her youth were still
there, even to the pair of robins, now growing old.

“If you hadn’t already given me a beautiful garden, Ralph, I should
sit down and cry,” she said. “Many times I have sat here as a girl and
wondered whether there was anyone who would come out of the big, busy
world and--and take me-- Then came terror and heartache, and, when
everything seemed smashed in ruin, the miracle happened. But I’ve had
enough happiness in six months to make up for all the horror of the
past.”

He caught her hand and kissed her, while she pinned a fresh young rose
to his coat.

“And there is another thing you have to remember,” she said. “When you
retire from business--which is, of course, only another name for
playing about with turbines--we are coming to France to enjoy our
second childhood.”

“That is a promise.”

“_La belle France!_”

“You are incurably French. I’ve given you an English name, an English
house, English everything, and you still remain as completely French
as if you had never left Grammont.”

“_La, la!_ And I have given you French coffee, French vermouth, French
caresses, and you are just as English as when I met you in the Forêt
de Grammont. But I shall convert you yet.”

“No, you won’t. And I shan’t convert you. Besides, I don’t want to.
I’m satisfied.”

“So am I.”

“Then what are we quarrelling about?”

“Just nothing.”

They laughed together--ringing laughter that went echoing all over the
garden. It was in strange contrast to the gloom that had once pervaded
that place, and it was proof enough that Yolande had climbed out of
the pit of horror where he had first found her. But when she visited
her father’s grave the vivacious eyes became wet with tears.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “It was a terrible end.”

“It makes no difference to death. It is rest and peace.”

“And the château is preserved for ever. He would be glad to know
that. Look, the roses that I planted are blooming--the sort he loved
most.”

They went back via the terrace, and lingered there for a few moments
to enjoy the scene which it commanded. The furniture had been removed,
but on one of the stone slabs there was something scratched. Wallace
went to look at it, but she held him back.

“Don’t. I’m ashamed.”

“What do you mean?”

He craned his neck forward, and saw his name in small letters, faintly
engraved.

“So that’s the secret!”

“I did it a week after you came here. Isn’t it shameful?”

“That’s nothing,” he replied. “I carved yours on an old tree in the
garden on the second day. Can you beat that?”

“Yes,” she retorted. “I can. I knew all about it on the following
night, for you had the next room to mine, and you talk in your
sleep--not only talk, but shout.”

“Yolande! Well!”

“Now come,” she begged. “I want to be moving--south. I want to smell
the sea--the real blue, sunlit southern sea. Get me there as quickly
as you can.”

They bade farewell to old Pierre, and left him blinking his eyes at a
thousand-franc note--the first he had ever seen. Through the
tree-lined roads of France the Bentley slipped, bringing nearer the
magic Côte d’Azur, with all its beauty. The road was good, the sun
was high, and the driver crazy with happiness. Yolande suddenly had an
inspiration, and put her head close to him.

“Ralph!”

“Eh?”

“If there’s anything in pre-natal influence, I should say that
Clementina Esmeralda Ralph Augustus Wallace will most certainly be a
racing motorist. Can you beat that?”

He gasped for a moment, and then nodded.

“I can.”

“Ralph!”

“I knew it.”

“But I haven’t said a word----”

“No, but you talk in your sleep.”

She sat pretending to be peeved, but his left hand moved across and
gripped hers firmly. With a sigh of inexpressible happiness she raised
it to her lips.

 THE END




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. debris/débris, finger
nails/finger-nails, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Add chapter numbering.

Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings.

[Chapter IV]

Change (“If this _strang_ thing is to be brought to bay) to _strange_.

[Chapter VIII]

(letter signature) change _Neils_ to _Niels_.

[Chapter IX]

“If I could help you I would, but I am _pledegd_ to secrecy” to
_pledged_.

[Chapter XI]

“She would have offered you a rose if I hadn’t been _persent_” to
_present_.

“never failed to tingle whenever Bertha _loomd_ in sight” to _loomed_.

[Chapter XII]

“I’d have no difficulty in convicting _Hienrich_ and Niels” to
_Heinrich_.

“the people at _Arveys_ have been busy in that direction” to
_Arveyes_.

[Chapter XIII]

(“But _Mademoisele_ Fallières!” ejaculated Bertha) to _Mademoiselle_.

[Chapter XXI]

“was not the type of man to take any _unnecassary_ risk” to
_unnecessary_.

[Chapter XXIII]

(“Do you know a village _callet_ Basset?”) to _called_.

“_The_ reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing” to _They_.

[Chapter XXV]

(“Why was _Fallière’s_ body found here--and Severin’s?” to
_Fallières’s_.

[Chapter XXIX]

“The warning cry came from _Hienrich_, and Niels” to _Heinrich_.

[Chapter XXX]

“All the while he was _appoaching_ closer” to _approaching_.

 [End of text]






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MONSTER OF GRAMMONT ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.