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Title: The White Lie
Author: William Le Queux
Release Date: June 20, 2009 [EBook #29173]
Language: English
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THE WHITE
LIE
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_Author of "The Temptress," "In White Raiment,"
"The Room of Secrets," etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1915
[Illustration: "He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a
moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude." (Chapter
XVIII.) [_Frontispiece_]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--IS MAINLY MYSTERIOUS 7
II.--CONCERNS A PRETTY STRANGER 19
III.--DESCRIBES TWO INQUIRIES 34
IV.--DESCRIBES A TORN CARD 45
V.--SECRETS OF STATE 56
VI.--THE SAFE BREAKERS 67
VII.--THE DOWNWARD PATH 78
VIII.--REVEALS THE GRIM TRUTH 88
IX.--IN THE NIGHT 99
X.--HONOUR AMONG THIEVES 108
XI.--THE VOW 119
XII.--THE FATE OF "THE AMERICAN" 130
XIII.--SISTERS IN SILENCE 139
XIV.--JEAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 149
XV.--HIS LORDSHIP'S VISITOR 159
XVI.--JEAN HAS A SURPRISE 169
XVII.--THE DARKENING HORIZON 178
XVIII.--LORD BRACONDALE'S CONFESSION 188
XIX.--THE GARDEN OF LOVE 197
XX.--CROOKED CONFIDENCES 206
XXI.--THE GREEN TABLE 215
XXII.--DISCLOSES A SCHEME 224
XXIII.--THE FALLING SHADOW 235
XXIV.--THE BLOW 244
XXV.--TO PAY THE PRICE 255
XXVI.--A CHILD'S QUESTION 265
XXVII.--THE INTRUDER 275
XXVIII.--THE CLOSED BOX 284
XXIX.--DEADLY PERIL 293
XXX.--THE WHITE LIE 299
THE WHITE LIE
CHAPTER I.
IS MAINLY MYSTERIOUS.
"A woman--perhaps?"
"Who knows! Poor Dick Harborne was certainly a man of secrets, and of
many adventures."
"Well, it certainly is a most mysterious affair. You, my dear Barclay,
appear to be the last person to have spoken to him."
"Apparently I was," replied Lieutenant Noel Barclay, of the Naval Flying
Corps, a tall, slim, good-looking, clean-shaven man in aviator's garb,
and wearing a thick woollen muffler and a brown leather cap with rolls
at the ears, as he walked one August afternoon up the village street of
Mundesley-on-Sea, in Norfolk, a quaint, old-world street swept by the
fresh breeze of the North Sea. "Yesterday I flew over here from Yarmouth
to see the cable-laying, and met Dick in the post-office. I hadn't seen
him for a couple of years. We were shipmates in the _Antrim_ before he
retired from the service and went abroad."
"Came into money, I suppose?" remarked his companion, Francis Goring, a
long-legged, middle-aged man, who, in a suit of well-worn tweeds,
presented the ideal type of the English landowner, as indeed he
was--owner of Keswick Hall, a fine place a few miles distant, and a
Justice of the Peace for the county of Norfolk.
"No," replied the aviator, unwinding his woollen scarf. "That's just it.
I don't think he came into money. He simply retired, and next we heard
was that he was living a wandering, adventurous life on the Continent. I
ran up against him in town once or twice, and he always seemed amazingly
prosperous. Yet there was some sort of a mystery about him--of that I
have always felt certain."
"That's interesting," declared the man at his side. "Anything
suspicious--eh?"
"Well, I hardly know. Only, one night as I was walking from the Empire
along to the Rag, I passed a man very seedy and down-at-heel. He
recognised me in an instant, and hurried on towards Piccadilly Circus.
It was Dick--of that I'm absolutely convinced. I had a cocktail with him
in the club next day, but he never referred to the incident."
"If he had retired from the Navy, then what was his business, do you
suppose?"
"Haven't the slightest idea," Barclay replied. "I met him here with
a motor-bike late yesterday afternoon. We had a drink together across
at the Grand, against the sea, and I left him just after five o'clock.
I had the hydroplane out and went up from opposite the coastguard
station," he said, pointing to the small, well-kept grass plot on
the left, where stood the flagstaff and the white cottages of the
coastguard. "He watched me get up, and then, I suppose, he started off
on his bike for Norwich. What happened afterwards is entirely shrouded
in mystery. He was seen to pass through the market-place of North
Walsham, five miles away, and an hour and a quarter later he was found,
only three miles farther on, at a lonely spot near the junction of the
Norwich road and that leading up to Worstead Station, between Westwick
and Fairstead. A carter found him lying in a ditch at the roadside,
stabbed in the throat, while his motor-cycle was missing!"
"From the papers this morning it appears that your friend has been about
this neighbourhood a good deal of late. For what reason nobody knows.
He's been living sometimes at the Royal at Norwich and the King's Head
at Beccles for the past month or so, they say."
"He told me so himself. He promised to come over to me at the
air-station at Yarmouth to-morrow and lunch with me, poor fellow."
"I wonder what really happened?"
"Ah, I wonder!" remarked the slim, well-set-up, flying officer. "A mere
tramp doesn't kill a fellow of Dick Harborne's hard stamp in order to
rob him of his cycle."
"No. There's something much more behind the tragedy, without a doubt,"
declared the local Justice of the Peace. "Let's hope something will come
out at the inquest. Personally, I'm inclined to think that it's an act
of revenge. Most probably a woman is at the bottom of it."
Barclay shook his head. He did not incline to that opinion.
"I wonder with what motive he cycled so constantly over to this
neighbourhood from Norwich or Beccles?" exclaimed Goring. "What could
have been the attraction? There must have been one, for this is an
out-of-the-world place."
"Your theory is a woman. Mine isn't," declared the lieutenant, bluntly,
offering his friend a cigarette and lighting one himself. "No, depend
upon it, poor old Dick was a man of mystery. Many strange rumours were
afloat concerning him. Yet, after all, he was a real fine fellow, and
as smart an officer as ever trod a quarter-deck. He was a splendid
linguist, and had fine prospects, for he has an uncle an admiral on
the National Defence Committee. Yet he chucked it all and became a
cosmopolitan wanderer, and--if there be any truth in the gossip I've
heard--an adventurer."
"An outsider--eh?"
"Well--no, not exactly. Dick Harborne was a gentleman, therefore he
could never have been an outsider," replied the naval officer quickly.
"By adventurer I mean that he led a strange, unconventional life. He was
met by men who knew him in all sorts of out-of-the-world corners of
Europe, where he spent the greater part of his time idling at _cafés_
and in a section of society which was not altogether reputable."
"And you say he was not an adventurer?" remarked the staid British
landowner--one of a class perhaps the most conservative and
narrow-minded in all the world.
"My dear fellow, travel broadens a man's mind," exclaimed the naval
officer. "A man may be a cosmopolitan without being an adventurer. Dick
Harborne, though there were so many sinister whispers concerning him,
was a gentleman--a shrewd, deep-thinking, patriotic Englishman. And his
death is a mystery--one which I intend to solve. I've come over here
again to-day to find out what I can."
"Well," exclaimed Goring, "I for one am hardly satisfied with his recent
career. While he was in the Navy and afloat--gunnery-lieutenant of one
of His Majesty's first-class cruisers--there appears to have been
nothing against his personal character. Only after his retirement these
curious rumours arose."
"True, and nobody has fathomed the mystery of his late life," admitted
Barclay, drawing hard at his cigarette and examining the lighted end.
"I've heard of him being seen in Cairo, Assouan, Monte Carlo, Aix,
Berlin, Rome--all over the Continent, and in Egypt he seems to have
travelled, and with much more means at his disposal than ever he had in
the ward-room."
"There are strange mysteries in some men's lives, my dear Barclay.
Harborne was a man of secrets without a doubt. Some of those secrets may
come out at the inquest."
"I doubt it. Poor Dick!" he sighed. "He's dead--killed by an unknown
hand, and his secret, whatever it was, has, I believe, gone to the grave
with him. Perhaps, after all, it is best."
"The police are very busy, I understand."
"Oh, of course! The Norfolk Constabulary will be very active over it
all, but I somehow have an intuition that the crime was one of no
ordinary character. Dick must have dismounted to speak to his assailant.
If he had been overthrown his machine would most probably have been
damaged. The assassin wanted the motor-cycle intact to get away upon.
Besides," he added, "the victim took over an hour to cover the three
miles between North Walsham and the spot where he was found. Something
unusual must have occurred in that time."
"Well, it can only be left to the police to investigate," replied the
tall, country squire, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets.
"They won't discover much--depend upon it," remarked the naval officer,
who, as he strolled at his friend's side, presented the ideal type of
the keen, British naval officer. "Dick has been the victim of a very
carefully-prepared plot. That is my firm belief. I've been making some
inquiries at the Grand Hotel, and learn that Dick came over from Norwich
on his motor-cycle at nine o'clock yesterday morning for some purpose,
and idled about Mundesley and the neighbourhood all the day. The
head-waiter at the hotel knew him, for he had often lunched there. But
yesterday he evidently came here with some fixed purpose, for he seemed
to be eagerly expecting somebody, and at last, a little before two
o'clock, a young lady arrived by the motor-bus from Cromer. They
describe her as a neat, dark-haired, good-looking young person, rather
well-dressed--and evidently a summer visitor. The pair walked about the
village, and then went down to the beach and sat upon deck-chairs to
chat. They returned to the hotel at half-past three and had tea
together, _tête-à-tête_, in a small sitting-room. The waiter tells me
that once, when he went in, suddenly, she was standing up, apparently
urging him to act in opposition to his own inclinations. Her attitude,
he says, was one of unusual force, it being evident that Dick was very
reluctant to give some promise she was endeavouring to extract from him.
She left again by the motor-bus for Cromer just after four."
"Ah! There you are! The woman!" exclaimed the owner of Keswick Hall,
with a smile. "I thought as much."
"I don't think she had anything to do with the affair," said Barclay.
"The police this morning obtained a detailed description of her--just as
I have done--and they are now searching for her in Cromer, Runton, and
Sheringham, believing her to be staying somewhere along this coast. She
was dressed in a pale blue kit of a distinctly seaside cut, so the
police are hoping to find her. Perhaps she doesn't yet know of the
tragic fate that has befallen poor Dick."
"I wonder who the girl can be? No doubt she'd be able to make a very
interesting statement--if they could only discover her."
"I think she left Cromer last night," Noel Barclay suggested to his
companion.
"She would, if she were in any way implicated. Perhaps she has already
gone!"
"No, I don't agree. I believe she is still in ignorance."
"What, I wonder, was the motive for their meeting here--in this quiet,
out-of-the-world little place?" asked Goring. "If he wanted to see her,
he might have motored to wherever she was staying, and not have brought
her over here in a motor-bus. No, it was a secret meeting--that's my
opinion--and, as it was secret, it probably had some connection with the
tragedy which afterwards occurred."
The two men were now close to the "Gap," or steep, inclined cart-road
which ran down to the sands. On their right, a little way from the road,
stood a small, shed-like building where the rocket life-saving apparatus
of the Board of Trade was housed. In front, the roadway, and indeed all
down the "Gap" and across the sands to where the waves lapped the shore,
had been recently opened, for upon the previous day the shore end of
the new German telegraph-cable connecting England with Nordeney had been
laid. At that moment, while the cable-ship, on its return across the
North Sea, was hourly paying out the cable, a German telegraph engineer
was seated within the rocket-station, constantly making tests upon the
submerged line between the shore and the ship.
Up from the trench beside the rocket-house came the cable--black,
coiled, and snake-like, about three inches in thickness--its end
disappearing within the small building.
"Been inside to-day?" asked Goring, just as they were passing.
"No. Let's see how they are progressing," the other said; and both
turned into the little gate and asked permission to enter where the
tests were being made.
Herr Strantz, the German engineer, a dark-haired, round-faced,
middle-aged man, came forward, and, recognising the pair as visitors of
the previous day, greeted them warmly in rather imperfect English, and
bowed them into where, ranged on a long table, the whole length of the
left-hand wall, stood a great quantity of mysterious-looking electrical
appliances with a tangle of connecting wires, while below the tables
stood a row of fully fifty large batteries, such as are used in
telegraph work.
On the table, amid that bewildering assortment of queer-looking
instruments, all scrupulously clean and highly polished, were two small
brass lamps burning behind a long, narrow strip of transparent
celluloid whereon was marked a minute gauge. On the edge of the table,
before these lamps, was a switch, with black ebonite handle.
As the two Englishmen entered, the German's eyes caught the small, round
brass clock and noted that it was time to make the test--every five
minutes, night and day, while the cable was in process of completion.
Therefore, without further word to his visitors, he carefully pulled
over the long ebonite handle of the switch, and, at the same instant, a
tiny spot of bright light showed upon the transparent gauge.
This the engineer examined to see its exact place upon the
clearly-defined line, afterwards noting it in his book in cryptic
figures, and then carefully switching off again, when the tell-tale
light disappeared.
"Well?" asked Barclay. "How are you getting along? Not quite so much
excitement in this place as yesterday--eh?"
"No," laughed the engineer. "Der people here never see a shore-end
floated to land wiz bojes (buoys) before. Dey have already buried der
line in der trench, as you see. Ach! Your English workmen are far
smarter than ours, I confess," he added, with a pleasant accent.
"Is it being laid all right?" the airman asked.
"Ja, ja. Very good work. Der weather, he could not be better. We have
laid just over one hundert mile in twenty-four hours. Gut--eh?"
[Illustration: "A carter found him lying in a ditch at the roadside,
stabbed in the throat, while his motor-cycle was missing!" [_Page 9_]
As he spoke the Morse-sounder at the end of the green baize-covered
table started clicking calling him.
In a moment his expert hand was upon the key, tapping a response.
The ship tapped rapidly, and then the engineer made an enquiry, and
received a prompt reply.
Then tapped out the short-long-short-long and short, which meant
"finish," when, turning to the pair, he said:
"Dey hope to get it am Ufer (ashore) at daybreak to-morrow. By noon
there will be another through line between Berlin and London."
Lieutenant Barclay was silent. A sudden thought crossed his mind. At
Bacton, a couple of miles farther down the coast, the two existing
cables went out to the German shore. But this additional line would
prove of immense value if ever the army of the great War Lord attempted
an invasion of our island.
As a well-known naval aviator, and as chief of the whole chain of
air-stations along the East Coast, the lieutenant's mind was naturally
ever set upon the possibility of projected invasion, and of an adequate
defence. That a danger really existed had at last been tardily admitted
by the Government, and now with our Navy redistributed and centred in
the North Sea, our destroyer-flotillas exercising nightly, and the
establishment of the wireless at Felixstowe, Caister, Cleethorpes,
Scarborough, and Hunstanton, as well as the construction of naval
air-stations, with their aeroplanes and hydroplanes from the Nore up to
Cromarty we were at last on the alert for any emergency.
When would "_Der Tag_" ("The Day")--as it was toasted every evening in
the military messes of the German Empire--dawn? Aye, when? Who could
say?
CHAPTER II.
CONCERNS A PRETTY STRANGER.
A short, puffy, red-faced man in grey flannels went past.
It was Sir Hubert Atherton, of Overstrand--that little place declared to
be the richest village in all England--and Francis Goring, recognising
him, bade a hurried farewell to his naval friend, and with a hasty word
of thanks to the German, went out.
The naval airman and the German were left alone.
Again the round-faced cable engineer pulled over the double-throw
switch, examined the tiny point of light upon the gauge, and registered
its exact position.
"You remember, Herr Strantz, the gentleman who accompanied me here
yesterday," exclaimed Barclay, when the engineer had finished writing up
his technical log.
"Certainly. Der gentleman who was a motor-cyclist?"
"Yes. He was found on the road last evening, murdered."
"Zo!" gasped the German, staring at his visitor. "Killed!"
"Yes; stabbed to death fifteen miles from here, and his motor-cycle was
missing. It is a mystery."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Herr Strantz. "He took tea mit a lady over at
the hotel. I saw them there when I went off duty at half-past three
o'clock."
"I know. The police are now searching for that lady."
"Dey will not have much difficulty in finding her, I suppose--hein?" the
engineer replied. "I myself know her by sight."
"You know her!" cried the Englishman. "Why, I thought you only arrived
here from Germany two days ago. Where have you met her?"
"In Bremen, at the Krone Hotel, about three months ago. She call herself
Fräulein Montague, and vos awaiting her mother who vos on her way from
New York."
"Did she recognise you?"
"I think not. I never spoke to her in the hotel. She was always a very
reserved but very shrewd young lady," replied Herr Otto Strantz, slowly
but grammatically. "I was surprised to meet her again."
"Montague!" the airman repeated. "Do you know her Christian name?"
"Jean Montague," was the German's response as he busied himself
carefully screwing down one of the terminals of an instrument.
Noel Barclay made a quick note of the name in a tiny memorandum-book
which he always carried in his flying-jacket.
He offered the German one of his cigarettes--an excellent brand smoked
in most of the ward-rooms of His Majesty's Navy--and then endeavoured to
obtain some further information concerning his dead shipmate's visitor.
But Herr Strantz, whose sole attention seemed centred upon the shore-end
of the new cable which was so soon to form yet another direct link
between Berlin and London, was in ignorance of anything connected with
the mysterious young person.
The statement that Harborne--the motor-cyclist who had spoken the
German language so well when he had accompanied the pretty young girl
the day before to watch the testing--was dead, seemed to cause the
cable-engineer considerable reflection. He said nothing, but a close
observer would have noticed that the report of the murder had had a
distinct effect upon him. He was in possession of some fact, and this,
as a stranger on that coast, and a foreigner to boot, it was not, after
all, very difficult to hide.
Noel, however, did not notice it. His mind was chiefly occupied in
considering the best and most diplomatic means by which the missing
lady, who lived in Bremen as Miss Montague, could be traced.
The two men smoked their cigarettes; Strantz pulling over the switch
every five minutes--always to the very tick of the round brass
clock--examining the tiny point of light which resulted, and carefully
registering the exact amount of current and the position of the ship
engaged in paying out the black, insulated line into the bed of the
German Ocean.
While Noel watched he also wondered whether, in the near future, that
very cable across the sea would be used by England's enemy for the
purposes of her destruction. True, we had our new wireless stations all
along the coast, and at other places inland at Ipswich, Chelmsford, and
elsewhere, yet if what was feared really came to pass, all those,
together with the shore-ends of the cables, would be seized by advance
parties of Germans already upon British soil--picked men, soldiers all,
who were already living to-day in readiness upon the East Coast of
England as hotel-servants, clerks or workers in other trades. Our
shrewd, business-like friends across the grey, misty sea would take care
to strike a blow on our shores by the wrecking of bridges, the disabling
of railways, the destruction of telegraphs, and the like, simultaneous
with their frantic dash upon our shore. Germany never does anything by
halves, nor does she leave anything to chance.
Herr Strantz, having finished some calculations, and having tapped out a
message to the ship, raised his head, and with a smile upon his broad,
clean-shaven face, said, with his broad German accent:
"Ech! You are an officer. I suppose that, if the truth were told,
England hardly welcomes another cable laid by Germany--hein?"
"Well," laughed the airman, pushing his big, round goggles higher upon
his brow, "we sometimes wonder when your people are really coming."
"Who knows?" asked the other, smiling and elevating his shoulders.
"Never--perhaps."
"Ah! Many there are in England who still regard invasion by the Kaiser's
army as a bogey," Noel Barclay remarked. "But surely it is not
impossible, or why should the British authorities suddenly awaken to the
peril of the air?"
"All is possible to Germany--when the time is ripe. That is my private
opinion as a Deutscher, and as one who has an opportunity of observing,"
the other frankly responded.
"I quite agree," was Noel's reply. "Dreams of ten years ago are to-day
accomplished facts. Aeroplanes cross the Channel and the Alps, and fly
from country to country in disregard of diplomatic frontiers, while your
German airships--unfortunate as they may be--have actually crossed to us
here, and returned without us being any the wiser. Had they been hostile
they could have destroyed whole cities in a single night!"
"And your ever-watchful coastguards who actually saw them were
disbelieved," the German laughed.
"Yes. I admit the air is conquered by your people--and Great Britain is
now no longer an island. Wireless messages can be transmitted five
thousand miles to-day, and who knows that it may not be possible
to-morrow, by directing similar electric rays, to blow up explosives
wherever they may be concealed--in the magazines of battleships or in
land forts?"
"Ach, yes!" agreed the engineer. "Ten years ago war between England and
Germany was more improbable than it is to-day, for each day, I fear,
brings us nearer to hostilities--which we, in Germany, know to be
inevitable."
"And when that day dawns we shall have to exert every force, every
nerve, every muscle, if we are to repel you," remarked Noel, his
clear-cut face unusually dark and serious.
"I fear that you will, sir," was the other's quiet response.
"Individually we want to be friends mit England, but you, as a British
officer, know quite well that one day the powder magazine will explode
and there must be der war. It will be forced suddenly and swiftly upon
the Kaiser and upon the people."
"Yes," sighed the naval airman. "So all we can now do is to remain good
friends as long as ever we can--eh? Forewarned is forearmed."
"Exactly; but," added the German, "I trust the openness of my remarks
has given you no offence, sir. If it has, then I beg you to accept my
most sincere apologies. You are an officer and serve your country. I,
too, am an officer of reserve and serve mine."
"Surely no apologies are needed, my dear Herr Strantz," laughed the
lieutenant, extending his hand frankly. "We have both exchanged our
opinions. In most I agree with you, although, of course, I naturally
believe in England's invincible power on the sea."
"That is but natural, my dear lieutenant. You are English," was the
engineer's response, and while he turned again to pull over the
testing-switch and bent to examine the point of light, Noel was puzzled
as to his exact meaning.
Presently Noel Barclay, shaking Herr Strantz's hand, humorously
expressed a hope that they might never find themselves enemies, and that
the cable might be successfully completed and inaugurated on the morrow;
strode out into the village street, and down the "Gap" to that wide
expanse of golden sands where a big Post Office gang were busily at work
covering up the long black cable lying in its trench.
The engineer of the General Post Office who was in charge, recognising
the airman, wished him good afternoon; but his thoughts were centred
upon the mysterious death of the man about whom so many queer rumours
had been afloat.
Rumours! Ah, how well he recollected one of them--a rumour that had gone
around the Service--namely that he had retired with the money earned by
selling to a foreign power a certain secret concerning "plotting." For
that reason, it was said, he had lived so constantly abroad. Though the
offence had never been brought home to him by the Admiralty, yet the
rumour had never been contradicted. Mud thrown, alas! always sticks.
Was it true, or was it a lie? his friend was wondering, as he stood
looking out upon that calm blue summer sea, bathed in the warm light of
that August afternoon, the sea in the deep bed of which lay the new link
connecting Berlin with London.
What could Dick Harborne have been doing, motoring so constantly about
that rural, out-of-the-world corner of England, that delightful little
strip of the open Norfolk coast so aptly termed Poppyland? That he was
not there as a summer visitor was quite certain. He had his headquarters
in Norwich, twenty miles away, and his constant journeys over the roads
between the Norfolk capital and the sea were certainly not without some
definite motive.
That Strantz should have recognised Harborne's fair companion was also
remarkable. What could she have been doing in Bremen? he wondered.
Noel Barclay looked around him anxiously. The wind, which had risen for
the past couple of hours while he had been in Mundesley, was now
dropping. With the sunset he would have a nice flight back to the
hangars standing on the shore beyond Yarmouth. The "old bus," as the
fine Bleriot monoplane was affectionately termed by the four
flying-officers at the air station, had been running like a clock.
Indeed he had flown her from Eastchurch two days previously, and
intended, on the morrow, to make a flight to inspect the station up at
Scarborough.
He lit another cigarette and sat down upon a boat to think, the white
surf rolling almost to his feet.
During the time the naval aviator had been watching the testing of the
cable, a tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, clean-shaven,
broad-browed young man in a drab tweed golf suit and cap, a man whose
great, dark, deep-set eyes wore a keen, intense look, and whose
countenance was one which once seen would be easily remembered, lounged
into the Old Ship Hotel. He was accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired
girl in a summer gown of cream serge and wearing a neat little hat of
pale blue silk. The girl's skirt displayed small, well-shaped ankles,
yet her shoes were stout and serviceable, and there was a cheapness
about her dress and an independent air which stamped her as a girl
accustomed to earn her own living.
Both were foreigners--French, apparently, for they spoke that language
together. His clothes were English, evidently from a smart tailor, and
he wore them with that easy nonchalance of the English golfer, while his
pretty, dark-eyed companion, although her gown was of cheap material, it
was nevertheless cut well, and both in figure and in gait she had all
the _chic_ of the true Parisienne.
"Yes, dearest," the young man exclaimed in French, as he rose and looked
out into the village street, "this is a very interesting little place, I
believe. We will have a stroll along the _plage_ and see it after our
tea. How quiet, how charming it is, after London--eh?"
"Ah! I always love the country, Ralph," was her reply in English, and as
she sat composedly in her chair, after walking from Overstrand, where
they had been to see that lonely, crumbling old church tower which the
late Clement Scott has called "the Garden of Sleep," she gave him a look
which was unmistakable--a look of true, passionate affection.
Indeed, upon her finger, now that she had removed her glove, was a
diamond engagement ring, an ornament which meant so very much to her--as
it does to all girls in all stations of life who are beloved.
The man turned from the window, his big, deep-set eyes upon her, and,
bending, kissed her fondly. But the expression upon his hard, aquiline
face as he turned away was a strange, unusual one, though, perhaps
unfortunately for her, she was unable to see it. The look was not one of
love--nay, rather of world-weariness and of deep anxiety.
"I wish my holiday was not yet at an end, Ralph," she sighed, wistfully,
after a brief pause. "But father is inexorable, and says he must get
back to business, while, as you know, I am due back at the Maison
Collette on Monday morning. I've already had three days longer than the
other girls--three delightful sunny days."
"Yes," sighed the young man. "I suppose, dearest, you will be compelled
to go back for a time to your _modes_ and your hat-making and your
workroom friends. But only until November--until you become my wife." He
spoke English with only a slight trace of accent.
"Ah! What supreme happiness!" cried the girl, in ecstasy, again speaking
in French, as he bent until his lips touched hers. "I will remain
patient, Ralph, till then, even though all the girls may envy me. They
are all English, and just because I happen to be French, they are never
too friendly."
The young man was silent for a few moments; then he sprang from her side
as the waiter entered with the tea.
After he had swallowed a cup of tea he suddenly exclaimed in perfect
French:
"Ah! I quite forgot, dearest. I wonder if you would excuse me if I leave
you here for ten minutes or so? I want to send a telegram."
"_Certainement_," she laughed happily. "I shall be quite all right,
Ralph. There are papers here to amuse me."
"Very well," he said; "I won't be a minute longer than possible," and,
taking up his cap, he went out and closed the door behind him.
It was then about half-past five o'clock.
But the instant he had gone she sprang to her feet. Her face changed. A
haunted, wild look shone in her dark, terrified eyes, and she stood
rigid, her hands clenched, her face pale to the lips.
"_Dieu!_" she whispered aloud, to herself, startled at the sound of her
own voice, and staring straight before her. "I was a fool--a great fool
to return here to-day! Someone may recognise me, though it was to the
other hotel I went with M. Harborne. Ah! No, I cannot--I dare not go
down on the beach," she went on in French. "I must get away from this
accursed place as soon as ever Ralph returns. What if he is suspected?
Besides, the police may be looking for me, as it must now be known that
I was here with him in Mundesley yesterday. Ah, yes! I was a fool to
dare to return like this, even in different clothes. As soon as Ralph
comes back I must feign serious illness, and he will take me back to
Cromer, and on to London to-morrow. What evil fate it was that he should
bring me here--here, to the one place on all the earth that I desired
never again in my life to see!"
And the girl sank back inertly into the horsehair arm-chair in the
old-fashioned room, and sat, white-faced and breathlessly anxious,
staring straight before her.
Meanwhile Ralph Ansell--who, although actually a Frenchman, bore an
English name--walked quickly up the village street and out upon the high
road towards Parton. From time to time he turned, as though he feared
that he might be followed, but there being nobody in the vicinity, he
suddenly, when about half a mile from the village, struggled through a
hedge into a grass-field where, in the corner, sheltered from the wind,
stood Noel Barclay's naval monoplane, with its star-like Gnome engine
and wide planes of pale yellow.
The spot was a lonely one. Before him stretched a wide heath covered
with gorse, and the Norfolk Broads beyond. Nobody was nigh.
Bending, he crept swiftly along the high hedge, until he reached the
machine. His attitude was that of an evil-doer. From his pocket he
produced a small bolt of wood painted to resemble steel. He advanced to
the left wing-spar of the monoplane and, apparently possessing expert
knowledge of the point where it was the most vulnerable, he swiftly drew
out a split pin, removed a small steel bolt at the end of the main-stay
cable, and replaced it with the imitation bolt.
The dastardly, murderous action was only the work of a couple of
minutes, when, placing the bolt in his pocket, he crept back again
beneath the hedge, and ten minutes later reached the Old Ship unnoticed,
having taken a certain route with which he seemed well acquainted.
As he approached the hotel he came face to face with Noel Barclay, who,
cigarette in mouth, strode at an easy pace along the road towards the
spot where he had left his machine. He passed the young foreigner
without recognition. The man in the golf suit was a mere summer visitor,
and to his knowledge he had never seen him before. Unsuspicious of what
had been done, he went forward, eager to rise in the air again and
return to his headquarters.
But when he had passed Ralph Ansell turned and, glancing covertly after
him, an evil expression upon his strong, clean-shaven face, muttered a
fierce imprecation in French beneath his breath.
The officer, however, strolled forward in ignorance of the stranger's
sinister glance or his malediction, while the foreigner, with a crafty
smile of triumph, entered the hotel, to find, to his alarm, that Jean
had been taken very unwell.
In a moment he expressed the greatest consternation, and at once rang
and ordered a cab in which to drive her back to Cromer.
A quarter of an hour later Jean Libert--whose feigned illness had now
almost passed--was seated happily at her lover's side, slowly ascending
the hill on the cliff-road leading towards Cromer, when, of a sudden, a
loud whirr was heard in the air behind them.
"Why, look, there is an aeroplane!" cried the girl, enthusiastically,
turning and watching with interest the naval monoplane rising beyond the
village they had just left.
The driver pulled up, and the pair stood up in the vehicle to watch the
splendid ascent of the dauntless aviator, who rose against the clear sky
in a wide spiral higher and higher, twice passing over their heads,
until he had reached an altitude of fully eight hundred feet. Then,
after a final circle, he turned and made straight towards the yellow
declining sun, speeding evenly and swiftly in the direction of Great
Yarmouth.
Next second a loud, shrill shriek escaped the girl as she covered her
face with her hands to shut out the appalling sight which met her gaze.
The machine, flying so beautifully, had, of a sudden, collapsed as
though she had broken her wing, which rose at right angles, and then the
machine, out of control, pitched forward and, nose first, fell straight
to the ground like a stone.
CHAPTER III.
DESCRIBES TWO INQUIRIES.
The fatal accident to Lieutenant Noel Barclay caused a wave of sympathy
throughout the country.
As a daring and experienced aviator he was well known. He had assisted
in the foundation of the Naval Flying School at Eastchurch, and had been
the first aviator to fly from land and greet the King on the occasion of
a great review off Weymouth. Many splendid feats of airmanship had he
accomplished, flying from Paris to London on three occasions, and going
far out to sea and back, scouting on one or other of the Government
hydroplanes.
Several important inventions were to his credit, and it had been due to
his genius that certain of the aircraft had been fitted with wireless
apparatus and experiments carried out with success. He had done
excellent service during the naval manoeuvres of the previous year,
and his name had been written large in the annals of aviation.
But alas! the public had one morning opened their daily papers to find a
tragic picture of his wrecked machine, and beneath was printed the news
of his fatal fall from a distance of eight hundred feet.
The inquest had been held at the Old Ship Hotel at Mundesley, the day
after the accident, and, in addition to representatives of the
Admiralty, a number of aviation experts who had examined the wreckage
had been present.
The inquiry was a searching one, for an important London newspaper had
hinted that, owing to the parsimonious policy of the Admiralty, certain
of their aeroplanes were not of the same stability as those owned by
private individuals. Hence the authorities at Whitehall had set
themselves to refute such damaging allegations.
To that quiet little fishing village had come some of the greatest
aviation experts, world-famous pilots, and representatives of that
select body whose dictum in all aviation is law--the Royal Aero Club.
And all were there with one object--to decide as to the reason of the
sudden collapse of the naval Bleriot.
The coroner sat in a stuffy little room, the windows of which were open.
Nevertheless, with the place crowded the atmosphere was oppressively
hot. The inquiry was long and tedious, for after evidence had been given
as to the lieutenant's departure, and eyewitnesses had described his
fall, there came a quantity of highly technical evidence put forward by
the Admiralty with the object of proving that the machine had been in a
perfectly satisfactory condition. The Gnome engine was of 80
horse-power, the monoplane had been thoroughly overhauled only four days
previously, and the flights which Barclay had made in her from
Eastchurch proved that there had been no defect which could have been
detected.
Curious it was that that inquiry was being held in the same hotel where
Ralph Ansell and Jean Libert had taken their tea.
One man alone knew the terrible truth--the man who, on that fatal
evening, had crept under the hedge unseen, and substituted the small
steel bolt with one of wood with such an expert, unerring hand--the man
who had stood up in the cab and calmly watched the awful result of his
evil handiwork without the slightest sign of pity or remorse.
He had hurled Noel Barclay to his death with as little compunction as he
would have crushed a fly. And yet little Jean, with the neat figure and
great, dark eyes, in her innocence and ignorance, loved him so dearly
and so well. She never dreamed the truth, and therefore he was her
ideal, while she was his affianced wife.
In that small, over-crowded room, clean-shaven experts stood up one
after the other, each expressing a different theory as to the cause of
the accident.
When poor Barclay had been found, the engine was lying upon his chest,
his neck was broken, his face battered out of all recognition, and both
arms were broken. So utterly wrecked was the machine that it presented
the appearance of a mass of splintered wood, tangled wires, and torn
strips of fabric flapping in the wind.
All had been examined carefully, piece by piece, after the mangled
remains of the unfortunate pilot had been extricated. The bolt was
missing and search failed to find it. A quantity of evidence was
forthcoming, and many theories advanced, the conclusion arrived at being
that the left wing collapsed owing to undue strain, and the machine,
instantly out of control, fell to earth.
There was but one verdict which the twelve honest men of Mundesley could
return.
Expert evidence agreed that the quick-release at the end of one of the
stay-wires was faulty. The steel bolt holding the main-stay cable and
secured by a split-pin could not be found. It had evidently broken and
fallen out, so that the left wing, being thus unsupported, had collapsed
in mid-air.
And in face of these facts the jury returned a verdict of "Accidental
death."
This the public read next morning in their newspapers, together with
expressions of deep sympathy and declarations that the air was, as yet,
unconquered.
On the same day as the inquest was held upon the body of Lieutenant
Barclay, a coroner's inquiry was held at the little market-town of North
Walsham, which, though inland, is the relay for the telegraph-cables
diverging to Northern Europe, into the discovery on the highway of the
body of the motor-cyclist, Mr. Richard Harborne.
Held in a schoolroom near the railway station, public and witnesses sat
upon the school benches, while the coroner occupied the headmaster's
desk.
Again there was an array of witnesses, but from the first the crowd at
the back of the room scented mystery.
A carter of the village of Worstead, speaking in his broad Norfolk
brogue, described how he had discovered the body and had come into North
Walsham and told a constable.
"I was a coomin' into North Walsham wi' a load o' hay what I'd got from
Mr. Summers, o' Stalham, when just after I turned into the Norwich road
I saw sawmthin' a-lyin' in the ditch," he said slowly, while the
grey-haired deputy-coroner carefully wrote down his words.
"Well?" asked the official, looking up at the witness.
"Well, sir, I found it was 'im," the man replied.
"Who?"
"The gentleman what war killed."
"The deceased, you mean," said the coroner.
"Yes, sir. I went over and found 'im a-lyin' face downwards," was the
reply. "I thought 'e wor drunk at first, but when I see blood on the
road I knowed there'd been sawmthin' up. So I went over to 'im."
"In what position was the body when you discovered it?" the coroner
asked.
"'E wor a-lyin' with 'is feet in the water an' 'is 'ead in the brambles
like."
"As if he had fallen there?"
"No, sir. As if 'e'd been thrown into the side o' the road. There was
blood--a lot of it all alon' the road."
"What did you do?"
"Well, I pulled 'im out, and saw a nasty cut in 'is throat. So I drove
on to North Walsham and saw Mr. Bennet."
"Anything else?"
"No, sir, nawthin' else."
"Any juryman wish to ask a question?" inquired the coroner, looking
across at the twelve local taxpayers.
The foreman, a stout farmer, said:
"I'd like, sir, to ask the witness if the gentleman was dead when he
pulled him out of the ditch."
"Dead as mutton," was the witness's prompt reply.
"You think he was dead? He may not have been," the coroner remarked.
"Well, I put my 'and on 'is 'eart an' it didn't beat, sir."
"Very well," said the official holding the inquiry, "that will do."
Superintendent Bennet, of the Norfolk Constabulary, stationed at North
Walsham, gave evidence regarding the discovery. He described how the
previous witness had called at the police-station, and how they went out
in a light trap on the Norwich road together.
"I found deceased lying on the grass on the left side of the road close
to a telegraph post," he said, while a tall, grey-faced, well-dressed
man of forty-five, of a somewhat military appearance, who was seated at
the back of the room, leaned forward attentively to catch every word.
"The thorn bushes beside the ditch were broken down by the body
apparently being cast there. It was getting dusk when I arrived on the
spot, but I could clearly see traces of blood for about forty feet from
the ditch forward in the direction of Norwich."
"Then the body must have been carried back from the spot where the blow
was struck?"
"It was dragged back. A shower had fallen in the afternoon, and there
were distinct marks on the damp road where the heels of the deceased had
scraped along, and also the footmarks of the murderer."
At these words those present in court held their breath.
"Have you taken any action in regard to those footmarks?"
"I have not, sir. But the detectives from Norwich have," answered the
officer.
"Could you see the track of deceased's motor-cycle?"
"Quite plainly. The deceased apparently dismounted close to the spot
where the first trace of blood appeared, for there were marks of a
struggle. The gentleman must have been struck down and promptly flung
into the ditch, after which his assailant mounted the cycle and rode
off."
"Towards Norwich?"
"Yes, sir--in that direction."
The grey-faced man at the back of the room was now all attention. Upon
his countenance was a curious, intense look. The coroner noticed him,
and became puzzled, even suspicious. Nobody knew the man or why he was
present. Yet to him the death of Richard Harborne was, without a doubt,
of the very greatest concern.
More than once the coroner looked suddenly up from writing the
depositions, regarding him with covert glances. Though he had all the
appearance of a gentleman, yet there was about him a strange, almost
imperceptible air of the adventurer. A close observer would have noticed
that his clothes bore the cut of a foreign tailor--French or
Italian--and his boots were too long and pointed to be English. His
well-kept, white hands were the hands of a foreigner, long and pointed,
with nails trimmed to points, and upon his left wrist, concealed by his
round shirt-cuff secured by solitaires in place of links, he wore a gold
bangle which inside bore an inscription.
At times his grey, hard face was impassive and sphinx-like, yet to the
narrative of how Richard Harborne was discovered he listened with a rapt
attention it was impossible to conceal.
Yes, the coroner himself decided that there was an air of mystery
surrounding the stranger, and resolved to tell the police at the
conclusion of the inquiry.
Superintendent Bennet, in answer to further questions put by the
coroner, said:
"At Gordon's Farm, to which we carried the body, I searched the dead
man's pockets. From the Foreign Office passport I found, I learned the
name of the gentleman, and from some letters addressed to him at the
King's Head, at Beccles, I was soon able to ascertain by telephone that
he had been stopping there for some little time. Most of the letters
were private ones, but two of them were enclosed in double envelopes,
and written on plain paper without any address or any signature. They
were written in the dots and dashes of the Morse alphabet. A post-office
telegraphist has seen them, and says that the letters are a jumble and
form no words, therefore they must be secret correspondence in code."
And he handed the two letters in question to the coroner, who examined
them with considerable curiosity, while the stranger at the back of the
court folded his arms suddenly and looked entirely unconcerned.
"I also found this," the superintendent went on, handing a piece of
tracing linen to the coroner. "As far as I can make out, it is a tracing
of some plan or other. But its actual significance I have been unable to
determine."
The coroner spread it out upon his writing-pad and looked at it with a
puzzled expression.
"Anything else?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir; this," and the officer produced the torn half of a man's
visiting-card.
"This is apparently part of one of the deceased's own cards," the
coroner remarked, holding it before him, while the court saw that it had
been torn across obliquely, leaving a jagged edge.
"He seems to have signed his name across the front of it, too, before it
was torn," he added.
"The piece of card was carefully preserved in the inside pocket of his
wallet," the inspector said. "On the back, sir, you will see it is
numbered '213 G.'"
The coroner turned it over and saw on the back the number and letter as
the police-officer had stated.
"There are three others, almost exactly similar," the inspector went on,
producing them carefully from an envelope. "They are numbered '103 F,'
'91 I,' and '321 G.'"
"Curious," remarked the coroner, taking them. "Very curious indeed. They
are all signed across, yet only half the card is preserved. They have
some secret significance without a doubt."
He glanced across at the stranger, but the face of the latter betrayed
no sign of further interest. Indeed, just at that moment, when the whole
court was on the tenterhooks of curiosity he looked as though bored by
the entire procedure.
"The deceased carried a Smith-Wesson hammerless revolver fully loaded,"
the officer added; "but he was so suddenly attacked, it seems, that he
had no time to draw it."
The detectives from Norwich who had the case in hand were not called to
give evidence, for obvious reasons, but Dr. Dennan, of North Walsham,
whom the police called, a short, white-haired, business-like little man,
stepped forward, was sworn, and deposed that when he saw the body at
Gordon's Farm, deceased had been dead nearly two hours.
"He was struck in the throat by some thin, sharp instrument--a deep
wound. The artery was severed, and death must have occurred within a
few minutes," he said. "Probably deceased could not speak. He certainly
could not have uttered a cry. The blade of the instrument was, I should
judge, only about half an inch wide, extremely keen, and tapered to a
fine point. Whoever struck the blow was, I am inclined to think,
possessed of some surgical knowledge. With Doctor Taylor, I made a
post-mortem yesterday and found everything normal. There were some
scratches and abrasions on the hands and face, but those were no doubt
due to the deceased having been flung into the brambles."
Again the grey-faced stranger craned his thin neck, listening to every
word as it fell from the doctor's lips.
And again the coroner noticed him--and wondered.
CHAPTER IV.
DESCRIBES A TORN CARD.
"The Norfolk Mystery," as it was termed by the sensational journalists
and Press-photographers, was but a nine days' wonder, as, indeed, is
every modern murder mystery.
It provided material for the sensational section of the Press for a full
week; a hundred theories were advanced, and the police started out upon
a dozen or more false scents, but all to no purpose. Therefore the
public curiosity quickly died down, and within ten days or so the affair
was forgotten amid the hundred and one other "sensations" of crime and
politics, of war rumours, and financial booms, which hourly follow upon
each other's heels and which combine to make up the strenuous unrest of
our daily life.
And so was the fatal accident to the naval aviator quickly forgotten by
the public.
Many readers of these present lines no doubt saw reports of both
affairs in the papers, but few, I expect, will recollect the actual
facts, or if they do, they little dream of the remarkable romance of
life of which those two unexplained tragedies formed the prologue.
On the night when the coroner's jury returned in the case of Richard
Harborne a verdict of "Wilful murder by some person unknown," a girl sat
in her small, plainly-furnished bedroom on the top floor of a house in
New Oxford Street, in London, holding the evening paper in her thin,
nerveless fingers.
It was Jean Libert.
She had been reading an account of the evidence given at the inquest,
devouring it eagerly, with pale face and bated breath. And as she read
her chest rose and fell quickly, her dark eyes were filled with horror,
and her lips were ashen grey. The light had faded from her pretty face,
her cheeks were sunken, her face haggard and drawn, and about her mouth
were hard lines, an expression of bitter grief, remorse, despair.
A quarter of an hour ago, while in the small, cheap French restaurant
below, kept by her father--a long, narrow place with red-plush seats
along the white walls and small tables set before them--an urchin had
passed, selling the "extra special." On the contents bill he carried in
front of him were the words, in bold type: "Norfolk Mystery--Verdict."
She had rushed out into the street, bought a paper, and hastily
concealing it, had ascended to her room, and there locked herself in.
Then she sank upon her bed and read it. Three times had she carefully
read every word, for the report was a rather full one. Afterwards she
sat, the paper still in her white hand, staring straight at the old
mahogany chest of drawers before her.
"Poor Dick!" she murmured. "Ah! Heaven! Who could have done it? Why--why
was he killed on that evening? If he had not gone to Mundesley to meet
me he would not have lost his life. And yet----"
She paused, startled at the sound of her own voice, so nervous had she
now become.
She glanced at the mirror, and started at sight of her own white, drawn
countenance.
She placed both hands upon her eyes, as though striving to recall
something, and in that position she remained, bent and pensive, for some
moments.
Her lips moved at last.
"I wonder," she exclaimed, very faintly, speaking to herself, "I wonder
whether Ralph will ever know that I met Dick? Ah! yes," she sighed; "I
was foolish--mad--to dare to go to Mundesley that afternoon. If only I
could have foreseen the consequence of our secret meeting--ah! if only I
had known what I know now!"
Again she was silent, her face pale, with a fixed, intense look, when at
last she rose, unlocked one of the small top drawers of the chest, and,
taking the drawer entirely out, extracted something that had been
concealed beneath it.
She held it in her hand. There were two halves of one of Dick Harborne's
visiting-cards--signed and torn across in a similar manner to those
pieces which had been handed for the coroner's inspection. Each half
bore a number on its back, while on the front, as she placed them
together, was Harborne's name, both printed and written.
For a long time she had her eyes fixed upon it. Her brows narrowed, and
in her eyes showed a distinct expression of terror.
"Yes," she whispered; "I was a fool--a great fool to have dared so
much--to have listened, and to have consented to go across to Bremen.
But no one knows, except Dick--and he, alas!--he's dead! Therefore who
can possibly know?--no one."
She held the halves of the torn card between her fingers for some
moments, looking at them. Then, sighing deeply, she rose with sudden
impulse and, crossing the room, took up a box of matches. Striking one,
she applied it to the corners of the half cards and held the latter
until the blue flame crept upwards and consumed them.
Then she cast them from her into the grate.
It was the end of her romance with that man who had been struck that
cowardly blow in secret--Richard Harborne.
She stood gazing upon the tiny piece of tinder in the fender, immovable
as a statue. Her dark brows slowly narrowed, her white, even teeth were
set, her small hands clenched, as, beneath her breath, she uttered a
fierce vow--a hard, bitter vow of vengeance.
Before her arose the vision of her good-looking lover, the man with the
dark, intense eyes--Ralph Ansell. And then the memory of the dead Dick
Harborne instantly faded from her mind.
Her romance with Dick had been but a passing fancy. She had never really
loved him. Indeed, he had never spoken to her of love. Yet he had
fascinated her, and in his presence she had found herself impelled by
his charm and his easy-going cosmopolitanism, so that she had listened
to him and obeyed, even against her own will.
She recollected vividly that adventurous journey to Bremen--recalled it
all as some half-forgotten, misty dream. She could feel now the crisp
crackling of those Bank of England notes which she had carried secreted
in her cheap little dressing-case with its electro-plated fittings. She
remembered, too, the face of the stranger, the fat, sandy-haired German,
whom she had met by appointment upon a flat country road a mile distant
from the city towards Ottersberg--how he had given her, as credential,
one of those pieces of visiting-card, together with a bulky letter, and
how, in return, she had handed him the English bank-notes.
Then there was the mysterious packet she had subsequently given to Dick,
when she had met him one evening and dined with him at the Trocadero.
Then he had thanked her, and declared his great indebtedness.
From that night, until the day of the tragedy, she had not seen him.
Indeed, she had made up her mind never to do so. Yet he had persuaded
her to meet him at Mundesley, and she had consented, even though she
knew what risk of detection by Ralph she must run.
Was it possible that Ralph knew?
The thought held her breathless.
Ralph Ansell loved her. He had sworn many times that no other man should
love her. What if Dick's death had been due to Ralph's fierce jealousy!
The very suspicion staggered her.
Again she sank upon her little white bed, gripping the coverlet in her
nervous fingers and burying her face in the pillow.
She examined her own heart, analysing her feelings as only a woman can
analyse them.
Yes. She loved Ralph Ansell--loved him sincerely and well. Eighteen
months ago he had casually entered the little restaurant one evening and
ordered some supper from Pierre, the shabby, bald-headed waiter, who had
been for so many years in her father's service. At that moment Jean--who
was employed in the daytime at the Maison Collette, the well-known
milliners in Conduit Street--happened to be in the cash-desk of her
father's little establishment where one-and-sixpenny four-course
luncheons and two-shilling six-course dinners were served.
From behind the brass grille she had gazed out upon the lonely,
good-looking, well-dressed young fellow whom she saw was very nervous
and agitated. Their eyes met, when he had instantly become calm, and had
smiled at her.
He came the next night and the next, with eyes only for her, until he
summed up courage to speak to her, with the result that they had become
acquainted.
A young man of French birth, though his father had been an American
domiciled in Paris, he was possessed of independent means, and lived in
a cosy little bachelor flat half-way up Shaftesbury Avenue on the
right-hand side. Far more French than English, in spite of his English
name, he quickly introduced himself into the good graces of Jean's
father--the short, dapper old _restaurateur_, Louis Libert, a Provençal
from the remote little town of Aix, a Frenchman whom many years'
residence in London had failed to anglicise.
For nearly twenty years old Louis Libert had kept the Restaurant
Provence, in Oxford Street, yet Mme. Libert, on account of the English
climate, had preferred to live with her mother in Paris, and for fully
half the period had had her daughter Jean with her. In consequence,
Jean, though she spoke English well, was, nevertheless, a true
Parisienne.
Since her mother's death, four years previously, she had lived in
London, and was at present engaged as modiste at the Maison Collette,
where many of the "creations" of that world-famous house were due to her
own artistic taste and originality.
At first, her father had looked askance at the well-dressed young
stranger who so constantly had dinner or supper at the restaurant, but
ere long, in consequence of secret inquiries he had made of the hall
porter of the flats in Shaftesbury Avenue, he had accepted the young
man, and had even been gratified by the proposal of marriage which
Ralph had placed before him.
Thus the pair had become engaged, the wedding being fixed to take place
in the middle of November. Even as Jean stood there, a faint tap was
heard at the door, and the maid-of-all-work announced:
"Mr. Ansell is downstairs, miss."
Jean responded, and after washing her hands and patting her hair before
the glass, put on her hat and descended to the rather dingy,
old-fashioned drawing-room over the shop, where stood her lover alone at
the open window, looking down upon the traffic in the broad,
brilliantly-lit London thoroughfare.
Very neat and dainty she looked in her well-cut, dark skirt, and blouse
of white crêpe de Chine, which she wore with a distinctly foreign
_chic_, and as she entered, her pretty face was bright and happy:
different, indeed, to the heavy, troubled expression upon it ten minutes
before.
"Ah, Ralph!" she cried, in warm welcome, as she sprang into his ready
arms, and he bent till his lips touched hers. "You are earlier than you
expected," she added in French. "I hardly thought you would be able to
get back from the country in time to-night."
"Well, you see, dearest, I made an effort, and here I am," replied the
young man with the strong, clean-shaven features and the large, round,
penetrating eyes. "I've been travelling ever since three o'clock, and
it's now nearly ten."
Though he, too, spoke in French, his appearance was very English. No one
would have taken him for anything else but an honest, upright,
thorough-going young Englishman. He was of that strong, manly,
well-set-up type, the kind of level-headed, steady young man, with whom
no father would hesitate to entrust his daughter's future. As he stood
in his smart, blue serge suit with well-ironed trousers, and a fine
diamond in his cravat, holding her in his arms and kissing her fondly,
he looked the true lover, and assuredly their hearts beat in unison.
Jean Libert loved him with a great, all-consuming affection, a blind
passion which obliterated any defects which she might have observed, and
which endowed him in her eyes with all the qualities of a hero of
romance.
They were, indeed, a handsome pair. Her dark head was resting upon his
shoulder, while his strong right arm was about her slim waist.
Since her return, three days ago, from her summer holiday by the sea at
Cromer they had not met. That morning, being Monday, she had resumed her
daily labours in the big, long workroom of the Jewish firm who traded
under the name of the Maison Collette, and she had, as is usual with
girls, related to her friends many of the incidents of what she declared
to be "a ripping holiday."
As she stood with her white hand tenderly upon his shoulder, looking
lovingly into his eyes, she was describing her return to business, and
how she regretted that the long summer seaside days were no more,
whereupon he said, cheerfully, in English:
"Never mind, darling; November will soon come, and you will then have no
further need to go to business. You will be mine. Shall we go out for a
walk?" he suggested, noticing that she already had her hat on.
To his suggestion she willingly assented, and, raising her full, red
lips to his, she kissed him, and then they descended to the restaurant
below, empty at that hour save for the seedy old waiter, Pierre, and her
father, an elderly, grey, sad-looking man, whose business in later years
had, alas! sadly declined on account of the many restaurants which had
sprung up along Oxford Street during the past ten years. He had seen
better times, but nowadays it was always a hard struggle to make both
ends meet, to pay the landlord and to live.
Ralph and old Libert exchanged greetings in French, and then, with Jean
upon his arm, young Ansell stepped out into Oxford Street.
The August night was dry, warm, and starlit. Few people were about as
they strolled along, chatting and laughing merrily. Before the theatres
discharge their chattering crowds, the main thoroughfares of central
London are usually quiet and half-deserted, and as the pair walked in
the direction of Regent Street, Jean's heart beat gladly with supreme
satisfaction that at last Ralph had returned to London.
November! Far off seemed that day of all days in her life when she would
be Ralph's bride.
Upon her finger was the engagement ring he had given her, one set with
diamonds of such fine quality that old Libert had wondered. Indeed, a
jeweller, whose habit it was to take his luncheon there each day, had
noticed it upon Jean's finger, and had valued it roughly at a hundred
pounds. Therefore Ralph could certainly not be badly off!
They had turned the corner into Regent Street, but were too engrossed in
each other's conversation to notice that, in passing, a tall, grey-faced
man, who wore a crush-hat, with a black coat over his evening clothes,
had suddenly recognised Ansell.
For a few steps he strode on with apparent unconcern, then he paused
and, having gazed for several moments after them still walking with
linked arms, unconscious of being remarked, he turned on his heel,
crossed the road, and strolled in the direction they were walking.
The watcher was the same grey-faced, keen-looking stranger who, earlier
that day, had sat in the country schoolroom at North Walsham listening
to the evidence given before the coroner concerning the mystery of the
Norwich Road.
His thin lips curled in a smile--a smile of bitter triumph--as he went
on with crafty footsteps behind the pair, watching them from across the
road.
CHAPTER V.
SECRETS OF STATE.
The right honourable the Earl of Bracondale, His Majesty's Principal
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, crossed his big, business-like
library at Bracondale Hall, near Torquay, and stood upon the Turkey
hearthrug ready to receive his visitor.
Beneath the red-shaded lamplight he presented a handsome picture, a
tall, well-built man of refined elegance, upon whom the cares of State
weighed rather heavily. His age was about forty-three, though, in his
well-cut evening clothes, he looked much younger; yet his face
undoubtedly denoted strength and cleverness, a sharpened intellect ever
on the alert to outwit foreign diplomacy, while the lines across his
brow betokened deep thought and frequent nights of sleeplessness.
To Great Britain's Foreign Minister is entrusted the care of her good
relations with both friends and enemies abroad, and surely no member of
the Cabinet occupies such a position of grave responsibilities, for a
false step upon his part, the revelation of a secret policy, of an
unfriendly attitude maintained injudiciously, may at any moment cause
the spark in the powder magazine of Europe.
To preserve peace, and yet be in a position to dictate to the Powers is
what a British Foreign Minister must do, a task the magnitude and
difficulty of which in these days can very easily be understood.
With his hands behind his back, his dark brow slightly contracted, his
eyes were fixed blankly upon the big, littered writing-table before him;
he was thinking deeply.
In profile his features were clean-cut, his forehead high and above the
average intelligence; his hair, though a trifle scanty on top, was as
yet untinged by grey, while he wore the ends of his carefully-trimmed
moustache upturned, which gave him a slightly French appearance.
In his youthful days, long before he had succeeded to the title, he had
been honorary attaché at the Embassy in Rome, and afterwards in Paris,
to which was attributable the rather Continental style in which he wore
both hair and moustache.
He drew his hand wearily across his brow, for ever since dinner he had
never left his writing-table, so busy had he been with the great pile of
documents which had been brought that afternoon by special messenger
from the Foreign Office.
Suddenly Jenner, the grave old butler who had been fifty years in the
service of his family, opened the door and announced:
"Mr. Darnborough, m'lord."
"Halloa, Darnborough!" cried the earl cheerily, as his visitor entered.
"Where have you sprung from at this time of night?"
"From London," replied the other. "I wanted to see you urgently, so I
ran down."
And the two men shook hands.
That the visitor was no stranger to the house was apparent, for, without
invitation, he sank into an arm-chair, stretched out his legs, and
looked very gravely up into the face of the Cabinet Minister before him.
He was dressed in a dark brown suit, and was none other than the
grey-faced stranger who, four days before, had sat in the schoolroom at
North Walsham and had aroused the curiosity of the coroner.
"Well, Darnborough, what's the matter?" asked the Earl, passing his
visitor the cigar-box. "I can see there's trouble by your face. What's
the latest problem--eh?"
The visitor selected a cigar, turned it over in his fingers critically,
and then, rising suddenly, bit off the end viciously and crossed to the
electric lighter near the fireplace.
"Well," he answered, "there are several things. First, we know why poor
Harborne was killed."
"Good," replied his lordship. "You Secret Service men always get to know
all there is to know. You're marvellous! Have you told them at Scotland
Yard?"
"No, and I don't mean to," replied Hugh Darnborough, the chief of the
British Secret Service, the clever, ingenious man whose fingers were
upon the pulse of each of the Great Powers, and whose trusty agents were
in every European capital. Long ago he had held a commission in the
Tenth Hussars, but had resigned it to join the Secret Service, just as
Dick Harborne had resigned from the Navy to become a cosmopolitan, and
to be dubbed an adventurer by those in ignorance. That had been years
ago, and now he held the position of being the most trusted man in any
Government department, the confidant of each member of the Cabinet, and
even of the Sovereign himself, who frequently received him in private
audience.
"You have reasons for not telling them at Scotland Yard--eh?" asked the
Foreign Minister.
"Strong ones," replied the other, pulling hard at his cigar. "A woman
who, I have ascertained, was on one occasion very useful to us, would be
dragged into it--perhaps incriminated. And you know we are never anxious
to court publicity."
"Ah! A woman--eh?"
"Yes; a young, and rather pretty, woman."
"And you've come all the way from London, and got here at eleven o'clock
at night, to tell me this?"
"I have something else--of greater gravity."
"Well, let's hear the worst," said the Earl with a sigh. "Every day
brings its troubles. Look yonder!" and he pointed to the table. "Those
are despatches from all the Embassies. The eternal Balkan trouble seems
threatening to break out, unless we take strong action. Bulgaria is
mobilising again, and Turkey is protesting."
"There has been a leakage from the Admiralty. How, I cannot explain. A
copy of the secret report upon our last naval manoeuvres is in the
hands of our friends in the Wilhelmstrasse."
"What?" cried the Earl, starting, his face pale with alarm.
"I repeat that the report is known in Germany--every word of it!"
"And our weakness is thereby revealed?"
"The exact position is known."
"But the confidential report has not yet come through to me!"
"And yet it has somehow leaked out from Whitehall," Darnborough replied,
drily.
"A full and drastic inquiry must be ordered. I will telephone at once to
the First Lord."
"He already knows. I saw him this afternoon," was the quiet reply of the
head of the Secret Service, a man whose coolness in great crises was
always remarkable. When danger threatened he was always far more cool
and collected than when all was plain sailing.
"But what are the main features of the report? Tell me, Darnborough. You
always know everything."
"The chief points of the secret report reached me from one of my agents
in Berlin this morning. It was brought over by messenger," replied the
Earl's visitor, seating himself and puffing thoughtfully at his cigar.
"You will recollect that two fleets were engaged in the North Sea, Blue
being the British Fleet, and Red representing the German."
"How foolish of the Admiralty not to have issued a report for public
consumption. They ought to have done so long ago, and issued the
confidential report afterwards--as was done two years ago," interrupted
His Majesty's Minister.
"Yes, that is what should have been done," the other assented. "It is
useless to tell the world the truth when national defence is in
question. But to resume. Blue's commander was given two hundred and
thirty ships to Red's one hundred and seventeen, or nearly two to one.
Blue had twenty-eight battleships and battle-cruisers to Red's eighteen,
or fifty-five per cent. more."
"An advantage far greater than we should possess in actual war, unless
every British fighting ship was brought home from the Mediterranean."
"Exactly. War was declared on June 18th--earlier than is usual--and six
days later a truce was suddenly ordered from Whitehall. War was resumed
three days afterwards, but was stopped suddenly four days later."
"Well, and what did really happen? I mean, what facts have our friends
in Berlin got hold of?" asked the Earl, with the greatest interest.
"Proofs undeniable that, under our present arrangements for home
defence, a serious raid must entail a vital blow at the heart of the
Empire," he replied slowly.
"How?" asked Lord Bracondale sharply.
"Because the enemy, notwithstanding all our efforts at defence, our
destroyers, our scouting hydroplanes, and our look-outs along the coast,
raided the Humber, landing thirty-six thousand men, and, on the
following day, made raids on the Wear, Blyth, and Sunderland, putting
twenty-four thousand men ashore. Thus, four of the most important ports
and bases on the East Coast were captured within two days, together with
the wireless stations at Cleethorpes, Hunstanton, and Caister, and sixty
thousand men were ashore. Moreover, the supposed enemy inflicted very
heavy losses upon us without sustaining any disasters, and, further,
they sent a strong force of cruisers into the Atlantic to prey upon
British trade."
"Bad," sighed the Earl, the corners of his mouth hardening. "Very bad,
Darnborough. It is to be hoped that the Press won't get wind of this!"
The ubiquitous Chief of the Secret Service shrugged his shoulders.
"It may leak out to the Opposition journals, just as it has already
leaked out to the Wilhelmstrasse. If the Admiralty had not ordered a
sudden cessation of hostilities the enemy's admiral would next have been
heard of in such a position that a panic would have been caused
throughout the country. As it was, the enemy's submarines of the D and E
classes, which were sent away to hunt on their own, established a reign
of terror, getting to the entrance of Cromarty Harbour, which was our
base, and torpedoing the ships which were guarding the Fleet inside.
They also torpedoed the Dreadnoughts _St. Vincent_ and _Collingwood_,
while another section of the enemy's submarines inflicted very heavy
loss on the British Fleet in the North Sea and seized the wireless at
Cleethorpes."
The Earl was silent for a long time, thoughtfully stroking his
moustache.
"But all this betrays our weakness to Germany!" he exclaimed at last.
"It is astounding--incredible!"
"But it is, nevertheless, true," remarked Darnborough. "The security of
the country is in gravest danger. Why, only a few days ago the Post
Office allowed Germany to lay another cable across the North Sea from
Mundesley, in Norfolk, to the Island of Nordeney."
"Mundesley?" repeated the Earl. "Why, that was where poor Harborne went
on the day he lost his life."
"Yes. He had been in that neighbourhood for some time--upon a secret
mission, poor fellow!--a mission which he had not lived to fulfil."
A silence fell between the two men.
"The situation is, I see, one of the utmost gravity. Steps must be taken
at once to reassure the public in case rumours should be published
regarding the truth. The Opposition will certainly not spare the
Government the facts, and must, if disclosed, give an impetus to the
campaign for universal service, which would be very inconvenient to us
at the present time. And more than that--Germany now actually knows the
rottenness of our defences!"
"That, unfortunately, is the case."
The Earl of Bracondale bit his under lip. A Cabinet Council had been
summoned for the next afternoon, and he must place the true situation
before it. All the clever diplomacy he had exercised with the Powers
during the past five years had now been nullified, and England stood
exposed in all her vulnerability. The inflated bubble of the strong,
invincible British Navy had been pricked and burst.
Black days had, alas! fallen upon our nation, and a grave peril hourly
threatened. Germany had hitherto hesitated to attack England because of
the uncertainty regarding our true strength. Our land defences were
known to Germany, even to the most minute detail, all reported
accurately and methodically by the enemy's spies living amongst us. But
our naval secrets had all been well preserved, so that the British Fleet
had always been regarded as able to repel invasion and make reprisals.
Now, however, its failure to prevent an armed raid was known to our
friends across the North Sea, and most certainly they would seek to take
advantage of the valuable knowledge they had gained.
Suddenly the Earl, turning to where Darnborough stood, exclaimed:
"You spoke of poor Harborne. He was a smart agent, I believe?"
"The best I ever had. He was clever, ingenious, utterly fearless, and
devoted to the service. You will recollect how he obtained the accurate
clauses of the secret Japanese treaty, and how he brought to us news of
the secret French agreement over the Morocco question."
"I recollect," replied the Foreign Minister. "When he told me I would
not believe it. Yet his information proved correct."
"Harborne's death is to be deeply regretted," Darnborough said. "I
attended the inquest. Of course, to the public, the motive is a
mystery."
"Not to you--eh, Darnborough?"
"No. If Richard Harborne had lived, Germany would never have learnt the
truth regarding the recent naval manoeuvres," was the reply of the
Chief of the Secret Service.
"You said something about a woman. Is she known?"
"No. I have suspicions that an indiscretion was committed--a grave
indiscretion, which cost poor Harborne his life. Yet what is one man's
life to his enemies when such a secret is at stake?"
"But who was the woman?"
"A friend of Harborne's. She had been, I believe, useful to him in
certain negotiations regarding the purchase of copies of plans of the
new Krupp aerial gun, and in several other matters."
"Any suspicion regarding her?" asked the Earl quickly.
"None. She is, of course, in ignorance of the truth, and probably
unaware who killed the man with whom she was so friendly. I am
endeavouring to trace her."
"Is she a lady?"
"No. A French milliner, I understand."
"A little romance of Harborne's which has ended fatally?"
"Yes--poor Harborne!" sighed the grey-faced man, in whose keeping were
the secrets of the Empire, and who knew more of the political
undercurrents of Europe than any other living person. "His loss is very
great to us, for he was a fine specimen of the true-hearted, patriotic
Englishman," he added, pulling hard at his cigar. "His place will be
hard to fill--very hard."
"I know, Darnborough," remarked Lord Bracondale gravely. "To such a man
the country ought to erect a monument, for he has laid down his life for
his country. But, alas! our country recognises no heroes of the Secret
Service!"
And as the Cabinet Minister spoke the telephone-bell rang. He crossed to
his writing-table, took up the instrument, and responded to an urgent
call from the House of Commons in London, where an important and heated
debate regarding our foreign relations was in progress.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SAFE-BREAKERS.
The day had been hot and stifling in London--one of those blazing days
when the tar on the roadway perfumes the air, the dry pavements reflect
back the heat into one's face, and the straw-hatted Metropolis--or the
portion of it that is still in town--gasps and longs for the country or
the sea.
The warm weather was nearly at an end, and most holiday-makers were back
again. London's workers had had their annual fortnight long ago, and had
nearly forgotten it, and now only principals were away golfing, taking
waters at Harrogate, Woodhall Spa, or in the Scotch hydros, or perhaps
travelling on the Continent.
From the high-up windows in Shaftesbury Avenue, close to Piccadilly
Circus, Ralph Ansell looked down upon the busy traffic of motor-buses,
taxis, and cars, the dark-red after-glow shining full upon his keen,
clean-shaven face.
He was already dressed to go out to dinner, and as he stood in his cosy
bachelor rooms--a pleasant, artistic little place with soft crimson
carpet, big, comfortable, leather arm-chairs, and a profusion of
photographs, mostly of the fair sex, decorating mantelshelf and
walls--his brows were narrowed and he blew big clouds of cigarette smoke
from his lips.
Suddenly the door opened and a man, shorter and rather thick-set, also
in evening clothes, entered. He was evidently French, and possessed
neither the good looks nor the elegance of Ansell.
"Ah! my dear Adolphe!" Ralph cried in French, springing forward to
welcome him. "I hardly expected you yet. Your train from Paris was not
late--eh? Well, how goes it?"
"Infernally hard up--as usual," was his visitor's reply, as he tossed
his black overcoat on to the couch, flung his soft felt hat after it,
and then sank into a chair. "Why all this emergency--eh?"
The man who spoke was of low type, with black, rather curly hair, sharp,
shrewd eyes like his friend's, ears that lay slightly away from his
head, and a large, rather loose, clean-shaven mouth. Between his eyes
were three straight lines, for his brow wore a constant look of care and
anxiety. He did not possess that careless, easy, gentlemanly air of
Ansell, but was of a coarser and commoner French type, the type one
meets every day in the Montmartre, which was, indeed, the home of
Adolphe Carlier.
Ansell walked to the door, opened it as if to ascertain there was no
eavesdropper, and, closing and locking it, returned to his friend's
side.
"I sent for you, my dear friend, because I want you," he said, in a low
voice, gazing straight at him.
"Anything good?" asked the other, stretching out his legs and placing
his clasped hands behind his head wearily.
"Yes, an easy job. The usual game."
"A jeweller's?"
Ansell nodded in the affirmative.
"Where?"
"Not far from here."
"Much stuff?"
"A lot of good stones."
"And the safe?"
"Easy enough with the jet," Ansell answered. "You've brought over all
the things, I suppose?"
"Yes. But it was infernally risky. I was afraid the Customs might open
them at Charing Cross," Carlier replied.
"You never need fear. They never open anything here. This is not like
Calais or Boulogne."
"I shan't take them back."
"You won't require to, my dear Adolphe," laughed Ansell, who, though in
London he posed as a young man of means, was well known in a certain
criminal set in Paris as "The American," because of his daring exploits
in burglary and robbery with violence.
A year before, this exemplary young man, together with Adolphe Carlier,
known as "_Fil-en-Quatre_," or "The Eel," had been members of the
famous Bonnemain gang, to whose credit stood some of the greatest and
most daring jewel robberies in France. For several years the police had
tried to bring their crimes home to them, but without avail, until the
great robbery at Louis Verrier's, in the Rue des Petit-Champs, when a
clerk in the employ of the well-known diamond dealer was shot dead by
Paul Bonnemain. The latter was arrested, tried for murder, and executed,
the gang being afterwards broken up.
The malefactors had numbered eight, six of whom, including Bonnemain
himself, had been arrested, the only ones escaping being Carlier, who
had fled to Bordeaux, where he had worked at the docks till the affair
had blown over, while Ansell, whose _dossier_ showed a very bad record,
had sought refuge in England.
The pair had not met since the memorable evening nine months before,
when Ansell had been sitting in the Grand Café, and Carlier had slipped
in to warn him that the police had arrested Bonnemain and the rest, and
had already been to his lodgings. Two hours later, without baggage or
any encumbrance, he had reached Melun in a hired motor-car, and had
thence left it at midnight for Lyons, after which he doubled his tracks
and travelled by way of Cherbourg across to Southampton, while Carlier
had, on that same night, fled to Orleans.
Part of the proceeds of the robbery at the diamond merchants had been
divided up by the gang prior to Bonnemain's arrest--or rather the fifty
thousand francs advanced by the Jew broker from Amsterdam to whom they
always sold their booty. Therefore both men had been possessed of funds.
Like others of their profession, they made large gains, but spent
freely, and were continually short of money. Old Bonnemain, however, had
brought burglary to a fine art, and from the proceeds of each _coup_ he
used to keep back a certain amount out of which to assist the needy
among his accomplices.
Ansell, in addition, had a second source of revenue, inasmuch as he was
on friendly terms with a certain Belgian Baron, who, though living in
affluence in Paris, was nevertheless a high official of the German
Secret Service. It was, indeed, his habit to undertake for the Baron
certain disagreeable little duties which he did not care to perform
himself, and for such services he was usually highly paid. Hence, when
he fled to London, it was not long before a German secret agent called
upon him and put before him a certain proposal, the acceptance of which
had resulted in the death of Dick Harborne.
The young adventurer threw himself into the arm-chair opposite to where
Adolphe Carlier was seated, and in the twilight unfolded his scheme for
a _coup_ at a well-known jeweller's in Bond Street, at which he was
already a customer and had thoroughly surveyed the premises.
"I expected that you had some new scheme in hand," Carlier said at last,
in French, after listening attentively to the details of the
proposition, every one of which had been most carefully thought out by
the pupil of the notorious Bonnemain. "On arrival this afternoon I put
up at the Charing Cross Hotel--so as to be handy if we have to get out
quickly."
"Good. Probably we shall be compelled to move pretty slick," Ansell
said, in English. Then, after a few moments' pause, he added: "Do you
know, my dear Adolphe, I have some news for you."
"News?"
"Yes. I'm going to be married in November."
"Married!" echoed Carlier, staring at his friend. "Who's the lucky
girl?"
"She's French; lives here in London; smart, sweet--a perfect peach," was
his answer. "She'll be a lot of use to us in future."
Carlier was silent for a few moments.
"Does she know anything?" he asked in a low, serious voice.
"Nothing."
"What will she say when she knows?"
"What can she say?" asked Ansell, with a grin.
"She's not one of us, I suppose?"
"One of us? Why, no, my dear fellow. I'll introduce you to-morrow. You
must dine with us--dine before we go out and do the job. But she must
not suspect anything--you understand?"
"Of course," replied the young Frenchman. "I'll be delighted to meet
her, Ralph, but--but I'm thinking it is rather dangerous for you to
marry an honourable girl."
"What?" cried the other, angry in an instant. "Do you insinuate that I'm
not worthy to have a decent, well-brought-up girl for a wife?"
"Ah! you misunderstand me, _mon vieux_. I insinuate nothing," replied
Carlier. "I scent danger, that is all. She may turn from you
when--well--when she knows what we really are."
Ansell's mouth hardened.
"When she knows she'll have to grin and bear it," was the answer.
"She might give us away."
"No, she won't do that, I can assure you. The little fool loves me too
well."
"Is that the way you speak of her?"
"Every girl who loves a man blindly is, in my estimation, a fool."
"Then your estimation of woman is far poorer than I believed, Ralph,"
responded Carlier. "If a girl loves a man truly and well, as apparently
this young lady loves you, then surely she ought not to be sneered at.
We have, all of us, loved at one time or other in our lives."
"You're always a sentimental fool where women are concerned, Adolphe,"
laughed his companion.
"I may be," answered the other. "And I can assure you that I would never
dare to marry while leading the life I do."
"And what better life can you ever hope to lead, pray? Do we not get
excitement, adventure, money, pleasure--everything that makes life worth
living? Neither you nor I could ever settle down to the humdrum
existence of so-called respectability. But are these people who pose as
being so highly respectable really any more honest than we are? No, my
dear friend. The sharks on the Bourse and the sharp men of business are
just as dishonest. They are thieves like ourselves under a more
euphonious name."
Carlier smiled at his friend's philosophy. Yet he was thinking of the
future of the girl with whom he was, as yet, unacquainted--the girl who
had chosen to link her life with that of the merry, careless, but
unscrupulous young fellow before him. They were bosom friends, it was
true, yet he knew, alas! how utterly callous Ralph Ansell was where
women were concerned, and he recollected certain ugly rumours he had
heard, even in their own undesirable circle.
They spoke of Jean again, and Ralph told him her name.
"We will dine there to-morrow night," he added. "Then we will come on
here, and go forth to Bond Street at half-past eleven. I've watched the
police for the past week, and know their exact beat. Better bring round
the things you've brought from Paris in a taxi to-morrow morning."
The "things" referred to were an oxy-acetylene gas-jet, and a number of
the latest inventions of burglarious tools--indeed, all the equipment of
the expert safe-breaker.
That night the pair went forth and dined at the Café Royal in Regent
Street, and afterwards went to the Palace Theatre, finishing up at a
night club in Wardour Street. Then, on the following morning, Carlier
returned, bringing with him the heavy but unsuspicious-looking
travelling trunk he had conveyed from Paris.
In the evening Ralph and he went to the Provence Restaurant, but,
to their disappointment, Jean was not there. She had been home, but
had left half an hour later to go to Balham to visit one of her
fellow-assistants at the Maison Collette who was dangerously ill. She
had taken with her some fruit and flowers.
Annoyed at her absence, Ralph had suggested the Trocadero for dinner.
"It's better than in this wretched little hole," he added to Carlier, in
an undertone. "And we'll want a good dinner before we get to business,"
he added, with a sinister grin.
So they had wished old Libert a merry _bon soir_, and were driven in a
taxi along to the Trocadero grill-room, where, amid the clatter of
plates, the chatter, and the accompanying orchestra, they found
themselves in their own element.
At half-past ten they ascended to Ansell's flat, and each had a stiff
brandy-and-soda and a cigar.
Both men were expert thieves, therefore it was not surprising that, by
half-past two o'clock next morning, wearing cotton gloves and dark
spectacles to hide the glare from the jet, they stood together before
the great safe at the back of Matheson and Wilson's, the well-known
jewellers, and while Ansell put up his hand and cleared shelf after
shelf of magnificent ornaments, Adolphe expertly packed them away into
the small black canvas bag he held open.
Those were breathless, exciting moments. The jet had done its work. It
had gone through the hardened steel plates like a knife through butter,
and the door, believed to be burglar-proof, stood open, displaying
wonderful diamond tiaras in cases, ropes of pearls and paper packets
containing uncut gems worth a huge amount.
The haul was a magnificent one, and though they had not yet succeeded in
getting clear, both men were gloating over their booty--a triumphant
satisfaction that no burglar can repress.
The scene was a weird one. The glaring light thrown by the jet had been
extinguished, but the steel still glowed with heat, and Ansell blistered
his fingers when they had accidentally touched the edge. The only light
now was a small electric torch which threw direct rays in a small zone.
But of a sudden, both men heard a noise--the distinct footsteps of a man
crossing the shop!
They straightened their backs, and, for a second, looked at each other
in alarm.
Next instant a big, burly night-watchman dashed in upon them, crying:
"What do you fellows want 'ere--eh?"
"Nothing. Take that!" replied Ansell, as he raised his hand and dashed
something into the man's face.
But too late. The man raised his revolver and fired.
Though the bullet went wide, the report was deafening in that small
inner room, and both intruders knew that the alarm was raised. Not a
second was to be lost. The police-constable on duty outside would hear
it!
Without hesitation, Ralph Ansell raised his arm and instantly fired,
point blank, at the man defending the property of his master.
A second report rang out, and the unfortunate night-watchman fell back
into the darkness. There was a sound of muffled footsteps.
Then all was silence.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DOWNWARD PATH.
A year had gone by.
Since that memorable night when Ansell and Carlier had so narrowly
escaped capture in Bond Street, and had been compelled to fly and leave
their booty behind, things had gone badly with both of them.
With Bonnemain executed, and their other companions in penal servitude
at Cayenne, a cloud of misfortune seemed to have settled upon them.
Of the tragedy on the Norwich road no more had been heard. The police
had relinquished their inquiries, the affair had been placed upon the
long list of unsolved mysteries, and it had passed out of the public
mind. Only to the British Cabinet had the matter caused great suspense
and serious consideration, while it had cost the Earl of Bracondale, as
Foreign Minister, the greatest efforts of the most delicate diplomacy
to hold his own in defiance to the German intentions. For two whole
months the Foreign Office had lived in daily expectation of sudden
hostilities. In the Wilhelmstrasse the advisability of a raid upon our
shores had been seriously discussed, and the War Council were nearly
unanimous in favour of crossing swords with England.
Only by the clever and ingenious efforts of British secret agents in
Berlin, who kept Darnborough informed of all in progress, was Lord
Bracondale able to stem the tide and guide the ship of state into the
smooth waters of peace.
And of all this the British public had remained in blissful ignorance.
The reader of the morning paper was assured that never in this decade
had the European outlook been so peaceful, and that our relations with
our friends in Berlin were of the most cordial nature. Indeed, there was
some talk of an _entente_.
The reader was, however, in ignorance that for weeks on end the British
fleet had been kept in the vicinity of the North Sea, and that the
destroyer flotillas were lying in the East Coast harbours with steam up,
ready to proceed to sea at a moment's notice.
Nevertheless, the peril had passed once again, thanks to the firm,
fearless attitude adopted by Lord Bracondale, and though the secret of
England's weakness was known and freely commented upon in Government
circles in Berlin, yet the clamorous demands of the war party were not
acceded to. The British lion had shown his teeth, and Germany had again
hesitated.
Ralph Ansell and Adolphe Carlier, after the failure of their plot to rob
Matheson and Wilson's, in Bond Street, had fled next day to Belgium, and
thence had returned to France.
Ralph had seen Jean for a few moments before his flight, explaining that
his sudden departure was due to the death of his uncle, a landowner near
Valence, in whose estate he was interested, and she, of course, believed
him.
So cleverly, indeed, did he deceive her that it was not surprising that
old Libert and his daughter should meet the young adventurer at the
Hotel Terminus at Lyons one day in November, and that three days later
Ralph and Jean were married at the Mairie. Then while the old
_restaurateur_ returned to London, the happy pair went South to Nice for
their honeymoon.
While there Adolphe Carlier called one day at their hotel--a modest one
near the station--and was introduced to Jean.
From the first moment they met, Adolphe's heart went forth to her in
pity and sympathy. Though a thief bred and born, and the son of a man
who had spent the greater part of his life in prison, Carlier was ever
chivalrous, even considerate, towards a woman. He was coarser, and
outwardly more brutal than Ralph Ansell, whose veneer of polish she, in
her ignorance of life, found so attractive, yet at heart, though an
expert burglar, and utterly unscrupulous towards his fellows, he was,
nevertheless, always honourable towards a woman.
When their hands clasped and their eyes met upon their introduction,
she instantly lowered hers, for, with a woman's intuition, she knew that
in this companion of her husband's she had a true friend. And he, on his
part, became filled with admiration of her great beauty, her wonderful
eyes, and her soft, musical voice.
And he turned away, affecting unconcern, although in secret he sighed
for her and for her future. She was far too good to be the wife of such
a man as Ralph Ansell.
Months went on, and to Jean the mystery surrounding Ralph became more
and more obscure.
At first they had lived quietly near Bordeaux, now and then receiving
visits from Adolphe. On such occasions the two men would be closeted
together for hours, talking confidentially in undertones. Then, two
months after their marriage, came a telegram one day, stating that her
father had died suddenly. Both went at once to London, only to find that
poor old Libert had died deeply in debt. Indeed, there remained
insufficient money to pay for the funeral.
Therefore, having seen her father buried at Highgate, Jean returned with
Ralph to Paris, where they first took a small, cosy apartment of five
rooms in the Austerlitz quarter; but as funds decreased, they were
forced to economise and sink lower in the social scale--to the
Montmartre.
To Jean, who had believed Ralph to be possessed of ample means, all this
came as a gradual disillusionment. Her husband began quickly to neglect
her, to spend his days in the _cafés_, often in Adolphe's company, while
the men he brought to their rooms were, though well-dressed, of a very
different class to those with whom she had been in the habit of
associating in London.
But the girl never complained. She loved Ralph with a fond, silent
passion, and even the poor circumstances in which already, after ten
months of married life, she now found herself, did not trouble her so
long as her husband treated her with consideration.
As regards Adolphe, she rather avoided than encouraged him. Her woman's
keenness of observation showed her that he sympathised with her and
admired her--in fact, that he was deeply in love with her, though he
strenuously endeavoured not to betray his affection.
Thus, within a year of the tragic end of Dick Harborne, Jean found
herself living in a second-floor flat in a secluded house in the
Boulogne quarter, not far from the Seine, a poor, working-class
neighbourhood. The rooms, four in number, were furnished in the usual
cheap and gaudy French style, the floor of bare, varnished boards, save
where strips of Japanese matting were placed.
On that warm August evening, Jean, in a plain, neatly-made black dress,
with a little white collar of Swiss embroidery, and wearing a little
apron of spotted print--for their circumstances did not permit the
keeping of a "bonne"--was seated in her small living-room, sewing, and
awaiting the return of her husband.
She had, alas! met with sad disillusionment. Instead of the happy,
affluent circumstances which she had fondly imagined would be hers, she
had found herself sinking lower and lower. Her parents were now both
dead, and she had no one in whom to confide her suspicions or fears.
Besides, day after day, Ralph went out in the morning after his
_café-au-lait_, and only returned at eight o'clock to eat the dinner
which she prepared--alas! often to grumble at it. Slowly--ah! so very
slowly--the hideousness and mockery of her marriage was being forced
upon her.
Gradually, as she sat at the open window waiting his coming, and annoyed
because the evening meal which she had so carefully cooked was spoilt by
his tardiness, the dusk faded and darkness crept on.
She felt stifled, and longed again for the fresh air of the country.
Before her, as she sat with her hands idle in her lap, there arose
memories of that warm afternoon when, in that charming little fishing
village in England, she had met her good friend Richard Harborne, the
man who that very same evening fell beneath an assassin's knife.
Her thoughts were stirred from the fact that, while out that morning,
Mme. Garnier, from whom she purchased her vegetables daily, had given
her a marguerite. This she wore in the breast of her gown, and its sight
caused her to reflect that on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon at
Mundesley, when she had walked with Harborne, he, too, had given her a
similar flower. Perfumes and flowers always stir our memories of the
past!
She sat gazing out into the little moss-grown courtyard below, watching
for Ralph's coming. That quarter of Paris was a poor one, inhabited
mainly by artisans, yet the house was somewhat secluded, situated as it
was in a big square courtyard away from the main thoroughfare. Because
it was quiet, Ralph had taken it, and further, because Mme. Brouet, the
_concierge_, a sharp-faced, middle-aged woman, wife of a cobbler, who
habitually wore a small black knitted shawl, happened to be an
acquaintance of his.
But, alas! the place was dismal enough. The outlook was upon a high,
blank, dirty wall, while below, among the stones, grass and rank weeds
grew everywhere.
The living room in which the girl sat was poor and comfortless, though
she industriously kept the place clean. It was papered gaudily with
broad stripes, while the furniture consisted of a cheap little walnut
sideboard, upon which stood a photograph in a frame, a decanter, a china
sugar-bowl, and some plates, while near it was a painted, movable
cupboard on which stood a paraffin lamp with green cardboard shade, and
a small fancy timepiece, which was out of order and had stopped.
In the centre of the room was a round table, upon which was a white
cloth with blue border and places laid for two, and four rush-bottomed
chairs placed upon the square of Japanese matting covering the centre
of the room completed the picture.
Jean laid aside her needlework--mending one of Ralph's shirts--and
sighed over the might-have-been.
"I wonder what it all means?" she asked herself aloud. "I wonder what
mysterious business Ralph has so constantly with Adolphe? And why does
Mme. Brouet inquire so anxiously after Ralph every day?"
For the past fortnight her husband, whose clothes had now become very
shabby, had given her only a few francs each day, just sufficient with
which to buy food. Hitherto he had taken her out for walks after dusk,
and sometimes they had gone to a cinema or to one of the cheaper
music-halls. But, alas! nowadays he never invited her to go with him.
Usually he rose at noon, after smoking many cigarettes in bed, ate his
luncheon, and went out, returning at any time between six and eight, ate
his dinner, often sulkily, and then at nine Carlier would call for him,
and the pair would be out till midnight.
She little guessed in what a queer, disreputable set the pair moved, and
that her husband was known in the Montmartre as "The American." She was
in ignorance, too, how Ralph, finding himself without funds, had gone to
the Belgian Baron--the secret agent of Germany--and offered him further
services, which had, however, been declined.
At first Ansell had been defiant and threatening, declaring that he
would expose the Baron to the police as a foreign spy. But the stout,
fair-moustached man who lived in the fine house standing in its own
spacious grounds out at Neuilly, on the other side of the Bois de
Boulogne, had merely smiled and invited him to carry out his threat.
"Do so, my friend," he laughed, "and you will quickly find yourself
arrested and extradited to England charged with murder. So if you value
your neck, it will, I think, be best for you to keep a still tongue.
There is the door. _Bon soir._"
And he had shown his visitor out.
At first Ansell, who took a walk alone in the Bois, vowed vengeance, but
a few hours later, after reflecting upon the whole of the grim
circumstances, had come to the conclusion that silence would be best.
Though he had endeavoured not to show it, he was already regretting
deeply that he had married. Had he been in better circumstances, Jean
might, he thought, have been induced to assist him in some of his
swindling operations, just as the wives of other men he knew had done. A
woman can so often succeed where a man fails. But as he was almost
without a sou, what could he do?
Truth to tell, both he and Carlier were in desperate straits.
Jean had been quick to notice the change in both men, but she had
remained in patience, making no remark, though the whole circumstances
puzzled her, and often she recollected how happy she had been at the
Maison Collette when she had lived at home, and Ralph, so smart and
gentlemanly, had called to see her each evening.
These and similar thoughts were passing through her mind, when suddenly
she was recalled to her present surroundings by Ralph's sudden entrance.
"Halloa!" he cried roughly. "Dinner ready?"
"It has been ready more than an hour, dear," she replied, in French,
jumping to her feet and passing at once into the tiny kitchen beyond.
CHAPTER VIII.
REVEALS THE GRIM TRUTH.
Though Ralph Ansell's clean-shaven face was strong, and his eyes keen
and searching, in the dress he wore he presented anything but the
appearance of the gentleman he did when, twelve months before, he had
lived in the cosy little bachelor flat in Shaftesbury Avenue.
His clothes were black, striped with grey, the coat edged with braid in
the foreign manner, his neck was encircled by a soft collar tied with a
loose, black cravat. His waistcoat was open, displaying his soft, white
shirt and the leather belt around his waist, while on his head was a
cloth cap with an unusually large peak.
He looked the true Parisian loafer, as indeed he was. Yet love is blind,
and as yet Jean would believe nothing to his discredit, crushing out any
suspicion that had arisen within her.
Having discarded his cap and tossed it across upon a chair, revealing
his high, square forehead, he threw off his coat, and in his
shirt-sleeves sat down at the table, exclaiming:
"Now, then, girl, I hope you've got something eatable to-night. I shall
want something to keep me going before to-morrow morning."
"Why?" asked the girl, putting down the tureen of _pot-au-feu_ and
seating herself.
"I've got a little business on, that's all," he snapped, taking his
soup, commencing it, and grumbling that it was badly made.
"I do my best, Ralph," she protested. "You know I've had no money for
three days now."
"And if you had, the soup would be just the same," he declared. "You may
be all very well to make hats, but you're no good as a man's wife. I've
discovered that long ago. I--"
His words were interrupted by a loud rap at the door.
He started in alarm, but the next second sprang up and welcomed his
visitor warmly.
"You, Adolphe, old fellow!" he cried. "Why, you gave me quite a start.
Come in and have a bit of dinner. I want to talk to you. I was coming to
find you as soon as I'd finished. Jean, another plate for Adolphe."
So the man who had entered laid his hard-felt hat on the sideboard, as
was his habit, and sat down at the table in the chair that his friend
had placed for him.
Then Ansell, having carefully closed the window, went back to the table
and, bending towards his friend, said:
"Listen. I'm going to tell you something important. I've got a good
thing on for us both to-night. You know the Baron's out at Neuilly?
Well, to-night, it quite----"
"Hush, Ralph! Madame----" his companion cried, glancing at Jean,
apprehensively.
"Oh, she may just as well know the truth at first as at last," laughed
Ansell roughly. Then, turning to his wife, he exclaimed, with a sinister
grin: "Perhaps, Jean, you may wonder how we live--how I have got my
money in the past. Well, I may as well tell you, for one day you will
surely discover our secret. We are burglars."
The girl started, staring blankly at her husband, and uttered a low
scream.
"Burglars!" she gasped, astounded.
"Yes. And now you know the truth, take care that you never blab out a
word to anyone, or, by Heaven, it will be the worse for you! If you say
a word," he added, fiercely, with knit brows and glaring eyes, "if you
let drop a hint to anybody, I'll break every bone in your body."
"Ralph!" she cried, starting up in horror. "Have you taken leave of your
senses?"
"Enough!" protested Adolphe, angrily. "I won't stand by and hear such
threats, Ralph."
"What, pray, is it to do with you?" asked Ansell, fiercely. "She's my
wife, and I can speak to her. I can tell her what home-truths I like
without your interference."
"I should have deemed it more prudent to have said nothing, Ralph,"
answered the other quietly.
Though Carlier was dressed also in a striped jacket and waistcoat and
black trousers, he wore no collar, and looked even a greater blackguard
than his friend.
His eyes met Jean's, and in them he saw an expression of silent thanks
for taking her part.
Then she turned and, covering her face with her hands, burst into
bitter, blinding tears, and disappeared into the little kitchen.
"Sit down," Ansell urged. "Now that little fool has gone, we can talk."
"You are a perfect idiot," declared the other, in disgust.
"That's my affair. She'll have to be brought to her senses and know the
truth."
"It has upset her."
"I can't help that," he laughed. "She must get over it. If she wants
fine dresses and a good time she must help us. And I mean that she shall
before long. Look at Tavernier's wife."
"She is of a different type to madame."
"Rubbish!" he laughed. "Wait and see what I'll do. She'll be a valuable
asset to us before long."
Adolphe leaned his elbows upon the table and shrugged his shoulders.
"_Bien!_" he said. "Let me hear the proposition."
"It is quite simple," the young adventurer said. "I know the interior of
the Baron's house. There is a lot of good stuff there--some jewellery,
too, and even enough table silver to make the job worth while. In his
safe he keeps a lot of papers. If we could only get them they would
fetch something in certain quarters--enough to make us both rich; but
the worst of it is that we left our jet in London, and we cannot get it
without." And he took a caporal from the packet before him and slowly
lit it. Then he resumed, saying: "Now, I propose that we leave the safe
out of the question, and go for the plate in the _salle-à-manger_. We
have no tools for a really artistic job, so we must be content this time
with the Baron's embroideries. His papers may come later--at least,
that's my project. I've been out at Neuilly all day, and have had a good
look around, and decided on the way we shall get in. It is perfectly
easy--all save the watchdog. But a bit of doctored meat will do the
trick. I got a little dose for him from old Père Lebrun on my way home,"
and from his pocket he produced a small bottle.
"Is the Baron at home?" asked his accomplice, to whom, of course, Ansell
had never spoken about the failure of his plot for blackmail.
"Of course," was the reply. "But what does that matter? He'll be sound
asleep, and to-morrow we shall be a couple of thousand francs the
richer. It is childishly easy, my dear friend, I assure you."
"And if we meet the Baron, who, if all I hear be true, is an extremely
shrewd person, what shall we do?"
"Well, if we meet anybody, we must act as we have always acted."
"Shoot, eh?"
Ansell nodded and grinned.
"We had bad luck in London, remember," said "The Eel."
"Yes; but it is easy out at Neuilly," the other declared. "I've been in
the _salle-à-manger_, remember. Every bit of plate in use is solid
silver. Much of it is kept in drawers in the room. Besides, there were a
lot of knick-knacks about in the large _salon_. Levy will buy them in a
moment. We are on a soft thing, I can assure you. I was an ass not to
have thought of it long ago. Once the dog is silenced the rest is quite
easy."
Carlier, who had only two francs in his pocket, reflected deeply. He was
silent for fully three minutes, while his companion watched his face
narrowly.
"When do you propose starting?"
"Say at eleven. We'll get your things from your place, and I'll take my
flash-lamp, keys, and a few other necessaries."
"No, you'll not, Ralph!" cried Jean, as she rushed out from the kitchen,
where behind the half-closed door she had been listening to the plot.
"Shut up, girl, will you?" her husband commanded roughly. "We want no
woman's advice in our business."
And rising from his chair, he unlocked the drawer in the movable
cupboard wherein he kept certain of his private belongings, and took
therefrom a serviceable-looking revolver, which he examined and saw was
fully loaded.
He also drew forth some skeleton keys, a burglar's jemmy in two
sections, a pair of india-rubber gloves, a small, thin saw, and an
electric pocket-lamp, all of which he carefully stowed away in his
pockets.
The contents of that drawer were a startling revelation to Jean. He had
always kept it locked, and she had often wondered what it contained.
Now that she knew she stood staggered.
She looked in horror at the revolver he held in his hand, and then with
a sudden movement she flung herself upon him and grasped his arms,
appealing to him for the sake of her love to desist from such an
adventure.
Quick and passionate came the words, the full, fervent appeal of a woman
deeply and honestly in love. But he heeded not either her tears or her
words, and only cast her from him with a rough malediction, declaring
her to be an encumbrance.
"But think!" she cried. "Now that I know what you are I am in deadly
fear that--that one day they may come, Ralph, and take you away from
me."
And she stood pale-faced and trembling before him.
"Ah, never fear, my girl," replied her husband. "They'll never have me.
They've tried a good many times, haven't they Adolphe?" and he laughed
defiantly. "The police! Zut! I do not fear them!" and he snapped his
thin, long fingers in contempt.
"But one day, dear--one day they may be successful. And--and what should
I do?"
"Do?" he asked. "Well, if I were put away I suppose you'd have to do as
a good many other women have done."
She looked at him very straight in deep reproach, but uttered no word.
Disillusionment had fallen upon her, and utterly crushed her. Ralph--her
Ralph--the man in whom all her love, all her thoughts, all her
sympathies were centred, was a thief, and, further, he had cursed her as
an encumbrance.
The poor girl drew her hand across her brow as though unable to actually
realise the astounding facts. She was stunned by the hideous truth which
had that evening been revealed. The blow had in an instant crushed all
the light out of her life.
She now realised the reason of those many secret conferences with
Carlier, and certain other rather disreputable-looking companions,
jail-birds, without a doubt. She knew why he was sometimes absent all
night, why he had stolen in, weary and worn, in the early hours of the
morning, and why, on one occasion, he had remained in the house for two
whole weeks and had never once gone out.
"Well, now you know the truth, girl, I hope you won't ask any more
inquisitive questions," Ralph said, noticing how strangely she had
stared at him. "Our business concerns nobody but ourselves--you
understand?"
"Yes, I understand," she replied, slowly, in a strange, hard voice. "I
understand, too, Ralph, that you no longer love me, or you would never
have spoken to me as you have to-night."
And she burst into tears.
"Ralph, Ralph, this is too bad!" protested his friend. "You ought to
have a little pity for poor madame--you really ought."
"I tell you I don't want any interference in my domestic affairs, so
shut up, or you and I won't agree. Do you hear that--once and for all?"
replied Ansell determinedly, thrusting his bony face into that of this
companion.
The latter shrugged his shoulders, and merely remarked:
"Well, you surprise me greatly."
Of a sudden, however, Jean, with a quick movement, sprang towards her
husband, who had already put on his coat and cap, and placed the
revolver in his pocket preparatory to departing upon his midnight
adventure. She seized him by both wrists and, throwing herself wildly
upon her knees, begged and implored him not to go.
"For my sake, Ralph, don't go!" she urged. "Don't go! Give up the
project! Work and lead an honest life, I beg of you."
"Honest life!" he laughed with a sneer. "Can you imagine me sitting in
an office all day, adding up figures, or writing letters for some other
thief with a brass plate on his office door? No, I'm not cut out for
that, I assure you," he added.
"But for my sake, don't go," she urged again, his hands still in hers,
for she held them firmly, and placed them to her lips.
His confession that he was a thief had fallen upon her, and for the
first few moments had held her speechless, but now she had found tongue,
and even though the disgraceful truth was out, her first thought was
for his safety.
"You're a confounded little fool!" he declared, roughly. "Let me go.
Come on, Adolphe! We haven't any use for women's tears."
And he twisted her hands roughly so that she was compelled to relinquish
her hold.
He was leaving the room, but again she caught him, clinging to him
resolutely, and beseeching him to heed her word.
This angered him. His face was pale, his eyes flashed quickly and,
gripping her by the right hand, he raised his fist to strike her.
In a flash, however, Carlier, who stood with his hat on ready to depart,
sprang in from behind, and gripped the brute's arm, shouting:
"No, you shall not strike her--not while I am present! Come away, you
infernal coward!"
Jean gave vent to a hysterical shriek, and shook herself free, but ere
she could realise what had actually happened, the two men, without
further word, had left the room, her husband slamming the door after him
with a fierce imprecation.
Then she stood alone, white-faced, terrified, heart-broken.
Ralph Ansell had at last shown himself in his true colours--a thief, a
bully, a coward, and a blackguard.
And yet she had loved him until that hour--loved him with all the
strength of her being--loved him as she had loved no other man in her
whole life.
She had lived only for him, and she would have willingly died for him
had he not raised his hand against her.
But she stood in the centre of that meagre little room, staring straight
before her, her countenance white to the lips, her big, dark eyes fixed
like one in a dream.
Poor Jean! Even then her brain was awhirl. She could scarcely realise
the grim, terrible truth.
For a few moments she stood there motionless as a statue, then suddenly
she staggered, reeled, and collapsed, inert and senseless, upon the
floor.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE NIGHT.
Not until several hours afterwards did Jean regain consciousness.
When slowly she opened her eyes and gazed wonderingly about the silent
room, she found herself lying in a heap upon the floor, a terrible
throbbing across her brow and a lump in her throat.
Gradually she recollected the horror of that half-hour before she had
fainted, and slowly she raised herself and tottered to a chair.
Upon the table stood the empty bottle from which Ralph and Adolphe had
drunk glass after glass of red wine, before going forth to commit the
crime. There were the three empty plates, too; while on the top of the
cupboard the cheap, evil-smelling lamp which Jean had lit on Ralph's
arrival, was burning low, shedding a small zone of dim, yellow light.
"Gone!" she gasped aloud. "Oh, I can't believe it! Ralph--my own
Ralph--a common thief! Impossible! impossible!" Then she sobbed, burying
her pale face in both her hands in blank despair.
The horrible, bitter truth had been forced upon her, and she saw it in
all its hideousness.
"He raised his hand to strike me down!" she murmured to herself. "He
would have struck me, had it not been for Adolphe. Ah! yes," she sighed.
"Adolphe knows--he knows the truth--of all I have suffered. Ralph is a
thief, and--and the police will one day arrest him. He will be tried and
punished, and I shall be left alone--alone!"
For a long time the despairing girl sat in her lonely room, bent and
utterly crushed. Her thoughts were of the man she loved, and who, in
return, had now revealed his contempt, even hatred. He had told her that
she was but an encumbrance. He had not minced matters, but spoken openly
and frankly, like the brute he was.
She was unaware that "The American" was well known in the Montmartre as
a keen, unscrupulous man, against whom were so many charges. Next to
Bonnemain himself, he had been the most daring and expert of all that
dangerous gang.
How cleverly he had deceived her, however, she now knew. Her senses
seemed benumbed, for the blow had rendered her, for the time,
insensible.
A full hour went by.
The room was silent, save that from the courtyard below rose the drunken
voice of a workman who lived in the ground-floor flat--the husband of
the slatternly _concierge_--who had just returned.
The broken clock still pointed to the hour of four, therefore she had no
idea of the time, but sat staring in front of her, like one in a dream.
Once or twice her breast slowly heaved and fell beneath her neat, black
gown. Then at last she rose and, crossing to the cupboard with firm
resolve, took out a small, ten-centime bottle of ink and an envelope.
Seating herself at the table, she took the pen in her trembling fingers,
and with tears falling upon the paper, traced uneven words in French, as
follows:
"In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer longer.
Certain hidden things in your life frighten me. Farewell.
Forget me.--JEAN."
Slowly she folded it, took off her wedding-ring, and placed it in the
envelope, together with the letter. Afterwards she addressed it to her
husband, and left it upon the table. Then slowly she rose with a hard,
fixed look, and passed into the adjoining room, which was a bedroom.
She took a sad farewell of the few little treasures which she had
brought from her own room in Oxford Street--knick-knacks, photographs,
and the like--and, putting on her hat, passed back across the
living-room, and then crept down the stairs and out--undiscovered and
unheard by the ever-watchful old woman in the black, knitted shawl.
Without a glance back, she gained the broad, well-lit thoroughfare, and,
turning to the left, went blindly and broken-hearted along in the
direction of the Bois, out into the world, sad, despairing, and alone,
heedless of where her steps led her, out into the unknown.
Meanwhile "The American" and "The Eel" were busy with their adventure.
To the left of the broad, main avenue, which, running through
Neuilly-on-Seine, crosses the river to Courbevoie, lived the wealthy
Baron de Rycker.
The house stood alone in a secluded spot, surrounded by its own spacious
grounds, and hidden from the road by a high wall. In this was a big gate
of ornamental iron, the top of which was gilded--a gate which the
_concierge_, who lived in the lodge beside it, always kept locked.
But, through the gate, the house itself could not be seen, because
plates of iron had been fixed half-way up, shutting out the view of
house and well-kept grounds from the public view.
As Ralph was aware, the _concierge_ was more than a mere lodge-keeper.
He knew who were the Baron's friends, and admitted them without
question, in whatever garb they might chance to be. But any inquisitive
person, or stranger, never got within that gate, or if they attempted,
they met with a warm reception from the fierce dog which constantly
prowled about the grounds.
The two men arrived in Neuilly soon after eleven o'clock and, entering a
_café_ near the river, remained there smoking and drinking coffee, till
midnight, when they went forth, treading lightly, for at "The Eel's"
lodgings in the Rue Lapage, off the Boulevard de Clichy, they had both
put on boots with india-rubber soles.
Passing the wall of the Baron's garden, they found all quiet and in
darkness.
Then "The American" went back as far as the gate and threw a stone
against the ironwork, with the result that the dog, which prowled there
at night, barked furiously.
That was what Ralph Ansell desired.
Taking from his pocket a stone, to which was tied by cotton a piece of
poisoned liver, he threw it over the gate and listened to it drop upon
the gravel.
In a moment the dog, with natural curiosity, pounced upon it, and
finding it to be a toothsome delicacy, could not resist it.
For another five minutes Ralph waited without making a sound.
Then he threw another stone against the iron sheeting of the gate.
The noise was loud. But there was no answering bark.
Then he crept back to where Adolphe lurked in the shadow.
A quarter of an hour later, both men were crouching before a long window
which led out upon a well-kept lawn. They had scaled the wall, and crept
across the grass without a sound.
The weather favoured them, for there was a slight west wind which, while
catching the foliage of the trees, caused it to rustle and so conceal
any slight noise they might make.
Ralph pressed the button of his electric lamp, and a small spot of light
shone upon the glass. Then, with expert hand, he quickly smeared it with
treacle, and afterwards, with a glazier's diamond, cut out a piece
sufficient to allow him to insert his hand and turn the latch within.
A moment later, both men were inside the large, well-furnished
_salle-à-manger_, treading noiselessly upon the thick Turkey carpet,
though "The Eel," in entering, unfortunately stumbled, and in grabbing
the door to prevent himself falling, cut his hand badly, even through
the india-rubber gloves they both wore.
The pair lost no time in clearing the fine, carved sideboard of the
quantity of valuable plate it contained. Then, led by Ralph, to whom the
interior of the big house was well known, "The Eel" entered the cosy,
luxuriously-furnished library, which was the private den of the chief
secret agent of the German Empire.
It was not a large room. Its size was revealed to Adolphe by the
flashing of his companion's lamp. Lined with books, and with a big,
business-like writing-table placed in the window, it was a cosy place--a
place with which many a spy of Germany was familiar and in which many a
man had received a bundle of hundred-franc notes in return for
information, or plans of France's armaments or defences.
From it a door led straight into the grounds, so that a visitor was not
compelled to pass through the house in order to have a confidential chat
with its owner, while in a farther corner of the garden was a door in
the wall by which a side road might be gained.
Neither man spoke as they made a noiseless tour of the room. "The Eel"
carried a capacious sack of black material, and into it thrust what
knick-knacks seemed to be of value--several miniatures, a couple of gold
snuff-boxes, a small box of Limoges enamel, and the like, while "The
American" was busy with his skeleton keys at the drawers of the big
writing-table.
Suddenly he beckoned to Adolphe, and the latter, as he approached, saw
that he had succeeded in opening one of the small drawers. Within was a
secret cavity known to the thief, for he had twice watched the German
spy take money from it.
There was a spring at the back of the drawer, and as "The Eel" directed
the rays of light inside, his companion fingered it, with the result
that of a sudden a portion of the wood fell back and from within the
other drew out a large bundle of French thousand-franc notes secured by
an elastic band.
With a low whistle Ansell, with gloating eyes, slipped them into his
breast pocket.
Then, diving his hand in again, he drew out several handsome bracelets
set with diamonds and emeralds, two strings of matched pearls, a diamond
and platinum pendant, a muff-chain set with diamonds, and a child's
coral necklace--the jewellery belonging to the Baron's dead wife and his
little daughter--which he kept concealed there--a relic of a long-past
domestic happiness.
With scarce a glance at the valuables, the thief thrust them into his
pocket.
Eagerly they cleared the secret space behind the back of the drawer.
There were three other bank-notes lying loose, about twenty golden
louis, two ruby rings, and lastly a safe-key, which Ralph held up in
triumph, whispering:
"What about the Baron's secret correspondence--eh?"
"Where's the safe?" asked his companion.
"Upstairs--in his room, I expect. It is not here."
Then, leaving the drawer open, Ralph Ansell crossed the room and,
opening his big clasp-knife, the blade of which was as sharp as a razor,
he commenced to slash vigorously at the pale green silk upholstery of
the couch and easy chairs. He was angry and vicious in his attacks upon
the furniture, cutting and slashing everywhere in his triumph over the
man who had refused to further assist him.
"The Eel" watched without uttering a remark. He had seen such explosions
of anger before on the part of his companion when they were doing other
"jobs." It is, indeed, well known to criminologists and to all police
officials that the average burglar is never satisfied with mere theft,
however great may be his _coup_, but that some force impels him to spend
time in committing wanton damage to the furniture.
It was so with Ralph Ansell. He hated the Baron, therefore he slashed
his furniture. In many other homes he had acted in a similar way, just
as, indeed, Bonnemain always acted, carrying a keen knife for the
purpose.
"Shall we risk going to his room?" whispered Adolphe, who approached
him.
"Of course, my friend. A few of those papers will be worth thousands of
francs to us," he replied in a low breath. "This is the job of our
lives, _mon vieux_. I daresay there are papers there which the German
Government would buy back at any price we chose to put on them."
"All right, then," was "The Eel's" reply. "If there's no great risk,
then let us have a try."
"You've got your revolver--eh?"
"No. I never carry one now," was Adolphe's response.
"Never mind, I've got one; and I shall shoot--if necessary," Ralph
replied. "I mean to have those papers at all costs. So don't lose your
head."
"I never do."
"_Bien!_ Then to work."
And the pair crept from the room without a sound, and along the dark,
thickly-carpeted corridor.
CHAPTER X.
HONOUR AMONG THIEVES.
They ascended the broad, dark staircase noiselessly and crept along to a
door which _Fil-en-Quatre_ opened cautiously, when they found themselves
in the big salon, a spacious, luxuriantly-furnished room, where many of
the notables of Paris, both social and political, were wont to assemble.
Society was in ignorance of the true _métier_ of this wealthy Belgian,
and as he entertained lavishly upon the money secretly supplied to him
from Berlin, he was accepted at his own valuation, and was highly
popular in the embassy set.
The little ray of light from Ralph's lamp travelled slowly around,
revealing quantities of _bric-à-brac_; but so much booty had they
already obtained that the pair only selected two gold spoons from a
glass-topped specimen-table, with a little box, also of chased gold.
As Ralph looked around, he again became seized by that uncontrollable
desire to commit damage for the mere sake of wanton destruction;
therefore drawing his knife, he slashed quickly at a big ottoman covered
with old rose silk damask, cutting it across and across. Afterwards he
treated a down cushion in the same fierce fashion, causing the feathers
to fly about the room.
"Come--enough!" whispered "The Eel" at his elbow. "Where is the Baron's
room?"
"We've got to find it," was the reply. "And, by Heaven! if the spy
moves, I'll put some lead into him!"
And together the pair stole forth on their tour of discovery.
The silent house was weird and full of distorted shadows. Through the
long windows of stained glass which lit the great staircase the moon
shone, its rays striking straight across the upper landing. Several of
the doors were closed. They were bedrooms, evidently.
At one of them Ralph paused, raising his finger to command a halt. With
the light touch of the expert he placed his fingers upon the
door-handle, and, turning it, without raising the slightest click, he
stole inside and stood in silence, listening attentively. All was dark,
and there was no noise.
For a few moments he waited in patience. Then, hearing no sound of any
sleeper, he switched on his little electric lamp, finding the apartment
to be a small, well-furnished bedroom, but empty.
Both men examined it critically by the light of the torch, arriving at
the conclusion that it contained nothing of worth.
Therefore, after Ralph had made a vicious slash at the satin-covered
down quilt upon the bed, and also drawn his sharp knife across the
carpet, severing it clearly, they went out to the next room, and to the
next, with similar result.
Apparently the Baron did not sleep on that floor at all.
At last, however, they came to a locked door at the end of the corridor.
A rapid examination showed that it had been locked from the inside, and
the key was missing. Therefore, without further ado, Ralph knelt down at
the lock, and with "The Eel" holding the little lamp, he commenced to
attack the fastening with his skeleton keys. At such work he was an
expert, for in three minutes the door stood open, and they found
themselves standing in a small place, almost a box-room, for it only
contained a plain little leather-covered table, set against the wall,
and a chair; while in the opposite corner, upon a strong, wooden stand,
stood a big, green-painted fireproof safe, about six feet in height.
Both men uttered ejaculations of surprise when their eyes fell upon it.
"The papers--the secrets of Germany--are in here!" Ralph exclaimed, in a
whisper. "Come! There's no time to lose. Let's get at them. I hope this
is the key. I suppose he preferred to keep it in hiding in the secret
place in his writing-table than to carry it about with him."
Taking the bright little key from his pocket, he examined it critically
by the light of the lamp. Then he examined the maker's name upon the
brass plate on the safe.
"Yes," he said, "I think I'm right. And if so, we shall each be richer
by a couple of hundred thousand francs."
"You don't seem to like the Baron, Ralph!" whispered his friend, with a
smile.
"Like him! Why, I hate him! I've been here before--as his visitor."
"Is he really what you alleged--a German spy?"
"Yes. And I can prove it. Why, in doing what we are now we are acting as
patriots, not as common burglars. We are acting for the honour of
France."
"And for our pockets, my dear fellow," laughed his companion, as he bent
beside him and watched him draw aside the brass cover of the lock and
insert the key.
Gripping the big brass handle--for he knew the mechanism of that
much-advertised make of safe--Ralph first turned it to the right. Then
he turned the key, which worked evenly and easily, afterwards twisting
the handle in an opposite direction.
Next moment, the bolts being shot back, the heavy, steel door came
slowly open; but suddenly, at the same instant, a huge electric alarm
bell in the main hall was set ringing.
At first so startled were they both that they did not move. But next
second the truth dawned upon them.
"_Diable!_ Let's fly!" cried Ansell. "It's all up! Across the garden and
over the wall by the gate in the corner. Quick!"
Out of the room and down the stairs dashed the men like lightning. Along
the corridor through the room by which they had entered, and out into
the moonlight in the garden.
They heard loud shouts of alarm from the windows. Electric lights were
being switched on everywhere, and loud cries were being raised of
"Thieves! Assassins! Thieves!" while somebody fired three shots at them
from a window as they crossed the grounds and sought concealment in the
shadows.
As fast as their legs could carry them they made for the corner of the
wall wherein was the Baron's secret exit, and, scaling the wall with
quick agility, were soon on the other side--and clear away.
As they ran back in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne they could
hear shouts and cries of the Baron and his servants. Twice were
revolvers emptied to attract the police, and then the hubbub grew
fainter, and at last, beneath the deep shadow of a wall, they halted to
regain breath.
"Never mind, Adolphe!" laughed Ralph; "we've got a nice haul, and it was
an easy job, after all. I never expected the spy to have an alarm
attached to the door of his safe. He's a wary bird, after all!"
"Let's get back to your place at once," urged "The Eel." "It will be
growing light soon, and we ought to be in before anyone gets about."
"You're right. Jean will be wondering where we are--poor, innocent
little thing," he laughed, jeeringly. "I suppose she's been
fretting--but fretting always does a woman good."
"Don't speak like that, old chap," said the other. "I don't like to hear
it."
"Ah! You always take her part. You're too chicken-hearted where women
are concerned. A woman will be your ruin one day, mark me," was Ralph's
reply. "But come along."
And they hurried forward, in the direction of Ansell's house.
Half an hour later, just before the first flush of dawn, the two men
entered the weedy courtyard, and Ansell let himself in with his key.
Their movements were stealthy; but, nevertheless, Mother Brouet, in
suspicion of the truth, for she had known _Fil-en-Quatre_ for several
years, put her head out of her door, asking:
"Halloa, my boys! Something on--eh?"
"Yes, mother," laughed Ralph lightly. "Something quite good. Keep your
eyes open, and if anybody calls, we're not receiving visitors--you
understand! And there's a couple of louis for you," he added with a
grin.
The old woman grasped the coins with her claw-like hand, saying:
"_Tres bien, m'sieur_," and the head, adorned by curlers, disappeared.
The two men then mounted the stairs on tip-toe, and Ansell noiselessly
unlocked the door of his apartment, believing Jean to be asleep.
But they found the lamp still burning as they had left it, the dirty
plates still upon the table, and the atmosphere filled by the nauseous
perfumes of petroleum.
Ralph's quick eye caught the letter lying upon the table.
"Halloa! What's this?" he cried, taking it up, glancing at the
superscription, and tearing open the envelope.
He read through the brief, farewell message; then, crushing the paper in
his hand fiercely, he stood for a few seconds without uttering a word.
"She's gone!" he exclaimed at last; "and a good job, too. I'm freer
without her; but, by Heaven! I'll make her pay for deserting me like
this! That I will!"
"Madame gone?" cried Carlier, starting in blank surprise.
"Yes."
"Well, and I don't wonder, after what you said to her last night. It was
shameful."
"That's my own affair," the other said. "It don't concern you, so we
need not discuss it."
"Where has she gone?"
"I don't know, and, moreover, I don't care. You, however, seem to take a
particular interest in her."
"I hate to see a woman maltreated," replied Adolphe frankly.
"I tell you it is no concern of yours," replied the other, crushing
Jean's letter into his jacket pocket and tossing away his cap, while
Adolphe re-bound his cut hand with the handkerchief which was already
saturated with blood.
"Sit down and let's have a drink," said Ansell, lighting a candle, for
the lamp was now very dim, and producing another bottle of red wine
from the cupboard.
The pair seated themselves, and drank merrily to their own success,
after which Ralph Ansell produced from his pockets the jewellery and the
bundle of bank-notes, which he proceeded to examine.
Beneath the light of the single candle stuck in the tin candlestick the
fine stones sparkled--diamonds, emeralds, and rubies--as "The American"
produced them in a mass from his pocket and laid them upon the table.
"Quite a decent lot," he remarked. "Old Levy will give us twenty
thousand francs for them, if we pretend we're not hard up. He went back
to Amsterdam on Friday, but I'll wire him later on, and get him over."
"But we're not hard up," laughed "The Eel" with a grin of satisfaction.
"No--not quite," answered his companion, taking off the india-rubber
band from the bundle of notes and carefully counting them, one by one.
There were seventy-five blue and pink notes of the Bank of France for
one thousand francs each--or three thousand pounds, as well as the loose
cash.
Ralph Ansell swallowed another glass of wine.
"I'm sorry we had such horribly bad luck with that safe," he remarked.
"But we were fortunate in getting away as we did. We were not a moment
too soon, either."
"They saw us cross the garden," Adolphe said. "I don't like being fired
at."
"By Jove! If I had met anyone he'd have gone down, I assure you,"
declared Ralph. "I had my revolver ready."
"A good job that we got out as we did. It is always a risky thing to try
and get political papers. Remember the affair at the Austrian
Ambassador's, when a stranger offered poor Bonnemain twenty thousand
francs to get certain documents? I kept watch outside the Embassy that
night, and we were nearly caught--all of us."
"Well--this is enough to keep the flag flying for a bit," said Ansell,
as he proceeded to divide the bank-notes, placing fifty in his own
pocket and giving Adolphe twenty-five.
The men had some sharp words, as thieves always have when it comes to a
division of the spoils, but Ansell claimed a double share because he had
been the instigator of the affair.
Adolphe Carlier protested vehemently, gesticulating wildly; but at last,
finding argument of no avail, he shrugged his shoulders and accepted the
inevitable. He had had previous experience of Ralph's overbearing
American manners.
"Then you agree--eh?" asked Ansell, at last.
"I suppose I must," was the response, as "The Eel" thrust a thousand
pounds into the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Must! Why, it is only fair!" declared Ansell. "Without my guidance you
would never have brought off such a _coup_. Now this stuff," he added,
indicating the jewellery. "I'll keep it till I get the money from old
Levy--eh?"
"Very well," replied his companion. "But half shares of that, you know."
"Of course. That's agreed," responded the other, and both lifted the
tumblers of wine in celebration of their success and safety.
"Phew! How warm I feel," exclaimed "The Eel."
"Take off your coat, old fellow, and wait here till the morning, Then
we'll go out and wire to that old scoundrel, Levy," urged Ansell. "We
can both do with an hour's rest after to-night's work."
"Right. But I'll bathe my hand first. It is very painful."
"Yes. Go into my room," said the other, indicating the door.
Therefore Adolphe threw off his coat, hung it upon a nail, and,
unwrapping his injured hand, entered the adjoining room, closing the
door after him.
"You'll find water in there," shouted his host, whose face, at the
moment, relaxed into a hard, sinister smile.
He placed his hand in his jacket pocket, and it came into contact with
Jean's letter.
The recollection of it maddened him. He remembered that the man in the
room beyond had stood her champion, and had taken her part.
"Curse you!" he muttered, beneath his breath. "What business is it of
yours--you soft-hearted fool?"
But scarce had the words fallen from his lips when the door opened
suddenly, and the old woman from below, who acted as _concierge_,
terrified and panting, entered, and with a loud whisper, cried:
"Ah, M'sieur Ansell. Quick! quick! The police are here! The commissary
is asking for you. Quick! Get away, or you'll be caught like a rat in a
trap. You know the way. Leave the rest to me!"
And without another word she disappeared, closing the door after her,
while the wanted man stood staggered, pale, and dumb.
CHAPTER XI.
THE VOW.
For a second, pale with alarm, Ralph Ansell glanced around the room.
Suddenly an idea suggested itself. He was always resourceful.
Next moment he dashed across to the door and locked it, afterwards
rushing to the door which led into the bedroom--the room in which his
friend was bathing his wound. There was a bolt upon the door, and this
he slipped, thus imprisoning the man who was, as yet, unconscious of
danger.
Then, crossing to where Adolphe's jacket hung, he quickly drew out the
twenty-five thousand francs in notes and placed them in his own pocket.
He held his breath and listened. As yet, all was quiet, save for a man's
rough voice below. He was apparently in conversation with Mme. Brouet's
husband.
That was sufficient for Ansell.
Quickly he pushed away the table from the centre of the room, and,
kicking aside the Japanese grass-mats, there was revealed in the floor a
trap-door with an iron ring in it.
Without more ado he lifted the heavy flap, disclosing the cavernous
darkness of a kind of shaft which led to the cellar, whence there was a
secret exit into a neighbouring street. Placing his foot upon the first
rung of the rickety ladder, he quickly disappeared, closing the flap
after him and bolting it from beneath.
Thus Adolphe, robbed and imprisoned by the man he had trusted so
implicitly, was left to his fate.
Scarcely had the fugitive, carrying with him the whole of the booty,
closed down the flap in the floor when Adolphe, whose hand was very
painful and bleeding profusely, suddenly heard the voices below.
He started, crept to the window, and looked cautiously down into the
courtyard.
Two men were there--men whom he instantly recognised as police agents in
plain clothes.
"The Eel" listened for a second, then dashed to the door to warn Ralph.
He turned the handle, but, to his surprise and dismay, found the door
bolted.
"Ralph! Ralph!" he cried. "Are you there? Quick! Let me in! The police!"
There was no response.
"Ralph!" he repeated. "Quick! The police are below!"
And he tugged frantically at the door. But it was securely fastened.
He was caught--like a rat in a trap!
Bending, he peered through the keyhole, surprised to discover that the
table had been moved. He could see, too, that the matting had been cast
aside, revealing the trap-door. That house had long been the abode of
thieves. Bonnemain himself had lived in those same rooms for six years,
and he had had the secret exit constructed. More than once it had been
used, and the fugitive escaped by that secret way.
In a moment the grim truth flashed across Adolphe's mind. Ansell had for
some reason bolted the door, and had forgotten to unlock it before
escaping.
But why had he not warned him?
The voices outside were now raised, and he could hear the tramp of
several other men over the moss-grown stones of the weedy courtyard.
Not a second was to be lost; therefore, taking up one of the
rush-bottomed chairs and raising it above his head, he advanced to the
door and brought it down with a crash upon the panel just over the lock.
A great crack showed, and by a second heavy blow the panel gave way
sufficiently to allow him to insert his hand and draw the bolt from the
opposite side.
He dashed across the living-room to where his coat hung, in order to
seize his portion of the booty. Quickly he searched the pockets, but in
vain!
The notes were gone!
Then, for the first time, he realised that he had been robbed, and from
his dry lips there fell a fierce vow of vengeance against the man whose
willing tool he had been--the man whose wife had left him because of his
callous brutality.
Twice he searched his pockets, then he cast his coat from him in despair
and, bending to the floor, tugged at the iron ring.
That, too, was secured. He could not lift it because the scoundrel had
bolted it from beneath. Not only had he stolen his money, but he had
made him a prisoner, knowing that he must fall into the hands of the
police.
With his long, black hair ruffled, his great, dark eyes starting from
their sockets, and both fists clenched in desperation, he gazed wildly
around for some means of escape. There were none. Heavy footsteps
sounded upon the uncarpeted stairs, yet if he attempted to jump from the
window he would fall into the arms of the police, who had by this time
surrounded the house.
This was Ralph's revenge--because he had taken his poor little wife's
part, because he had prevented him from striking her down!
A bitter thought arose in the young thief's heart. He bit his lip, and
in an undertone declared:
"If ever I meet the cowardly blackguard I will kill him! That I swear.
Not only has he robbed me, but he has also betrayed me to the police,
knowing that I must be sent to prison, while he will remain safe!"
At that instant there came a heavy banging upon the door, while a loud,
imperative voice cried:
"We are agents of police. Open--in the name of the law!"
The victim shrank back in terror. It was the end of his criminal career!
He never dreamed that the police were so hot upon their track, and that
they had been traced right over from Neuilly.
"Open--in the name of the law!" was again repeated, loud and commanding,
followed by a sharp rapping.
For a few seconds Adolphe stood motionless, his fist still clenched, his
terrified eyes fixed upon the door. He seemed rooted to the spot.
"Open this door--or we shall break it down!" shouted the police-officer
on the stairs.
Then, finding resistance impossible, Ansell's victim was compelled to
bow to the inevitable.
He crossed the room slowly, turned the key, and drew the bolt.
Next second three men in plain clothes and a couple of police-agents in
uniform burst into the room, and Adolphe found himself seized roughly
and secured.
"Just caught you, my young friend!" laughed the police-commissary, with
satisfaction. He wore an overcoat and hard felt hat, and carried in his
hand an ebony cane with silver knob.
Adolphe, in the hands of the two other men in plain clothes, made no
reply, but at the moment Mme. Brouet entered at the door, with
curiosity, to watch the proceedings.
The commissary, noticing the smashed panel of the bedroom door, ran
inside, while the men in uniform quickly searched the place.
"Where is 'The American'?" asked the commissary, of Adolphe. "We know he
is here, somewhere. You need not affect innocence, for your hand tells
the truth. You and he did the job at the Baron de Rycker's, and you left
a large blood-stain behind. What have you done with the stolen
property--eh? Now, out with it! Give it up, and it will be better for
you when in court."
"I haven't any," protested the young man. "Ralph has it all."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He locked me in yonder room and got away."
"Got away with the swag? Ah! Just like 'The American'! He did that same
trick three years ago. I remember a complaint made by one of your
fraternity whom I arrested at Versailles," replied the commissary. "How
did he get away?"
Adolphe pointed to where the commissary was standing, and the official,
looking down, saw, to his surprise, for the first time, the rusty ring
in the floor.
He bent and tried to raise it, but found it firmly secured.
"He's gone!" he cried to the two agents in uniform, who were cyclists,
wearing the flat-peaked caps with the arms of the City of Paris upon
them. "Go out and scour all the streets in the neighbourhood. You may
catch him yet!"
Without a second's delay, both men dashed out to do the bidding of their
superior officer.
Adolphe Carlier was left with the two agents of the Sûreté--both dark,
shrewd little men, broad-shouldered, and short of stature,--while the
commissary, who wore the button of the Légion d'Honneur in his overcoat,
made a tour of the apartment.
Another agent of police, in plain clothes, entered and saluted.
"Did you see anything of the fugitive, Leblanc?" asked the commissary
eagerly.
"Nothing, m'sieur. I came along from the depôt, but met nobody."
"Search this place," he said. "There is some stolen stuff hidden in this
rat-hole, I expect."
"I tell you Ralph Ansell has it all," declared the man held by the two
officers, who were now allowing him to bandage up his hand, prior to
putting handcuffs upon his wrists. "Arrest Ansell, and you will find
everything upon him."
"Do you live here?" asked the commissary.
"No. Ansell lives here with his wife."
"His wife! Where is she?"
"I don't know. She was here at dinner-time, but now she's gone. She's
left him."
"Why?"
"Because of his brutality." And Adolphe described the scene of the
previous night.
"We must find her," said the commissary, decisively. "Perhaps she knows
something. Ansell and you are the last two members of the Bonnemain
gang. Am I not correct?"
"Quite, m'sieur."
"I thought I was," and the commissary smiled. "Well," he added, "your
friend robbed you and threw you right into our hands. No wonder you are
ready to give him away."
The commissary well knew the ways of criminals, and was also aware with
what murderous hatred a man was regarded who robbed his accomplice.
"Do not discuss him, m'sieur," replied the man under arrest. "He has
placed me in your hands, and I am helpless. I suppose I shall only get
what I deserve," he added, in a low, pensive tone.
"You are reasonable, Carlier, and I'm glad to see it," responded the
commissary in a softer tone. "Your friend is an arrant blackguard to
have treated his wife as he has, and to have betrayed you because you
took her part. But you surely knew how unscrupulous he was, and also
that he was a most dangerous character. We know of one or two of his
exploits, and I may tell you that if he is caught, there are two charges
of murder against him."
"I know," replied the thief, briefly. "Though you have arrested me, I
can truly say that I have never raised a knife, or fired a revolver, or
attempted to take the life of any man."
"You will not be charged with any crime more serious than burglary,
Carlier," replied the official. "But besides the Baron's affair
to-night, there is also the robbery at the widow's apartment in the Rue
Léonce Reynaud, the theft from the Château des Grandes Vignes, out at
Moret in the Forest of Fontainebleau, and the safe-breaking at
Thessier's in the Boulevard des Italiens. You were in all of them,
remember."
"M'sieur knows," replied Adolphe with a grim smile.
"It is my duty to know, eh?" was the rather sympathetic reply, for the
commissary had quickly seen that this member of the broken Bonnemain
gang, which had for years given such trouble to the Sûreté, was, though
a criminal and outwardly a rough scoundrel of the Apache type, yet
nevertheless a man possessed of better feelings than the ordinary thief.
The treatment that Carlier had received at his friend's hands had
crushed him. He did not crave for mercy, as so many criminals did when
suddenly cornered and placed under arrest. He merely regarded it as a
stroke of ill-luck, and with the true sportsman-like air "faced the
music."
As a matter of fact, he was wondering at that moment what had become of
little Mme. Ansell, and whether the efforts of the police to discover
her would be successful. No doubt they would, for one cannot travel far
in Paris if one is searched for by the Sûreté, unless one is a
professional thief, and therefore knows the holes in the underworld of
Parisian life in which to hide successfully.
The commissary, pointing with his stick at the movable cupboard, ordered
one of the agents to search it, and then, moving from one object to
another, he had everything turned upside down in search of any property
which might be concealed. The cupboard and sideboard were shifted away
from the wall, the chairs were examined, the pictures taken down and
pulled from their frames; indeed, no stone was left unturned.
When the French police make a search, they do so with a creditable
thoroughness.
Adolphe, the gyves upon his wrists, craved a cigarette, and a
police-officer took one from the packet lying upon the sideboard. Then,
with both hands, the prisoner lit it, and sat upon a chair watching them
turn the place upside down.
In the adjoining room they investigated everything. They even cut open
the mattress and searched for stolen jewellery or bank-notes.
"It's no use, m'sieur; there is nothing here," Carlier assured the
commissary. "We have not done a job for a long time."
"Are you sure that 'The American' has it all?" asked the official
earnestly.
"I've already told m'sieur," was "The Eel's" reply. "And, further, may I
crave a favour?"
"What is that?"
"To speak alone with you just for a moment. I want to tell you
something--for your ear alone."
The official was instantly suspicious. But, as the prisoner was securely
handcuffed, there was, he saw, no danger.
So he permitted him to pass inside the disordered bedroom, and then he
closed the broken door.
CHAPTER XII.
THE FATE OF "THE AMERICAN."
"Monsieur," said Carlier, in a low, confidential voice, when they were
alone, "though I may be a thief, and under arrest, I am still a son of
France, am I not?"
"I suppose so," replied the commissary, rather puzzled.
"Well," said the man before him, "if you keep observation upon the Baron
de Rycker, you will find that what he has lost he well deserved to
lose."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the Baron is a spy--a secret agent of Germany."
The commissary looked at him sharply, and asked:
"How do you know that?"
"Ansell told me."
"Are you quite certain?"
"Quite. Ansell has done some jobs for him, and has been well paid for
them. He has acted as a spy for our enemies."
"A spy as well as a thief--eh?"
"Exactly, m'sieur. Ansell has been in the Baron's pay for nearly two
years."
"But this allegation is quite unsubstantiated. The Baron de Rycker is
well known and highly popular in Paris. He moves in the best society,
and the Ministers frequently dine at his table."
"I know that, m'sieur. But search that safe in the little room
upstairs--the safe we opened. Go there in pretence of examining our
finger-prints, and you will find in the safe quantities of compromising
papers. It was that collection of secret correspondence which we were
after when the alarm-bell rang. We intended to secure it and sell it
back to Germany."
"If what you say is really true, Carlier, our friends in Berlin would
probably give you quite a handsome price for it," replied the official
thoughtfully.
He had watched the thief's face, and knew that he was telling the truth.
"Will you have inquiries made?" urged the thief.
"Most certainly," was the reply. "And if I find you have told the truth,
I will endeavour to obtain some slight favour for you--a shorter
sentence, perhaps."
"I have told you the truth, m'sieur. It is surely the duty of every
Frenchman, even though he be a thief like myself, to unmask a spy."
"Most certainly," declared the official. "And I am very glad indeed that
you have told me. I shall make a report to the Prefect of Police this
morning, and tell him the name of my informant. The matter will be
dealt with at once by the political department of the Sûreté."
"The Baron will not be told who informed against him?" asked Adolphe
anxiously.
"Certainly not. But if Ralph Ansell is arrested, he will be charged with
assisting foreign spies--a charge quite as serious as breaking into the
Baron's house."
"He hated the Baron because the latter had discharged him from his
secret service."
"What were his duties?"
"Ah! that I do not quite know, except that he performed delicate
missions, and sometimes went abroad, to Holland, England, Norway, and
other places."
"Ansell evidently knew the arrangements of the house--eh?"
"He had been to see the Baron in secret many times."
"And been well paid for his work, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; heavily paid."
"Well," remarked the police official, "you may rest assured that the
Baron will, in future, be well watched. We have no love for foreign
spies in Paris, as you know."
And then the commissary went on to question Carlier closely regarding
his antecedents and his connection with the notorious Bonnemain gang,
which had now been so fortunately broken up.
To all his questions Adolphe replied quite frankly, concealing nothing,
well knowing that his sentence would not be made heavier if he spoke
openly.
"I've heard stories of you for a long time, Carlier," the commissary
said at last. "And I suppose we should not have met now, except for the
blackguardly action of this man who posed as your friend."
"No. I should have escaped, I expect, just as I have done so often that
my friends call me 'The Eel,' on account, I suppose, of my
slipperiness!" And he grimaced.
The official laughed, and, with a word of thanks for the information
concerning the Baron, both captor and prisoner passed back into the
living-room, where the police-agents were concluding their searching
investigations.
Nothing had been found of an incriminating nature, and the commissary
now saw that the man arrested had spoken the truth.
While Ansell's house was being turned upside down and Adolphe and the
commissary were exchanging confidences, "The American" was having a
truly hot and exciting time, as indeed he richly deserved.
Having entered the shaft, after securing the trap-door with its stout,
iron bolt, he descended the rickety ladder to the cellar; thence,
passing by a short tunnel, which Bonnemain had constructed with his own
hands, he ascended a few rough wooden steps, and found himself in a
lean-to outhouse close to a door in a high wall which led into a side
street.
Creeping to the door he drew the bolt, and in a moment was free.
Turning to the left, he took to his heels, and ran as fast as his legs
would carry him, intending, if possible, to get away to the country.
He was elated at his narrow escape, and how cleverly he had tricked his
friend, with whom he knew the police would be busy and so allow him time
to get clean away.
He was lithe and active, and a good runner. Therefore in his
rubber-soled shoes he ran swiftly in the grey light of early morning,
turning corner after corner, doubling and re-doubling until he came to a
main thoroughfare. Then, walking slowly, he crossed it, and dived into a
maze of small turnings, all of which were familiar to him.
His first idea had been to seek refuge in the house of a friend--a
thief, like himself, named Toussaint--but such a course would, he
reflected, be highly dangerous. The police knew Toussaint to be a friend
of his, and would, perhaps, go there in search of him.
No. The best course was to get away into the country, and then to
Belgium or Spain. With that snug little sum in his pocket, he could live
quietly for at least a year.
At last, out of breath, he ceased running, and, moreover, he noticed
some men, going to their work early, look askance at his hurry.
So he walked quietly, and lit a cigarette so as to assume an air of
unconcern.
"'The Eel' has been trapped at last," he laughed to himself. Then, as he
put his hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, it came into contact
with Jean's letter of farewell.
He drew it out, glanced at it, and put it into his inner pocket with an
imprecation followed by a triumphant laugh.
Then he whistled in a low tone to himself a popular and catchy refrain.
He was walking along briskly, smiling within himself at his alert
cleverness at escaping, when, on suddenly turning the corner of a narrow
street close to the Seine, he found himself face to face with two agents
of police on cycles.
They were about a hundred yards away and coming in his direction. They
instantly recognised him. They were the two men sent out by the
commissary.
In a moment, by the attitude of the two officers, Ralph Ansell realised
his danger. But too late. They threw down their cycles and fell upon
him.
For a few seconds there was a fierce struggle, but in desperation Ansell
drew his revolver and fired point-blank at one of his captors, who
staggered and fell back with a bullet-wound in the face.
Then in a moment the thief had wrenched himself free and was away.
The sound of the shot alarmed two other police-cyclists who were in the
vicinity, and, attracted by the shouts of the injured man's companion,
they were soon on the scene, and lost no time in pursuing the fugitive.
The chase was a stern one. Through narrow, crooked streets "The
American" ran with all speed possible, his endeavour being to reach a
narrow lane protected from wheeled traffic by posts at either end,
where he knew the cyclists would be compelled to dismount.
The quarter where he was, chanced to be a not altogether respectable
one, therefore the wild shouts of the pursuing cyclists brought no
assistance from the onlookers. Indeed, the people shouted to the
fugitive, crying:
"Run, young fellow! Run on and they won't get you! Run!"
And men and women shouted after him encouragingly.
With their cries in his ears, Ansell mended his pace, but his pursuers
were fast gaining upon him, and had almost overtaken him when he reached
the narrow passage between two high, dark-looking houses, close to the
river.
He was now near to the river-bank, and within sight of the Pont des
Peupliers, which crosses the Seine to Issy. The two police-agents threw
aside their cycles and sped after him, but he was too quick for them,
and when they had passed through the passage, they saw him dashing along
by the edge of the river.
In his mad haste he stumbled and fell, and his pursuers were instantly
upon him. But ere they could reach him he had jumped again to his feet
and, levelling his revolver, fired point-blank at them.
The bullet passed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to
work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice,
again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in
good odour with the public, as are the police of London.
"Keep on, brave boy!" they shouted. "Go it! Don't give up!" And so on.
The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no
heed of the men's jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot;
therefore they intended to arrest his assailant, alive or dead.
Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired
at Ansell in return.
"Coward!" cried the men, reproachfully. "You can't catch the man, so
you'd shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?"
On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such
criticism, for they were used to it.
At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly
done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting
out of his head.
He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for
the two men had now out-run him.
They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy,
black revolver in his hand.
Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash--liberty or
death?
He chose the latter, and ere his pursuers were aware of his intention,
he halted on the stone edge of the embankment.
For a second he paused, and laughing back triumphantly at the agents,
who had cornered him, he raised his hands above his head and dived into
the swiftly flowing stream.
The men who had chased him drew up instantly, and the elder, raising his
weapon, fired at the thief's head as it appeared above the water. Three
times he fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the head disappear
beneath the surface close to the dark shadow of the bridge.
That he had wounded him was plainly evident. Therefore, in satisfaction,
the two men stood and watched to see the fugitive rise again.
But they watched in vain.
If he did rise, it was beneath the great bridge, where the dark shadow
obscured him, for it was not yet daylight.
Ralph Ansell, alias "The American," and alias half-a-dozen other names,
known in criminal circles in Paris, London, and New York, sank in the
swift, muddy Seine flood--and disappeared.
CHAPTER XIII.
SISTERS IN SILENCE.
Just before eleven o'clock on the following morning two sisters of the
Order of Saint Agnes, one of the religious Orders which devote
themselves to nursing the poor, were passing through the Tuileries
Gardens, sombre figures in their ample plain, black habits, black
head-dresses, and deep, white collars, their hands beneath their gowns
and gaze downturned, when one of them chanced to note the frail,
pathetic little figure of a woman resting upon one of the seats.
It was Jean Ansell. Worn and weary after hours of aimless wandering, she
had entered those gardens so beloved of Parisian _bonnes_ and children,
and sunk down upon that seat just within the high railings skirting the
busy Rue de Rivoli, and had then burst into bitter tears. Her young
heart was broken.
Within sound of the hum of the never-ceasing motor traffic, up and down
that fine, straight street of colonnades to the great Place de la
Concorde, where the fountains were playing, the stream of everyday life
of the Gay City had passed her by. None cared--none, indeed, heed a
woman's tears.
Men glanced at her and shrugged their shoulders, and the women who went
by only grinned. Her troubles were no concern of theirs. Hatless, with
only an old black shawl about her, and with her apron still on, she
found herself hungry, homeless, and abandoned. Moreover, she was the
wedded wife of a dangerous criminal!
Those who passed her by little dreamed of the strange tragedy that was
hers, of the incidents of the past night, of the burglary, the betrayal,
the arrest, the flight, and the crowning tragedy. Indeed, she herself
sat in ignorance of what had happened to the pair after they had left
the house.
She was only wondering whether Ralph had found her note, and whether on
reading it, he had experienced any pang of regret.
She was only an encumbrance. He had bluntly told her so.
And as she again burst into tears, for the twentieth time in the
half-hour she had rested upon that seat, the two grave-faced sisters
noticed her. Then, after discussing her at a distance, they ventured to
approach.
She was sitting in blank despair, her elbow upon the arm of the seat,
her head bent, her hand upon her brow, her whole frame convulsed by
sobs.
"Sister, you are in trouble," exclaimed the elder of the two thin-faced,
ascetic-looking women, addressing her as she placed a hand tenderly upon
her shoulder. "Can we be of any assistance?"
Poor Jean looked up startled, dazed for the moment. She was amazed at
sight of them. Ah, only those who have been adrift in Paris--the bright,
laughter-loving, gay city of world-wide fame--know how hard, cruel, and
unsympathetic Paris is, how the dazzling shops, the well-dressed crowds,
the brilliantly-lit boulevards, the merry _cafés_, and the clattering
restaurants all combine to mock the hungry and weary, the despairing,
the penniless.
The girl looked up into the kind, rather sad features framed by the
white linen head-dress, and tried to speak. She endeavoured to reply,
but so weak was she after a whole day and night without food, that she
suddenly fainted.
It was some time before she recovered consciousness, but as soon as she
was sufficiently calm she gave them a brief account of what had
happened. She said nothing about her husband's latest exploit, but
merely told them how she had left him because of his neglect and
brutality, combined with the fact that she had made the astounding
discovery that he was a thief.
They sat beside her, listening attentively to her story, and expressing
the deepest sympathy.
Then, after a quarter of an hour's conversation, the two sisters agreed
that they could not leave her there alone, and suggested that she should
accompany them to the convent, situated a few kilometres out of Paris,
close to Enghien.
So, after taking her to a small restaurant near and giving her some
food, they took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and half an hour later
entered the big convent of the Order, a grey, inartistic, but spacious
place, with large shady gardens at the rear, sloping down to the Lake of
Enghien.
In the heavy door was a small grille, and when one of the sisters rang
the clanging bell a woman's face peered forth at them with curiosity
before admitting them.
Jean, in her weak, nervous state, had visions of long, stone corridors,
of ghostly figures in black habits and white caps moving noiselessly,
and of a peace and silence entirely strange to her. Inside, no one
spoke. Save those conducting her to the rooms of the Mother Superior,
all were mute.
On every wall was a crucifix, and at each corner in a small niche stood
a statue of the Holy Virgin.
They passed by the fine chapel, and Jean saw the long, stained-glass
windows, the rows of empty chairs, and the Roman Catholic altar, the
burning candles reflecting upon the burnished gilt, and the arum lilies
in the big brass vases on either side.
At last, shown into a large bare room, the walls of which were panelled
half-way up--a room bare, austere, and comfortless, with an utter lack
of any attempt at decoration--Jean sank into a big leather-covered
arm-chair, and one of the sisters took the old black shawl from her
shoulders.
A few minutes later there entered an elderly, stately woman, with hard
mouth and aquiline nose, yet in whose eyes was a pleasant, sympathetic
expression--a woman very calm, very possessed, even austere. She was the
Mother Superior.
With her was another sister, also a probationer in the white dress, big
apron, and cap with strings, proclaiming her to be a nurse.
The two sisters who had found the poor girl introduced her to the Mother
Superior, who at first looked askance at her and whose manner was by no
means cordial.
She heard all in silence, gazing coldly at the girl seated in the chair.
Then she questioned her in a hard, unmusical voice.
"You have been brought up in London--eh?"
"Yes, madame. I was a modiste, and my father was a restaurant keeper."
"You speak English?"
"Quite well, madame. I have lived there ten years."
"We have a branch of the sisterhood in England--near Richmond. Perhaps
you know it?"
"Yes, madame. I remember my father pointing the convent out to me."
"Ah, you know it!" exclaimed the elder woman. "I was there last year."
Then she reverted to Jean's husband, asking where they were married, and
many details concerning their life since that event.
To all the questions Jean replied frankly and openly. All she concealed
was the fact that Ralph and Adolphe had committed a burglary on the
night when she had taken her departure.
"I could not stand it any longer, madame," she assured the Mother
Superior, with hot tears in her big eyes. "He tried to strike me, but
his friend prevented him."
"His friend sympathised with you--eh?" remarked the woman, who had had
much experience of the wrongs of other women.
"Yes, madame."
"In love with you? Answer me that truthfully!" she asked sternly.
"I--I--I really don't know," was the reply, and a hot flush came to her
pale cheeks.
The questioner's lips grew harder.
"But it is plain," she said. "That man was in love with you! Did he ever
suggest that you should leave your husband?"
"No--never--never!" she declared very emphatically. "He never made such
a suggestion."
"He did not know your intention of leaving your home?"
"No. He knew nothing."
The Mother Superior was silent for a few moments, surveying the pale,
despairing little figure in the huge carved chair; then, with a woman's
sympathy, she advanced towards her and, placing her hand upon her
shoulder, said:
"My child, I believe your story. I feel that it is true. The man who was
a criminal deceived you, and you were right to leave him to his own
devices, if he refused to listen to your appeal to him to walk in the
path of honesty. To such as you our Order extends its protection. Remain
here with us, child, and your home in future shall be a home of peace,
and your life shall be spent in doing good to others, according to the
Divine command."
At her words the three sisters bent to her enthusiastically, calling her
by her Christian name; while Jean, on her part, raised the thin, bony
hand of the Mother Superior and kissed it in deep gratitude.
From that moment she became a probationer, and joined the peaceful,
happy circle who kept their religious observations so rigidly, and who,
during the hours of recreation, chattered and made merry together as
women will.
In her white dress, linen apron, and flat cap with strings, her first
duties were in the linen-room, where she employed her time in sewing,
with three other probationers as companions, while each day she attended
a class for instruction in first aid in nursing.
Thus the weeks went on until, in the month of November, the Mother
Superior came to her one afternoon with the news--not altogether
welcome--that as she spoke English so well, it had been arranged that
she should be transferred to the branch in London, and that she was to
leave in two days' time.
So attached had she become to them all that she burst into tears and
appealed to be allowed to remain. The matter, however, had been decided
by the Council of the Order, therefore to stay was impossible. The only
hope that the Mother Superior held out was that she might come back to
Paris at frequent intervals as a visitor.
Long and many were the leave-takings, but at last came the hour of her
departure.
Then, with a final farewell to the Mother Superior, she entered the taxi
with her small belongings and drove to the Gare du Nord, where, in the
black habit of the Order, she took train for London.
The journey by way of Calais and Dover had no novelty for her. She had
done it several times before. But on the arrival platform at Charing
Cross she saw two sisters of her Order awaiting her, and was quickly
welcomed by them.
Then, hailing a taxi, the three drove at once away through Kensington,
across Hammersmith Bridge, along Castlenau, across Barnes Common, and at
last into Roehampton Lane, that long, narrow thoroughfare which, even
to-day, retains a semi-rural aspect, its big, old-fashioned houses
surrounded by spacious grounds, and its several institutions which have
been built on sites of mansions demolished during the past five years or
so.
The Convent of Saint Agnes was a big building, constructed specially by
the Order some twenty years ago. Shut off from the dusty, narrow roads
by a high, grey wall with a small, arched door as the only entrance, it
stood about half-way between the border of Barnes Common and Richmond
Park, a place with many little arched windows and a niche with a statue
of the Virgin over the door.
Here the Mother Superior--a woman slightly older than the directress in
Paris, but with a face rather more pleasant--welcomed her warmly, and
before the next day had passed Jean had settled down to her duties--the
same as those in Paris, the mending of linen, at which she had become an
adept.
In the dull November days, as she sat at the window of the linen-room
overlooking the frost-bitten garden with its leafless trees and dead
flowers, she fell to wondering how Ralph fared. She wondered how all her
friends were at the Maison Collette, and who was now proprietor of her
dead father's little restaurant in Oxford Street.
Through the open windows of her little cubicle, in the silence of night,
she could see the red glare over London, and could hear the distant roar
of the great Metropolis. Oft-times she lay thinking for hours, thinking
and wondering what had become of the man she so unwisely loved--the man
who had destroyed all her fondest hopes and illusions.
December went on, a new year dawned--a year of new hopes and new
resolutions.
She had settled down in her new home, and, among the English sisters,
found herself just as happy as she had been at Enghien. No one in the
whole sisterhood was more attentive to her instruction, both religious
and in nursing, for she was looking forward with hope that by March she
would pass from the grade of probationer to that of nurse, and that she
would soon go forth upon her errands of mercy among the poor and
afflicted.
And so, after the storm and stress of life in the underworld of Paris,
Jean Ansell lived in an atmosphere of devotion, of perfect happiness,
and blissful peace.
CHAPTER XIV.
JEAN LEARNS THE TRUTH.
Months--months of a quiet, peaceful, uneventful life--went by, and Jean
had become even more popular among the English sisters than she had been
in Paris.
Though her life had so entirely changed, and she had naught to worry
her, not a thought nor a care beyond her religious duties and her
nursing, in which she was now growing proficient, she would sometimes
sit and think over her brief married life, and become filled by wonder.
Where was her husband? Where, too, was the low-born thief who had taken
her part and prevented the blow upon that never-to-be-forgotten night?
Sometimes when she reflected upon it all she sat horrified. And when she
recollected how shamefully she had been deceived by the man she so
implicitly trusted and so dearly loved, tears would well in her great,
big eyes. Sister Gertrude, one of the nurses, a tall, fair woman, who
was her most intimate friend, often noticed the redness of her eyes, and
guessed the truth.
Seldom, if ever, Jean went out farther than across Barnes Common or into
Richmond Park for exercise, and always accompanied by Sister Gertrude,
the latter wearing the black habit of the Sisterhood, while Jean herself
was in a distinctive garb as a nurse of the Order of Saint Agnes.
Never once in all those months had she been in London. All she saw of it
was the red glare upon the night sky. But she was happy enough. London,
and especially the neighbourhood of Regent Street, would remind her too
vividly of Ralph and of her dear father.
One spring afternoon, while seated at the open window finishing some
needlework destined for a poor family living in a back street off the
Hammersmith Broadway, she was chatting merrily with Sister Gertrude.
Over their needlework the rules allowed them to chatter, and in that
barely-furnished little room she and Sister Gertrude enjoyed many a
pleasant gossip.
Outside, the garden was gay with daffodils and hyacinths, and the trees
were just bursting into bud, the fresh green rendered the brighter by
the warm sunshine.
Jean concluded her work at last, placed her needle in the cushion, and
removed her thimble.
"At last!" she sighed. "I've been over this a whole week," she added.
"Yes; you've been most patient," declared her friend. "Soon you will
abandon needlework and be sent out nursing. I heard the Mother Superior
talking about it with Sister Lilian after vespers last night. Now that
Sister Hannah has gone back to Paris we are one nurse short, and you are
to take her place."
"Am I?" cried Jean, with delight, for she had studied long and
diligently in the hope that soon outside work would be given her. She
was devoted to nursing, and had made herself proficient in most of the
subjects.
"Yes. I believe you will hear something in the course of a few days.
But," added Sister Gertrude, "I know another secret. Your friend, the
Mother Superior in Paris, is coming here, and ours has been transferred
to Antwerp. The change will be announced, I expect, to-morrow."
At this news Jean expressed the greatest satisfaction, for the grave,
yet rather hard-faced, directress of the convent at Enghien had been so
good and generous that she had become devotedly attached to her. Indeed,
to her she owed her life, for in her despondent state on that morning
when found in the Tuileries Gardens she had seriously contemplated
throwing herself into the Seine.
Jean was therefore loud in praise of the directress from Enghien, and
highly delighted at the thought of her coming to take over the direction
of the English branch of the Order.
"Here is some paper and string to wrap up your work," Sister Gertrude
said at last, handing her an old copy of the _Daily Telegraph_. "I am
taking it with me to Hammersmith this evening."
And then she left the room, promising to return in a few minutes.
Alone, Jean, standing at the window, gazed idly at the newspaper, the
date of which was a Monday in the previous October.
It was strictly against the rules of the Order to read any newspaper,
but as she turned it over, a column headed "Paris Day by Day" caught her
eye. The temptation proved too much, and she scanned it down as she had
been in the habit of scanning the paper each evening in the days when
she had lived at home.
Suddenly a paragraph caught her eye. Her mouth stood open, her eyes
started from their sockets as she read. Then she held her breath,
placing her left hand to her breast as though to stay the beating of her
heart.
Her countenance was blanched to the lips. The words she read were as
follows:
"The daring exploits of the notorious criminal, Ansell,
alias 'The American,' and Carlier, alias 'The Eel,' are at
an end. Yesterday, in Paris, Carlier was sentenced to seven
years' hard labour, and Ansell, it will be remembered, was
shot by the police while swimming the Seine, but his body
was never recovered."
"Dead!" she gasped, white as death. "Shot down by the police--_my
husband!_"
She staggered, clutching at the small deal work-table for support, or
she would have fallen.
"And Adolphe has been sent to prison for seven years!" she went on,
speaking to herself in a low mechanical tone. "Was it for the crime
committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did
my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to
my appeal!" she cried in agony. "But he is dead--dead! Shot by the
police--shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!"
The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her.
She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open
window, her eyes staring straight before her--silent, motionless,
aghast.
Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly
unconscious of her presence.
"You are unwell, Jean," she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before
entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the
daughter of a well-known Paris banker. "Tell me, dear, what ails you?"
Jean started, and stared at her in amazement.
"I--I--oh, there is nothing," she faltered. "I don't feel very
well--that's all."
The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white,
nerveless fingers.
In Jean's face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of
the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those
few moments of her absence.
"Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?" she asked her
friend, to whom she was so much attached.
"Nothing, thanks," was her reply, with a great effort. "I shall be quite
well soon, I hope."
Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the
girl's shoulder tenderly, said:
"You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your
secret? Why not confide in me?"
"Secret!" she echoed. "It is no secret!"
"Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?"
Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of
a notorious thief--a man who had been shot like a dog by the police?
No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that
moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two
sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And
none should now know.
"Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare," she laughed,
well feigning amusement at the situation. "I am quite well now. Quite
well, I assure you."
And picking up the old copy of the newspaper, she resumed the wrapping
up of the parcel of underclothing which she had made with her own hands
for charitable purposes.
And the big bell having clanged out for tea in the refectory, Jean and
Sister Gertrude passed arm-in-arm through the long stone corridor to the
big, vaulted hall, where all the inmates of the convent had assembled
and the Mother Superior was presiding over the four shining tea-urns at
the top table.
But Jean sat silent and thoughtfully sipping her tea, heedless of all
about her.
Her mind was full of that terse announcement which she had read, the
obituary notice of the notorious thief known in Paris as "The
American"--the man whom she loved and who was her husband.
She was thinking, too, of _Fil-en-Quatre_, the shock-headed, rather
uncouth Parisian loafer--the man who had been sentenced to seven years'
hard labour. That meant Cayenne, without a doubt--drudgery at Devil's
Island, that ill-governed penal settlement established by the Republic
of France.
She remembered him. Ah, how often he had sympathised with her! How
frequently he had uttered cheering words to her in secret, although he
had never once betrayed his friend's real profession, nor had he ever
once spoken of the great and fervent affection which he had borne her.
Though he was a thief, a scoundrel of the underworld of Paris,
ingenious, unscrupulous, and even dangerous if cornered, he was
nevertheless loyal and honest towards his friend, and behaved as a
gentleman towards his friend's wife.
Yes, Adolphe Carlier, though a thief, was still a gentleman in the true
sense of the word.
The weeks went by, and poor Jean, a widow in secret--for she told no one
of what had occurred--was sent forth daily in the poorer districts of
London on her mission to the sick, to whom she carried food and
delicacies prepared by the kind hands of the sisters.
The slums she visited in Clerkenwell and other places often reminded her
of those last few days of her married life, those days before she parted
for ever from "Le Costaud." Where men feared to venture, and where no
police-constable cared to go alone, she went without fear, down into the
deepest depths of the unknown underworld of London, and through months
she worked hard each day amid the most sordid and poverty-stricken
surroundings, returning each night to the convent fagged and hungry. But
now that she knew the bitter truth, her whole life was devoted to her
work of mercy and to her religious duties. Her sweetness of disposition,
her calm patience, her soft voice, and her cheerful manner all endeared
her to those whom she tended with such unremitting care.
Thus she passed the long summer days in the stifling slums of London.
So devoted was she, and so hard did she work, that at last a serious
illness was threatened, in consequence of which she was sent by the
Mother Superior to the West of England branch of the Order, who had a
small convent at Babbacombe, near Torquay, and in the latter town, in
better air, she continued her labours.
Not far from the convent, on the road leading to Newton Abbot, was the
ivy-covered lodge and great, handsome gates of ornamental iron leading
to Bracondale Park, the seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of
Bracondale, K.G.
The park, a spacious domain with great oaks and elms, was situated high
up, overlooking the English Channel, and away in the distance the long,
rather low-built mansion with a square, castellated turret at the
western end. The fine domain of the Bracondales, one of the most ancient
families in England, extended over many thousands of fertile acres in
Devon, besides which the Earl possessed a deer forest near Grantown, in
the Highlands; a pretty winter villa at Beaulieu, close to Nice; the
old-fashioned town house in Belgrave Square, and a pretty seaside villa
in the new and fashionable little resort, Saint-Addresse, near Havre.
But, as His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,
the Earl of Bracondale had but little time in which to enjoy his
beautiful residences. True, he spent a few weeks on the Riviera in
winter, shot once or twice over the Bracondale coverts in the season,
and spent an annual fortnight up at the shooting lodge in Scotland; but
he was usually to be found either at Downing Street or down at
Bracondale immersed and absorbed by the affairs of State.
His one hobby was motoring, and he frequently drove his own car--a big
six-cylinder open one. Years ago, on the introduction of the motor-car,
he had been a young man, and had quickly become an enthusiast. He had
motored ever since the early days, and was still an expert driver. Once
he had held a world's distance record, and nowadays, even with the heavy
responsibilities upon him, he was never so happy as in overcoat and cap
at the steering-wheel. And in this recreation he found a very beneficial
change after so many hours of studying complicated reports and worrying
despatches from the Embassies abroad.
One summer's night he had been addressing a big political meeting at
Plymouth, and at ten o'clock he turned out of the garage of the Royal
Hotel, and alone drove through the brilliant, starlit night back to
Babbacombe. Usually when he went out at night he took Budron, the head
chauffeur, with him. But on this occasion he had left the man in London,
superintending some repairs to one of the other cars. Hence he put on a
cigar, and, alone, drove leisurely along the rather narrow, winding high
road which leads from Plymouth through Plympton and Ivybridge.
The distance was twenty-five miles or so, and he travelled swiftly
during the last portion of it.
It was nearly half-past eleven when he passed through Torquay, then
silent and deserted, and ascending the hill, was quickly on the
Babbacombe road.
Suddenly, however, when within half a mile of his own lodge gates, at a
sharp bend in the narrow road along the cliffs, he found himself facing
a heavy wagon, the driver of which was asleep.
There was the crash of a heavy impact, a shattering of glass, a rearing
of horses, and next second his lordship, shot out of his seat, was lying
on the other side of a low hedge, doubled up and quite still, while the
car itself was overturned and completely wrecked.
CHAPTER XV.
HIS LORDSHIP'S VISITOR.
The two doctors, summoned by telephone from Torquay, stood beside Lord
Bracondale's bed, and after careful examination and long consultation,
grew very grave.
His lordship had been carried unconscious to the park and upstairs into
his own tastefully-furnished room, where he still remained motionless
and senseless, though two hours had now passed.
In addition to severe contusions, his shoulder was badly dislocated, and
it was also feared that he had suffered severe internal injury through
being thrown against the steering-pillar of the car. The examination had
occupied a long time, and the greatest consternation had been caused in
the big household, the servants going about pale and scared.
Dr. Wright-Gilson, the elder of the two medical practitioners, a rather
bent, grey-bearded man, addressing his colleague, said, after a long
discussion:
"I really think that Morrison should see him. If I telephoned to him at
Cavendish Square he could be down here by ten o'clock to-morrow. We
could then have a consultation, and decide whether to operate or not."
To this the younger man agreed; therefore Wright-Gilson went into the
library with Jenner, the stout, white-headed old butler, and, using the
private telephone to Downing Street, which stood upon the big, littered
writing-table, he was quickly put on to the house of Sir Evered
Morrison, the great surgeon.
The specialist, who was asleep, answered the telephone at his bedside,
and, hearing of the accident, promised he would catch the next train
from Paddington. Then he rose, dressed hurriedly, and left by the
newspaper-train.
At eleven o'clock the next morning--by which hour the world knew of his
lordship's accident--the great specialist had made his examination and
was seated in the library with the two Torquay doctors.
"No," said Sir Evered, a tall, thin, clean-shaven man, who was a
personal friend of Lord Bracondale's. "In my opinion an operation is not
advisable. The case is a serious one, and full of grave danger. But I do
not think we need despair. I'll remain here, and by this evening I shall
hope to see consciousness restored." Then he added: "By the way, are
there any good nurses in Torquay?"
"The Convent of Saint Agnes is quite close. They are a Nursing Order, as
you know," replied Dr. Wright-Gilson.
"Yes, and usually most excellent. We had better send for the Mother
Superior and get her to give us two trustworthy nurses. Having myself
had experience of them, I have always found them most painstaking, and
in every way excellent."
"That is also my own experience, Sir Evered. Several of my patients have
employed them with great success."
"Very well; we will have them." And Jenner was at once called and sent
with a note from the great surgeon to the Mother Superior.
Twenty minutes later the grave-faced directress, who wore her black
habit and wide, white collar, and spoke with a very pronounced French
accent, arrived, accompanied by Jean and Sister Gertrude, whom she
introduced to the three medical men standing in the library.
And very soon afterwards Jean found herself installed in the big,
handsome bedroom beside the unconscious Cabinet Minister.
The white, inanimate face lay upon the pillow with the pallor of death
upon it, the sheet edged with broad lace having been turned down and
carefully arranged by the head housemaid.
Many and precise were the instructions which Sister Gertrude and Jean
received from the great surgeon, who first explained to them the
injuries from which his distinguished patient was suffering, and the
nature of the treatment he intended to adopt.
The Honourable John Charlton, his lordship's private secretary, arrived
post-haste from London at midday, and took over many of the confidential
papers and other documents which were lying about upon the library
table.
He was anxious for the Earl to recover consciousness in order to obtain
instructions concerning the attitude to be adopted towards Austria,
regarding whom a ticklish point of policy had on the previous evening
arisen. The political horizon of Europe changes from hour to hour.
Our Ambassador in Vienna had wired in cipher urgently requesting a
response, and this only the Foreign Minister himself could give.
But the doctors would not allow him to be disturbed.
A warm, anxious day went by, and Jean found herself amid surroundings so
luxurious and artistic that she gazed about her open-mouthed in wonder.
As a nurse she soon showed her proficiency and her business-like
methods--a manner which at once impressed Sir Evered.
But, alas! The Earl of Bracondale still remained unconscious. His pulse
was feeble, his heart was just beating; the spark of life was still
aglow.
From all quarters of the world, from every one of the Chancelleries of
Europe, telegrams of regret arrived. Kings, statesmen, politicians of
all grades, and all parties, lawyers, diplomats; in fact, all classes,
sent messages, and all day long boys kept continually cycling up the
long drive through the park bearing sheaves of orange-coloured
envelopes, which were opened one after the other by the Honourable John
Charlton.
Not before the following afternoon did consciousness return to the
injured man, and then Jean's real work commenced.
His eyes, when they first opened, met her calm, anxious gaze.
He looked at her in astonishment, and then glanced at the other faces of
the doctors around.
Sir Evered spoke as he bent over him.
"You know me--eh? Come, you're a lot better now, my dear fellow. Just
drink this," and he took a glass from Jean's hand.
The prostrate man swallowed the liquid with an effort. Then, staring
about him with an air of astonishment, he said:
"Why--it's you, Evered. You!"
"Yes; I'm here looking after you, and with good nursing you'll soon be
quite right again."
His lordship drew a long breath, and for a few moments remained silent.
Then he asked, in a low, weak whisper:
"What's happened?"
"Oh, nothing very much. Don't bother about it," was the great
specialist's reply. "You were thrown out of your car, that's all. No
bones broken."
"Ah! yes," he replied, slowly raising a hand to his brow. "Ah! yes--now
I remember. That wagon--right across the road--and no light upon it!
Yes--I--I remember!"
"Don't bother. That's enough now. Just go to sleep again, my dear
fellow," said Sir Evered, soothingly, placing his hand upon his
patient's brow. "Don't try and think. Just rest for the present."
And thus advised, his lordship closed his eyes wearily, and was soon
asleep.
"Excellent," declared Sir Evered, much gratified when outside the room
with the others, leaving Jean alone with the sleeper. "He'll recover--no
doubt he will."
And five minutes later he was in the library, speaking over the
telephone to the Prime Minister at Downing Street, while that same
evening the papers gave the welcome news to the world that there was
every hope of the Foreign Minister's restoration to health.
The three medical men had strapped up the injured shoulder and applied
various remedies, therefore the patient that night was in no pain,
though Sister Gertrude took Jean's place at ten o'clock and sat by his
bedside all night, receiving hourly visits from the doctors.
Bracondale Park was a house of breathless anxiety through the days which
followed. Sir Evered, though his presence was required hourly in
London--as is the presence of such a great surgeon--remained at the
bedside of his friend. They had been at Cambridge together, and ever
since their undergraduate days had been intimate chums.
His lordship's illness proved of longer duration than was at first
anticipated. Sir Evered remained at Bracondale a whole week, and then,
finding that his patient was progressing favourably, returned to London,
leaving the case in the hands of Dr. Wright-Gilson and Dr. Noel Tanner,
while Sister Gertrude and Jean did the nursing.
Life at Bracondale Jean found extremely pleasant. The great house, with
its luxuriously-furnished rooms, its fine picture-gallery, where, often,
in her hours of recreation, she wandered; the big winter-garden with
palms and exotic flowers, the conservatories, the huge ballroom--wherein
long ago the minuet had been danced by high-born dames in wigs and
patches--the fine suites of rooms with gilded cornices--all were, to
her, full of interest.
The great house was built by the second Earl of Bracondale, who was the
famous Chancellor of the Exchequer in the reign of Charles I., and ever
since the Bracondales had borne their part in the government of England.
The room allotted to Jean was a visitor's room--a large, old-fashioned
sitting-room, with a bed in one corner screened off; a room the long,
leaded windows of which afforded beautiful views across the extensive,
well-wooded park to the blue sea beyond. It was a place with a quiet,
old-world atmosphere--a room that had never been changed for a century
past. The old chintzes were of the days of our grandmothers, while the
Chippendale chairs and tables would have fetched hundreds of pounds if
put up at Christie's.
The elderly housekeeper, in her black silk cap, did all she could to
make her comfortable, and treated her with the greatest consideration
and respect--more so, perhaps, than she did Sister Gertrude, who, of
course, wore the habit of the Order, while Jean still wore her French
nurse's uniform.
Old Jenner, on the other hand, looked upon "them dressed-up Sisters o'
Mercy," as he termed them in the servants' hall, as interlopers, and was
often sarcastic at their expense. As an old servant of the family, he
felt jealous that they should wait upon his master while his presence
was not permitted in the sick-room.
All his life he had been used to wait upon "his young lordship," and he
was annoyed that he was not allowed to do so at that critical hour.
As soon as the injured man was sufficiently well to talk and to
recognise that he was being tended by sisters from the neighbouring
convent, he treated both with the greatest consideration. A car was
placed at their disposal every afternoon so that they might take an
airing, while the whole house was thrown open to them to wander where
they liked.
The library, however, was Jean's favourite room. It was a big, sombre,
restful place, with high windows of stained glass, a great carved
overmantel, and electric lights set in the ancient oaken ceiling. Lined
from ceiling to floor with books, and with several tables set about the
rich Turkey carpet, it was a cosy, restful place, where one could lounge
in a big arm-chair and dream.
Jean's duties in the sick-room were never irksome. The pair took it in
turns to sit with the patient every other night, and it was only then
that the hours in the green-shaded night-light seemed never ending. By
day she found Bracondale always interesting and frequently amusing.
After he had been in bed a fortnight the doctors allowed him to see
visitors, and several distinguished men called and were admitted by
Jean. These included the Prime Minister, politicians, and magnates of
commerce. And there were some mysterious visitors also, including a Mr.
Darnborough, who called one afternoon, being shown up by Jenner.
Jean, in surprise, found the butler and the visitor outside the door,
whereupon Jenner explained:
"This is Mr. Darnborough, nurse, a very great friend of his lordship. He
must see him alone, as they have confidential business to transact."
"Thank you, Jenner," replied Jean, rather stiffly. "If his lordship
wishes to see Mr. Darnborough alone he will probably tell me so."
And, surveying the visitor with some suspicion, she ushered him to the
sick man's side.
"Ah! my dear Darnborough!" cried his lordship, gaily, as soon as he
recognised him. "I'm very glad to see you. I heard that you were in
Cairo a week ago. Well, how are things in Egypt?"
"Just as full of trouble as ever," was the reply; "but----" and he
glanced inquiringly at Jean.
"Oh, yes, I forgot," exclaimed the Earl. "Nurse Jean, might I ask the
favour that you leave Mr. Darnborough to talk with me alone for half an
hour? I shall be all right--and my medicine is not due until five
o'clock."
Jean smiled at the pair.
"Certainly; I will come back when it is time for your lordship to have
the next dose," she answered.
And with that she passed noiselessly out of the room, the Earl's dark
eyes following her.
The door having closed, the pair were left alone. Then the Earl lay
listening attentively to the all-important secret report which
Darnborough had travelled down there to make.
CHAPTER XVI.
JEAN HAS A SURPRISE.
Jean, thus dismissed, descended to the library, where, across the dark
crimson carpet, the last rays of the gorgeous sunset slanted in through
the high windows in which were set the armorial bearings of the
dead-and-gone Bracondales in stained-glass escutcheons.
She crossed the great sombre apartment and stood gazing through the
diamond panes away over the level green of the broad park to where the
sea lay bathed in the golden light of the dying day.
Her eyes were fixed vacantly into space. She was thinking--thinking
again of that fateful paragraph in the paper--the unexpected news which
had rendered her a widow. And poor Adolphe? Alas! though he had been her
only friend and full of sympathy for her, yet he was now wearing out his
days in penal servitude at the dreaded Devil's Island.
She thought of him often with feelings of pity. Though a criminal of a
criminal stock, ill-bred, and with scarcely any education, yet he had
behaved to her as few men had behaved. He had always held her in high
esteem and respect. Even as she stood there she could hear his
high-pitched voice addressing her as "Madame."
Upstairs, by the bedside of the sick Cabinet Minister, the thin,
grey-faced man, "the eyes and ears of the Cabinet," was making a secret
report to his lordship.
Though the Earl of Bracondale, K.G., was His Majesty's Principal
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, yet Darnborough, the
ever-astute, sleepless man of secrets, was the keeper of Great Britain's
prestige abroad. Though his name never appeared on the roll of
Government servants, and did not draw any salary as an official, yet he
was the only man in England who could demand audience of the Sovereign
at any hour by day or by night, or who had the free _entrée_ to the
Royal residences and could attend any function uninvited.
As a statesman, as a secret agent, as an ingenious plotter in the
interests of his country, he was a genius. He was a discovery of the
late Lord Salisbury in the last days of the Victorian Era. At that time
he had been a Foreign Office clerk, a keen-eyed young man with a lock of
black hair hanging loosely across his brow. Lord Salisbury recognised in
him a man of genius as a diplomat, and with his usual bluntness called
him one day to Hatfield and gave him a very delicate mission abroad.
Darnborough went. He had audience with the Shah of Persia, juggled with
that bediamonded potentate, and came back with his draft of a secret
treaty directed against Russia's influence safely in his pocket. He had
achieved what British Ministers to Teheran for the previous fifteen
years had failed to effect. And from that moment Darnborough had been
allowed a free hand in international politics.
Lord Rosebery, Lord Lansdowne, and Sir Edward Grey had adopted the same
attitude towards him as the great Lord Salisbury. He was the one man who
knew the secret policy of Britain's enemies, the man who had so often
attended meetings of the Cabinet and warned it of the pitfalls open for
the destruction of British prestige.
At that moment the renowned chief of the Secret Service was explaining
the latest conspiracy afoot against England, a serious conspiracy
hatched in both Berlin and Vienna to embroil our nation in complications
in the Far East. Darnborough's agents in both capitals had that morning
arrived at Downing Street post-haste and reported upon what was in
progress, with the result that their chief had come to place before the
Foreign Minister the latest iniquity of diplomatic juggling.
His lordship lay in bed and listened to the man of secrets without
uttering a word.
At length he turned his head restlessly on the pillow and, with a weary
sigh, remarked:
"Ah! Darnborough, I fear that each day brings us nearer the peril,
nearer the day of Germany's attack. The exposure of those confidential
reports upon our naval manoeuvres was serious enough to our
diplomacy. The policy of the Government is, alas! one of false assurance
in our defences. The country has been lulled to sleep far too long.
False assurances of our national security have been given over and over
again, and upon them the Cabinet have pursued a policy of bluff. But,
alas! the days of Palmerston and Salisbury are past. Europe can gauge
the extent and strength of our national defence, and, with the
navigation of the air, we live no longer upon 'the tight little island'
of our revered ancestors."
"Yes," replied the man seated in the chair by the bedside, as he
stretched his legs forward and folded his arms. "In all the capitals it
is to-day the fashion to laugh at England's greatness, and to speak of
us as a declining Power. I hear it everywhere. The Great Powers are in
daily expectation of seeing the tail of the British lion badly twisted,
and I quite agree that the most unfortunate leakage of a national secret
was that report upon the last naval manoeuvres. The bubble of our
defensive and offensive power has burst."
"And poor Richard Harborne lost his life," remarked the Earl.
"Yes," replied the other, thoughtfully.
"He was a fine fellow, Darnborough--a very fine young fellow. He came to
see me once or twice upon confidential matters. You sent him to Mexico,
you'll remember, and he came to report to me personally. I was much
struck by his keen foresight and cleverness. Have you gained any further
information concerning his mysterious end?"
"I have made a good many inquiries, both at home and abroad, but
Harborne seems to have been something of a mystery himself. He was
strangely reserved, and something of a recluse in private life--lived in
chambers in the Temple when not travelling abroad, and kept himself very
much to himself."
"For any reason?"
"None, as far as I can tell. He was a merry, easy-going young fellow, a
member of the St. James's, and highly popular among the younger set at
the club, but he held aloof from them all he could. As I told you some
time ago, there was a lady in the case."
His lordship sighed.
"Ah! Darnborough, the best of men go under for the sake of a woman!"
"In this case I am not sure that Harborne was really a victim," replied
his visitor. "Only the other day, when in Borkum, I ascertained that
Harborne had been in Germany and met by appointment a young foreign
woman named Fräulein Montague. She was French, I was told, and very
pretty. It was she who carried on the negotiations for the purchase of
the secret of the new Krupp aerial gun."
"You ought to find her. She might tell you something."
"That's just what I am striving my utmost to do. I have learnt that she
was the daughter of a French restaurant-keeper, living somewhere in
London, and that after Harborne's death she married a Frenchman, whose
name I am unable, as yet, to ascertain."
"You will soon know it, Darnborough," remarked the Earl with a faint
smile. "You always know everything."
"Is it not my profession?" the other asked. "Yes, I shall try to
discover this lady, for I have a theory that she knows something which
we ought to know. In addition, she knows who killed Richard Harborne."
"I sincerely hope that you will be successful," declared the Foreign
Minister. "By Harborne's death Britain has lost a fearless patriot, a
man who served his country as truly and as well as any bedecorated
general, and who had faced death a dozen times unflinchingly in the
performance of his duties to his country and his sovereign."
"Yes," declared Darnborough, "if any man deserved a C.M.G. or a
knighthood, Dick Harborne most certainly did. I am the only person who
is in the position of knowing how devotedly he served his country."
"I know, I know!" exclaimed the Earl. "And if he had lived it was my
intention of including his name in the next Birthday Honours list."
"Poor fellow," remarked his chief. "I wonder who that woman Montague
was, and whether she really had any hand in the crime? That he was fond
of her I have learned on good authority, yet Dick was, after all, not
much of a ladies' man. Therefore I am somewhat surprised at the nature
of the information I have gathered. Nevertheless, I mean to find the
woman--and to know the truth."
"Have you any clue whatever to her identity?" inquired the Earl, looking
at him strangely.
"None, save what I have told you," was the slow, deliberate reply. "But
I think I shall eventually find her."
"You will, Darnborough. I know well what you mean when you reply in
those terms. I have experienced your vague responses before," laughed
his lordship.
But the great secret agent only grinned, and his grey face broadened
into a smile, while the Earl lay wondering whether, after all, his
visitor knew more concerning the mysterious female friend of Harborne
than he had admitted.
Darnborough went on with his secret report, placing before the Secretary
of State the exact nature of the war-cloud which once again threatened
to arise over Europe, and of which our Embassies in Berlin and Vienna,
with all the pomp of their officialdom, were as yet in ignorance.
And while the chief of the Secret Service was closeted with the Foreign
Minister, and the latter was scribbling some pencil notes of his
visitor's report, Jean waited downstairs in the library for the Earl's
permission to return to his room.
As the soft after-glow of early autumn spread over the western sea
before her, she turned at last from the long window and crossed the big
room, wherein deep shadows were now falling.
The Earl's mysterious visitor had been shown in there by Jenner before
being conducted to his lordship's room, and upon the Earl's pedestal
writing-table, set in an alcove overlooking the terrace, stood a small,
well-worn despatch-box of green enamelled steel, covered with dark green
canvas.
It had been brought by Darnborough, and stood unlocked and open, just as
he had taken from it the written reports of the agents of the Secret
Service who had arrived at Charing Cross early that morning from the
Continent.
Curiosity prompted Jean to pause and peer into it. She wondered what
business that rather sour-faced man had with the Earl, and what that
portable little steel box could contain.
A photograph--the photograph of a young and handsome woman--which was
lying face upwards, first attracted her attention. Curious, she thought,
that the man towards whom old Jenner had been so deferential should
carry about the picture of a pretty woman.
She took it in her fingers and held it in the light in order to examine
it more closely. Then, in replacing it, she glanced at the file of
papers uppermost, a thick bundle of various documents, stamped with the
arms of England and the words, "Foreign Office," and upon the outside of
which was written in a bold, clerkish hand, "_Re_ Richard Harborne,
deceased."
Richard Harborne! Sight of that name caused her to hold her breath.
She took out the file of papers with trembling hand and bent to examine
them in the light.
She saw there were newspaper cuttings, and long reports both in writing
and typed--reports signed by persons of whom she had no knowledge.
In one paper at which she glanced Dick was referred to as "The
Honourable Richard Davies Harborne, late of His Britannic Majesty's
Secret Service."
She read eagerly, hoping to discover something to throw light upon the
poor fellow's sad end, but the writing was small, cramped, and difficult
for her to decipher.
Yet, so deeply interested did she become that she did not hear the door
open.
Suddenly she heard a footstep behind her, and, starting quickly, turned
to find his lordship's mysterious visitor standing facing her with a
look of severe inquiry upon his grey, furrowed countenance.
"Oh! I--I--I'm so very sorry!" was all she could say, as she quickly
replaced the file of papers in the despatch-box. "I--I----"
But further words failed her, and she stood abashed, confused, and
ashamed.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DARKENING HORIZON.
"Well, nurse, I hardly expected that," he said, reprovingly, his serious
eyes fixed upon hers.
Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to
the writing table:
"I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I
saw those papers."
"And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse--eh?" Darnborough
remarked.
"A woman is always interested in what does not concern her," she replied
with a forced smile.
"Well, forgive me for saying so, but I consider it gross impertinence on
your part to have pried into my papers, young lady," exclaimed the chief
of the Secret Service, with some asperity.
"I trust you will forgive me, Mr. Darnborough, but, truth to tell, I
could not resist the temptation."
"Just as many other people could not resist--if they knew what secrets
this despatch-box of mine sometimes contains," he laughed. "Well, nurse,
I forgive you," he added cheerfully, his manner changing. "Go back to
Lord Bracondale, and make haste and get him well again. England is
sorely in need of him to-day--I can assure you."
"Does he wish for me?"
"Yes, he gave me a message asking you to return to him at once."
"I'll go, then," she replied. "I'm so glad you've forgiven me. My action
was, I know, horribly mean and quite unpardonable. Good evening."
"Good evening, nurse," Darnborough responded, as he busied himself
repacking his papers. She left the room.
The great man of secrets was, as yet, in ignorance that the pretty,
graceful, half-French nurse and Fräulein Montague, Dick Harborne's
friend, were one and the same person.
At that moment he had been talking with the very woman whom his agents
had been hunting the whole of Europe to find. Yet he bowed her out of
the room in entire ignorance of that fact.
And as she ascended the great, broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the
sick man's room she was filled with regret that Darnborough had not
entered five minutes later, when, by that time, she would have learnt
the secret of what was contained in those papers concerning Dick
Harborne's death.
Her head swam as she recalled that tragic afternoon and also the
afternoon succeeding it, when she had witnessed the terrible accident to
Noel Barclay, the naval aviator. She recollected how Ralph had been at
her side in the cab when they had both witnessed the collapse of the
aeroplane, and how utterly callous and unmoved he had been.
For the thousandth time she asked herself whether Ralph Ansell, her dead
husband, had ever discovered her friendship with Richard Harborne. It
was a purely platonic friendship. Their stations in life had been
totally different, yet he had always treated her gallantly, and she had,
in return, consented to assist him in several matters--"matters of
business" he had termed them. And in connection with one of them she had
gone to Germany as Fräulein Montague and met him on that memorable day
when she acted as a go-between.
Had Ralph found this out? If so, had Dick died by her husband's hand?
She was at the door of his lordship's room, a pretty figure in her blue
cotton gown and white nursing-apron and cap. For a moment she paused to
crush down all recollections of the past. Then she turned the handle and
entered on tip-toe, fearing lest her patient might be asleep.
But he was very wideawake--planning a line of policy to defeat the
suggested Austro-German alliance against Great Britain. Prompt measures
were necessary. At eight o'clock in the morning two King's Messengers
would be at Bracondale ready to take the cipher despatches--autograph
instructions to the British Ambassadors to the Courts of both Empires.
Though the Earl of Bracondale was confined to his bed, the foreign
policy of the nation had still to be conducted, and he had resumed
control of affairs as soon as ever his hand could use a pen.
A whole stream of officials from Downing Street, and others, called at
Bracondale daily and passed through his room. And to each and sundry he
gave precise and implicit instructions, the marvellously ingenious
policy evolved by his remarkable brain.
"It is time for your medicine," Jean said, in a soft voice, as she
entered. "It was due half an hour ago, but I hesitated to disturb you
with your visitor."
"Quite right, nurse. Never disturb me when Mr. Darnborough calls. My
business with him is always of the very highest importance, and always
strictly confidential."
Jean crossed to the small round table whereon stood the bottle and
medicine-glass, and after measuring the mixture carefully, handed it to
him, asking:
"Is your shoulder quite easy now?"
"Quite, nurse," was his reply, as, raising himself on his other elbow,
he tossed off the medicine, pulling a wry face afterwards. Then, with a
calm, set expression upon his countenance, he looked at her, and
remarked:
"I should think nursing must be a terribly dull, monotonous life, isn't
it? Surely the continual atmosphere of the sick-room is very
depressing?"
"I do not find it so," she replied brightly, with her pretty French
accent. "I am devoted to my calling."
"I quite recognise that," said his lordship, looking into her sweet,
serious eyes. "Yet it requires a good deal of self-denial, I should
imagine."
"Perhaps," and she smiled. "But self-denial is one of the first lessons
learnt in our Sisterhood."
"You joined the Sisterhood in France, did you not?" he asked.
"Yes; at the chief convent at Enghien, near Paris. But, of course, I
have not yet taken my vows as a nun."
"You intend to do so, I suppose?"
She was silent a few seconds; then, with her eyes averted, she answered
frankly:
"It is more than possible."
"Would it not be a great sacrifice? Remember, you are young. Why should
you cut yourself off so entirely from the world?"
Again she was silent. Then, seeing that he awaited her reply, she
answered:
"If I take the vows I shall do so because I have certain reasons for so
doing."
"Strong reasons?" he asked, still looking into her face.
She raised her fine eyes to his again, and nodded in the affirmative.
Then she turned and walked towards the table to put down the empty
glass.
Lord Bracondale for the first time realised that the nurse by whom
during the past few days he, confirmed bachelor that he was, had become
so strangely attracted, possessed a chapter of her life which she hoped
was closed for ever.
The curious situation attracted him. What, he wondered, could be the
nature of the secret of such a good, pure-minded, honest woman?
His eyes followed her as she moved about the room in silence. He was
wondering.
The autumn days passed slowly. His was a long illness.
Out in the great park the golden leaves, in falling, were swept along
the wide avenue by the strong winds from the sea, and the face of the
country had now become brown and desolate.
Jean, when she took her walk alone each afternoon, when off duty,
wandered over the bare fields or beside the grey, chill sea until, so
dispiriting did she find the scene, that she preferred to spend her
hours of rest in the big, well-warmed house or at the convent itself.
His lordship's recovery was very slow.
Sir Evered Morrison had been down three times from London and seen the
patient, and on the last occasion had been accompanied by another
renowned surgeon.
Though it was kept a profound secret, the truth was that the Earl was
not progressing as well as had been expected. Perhaps the strain of
State affairs was too heavy upon him, for though far from recovered, he
worked several hours with Mr. Charlton, his secretary, who sat at a
table at his bedside, writing despatches as his lordship dictated them.
Thus three months went by. November came and went, and still the Earl
had not left his room, although he was allowed to sit by the fire in his
dressing-gown for two hours each day.
The room had been transformed into a small library, and here his
lordship received callers who came from London upon official business.
Indeed, he on more than one occasion received an ambassador of one of
the Great Powers.
To Jean it was all a very novel and strange experience. At her patient's
bedside she met some of the greatest of the land, men whose names were
as household words. Even a royal prince called one day in his motor-car
and sat beside the fire with the invalid. And if the truth be told,
scarcely a person who visited the Earl did not remark upon his nurse's
grace, sweetness, and good looks.
Inwardly, the Earl of Bracondale was much mystified. Unconsciously,
though occupied with State affairs, he found himself thinking of her,
and when she was absent for rest he looked forward eagerly to her
return. To Sister Gertrude he spoke but little, while to Jean he was
always frank, open, and exceedingly chatty.
Yet constantly did the suspicion arise in his mind that she was in
possession of some dread secret, that there was a chapter in her past
which she was undesirous of revealing.
In the middle of December he grew convalescent, and Sir Evered one day
announced that he would, with care, completely recover.
The daily bulletins in the newspapers ceased to appear, and the world
then knew that the renowned Foreign Secretary was on his way back to
health.
This he attributed to Jean's careful nursing. To every one he was loud
in her praises. Indeed, he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while
she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and
declare that she had only performed her duty.
In those weeks they had been constantly in each other's society. The
long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework,
and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to
see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was
so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour
when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events.
Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would
put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an
interest--her past.
But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit
was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her
intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every
other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before
entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.
The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the
face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the
police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas!
of no avail.
Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she
would sigh to herself--sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration
and esteem.
Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombshell burst in Europe.
Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the
course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from
Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he
have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with
curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note
that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion,
notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.
More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her
presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed
very loath to part with her.
"Another week, nurse," he would say. "Perhaps I will be able to do
without you then. We shall see."
And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last
day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried
back to the convent.
It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days
which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having
sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat
little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her
business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she
had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.
The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long,
French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the
white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in
black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner--a fashion he
usually affected--sat reading.
Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds,
looking at him in silence.
Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced
with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.
CHAPTER XVIII.
LORD BRACONDALE'S CONFESSION.
"What!" he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. "Are you
really leaving, nurse?"
"Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the
convent. I have come to wish you good-bye."
"To wish me good-bye!" he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the
face. "How can I ever thank you--how can I ever repay you for all your
kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life
to your good nursing."
She smiled.
"I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment," was
her modest reply.
He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood
mute before her, overcome with gratitude.
"Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean," he said. "I know it, and
you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we have
begun to know each other, we have been companions, and--and you have
many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair."
"I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness," she
replied. "It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room."
"But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull,
careworn life," he declared quickly. "Since I found you at my bedside I
have become a different man."
"How?" she asked, very seriously.
"You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations--and a fresh
ambition."
"Of what?"
He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.
She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her
dark, startled eyes, replied:
"Of making you my wife, Jean."
"Your wife!" she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back,
astounded at the suggestion.
"Yes. Listen to me!" he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and
drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with
pale blue silk. "This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have
watched you--watched you for days and weeks--for gradually I came to
know how deeply attached I had become to you--that I love you!"
"No, no!" she exclaimed. "Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is
madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect--and you will see that I can
never become your wife!"
And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.
"But I repeat, Jean--I swear it--I love you!" he said. "I again repeat
my question--Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love
me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love
me--will you----"
"I cannot bear it!" she cried, struggling to free herself from his
strong embrace, while he held her hand and again passionately raised it
to his lips. "Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say
the least."
"I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!"
Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee,
her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in
deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl's declaration of
affection.
Through her mind, however, one thought ran--the difference in their
social status; he--a Cabinet Minister; and she--the widow of a thief!
Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and
she shuddered.
Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only
drew her closer to him.
"Tell me, Jean," he whispered. "May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I
cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young
lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as
ardently, as any man has ever loved a woman; and if you will be mine I
will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am
able."
"But, Lord Bracondale," she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, "I
am unworthy--I----"
"You are worthy, Jean," he declared, earnestly. "You are the only woman
in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a
bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and
diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is
still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I
hold as a member of the Cabinet--the love of a good woman, and you are
that woman. Tell me," he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to
her, "tell me--may I hope?"
Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white
brow beneath her velvet hat.
"I--I--ah! no, Lord Bracondale," she cried. "This is all very unwise.
You would soon regret."
"Regret!" he echoed. "No, I shall never regret, because, Jean, I love
you!"
"Have you ever thought that, while you are a peer and a Cabinet
Minister, I am only a nurse?"
"Social status should not be considered when a man loves a woman as
truly and devotedly as I love you. Remember, to you I owe my recovery,"
he said frankly. "In the weeks you have spent at my side I have realised
that life will now be a blank when you have left my roof. But must it be
so? Will you not take pity upon me and try to reciprocate, in even a
small degree, the great love I bear you? Do, Jean, I beg of you."
She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed across the terrace upon
the pretty Italian garden, to the belt of high, dark firs beyond.
"You ask me this, Lord Bracondale, and yet you do not even know my
surname!" she remarked at last.
"Whatever your surname may be, it makes no difference to me," was his
reply. "Whatever skeleton may be hidden in your cupboard is no affair of
mine. I ask nothing regarding your past life. To me, you are honest and
pure. I know that, or you would not lead the life you now lead. I only
know, Jean, that I love you," and, again taking her soft hand tenderly,
he once more raised it to his lips and imprinted upon it tender kisses.
His words showed her that his affection was genuine. His promise not to
seek to unveil her past gave her courage, for she had all along been
suspicious that he was endeavouring to learn her secret. What would he
say, how would he treat her, if he ever knew the ghastly truth?
"Now, I wish to assure you," he went on, "that I have no desire whatever
that you should tell me the slightest thing which you may wish to regard
as your own secret. All of us, more or less, possess some family
confidence which we have no desire to be paraded before our friends. A
wife should, of course, have no secrets from her husband after marriage.
But her secrets before she becomes a wife are her own, and her husband
has no right to inquire into them. I speak to you, Jean, as a man of
the world, as a man who has sympathy for women, and who is cognisant of
a woman's feelings."
"Do you really mean what you say, Lord Bracondale?" she asked, raising
her serious eyes inquiringly to his.
"I certainly do. I have never been more earnest, or sincere, in all my
life than I am at this moment."
"You certainly show a generous nature," she replied. His assurance had
swept away her fears. She dreaded lest he should know the truth of the
tragedy of her marriage. She held Darnborough in fear, because he seemed
always to suspect her. Besides, what could that file of papers have
contained--what facts concerning her friend's tragic end?
"I hate to think of your wearing your life out in a sick-room, Jean," he
said. "It is distressing to me that you, whom I love so dearly, should
be doomed to a convent life, however sincere, devout, and holy."
"It is my sphere," she replied.
"Your proper sphere is at my side--as my wife," he declared. "Ah, Jean,
will you only give me hope, will you only endeavour to show me a single
spark of affection, will you try and reciprocate, to the smallest
extent, my love for you? Mine is no boyish infatuation, but the love of
a man whose mind is matured, even soured by the world's follies and
vanities. I tell you that I love you. Will you be mine?"
She still hesitated. His question nonplussed her.
How could she, the widow of a notorious thief dare to become Countess of
Bracondale!
He noticed her hesitation, and put it down to her natural reticence and
shyness. He loved her with all his heart and soul. Never, in all his
career, had he ever met, in society or out of it, a woman to whom he had
been so deeply devoted. He had watched her closely with the keen
criticism of a practised mind, and he had found her to be his ideal.
She was still standing against the pale blue settee, leaning against it
for support. Her face was pale as death, with two pink spots in the
centre of the cheeks betraying her excitement and emotion. She dare not
open her mouth lest she should betray the reason of her hesitation. It
was upon the tip of her tongue to confess all.
Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the
secret of her past--that he only desired her for herself, that her past
was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he
loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how
every trait of his character was that of the high-born English
gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful
not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such
circumstances a woman's diplomacy is always marvellous. In the
concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a
man.
Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers,
though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated
his question in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with
the passion of true affection.
"Will you be mine, dearest?" he asked, a second time. "Will you trust in
me and throw in your lot in life with mine?"
She shook her head.
"No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most
injudicious. You must marry one of your own people."
"Never!" he cried in desperation. "If I marry, it will be only your own
dear self."
"But think--think what the world will say."
"Let the world say what it likes," he laughed. "Remember my policy and
my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I
have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private
life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my
wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour,
well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate--my
wife."
He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.
Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm
tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly:
"Jean, tell me, darling, that you do not hate me--that you will try to
love me--that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you."
For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her
lips moved.
But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.
"You will be mine, darling, will you not?" he urged. "Jean, I love
you--I'll love you for ever--always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope.
Say that you love me just a little--only just a little."
Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and
fell.
Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her
face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her
closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE GARDEN OF LOVE.
Six years later.
The years had gone by--happy, blissful years, during which the Countess
of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.
At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three
occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social
function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.
After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world
of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to
assist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was
compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it
cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant
functions--dinners, balls, diplomatic receptions, and the like--had been
given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted
as hostess to the _corps diplomatique_.
The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to
be among the most beautiful women in England.
Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had
the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet
little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote--a child with pretty, golden
hair--whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore
her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was
ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.
It was eight o'clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean
and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending
the summer.
Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of Japanese silk
embroidered with large, crimson roses, and passed through the
dining-room out upon the terrace overlooking the park, where, on warm
mornings, it was their habit to take their coffee in Continental style.
As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair
tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock,
came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her
governess, crying in her childish voice:
"Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your
birthday."
"Thank you, darling," replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms
and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim
person, at that moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which
she had just cut for the table.
Bracondale had been absent on official duties at Downing Street for a
week, but had returned by special train from Paddington, arriving at
Torquay at half-past three in the morning. He had indeed placed aside
some most pressing affairs of State in order to spend his wife's
birthday in her company.
And hardly had she kissed her child before he stepped forth from the
dining-room, exclaiming:
"Ah! good-morning, Jean. A very happy birthday, dearest," and bending,
he kissed her fondly, while she returned his caress.
"Gunter told me that you did not get home until nearly four o'clock. You
must be tired," she said.
"No, not very," he laughed. "I had a few hours' sleep in the train. I've
just come down to spend the day with you, dearest. I must get back at
midnight."
"It is really very good of you, dear," she replied. "You know how
pleased we both are to have you at our side, aren't we, Enid?"
"Yes, mother, of course we are," declared the child, as her father bent
to kiss her.
"And now, Jean, I've brought you down a little present, which I hope you
will like. Men are all fools when they buy a present for a woman. But
I've got this little trifle for you as a souvenir."
And placing his hand in the pocket of his dark, flannel jacket, he drew
out a magnificent string of pearls--a gift worth, at the least, fifteen
thousand pounds. Indeed, that was the price he had paid for them to a
dealer in Hatton Garden.
And he had carried them loose in his pocket, leaving the dark green
leather case lying upon the library table.
"Oh, how lovely!" Jean cried, in delight, as she saw them. Her eyes
sparkled, for she had often wished for such a beautiful row. Pretty
things delighted her, just as they delight a child. "It is good of you,
dearest," she said, looking fondly into his face. "I never dreamed that
I should have such a handsome present as that!"
"Let me put them on," he suggested.
Therefore she stood beside the little tea-table, and with Enid clinging
to her gown, Lord Bracondale clasped the pearls around his wife's neck,
and then bent to kiss her, a caress which she at once reciprocated,
repeating her warm thanks for the magnificent gift.
They suited her well, and Miss Oliver at once went and obtained a small
mirror so that her ladyship should see the effect for herself. Jean was
not vain. She only liked to wear jewels because it pleased her husband.
In the great safe in her dressing-room was stored an array of beautiful
jewels--the Bracondale heirlooms. Some of the diamonds had been reset,
and she wore them at various official functions. But she prized only
those which her husband had given to her. In the Bracondale family
jewels she took but little interest.
After all she was essentially modern and up-to-date. Her birth, her
youthful experience, the bitterness of her first marriage, and her
curious adventures had all combined to render her shrewd and far-seeing.
She had kept abreast of the times, and that being so, she could, by her
knowledge, often further her husband's interests.
It being her birthday, she invited Miss Oliver to take her coffee with
them, and they were a merry quartette when they sat down to chat in the
bright morning sunshine.
The scene was typically English--the long sweep of the park, the great
elms dotted here and there, and behind the dark belt of firs the blue
Channel sparkling in the morning sun.
"I think in the second week of September I may be able to get away from
Downing Street," Bracondale said, as he sipped his cup of black coffee,
for he seldom took anything else until his lunch, served at noon.
Morning was the best time for brain work, he always declared, and mental
work upon an empty stomach was always best.
"Shall we go to Saint Addresse?" suggested Jean. "The sea-bathing is
always beneficial to Enid, and, as you know, the villa, though small, is
awfully comfortable."
"We will go just where you like, dearest. I leave it for you to
arrange," was his reply.
"I love the villa," she replied, "and Enid does, too."
"Very well, let us go," he said. "I'll make arrangements for us to leave
in the second week in September."
Enid was delighted, and clapped her tiny hands with glee when Miss
Oliver told her of her mother's decision, and then the governess took
the child for a stroll around the rosery while husband and wife sat
together chatting.
Bracondale sat with his wife's hand in his, looking into her eyes, and
repeating his good wishes for many a happy return of that anniversary.
"I hope you are happy, Jean," he said at last. "I am trying to make you
so."
"I am very happy--happier now than I have ever been before in all my
life," she answered, looking affectionately into his face. "But do you
know that sometimes," she added, slowly, in an altered voice, "sometimes
I fear that this peace is too great, too sweet to last always. I am
dreading lest something might occur to wreck this great happiness of
mine."
He looked at her in surprise.
"Why do you dread that?" he asked.
"Because happiness is, alas! never lasting."
"Only ours."
"Ah!" she sighed, "let us hope so, dearest. Yet this strange presage of
coming evil, this shadow which I so often seem to see, appears so real,
so grim, and so threatening."
"I don't understand why you should entertain any fear," he exclaimed. "I
love you, Jean; I shall always love you."
She was silent, and he saw that something troubled her. Truth to tell,
the shadow of her past had once again arisen.
"Ah! But will you always love me as fondly as you now do?" she asked,
rather dubiously.
"I shall, Jean. I swear it. I love no other woman but yourself, my dear,
devoted wife."
"Many men have uttered those same words before. But they have lived to
recall and regret them."
"That is true," he said. "Yet it is also true that I love you with all
my heart and all my soul, and, further, that my love is so deep-rooted
that it cannot be shaken."
"We can only hope," she said in a low voice, sighing again. "Though my
happiness is so complete, I somehow cannot put this constant dread from
me. It is a strange, mysterious feeling that something will one day
happen to sweep away all my hopes and aspirations--that you and I might
be parted."
"Impossible, darling!" he cried, starting to his feet; and standing
behind her, he placed his arm tenderly around her neck. "What could ever
happen that would part us?"
Then the thought flashed across his mind. Her past was enveloped in
complete mystery, which, true to his word, he had never sought to probe.
"We never know what trials may be in store for us," she remarked. "We
never know what misfortunes may befall us, or what misunderstandings may
arise to destroy our mutual affection and part us."
"But surely you don't anticipate such a calamity?" he asked, looking
into her handsome countenance, his eyes fixed upon hers.
"Well, I--I hardly anticipate it, yet I cannot get rid of this
ever-increasing dread of the future which seems so constantly to obsess
me."
"Ah, I think it may be your nerves, darling," he remarked. "You had a
great strain placed upon you by the London season. All those
entertainments of yours must have run you down. You must go to
Monplaisir. The bracing air there will benefit you, no doubt. Here, in
Devon, it is highly relaxing."
"No, it is not my nerves," she protested. "It is my natural intuition.
Most women can scent impending danger."
He was inclined to laugh at her fears, and bent again to kiss her upon
the cheek.
"Take no heed of such unpleasant forebodings," he exclaimed cheerily.
"I, too, sometimes look upon the darker side of things, yet of late I've
come to the conclusion that it is utterly useless to meet trouble
half-way. Sufficient the day when misfortune falls."
"But surely we ought always to try and evade it?"
"If you are foredoomed to misfortune, it cannot be evaded," he declared.
"That is exactly my argument," she replied. "I feel that one day ere
long a dark shadow, perhaps of suspicion, I know not what, will fall
between us."
"And that we shall be parted!" he cried, starting. "You are certainly
cheerful to-day." And he smiled.
"I ought to be, after your lovely present," she said, touching the
pearls upon her neck with her white hand. "But I confess to you,
dearest, I am not. I am too supremely happy, and for that reason alone I
dread lest it may pass as all things in our life pass, and leave only
bitter regrets and sad disappointments behind."
"You speak in enigmas, Jean," he said, bending earnestly to her again.
"Tell me what really distresses you. Do you fear something real and
tangible, or is it only some vague foreboding?"
"The latter," she responded. "I seem always to see a grim, dark shadow
stretched before my path."
Bracondale remained silent in wonder for some time.
Then with words of comfort and reassurance, he again pressed his lips to
hers, and urged her to enjoy her happiness to its full extent, and to
let the future take care of itself.
"Have no care to-day, darling," he added. "It is your birthday, and I am
with you."
"Ah, yes, you are here--you, my own dear husband!"
And raising her lips, she smiled happily, and kissed him of her own
accord.
CHAPTER XX.
CROOKED CONFIDENCES.
About noon on the same day which Jean and her husband spent so happily
together by the Devon sea, two men of about thirty-five met in the cosy
little American bar of a well-known London hotel.
Both were wealthy Americans, smartly dressed in summer tweeds, and wore
soft felt hats of American shape.
One, a tall, thin, hard-faced man, who had been drinking a cocktail and
chatting with the barmaid while awaiting his friend, turned as the other
entered, and in his pronounced American accent exclaimed:
"Halloa, boy! Thought you weren't coming. Say, you're late."
The other--dark, clean-shaven, with a broad brow, and rather
good-looking--grasped his friend's hand and ordered a drink. Then,
tossing it off at one gulp, he walked with his friend into the adjoining
smoking-room, where they could be alone.
"What's up?" asked the newcomer, in a low, eager voice.
"Look here, Hoggan, my boy," exclaimed the taller of the two to the
newcomer, "I'm glad you've come along. I 'phoned you to your hotel at
half-past ten, but you were out. It seems there's trouble over that game
of poker you played with those two boys in Knightsbridge last night.
They've been to the police, so you'd better clear out at once."
"The police!" echoed the other, his dark brows knit. "Awkward, isn't
it?"
"Very. You go, old chap. Get across the Channel as quick as ever you
can, or I guess you'll have some unwelcome visitors. Don't go back to
the hotel. Abandon your traps, and clear out right away."
Silas P. Hoggan, the man with the broad brow, had no desire to make
further acquaintance with the police. As a cosmopolitan adventurer
he had lived for the past six years a life of remarkable experiences
in Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and Rome. He posed as a financier,
and had matured many schemes for public companies in all the
capitals--companies formed to exploit all sorts of enterprises, all
of which, however, had placed money in his pocket.
Two years before he had been worth thirty thousand pounds, the proceeds
of various crooked businesses. At that moment he had been in San
Francisco, when, by an unlucky mischance, a scheme of his had failed,
ingenious as it was, and now he found himself living in an expensive
hotel in London, with scarcely sufficient to settle his hotel bill.
Since the day when he had stolen those notes from the coat pocket of his
accomplice, and locked him in the trap so that the police should arrest
him, and thus give him time to escape--for Silas P. Hoggan and Ralph
Ansell were one and the same person--things had prospered with him, and
he had cultivated an air of prosperous refinement, in order to move in
the circle of high finance.
After his escape across the Seine, he had sought refuge in the house of
a friend in the Montmartre, where he had dried the soddened bank-notes
and turned them into cash. Then, after a week, he had taken the night
_rapide_ to Switzerland, and thence to Germany, where in Berlin he had
entered upon financial undertakings in partnership with a "crook" from
Chicago. Their first venture was the exploiting of a new motor tyre, out
of which they made a huge profit, although the patent was afterwards
found to be worthless. Then they moved to Russia, and successively to
Austria, to Denmark, and then across to the States.
Losses, followed by gains, had compelled him of late to adopt a more
certain mode of living, until now he found himself in London, staying at
one of its best hotels--for like all his class he always patronised the
best hotel and ate the best that money could buy--and earning a
precarious living by finding "pigeons to pluck," namely, scraping up
acquaintanceship with young men about town and playing with them games
of chance.
As a card-sharper, Silas P. Hoggan was an expert. Among the fraternity
"The American" was known as a clever crook, a man who was a past-master
in the art of bluff.
Yet his friend's warning had thoroughly alarmed him.
The circumstance which had been recalled was certainly an ugly one.
He had found his victims there, in a swell bar, as he had often found
them. About many of the London hotels and luxuriously appointed
restaurants and fashionable meeting places are always to be seen young
men of wealth and leisure who are easy prey to the swindler, the
blackmailer, or the sharper--the vultures of society.
A chance acquaintanceship, the suggestion of an evening at cards, a
visit to a theatre, with a bit of supper afterwards at an hotel, was, as
might be expected, followed by a friendly game at the rooms of the elder
of the two lads at Knightsbridge.
Hoggan left at three o'clock that morning with one hundred and two
pounds in his pocket in cash and notes, and four acceptances of one
hundred pounds each, drawn by the elder of the two victims.
Five hundred pounds for one evening's play was not a bad profit, yet
Hoggan never dreamed that the London police were already upon his track.
What his friend had suggested was the best way out of the difficulty. As
he had so often done before he must once again burn his boats and clear.
The outlook was far too risky. Yet he was filled with chagrin. In the
circumstances, the acceptances were useless.
"I shall want money," he remarked.
"Well, boy, I guess I haven't any cash-money to spare just at the
moment, as you know," replied his accomplice. "We've been hard hit
lately. I'm sorry we came across on this side."
"Our luck's out," Hoggan declared despondently, as he selected a
cigarette from his case and lit it. "What about little Lady
Michelcoombe? She ought to be good for a bit more."
"I'll try, if you like, boy. But for Heaven's sake clear out of this
infernal city, or you'll go to jail sure," urged Edward Patten, his
friend.
"Where shall I go, Ted? What's your advice?"
"Get over to Calais or Ostend, or by the Hook into Holland. Then slip
along to some quiet spot, and let me know where you are. Lie low until I
send you some oof. You can go on for a week or so, can't you?"
"For a fortnight."
"Good. Meanwhile, I'll touch her ladyship for a bit more."
"Yes. She's a perfect little gold-mine, isn't she?"
"Quite. We've had about four thousand from her already, and we hope to
get a bit more."
"You worked the game splendidly, Ted," Hoggan declared. "What fools some
women are."
"And you acted the part of lover perfectly, too. That night when I
caught you two together on the terrace at Monte Carlo--you remember? She
was leaning over the balustrade, looking out upon the moonlit sea, and
you were kissing her. Then I caught you at supper later, and found that
you were staying at the hotel where she was staying. All very
compromising for her, eh? When I called on her a week afterwards, and
suggested that she could shut my mouth for a consideration, I saw in a
moment that she was in deadly fear lest her husband should know. But I
was unaware that her husband had no idea that she had been to Monte, but
believed her to be staying with her sister near Edinburgh."
"She's paid pretty dearly for flirting with me," remarked Silas P.
Hoggan with a grin.
"Just as one or two others have, boy. Say, do you recollect that ugly
old widow in Venice? Je-hu! what a face! And didn't we make her cough
up, too--six thousand!"
"I'm rather sorry for the Michelcoombe woman," remarked Hoggan. "She's a
decent little sort."
"Still believes in you, boy, and looks upon me as a skunk. She has no
idea that you and I are in partnership," he laughed. "We'll get a
thousand or two more out of her yet. Fortunately, she doesn't know the
exact extent of my knowledge of her skittish indiscretions. Say, we
struck lucky when we fell in with her, eh?"
Hoggan reflected. It was certainly a cruel trick to have played upon a
woman. They had met casually in the Rooms at Monte Carlo, then he had
contrived to chat with her, invited her to tea at a famous _café_,
strolled with her, dined with her, and within a week had so fascinated
her with his charming manner that she had fallen in love with him, the
result being that Patten, who had watched the pair, suddenly came upon
them, and afterwards demanded hush-money, which he divided with his
friend.
Such instances of blackmail are much more frequent than are supposed.
There is a class of low-down adventurer who haunts the gayer resorts of
Europe, ever on the look-out for young married women who have been
ordered abroad for the benefit of their health, and whose husbands, on
account of their social, Parliamentary, or business duties, cannot
accompany them.
Hunting in couples, they mark down a victim, and while one, giving
himself the airs of wealth, and assuming a title, proceeds to flirt with
the lady, the other carefully watches. Too often a woman at the gay
watering-places of Europe finds the gaiety infectious and behaves
indiscreetly; too often she flirts with the good-looking young stranger
until, suddenly surprised in compromising circumstances, she realises
that her husband must never know, and is filled with fear lest he may
discover how she has allowed herself to be misled.
Then comes the blackmailer's chance. A hint that it would be better to
pay than court exposure generally has the desired effect, with the
result that the woman usually pawns what jewellery she possesses, and
pays up.
Many an unfortunate woman, though perfectly innocent of having committed
any wrong, has paid up, and even been driven to suicide rather than
allow the seeds of suspicion to be sown in her husband's heart.
It was so in Lady Michelcoombe's case. She was a sweet little woman,
daughter of a well-known earl, and married to Viscount Michelcoombe, a
man of great wealth, with a house in Grosvenor Square and four country
seats. Already the pair of adventurers had compelled her to pawn some of
her jewels and hand them the proceeds. She was quite innocent of having
committed any wrong, yet she dreaded lest her husband's suspicions might
be excited, and had no desire that he should learn that she had deceived
him by going to Monte Carlo instead of to her sister's. The real reason
was that she liked the gaiety and sunshine of the place, while her
husband strongly disapproved of it.
Certainly her clandestine visit had cost her dear.
"Well," exclaimed Hoggan, the perfect lover, "you'd better see her
ladyship as soon as possible. Guess she's still in London, eh?"
"I'll ring up later on and ask the fat old butler. But you clear out
right away, boy. There's no time to lose. Write to me at the _Poste
Restante_ in the Strand. Don't write here, the police may get hold of my
mail."
"If her ladyship turns on you, I guess you'll have to look slick."
"Bah! No fear of that, sonny. We've got her right there."
"You can't ever be sure where a woman is concerned. She might suddenly
throw discretion to the winds, and tell her husband all about it. Then
you, too, would have to clear right away."
"Guess I should," replied Patten. "But I don't fear her. I mean to get
another thousand out of her. Women who make fools of themselves have to
pay for it."
"Well, I must say you engineered it wonderfully," declared Hoggan.
"And I'll do so again with a little luck," his friend declared. "Come
and have another cocktail, and then shake the dust of this infernal city
off your feet. Every time you have a drink things look different."
The two men passed into the inner room, where the bar was situated, and
after a final Martini each, went out together into the handsome hall of
the hotel.
"Wal, so long, old pal! Clear out right away," whispered Patten, as he
shook his friend's hand.
And next moment Silas P. Hoggan passed across the courtyard and into the
busy Strand, once more a fugitive from justice.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE GREEN TABLE.
One afternoon a fortnight later Ralph Ansell, well dressed, and posing
as usual as a wealthy American, who had lived for many years in France,
stood at the window of his room in the expensive Palace Hotel at
Trouville, gazing upon the sunny _plage_, with its boarded promenade
placed on the wide stretch of yellow sand.
In the sunshine there were many bathers in remarkable costumes, enjoying
a dip in the blue sea, while the crowd of promenaders in summer clothes
passed up and down. The season was at its height, for it was the race
week at Deauville, and all the pleasure world of Paris had flocked
there.
Surely in the whole of gay Europe there is no brighter watering place
than Trouville-sur-Mer during the race week, and certainly the
played-out old Riviera, with the eternal Monte, is never so _chic_, nor
are the extravagant _modes_ ever so much in evidence, as at the
Normandie at Deauville, or upon the boarded promenade which runs before
those big, white hotels on the sands at Trouville.
Prices were, of course, prohibitive. The casino was at its gayest and
brightest, and the well-known American bar, close to the last-named
institution, Ansell patronised daily in order to scrape acquaintance
with its chance customers.
Having been up playing cards the greater part of the night before, he
had eaten his luncheon in bed, and had just risen and dressed.
He gazed out of his window down upon the sunny scene of seaside revelry,
as a bitter smile played upon his lips.
"What infernal luck I had last night," he muttered, between his teeth.
Then glancing at the dressing-table, his eyes fell upon the hotel bill,
which had come up on the tray with his _déjeuner_. "Fourteen hundred and
eighteen francs," he muttered, "and only those three louis to pay it
with."
Those last three louis had been flung carelessly upon the table when he
had undressed at six o'clock that morning.
He took them in his palm and looked at them.
"Not a word from Ted," he went on, with a sigh. "I wonder what can have
happened. Has he got a bit more out of the Michelcoombe woman and
cleared out? No," he added, "he's a white man. He'd never prove a
blackguard like that."
Ralph Ansell had not recalled his own dastardly action when he robbed,
deserted, and trapped his accomplice, Adolphe Carlier.
For a long time he remained silent as slowly he paced the small,
well-furnished room, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, his
eyes fixed upon the carpet. His fertile, inventive brain was trying to
devise some subtle means to obtain money. He was a genius regarding
schemes, and he put them before his victims in such an inviting and
attractive way that they found refusal impossible. For some of the
wildest of schemes he had been successful in subscribing money--money
which had enabled him to live well, to travel up and down Europe, and
pose as a man of considerable means.
Railway concessions in the Balkans, the exploitation of oil in Roumania,
of tin in Montenegro, and copper in Servia, had all been fruitful
sources of income, and now when they had failed he had fallen back upon
his skill at cards.
On the previous night, at a disreputable but luxuriant gaming-house
situated only a few dozen paces from the hotel, he had met his match. His
opponent was too wary, and he had lost very considerably. Indeed, all
that remained to him were those three golden louis.
And with that slender capital he intended that night to retrieve his
lost fortune. It is usually easy for the cheat to retrieve his fortune.
So with a laugh he lit a fresh cigarette, put his three louis in his
pocket, and muttered, "I wish to Heaven Ted would come over here. We
might work something big. I'll wire him."
Then, examining himself in the glass, and settling his tie, he walked
out at three o'clock in the afternoon, his first appearance that day.
Emerging from the lift into the hall, he passed through the low-built
lounge, where a number of summer muslin-dressed idlers were chatting and
laughing, and strode out upon the boards placed upon the golden
sea-sands outside the hotel.
Trouville is unique. Other watering-places have a drive along the
sea-front, but the gay little bathing "trou" has no sea-front. The
hotels abut upon the actual sands, just as Arcachon abuts upon its
shallow oyster-beds.
Ansell had not gone half-a-dozen yards along the _plage_ before he met a
young Englishman whose acquaintance he had made in a night _café_ on the
previous evening--a young cavalry officer, who greeted him merrily,
believing him to be the well-known American financier. Even the men who
are "British officers and gentlemen" in these days are prone to bow the
knee to American dollars, the golden key which unlocks the door of the
most exclusive English society. Only the old-fashioned squire of the
country village, the old-fashioned English hunting gentleman, will
despise the men who aspire to society because they can buy society's
smiles.
He walked with the young fellow as far as the casino. Ansell did not
even know his name, and as he had already summed him up as living on his
pay, with a load of debts behind, he did not trouble even to inquire.
Only wealthy "mugs" interested him.
Entering the casino, they had a drink together, then smoked and chatted.
Ansell was half inclined to tell a tale and borrow a "fiver," but so
clever was he that he feared lest the young fellow might speak of it in
Trouville. Therefore he stood at the bar laughing merrily, as was his
wont, and keeping a watchful eye upon any man who entered. He could
fascinate other men by cheery good humour, his disregard for worry, his
amusing optimism, and his brightness of conversation.
His training as a crook had surely been in a good school, yet there were
times when, before his vision, arose the face of the true, honest girl
whom he had married, and whom he had so cruelly treated. Sometimes, just
as at that hour when he stood at the bar of the great gilded casino,
laughing gaily, he would reflect upon his married life, and wonder where
Jean was and how she fared.
The young Englishman, Baldwin by name, was spending the season at
Trouville with his mother, who rented a pretty villa in the vicinity,
and he, being on leave, was idling amid the mad gaiety of
Paris-by-the-Sea.
He was much taken by the manners and airy talk of the rich American,
whom he found much less vulgar than many he had met in London society.
He made no ostentatious show, though it was whispered throughout
Trouville that he was one of the wealthiest men in Wall Street. What
would young Baldwin have thought if he had seen those three precious
louis?
Until five o'clock Ansell chatted and smoked with him, all the time his
brain busy to invent some fresh scheme to obtain funds. Then,
punctually at five, he took leave of his friend, and entering a
_fiacre_, drove along to Deauville, that fashionable village of smart
villas, with its big, white casino and its quaintly built but extremely
select Hotel Normandie.
At the latter he descended and, entering, passed through the big lounge
where the elegant world and the more elegant half world were chattering
and taking their tea after the races. He knew the big hotel well, and
many men and women glanced up and remarked as he passed, for Silas P.
Hoggan had already established a reputation.
Finding nobody to speak to, he took a seat in a corner, drank tea
because it was the correct thing to do, smoked a cigarette, and became
horribly bored.
Those who saw him reflected upon the great burden which huge wealth as
his must be, little dreaming that, after all, he was but a blackmailer
and an ingenious swindler.
Presently he looked in at the casino, where he found a French Baron whom
he knew, and then, after a further hour in the _café_, he returned to
his hotel in Trouville, where he dressed carefully and later on appeared
at dinner.
Whenever funds were especially low, Ralph Ansell always made it a rule
to order an expensive dinner. It preserved the illusion that he was
wealthy. He was especially fond of Russian Bortch soup, and this having
been ordered, it was served with great ceremony, a large piece of cream
being placed in the centre of the rich, brown liquid.
The dinner he ate that night was assuredly hardly in keeping with the
ugly fact that, within the next four days, if funds were not
forthcoming, he would find himself outside the hotel without his
newly-acquired luggage.
Truly his luck was clean out.
After dinner he sat outside the hotel for an hour, watching people pass
up and down the _plage_. The evening was close, and the sand reflected
back the hot rays of the sun absorbed during the day.
He was thinking. Only those three louis remained between him and
starvation. He must get money somehow--by what means it mattered not, so
long as he got it.
Suddenly, with a resolve, he rose and, passing along the _plage_,
arrived at a large, white house overlooking the sea, where, on the
second floor, he entered a luxuriously-furnished suite of rooms where
roulette was in full swing.
Many smartly-dressed men and women were playing around the green
table--some winning, some losing heavily.
The room, filled to overflowing, was almost suffocating, while, combined
with the chatter of women and the lower voices of men, was the
distinctive sound of the clink of gold as the croupier raked it in or
paid it out.
To several acquaintances Ralph nodded merrily as he strolled through the
room, until suddenly he came upon two men, wealthy he knew them to be,
with whom he had played cards on the previous night.
"Ah, messieurs!" he cried, greeting them merrily. "Are you prepared to
give me my revenge--eh?"
"Quite, m'sieur," was the reply of the elder of the men. "Shall it be in
the next room? There is a table free."
"At your pleasure," was "The American's" reply. The man who had proved
so shrewd on the previous night was absent, but the two other men were,
he knew, somewhat inexperienced at cards.
They passed into the adjoining room and there sat down, a stranger
joining them. Others were playing in the same room, including at least a
couple of "crooks" well known to Ansell--one man an elegantly-dressed
Italian and the other a Spaniard. The summer resorts of Europe prove the
happy hunting-ground for the knights of industry.
The cards were dealt, and the game played.
At the first _coup_ Ralph Ansell won three hundred francs, though he
played fairly. Again and again he won. His luck had returned.
In half an hour he had before him a pile of notes and gold representing
about three hundred pounds.
His face, however, was sphinx-like. Inveterate gambler that he was, he
never allowed his countenance to betray his emotion. Inwardly, however,
he was elated at his success, and when the stranger, a middle-aged
Russian Baron, proposed to stake an amount equal to his winnings, he
quickly welcomed the proposal.
In an instant he was on the alert. Now was the moment to perform one of
his clever card-sharping tricks, the trick by which he had so often won
big sums from the unsuspecting.
He placed two one-hundred franc notes aside in case he should lose; then
the cards were dealt, and the game played.
Only at that moment did the "crook" realise what an astute player the
stranger was.
He tried to cheat, and, though he performed the trick, nevertheless his
opponent actually beat him.
He bit his lip in anger.
Then, pushing the money across to the Baron, he rose from the table and
bade his companions good-night, though the sun was beginning to shine in
between the drawn curtains of the stuffy room.
CHAPTER XXII.
DISCLOSES A SCHEME.
At noon next day, while Ansell was lying lazily in bed in the Palace
Hotel reading the _Matin_, a page entered with a letter.
He tore it open, and found that it was dated from the railway buffet at
Calais-Maritime, and read:
"DEAR RALPH,--Impossible to send oof. Lady Michelcoombe
squeezed dry. Husband knows. So lie low.--TED."
He crushed the letter in his hand with an imprecation. His mine of
wealth had suddenly become exhausted.
From the address it was plain that Ted Patten was flying from England.
Lord Michelcoombe had discovered the truth. Probably his wife had
confessed, and explained how she had been trapped and money extracted
from her. Well he knew that the penalty for his offence was twenty
years' penal servitude.
It was all very well for Ted to advise him to "lie low," but that was
impossible without ample funds. The "crook" who is big enough to effect
a big _coup_ can go into safe retirement for years if necessary. But to
the man who is penniless that is impossible.
He rose and dressed even more carefully than usual. Afterwards he took
his _déjeuner_ in the big _salle-à-manger_ and drank half a bottle of
Krug with it. Like all men of his class, he was fastidious over his food
and wines. The afternoon he spent idling in the casino, and that night
he again visited the private gaming house with his two hundred francs,
or eight pounds, in his pocket.
It proved a gay night, for there was a dance in progress. In the
card-room, however, all was quiet, and there he again met the Russian,
who, however, was playing with three other men, strangers to him.
After he had critically inspected the company, he at length accepted the
invitation of a man he did not know to sit down to a friendly hand. In
those rooms he was believed to be the wealthy American, as he
represented himself to be.
The men he found himself playing with were Frenchmen, and very soon, by
dint of "working the trick," he succeeded in swindling them out of about
fifty pounds.
Then suddenly his luck turned dead against him. In three _coups_ he lost
everything, except two coins he had kept in his pocket.
Again, with a gambler's belief in chance, he made another stake, one of
five hundred francs.
The cards were dealt and played. Again he lost.
His brows knit, for he could not pay.
From his pocket he drew a silver case, and, taking out his card:
SILAS P. HOGGAN,
_San Diego, Cal._
handed it to the man who had invited him to play, with a promise to let
him have the money by noon next day.
In return he was given a card with the name: "PAUL FORESTIER, Château de
Polivac, Rhone."
The men bowed to each other with exquisite politeness, and then Ralph
Ansell went out upon the moonlit _plage_ with only two pounds in his
pocket, laughing bitterly at his continued run of ill-luck.
That night he took a long walk for miles beside the rocky coast of
Calvados, through the fashionable villages of Beuzeval and Cabourg,
meeting no one save two mounted gendarmes. The brilliant moon shone over
the Channel, and the cool air was refreshing after the close, stuffy
heat of the gaming-house.
As he walked, much of his adventurous past arose before him. He thought
of Jean, and wondered where she was. Swallowed in the vortex of
lower-class life of Paris--dead, probably.
And "The Eel"? He was still in prison, of course. Would they ever meet
again? He sincerely hoped not.
As he walked, he tried to formulate some plan for the future. To remain
further in Trouville was impossible. Besides, he would have once more to
sacrifice his small belongings and leave the hotel without settling his
account.
He was debating whether it would be wise to return to Paris. Would he,
in his genteel garb, be recognised by some agent of the Sûreté as "The
American"? There was danger. Was it wise to court it?
At a point of the road where it ran down upon the rocky beach, upon
which the moonlit sea was lapping lazily, he paused, and sat upon the
stump of a tree.
And there he reflected until the pink dawn spread, and upon the horizon
he saw the early morning steamer crossing from Havre.
He was broke!
Perhaps Ted Patten had treated him just as he had treated Adolphe. That
letter might, after all, be only a blind.
"He may have got money, and then written to frighten me," he muttered to
himself. "Strange that he didn't give an address. But I know where I
shall find him sooner or later. Harry's in Paris is his favourite place,
or the American Bar at the Grand at Brussels. Oh, yes, I shall find him.
First let me turn myself round."
Then, rising, he walked back to Trouville in the brilliant morning, and
going up to his room, went to bed.
Whenever he found himself in an hotel with no money to pay the bill, he
always feigned illness, and so awakened the sympathies of the
management. In some cases he had lain ill for weeks, living on luxuries,
and promising to settle for it all when he was able to get about.
He had done the trick at the Adlon, in Berlin, till found out, and again
at the Waldorf-Astoria, in New York. This time he intended to "work the
wheeze" on the Palace at Trouville, though he knew that he could not
live there long, for the short season was nearly at an end, and in about
three weeks the hotel would be closed.
But for a fortnight he remained in bed--or, at least, he was in bed
whenever anyone came in. The doctor who was called prescribed for acute
rheumatism, and the way in which the patient shammed pain was pathetic.
This enforced retirement was in one way irksome. Wrapped in his
dressing-gown, he, after a week in bed, was sufficiently well to sit at
the window and look down upon the gay crowd on the _plage_ below, and
sometimes he even found himself so well that he could appreciate a
cigar.
The manager, of course, sympathised with his wealthy visitor, and often
came up for an hour's chat, now that the busiest week of his season was
over.
All the time Ansell's inventive brain was busy. He was devising a new
scheme for money-making, and concocting an alluring prospectus of a
venture into which he hoped one "mug," or even two, might put money,
and thus form "the original syndicate," which in turn would supply him
with funds.
He knew Constantinople, the city where the foreign "crook" and
concession-hunter abounds. Among his unscrupulous friends was an
under-official at the Yildiz Kiosk, with whom he had had previous
dealings. Indeed, he had paid this official to fabricate and provide
bogus concessions purporting to be given under the seal of the Grand
Vizier of the Ottoman Empire. For one of these concessions--for mining
in Asia Minor--he had paid one thousand pounds two years ago, and had
sold it to a syndicate in St. Petersburg for ten thousand. When the
purchasers came to claim their rights they found the document to be a
forgery.
He was contemplating a similar _coup_. He had written to Youssof Effendi
asking if he were still open for business, and had received a telegram
answering in the affirmative. Therefore, after days of thought, he had
at last decided upon obtaining a "concession" for the erection and
working of a system of wireless telegraphy throughout the Turkish
Empire, and opening coast stations for public service.
His ideas he sent in a registered letter to his accomplice in
Constantinople, urging him to have the "concession" prepared in his name
with all haste.
And now he was only waiting from day to day to receive the document by
which he would be able to net from some unsuspecting persons a few
thousand pounds.
True, the bogus documents concerning the mining concession had borne the
actual seal of the Grand Vizier, but though an inquiry had been opened,
nothing had been discovered. Corruption is so rife in Turkey that the
Palace officials ever hang together, providing there is sufficient
backsheesh passing. Ralph knew that, therefore he was always liberal. It
paid him to be.
A few days before the date of the closing of the hotel a large, official
envelope, registered and heavily sealed, was brought up to Mr. Hoggan's
room by a page, and Ralph, opening it, found a formidable document in
Turkish, which he was unable to read, bearing four signatures, with the
big, embossed seal of the Grand Vizier of the Sultan.
With it was an official letter headed "Ministère des Affaires Étrangers,
Sublime Porte," enclosing a translation of the document in French, and
asking for an acknowledgment.
The imitation was, indeed, perfect. Ralph Ansell rubbed his hands with
glee. In Berlin he could obtain at least ten thousand pounds for it, if
he tried unsuspicious quarters.
But he wanted ready money to pay his hotel bill and to get to Germany.
An hour later, when the manager came up to pay his usual morning visit,
he expressed regret that he had to close the hotel, and added:
"We have still quite a number of visitors. Among them we have Mr.
Budden-Reynolds, of London. Do you happen to know him? They say he has
made a huge fortune in speculation on the Stock Exchange."
"Budden-Reynolds!" exclaimed Ralph, opening his eyes wide. "I've heard
of him, of course. A man who's in every wild-cat scheme afloat. By Jove!
That's fortunate. I must see him."
The introduction was not difficult, and that same evening Mr.
Budden-Reynolds, a stout, middle-aged, over-dressed man of rather Hebrew
countenance, was ushered into the "sick" financier's room.
"Say, sir, I'm very pleased to meet you. I must apologise for not being
able to come down to you, but I've had a stiff go of rheumatism. I heard
you were in this hotel, and I guess I've got something which will
interest you."
Then, when he had seated his visitor, he took from a drawer the
formidable registered packet, and drew out the Turkish concession.
The speculator, whose name was well known in financial circles, took it,
examined the seal and signatures curiously, and asked what it was.
"That," said Silas P. Hoggan, grandly, "is a concession from the Sultan
of Turkey to establish wireless telegraph stations where I like, and to
collect the revenue derived from them. Does it interest you, sir?"
Hoggan saw that the bait was a tempting one.
"Yes, a little," replied the speculator grandly.
"It's a splendid proposition! I'm half inclined to go with it straight
to the Marconi Company, who will take it over gladly at once. But I feel
that we shall do better with a private syndicate, who, in turn, will
resell to the Telefunken, the Goldsmidt, or Marconi Company."
"I think you are wise," was the reply.
"There's a heap of money in it! Think of all the coast stations we can
establish along the Levant, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea, to say
nothing of the inland public telegraph service. And this, as you will
see by the French translation, gives us a perfectly free hand to do
whatever we like, and charge the public what we like, providing we give
a royalty of five per cent. to the State."
Then he handed Mr. Budden-Reynolds the letter from the Sublime Porte,
together with the French translation.
The letter the speculator read through carefully, and then expressed a
desire to participate in the venture.
Ansell's bluff was superb.
The two men talked over the matter, "The American" drawing an entrancing
picture of the enormous sums which were bound to accrue on the
enterprise until, before he left the room, Mr. Budden-Reynolds declared
himself ready to put up three hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary
expenses if, in exchange, he might become one of the original syndicate.
Upon a sheet of the hotel notepaper a draft agreement was at once drawn
up, but not, however, until Ansell had raised many objections. He was
not eager to accept the money, a fact which greatly impressed the
victim.
An hour later, however, he took Mr. Budden-Reynolds' cheque, signed a
receipt, and from that moment his recovery from his illness was
extremely rapid.
Early next morning he handed in the cheque to a local bank for
telegraphic clearance--which would occupy two days--and then set about
packing.
On the second day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, he drew the money,
paid his hotel bill with a condescending air, and prepared to depart for
Constantinople, for, as he had explained to his victim, there were
several minor points in the concession which were not clear, and which
could only be settled by discussion on the spot.
Therefore he would go to Paris, and take the Orient Express direct to
the Bosphorus.
He had been smoking with Budden-Reynolds from four till five, and then
went out to the American bar for an _apéritif_.
When, however, he returned and ascended to his room to dress for dinner,
he was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the door, and his friend
Budden-Reynolds bustled in.
Facing "The American" suddenly, he said, purple with rage:
"Well, you're about the coolest and most clever thief I've ever met! Do
you know that your confounded Turkish concession isn't worth the paper
it's written upon?"
"What do you mean?" asked Ansell, with an air of injured innocence.
"I mean, sir," cried the speculator, "I mean that you are a thief and a
swindler, and I now intend to call in the police and have you arrested
for palming off upon me a bogus concession. As it happens, my son is in
the British Consulate in Constantinople, and, having wired to him to
investigate the facts, he has just sent me a reply to say that the Grand
Vizier has no knowledge of any such concession, and that it has not been
given by him. Indeed, the concession for wireless telegraphy in Turkey
was given to the Marconi Company a year ago, and, further, they have
already erected two coast-stations on the Black Sea."
Mr. Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal., unscrupulous as he was, stood
before his irate visitor absolutely nonplussed.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FALLING SHADOW.
The country _château_ of the Earl of Bracondale, though modestly named
the Villa Monplaisir, stood on the road to Fécamp amid the pines, about
half a mile from the sea, at St. Addresse, the new seaside suburb of
Havre.
St. Addresse is, perhaps, not so fashionable as Etretat or Yport, being
quieter and more restful, yet with excellent sea-bathing. Along the
broad _plage_ are numerous summer villas, with quaint gabled roofs and
small pointed towers in the French style--houses occupied in the season
mostly by wealthy Parisians.
Monplaisir, however, was the largest and most handsome residence in the
neighbourhood; and to it, when the British statesman was in residence,
came various French Ministers of State, and usually for a few days each
year the President of the Republic was his lordship's guest.
It was a big, modern house, with wide verandahs on each floor, which
gave extensive views of country and sea, a house with a high circular
slated tower at one end, and many gables with black oaken beams. Around
was a plantation of dark pines, protecting the house from the fierce,
sweeping winter winds of the Channel, and pretty, sheltered
flower-gardens, the whole enclosed with railings of white painted
ironwork.
Over the doorway was a handsome semi-circular roof of glass, while from
the west end of the house ran a large winter garden, full of palms and
exotic flowers.
Before his marriage, Bracondale had been inclined to sell the place, for
he went there so very little; but Jean, being French, expressed a wish
that it should be kept, as she liked to have a _pied-à-terre_ in her own
land. At Montplaisir she always enjoyed herself immensely, and the
bathing had always been to little Lady Enid of greatest benefit.
One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered
muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise
rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black
osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a
well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were
awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child
down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.
"How delightful it is here!" exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the
garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse
of distant sea.
"Ah!" he laughed. "You always prefer this place to Bracondale--eh? It
is but natural, because you are among your own people."
At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next
moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking
young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car,
raised his soft felt hat to them.
"Halloa!" exclaimed the Earl. "Here's Martin! Left Downing Street last
night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest."
"Yes, but you'll come with us, won't you?"
"Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought," was
the reply. Then his lordship left his wife's side, passed along the
verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His
Majesty's Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.
"Mornin', Martin!" exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. "Nice passage
over?"
"Yes, my lord," was the traveller's response. "It was raining hard,
however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday."
And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried,
he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable
seals and was marked "On His Britannic Majesty's Service."
The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard
work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened
it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in
a drawer and locked them up.
Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the
ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King's Messenger took
it with a word of thanks.
"When do you go back?" he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who
spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards
across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.
"To-night, at midnight."
"Will you call here at eight for despatches?"
"Certainly."
"They'll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople."
"Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey--to
Petersburg--on Friday," he added, speaking as though a journey to that
Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.
"Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want
you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no
objection, I suppose?"
"None," laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but
few short spells of leave. The life of a King's Messenger is, indeed, no
sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy _wagonlits_ of the
European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a
cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office,
had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man
of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy in Europe, and to
every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.
"And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street,
Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera," added Lord
Bracondale. "I wish you would bring it over next time you come."
"Certainly," Martin replied.
"Then, at eight o'clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,"
his lordship said.
So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box--a steel
one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas--upon a side table,
and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the
hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.
Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.
During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their
cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever
he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no
delay.
Upon Bracondale's brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned
Charlton's letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.
But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who
was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the
latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little
Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.
In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and were quickly driven
through the pines and out upon the sea-road until, when on the railed
esplanade at St. Addresse, the car pulled up suddenly at some steps
which led down to the sands.
Just before he did so his lordship, addressing Jean, said:
"I know you will excuse me staying with you this morning, dear, but I
must attend to those despatches Martin has brought. And they will
certainly take me till luncheon. So I will see you down to the beach and
then go back. The car shall come for you at half-past twelve."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Jean, regretfully. "But I know, dear, how
worried you are. So I'll forgive you. I shall spend a quiet morning with
a book, and Enid will enjoy herself."
Then the car stopped, he got out, helped Enid and Miss Oliver down, and
then gave his hand to Jean, who, with her dark cloak thrown over her
white dress, looked extremely dainty, and much younger than her years.
While the car waited for them, all four descended to the beach, where
little Enid with her governess went forward, while Bracondale and his
wife walked along to a secluded corner in the rocks, where it was Jean's
habit to read while awaiting her little girl.
Then, after he had seen her comfortably settled in the shadow, for the
sun was hot, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to where the car
awaited him, absorbed in the international problem which had, according
to Charlton, so suddenly arisen.
As he sat in the car and was whirled along the sea-front towards
Monplaisir, he passed a clean-shaven, well-dressed man in a dark suit
with carefully-ironed trousers, his handkerchief showing from his jacket
pocket, patent leather boots, grey spats, and a light grey Tyrolese hat.
The stranger gave him a curious, inquisitive glance as he passed, then,
looking after him, muttered some words beneath his breath.
The idler stood and watched the car disappear in the dust along the
wide, straight road, and then he walked to the steps over which Jean had
passed and followed in her footsteps.
As a matter of fact, this was not the first occasion upon which the
stranger had watched her ladyship.
On the previous day he had been passing along a street in Havre when a
big red car had passed, and in it was her ladyship with little Lady
Enid.
In a second, on looking up suddenly, he had recognised her.
But she had not seen him. At the moment she had been bending towards the
child, buttoning up her coat.
The stranger, who had only the day previous arrived in Havre, and was
awaiting a steamer to America, turned upon his heel and, chancing to
meet a postman face to face, pointed out the car and asked in French
whose it was.
The veteran, for he wore his medal, glanced at the car and replied:
"Ah! That is the automobile of the English lord. That is the Countess of
Bracondale, his wife."
"Do they live here?"
"At the Villa Monplaisir, m'sieur, out on the road to Fécamp."
"Are they rich?" he asked unconcernedly.
"Oh, yes; Lord Bracondale is the English Minister for Foreign Affairs."
"Bracondale!" echoed the stranger, recognising the name for the first
time. "And that is his wife?"
"Yes."
"And the child?"
"His daughter."
"Is Lady Bracondale often here, in Havre?" he inquired eagerly.
"Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping,"
replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his
letters.
"Look here, my friend," exclaimed the stranger. "Tell me something more
about that lady." And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man's hand.
"Ah! I fear I know but little--only what people say, m'sieur."
"What do they say?"
"That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife,
although she is such a great lady--one of the greatest ladies in
England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and
are enormously wealthy."
"Rich--eh?" remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled.
"You know nothing more?"
"No, m'sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who
know much more than I do."
"_Bien. Bon jour_," said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make
other and more diligent inquiries.
And the stranger, whose name was "Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.,"
was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his
car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of
the Countess.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE BLOW.
With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the
sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had
disappeared.
Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes
a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly
into his jacket pocket.
His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when
suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking
together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone.
"What luck!" he murmured. "I wonder how she'll take it? To think that I
should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she
was living here. I've got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if
you are cute, Ralph Ansell," he said, addressing himself, "you won't
want to use that ticket."
He chuckled and smiled.
"The Countess of Bracondale!" he muttered. "I wonder what lie she told
the Earl? Perhaps she's changed--become unscrupulous--since we last met.
I wonder?"
And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to
the spot where he had located that she must be.
He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn
smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in
the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in
ignorance of any person being present.
It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low
lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning
light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her
favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw
that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish
charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed--different indeed to the
black gown and print apron of those Paris days.
He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a
beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring
with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such
things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his
brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in
English:
"Well, Jean!"
Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed.
The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell
from her hand.
"Yes, it's me--Ralph Ansell, your husband!"
"You!" she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. "I--I----The
papers said you were dead--that--that----"
"I know," he laughed. "The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he
is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California."
"Hoggan!" she echoed, looking about her in dismay.
"Yes--and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean."
She was silent. What could she say?
Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his
familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her
in all its evil hideousness--the past which she had put behind her for
ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.
And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!
Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!
She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.
"Well--speak! Tell me who and what you are."
The word "what" cut deeply into her.
He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard,
remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.
"It seems long ago since we last met, doesn't it?" he remarked, in a
hard voice. "You left me because I was poor."
"Not because you were poor, Ralph," she managed to reply; "but because
you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back."
"Adolphe!" he cried in disgust. "The swine is still in prison, I
suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river--the
safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned,
but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I've had a most
pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself
into the Seine."
She looked at him with a strange expression.
"True; but his deeds still remain."
"Deeds--what do you mean?"
"I mean this!" she cried, starting to her feet and facing him
determinedly. "I mean that you--Ralph Ansell, my husband--killed Richard
Harborne!"
His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.
He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:
"Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing?
Harborne--oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in
England."
"Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the
authorities know that he died by your hand," was her slow reply. "It is
known that you acted as the cats'-paw--that it was you who tampered
with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before
our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time--at the time when I,
in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!"
"Then you love me no longer--eh, Jean?" he asked, facing her, his brows
knit.
"How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?"
"Murderer!" he cried, in anger. "You must prove it! I'll compel you to
prove it, or by gad! I'll--I'll strangle you!"
"The facts are already proved."
"How do you know?"
"From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband's
possession--locked up in his safe."
"Your husband!" repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "I have married, believing that you were
dead."
"And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!" he
laughed, with a sneer.
She said nothing.
At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face
she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single
blow--that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last
fallen to crush her.
No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother,
but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an
assassin to boot.
Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark
hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at
that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her
breath.
The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.
"I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again," she said
simply.
"Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this
precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he
knows how you've deceived him."
"I have told him no lie!"
"No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes."
"Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes," she replied. "The
affair is not forgotten, I assure you. And a word from me will sentence
you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve."
"Good. Do it!" he laughed, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I wish you
would. You would be rid of me then--the widow of a murderer!"
"You killed Richard Harborne because you were paid to do so--paid by a
spy of Germany," she said, very slowly. "The report which my husband
possesses tells the truth. The British Secret Service has spared no
pains to elucidate the mystery of Harborne's death."
"Then they also know that I married you, I suppose? They know you are
wife of the guilty man--eh?"
She bit her lip. That thought had not recently occurred to her. Long
ago, when it had, she had quickly crushed it down, believing that Ralph
was dead. But, on the contrary, he was there, standing before her, the
grim vision of the long-buried past.
"Well," she asked suddenly, "what do you want with me now that you have
found me?"
"Not much. I dare say you and I can come to terms."
"What terms? I don't understand?"
"You are my wife," he said. "Well, that is your secret--and mine. You
want to close my mouth," he said roughly. "And of course you can do
so--at a price."
"You want money in return for your silence?"
"Exactly, my dear girl. I am very sorry, but I have been a trifle
unfortunate in my speculations of late. I'm a financier now."
She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated
that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne,
who had been such a platonic friend to her.
"I wish you to understand, now and at once," she said, "that you will
have nothing from me."
He smiled at her.
"Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean," was his
reply. "Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a
secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely--even for the sake
of your charming little girl."
"Yes," she said angrily. "You taunt me with my position--why? Because
you want money--you, a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I
will go to the police and have you arrested."
"Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true
position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P.
Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy
Countess of Bracondale. Say--what a sensation it would cause in the
halfpenny papers, wouldn't it?"
Jean shuddered, and shrank back.
"And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne--you, the
hired assassin of the Baron," she retorted. "Oh, yes, all is known, I
assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale's
papers, and read it--every word."
"And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?"
"Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and,
further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay's aeroplane.
You can't deny it!"
"Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at
Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with
one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same
time I was rid of a rival."
"He was not my lover!" she protested, her cheeks scarlet. "I loved you,
and only you."
"Then why don't you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to
me?"
"Return!" she gasped. "Never!"
"But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false
pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband."
"That I cannot deny," she said, her hands twitching nervously. "But I
read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true," she added
in despair.
"Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have
been living in London all the time?"
"Mostly."
"I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens
of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I
confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess
Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person."
She shrank at the word "wife." That surely was the most evil day in all
her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview--how
to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen--how best to hide
her dread secret from Bracondale.
"Well," she said at last, "though you married me, Ralph, you never had a
spark of affection for me. Do you recollect the last night that I was
beneath your roof--your confession that you were a thief, and how you
raised your hand against me because I begged you not to run into danger.
How----?"
"Enough!" he interrupted roughly. "The past is dead and gone. I was a
fool then."
"But I remember it all too well, alas!" she said. "I remember how I
loved you, and how full and bitter was my disillusionment."
"And what do you intend doing now?" he asked defiantly.
"Nothing," was her reply. Truth to tell, she was nonplussed. She saw no
solution of the ghastly problem.
"But I want money," he declared, fiercely.
"I have none--only what my husband gives me."
"Husband! I'm your husband, remember. I tell you, Jean, I don't intend
to starve. I may be well dressed, but that's only bluff. I've got only a
few pounds in the world."
"I see," she said. "You intend to blackmail me. But I warn you that if
those are your tactics, I shall simply tell Bracondale what I know
concerning Richard Harborne."
"You will--will you!" he cried, fiercely, advancing towards her
threateningly. "By Heaven, if you breathe a word about that, I--_I'll
kill you_!"
And in his eyes shone a bright, murderous light--a light that she had
seen there once before--on the night of her departure.
She recognised how determined he was, and drew back in fear.
Then, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, he drew forth a small
leather wallet, much worn, and from it took a soiled, crumpled but
carefully-preserved letter, which he opened and presented for her
inspection.
"Do you recognise this?" he asked, with a sinister grin.
She drew back and held her breath.
"I'll read it," he said with a triumphant laugh. "I kept it as a
souvenir. The man you call husband will no doubt be very pleased to see
it." Then he read the words:
"_In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer
longer. Certain hidden things in your life frighten me.
Farewell. Forget me._--JEAN."
For a few seconds she was silent. Her face was white as paper.
Then, with a sudden outburst, she gasped, in a low, terrified voice, and
putting up her arms with a wild gesture:
"No, no! You must not show that to him. You won't, Ralph--for my sake,
you won't. Will you?"
CHAPTER XXV.
TO PAY THE PRICE.
"Well?" asked Ansell, looking at his wife with a distinctly evil grin.
"Well?" she answered blankly, for want of something else to say.
"What will you give me for this letter?" he asked, carefully replacing
it in his wallet and transferring it to his pocket with an air of
supreme satisfaction.
"I have nothing to give, Ralph."
"But you can find something quite easily," he urged, with mock
politeness. "Your ladyship must control a bit of cash-money. Remember,
I've already made enquiries, and I know quite well that this man
Bracondale is extremely wealthy. Surely he doesn't keep too tight a hold
on the purse-strings!"
"I have already told you that I have no money except what Lord
Bracondale gives me, and he often looks at my banker's pass-book. He
would quickly ask me where the money had gone to."
"Bah! You are a woman, and a woman can easily make an excuse. He'll
believe anything if he is really fond of you, as I suppose he must be.
You wouldn't like him to have that letter--would you, now?"
"No. I've told you that," she replied, her pale, dry lips moving
nervously.
"Then we shall have to discuss very seriously ways and means, and come
to terms, my girl," was his rough rejoinder.
"But how can I make terms with you?"
"Quite easily--by getting money."
"I can't!" she cried.
"Well, I guess I'm not going to starve and see you living in luxury--a
leader of London society. It isn't likely, now, is it?"
"No; knowing you as well as I do, I suppose it isn't likely."
"Ah! You do me an injustice, Jean," he said. "I only want just
sufficient to get away from here--to America--and begin afresh a new
life. I'll turn over a new leaf--believe me, I will. I want to, but I
haven't the cash-money to do it. To be honest costs money."
"Yes," she sighed. "I suppose it does. And to be dishonest, alas! is
always profitable in these days, when honour stands at a premium."
"Well, how much can you get for me?" he asked roughly.
"Nothing," she replied, holding out her hands in despair. "Where am I to
get money from?"
"You know best, Jean. I don't. All I know is, I want money--and I mean
to have it."
"But I tell you I can't get any," she protested.
"You'll have to. You don't want Bracondale to know the truth, do you?"
he asked.
She shook her head. Her eyes were wild and haggard, her cheeks as pale
as death.
"Well, look here," he said, again thrusting his hands in the pockets of
his jacket. "Give me five thousand pounds, and you shall have your
letter. I will be silent, and we will never meet again. I'll go back to
America, and give my firm promise never to cross to Europe again."
"Five thousand pounds!" echoed the distracted woman. "Why, I can't get
such a sum! You must surely know that."
"You will do so somehow--in order to save your honour."
"What is the use of discussing it?" she asked. "I tell you such a
proposal is entirely out of the question."
"Very well. Then you must bear the consequences. If you won't pay me,
perhaps Bracondale will."
"What!" she gasped. "You would go to my husband?"
"Husband!" he sneered. "I'm your husband, my girl. And I mean that
either you or Bracondale shall pay. You thought yourself rid of me, but
you were mistaken, you see," he added, with a hard laugh of triumph.
"I was misled by the newspapers," she said, simply, as she stood with
her back against the grey rocks. "Had I not believed that you had lost
your life in the Seine I should not have married Lord Bracondale."
"Deceived him, you mean, not married him," he said harshly. "Well, I
haven't much time to wait. Besides, that governess of yours may come
back. It won't be nice for that little girl to be taken from you, will
it?" he said. "But when Bracondale knows, that's what will happen."
"Never. He is not cruel and inhuman, like you, Ralph!" she responded,
bitterly.
"I'm merely asking for what is due to me. I find that another man has
usurped my place, and I want my price."
"And that is--what?" she asked, after a few minutes' pause, looking him
straight in the face.
"Five thousand, and this interesting letter is yours."
"Impossible!" she cried. "You might as well ask me for the crown of
England."
"Look here," he said, putting out his hand towards her, but she shrank
from his touch--the touch of a hand stained with the blood of Richard
Harborne.
"No. I won't hurt you," he laughed, believing that she stood in fear of
him. "I want nothing but the cash-money. I'll call at Monplaisir this
evening for it. By Jove!" he added. "That's a nice, comfortable house
of yours. You've been very happy there, both of you, I suppose--eh?"
"Yes," she sighed. His threat to call at the villa held her appalled.
She saw no way to appease this man, who was now bent upon her ruin. The
present, with all its happiness, had faded from her and the future was
only a grey vista of grief and despair.
"You know quite well," he went on, "that when you tell me that you can't
get money, I don't believe you. You surely aren't going to stand by and
see your husband starve, are you? I've had cursed bad luck of late. A
year ago I was rich, but to-day I'm broke again--utterly broke, and,
moreover, the police are looking for me. That's why I want to get away
to America--with your help."
"But don't I say I can't help you?" she protested. "Ah!" she exclaimed,
a second later. "You can have my brooch--here it is," and she proceeded
to take it from the breast of her white gown.
"Bah! What's the good of that to me?" he laughed. "No. Keep it--why, it
isn't worth more than fifty pounds! You surely don't think I'm going to
let you have your affectionate letter for that sum, do you?"
"I've got nothing else."
"But you have at home," he urged. "What other jewels have you got?"
"Nothing of great value here. The Bracondale jewels are at Bracondale,"
she replied slowly, after a few seconds' deliberation. "I have nothing
much here, except----"
And she drew herself up short.
"Except what?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing."
"Oh, yes, you have," he said, in a hard voice. "Now tell me. What have
you got of real value?"
"I tell you I have nothing."
"That's a lie," he declared. "You've got something you don't want to
part with--something you value very much."
She was silent and stood there pale and trembling before him. He saw her
hesitation, and knew that his allegation was the truth.
"Come, out with it! I mustn't stay here any longer. We shall be seen,"
he said. "What have you got?"
She bit her blanched lip.
"My pearls," she replied in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
"What pearls?"
"Matched pearls which my husband gave me for my birthday."
"Valuable--eh?"
"Yes," she sighed. "But you can't have them. I prize them very much."
"Greater than your own honour?" he asked, seriously.
"You shall never have them. What excuse could I make to Bracondale?"
"Leave that to me. Pearls are easier negotiated than diamonds. I can
sell them at once. If they are the good goods I'll give you the letter
in exchange for them. That's a bargain."
"They cost several thousands, I know."
"Good! Then we'll conclude the business to-night."
"No, no!" she protested. "What could I tell my husband?"
"I wish you wouldn't keep referring to him as husband, Jean, when he is
not your husband."
"To the world he is. I am no longer Jean Ansell, remember," she
protested.
"Well, we won't discuss that. Let's arrange how the exchange shall be
made. Now, around your house is a verandah. You will accidentally leave
the pearls on the table in one of the rooms at midnight, with the long
window unfastened, and I'll look in and get them. You will be in the
room, and we can make the exchange. Next day you will discover your loss
and tell the police that burglars have visited you. By that time I shall
be in Amsterdam. It's quite easy. Only keep your nerve, girl."
"But----"
"There are no 'buts.' We are going to carry this thing through."
She hesitated, thinking deeply. Then she openly defied him.
"I will not let you have those pearls. He gave them to me, and I won't
arrange a mock burglary."
"You won't give them to me as price of your honour--eh? Then you're a
bigger fool than I took you for. I dare say they won't fetch more than a
thousand--perhaps not that. So it's a sporting offer I am making you."
"You can have anything except that."
"I don't want anything else. I want to do you a good turn by getting
away from here--away from you for ever. I quite understand your feelings
and sympathise with you, I assure you," he said, his manner changing
slightly.
But she was obdurate. Therefore he at once altered his tactics and
resorted again to his bullying methods. He was a low-down blackguard,
although he was dressed as a gentleman and cultivated an air of
refinement. Yet he was a prince among thieves and swindlers.
"All this is mere empty talk," he declared at last. "I tell you that if
you refuse to do as I direct I shall call upon Bracondale this evening
and ask for alms. Oh," he laughed, "it will be quite amusing to see his
face when I show him your letter, for he no doubt believes in you. Are
you prepared to face the music?"
And, pausing, he fixed his cruel, relentless eyes, beady and brilliant
as those of a snake, upon his trembling victim.
She did not answer, though she now realised that he held her future in
his remorseless hands. This man whom she had once loved with a strong,
all-consuming passion, had risen to smite her and to ruin her.
"Will Bracondale be at home to-night?" he asked presently.
"No," she responded in a low whisper. "He will be at his club. He has
arranged to play bridge with M. Polivin, the Minister of Commerce. You
won't see him."
"Good. Then you will be alone--to meet me and take the letter in
exchange for the pearls, which I shall take," he said, confidently. "I
had a look around the house early this morning before anyone was about.
It would be very easy to enter there--quite inviting, I assure you. I
wonder you don't take precautions against intruders. I speak as an
expert," and he laughed grimly.
But she made no response.
"I notice," he went on--"I notice that the room on the left of the front
entrance is a small salon. It has a long window leading to the balcony.
Leave that unlatched, and I will come there at midnight. If you are
there, leave the light on. If there is danger then put it out. I shall
know."
"But I can't--I won't."
"You will! You want that letter, and I will give it to you in exchange
for the pearls! He will suspect nothing. A thief got in and stole them.
That was all. He is rich, and will buy you another set. So why trouble
further?"
"No--I----"
"Yes--ah, look! That woman is coming back with the child. I must clear.
Remember, it is all arranged. At midnight to-night I'll bring you the
letter. _Au revoir!_"
And next moment the evil shadow of her life disappeared around the
corner of the rock and was gone.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A CHILD'S QUESTION.
At luncheon Jean met her husband, but so agitated was she that she
scarce dare raise her eyes to his.
Before entering the dining-room where Bracondale awaited her she halted
at the door, and with a strenuous effort calmed herself. Then she went
forward with a forced smile upon her lips, though her cheeks were pale
and she knew that her hand trembled.
His lordship had spent a strenuous morning with the papers Martin had
brought from the Foreign Office. At least two of our Ambassadors to the
Powers had asked for instructions, and their questions presented
difficult and intricate problems which really ought to have gone before
the Cabinet. But as there would not be another meeting just yet,
everyone being away on vacation, it devolved upon Bracondale to decide
the question of Britain's policy himself.
In the pretty, cosy room, outside which the striped sun-blinds were
down, rendering it cool and pleasant after the midday heat on the beach,
the Foreign Minister stood thoughtfully stroking his moustache.
"Well, Jean," he asked, "had a quiet morning, dear?"
"Yes, delightful," was her reply. "The heat is, however, rather
oppressive."
"I'm awfully sorry I could not come down to fetch you, dear," he said;
"but I've been dreadfully busy all the morning--lots of worries, as you
know. I've only this moment risen from my table. There are more
complications between France and Austria."
"Oh, I know how busy you are," she replied as she seated herself at the
daintily set-out table, with its flowers, bright silver, and cut glass.
Their luncheons _tête-à-tête_ were always pleasant, for on such
occasions they sat at a small side-table, preferring it to the big
centre-table when there were no guests.
"Did you see anyone you knew?" he asked, carelessly, for often Mme.
Polivin, the rather stout wife of the Minister of Commerce, went to the
sands with her children.
"Well, nobody particular," was her reply, with feigned unconcern. "Enid
enjoyed herself immensely," she went on quickly. "She didn't bathe, so I
told her to make a sand castle. She was delighted, especially when the
water came in under the moat."
And then, as he seated himself opposite her, old Jenner entered with the
_hors d'oeuvres_.
Jean was thankful that the room, shaded as it was, was in half darkness,
so that her husband could not see how pale she was. Through the open
windows came the scent of flowers borne upon the warm air, and the
silence of the room was over everything.
He began to discuss their plans for the autumn.
"Trevor asks us to go a cruise in his yacht up the Adriatic in October,"
he said. "I had a letter from him this morning, dated from Stavanger.
You remember what a good time we had with him when we went to Algiers
and Tunis two years ago."
"I've never been to the Adriatic," she remarked.
"I went once, about nine years ago, with that financial fellow
Pettigrew--the fellow who afterwards met with a fatal accident in a lift
at the Grand in Paris. It was delightful. You would be interested in all
the little places along the beautiful Dalmatian coast--Zara, where they
make the maraschino; Sebenico, Pola, the Bay of Cattaro, and Ragusa, the
old city of the Venetian Republic. Shall we accept?"
"It is awfully kind of your brother-in-law," she replied. "Yes, I'd love
to go--if you could get away."
"I could come overland and join you at Venice or Trieste, and then we
could put into Brindisi or Ancona for any urgent despatches. You see,
there's no convenient rail on the Dalmatian side. Yes, I think I could
manage it."
"Then accept by all means. I love the sea, as you know. Where do they
sail from?"
"Marseilles. You will join the _Marama_ there. She will then touch at
Genoa, Naples, and go through the Straits of Messina, and I'll join you
in the Adriatic."
"Helen is going, I suppose?" she remarked, referring to Trevor's wife.
"Of course, and the two Henderson girls, and little Lady Runton. So we
shall be a merry party."
Jean was delighted. In the excitement of the moment she forgot the dark
cloud that had fallen upon her.
Yet next second she reflected, and wished that her departure upon that
cruiser was immediate, in order that she could escape the man who had so
suddenly and unexpectedly returned into her life.
"We shall go to Scotland after our return," he said. "Remember, we've
got house parties on the eighth, seventeenth, and thirtieth of
November."
"And Christmas at Bracondale," she said. "I love spending it there."
"Or perhaps on the Riviera? Why not? It is warmer," he suggested.
"It may be, but I really think that nowadays, with the change in the
English climate, it is just as warm in Torquay at Christmas as at Nice."
"Yes," he replied with a smile. "Perhaps you are right, after all, Jean.
If you want warmth and sunshine from December to April you must go to
Egypt for it. People have begun to realise that it is often colder in
Monte Carlo than in London. And yet it used not to be. I remember when I
was a lad and went to Nice with the old governor each winter, we had
real warm sunshine. Yes, the climate of the south of Europe has become
colder, just as our English climate has become less severe in winter."
And he ate his lobster salad and drank a glass of Chablis, thoroughly
enjoying it after the hard mental strain of the morning.
"I think I shall go for a run in the car this afternoon. I feel to want
some fresh air. Will you come?" he asked.
"I think not, dear," was her reply. "I have a little headache--the sun,
I think--so I shall rest."
"Very well. I'll have a drive alone."
"Let's see," she exclaimed; "didn't you say you were going out
to-night?"
"Yes, dear, to Polivin's. There's a man-party this evening. You don't
mind, do you? I promised him some time ago, and for political reasons I
desire to be friendly. I shan't go till ten o'clock, and no doubt you
will go to bed early."
"By all means go, dear," she said, very sweetly. "I--I had forgotten the
day."
It was not often he left her alone of an evening when they were together
during the recess. In the London season she was, as a political hostess,
often compelled to go out alone, while he, too, had frequently to attend
functions where it was impossible for her to be present. Sometimes,
indeed, days and days passed and they only met at breakfast.
Frequently, too, he was so engrossed in affairs of State that, though he
was in the house, yet he was closeted hours and hours with Darnborough,
with some high Foreign Office official, an ambassador, or a Cabinet
Minister.
That big, sombre room of his in the dark, gloomy London mansion was
indeed a room of political secrets, just as was his private room at the
Foreign Office. If those walls could but speak, what strange tales they
might tell--tales of clever juggling with the Powers, of ingenious
counter-plots against conspiracies ever arising to disturb the European
peace, plots concocted by Britain's enemies across the seas, and the
evolution of master strokes of foreign policy.
"Are you quite sure you prefer not to go for a drive this afternoon?" he
asked, looking across at her.
"No, really, dear. I don't feel at all fit. It is the excessive heat. It
was awfully oppressive on the beach."
"Very well, dear. Rest then, and get right by the time I get in for
tea."
She looked at him from beneath her half-closed lashes.
Why had he asked her whether she had met anyone she knew that morning?
It was not a usual question of his.
Could he know anything? Had he been present and seen the meeting?
No, that was impossible. He had been at home all the morning. She had
made enquiry of Jenner as she came in, so as to satisfy herself.
Yet there was a strange suspicion in his manner, she thought. It may
have been her fancy, nevertheless he seemed unduly curious, and that
question of his had set her wondering.
For some moments she ate her dessert in silence.
Before her arose all the horror of that amazing meeting. The words of
the criminal who was her husband rang in her ears, cruel, brutal, and
relentless. He had threatened to call there at the villa, and hand her
letter to Bracondale, a threat which, she knew, he would carry out if
she did not appease him and bow to his will.
She was to exchange those pearls, Bracondale's valued gift, for the
silence of a blackmailer and assassin! Ah! the very thought of it drove
her to desperation. Yet she was about to do it for Bracondale's sake;
for the sake of little Enid, whom she so dearly loved.
Every word the brute had uttered had burned into her brain. Her temples
throbbed as though her skull must burst. But she fought against the evil
and against a collapse. She put on a brave front, and when Bracondale
addressed her she laughed lightly as though she had not a single care in
all the world.
The meal over, she took a scarlet carnation from the silver épergne
between them, broke the stem and, bending, placed it in the lapel of his
coat, receiving as reward a fond, sweet kiss, old Jenner having finally
left the room.
"Now go and rest, dearest," his lordship said. "I have a few letters I
will write before I go out."
And he was about to cross to the door when it suddenly opened, and
little Enid in her white muslin dress danced into the room, rushing up
to her mother's outstretched arms.
Bracondale caught the child and, taking her up, kissed her fondly.
Then, when he set her down again, she rushed to Jean, and in her
childish voice asked:
"Mother, I was so afraid this morning when I saw you talking to that
nasty man!"
"Nasty man!" echoed Jean, her heart standing still.
"Yes, mother. I ran across from Miss Oliver and was coming to you, but
when I got round the rock I saw--oh, I saw a nasty man raising his
hands, and talking. And you were so frightened--and so was I. So I ran
back again. He was a nasty, bad man."
For a second a dead silence fell.
Then Jean, with a supreme effort, collected her thoughts and exercised
all her self-control.
"What was that, Jean?" inquired Bracondale quickly.
"Oh, nothing. A man came along begging--rather a well-dressed man he
seemed to be. And because I refused to give him anything he commenced to
abuse me. But I soon sent him away."
"The child says you were afraid."
"Afraid!" she laughed, with a strange, hysterical little laugh. "If I
had been I should have called for help. He was only some loafer or other
who, finding me alone, thought he could get a franc, I suppose." And
then, after a pause, she added, "I had a similar experience one day last
year. The police really ought to keep the sands clear of such persons."
"What was he like? I'll tell the chief of police about it."
"Well, really, I didn't take very much notice," she replied. "I was
reading, and looking up suddenly found him standing before me. I had no
idea that Enid saw him. He asked me for money in a very rough manner.
And naturally I declined, and told him that if he did not clear off I
would shout for help. So--well, after a few more abusive words, he slunk
away."
"He might have stolen your brooch," Bracondale remarked.
"He might, certainly," she said. "Not until after he had gone did I
realise how helpless I had been."
"Yes, mother," exclaimed the little girl, "but you were frightened,
weren't you? I thought he was going to hit you, for you put up your
hands, and he clenched his fists and put his face right into yours. Oh!
it did frighten me!"
"Didn't you tell Miss Oliver?" asked her father.
"No; but I will. I went digging, and forgot all about it."
"If I were you, Enid, I shouldn't tell Miss Oliver," her mother said,
very quietly. "You were frightened for nothing. It was only a man who
wanted money."
"But he was such a nasty man--he had a horrid face, and such big, big
eyes!" declared the child, and then, turning, she danced away out of the
room, leaving Bracondale facing Jean in silence.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE INTRUDER.
That afternoon Jean remained in her room in a fierce fever of anxiety,
while Bracondale drove his car along the winding, shady road to Yvetot,
and home by St. Valery-en-Caux, and the sea-road which commences at
Fécamp.
Did he suspect? she wondered.
She could not help feeling mortified that the child should have made
that unfortunate remark. She felt also that her excuse was a lame one.
Did he really believe her story?
From the steel safe in her daintily-furnished room, with its silken
upholstery in old rose, she took the big, square, velvet-lined case,
and, opening it, gazed upon the string of splendid pearls. She took them
out tenderly and, standing before the long cheval-glass, put them round
her neck--for the last time.
As she examined herself in the mirror she sighed, her face hard, pale,
and full of anxiety and distress.
Would Bracondale notice the change in her?
She put away the pearls, and, replacing the case in the safe, locked it.
Bates, her rather sour-faced maid, entered at the moment. She was a
thin, angular person, very neat and prim, an excellent hairdresser, and
a model of what a first-class maid should be.
"Why, you don't look well this afternoon, madam," she said, glancing at
her inquiringly.
"No, Bates. It's the heat, I think. Will you bring me my
smelling-salts?" she asked, as she sank into an arm-chair, a pretty
figure in her pale-blue silk dressing-gown.
The maid brought the large, silver-topped bottle across from the
dressing-table and handed it to her mistress, who, after sniffing it,
dismissed her.
Then Jean sat for a full half-hour staring straight before her, looking
down the long vista of her own tragic past.
At midnight that letter would be safe in her hand. She consoled herself
with the thought that, by acceding to Ansell's demand, as she had done,
she would rid herself of him for ever.
Her honour would be preserved, and Bracondale would never know. For the
sake of her child, how could she confess to him?
He joined her in the _petit salon_, where she gave him tea, and then,
till dinner, he retired into the study to complete the despatches for
which Martin was to call and take to Downing Street.
At dinner she wore a pretty gown of cream lace, the waist and skirt
being trimmed with broad, pale-blue satin ribbon, fashioned into big,
flat bows; a Paris gown of the latest _mode_, which suited her
admirably. It was rather high in the neck, and all the jewellery she
wore was a single brooch.
He also looked smart in his well-cut dinner jacket, with a light grey
waistcoat and black tie; and as they sat opposite each other they
chatted merrily. She had composed herself, and was now bearing herself
very bravely.
It was, however, a relief to her when, just as they had finished
dessert, Jenner entered, saying:
"Captain Martin is in the study, m'lord."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the great statesman, rising at once. Then, turning
to Jean, he said: "You'll excuse me, dearest, won't you? I must get
Martin off. I've finished. Have you?"
"Yes, dear," was her reply. "You go. I'm just going to see Enid for a
little while."
"After I've got Martin off I shall go along to Polivin's. I'm sorry to
leave you this evening. But you won't mind, dear, will you?"
"Not at all," was her prompt reply. "I know it is a duty."
"I shall certainly not be back till one or two o'clock. They are a very
late lot--the men who go there," he remarked.
"I shall go to bed, so don't hurry, dear."
"Good night, then," he said, crossing to her and bending till he touched
her lips with his. Then he went along to the study, where the King's
Messenger was waiting.
"Halloa, Martin!" exclaimed his lordship, cheerily. "You're up to
time--you always are. You're a marvel of punctuality."
"I have to be, constantly catching trains, as I am," laughed the
nonchalant traveller, as he unlocked his despatch-box and took the seven
big sealed letters from the Foreign Secretary's hand.
Then he scribbled a receipt for them, packed them in a little steel box,
and carefully locked it with the tiny key upon his chain. That box often
contained secrets which, if divulged, would set Europe aflame.
"Don't forget my camera next time you come over," Bracondale urged. "And
tell Sir Henry that if Bartlett is back from Persia I would like him to
run over and report to me."
"I won't forget," was Martin's reply; and then, with a word of farewell,
he took up his precious despatch-box and left the room.
The evening was dark and oppressive, with black clouds threatening
thunder. Those hours passed very slowly.
Jean tried to read, but was unable. Then she went to the big _salon_
and, seating herself at the grand piano, played snatches of Grand Opera.
But she was too anxious, too impatient for midnight to come and end all
the suspense.
Miss Oliver joined her, as usual, about ten o'clock for half an hour's
chat. But the presence of the governess irritated her, and she was glad
when she retired. She wondered whether Enid had told her anything. The
child's chatter had, indeed, been extremely unfortunate.
Eleven o'clock!
She sat in her boudoir trying to occupy her mind by writing a letter,
but she could not. She had to go through the terrible ordeal of seeing
that man again.
At one moment she felt impelled to confess all to Bracondale, yet at the
next she thought of his honour, and of the child. No, at all hazards, at
all costs, even if it cost her her life, she must preserve her secret.
For wealth or for position she cared nothing--only for Bracondale's
love.
The little clock struck the quarter. It wanted fifteen minutes to
midnight.
With knit brows she rose quickly. The whole household had now retired;
all was silence, and she was alone. Outside Ralph was no doubt watching
for the light in the little _salon_.
She ascended the thickly-carpeted stairs noiselessly, and from the safe
in her room took the square morocco box. Then, assuring herself that no
servant could be watching, she carried it down to the little _salon_
and, switching on the light, placed the box upon a small Louis Quinze
table in the centre of the room.
It was a prettily-furnished apartment, with genuine old Louis Quinze
furniture. In a corner was a large palm, and upon a side-table a great
vase of fresh flowers. The gilt furniture shone beneath the bright
light, and the whole had an effect of artistic brilliancy and
daintiness.
She crossed to the drawn curtains of daffodil plush and, placing her
hand within, undid the latch of the long window which led out upon the
balcony and pushed it open slightly. Then, recrossing the room, she
stood near the door, waiting.
There was still time before he was due to enter there and give her the
letter in return for the pearls.
Of what use was it to wait there? So she switched off the light in case
Bracondale should return and wonder, and passed into the adjoining room.
What if Bracondale came back before the exchange were effected?
She stood holding her breath, listening in eager anxiety.
Suddenly the telephone-bell rang in the study, and in order that Jenner
might not hear it and descend to answer it, she hurried to the
instrument herself.
It was a call from the British Embassy in Paris. One of the secretaries
spoke to her, asking whether his Excellency the Ambassador might speak
to his lordship upon an important matter.
"Lord Bracondale is not in. I am Lady Bracondale," she replied.
"When do you expect Lord Bracondale back?" the voice inquired.
"Soon after twelve. Will you ring up again? Tell Sir Charles that I will
at once tell my husband when he returns," she said, and then rang off.
Meanwhile a dark figure, which had stealthily crept along the road,
entered the gate and stole noiselessly over the grass to the verandah.
The man had been watching the house for an hour past, and, as though
with sudden resolution, he made up his mind to enter.
At first he seemed fearful of discovery. Indeed, for a full half-hour
had he lurked motionless beneath a tree, waiting, and, though there was
complete silence in that still, oppressive night, yet he appeared to
hesitate.
All the rooms on the ground floor were in darkness save for the study,
the curtains of which were only half-closed. Therefore, as he approached
the house, he saw Lady Bracondale alone, speaking into the telephone.
Suddenly, with an agile movement, he scaled the verandah, and a few
seconds later, without making a sound, he stood before the window
against the entrance porch--the window of the little _salon_ which Jean
had indicated where the pearls would be. His movements betrayed that he
was an expert at moving without making a sound.
Bending, the dark figure, still moving stealthily, crept up to the long
window upon which there suddenly flashed a small zone of white light
from an electric pocket-lamp, revealing the fact that, though the heavy
curtain was drawn, the window was ajar.
For a few seconds the man listened. Then, having reassured himself that
there was no one in the room, he slowly pushed back the curtain and
peered into the darkness.
Suddenly he heard a footstep and, dropping the curtain instantly, stood
in the darkness, quite motionless.
Somebody entered the room, switched on the light, crossed to the centre
of the apartment, stood there for a few seconds, and then, receding,
switched off the light again and closed the door.
The intruder stood in the room behind the curtain without moving a
muscle.
He could hear sounds of footsteps within the house.
He had closed the long glass door when he had entered, and now stood
concealed behind the yellow plush curtain.
Suddenly he heard the piano being played--a song from "La Bohême." He
stood listening, for he was always fond of music. As he halted there the
sweet perfume of the flowers greeted his nostrils, and he murmured some
low words beneath his breath.
His hand sought his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it he had in his
grasp a serviceable-looking revolver. He inhaled a long deep breath, for
he was desperate.
At last he summoned courage, and again drew back the curtain very
slowly. All was darkness within until he switched on his pocket-lamp and
slowly examined the place.
The light fell upon the table whereon stood the jewel-case, and he
walked straight to it and opened it.
The moment his eyes fell upon the magnificent string of pearls he stood
for a second as though in hesitation.
Then swiftly he took them up, and with a glance at them thrust his prize
into his jacket pocket.
It was the work of an instant.
He reclosed the lid. It snapped and startled him.
Next moment his light was switched off and he disappeared.
A second later, however, Jean turned the handle of the door, entered the
room, and again switched on the light.
The place became flooded with electricity, and she stood a pale, erect
figure, staring at the clock, which was just chiming the hour of
midnight.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE CLOSED BOX.
Hardly had the sound of the silvery bells died away when a second figure
scaled the balcony, and, seeing the light over the top of the curtain,
as arranged, he placed his hand upon the long glass door and slowly
opened it.
He drew aside the curtain slightly to ascertain if Jean were there
awaiting him, and, seeing her, he entered boldly.
Ralph was dressed just as he had been in the morning, only he wore
yellow lisle-thread gloves, so as to conceal his finger-prints, which,
alas! were too well known to the police.
Husband and wife faced each other, in ignorance that an intruder stood
concealed behind that curtain within two or three feet of them.
The intruder had fixed his eyes upon Jean, and stood staring at her as
though fascinated by her amazing beauty.
"At last, Ralph!" she gasped. "I--I thought perhaps you would not
come--that you would think the risk too great."
"Bah! What risk?" he asked. "Even if I were discovered, Bracondale could
easily be satisfied that we are husband and wife."
She shrank back at those words.
"The child saw you with me this morning and told her father."
"Awkward. What did you say?"
"I made an excuse. One which, I hope, satisfied him."
"Trust you, Jean, for a good excuse," he laughed brutally.
Then, with a glance at the jewel-case on the table, he added: "But if I
were you I'd be very wary. I suppose I did wrong in meeting you openly
as I did. I ought to have been more circumspect. But, my girl, we need
not have necessity to meet again, need we?"
"I hope not--for my sake," was her reply, as she turned her pale face to
his.
"If you play the game, I shall also do the same. So you needn't fear.
Only I must have an address where to write to you."
"No," she protested. "You must not write. It will be far too dangerous.
And, besides, you made me a promise that if I gave you those," and she
glanced at the table, "you would give me back my letter, and go away,
never to see me again."
He regarded her in silence for a few moments, a sinister smile playing
about his mobile lips. But he made no reply.
"Ah, Ralph," she went on, "I--I can't somehow trust you. When you have
spent this money you will come back again. I know you will. Ah! you do
not know all that this means to me."
"Well, doesn't it mean a lot to me--eh?"
"But I am a woman."
"You have money, while I'm without a sou. You surely can't blame me for
getting a bit to go on with!" he exclaimed. "Is anybody about?"
"No. Bracondale has not yet returned, and all the servants are in bed."
"By Jove! This is a pretty house of yours, Jean!" he remarked, gazing
around. He had not removed his hat. "You ought to consider yourself
deuced lucky. While I've been having all my ups and downs, you've been
living the life of a lady. When I saw you in your car at Havre I
couldn't believe it. But to see you again really did my eyesight good."
"And benefited your pocket," she added bitterly.
He grinned. His nonchalant air irritated her. He was just the same as he
had been in those days of their poverty, even though he now wore the
clothes of a gentleman.
"Well," he said at last, "I've been thinking things over this evening.
You can't expect me, Jean, to accept a lump payment for my silence, can
you? If you had a respectable sum which you could hand over so that my
wants would, in future, be provided for, it would be different. I----"
"Your wants!" she interrupted in anger. "What are your wants?
Money--money--money always! Ah, Ralph! I know you. You brought me to
ruin once, and you will do so again. I know it!"
"Not unless you are a fool!" he replied roughly. "You want your letter
back--which is only natural. For it you give me your pearls. It is not a
gift. I take them. I find the window unlatched, and come in and help
myself. To-morrow you will raise a hue and cry--but not before noon, as
I shall then be nearing old Uncle Karl, in Amsterdam. Bracondale will be
furious, the _Sûreté_ will fuss and be busy, and you will be in
picturesque tears over your loss. Bracondale will tell you not to worry,
and promptly make you another present--perhaps a better one--and then
all will be well."
"But you said you would leave Europe," she replied anxiously.
"So I shall."
"But----" and she hesitated.
"Ah! I see you don't trust me."
"I trusted you--once--Ralph. Do you recollect how brutally you treated
me--eh?" she asked, in deep reproach.
"I recollect that, because of you, I quarrelled with Adolphe. He loved
you, and now he's in prison, and serve him right, the idiot!"
The concealed intruder was watching them between the wall and the
curtain, yet hardly daring to breathe for fear of discovery. He had the
pearls in his pocket, and as the glass door was closed he was unable to
reopen it and escape, lest he should reveal himself.
He heard Ansell's words, and understood the situation. If the lid of
the jewel-case were raised the thief would be discovered, and the alarm
given.
Those were moments of breathless peril.
"Adolphe protected me from your violence," she replied, simply. "He was
my friend, but he did not love me, because I loved you--only you!"
"And you care for me no longer?"
"The fire of my love for you burned itself out on that tragic night,"
she replied.
"How very poetic," he sneered. "Is it your habit to talk to Bracondale
like that?"
She bit her lip. Mention of Bracondale's name caused a flood of great
bitterness to overwhelm her.
"I did not expect, when you came here, that you would insult me in
addition to blackmailing me."
"Blackmail, you call it--eh?"
"What else is it?"
"A simple purchase, my girl. I have a letter, and you wish to buy it.
The transaction is surely a fair one! Besides, if you do not wish to buy
my silence, it is quite immaterial to me. I shall soon find another
purchaser in Bracondale."
"He won't believe you."
"He has only to have a search made of the marriage register. Perhaps you
don't remember the date. I do."
"And I, worse luck! Ah, how grossly you deceived me!" she exclaimed
bitterly. "I thought I married a gentleman, only, alas! to discover that
I had a notorious thief as husband."
"You expected too much. You thought you had become a lady, and were
disappointed when you found that you were not. Yes--I suppose when I
told you the truth, it must have been a bit of a jag for you. That fool,
Adolphe, wanted me to keep the truth from you. But what was the use?"
"Yes," she sighed. "You were at least frank--perhaps the only occasion
upon which you ever told me the truth."
"The truth is generally unwelcome," he laughed. "Lies are always
pleasant."
"To the liar."
"I'm afraid you'll have, in future, to lie to Bracondale."
"I shall use my own discretion," she responded. "Perhaps I shall
confess."
"And if so, what then?"
"I shall tell him that you entered here and stole my pearls."
"How very generous that would be," he laughed angrily. "And I wonder
what Bracondale would think of you if you endeavoured to send your own
husband to prison--eh?"
"Ah, you will drive me to desperation!" she cried, her dark eyes glaring
at him angrily. "Give me the letter and go--go! Bracondale may be back
now--at any moment!"
"I assure you I fear neither Bracondale nor you--nor even the result of
your confession. And I feel quite loath to-night to leave you; you look
so extremely charming in that pretty gown."
"Don't be foolish. At least have some consideration for me--for my
future."
"It is my own future I am thinking of," he declared harshly. "Your
future is assured, so long as you play the game with Bracondale. If you
act indiscreetly, and give way to silly moods, then you will only have
yourself to blame for your ruin. Besides," he added, with his lip
curling slightly, "you have the child to consider. What's her name?"
"Her name is of no matter to you," was Jean's hot response. "She is
mine, not yours."
"I'm rather glad of that," he responded. "But I don't think this is
really a fit opportunity to waste time in mutual recrimination."
"No. Go, I tell you. If you remain longer, it will be
dangerous--dangerous for us both."
He looked at the clock, and then his gaze wandered to the closed
jewel-case upon the Louis Quinze table. The small room, closed as it
was, was filled with the perfume of the great bunch of flowers in the
long Chinese vase--a perfume that seemed almost overpowering.
"But I tell you I see no danger," was his careless reply, for it seemed
his object to taunt her. He had already hinted at a continued tax upon
her resources if she desired him to keep his lips sealed, and she, on
her part, realising his true character, clearly foresaw that all her
efforts could have but one result. To satisfy his demands would be
impossible.
A shadow had fallen upon her eventful life, one that would never again
be lifted.
"Will you have no pity for me?" she implored. "Have you come here with
the express intent of goading me to madness?"
"No--simply in order to have a straight talk with you--a chat between
husband and wife."
"Well, we have had it. Take the pearls and go. Get clear away before you
are discovered. Bracondale may now be back at any moment," she added in
fear of his sudden return.
"I'm in no great hurry, I assure you," was his reply, as he seated
himself upon the arm of a chair.
"Give me the letter, Ralph. Do--if you please."
He laughed in her face, his hands stuck in his jacket pockets, as was
his habit.
She looked around her with an expression of terror and despair. She
listened, for she fancied she heard a footstep.
They both listened, but no other sound could be distinguished.
"A false alarm," remarked the man. Then, suddenly rising from where he
was seated, he placed his hand in his breast pocket, and, drawing out
his wallet, took therefrom the well-worn letter.
"Well," he said reluctantly, "here you are. I suppose you'd better have
it. And now you can't say but what I'm not generous--can you?"
Jean almost snatched the precious note from his fingers, glanced at it
to reassure herself that she was not being tricked, and then, striking a
match which she took from a side-table, she applied it to one corner of
the farewell letter, and held it till only a black piece of crackling
tinder remained.
"Now you are satisfied, I hope," he remarked in a harsh voice.
"Yes. Take the pearls. Take the box, and go," she urged quickly, placing
her hand upon his arm to emphasise her words, and pushing him across to
the table where stood the big morocco case.
"All right," he laughed. "Let's look at these wonderful pearls of yours.
I wonder how much they are worth?"
He halted at the table, fingering the spring-fastening of the case, and
at last raised the lid.
It was empty!
"You vixen! You infernal woman!" he cried, turning upon her, white with
anger, and with clenched fists. "You've played a slick trick on
me--you've had me--and now--by gad! I--I'll have my revenge!"
CHAPTER XXIX.
DEADLY PERIL.
Ralph Ansell made a sudden dash at his wife, gripping her by the throat
with his gloved hands.
She staggered to the table, and he bent her backwards across it. His
evil face was distorted by a look of murderous hatred, his big eyes
started from their sockets in his wild frenzy of anger.
"Where are those pearls?" he demanded. "Speak! Give them to me at once,
or, by Heaven, I'll strangle you!"
"I--I don't know," she managed to gasp. "They were in there. I--I--I
thought they were there."
"You liar! You got the letter and burned it, well knowing that the
jewels were not in the box! Where are they?" he demanded, tightening his
grip upon her throat and shaking her roughly. "Speak, woman--speak! Tell
me where they are!"
Jean struggled frantically to free herself from his murderous grip. He
was throttling her.
"I--I don't know--where--they are!" she protested, with great
difficulty.
"You do! You've kept them!" he hissed between his teeth, for he was in a
fury of fierce anger at having been so deceived. "It's no use lying. I
mean to have them, or go straight to this man Bracondale."
"I'm telling the truth!" protested the unhappy woman. "They were there
half an hour ago. I put them there."
"Bah! Don't tell me that! They could not have gone without hands. No,
you've worked a real slick trick! And I was fool enough to trust you!
Come, hand them over at once--if you don't want Bracondale to know," and
he again forced her farther back over the table. "He'll be here in a
minute. What a nice scene for him--eh? Come, where are those pearls?"
"I've told you I don't know. It's the truth, Ralph, I swear it!" she
cried, in wild despair. "Somebody must have stolen them!"
"You liar!" he cried, his face white with evil passion. "Do you dare to
tell me that? Do you think I'm a fool to believe such a story? Stolen!
Of course they're not stolen. You've hidden them. Yes," he added,
"you've been devilish clever to get that letter out of me, and burn it
before my eyes--haven't you--eh? But you shall pay for it!" he cried,
between his teeth, as his strong hands compressed her throat until she
went scarlet and her wild, glaring eyes started from her head.
She tried to cry out--tried to shriek and raise an alarm, for she knew
her life was in danger. But she could utter no sound beyond a low
gurgle.
"You refuse to give me the pearls--eh?" he said, his dark brows knit,
and murder in his piercing eyes. "You think to trick me--your husband!
By gad! You shall pay for this! Tell me where they are. This is your
last moment. You shall die--die--curse you!" And his grip tightened upon
her thin, white throat--the grip of a murderer.
Jean, unable to move, unable to cry out, felt herself fainting, when
next second she was startled by a sharp pistol shot.
"Ah!" gasped her assailant, releasing his hold instantly and clapping
his right hand to his back.
The shot had been fired from behind.
"Ah!" cried the wounded man in wild despair. "I--why, I----"
Then he reeled completely round and fell backward upon the
carpet--inert--dead!
At the same instant Jean, staggered by the suddenness of it all, was
confronted by a ragged, unkempt, hatless man in a striped jacket some
sizes too big for him. Around his neck was a dirty scarf in lieu of a
collar, and his dark hair was curly and ruffled.
She saw the man emerge from the curtain, and started back in increased
alarm.
"Madame!" cried the newcomer, "it is me! Don't you know me?"
She stood rooted to the spot.
"Adolphe!" she gasped, staring at him.
"Yes, madame. I came here, not knowing that this was your _château_,"
he explained, in a low whisper. "I found the window open just before
that man arrived. I came in and took your pearls. Here they are!"
And he drew them from the pocket of his shabby jacket and handed them
back to her.
"Where--where did you come from? You have saved my life," she faltered
in blank amazement.
"I came out of prison nine months ago," was his reply. "They brought me
to Paris, but I could find no work, so I tramped to Havre, hoping to get
a job at the docks, or to work my passage to New York. But all to no
avail, so I--I had, alas! to return to my old profession. And the first
house I enter I find, to my dismay, is yours!"
"You heard us talking?" she asked quickly.
"I heard everything--and I understood everything," was the quick reply.
"That man," he went on, "robbed me and gave me deliberately into the
hands of the police. I swore to be avenged, and I have killed him--as he
deserves. He was an assassin, and I am his executioner!"
"But the servants will be alarmed by the shot!" she gasped suddenly.
"There is no time to lose. You must want money. I shall send you some to
the _Poste Restante_ in Havre--to-morrow. Now go--or you may be
discovered."
"But how will you explain?" he asked hurriedly. "Ah, madame, through
those long, dreary years at Devil's Island I have thought of you, and
wondered--and wondered what had become of you. I am so glad to know
that you are rich and happy, as you assuredly deserve."
She sighed, for a flood of memories came over her.
"Yes, Adolphe, I am greatly indebted to you. Twice you have saved me
from that man's violence. Ah, I shall not forget."
"But, madame, think of yourself! If he comes--if the servants come--how
can you explain his body in your room? Let me think!"
Already Jean fancied she heard sounds of someone moving in the house,
and of subdued and frightened voices.
Yes, the servants had been alarmed, and were searching from room to
room! Not an instant was to be lost.
"I have an idea!" exclaimed "The Eel." "Here, take this, madame," and he
held out his revolver to her with both hands.
But she shrank back.
"Take it--take it, I beg of you," he implored.
She obeyed, moving like one in a dream.
Swiftly he took up the pearls and, bending, placed them in the dead
man's pocket. Then, having done this, he said:
"Your explanation is quite a simple one. You came in here unexpectedly,
and found the man--a perfect stranger to you, and a burglar, evidently,
from the fact that he wore gloves--taking your pearls from their case.
You demanded them back, but he turned upon you with a revolver. There
was a struggle for the weapon. You twisted his hand back, and in the
fight it went off. And he fell dead. Keep cool. That is your story."
"But I----"
"That is the only story, madame," he said firmly. "It is a lie, I
admit--but a white lie--the only explanation you can give, if you would
still preserve your secret."
Footsteps sounded out in the hall, and therefore there was not a second
to waste.
The thief grasped her thin, white hand and, bending devotedly, kissed
it.
"Adieu, madame. May Heaven assist and preserve you in future!" he
whispered, and next moment he had disappeared behind the curtain and
dropped over the verandah.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE WHITE LIE.
For a few seconds Jean stood motionless, staring at the lifeless body of
her husband, who lay with face upturned, the evil eyes closed, the hands
listless by his sides.
His head was towards the window, close to a small gilt settee, his feet
towards the door.
She stood with her eyes full of horror, fixed upon the white, dead face.
In that dread moment a veritable lifetime of despair swept through her
fevered brain.
The servants, with hushed, terrified voices, were searching the rooms on
the ground floor. She could hear Miss Oliver speaking.
Their footsteps sounded on the big, tiled hall outside the door. What if
Adolphe were captured leaving the premises?
She held her breath. All her self-possession was required now, for she
also recognised Bracondale's voice. He had returned!
Was silence judicious in those circumstances? She decided it was not.
Therefore she gave vent to a loud scream--a scream which told them where
she was.
In a moment they all burst into the room--Bracondale in his evening
clothes, Miss Oliver in her dressing-gown, and the two footmen, who had
hastily dressed, one of them without his coat.
The servants, seeing a man lying upon the carpet, halted upon the
threshold, but Bracondale dashed forward to his wife, who stood with her
hands to her brow in frantic terror. She was, he saw, on the verge of
fainting. Therefore he took her in his arms and hastily inquired what
had occurred.
"He's dead--I believe!" gasped one of the footmen, in French.
"Jean! What has happened?" Bracondale demanded, in amazement. "Tell me,
dearest."
But she was too agitated to speak. She only clung to him and, burying
her face upon his shoulder, sobbed hysterically, while Miss Oliver
rushed away for a smelling-bottle.
"Who is this man?" Bracondale asked in a hard voice. "What is the
matter? The servants heard a shot just after I came in. They came to me
in the study--but I had heard nothing."
She raised her wild eyes to his, and then glanced round the pretty
apartment. Her gaze fell upon Ralph Ansell's dead face, and she
shuddered and shrank back. Her mouth was twitching. She was hysterical,
and could say nothing.
"Tell me, Jean. What does all this mean?" asked Bracondale, very
quietly, considering the circumstances.
"Ah! no dear!" she cried. "Don't ask me--don't ask me! I--I killed him!"
"Killed him!" echoed her husband blankly. "What do you mean? You are not
yourself, dearest."
She looked at the servants meaningly.
"Will you leave us alone?" Bracondale said, turning to them just as Miss
Oliver returned with the bottle of smelling-salts.
They all left the room, including the governess, husband and wife being
left with the dead man.
"Tell me, darling, what has occurred?" asked Bracondale in a soft,
sympathetic voice, endeavouring to calm her.
For a long time she refused to answer. She could not bring herself to
speak a lie to him, not even a white lie! The night had been so full of
horror and tragedy that she was beside herself. She wondered whether it
were not, after all, a horrible dream.
Yet no! It was true. Ralph Ansell was dead. He had carried his secret
with him to the grave, and she was free--free! She was really Lady
Bracondale, the mother of Bracondale's child!
She had been at the point of confessing. But no. Bracondale must know
nothing.
"You killed this man, Jean?" her husband was saying in a low, intense
voice. "Why?"
"I--I--he attacked me, and I----"
She did not conclude her sentence.
"Why, your neck is all black and blue!" Bracondale said, noticing it for
the first time.
"He tried to strangle me, then he intended to shoot me," she said
hysterically. "We struggled--and--and it--it went off!"
"But who is he?"
"How can I tell?" she asked frantically. "I came in here unexpectedly,
and saw him with my pearls in his hand. I--I demanded them back, but he
refused. I threatened to shout and alarm the servants, but he sprang
upon me and tried to strangle me!"
Bracondale, for the first time, noticed that the morocco jewel-case
stood open on the table.
"He must have got them from your bedroom!" he exclaimed; and then, his
quick eye catching sight of the tinder of the burnt letter in the fender
of the stove, he bent, picked it up, and remarked:
"He seems to have also burnt something. I wonder what it was?"
His lordship crossed the carpet and stood looking upon the dead face.
"Who is he? Do you know, Jean?" he inquired in a serious, intense tone.
"I--I have no idea."
"The police will establish his identity, no doubt. I will telephone for
them," he said. "But where are the pearls now?"
"In his pocket, I expect," she said.
Bracondale bent and hastily felt the outside of one of the dead man's
pockets. But they were not there.
He felt the other, and, discovering them, drew out the beautiful string,
and replaced it in its box.
"An expert thief, I should say, from his dress," remarked Bracondale.
"He wears gloves, too--just as all modern burglars do."
"He nearly strangled me," Jean declared weakly.
"It was fortunate that the revolver went off during the struggle, or he
might have killed you, dearest. Ah! you are a brave girl. The papers
will, no doubt, be full of this!"
"Ah! no!" she implored. "Do not let us have any publicity. I--I hate to
think that I have killed a man--even though he be an armed burglar."
"But the law permits you to take life in self-defence, therefore do not
trouble yourself over it. He would, no doubt, have killed you with
little compunction, rather than forego carrying away his prize."
"Yes--but----"
"No," urged her husband kindly. "Do not let us discuss it further. Come
with me to your room. I will telephone to the police in Havre, and leave
the rest to them. Come, dearest, you have had a terrible experience, and
you must rest quietly now--and recover."
He linked his arms in hers tenderly, and conducted her slowly from the
presence of that white, dead countenance she knew, alas! too well.
After taking her to her room and leaving her in the hands of Bates, her
maid, he descended, and from the study telephoned to the Chef de la
Sûreté at Havre.
Then, receiving a reply that three agents of police would at once be
dispatched on cycles, he went upstairs to where she was seated in a big
arm-chair, pale and trembling, still suffering from the shock.
It was only when they were again alone, and he took her in his strong
arms, kissed her fondly upon the lips, and softly reassured her, that
she could summon courage to speak.
"You do love me, Jack?" she asked with intense, eager eyes. "You do
really love me? Tell me."
"Why, of course I do, dearest," he declared. "Why do you ask? Have you
not seen that I love you?"
"I--I--yes, I know. But I thought perhaps you----"
She hesitated. She was wondering if he suspected anything. But no. She
was free! Adolphe, ever sympathetic and ever faithful to her interests,
had saved her. Yet, poor fellow, he was only a thief!
She swallowed the big lump that arose in her throat, and then, throwing
her long, white arms wildly about her husband's neck, she kissed him
with a fierce, intense passion, bursting into tears--tears of joy.
True, she had told a white lie, but in the circumstances, could you, my
reader, blame her?
THE END.
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realistic. There is not one dull page from beginning to end."
A MONK OF CRUTA. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE BOOKMAN.--"Intensely dramatic. The book is an achievement at which
the author may well be gratified."
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE LITERARY WORLD.--"As a story of interest, with a deep-laid and
exciting plot, this of the 'Mysterious Mr. Sabin' can hardly be
surpassed."
A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY. 6_s._, 2_s._ net, and 6_d._
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"We cannot but welcome with enthusiasm a really
well-told story like 'A Millionaire of Yesterday.'"
THE SURVIVOR. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE NOTTINGHAM GUARDIAN.--"We must give a conspicuous place on its
merits to this excellent story. It is only necessary to read a page or
two in order to become deeply interested."
THE GREAT AWAKENING. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE YORKSHIRE POST.--"A weird and fascinating story, which for real
beauty and originality, ranks far above the ordinary novel."
FOR THE QUEEN. 6_s._
MODERN SOCIETY.--"The fame of Mr. Oppenheim is world wide, and in 'For
the Queen' the author lives up to the highest traditions of his
reputation as a writer of fiction."
THOSE OTHER DAYS. 6_s._
Mr. Oppenheim ranges with assured mastery from grave to gay, while
diplomatic scandals and political intrigues are woven with that
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EXPIATION. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 2_s._ net.
Mr. Oppenheim is one of the cleverest weavers of plots who write the
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is quite one of his best.
FRED M. WHITE
THE OPEN DOOR. 6_s._, and 6_d._
An absorbing tale of unusual interest and mystery. Mr. White's high
reputation for sensationalism is well known, and "The Open Door" will
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THE FIVE KNOTS. 6_s._, and 6_d._
WESTERN DAILY PRESS.--"Mr. White has written several books, all of
which have been enjoyed by a large number of readers, who will probably
agree that it is the best."
THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS. 6_s._, and 6_d._
MODERN SOCIETY.--"As the plot is unfolded the reader becomes more and
more fascinated, the interest being powerfully held until the close."
THE SECRET OF THE SANDS. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"Mr. Fred M. White has written a story full of dramatic
surprises. Mr. White is a master of sensations, and his introduction of
the incident of the Italian Vendetta gives point to a good tale."
THE GOLDEN ROSE. 6_s._, and 6_d._
IRISH INDEPENDENT.--"This latest book possesses all those
characteristics which go to make Mr. White's novels so readable and so
popular."
HARD PRESSED. 6_s._, and 6_d._
PALL MALL GAZETTE.--"Mr. White gives us here an excellent story of the
Turf. The tale is full of dramatic and exciting incidents, and will
afford the reader keen enjoyment."
A ROYAL WRONG. 6_s._
GLASGOW HERALD.--"Mr. White conjures marvellously, fetching sensation
and art into the same hat--and out of it triumphantly. Hot scent, fast
pace, good company--a rattling yarn!"
NUMBER 13. 6_s._
"Number 13" is a mystery story such as Mr. White's many admirers will
revel in.
PAUL TRENT
THE FOUNDLING. 6_s._, and 2_s._ net.
DAILY GRAPHIC.--"The character of Strand is an excellent study,
cleverly and strongly drawn, and the book is a very interesting and
readable work."
THE SECOND CHANCE. 6_s._
Mr. Paul Trent's stories, "The Vow" and "The Foundling," were powerful
tales with a motive. "The Second Chance," as its title indicates, is of
the same school.
MAX LOGAN. 6_s._
Readers always expect a powerful story from the author of "The Vow,"
and "Max Logan" is the best he has written.
LOUIS TRACY
SYLVIA'S CHAUFFEUR. 6_s._, 2_s._ net, 1_s._ net, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
MORNING LEADER.--"'Sylvia's Chauffeur' is as pleasant a piece of light
reading as any one could desire."
RAINBOW ISLAND. 6_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE LITERARY WORLD.--"Those who delight in tales of adventure should
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met with more satisfying fare of this description than in its pages."
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT. 6_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE EVENING STANDARD.--"So admirable, so living, so breathlessly
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A SON OF THE IMMORTALS. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE MORNING POST.--"Mr. Tracy's new book 'A Son of the Immortals' is of
a highly sensational character, and adventures and stirring situations
follow closely upon one another's heels all through it."
MIRABEL'S ISLAND. 6_s._, 2_s._ net.
A delightfully exciting and fascinating romance of love and adventure,
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NO OTHER WAY. 6_s._
FINANCIAL TIMES.--"Mr. Tracy's latest novel provides an absorbing
narrative which is not likely to be cast aside prematurely."
ONE WONDERFUL NIGHT. 6_s._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"Adventures and surprises fairly trip over each other
in hasty succession to Mr. Louis Tracy's latest romance."
THE HOUSE ROUND THE CORNER. 6_s._
When Bob Armathwaite, in search of a peaceful time, took the house
on the edge of the moor he little thought he would be so quickly
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told in this engrossing tale.
HEADON HILL
THE COTTAGE IN THE CHINE. 6_s._, and 6_d._
Every page has its incident or adventure, and the most exacting reader
will not find a dull moment until the last page is turned.
MY LORD THE FELON. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE BOOKSELLER.--"Every page of this book has its incident or
adventure, while the reader's interest is kept up to the last
chapter."
THE HOUR GLASS MYSTERY. 6_s._
THE DAILY EXPRESS.--"Those who love a really good mystery story may
cordially be recommended to read Mr. Headon Hill's new book 'The Hour
Glass Mystery.'"
THE CRIMSON HONEYMOON. 6_s._
"The Crimson Honeymoon" is a really fascinating sensation story, well
written and cleverly put together.
HAROLD BINDLOSS
THE TRUSTEE. 6_s._, and 2_s._ net.
PUNCH.--"Mr. Bindloss is an author who can deftly use sensationalism to
his purpose without forcing it for mere effect, and who can also depict
the character of a strong man as honest as determined in love with a
sweet woman. He tells a story with rare skill."
THE PIONEER. 6_s._
ACADEMY.--"His novels are terse, powerful, yet graceful, showing
intimate knowledge and acute observation, never overweighted with
description, yet containing many delightful pictures."
THE PROTECTOR. 6_s._, 2_s._ net, and 1_s._ net.
MORNING POST.--"Mr. Bindloss is always a sure find for a good story,
and in this one he has, if possible, excelled himself."
THE LIBERATIONIST. 6_s._, and 6_d._
MORNING LEADER.--"This is the author's best novel, and is one which no
lover of healthy excitement ought to miss."
HAWTREY'S DEPUTY. 6_s._, 2_s._ net, and 6_d._
THE WESTERN DAILY MERCURY.--"The whole story is told with the most
spontaneous verve, and is tinged with a delightful element of romance."
THE IMPOSTOR. 6_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE QUEEN.--"Mr. Bindloss writes books which are always good to read.
His writing is uniformly good, and his books are always sane, intensely
interesting, and dealing with subjects that cannot fail to concern a
wide public."
THE WASTREL. 6_s._
THE TIMES.--"Mr. Bindloss's books are unchangeably true to type; and in
the distracting medley of modern fiction they calm and regulate the
mind."
THE ALLINSON HONOUR. 6_s._
THE SPORTSMAN.--"The simplicity and force of the language, and the
abiding air of reality about the several adventures, make it hard to
put down before it had been gone through to the last page."
BLAKE'S BURDEN. 6_s._
A story of brisk, unflagging interest and adventure.
J. S. FLETCHER
THE SECRET CARGO. 6_s._
SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"Those who enjoy a good detective story
will revel in Mr. J. S. Fletcher's 'The Secret Cargo.' The plot is
clever and novel and it is capably worked out."
GUY BOOTHBY
THE RACE OF LIFE. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE ENGLISH REVIEW.--"Ahead even of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne and Conan Doyle,
Mr. Boothby may be said to have topped popularity's pole."
THE CRIME OF THE UNDER SEAS. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE SPEAKER.--"Is quite the equal in art, observation, and dramatic
intensity to any of Mr. Guy Boothby's numerous other romances."
A BID FOR FREEDOM. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH.--"A fully written romance, which bristles with
thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes."
A TWO-FOLD INHERITANCE. 5_s._, and 6_d._
PUNCH.--"Just the very book that a hard-working man should read for
genuine relaxation."
CONNIE BURT. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE BIRMINGHAM GAZETTE.--"One of the best stories we have seen of Mr.
Boothby's."
THE KIDNAPPED PRESIDENT. 5_s._, and 6_d._
PUBLIC OPINION.--"Brighter, crisper, and more entertaining than any of
its predecessors from the same pen."
MY STRANGEST CASE. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE YORKSHIRE POST.--"No work of Mr. Boothby's seems to us to have
approached in skill his new story."
FAREWELL, NIKOLA. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.--"Guy Boothby's famous creation of Dr. Nikola
has become familiar to every reader of fiction."
MY INDIAN QUEEN. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE SUNDAY SPECIAL.--"A vivid story of adventure and daring, bearing
all the characteristics of careful workmanship."
LONG LIVE THE KING. 5_s._, 2_s._ net, and 6_d._
THE ABERDEEN FREE PRESS.--"It is marvellous that Mr. Boothby's novels
should be all so uniformly good."
A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"Of absorbing interest. The exploits are described in
an enthralling vein."
A MAKER OF NATIONS. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE SPECTATOR.--"'A Maker of Nations' enables us to understand Mr.
Boothby's vogue. It has no lack of movement or incident."
THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"Mr. Guy Boothby's name on the title-page of a
novel carries with it the assurance of a good story to follow."
LOVE MADE MANIFEST. 5_s._, and 6_d._
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"One of those tales of exciting adventure in the
confection of which Mr. Boothby is not excelled by any novelist of the
day."
PHAROS THE EGYPTIAN. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"This powerful novel is weird and soul-thrilling. There
never was in this world so strange and wonderful a love story."
ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE BRITISH WEEKLY.--"This stirring tale ranks next to 'Dr. Nikola' in
the list of Mr. Boothby's novels."
THE LUST OF HATE. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE DAILY GRAPHIC.--"Whoever wants dramatic interest let him read 'The
Lust of Hate.'"
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING. 5_s._, 2_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE BRISTOL MERCURY.--"Unquestionably the best work we have yet seen
from the pen of Mr. Guy Boothby."
DR. NIKOLA. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"One hairbreadth escape succeeds another with rapidity
that scarce leaves the reader breathing space."
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE YORKSHIRE POST.--"A more exciting romance no man could reasonably
ask for."
A BID FOR FORTUNE. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE MANCHESTER COURIER.--"It is impossible to give any idea of the
verve with which the story is told. The most original novel of the
year."
IN STRANGE COMPANY. 5_s._, 1_s._, 6_d._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE WORLD.--"A capital novel. It has the quality of life and stir, and
will carry the reader with curiosity unabated to the end."
THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER. 5_s._, 7_d._ net, and 6_d._
THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.--"There is a vigour and a power of illusion
about it that raises it quite above the level of the ordinary novel of
adventure."
BUSHIGRAMS. 5_s._
THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.--"Intensely interesting. Forces from us, by
its powerful artistic realism, those choky sensations which it should
be the aim of the human writer to elicit, whether in comedy or
tragedy."
SHEILAH McLEOD. 5_s._, and 6_d._
MR. W. L. ALDEN IN THE NEW YORK TIMES.--"Mr. Boothby can crowd more
adventure into a square foot of canvas than any other novelist."
DR. NIKOLA'S EXPERIMENT. 5_s._, and 6_d._
Illustrated by Sidney Cowell.
THE MAN OF THE CRAG. 5_s._, and 6_d._
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE. 6_s._
NORTH DEVON JOURNAL.--"A novel of absorbing interest. The plot is
developed very cleverly, and there is a delightful love theme."
IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM. 6_s._
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"A well-sustained and thrilling narrative."
THE LITTLE ANARCHIST. 6_s._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"A romance brimful of incident and arousing in the
reader a healthy interest that carries him along with never a pause."
AN IMPERIAL MARRIAGE. 6_s._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"The action never flags, the romantic element is always
paramount, so that the production is bound to appeal successfully to
all lovers of spirited fiction."
UNDER THE BLACK EAGLE. 6_s._
SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH.--"Is a sensational story of very
considerable merit, with a clever plot and a series of exciting
incidents. It is a capital piece of work."
THE HEIR TO THE THRONE. 6_s._
This new novel of Mr. Marchmont's is more attractive than any that have
preceded it. From cover to cover it compels attention.
BERTRAM MITFORD
A DUAL RESURRECTION. 6_s._, and 6_d._
READING STANDARD.--"The novel reader who loves a really good novel full
of desperate adventure will never be disappointed when Mr. Mitford's
books are in question. This is a strong and clever piece of work, the
plot is ingenious and the characterization uncommonly well done."
SEAFORD'S SNAKE. 6_s._, and 6_d._
MADAME.--"If you like well-written stories of adventure you should get
Mr. Mitford's latest novel. The characters are well portrayed, the
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AVERNO. 6_s._, and 6_d._
DAILY GRAPHIC.--"Mr. Bertram Mitford can always be depended upon to
spin a rattling story, and in 'Averno' he has made no exception to his
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AN ISLAND OF EDEN. 6_s._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"Mr. Mitford can be relied on to write a stirring novel
of adventure, and to this class his latest work belongs. The book is
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JOSEPH HOCKING
THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 6_d._
THE FINANCIAL TIMES.--"A strong knowledge of human nature, for which
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ROGER TREWINION. 3_s._, 6_d._, 2_s._ net, and 6_d._
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atmosphere of superstition, and Cornwall as the scene."
THE COMING OF THE KING. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE GLASGOW HERALD.--"Mr. Hocking's imagination is fertile, and his
skill in the arrangement of incident far above the average, and there
is an air of reality in all his writing which is peculiarly charming."
ESAU. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE OUTLOOK.--"Remarkable for the dramatic power with which the scenes
are drawn and the intense human interest which Mr. Hocking has woven
about his characters. 'Esau' is sure to be one of the novels of the
season."
GREATER LOVE. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE.--"Though of a totally different character from
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along with that fine romance."
LEST WE FORGET. 3_s._ 6_d._
PUBLIC OPINION.--"His story is quite as good as any we have read of the
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exciting times of Gardiner and Bonner."
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE? 3_s._ 6_d._
THE WEEKLY SUN.--"An engaging and fascinating romance. The reader puts
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JABEZ EASTERBROOK. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE ROCK.--"Real strength is shown in the sketches, of which that of
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ZILLAH: A ROMANCE. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE SPECTATOR.--"The drawing of some of the characters indicates the
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contents of his book indicate that he takes a genuine interest in the
deeper problems of the day."
THE MONK OF MAR-SABA. 3_s._ 6_d._
THE STAR.--"Great power and thrilling interest.... The scenery of the
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of Mr. Hocking's."
THE PURPLE ROBE. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 2_s._ net.
THE QUEEN.--"It is exceedingly clever, and excites the reader's
interest and brings out the powerful nature of the clever young
minister. This most engrossing book challenges comparison with the
brilliance of Lothair."
THE SCARLET WOMAN. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 2_s._ net.
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ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 1_s._ net.
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gives into the influence of modern thought and literature."
ISHMAEL PENGELLY: AN OUTCAST. 3_s._, 6_d._
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effectiveness of some of the scenes."
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX. 3_s._, 6_d._
THE MANCHESTER EXAMINER.--"Rustic scenes are drawn with free, broad
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to say it, with more realism than Mr. Hardy's country pictures."
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 3_s._, 6_d._
THE SPECTATOR.--"'The Birthright' is, in its way, quite as well
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MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH. 3_s._, 6_d._
THE SCOTSMAN.--"'Mistress Nancy Molesworth' is as charming a story of
the kind as could be wished, and it excels in literary workmanship as
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FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN. 3_s._, 6_d._
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readers of all classes will appreciate.... There are exhibited some of
the most beautiful aspects of disposition."
GOD AND MAMMON. 3_s._, 6_d._, and 6_d._
THE LITERARY WORLD.--"The story is vigorously told, his struggles, his
success and his love affairs are vividly described, while a strong
religious tone pervades the book."
AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS. 3_s._, 6_d._
Is a story in almost a new vein for Mr. Hocking. He has written of
Cornwall before, but never such a story of plot and counterplot,
mystery and adventure, so deftly intermingled as this.
MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON
HER CONVICT HUSBAND. 6_s._
Although Mrs. Leighton's work is often spoken of as "melodramatic,"
it is of the kind that one enthuses over by reason of its emotional
interest and unusual realism.
DUCKS AND DRAKES. 6_s._
A tale comparable to "Convict 99" in its actuality and holding
interest.
THE MISSING MISS RANDOLPH. 6_s._
Marie C. Leighton has done full justice to her reputation as a writer
of highly sensational and dramatic fiction.
THE TRIANGLE. 6_s._
THE COMMENTATOR.--"Altogether a most powerful and well-written novel;
and one likely to maintain a permanently conspicuous position upon
every library list."
BLACK SILENCE. 6_s._
THE FINANCIAL TIMES.--"With each new production Mrs. Leighton contrives
to add to her reputation as a writer of sensational fiction, but we
doubt if any of her previous efforts, not excepting the famous 'Convict
99,' can claim equality in this respect with 'Black Silence.'"
GERALDINE WALTON--WOMAN. 6_s._
A fine novel of the "Convict 99" type.
EDGAR WALLACE
GREY TIMOTHY. 6_s._
DAILY NEWS AND LEADER.--"Mr. Wallace has written one of the most
exciting and sensational stories we have read for some time."
THE PEOPLE OF THE RIVER. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE GENTLEMAN'S JOURNAL.--"There is masculine virility in every line,
and from first to last our attention is closely gripped; a grand book,
unaffected and sincere."
THE RIVER OF STARS. 6_s._, and 6_d._
Another of Mr. Edgar Wallace's strenuous tales of crime and adventure.
THE FOURTH PLAGUE. 6_s._
THE FINANCIAL TIMES.--"This is a novel abounding in excitement and
fascinating throughout."
A DEBT DISCHARGED. 6_s._
There is no lack of excitement in this brightly-written novel, which
holds the attention and interest of the reader to the end.
LINDSAY RUSSELL
SOULS IN PAWN. 6_s._
MORNING POST.--"The characters are drawn with sincerity and vigour; the
narrative holds attention at every stage."
THE YEARS OF FORGETTING. 6_s._
Nearly 30,000 copies (nine editions) of the author's last novel "Souls
in Pawn" have been sold, and "The Years of Forgetting" should attain
even greater popularity.
SILAS K. HOCKING
UNCLE PETER'S WILL. 3_s._ 6_d._
One of the most enthralling stories Mr. Silas Hocking has ever written.
FERGUS HUME
THE THIRTEENTH GUEST. 6_s._
THE GLOBE.--"In a word, 'The Thirteenth Guest' is Fergus Hume at his
best, and will doubtless please this popular author's many admirers."
THE LOST PARCHMENT. 6_s._
As full of incident and excitement as any novel Mr. Hume has written
since "The Mystery of the Hansom Cab."
ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW
THE GOLDEN GIRL. 6_s._, and 6_d._
THE LIVERPOOL COURIER.--"The plot is very ingenious, and it is worked
out after a fashion which keeps the reader's attention from start to
finish."
THROUGH FOLLY'S MILL. 6_s._
Mr. and Mrs. Askew have, in the course of this moving story, presented
a remarkable problem that is likely to be the cause of much discussion.
A. E. W. MASON
LAWRENCE CLAVERING. 6_s._, and 2_s._ net.
A remarkably powerful and stirring historical romance, full of life and
movement.
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