A Maker of History
by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #19341 · 445,412 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Maker of History
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
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Language: English
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A MAKER OF HISTORY
by
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of
"The Kingdom of the Blind," "The Hillman,"
"The Double Traitor," Etc.
With Frontispiece
[Illustration: "'Guard this for me,' she whispered." (page 148)
_Frontispiece_]
[Illustration]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Little, Brown & Company
Copyright, 1905, 1906,
by Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
BOOK I
I. AN ACCIDENTAL SPY 1
II. AT THE CAFÉ MONTMARTRE 11
III. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE 18
IV. THE FALLING OF THE HANDKERCHIEF 26
V. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 33
VI. THE VANISHING LADY 40
VII. THE DECOY-HOUSE OF EUROPE 48
VIII. "DUNCOMBE'S HOLD-UP" 55
IX. THE STORY OF A CALL 64
X. SPENCER'S SURPRISE 72
XI. A WORD OF WARNING 80
XII. THE SHADOWING OF DUNCOMBE 87
XIII. "HER VOICE" 93
XIV. LAUGHTER OF WOMEN 101
XV. MISS FIELDING FROM AMERICA 107
XVI. MISS FIELDING ASKS A QUESTION 115
XVII. GEORGE DUNCOMBE'S LIE 121
XVIII. "WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?" 129
XIX. A HILLSIDE ENCOUNTER 137
XX. MR. FIELDING IN A NEW RÔLE 143
XXI. A WOMAN'S CRY 151
XXII. LORD RUNTON IS SUSPICIOUS 160
XXIII. HER FIRST KISS 171
XXIV. THE EMPTY ROOM 179
BOOK II
I. GUY POYNTON AGAIN 185
II. AN OLD STORY 192
III. A BODY FROM THE SEINE 200
IV. THE INSOLENCE OF MADAME LA MARQUISE 208
V. THE INTERVIEWING OF PHYLLIS 217
VI. THE BLUNDERING OF ANDREW 225
VII. SPENCER GETS HIS CHANCE 234
VIII. A POLITICAL INTERLUDE 243
IX. ARRESTED! 251
X. THE CHECKMATING OF MONSIEUR LOUIS 259
XI. THE MAKING OF HISTORY 267
XII. AN OLD FRIEND 276
XIII. A NEWSPAPER SENSATION 285
XIV. THE MAN WHO SAVED HIS COUNTRY 294
XV. A MERRY MEETING 301
A MAKER OF HISTORY
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
AN ACCIDENTAL SPY
The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was stiff, footsore, and a little
chilly. There was no man-servant arranging his bath and clothes, no
pleasant smell of coffee--none of the small luxuries to which he was
accustomed. On the contrary, he had slept all night upon a bed of
bracken, with no other covering than the stiff pine needles from the
tall black trees, whose rustling music had lulled him to sleep.
He sat up, and remembered suddenly where he was and how he had come
there. He yawned, and was on the point of struggling to his feet when he
became aware of certain changed conditions in his surroundings. Some
instinct, of simple curiosity perhaps, but of far-reaching effect, led
him to crawl back into his hiding-place and watch.
Last night, after many hours of painful walking, two things alone had
impressed themselves upon his consciousness: the dark illimitable forest
and the double line of rails, which with the absolute straightness of
exact science had stretched behind and in front till the tree-tops in
the far distance seemed to touch, and the rails themselves to vanish
into the black heart of the close-growing pines. For miles he had
limped along the painfully rough track without seeing the slightest sign
of any break in the woods, or any human being. At last the desire for
sleep had overtaken him. He was a hardy young Englishman, and a night
out of doors in the middle of June under these odorous pines presented
itself merely as a not disagreeable adventure. Five minutes after the
idea had occurred to him he was asleep.
And now in the gray morning he looked out upon a different scene.
Scarcely a dozen yards from him stood a single travelling-coach of dark
green, drawn by a heavy engine. At intervals of scarcely twenty paces up
and down the line, as far as he could see, soldiers were stationed like
sentries. They were looking sharply about in all directions, and he
could even hear the footsteps of others crashing through the wood. From
the train three or four men in long cloaks had already descended. They
were standing in the track talking together.
The young man behind the bracken felt himself in somewhat of a dilemma.
There was a delightful smell of fresh coffee from the waiting coach, and
there seemed to be not the slightest reason why he should not emerge
from his hiding-place and claim the hospitality of these people. He was
a quite harmless person, with proper credentials, and an adequate
explanation of his presence there. On the other hand, the spirit of
adventure natural to his years strongly prompted him to remain where he
was and watch. He felt certain that something was going to happen.
Besides, those soldiers had exactly the air of looking for somebody to
shoot!
Whilst he was hesitating, something did happen. There was a shrill
whistle, a puff of white smoke in the distance, and another train
approached from the opposite direction.
It drew up within a few feet of the one which was already waiting.
Almost immediately half a dozen men, who were already standing upon the
platform of the car, descended. One of these approached rapidly, and
saluted the central figure of those who had been talking together in the
track. After a few moments' conversation these two, followed by one
other man only who was carrying a writing portfolio, ascended the
platform of the train which had arrived first and disappeared inside.
The young man who was watching these proceedings yawned.
"No duel, then!" he muttered to himself. "I've half a mind to go out."
Then he caught sight of a particularly fierce-looking soldier with his
finger already upon the trigger of his gun, and he decided to remain
where he was.
In about half an hour the two men reappeared on the platform of the car.
Simultaneously the window of the carriage in which they had been sitting
was opened, and the third man was visible, standing before a small table
and arranging some papers. Suddenly he was called from outside. He
thrust his hat upon the papers, and hastened to obey the summons.
A little gust of breeze from the opening and closing of the door
detached one of the sheets of paper from the restraining weight of the
hat. It fluttered out of the window and lay for a moment upon the side
of the track. No one noticed it, and in a second or two it fluttered
underneath the clump of bracken behind which the young Englishman was
hiding. He thrust out his hand and calmly secured it.
In less than five minutes the place was deserted. Amidst many hasty
farewells, wholly unintelligible to the watcher, the two groups of men
separated and climbed into their respective trains. As soon as every one
was out of sight the Englishman rose with a little grunt of satisfaction
and stretched himself.
He glanced first at the sheet of paper, and finding it written in German
thrust it into his pocket. Then he commenced an anxious search for
smoking materials, and eventually produced a pipe, a crumpled packet of
tobacco, and two matches.
"Thank Heaven!" he exclaimed, lighting up. "And now for a tramp."
He plodded steadily along the track for an hour or more. All the time he
was in the heart of the forest. Pheasants and rabbits and squirrels
continually crossed in front of him. Once a train passed, and an excited
guard shouted threats and warnings, to which he replied in fluent but
ineffective English.
"Johnnies seem to think I'm trespassing!" he remarked to himself in an
aggrieved tone. "I can't help being on their beastly line!"
Tall, smooth-faced, and fair, he walked with the long step and lightsome
grace of the athletic young Englishman of his day. He was well dressed
in tweed clothes, cut by a good tailor, a little creased by his night
out of doors, but otherwise immaculate. He hummed a popular air to
himself, and held his head high. If only he were not so hungry.
Then he came to a station. It was little more than a few rows of planks,
with a chalet at one end--but a very welcome sight confronted him. A
little pile of luggage, with his initials, G. P., was on the end of the
platform nearest to him.
"That conductor was a sensible chap," he exclaimed. "Glad I tipped him.
Hullo!"
The station-master, in uniform, came hurrying out. The young Englishman
took off his hat, and produced a phrase book from his pocket. He ignored
the stream of words which the station-master, with many gesticulations,
was already pouring out.
"My luggage," he said firmly, laying one hand upon the pile, and waving
the phrase book.
The station-master acquiesced heartily. He waxed eloquent again, but the
Englishman was busy with the phrase book.
"Hungry! Hotel?" he attempted.
The station-master pointed to where the smoke was curling upwards from a
score or so of houses about half a mile distant. The Englishman was
getting pleased with himself. Outside was a weird-looking carriage, and
on the box seat, fast asleep, was a very fat man in a shiny hat,
ornamented by a bunch of feathers. He pointed to the luggage, then to
the cab, and finally to the village.
"Luggage, hotel, carriage!" he suggested.
The station-master beamed all over. With a shout, which must have
reached the village, he awakened the sleeping man. In less than five
minutes the Englishman and his luggage were stored away in the carriage.
His ticket had been examined by the station-master, and smilingly
accepted. There were more bows and salutes, and the carriage drove off.
Mr. Guy Poynton leaned back amongst the mouldy leather upholstery, and
smiled complacently.
"Easiest thing in the world to get on in a foreign country with a phrase
book and your wits," he remarked to himself. "Jove, I am hungry!"
He drove into a village of half a dozen houses or so, which reminded him
of the pictured abodes of Noah and his brethren. An astonished
innkeeper, whose morning attire apparently consisted of trousers, shirt,
and spectacles, ushered him into a bare room with a trestle table. Guy
produced his phrase book.
"Hungry!" he said vociferously. "Want to eat! Coffee!"
The man appeared to understand, but in case there should have been any
mistake Guy followed him into the kitchen. The driver, who had lost no
time, was already there, with a long glass of beer before him. Guy
produced a mark, laid it on the table, touched himself, the innkeeper,
and the driver, and pointed to the beer. The innkeeper understood, and
the beer was good.
The driver, who had been of course ludicrously over-paid, settled down
in his corner, and announced his intention of seeing through to the end
this most extraordinary and Heaven-directed occurrence. The innkeeper
and his wife busied themselves with the breakfast, and Guy made remarks
every now and then from his phrase book, which were usually
incomprehensible, except when they concerned a further supply of beer.
With a brave acceptance of the courtesies of the country he had accepted
a cigar from the driver, and was already contemplating the awful moment
when he would have to light it. Just then an interruption came.
It was something very official, but whether military or of the police
Guy could not tell. It strode into the room with clanking of spurs, and
the driver and innkeeper alike stood up in respect. It saluted Guy. Guy
took off his hat. Then there came words, but Guy was busy with his
phrase book.
"I cannot a word of German speak!" he announced at last.
A deadlock ensued. The innkeeper and the driver rushed into the breach.
Conversation became furious. Guy took advantage of the moment to slip
the cigar into his pocket, and to light a cigarette. Finally, the
officer swung himself round, and departed abruptly.
"Dolmetscher," the driver announced to him triumphantly.
"Dolmetscher," the innkeeper repeated.
Guy turned it up in his phrase book, and found that it meant
interpreter. He devoted himself then to stimulating the preparations for
breakfast.
The meal was ready at last. There were eggs and ham and veal,
dark-colored bread, and coffee, sufficient for about a dozen people. The
driver constituted himself host, and Guy, with a shout of laughter, sat
down where he was, and ate. In the midst of the meal the officer
reappeared, ushering in a small wizened-faced individual of unmistakably
English appearance. Guy turned round in his chair, and the newcomer
touched his forelock.
"Hullo!" Guy exclaimed. "You're English!"
"Yes, sir!" the man answered. "Came over to train polo ponies for the
Prince of Haepsburg. Not in any trouble, I hope, sir?"
"Not I," Guy answered cheerily. "Don't mind my going on with my
breakfast, do you? What's it all about? Who's the gentleman with the
fireman's helmet on, and what's he worrying about?"
"He is an officer of the police, sir, on special service," the man
answered. "You have been reported for trespassing on the State railway
this morning."
"Trespassing be blowed!" Guy answered. "I've got my ticket for the
frontier. We were blocked by signal about half a dozen miles off this
place, and I got down to stretch my legs. I understood them to say that
we could not go on for half an hour or so. They never tried to stop my
getting down, and then off they went without any warning, and left me
there."
"I will translate to the officer, sir," the man said.
"Right!" Guy declared. "Go ahead."
There was a brisk colloquy between the two. Then the little man began
again.
"He says that your train passed here at midnight, and that you did not
arrive until past six."
"Quite right!" Guy admitted. "I went to sleep. I didn't know how far it
was to the station, and I was dead tired."
"The officer wishes to know whether many trains passed you in the
night?"
"Can't say," Guy answered. "I sleep very soundly, and I never opened my
eyes after the first few minutes."
"The officer wishes to know whether you saw anything unusual upon the
line?" the little man asked.
"Nothing at all," Guy answered coolly. "Bit inquisitive, isn't he?"
The little man came closer to the table.
"He wishes to see your passport, sir," he announced.
Guy handed it to him, also a letter of credit and several other
documents.
"He wants to know why you were going to the frontier, sir!"
"Sort of fancy to say that I'd been in Russia, that's all!" Guy
answered. "You tell him I'm a perfectly harmless individual. Never been
abroad before."
The officer listened, and took notes in his pocketbook of the passport
and letter of credit. Then he departed with a formal salute, and they
heard his horse's hoofs ring upon the road outside as he galloped away.
The little man came close up to the table.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, "but you seem to have upset the
officials very much by being upon the line last night. There have been
some rumors going about--but perhaps you're best not to know that. May I
give you a word of advice, sir?"
"Let me give you one," Guy declared. "Try this beer!"
"I thank you, sir," the man answered. "I will do so with pleasure. But
if you are really an ordinary tourist, sir,--as I have no doubt you
are,--let this man drive you to Streuen, and take the train for the
Austrian frontier. You may save yourself a good deal of unpleasantness."
"I'll do it!" Guy declared. "Vienna was the next place I was going to,
anyhow. You tell the fellow where to take me, will you?"
The man spoke rapidly to the driver.
"I think that you will be followed, sir," he added, turning to Guy, "but
very likely they won't interfere with you. The railway last night for
twenty miles back was held up for State purposes. We none of us know
why, and it doesn't do to be too curious over here, but they have an
idea that you are either a journalist or a spy."
"_Civis Britannicus sum!_" the boy answered, with a laugh.
"It doesn't quite mean what it used to, sir," the man answered quietly.
CHAPTER II
AT THE CAFÉ MONTMARTRE
Exactly a week later, at five minutes after midnight, Guy Poynton, in
evening dress, entered the Café Montmartre, in Paris. He made his way
through the heterogeneous little crowd of men and women who were
drinking at the bar, past the scarlet-coated orchestra, into the inner
room, where the tables were laid for supper. Monsieur Albert, satisfied
with the appearance of his new client, led him at once to a small table,
submitted the wine card, and summoned a waiter. With some difficulty, as
his French was very little better than his German, he ordered supper,
and then lighting a cigarette, leaned back against the wall and looked
around to see if he could discover any English or Americans.
The room was only moderately full, for the hour was a little early for
this quarter of Paris. Nevertheless, he was quick to appreciate a
certain spirit of Bohemianism which pleased him. Every one talked to his
neighbor. An American from the further end of the room raised his glass
and drank his health. A pretty fair-haired girl leaned over from her
table and smiled at him.
"Monsieur like talk with me, eh?"
"English?" he asked.
"No. De Wien!"
He shook his head smilingly.
"We shouldn't get on," he declared. "Can't speak the language."
She raised her eyebrows with a protesting gesture, but he looked away
and opened an illustrated paper by his side. He turned over the pages
idly enough at first, but suddenly paused. He whistled softly to himself
and stared at the two photographs which filled the sheet.
"By Jove!" he said softly to himself.
There was the rustling of skirts close to his table. An unmistakably
English voice addressed him.
"Is it anything very interesting? Do show me!"
He looked up. Mademoiselle Flossie, pleased with his appearance, had
paused on her way down the room.
"Come and sit down, and I'll show it you!" he said, rising. "You're
English, aren't you?"
Mademoiselle Flossie waved a temporary adieu to her friends and accepted
the invitation. He poured her out a glass of wine.
"Stay and have supper with me," he begged. "I must be off soon, but I'm
tired of being alone. This is my last night, thank goodness."
"All right!" she answered gayly. "I must go back to my friends directly
afterwards."
"Order what you like," he begged. "I can't make these chaps understand
me."
She laughed, and called the waiter.
"And now show me what you were looking at in that paper," she insisted.
He pointed to the two photographs.
"I saw those two together only a week ago," he said. "Want to hear about
it?"
She looked startled for a moment, and a little incredulous.
"Yes, go on!" she said.
He told her the story. She listened with an interest which surprised
him. Once or twice when he looked up he fancied that the lady from
Vienna was also doing her best to listen. When he had finished their
supper had arrived.
"I think," she said, as she helped herself to _hors d'oeuvre_, "that
you were very fortunate to get away."
He laughed carelessly.
"The joke of it is," he said, "I've been followed all the way here. One
fellow, who pretended he got in at Strasburg, was trying to talk to me
all the time, but I saw him sneak in at Vienna, and I wasn't having any.
I say, do you come here every evening?"
"Very often," she answered. "I dance at the Comique, and then we
generally go to Maxim's to supper, and up here afterwards. I'll
introduce you to my friends afterwards, if you like, and we'll all sit
together. If you're very good I'll dance to you!"
"Delighted," he answered, "if they speak English. I'm sick of trying to
make people understand my rotten French."
She nodded.
"They speak English all right. I wish that horrid Viennese girl wouldn't
try to listen to every word we say."
He smiled.
"She wanted me to sit at her table," he remarked.
Mademoiselle Flossie looked at him warningly, and dropped her voice.
"Better be careful!" she whispered. "They say she's a spy!"
"On my track very likely," he declared with a grin.
She threw herself back in her seat and laughed.
"Conceited! Why should any one want to be on your track? Come and see me
dance at the Comique to-morrow night."
"Can't," he declared. "My sister's coming over from England."
"Stupid!"
"Oh, I'll come one night," he declared. "Order some coffee, won't
you--and what liqueurs?"
"I'll go and fetch my friends," she declared, rising. "We'll all have
coffee together."
"Who are they?" he asked.
She pointed to a little group down the room--two men and a woman. The
men were French, one middle-aged and one young, dark, immaculate, and
with the slightly bored air affected by young Frenchmen of fashion; the
woman was strikingly handsome and magnificently dressed. They were quite
the most distinguished-looking people in the room.
"If you think they'll come," he remarked doubtfully. "Aren't we rather
comfortable as we are?"
She made her way between the tables.
"Oh, they'll come," she declared. "They're pals!"
She floated down the room with a cigarette in her mouth, very graceful
in her airy muslin skirts and large hat. Guy followed her admiringly
with his eyes. The Viennese lady suddenly tore off a corner of her menu
and scribbled something quickly. She passed it over to Guy.
"Read!" she said imperatively.
He nodded, and opened it.
"_Prenez garde!_" he said slowly. Then he looked at her and shook his
head. She was making signs to him to destroy her message, and he at once
did so.
"Don't understand!" he said. "Sorry!"
Mademoiselle Flossie was laughing and talking with her friends.
Presently they rose, and came across the room with her. Guy stood up and
bowed. The introductions were informal, but he felt his insular
prejudices a little shattered by the delightful ease with which these
two Frenchmen accepted the situation. Their breeding was as obvious as
their _bonhomie_. The table was speedily rearranged to find places for
them all.
"Your friends will take coffee with me, Mademoiselle," Guy said. "Do be
hostess, please. My attempts at French will only amuse everybody."
The elder of the two Frenchmen, whom the waiter addressed as Monsieur le
Baron, and every one else as Louis, held up his hand.
"With pleasure!" he declared, "later on. Just now it is too early. We
will celebrate _l'entente cordiale_. _Garçon_, a magnum of Pommery, _un
neu frappé_! I know you will forgive the liberty," he said, smiling at
Guy. "This bottle is vowed. Flossie has smiled for the first time for
three evenings."
She threw a paper fan at him, and sat down again by Guy.
"Do tell him the story you told me," she whispered in his ear. "Louis,
listen!"
Guy retold his story. Monsieur le Baron listened intently. So did the
lady who had accompanied him. Guy felt that he told it very well, but
for the second time he omitted all mention of that missing sheet of
paper which had come into his possession. Monsieur le Baron was
obviously much interested.
"You are quite sure--of the two men?" he asked quietly.
"Quite!" Guy answered confidently. "One was----"
Madame--Flossie's friend--dropped a wineglass. Monsieur le Baron raised
his hand.
"No names," he said. "It is better not. We understand. A most
interesting adventure, Monsieur Poynton, and--to your health!"
The wine was good, and the fun of the place itself went almost to the
head. Always there were newcomers who passed down the room amidst a
chorus of greetings, always the gayest of music. Then amidst cheers
Flossie and another friend whom she called from a distant table danced a
cake-walk--danced very gracefully, and with a marvellous display of
rainbow skirts. She came back breathless, and threw herself down by
Guy's side.
"Give me some more wine!" she panted. "How close the place is!"
The younger Frenchman, who had scarcely spoken, leaned over.
"An idea!" he exclaimed. "My automobile is outside. I will drive you all
round the city. Monsieur Poynton shall see Paris undressed. Afterwards
we will go to Louis' rooms and make his man cook us a _déjeuner
Anglais_."
Flossie stood up and laughed.
"Who'll lend me a coat?" she cried. "I've nothing but a lace mantle."
"Plenty of Frenchmen in the car," the young Frenchman cried. "Are we
all agreed? Good! _Garçon, l'addition!_"
"And mine," Guy ordered.
The women departed for their wraps. Guy and the two Frenchmen filled
their pockets with cigarettes. When the bills came Guy found that his
own was a trifle, and Monsieur Louis waved aside all protest.
"We are hosts to-night, my young friend," he declared with charming
insistence. "Another time you shall have your turn. You must come round
to the club to-morrow, and we will arrange for some sport. _Allons!_"
They crowded out together amidst a chorus of farewells. Guy took
Flossie's arm going down the stairs.
"I say, I'm awfully obliged to you for introducing me to your friends,"
he declared. "I'm having a ripping time!"
She laughed.
"Oh, they're all right," she declared. "Mind my skirts!"
"I say, what does '_prenez garde_' mean?" he asked.
"'Take care.' Why?"
He laughed again.
"Nothing!"
CHAPTER III
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
"Mademoiselle," the young man said, with an air of somewhat weary
politeness, "I regret to say that there is nothing more to be done!"
He was grieved and polite because Mademoiselle was beautiful and in
trouble. For the rest he was a little tired of her. Brothers of
twenty-one, who have never been in Paris before, and cannot speak the
language, must occasionally get lost, and the British Embassy is not
exactly a transported Scotland Yard.
"Then," she declared, with a vigorous little stamp of her shapely foot,
"I don't see what we keep an Ambassador here for at all--or any of you.
It is scandalous!"
The Hon. Nigel Fergusson dropped his eyeglass and surveyed the young
lady attentively.
"My dear Miss Poynton," he said, "I will not presume to argue with you.
We are here, I suppose, for some purpose or other. Whether we fulfil it
or not may well be a matter of opinion. But that purpose is certainly
not to look after any young idiot--you must excuse my speaking
plainly--who runs amuck in this most fascinating city. In your case the
Chief has gone out of his way to help you. He has interviewed the chief
of police himself, brought his influence to bear in various quarters,
and I can tell you conscientiously that everything which possibly can
be done is being done at the present moment. If you wish for my advice
it is this: Send for some friend to keep you company here, and try to be
patient. You are in all probability making yourself needlessly
miserable."
She looked at him a little reproachfully. He noticed, however, with
secret joy that she was drawing on her gloves.
"Patient! He was to meet me here ten days ago. He arrived at the hotel.
His clothes are all there, and his bill unpaid. He went out the night of
his arrival, and has never returned. Patient! Well, I am much obliged to
you, Mr. Fergusson. I have no doubt that you have done all that your
duty required. Good afternoon!"
"Good afternoon, Miss Poynton, and don't be too despondent. Remember
that the French police are the cleverest in the world, and they are
working for you."
She looked up at him scornfully.
"Police, indeed!" she answered. "Do you know that all they have done so
far is to keep sending for me to go and look at dead bodies down at the
Morgue? I think that I shall send over for an English detective."
"You might do worse," he answered; "but in any case, Miss Poynton, I do
hope that you will send over for some friend or relation to keep you
company. Paris is scarcely a fit place for you to be alone and in
trouble."
"Thank you," she said. "I will remember what you have said."
The young man watched her depart with a curious mixture of relief and
regret.
"The young fool's been the usual round, I suppose, and he's either too
much ashamed of himself or too besotted to turn up. I wish she wasn't
quite so devilish good-looking," he remarked to himself. "If she goes
about alone she'll get badly scared before she's finished."
Phyllis Poynton drove straight back to her hotel and went to her room. A
sympathetic chambermaid followed her in.
"Mademoiselle has news yet of her brother?" she inquired.
Mademoiselle shook her head. Indeed her face was sufficient answer.
"None at all, Marie."
The chambermaid closed the door.
"It would help Mademoiselle, perhaps, if she knew where the young
gentleman spent the evening before he disappeared?" she inquired
mysteriously.
"Of course! That is just what I want to find out."
Marie smiled.
"There is a young man here in the barber's shop, Mademoiselle," she
announced. "He remembers Monsieur Poynton quite well. He went in there
to be shaved, and he asked some questions. I think if Mademoiselle were
to see him!"
The girl jumped up at once.
"Do you know his name?" she asked.
"Monsieur Alphonse, they call him. He is on duty now."
Phyllis Poynton descended at once to the ground
floor of the hotel, and pushed open the glass door which led into the
coiffeur's shop. Monsieur Alphonse was waiting upon a customer, and she
was given a chair. In a few minutes he descended the spiral iron
staircase and desired to know Mademoiselle's pleasure.
"You speak English?" she asked.
"But certainly, Mademoiselle."
She gave a little sigh of relief.
"I wonder," she said, "if you remember waiting upon my brother last
Thursday week. He was tall and fair, and something like me. He had just
arrived in Paris."
Monsieur Alphonse smiled. He rarely forgot a face, and the young
Englishman's tip had been munificent.
"Perfectly, Mademoiselle," he answered. "They sent for me because
Monsieur spoke no French."
"My chambermaid, Marie, told me that you might perhaps know how he
proposed to spend the evening," she continued. "He was quite a stranger
in Paris, and he may have asked for some information."
Monsieur Alphonse smiled, and extended his hands.
"It is quite true," he answered. "He asked me where to go, and I say to
the Folies Bergères. Then he said he had heard a good deal of the supper
cafés, and he asked me which was the most amusing. I tell him the Café
Montmartre. He wrote it down."
"Do you think that he meant to go there?" she asked.
"But certainly. He promised to come and tell me the next day how he
amused himself."
"The Café Montmartre. Where is it?" she asked.
"In the Place de Montmartre. But Mademoiselle pardons--she will
understand that it is a place for men."
"Are women not admitted?" she asked.
Alphonse smiled.
"But--yes. Only Mademoiselle understands that if a lady should go there
she would need to be very well escorted."
She rose and slipped a coin into his hand.
"I am very much obliged to you," she said. "By the bye, have any other
people made inquiries of you concerning my brother?"
"No one at all, Mademoiselle!" the man answered.
She almost slammed the door behind when she went out.
"And they say that the French police are the cleverest in the world,"
she exclaimed indignantly.
Monsieur Alphonse watched her through the glass pane.
"_Ciel!_ But she is pretty!" he murmured to himself.
* * * * *
She turned into the writing-room, and taking off her gloves she wrote a
letter. Her pretty fingers were innocent of rings, and her handwriting
was a little shaky. Nevertheless, it is certain that not a man passed
through the room who did not find an excuse to steal a second glance at
her. This is what she wrote:--
"MY DEAR ANDREW,--I am in great distress here, and
very unhappy. I should have written to you before, but I know
that you have your own trouble to bear just now, and I hated
to bother you. I arrived here punctually on the date arranged
upon between Guy and myself, and found that he had arrived the
night before, and had engaged a room for me. He was out when I
came. I changed my clothes and sat down to wait for him. He
did not return. I made inquiries and found that he had left
the hotel at eight o'clock the previous evening. To cut the
matter short, ten days have now elapsed and he has not yet
returned.
"I have been to the Embassy, to the police, and to the Morgue.
Nowhere have I found the slightest trace of him. No one seems
to take the least interest in his disappearance. The police
shrug their shoulders, and look at me as though I ought to
understand--he will return very shortly they are quite sure.
At the Embassy they have begun to look upon me as a nuisance.
The Morgue--Heaven send that I may one day forget the horror
of my hasty visits there. I have come to the conclusion,
Andrew, that I must search for him myself. How, I do not know;
where, I do not know. But I shall not leave Paris until I have
found him.
"Andrew, what I want is a friend here. A few months ago I
should not have hesitated a moment to ask you to come to me.
To-day that is impossible. Your presence here would only be an
embarrassment to both of us. Do you know of any one who would
come? I have not a single relative whom I can ask to help me.
Would you advise me to write to Scotland Yard for a detective,
or go to one of these agencies? If not, can you think of any
one who would come here and help me, either for your sake as
your friend, or, better still, a detective who can speak
French and whom one can trust? All our lives Guy and I have
congratulated ourselves that we have no relation nearer than
India. I am finding out the other side of it now.
"I know that you will do what you can for me, Andrew. Write to
me by return.
"Yours in great trouble and distress,
"PHYLLIS POYNTON."
She sealed and addressed her letter, and saw it despatched. Afterwards
she crossed the courtyard to the restaurant, and did her best to eat
some dinner. When she had finished it was only half-past eight. She rang
for the lift and ascended to the fourth floor. On her way down the
corridor a sudden thought struck her. She took a key from her pocket and
entered the room which her brother had occupied.
His things were still lying about in some disorder, and neither of his
trunks was locked. She went down on her knees and calmly proceeded to go
through his belongings. It was rather a forlorn hope, but it seemed to
her just possible that there might be in some of his pockets a letter
which would throw light upon his disappearance. She found nothing of the
sort, however. There were picture postcards, a few photographs, and a
good many restaurant bills, but they were all from places in Germany and
Austria. At the bottom of the second trunk, however, she found something
which he had evidently considered it worth while to preserve carefully.
It was a thick sheet of official-looking paper, bearing at the top an
embossed crown, and covered with German writing. It was numbered at the
top "seventeen," and it was evidently an odd sheet of some document. She
folded it carefully up, and took it back with her to her own room. Then,
with the help of a German dictionary, she commenced to study it. At the
end of an hour she had made out a rough translation, which she read
carefully through. When she had finished she was thoroughly perplexed.
She had an uncomfortable sense of having come into touch with something
wholly unexpected and mysterious.
"What am I to do?" she said to herself softly.
"What can it mean? Where on earth can Guy--have found this?"
There was no one to answer her, no one to advise. An overwhelming sense
of her own loneliness brought the tears into her eyes. She sat for some
time with her face buried in her hands. Then she rose up, calmly
destroyed her translation with minute care, and locked away the
mysterious sheet at the bottom of her dressing-bag. The more she thought
of it the less, after all, she felt inclined to connect it with his
disappearance.
CHAPTER IV
THE FALLING OF THE HANDKERCHIEF
Monsieur Albert looked over her shoulder for the man who must surely be
in attendance--but he looked in vain.
"Mademoiselle wishes a table--for herself alone!" he repeated
doubtfully.
"If you please," she answered.
It was obvious that Mademoiselle was of the class which does not
frequent night cafés alone, but after all that was scarcely Monsieur
Albert's concern. She came perhaps from that strange land of the free,
whose daughters had long ago kicked over the barriers of sex with the
same abandon that Mademoiselle Flossie would display the soles of her
feet a few hours later in their national dance. If she had chanced to
raise her veil no earthly persuasions on her part would have secured for
her the freedom of that little room, for Monsieur Albert's appreciation
of likeness was equal to his memory for faces. But it was not until she
was comfortably ensconced at a corner table, from which she had a good
view of the room, that she did so, and Monsieur Albert realized with a
philosophic shrug of the shoulders the error he had committed.
Phyllis looked about her with some curiosity. It was too early for the
habitués of the place, and most of the tables were empty. The
scarlet-coated band were smoking cigarettes, and had not yet produced
their instruments. The conductor curled his black moustache and stared
hard at the beautiful young English lady, without, however, being able
to attract a single glance in return. One or two men also tried to
convey to her by smiles and glances the fact that her solitude need
continue no longer than she chose. The unattached ladies put their heads
together and discussed her with little peals of laughter. To all of
these things she remained indifferent. She ordered a supper which she
ate mechanically, and wine which she scarcely drank. All the while she
was considering. Now that she was here what could she do? Of whom was
she to make inquiries? She scanned the faces of the newcomers with a
certain grave curiosity which puzzled them. She neither invited nor
repelled notice. She remained entirely at her ease.
Monsieur Albert, during one of his peregrinations round the room, passed
close to her table. She stopped him.
"I trust that Mademoiselle is well served!" he remarked with a little
bow.
"Excellently, I thank you," she answered.
He would have passed on, but she detained him.
"You have very many visitors here," she remarked. "Is it the same
always?"
He smiled.
"To-night," he declared, "it is nothing. There are many who come here
every evening. They amuse themselves here."
"You have a good many strangers also?" she asked.
"But certainly," he declared. "All the time!"
"I have a brother," she said, "who was here eleven nights ago--let me
see--that would be last Tuesday week. He is tall and fair, about
twenty-one, and they say like me. I wonder if you remember him."
Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly.
"That is strange," he declared, "for as a rule I forget no one. Last
Tuesday week I remember perfectly well. It was a quiet evening. La Scala
was here--but of the rest no one. If Mademoiselle's brother was here it
is most strange."
Her lip quivered for a moment. She was disappointed.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped that you might have been able to
help me. He left the Grand Hotel on that night with the intention of
coming here--and he never returned. I have been very much worried ever
since."
She was no great judge of character, but Monsieur Albert's sympathy did
not impress her with its sincerity.
"If Mademoiselle desires," he said, "I will make inquiries amongst the
waiters. I very much fear, however, that she will obtain no news here."
He departed, and Phyllis watched him talking to some of the waiters and
the leader of the orchestra.
Presently he returned.
"I am very sorry," he announced, "but the brother of Mademoiselle could
not have come here. I have inquired of the garçons, and of Monsieur
Jules there, who forgets no one. They answer all the same."
"Thank you very much," she answered. "It must have been somewhere else!"
She was unreasonably disappointed. It had been a very slender chance,
but at least it was something tangible. She had scarcely expected to
have it snapped so soon and so thoroughly. She dropped her veil to hide
the tears which she felt were not far from her eyes, and summoned the
waiter for her bill. There seemed to be no object in staying longer.
Suddenly the unexpected happened.
A hand, flashing with jewels, was rested for a moment upon her table.
When it was withdrawn a scrap of paper remained there.
Phyllis looked up in amazement. The girl to whom the hand had belonged
was sitting at the next table, but her head was turned away, and she
seemed to be only concerned in watching the door. She drew the scrap of
paper towards her and cautiously opened it. This is what she read,
written in English, but with a foreign turn to most of the letters:--
"Monsieur Albert lied. Your brother was here. Wait till I
speak to you."
Instinctively she crumpled up this strange little note in her hand. She
struggled hard to maintain her composure. She had at once the idea that
every one in the place was looking at her. Monsieur Albert, indeed, on
his way down the room wondered what had driven the hopeless expression
from her face.
The waiter brought her bill. She paid it and tipped him with prodigality
which for a woman was almost reckless. Then she ordered coffee, and
after a second's hesitation cigarettes. Why not? Nearly all the women
were smoking, and she desired to pass for the moment as one of them. For
the first time she ventured to gaze at her neighbor.
It was the young lady from Vienna. She was dressed in a wonderful
demi-toilette of white lace, and she wore a large picture hat adjusted
at exactly the right angle for her profile. From her throat and bosom
there flashed the sparkle of many gems--the finger which held her
cigarette was ablaze with diamonds. She leaned back in her seat smoking
lazily, and she met Phyllis's furtive gaze with almost insolent
coldness. But a moment later, when Monsieur Albert's back was turned,
she leaned forward and addressed her rapidly.
"A man will come here," she said, "who could tell you, if he was
willing, all that you seek to know. He will come to-night--he comes all
the nights. You will see I hold my handkerchief so in my right hand.
When he comes I shall drop it--so!"
The girl's swift speech, her half-fearful glances towards the door,
puzzled Phyllis.
"Can you not come nearer to me and talk?" she asked.
"No! You must not speak to me again. You must not let any one,
especially the man himself, know what I have told you. No more now.
Watch for the handkerchief!"
"But what shall I say to him?"
The girl took no notice of her. She was looking in the opposite
direction. She seemed to have edged away as far as possible from her.
Phyllis drew a long breath.
She felt her heart beating with excitement. The place suddenly seemed to
her like part of a nightmare.
And then all was clear again. Fortune was on her side. The secret of
Guy's disappearance was in this room, and a few careless words from the
girl at the next table had told her more than an entire police system
had been able to discover. But why the mystery? What was she to say to
the man when he came? The girl from Vienna was talking to some friends
and toying carelessly with a little morsel of lace which she had drawn
from her bosom. Phyllis watched it with the eyes of a cat. Every now
and then she watched also the door.
The place was much fuller now. Mademoiselle Flossie had arrived with a
small company of friends from Maxim's. The music was playing all the
time. The popping of corks was almost incessant, the volume of sound had
swelled. The laughter and greeting of friends betrayed more abandon than
earlier in the evening. Old acquaintances had been renewed, and new ones
made. Mademoiselle from Vienna was surrounded by a little circle of
admirers. Still she held in her right hand a crumpled up little ball of
lace.
Men passing down the room tried to attract the attention of the
beautiful young English demoiselle who looked out upon the little scene
so indifferently as regarded individuals, and yet with such eager
interest as a whole. No one was bold enough, however, to make a second
effort. Necessity at times gives birth to a swift capacity. Fresh from
her simple country life, Phyllis found herself still able with
effortless serenity to confound the most hardened boulevarders who
paused to ogle her. Her eyes and lips expressed with ease the most
convincing and absolute indifference to their approaches. A man may
sometimes brave anger; he rarely has courage to combat indifference. So
Phyllis held her own and waited.
And at last the handkerchief fell. Phyllis felt her own heart almost
stop beating, as she gazed down the room. A man of medium height, dark,
distinguished, was slowly approaching her, exchanging greetings on every
side. His languid eyes fell upon Phyllis. Those who had watched her
previously saw then a change. The cold indifference had vanished from
her face. She leaned forward as though anxious to attract his
attention. She succeeded easily enough.
He was almost opposite her table, and her half smile seemed to leave him
but little choice. He touched the back of the chair which fronted hers,
and took off his hat.
"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked softly.
"But certainly," she answered. "It is you for whom I have been waiting!"
"Mademoiselle flatters me!" he murmured, more than a little astonished.
"Not in the least," she answered. "I have been waiting to ask you what
has become of my brother--Guy Poynton!"
He drew out the chair and seated himself. His eyes never left her face.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, "this is most extraordinary!"
She noticed then that his hands were trembling.
CHAPTER V
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
"I am asking a great deal of you, George! I know it. But you see how
helpless I am--and read the letter--read it for yourself."
He passed Phyllis's letter across the small round dining-table. His
guest took it and read it carefully through.
"How old is the young lady?" he asked.
"Twenty-three!"
"And the boy?"
"Twenty-one."
"Orphans, I think you said?"
"Orphans and relationless."
"Well off?"
"Moderately."
Duncombe leaned back in his chair and sipped his port thoughtfully.
"It is an extraordinary situation!" he remarked.
"Extraordinary indeed," his friend assented. "But so far as I am
concerned you can see how I am fixed. I am older than either of them,
but I have always been their nearest neighbor and their most intimate
friend. If ever they have needed advice they have come to me for it. If
ever I have needed a day's shooting for myself or a friend I have gone
to them. This Continental tour of theirs we discussed and planned out,
months beforehand. If my misfortune had not come on just when it did I
should have gone with them, and even up to the last we hoped that I
might be able to go to Paris with Phyllis."
Duncombe nodded.
"Tell me about the boy," he said.
His host shrugged his shoulders.
"You know what they're like at that age," he remarked. "He was at
Harrow, but he shied at college, and there was no one to insist upon his
going. The pair of them had only a firm of lawyers for guardians. He's
just a good-looking, clean-minded, high-spirited young fellow, full of
beans, and needing the bit every now and then. But, of course, he's no
different from the run of young fellows of his age, and if an adventure
came his way I suppose he'd see it through."
"And the girl?"
Andrew Pelham rose from his seat.
"I will show you her photograph," he said.
He passed into an inner room divided from the dining-room by curtains.
In a moment or two he reappeared.
"Here it is!" he said, and laid a picture upon the table.
Now Duncombe was a young man who prided himself a little on being
unimpressionable. He took up the picture with a certain tolerant
interest and examined it, at first without any special feeling. Yet in a
moment or two he felt himself grateful for those great disfiguring
glasses from behind which his host was temporarily, at least, blind to
all that passed. A curious disturbance seemed to have passed into his
blood. He felt his eyes brighten, and his breath come a little quicker,
as he unconsciously created in his imagination the living presentment
of the girl whose picture he was still holding. Tall she was, and slim,
with a soft, white throat, and long, graceful neck; eyes rather darker
than her complexion warranted, a little narrow, but bright as stars--a
mouth with the divine lines of humor and understanding. It was only a
picture, but a realization of the living image seemed to be creeping in
upon him. He made the excuse of seeking a better light, and moved across
to a distant lamp. He bent over the picture, but it was not the picture
which he saw. He saw the girl herself, and even with the half-formed
thought he saw her expression change. He saw her eyes lit with sorrow
and appeal--he saw her arms outstretched towards him--he seemed even to
hear her soft cry. He knew then what his answer would be to his friend's
prayer. He thought no more of the excuses which he had been building in
his mind; of all the practical suggestions which he had been prepared to
make. Common-sense died away within him. The matter-of-fact man of
thirty was ready to tread in the footsteps of this great predecessor,
and play the modern knight-errant with the whole-heartedness of Don
Quixote himself. He fancied himself by her side, and his heart leaped
with joy of it. He thought no more of abandoned cricket matches and
neglected house parties. A finger of fire had been laid upon his
somewhat torpid flesh and blood.
"Well?" Andrew asked.
Duncombe returned to the table, and laid the picture down with a
reluctance which he could scarcely conceal.
"Very nice photograph," he remarked. "Taken locally?"
"I took it myself," Andrew answered. "I used to be rather great at that
sort of thing before--before my eyes went dicky."
Duncombe resumed his seat. He helped himself to another glass of wine.
"I presume," he said, "from the fact that you call yourself their
nearest friend, that the young lady is not engaged?"
"No," Andrew answered slowly. "She is not engaged."
Something a little different in his voice caught his friend's attention.
Duncombe eyed him keenly. He was conscious of a sense of apprehension.
He leaned over the table.
"Do you mean, Andrew----?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you mean----?"
"Yes, I mean that," his friend answered quietly. "Nice sort of old fool,
am I not? I'm twelve years older than she is, I'm only moderately well
off and less than moderately good-looking. But after all I'm only human,
and I've seen her grow up from a fresh, charming child into one of God's
wonderful women. Even a gardener, you know, George, loves the roses he
has planted and watched over. I've taught her a little and helped her a
little, and I've watched her cross the borderland."
"Does she know?"
Andrew shook his head doubtfully.
"I think," he said, "that she was beginning to guess. Three months ago I
should have spoken--but my trouble came. I didn't mean to tell you this,
but perhaps it is as well that you should know. You can understand now
what I am suffering. To think of her there alone almost maddens me."
Duncombe rose suddenly from his seat.
"Come out into the garden, Andrew," he said. "I feel stifled here."
His host rose and took Duncombe's arm. They passed out through the
French window on to the gravel path which circled the cedar-shaded lawn.
A shower had fallen barely an hour since, and the air was full of fresh
delicate fragrance. Birds were singing in the dripping trees, blackbirds
were busy in the grass. The perfume from the wet lilac shrubs was a very
dream of sweetness. Andrew pointed across a park which sloped down to
the garden boundary.
"Up there, amongst the elm trees, George," he said, "can you see a gleam
of white? That is the Hall, just to the left of the rookery."
Duncombe nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I can see it."
"Guy and she walked down so often after dinner," he said quietly. "I
have stood here and watched them. Sometimes she came alone. What a long
time ago that seems!"
Duncombe's grip upon his arm tightened.
"Andrew," he said, "I can't go!"
There was a short silence. Andrew stood quite still. All around them was
the soft weeping of dripping shrubs. An odorous whiff from the walled
rose-garden floated down the air.
"I'm sorry, George! It's a lot to ask you, I know."
"It isn't that!"
Andrew turned his head toward his friend. The tone puzzled him.
"I don't understand."
"No wonder, old fellow! I don't understand myself."
There was another short silence. Andrew stood with his almost sightless
eyes turned upon his friend, and Duncombe was looking up through the elm
trees to the Hall. He was trying to fancy her as she must have appeared
to this man who dwelt alone, walking down the meadow in the evening.
"No," he repeated softly, "I don't understand myself. You've known me
for a long time, Andrew. You wouldn't write me down as altogether a
sentimental ass, would you?"
"I should not, George. I should never even use the word 'sentimental' in
connection with you."
Duncombe turned and faced him squarely. He laid his hands upon his
friend's shoulders.
"Old man," he said, "here's the truth. So far as a man can be said to
have lost his heart without rhyme or reason, I've lost mine to the girl
of that picture."
Andrew drew a quick breath.
"Rubbish, George!" he exclaimed. "Why, you never saw her. You don't know
her!"
"It is quite true," Duncombe answered. "And yet--I have seen her
picture."
His friend laughed queerly.
"You, George Duncombe, in love with a picture. Stony-hearted George, we
used to call you. I can't believe it! I can't take you seriously. It's
all rot, you know, isn't it! It must be rot!"
"It sounds like it," Duncombe answered quietly. "Put it this way, if you
like. I have seen a picture of the woman whom, if ever I meet, I most
surely shall love. What there is that speaks to me from that picture I
do not know. You say that only love can beget love. Then there is that
in the picture which points beyond. You see, I have talked like this in
an attempt to be honest. You have told me that you care for her.
Therefore I have told you these strange things. Now do you wish me to go
to Paris, for if you say yes I shall surely go!"
Again Andrew laughed, and this time his mirth sounded more natural.
"Let me see," he said. "We drank Pontet Canet for dinner. You refused
liqueurs, but I think you drank two glasses of port. George, what has
come over you? What has stirred your slow-moving blood to fancies like
these? Bah! We are playing with one another. Listen! For the sake of our
friendship, George, I beg you to grant me this great favor. Go to Paris
to-morrow and help Phyllis!"
"You mean it?"
"God knows I do. If ever I took you seriously, George--if ever I feared
to lose the woman I love--well, I should be a coward for my own sake to
rob her of help when she needs it so greatly. Be her friend, George, and
mine. For the rest the fates must provide!"
"The fates!" Duncombe answered. "Ay, it seems to me that they have been
busy about my head to-night. It is settled, then. I will go!"
CHAPTER VI
THE VANISHING LADY
At precisely half-past nine on the following evening Duncombe alighted
from his _petite voiture_ in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel, and
making his way into the office engaged a room. And then he asked the
question which a hundred times on the way over he had imagined himself
asking. A man to whom nervousness in any shape was almost unknown, he
found himself only able to control his voice and manner with the
greatest difficulty. In a few moments he might see her.
"You have a young English lady--Miss Poynton--staying here, I believe,"
he said. "Can you tell me if she is in now?"
The clerk looked at him with sudden interest.
"Miss Poynton is staying here, sir," he said. "I do not believe that she
is in just now. Will you wait one moment?"
He disappeared rapidly, and was absent for several minutes. When he
returned he came out into the reception hall.
"The manager would be much obliged if you would step into his office for
a moment, sir," he said confidentially. "Will you come this way?"
Duncombe followed him into a small room behind the counter. A
gray-haired man rose from his desk and saluted him courteously.
"Sir George Duncombe, I believe," he said. "Will you kindly take a
seat?"
Duncombe did as he was asked. All the time he felt that the manager was
scrutinizing him curiously.
"Your clerk," he said, "told me that you wished to speak to me."
"Exactly!" the manager answered. "You inquired when you came in for Miss
Poynton. May I ask--are you a friend of hers?"
"I am here on behalf of her friends," Duncombe answered. "I have letters
to her."
The manager bowed gravely.
"I trust," he said, "that you will soon have an opportunity to deliver
them. We are not, of course, responsible in any way for the conduct or
doings of our clients here, but I am bound to say that both the young
people of the name you mention have been the cause of much anxiety to
us."
"What do you mean?" Duncombe asked quickly.
"Mr. Guy Poynton," the manager continued, "arrived here about three
weeks ago, and took a room for himself and one for his sister, who was
to arrive on the following day. He went out that same evening, and has
never since returned. Of that fact you are no doubt aware."
Duncombe nodded impatiently.
"Yes!" he said. "That is why I am here."
"His sister arrived on the following day, and was naturally very
distressed. We did all that we could for her. We put her in the way of
communicating with the police and the Embassy here, and we gave her
every assistance that was possible. Four nights ago Mademoiselle went
out late. Since then we have seen nothing of her. Mademoiselle also has
disappeared."
Duncombe sprang to his feet. He was suddenly pale.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Four nights ago! She went out alone, you
say?"
"How else? She had no friends here. Once or twice at my suggestion she
had taken one of our guides with her, but she discontinued this as she
fancied that it made her conspicuous. She was all the time going round
to places making inquiries about her brother."
Duncombe felt himself suddenly precipitated into a new world--a
nightmare of horrors. He was no stranger in the city, and grim
possibilities unfolded themselves before his eyes. Four nights ago!
"You have sent--to the police?"
"Naturally. But in Paris--Monsieur must excuse me if I speak plainly--a
disappearance of this sort is never regarded seriously by them. You know
the life here without doubt, Monsieur! Your accent proves that you are
well acquainted with the city. No doubt their conclusions are based upon
direct observation, and in most cases are correct--but it is very
certain that Monsieur the Superintendent regards such disappearances as
these as due to one cause only."
Duncombe frowned, and something flashed in his eyes which made the
manager very glad that he had not put forward this suggestion on his own
account.
"With regard to the boy," he said, "this might be likely enough. But
with regard to the young lady it is of course wildly preposterous. I
will go to the police myself," he added, rising.
"One moment, Sir George," the manager continued. "The disappearance of
the young lady was a source of much trouble to me, and I made all
possible inquiries within the hotel. I found that on the day of her
disappearance Mademoiselle had been told by one of the attendants in
the barber's shop, who had waited upon her brother on the night of his
arrival, that he--Monsieur Guy--had asked for the name of some cafés for
supper, and that he had recommended Café Montmartre. Mademoiselle
appears to have decided to go there herself to make inquiries. We have
no doubt that when she left the hotel on the night of her disappearance
it was to there that she went."
"You have told the police this?"
"Yes, I have told them," the manager answered dryly. "Here is their
latest report, if you care to see it."
Duncombe took the little slip of paper and read it hastily.
"Disappearance of Mademoiselle Poynton, from England.--We
regret to state no trace has been discovered of the missing
young lady.
"(Signed) JULES LEGARDE, Superintendent."
"That was only issued a few hours ago," the manager said.
"And I thought," Duncombe said bitterly, "that the French police were
the best in the world!"
The manager said nothing. Duncombe rose from his chair.
"I shall go myself to the Café Montmartre," he said. The manager bowed.
"I shall be glad," he said, "to divest myself of any further
responsibility in this matter. It has been a source of much anxiety to
the directors as well as myself."
Duncombe walked out of the room, and putting on his coat again called
for a _petite voiture_. He gave the man the address in the Rue St.
Honoré and was driven to a block of flats there over some shops.
"Is Monsieur Spencer in?" he asked the concierge. He was directed to the
first floor. An English man-servant admitted him, and a few moments
later he was shaking hands with a man who was seated before a table
covered with loose sheets of paper.
"Duncombe, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"Why, I thought that you had shaken the dust of the city from your feet
forever, and turned country squire. Sit down! What will you have?"
"First of all, am I disturbing you?"
Spencer shook his head.
"I've no Press work to-night," he answered. "I've a clear hour to give
you at any rate. When did you come?"
"Two-twenty from Charing Cross," Duncombe answered. "I can't tell you
how thankful I am to find you in, Spencer. I'm over on a very serious
matter, and I want your advice."
Spencer touched the bell. Cigars and cigarettes, whisky and soda,
appeared as though by magic.
"Now help yourself and go ahead, old chap," his host declared. "I'm a
good listener."
He proved himself so, sitting with half-closed eyes and an air of close
attention until he had heard the whole story. He did not once interrupt,
but when Duncombe had finished he asked a question.
"What did you say was the name of this café where the boy had
disappeared?"
"Café Montmartre."
Spencer sat up in his chair. His expression had changed.
"The devil!" he murmured softly.
"You know the place?"
"Very well. It has an extraordinary reputation. I am sorry to say it,
Duncombe, but it is a very bad place for your friend to have disappeared
from."
"Why?"
"In the first place it is the resort of a good many of the most
dangerous people in Europe--people who play the game through to the end.
It is a perfect hot-bed of political intrigue, and it is under police
protection."
"Police protection! A place like that!" Duncombe exclaimed.
"Not as you and I understand it, perhaps," Spencer explained. "There is
no Scotland Yard extending a protecting arm over the place, and that
sort of thing. But the place is haunted by spies, and there are
intrigues carried on there in which the secret service police often take
a hand. In return it is generally very hard to get to the bottom of any
disappearance or even robbery there through the usual channels. To the
casual visitor, and of course it attracts thousands from its reputation,
it presents no more dangers perhaps than the ordinary night café of its
sort. But I could think of a dozen men in Paris to-day, who, if they
entered it, I honestly believe would never be seen again."
Spencer was exaggerating, Duncombe murmured to himself. He was a
newspaper correspondent, and he saw these things with the halo of
melodrama around them. And yet--four nights ago. His face was white and
haggard.
"The boy," he said, "could have been no more than an ordinary visitor.
He had no great sum of money with him, he had no secrets, he did not
even speak the language. Surely he would have been too small fry for the
intriguers of such a place!"
"One would think so," Spencer answered musingly. "You are sure that he
was only what you say?"
"He was barely twenty-one," Duncombe answered, "and he had never been
out of England before."
"What about the girl?"
"She is two years older. It was her first visit to Paris." Spencer
nodded.
"The disappearance of the boy is of course the riddle," he remarked. "If
you solve that you arrive also at his sister's whereabouts. Upon my
word, it is a poser. If it had been the boy alone--well, one could
understand. The most beautiful ladies in Paris are at the Montmartre. No
one is admitted who is not what they consider--chic! The great dancers
and actresses are given handsome presents to show themselves there. On a
representative evening it is probably the most brilliant little roomful
in Europe. The boy of course might have lost his head easily enough, and
then been ashamed to face his sister. But when you tell me of her
disappearance, too, you confound me utterly. Is she good-looking?"
"Very!"
"She would go there, of course, asking for her brother," Spencer
continued thoughtfully. "An utterly absurd thing to do, but no doubt she
did, and--look here, Duncombe, I tell you what I'll do. I have my own
two news-grabbers at hand, and nothing particular for them to do this
evening. I'll send them up to the Café Montmartre."
"It's awfully good of you, Spencer. I was going myself," Duncombe said,
a little doubtfully.
"You idiot!" his friend said cheerfully, yet with a certain emphasis.
"English from your hair to your boots, you'd go in there and attempt to
pump people who have been playing the game all their lives, and who
would give you exactly what information suited their books. They'd know
what you were there for, the moment you opened your mouth. Honestly,
what manner of good do you think that you could do? You'd learn what
they chose to tell you. If there's really anything serious behind all
this, do you suppose it would be the truth?"
"You're quite right, I suppose," Duncombe admitted, "but it seems
beastly to be doing nothing."
"Better be doing nothing than doing harm!" Spencer declared. "Look round
the other cafés and the boulevards. And come here at eleven to-morrow
morning. We'll breakfast together at Paillard's."
CHAPTER VII
THE DECOY-HOUSE OF EUROPE
Spencer wrote out his luncheon with the extreme care of the man to whom
eating has passed to its proper place amongst the arts, and left to
Duncombe the momentous question of red wine or white. Finally, he leaned
back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully across at his companion.
"Sir George," he said, "you have placed me in a very painful position."
Duncombe glanced up from his _hors d'oeuvre_.
"What do you mean?"
"I will explain," Spencer continued. "You came to me last night with a
story in which I hope that I showed a reasonable amount of interest, but
in which, as a matter of fact, I was not interested at all. Girls and
boys who come to Paris for the first time in their lives unattended, and
find their way to the Café Montmartre, and such places, generally end up
in the same place. It would have sounded brutal if I had added to your
distress last night by talking like this, so I determined to put you in
the way of finding out for yourself. I sent two of my most successful
news-scouts to that place last night, and I had not the slightest doubt
as to the nature of the information which they would bring back. It
turns out that I was mistaken."
"What did they discover?" Duncombe asked eagerly.
"Nothing!"
Duncombe's face fell, but he looked a little puzzled.
"Nothing? I don't understand. They must have heard that they had been
there anyhow."
"They discovered nothing. You do not understand the significance of
this. I do! It means that I was mistaken for one thing. Their
disappearance has more in it than the usual significance. Evil may have
come to them, but not the ordinary sort of evil. Listen! You say that
the police have disappointed you in having discovered nothing. That is
no longer extraordinary to me. The police, or those who stand behind
them, are interested in this case, and in the withholding of information
concerning it."
"You are talking riddles to me, Spencer," Duncombe declared. "Do you
mean that the police in Paris may become the hired tools of
malefactors?"
"Not altogether that," Spencer said, waving aside a dish presented
before him by the head waiter himself with a gesture of approval. "Not
necessarily malefactors. But there are other powers to be taken into
consideration, and most unaccountably your two friends are in deeper
water than your story led me to expect. Now, not another question,
please, until you have tried that sauce. Absolute silence, if you
please, for at least three or four minutes."
Duncombe obeyed with an ill grace. He had little curiosity as to its
flavor, and a very small appetite at all with the conversation in its
present position. He waited for the stipulated time, however, and then
leaned once more across the table.
"Spencer!"
"First I must have your judgment upon the sauce. Did you find enough
mussels?"
"Damn the sauce!" Duncombe answered. "Forgive me, Spencer, but this
affair is, after all, a serious one to me. You say that your two scouts,
as you call them, discovered nothing. Well, they had only one evening at
it. Will they try again in other directions? Can I engage them to work
for me? Money is absolutely no object."
Spencer shook his head.
"Duncombe," he said, "you're going to think me a poor sort of friend,
but the truth is best. You must not count upon me any more. I cannot
lift even my little finger to help you. I can only give you advice if
you want it."
"And that?"
"Go back to England to-morrow. Chuck it altogether. You are up against
too big a combination. You can do no one any good. You are a great deal
more likely to come to harm yourself."
Duncombe was quite quiet for several moments. When he spoke again his
manner had a new stiffness.
"You have surprised me a good deal, I must confess, Spencer. We will
abandon the subject."
Spencer shrugged his shoulders.
"I know how you're feeling, old chap," he said. "I can't help it. You
understand my position here. I write a daily letter for the best paying
and most generous newspaper in the world, and it is absolutely necessary
that I keep hand in glove with the people in high places here. My
position absolutely demands it, and my duty to my chief necessitates my
putting all personal feeling on one side in a case like this when a
conflict arises."
"But where," Duncombe asked, "does the conflict arise?"
"Here!" Spencer answered. "I received a note this morning from a great
personage in this country to whom I am under more obligation than any
other breathing man, requesting me to refrain from making any further
inquiries or assisting any one else to make them in this matter. I can
assure you that I was thunderstruck, but the note is in my pocket at the
present moment."
"Does it mention them by name?"
"The exact words are," Spencer answered, "'respecting the reported
disappearance of the young Englishman, Mr. Guy Poynton, and his sister.'
This will just show you how much you have to hope for from the police,
for the person whose signature is at the foot of that note could command
the implicit obedience of the whole system."
Duncombe's cheeks were a little flushed. He was British to the backbone,
and his obstinacy was being stirred.
"The more reason," he said quietly, "so far as I can see, that I should
continue my independent efforts with such help as I can secure. This
girl and boy are fellow country-people, and I haven't any intention of
leaving them in the clutches of any brutal gang of Frenchmen into whose
hands they may have got. I shall go on doing what I can, Spencer."
The journalist shrugged his shoulders.
"I can't help sympathizing with you, Duncombe," he said, "but keep
reasonable. You know your Paris well enough to understand that you
haven't a thousand to one chance. Besides, Frenchmen are not brutal. If
the boy got into a scrape, it was probably his own fault."
"And the girl? What of her? Am I to leave her to the tender mercies of
whatever particular crew of blackguards may have got her into their
power?"
"You are needlessly melodramatic," Spencer answered. "I will admit, of
course, that her position may be an unfortunate one, but the personage
whom I have the honor to call my friend does not often protect
blackguards. Be reasonable, Duncombe! These young people are not
relatives of yours, are they?"
"No!"
"Nor very old friends? The young lady, for instance?"
Duncombe looked up, and his face was set in grim and dogged lines. He
felt like a man who was nailing his colors to the mast.
"The young lady," he said, "is, I pray Heaven, my future wife!"
Spencer was honestly amazed, and a little shocked.
"Forgive me, Duncombe," he said. "I had no idea--though perhaps I ought
to have guessed."
They went on with their luncheon in silence for some time, except for a
few general remarks. But after the coffee had been brought and the
cigarettes were alight, Spencer leaned once more across the table.
"Tell me, Duncombe, what you mean to do."
"I shall go to the Café Montmartre myself to-night. At such a place
there must be hangers-on and parasites who see something of the game. I
shall try to come into touch with them. I am rich enough to outbid the
others who exact their silence."
"You must be rich enough to buy their lives then," Spencer answered
gravely, "for if you do succeed in tempting any one to betray the inner
happenings of that place on which the seal of silence has been put, you
will hear of them in the Morgue before a fortnight has passed."
"They must take their risk," Duncombe said coldly. "I am going to stuff
my pockets with money to-night, and I shall bid high. I shall leave word
at the hotel where I am going. If anything happens to me there--well, I
don't think the Café Montmartre will flourish afterwards."
"Duncombe," his friend said gravely, "nothing will happen to you at the
Café Montmartre. Nothing ever does happen to any one there. You remember
poor De Laurson?"
"Quite well. He was stabbed by a girl in the Rue Pigalle."
"He was stabbed in the Café Montmartre, but his body was found in the
Rue Pigalle. Then there was the Vicomte de Sauvinac."
"He was found dead in his study--poisoned."
"He was found there--yes, but the poison was given to him in the Café
Montmartre, and it was there that he died. I am behind the scenes in
some of these matters, but I know enough to hold my tongue, or my London
letter wouldn't be worth a pound a week. I am giving myself away to you
now, Duncombe. I am risking a position which it has taken me twenty
years to secure. I've got to tell you these things, and you must do as I
tell you. Go back to London!"
Duncombe laughed as he rose to his feet.
"Not though the Vicomte's fate is to be mine to-night," he answered.
"The worse hell this place is the worse the crew it must shelter. I
should never hold my head up again if I sneaked off home and left the
girl in their hands. I don't see how you can even suggest it."
"Only because you can't do the least good," Spencer answered. "And
besides, don't run away with a false impression. The place is dangerous
only for certain people. The authorities don't protect murderers or
thieves except under special circumstances. The Vicomte's murderer and
De Laurson's were brought to justice. Only they keep the name of the
place out of it always. Tourists in shoals visit it, and visit safely
every evening. They pay fancy prices for what they have, but I think
they get their money's worth. But for certain classes of people it is
the decoy house of Europe. Foreign spies have babbled away their secrets
there, and the greatest criminals of the world have whispered away their
lives to some fair daughter of Judas at those tables. I, who am behind
the scenes, tell you these things, Duncombe."
Duncombe smiled.
"To-morrow," he said, "you may add another victim to your chamber of
horrors!"
CHAPTER VIII
DUNCOMBE'S "HOLD-UP"
The amber wine fell in a little wavering stream from his upraised glass
on to the table-cloth below. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at
his three guests with a fatuous smile. The girl in blue, with the
dazzlingly fair hair and wonderful complexion, steadied his hand and
exchanged a meaning look with the man who sat opposite. Surely the poor
fool was ready for the plucking? But Madame, who sat beside her, frowned
upon them both. She had seen things which had puzzled her. She signed to
them to wait.
She leaned over and flashed her great black eyes upon him.
"Monsieur enjoys himself like this every night in Paris?"
A soft, a very seductive, voice. The woman who envied her success
compared it to the purring of a cat. Men as a rule found no fault with
it, especially those who heard it for the first time.
Duncombe set down his glass, now almost empty. He looked from the stain
on the table-cloth into the eyes of Madame, and again she thought them
very unlike the eyes of a drunken man.
"Why not? It's the one city in the world to enjoy one's self in.
Half-past four, and here we are as jolly as anything. Chucked out of
everywhere in London at half-past twelve. 'Time, gentlemen, please!'
And out go the lights. Jove, I wonder what they'd think of this at the
Continental! Let's--let's have another bottle."
The fair-haired girl--Flossie to her friends, Mademoiselle Mermillon
until you had been introduced--whispered in his ear. He shook his head
vaguely. She had her arm round his neck. He removed it gently.
"We'll have another here first anyhow," he declared. "Hi, Garçon! Ring
the bell, there's a good chap, Monsieur--dash it, I've forgotten your
name. No, don't move. I'll do it myself."
He rose and staggered towards the door.
"The bell isn't that way, Monsieur," Madame exclaimed. "It is to the
right. Louis, quick!"
Monsieur Louis sprang to his feet. There was a queer grating little
sound, followed by a sharp click. Duncombe had swung round and faced
them. He had turned the key in the door, and was calmly pocketing it.
The hand which held that small shining revolver was certainly not the
hand of a drunken man.
They all three looked at him in wonder--Madame, Monsieur Louis, and
Mademoiselle Flossie. The dark eyebrows of Madame almost met, and her
eyes were full of the promise of evil things. Monsieur Louis, cowering
back from that steadily pointed revolver, was white with the inherited
cowardice of the degenerate. Flossie, who had drunk more wine than any
of them, was trying to look as though it were a joke. Duncombe, with his
disordered evening clothes, his stained shirt-front and errant tie, was
master of the situation. He came and stood a few feet away from them.
His blundering French accent and slow choice of words had departed. He
spoke to them without hesitation, and his French was almost as good as
their own.
"I want you to keep your places," he said, "and listen to me for a few
minutes. I can assure you I am neither mad nor drunk. I have a few
questions to ask you, and if your answers are satisfactory you may yet
find my acquaintance as profitable as though I had been the pigeon I
seemed. Keep your seat, Monsieur le Baron!"
Monsieur Louis, who had half risen, sat down again hastily. They all
watched him from their places around the table. It was Madame whom he
addressed more directly--Madame with the jet black hair and golden
earrings, the pale cheeks and scarlet lips.
"I invited you into a private room here," he said, "because what I have
said to you three is between ourselves alone. You came, I presume,
because it promised to be profitable. All that I want from you is
information. And for that I am willing to pay."
Monsieur Louis interposed. He stroked his little black moustache with a
much beringed hand. With the other he gesticulated.
"Monsieur talks reasonably," he declared, "but why all this mystery? Why
this feigned drunkenness? Why the show of arms? If we can help
Monsieur--it is an affair of pleasure, and if he chooses to make a
present to these ladies in return--why, no doubt they will be charmed.
Me, I presume, he has no intention to insult. Permit me, Monsieur."
He drew a card from a small gold case, and presented it to Duncombe, who
accepted it with a little bow.
"If I can aid you in any way," Monsieur Louis continued, "I am entirely
at your service, but I require first of all that in addressing us you
recognize my position as a French nobleman, who amuses himself in this
place as you, Monsieur, also do, and also that you unlock that door."
Duncombe smiled quietly.
"Monsieur le Baron," he said, "I think that we are very well as we
are--secure from interruption. I have sent others here on this same
mission, and they did not succeed. Both of these ladies, I believe, have
been approached for the information I desire, and they have thought well
to withhold it. I have set my heart upon success this time, and I wish
to secure at least the opportunity of being heard."
Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"There are secrets," he murmured; "affairs of honor----"
Duncombe interrupted him.
"Monsieur Louis," he said, "I am not so young as I look, and I have
lived in Paris. I know that this café, for all its outward smartness,
bears perhaps the worst reputation in Europe. I have heard of you three
many times--the 'Trinity from Hell,' they call you sometimes, I think.
You see I know where I am and the risk I run. Even this little room has
its secrets--a murder or two, I believe, and other things--secrets which
I don't suppose there is gold enough in France to buy. Well, I don't
want to buy them. You can go your way so far as I am concerned. There is
only one thing I want to know from you, and for that I offer you--the
ladies, of course, I mean--five thousand francs each."
"Five thousand francs!" Madame murmured.
Mademoiselle Flossie said nothing, but her eyes shone.
"The question, Monsieur?"
"What has become of Mademoiselle Phyllis Poynton, the young English
lady?"
The eyes of Madame seemed to narrow for a moment. Monsieur Louis lit a
cigarette with fingers which shook a little, and the fair face of
Mademoiselle Flossie was suddenly white. Then they all three looked at
one another.
"Do you know whom Monsieur may mean?"
"Not I!"
"An English girl! There are none come here."
"Mademoiselle Poynton! It is a name unheard of."
The young Englishman smiled upon them grimly.
"Madame," he said, "you have in your satchel--don't move, if you
please--a roll of French notes--indeed you must not move--very cleverly
abstracted from my pocket by my charming young companion, Mademoiselle
Flossie here. Now I have at least half a dozen friends in the café below
whom I could summon here by touching that bell, and the identification
of those notes would be a perfectly simple matter. Shall I do it? Or
will you earn another roll by giving me the information I seek?"
Madame leaned forward and whispered in the man's ear. Monsieur Louis
nodded.
"Tell him," Mademoiselle Flossie murmured tremulously. "Monsieur will
not break faith with us. He will not let it be known from whence he
gained the knowledge."
"Agreed!" the young Englishman declared. "Go on."
Madame held up her hand.
"I," she said, "will tell Monsieur what we know."
She rose to her feet and leaned over the table. The blue-black sequins
on her dress glittered and shone in the dull light. Her figure was
superb, her neck and bosom a flawless white. The Englishman, however,
was unmoved. His keen gray eyes were fixed upon her, but the revolver
remained in his right hand. From downstairs they could hear the music of
violins, the rattle of glasses, the hum of voices and laughter. Madame
frowned slightly as she marked the young Englishman's alertness. She was
used to victims, and his imperturbability annoyed her.
"I trust," she said, "that you will remember, Monsieur, that I am
breaking a pledged word. If Monsieur the Director here knew that I was
telling you of Mademoiselle Poynton there would be much trouble for all
of us."
Duncombe nodded.
"Go on," he said.
"Mademoiselle came here first about a month or perhaps six weeks ago,"
she said. "From that time on she was a regular visitor. She came alone.
She spoke to no one. She was always a mystery. She was very handsomely
dressed--for an English girl, quite chic! She spent money, and Monsieur
Albert the director kept always a table for her. As time went on we
began to feel the mystery. We asked ourselves for what purpose does she
come here? For what, indeed!
"One night Monsieur Albert, who was always besieged with questions about
her, took too much wine. I have seen that happen with him but
once--since that time never. He told us about Mademoiselle. She made
some inquiries about her brother, and Monsieur Albert was able to tell
her his whereabouts. After that he scarcely expected to see her again,
but the next night she was here also.
"Then Monsieur Albert learned more. Mademoiselle was in a small way an
artist, and she had conceived the idea of painting a picture of the
café--an early morning picture of effects, Monsieur understands. There
was to be the morning sunlight streaming across the supper-tables, the
faces of all of us aged and haggard. Monsieur Louis here, without doubt,
a very child of the devil! Oh, a very moral picture, Monsieur. It was to
convert us all. Monsieur Albert declared that he would arrange to have
it here on exhibition, and we should all mend our ways. Monsieur knew
perhaps that the young lady was an artist?"
The question was flashed suddenly upon him as though the intention was
to take him by surprise. Duncombe, however, remained unmoved.
"I am here, Madame, to ask, not to answer, questions," he said. "Will
you kindly proceed? I am greatly interested."
Madame put her hand to her throat for a moment as though to loosen her
necklace. She had not the appearance of being greatly in love with her
questioner.
"There came a night," she continued, "when Mademoiselle broke through
her rule. A man came in and sat at her table. His name was the Vicomte
D'Aubarde, and he was known to most of us, though to the young lady he
appeared to be a stranger. They talked earnestly for an hour or more.
When she left--he accompanied her!"
The Englishman had grown paler. Madame saw it and smiled. Her lover
perhaps! It was good to make him suffer.
"Flossie here," she continued, "was outside, and saw them depart. They
drove off together in the Vicomte's coupé. They were apparently on the
best of terms. Since then we have not seen her again--nor the Vicomte.
Monsieur knows now as much as we know."
"And how long ago is that?" Duncombe asked quietly.
"A week to-night," Madame replied.
Duncombe laid down a roll of notes upon the table.
"I wish," he said, "to prove to you that I am in earnest. I am therefore
going to pay you the amount I promised, although I am perfectly well
aware that the story of Madame is--false!"
"Monsieur!"
"As I remarked," he repeated, "false. Now listen to me. I want to tempt
one of you, I don't care which, to break through this thieves' compact
of yours. I have paid a thousand francs for lies--I will pay ten
thousand francs for truth! Ten thousand francs for the present
whereabouts of Mademoiselle Phyllis Poynton!"
Mademoiselle Flossie looked up at him quickly. Then she glanced
furtively at Madame, and the flash of Madame's eyes was like lightning
upon blue steel. Duncombe moved towards the door.
"I will pay the bill downstairs," he said. "Good night! Think over what
I have said. Ten thousand francs!"
Monsieur Louis stood up and bowed stiffly. Mademoiselle Flossie
ventured to throw him a kiss. Madame smiled inscrutably.
The door closed. They heard him go downstairs. Madame picked up his card
and read aloud.
Sir George Duncombe,
Risley Hall,
Norfolk.
Grand Hotel, Paris.
"If one could only," Madame murmured, "tell him the truth, collect the
money--and----"
"And," Flossie murmured, half fearfully.
Monsieur le Baron smiled!
CHAPTER IX
THE STORY OF A CALL
Mademoiselle Mermillon was not warmly welcomed at the Grand Hotel. The
porter believed that Sir George Duncombe was out. He would inquire, if
Mademoiselle would wait, but he did not usher her into the drawing-room,
as would have been his duty in an ordinary case, or even ask her to take
a seat.
Mademoiselle Mermillon was of the order of young person who resents, but
this afternoon she was far too nervous. During the porter's temporary
absence she started at every footstep, and scrutinized anxiously every
passer-by. Often she looked behind her through the glass doors into the
street. When at last he reappeared alone her disappointment was obvious.
"Sir George Duncombe is out, Mademoiselle," he announced. "Will you be
pleased to leave a message, or your name?"
"You do not know how long he will be?" she inquired.
"Sir George left no word," the man answered. "He has been out since
before _déjeuner_."
Mademoiselle decided to leave a note. The porter supplied her with
notepaper and envelopes. She sat down at a small round table, and once
more glanced furtively around. Convinced that she was not being watched,
she hastily wrote a few lines, sealed and addressed the envelope, and
handed it to the porter.
"You will give this to Sir George immediately he returns," she begged.
"It is important."
"Monsieur shall have it without doubt, Mademoiselle," the man answered.
She pulled down her veil and left the place hurriedly. When she reached
the boulevard she slackened her pace, and drew a little breath of
relief.
"Ten thousand francs!" she murmured to herself. "If I took that with me
they would receive me at home. I might start all over again. It is worth
a little risk. Heavens, how nervous I am!"
She entered a café and drank _à petit verre_. As she set her glass down
a man looked at her over the top of his newspaper. She tried to smile,
but her heart was beating, and she was sick with fear.
"What a fool I am!" she muttered. "It is a stranger, too. If he were one
of Gustav's lot I should know him."
She returned his smile, and he came and sat down beside her. They had
another liqueur. Later they left the place together.
* * * * *
Duncombe returned to his hotel tired out after a disappointing day spent
in making fruitless inquiries in various parts of Paris. He had learnt
nothing. He seemed as far off the truth as ever. He opened the note
which the porter handed him listlessly enough. Afterwards, however, it
was different. This is what he read:--
"I can tell you about the young English lady if you will
promise upon your honor that you will not betray me. I dare
not come here again. I dare not even speak to you while the
others are about. Go to the Café Sylvain to-night and order
dinner in a private room. I will come at half-past
seven.--FLOSSIE."
Duncombe drew a little sigh of relief. At last then he was to know
something. He was very English, a bad amateur detective, and very weary
of his task. Nothing but his intense interest in the girl herself--an
interest which seemed to have upset the whole tenor of his life--would
have kept him here plodding so relentlessly away at a task which seemed
daily to present more difficulties and complications. Yet so absorbed
had he become that the ordinary duties and pleasures which made up the
routine of his life scarcely ever entered into his mind. There had been
men coming down to shoot, whom in an ordinary way he would not have
dreamed of putting off--a cricket match which had been postponed until
his return, and which he had completely forgotten. Paris had nothing in
the shape of amusement to offer him in place of these things, yet in his
own mind these things were as if they had not been. Every interest and
energy of his life was concentrated upon the one simple object of his
search.
He gave the man half a crown, and walked to the lift whistling. The
porter shook his head, and Duncombe receded considerably in his
estimation, notwithstanding the tip. He considered Mademoiselle Flossie
a little obvious for a gentleman of Duncombe's class. Duncombe treated
himself to a cocktail and a cigarette as he changed his clothes. It was
positively the first gleam of hope he had had. And then suddenly he
remembered Spencer's warning, and he became grave.
He was at the Café Sylvain early. He ordered dinner, gave elaborate
instructions about a young lady when she arrived, and with a glass of
absinthe and another cigarette sat down to wait. At a quarter to eight
he began to get restless. He summoned the waiter again, and gave a more
detailed description of Mademoiselle Flossie. The waiter was regretful
but positive. No young lady of any description had arrived expecting to
meet a gentleman in a private room. Duncombe tried him with her name.
But yes, Mademoiselle Mermillon was exceedingly well known there! He
would give orders that she should be shown up immediately she arrived.
It would be soon, without doubt.
At a quarter-past eight Duncombe dined alone, too disappointed to resent
the waiter's sympathetic attitude. At nine o'clock he returned to the
hotel on the chance that a message might have been sent there. He read
the English newspapers, and wrote letters until midnight. Then he
ordered a carriage and drove to the Café Montmartre.
He mounted the stairs and passed through the little bar which led into
the supper-room. Monsieur Albert came forward with a low bow.
"You can find me a table, I suppose?" Duncombe remarked, looking round.
"Where shall I sit?"
Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly. His hands were outstretched, his
manner sad, but resigned.
"I am very sorry, Monsieur, but to-night every place is taken. I have
had to turn others away already," he declared. "A thousand regrets."
Duncombe looked at him astonished. The place was more than half empty.
"Surely you can find me a small table somewhere," he said. "I was here
last evening, you know. If it is because I am alone I will order supper
for two and a magnum of wine."
Monsieur Albert was immovable. He remembered Duncombe well, and he was
proud of his patronage, but to-night it was impossible to offer him a
table. Duncombe began to be annoyed.
"Very well," he said, "I will stay in the bar. You can't turn me out of
there, can you?"
Monsieur Albert was evasive. He desired Monsieur Duncombe to be amused,
and the people who remained in the bar--well, it was not possible to get
rid of them, but they were not fitting company for him.
"There is the Café Mazarin," he added confidentially, "a few steps only
from here--a most amusing place. The most wonderful ladies there, too,
very chic, and crowded every night! Monsieur should really try it. The
commissionaire would direct him--a few yards only."
"Much obliged to you," Duncombe answered, turning on his heel. "I may
look in there presently."
He seated himself at a small round table and ordered a drink. The people
here were of a slightly different class from those who had the _entrée_
to the supper-room and were mostly crowded round the bar itself. At a
small desk within a few feet of him a middle-aged woman with a cold,
hard face sat with a book of account before her and a pile of bills.
There was something almost Sphynx-like about her appearance. She never
spoke. Her expression never changed. Once their eyes met. She looked at
him steadfastly, but said nothing. The girl behind the bar also took
note of him. She was very tall and slim, absolutely colorless, and with
coils of fair hair drawn tightly back from her forehead. She was never
without a cigarette, lighting a fresh one always from its predecessor,
talking all the while unceasingly, but without the slightest change of
expression. Once she waved the men and girls who stood talking to her on
one side, and Duncombe fancied that it was because she desired a better
view of him.
Suddenly he was startled by a voice close at hand. He looked up. The
woman at the desk was speaking to him.
"Monsieur would be well advised," she said, "if he departed."
Duncombe looked at her in amazement. She was writing rapidly in her
book, and her eyes were fixed upon her work. If he had not actually
heard her, it would have been hard to believe that she had spoken.
"But why, Madame?" he asked. "Why should I go? I am in no one's way. I
can pay for what I have."
She dipped her pen in the ink.
"I know nothing of Monsieur or his business," she said, still without
even glancing towards him, "but I know that Monsieur Albert does not
wish him to remain."
"The devil take Monsieur Albert!" Duncombe answered angrily. "I am
waiting to speak to some one who comes here regularly, and I shall stay
until she comes."
The woman wrote steadily for a moment. Then she blotted the page on
which she had been writing, and raising her head, looked at him.
"It is no affair of mine," she said, "but Monsieur Albert has sent for
the police. They may say that you have had too much wine, or that you
owe money. In either case you will be removed. The police will not
listen to you. Monsieur Albert has special discretion. It is no affair
of mine," she repeated, "but if I were Monsieur I would go."
Duncombe rose slowly to his feet, and summoning a waiter paid his bill.
The man produced a second one, dated a few days back, for a large
amount.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. "I do not owe you anything."
"Monsieur was here with a party last Thursday night," he said glibly.
"He promised to pay the next time. I will call the manager."
Duncombe tore the bill in half and turned away. He bowed to the lady at
the desk.
"I see that you were right," he said. "I will leave."
"Monsieur is wise," she answered without looking up.
He left the café without speaking to any one further. When he reached
the pavement he slipped a five-franc piece into the hand of the tall
commissionaire.
"You know most of the young ladies who come here, I suppose?" he asked.
"But certainly!" the man answered with a smile, "Monsieur desires?"
"I want the address of a young lady named Mermillon--Flossie, I think
they call her," Duncombe said.
"Thirty-one, Rue Pigalle," the man answered promptly. "But she should be
here within an hour. She never misses."
Duncombe thanked him, and hailed a carriage.
"Shall I give Mademoiselle any message?" the man asked confidentially.
"I am going to call for her," Duncombe answered. "If I do not find her I
will return."
To drive to the Rue Pigalle was an affair of five minutes only. Duncombe
climbed a couple of flights of narrow stairs, pushed open a swing gate,
and found himself in front of an office, in which an elderly woman sat
reading.
"Can you tell me where to find Mademoiselle Mermillon?" Duncombe asked.
"Next floor; first door on the left," the woman answered. "Mademoiselle
is not often in at this hour, though."
Duncombe thanked her, and climbed another flight of stairs. He had to
strike a match to look for a bell or knocker, and then found neither. He
knocked on the door with his knuckles. There was no reply. He was on the
point of departure, when he noticed that the door was ajar. After a
moment's hesitation he pushed it open.
He found himself in a narrow passage, with dresses and other articles of
apparel hanging from a row of pegs on the wall. The place was in
complete darkness. He struck another match. At the end of the passage
was an inner door, also ajar. He rapped upon it, and finally pushed it
open. Just then his match went out!
CHAPTER X
SPENCER'S SURPRISE
Duncombe had the nerves and temperament of the young Englishman of his
class, whose life is mostly spent out of doors, and who has been an
athlete all his days. But nevertheless at that moment he was afraid.
Something in the stillness of the room oppressed him. He could see
nothing, hear nothing except the clock ticking upon the mantlepiece. And
yet he was afraid.
He fumbled desperately in his pocket for his matchbox. When he had found
it he discovered that it was empty. With a sense of positive relief he
backed out of the room and hastily descended the stairs. The old lady
was still in her sitting-room reading the paper. She set it down at his
entrance, and looked at him over the top of her spectacles.
"Pardon, Madame," he said, removing his hat, "I find the rooms of
Mademoiselle are open, but all is in darkness. I cannot make any one
hear."
Madame took up her paper.
"Then Mademoiselle is probably out," she declared. "It is generally so
at this hour. Monsieur can leave his name."
"But the doors are all open!" Duncombe said.
"I go presently and close them," Madame answered. "The careless hussy!"
Duncombe produced a small piece of gold. Madame laid down the paper at
once. She looked at it as though ready to snatch it from his hand.
"Madame would oblige me very much if she would ascend with me at once,"
Duncombe said. "I should like to make quite sure whether the young lady
is there or not."
Madame was on her feet with remarkable celerity. She accepted the coin
and carefully placed it in a purse drawn from somewhere amongst the
folds of her voluminous skirts.
"We shall need a candle," Duncombe reminded her.
She lit a lamp, talking all the while.
"Monsieur is very generous," she declared. "Mademoiselle Flossie is a
charming young lady. No wonder she has many friends. There was one," she
continued, "who came here with her this afternoon--but he left almost at
once," she added hastily, aware of her indiscretion. "Ah, these stairs!
They grow steeper for one so corpulent. At last!"
She pushed open the door and went sideways down the narrow passage.
Directly they had entered it they had a view of the room beyond. Madame
cried out, and Duncombe felt all his vague fears spring into a terrified
apprehension of actual evil.
The curtain before the window had been hastily drawn, but the lamp which
the portress carried was sufficient feebly to illuminate the room. The
table-cloth and a broken vase lay upon the floor. A few feet off was an
overturned chair. Upon the canopied bed lay a prostrate figure, the head
thrown back at an unnatural angle, the eyes open but glazed. Duncombe
dared do no more than cast one single horrified glance at it. Madame set
down the lamp upon the table, and made the room hideous with shrieks.
"Good God!" she cried. "It is the little one who is dead!"
Duncombe himself fetched in the gendarmes, and waited whilst they took
voluminous notes of the occurrence. The murder seemed to them and to
Madame to be one of a very common class. The assassin had left no clue
whatever behind him. The poor girl's rings had been torn from her
fingers, her little stock of jewellery ransacked, her purse was empty,
everything of value had been taken. There was not a shred of evidence
against any one. Madame, who had seen the man upon the stairs, could
only say that he was short, and wore a black felt hat. The officer who
took down what they had to say shrugged his shoulders as he replaced the
book in his pocket. The affair would pass most certainly, he feared,
into the long list of undiscoverable crimes.
Duncombe left his name and address, and enough money for the funeral.
Then he returned to his hotel. This was the end, then, of the clue from
which he had hoped so much. Spencer's warning as to what would surely
happen to those whom he might succeed in bribing came back into his mind
with sickening insistence. In a measure he was responsible for the
girl's death. After all, what chance had he? He was fighting against
powers which, moving always in the darkness, seemed able with the most
ridiculous ease to frustrate his every move. He re-entered the hotel in
a state of complete nervous depression. For the first time he had
forebodings on his own account. What had happened to Mademoiselle
Flossie might happen so easily to himself.
A man rose quickly from the lounge in the hotel as he entered. Duncombe
greeted him with a little expression of wonder.
"Spencer!" he exclaimed. "Were you waiting to see me?"
The journalist nodded. He was not in evening dress, and he too had the
appearance of a man who has received something of a shock.
"Yes. The café is closed, I suppose. Let us go down into the smoke-room.
I want to talk to you."
Duncombe led the way. They found two easy-chairs, and despatched a
waiter for whiskies and soda. Then Spencer turned to his friend.
"Have you met," he asked, "with any success?"
"None!" Duncombe answered gloomily.
"I have something to tell you," Spencer continued. "No, it is not good
news," he added hastily. "It is more a personal matter. It is of
something which has happened to myself."
Duncombe sighed.
"Go on!" he said.
"For twenty-two and a half years," Spencer said, "I have lived in Paris
as the correspondent to various English journals. I have made many
friends, and it has been considered amongst all my fellow journalists
that I had the ear of more influential people in politics and society
here than any other writer. To-day I have resigned my position!"
Duncombe managed to summon up enough interest to be surprised.
"I had no idea," he said, "that you were contemplating anything of the
sort."
"I was not!" Spencer answered grimly. "I am as much surprised myself as
all my friends will be."
Duncombe was puzzled.
"I am afraid I don't quite understand," he said. "You can't mean that
your people----"
"No! My people have nothing to do with it," Spencer answered. "I have
had the sack, but not from them. It is Paris which will have no more of
me. I live here, of course, on my faculties for obtaining information,
and my _entrée_ into political and social life. To-day the Minister of
Police has declined to receive me, or at any future time--my cards of
entry into the chamber and half a dozen places have been revoked, my
name has been expunged from the visiting list of the President, and
practically of every other person of importance. All that I may see of
Paris now is from the outside. And there is no appeal!"
"But what is the reason of it, Spencer? What have you done? How have you
offended all these people?"
Spencer hesitated.
"I don't want you to blame yourself in any way, Duncombe," he said. "You
could not possibly have guessed the sort of thing you were up against.
But the fact remains that my offence is in having sent my friends to the
Café Montmartre on your account, and in being suspected of rendering you
further assistance in your search for those two marvellous young English
people!"
"You are not joking by any chance, are you?" Duncombe asked gravely.
"The matter," Spencer replied, "does not appear to me to lend itself to
anything of the sort."
Duncombe buried his head in his hands for several moments.
"Great Heavens!" he murmured. "Let me think! I can't tell you how sorry
I am, old chap. Can't the thing be explained? As a matter of fact, you
were discretion itself."
"I don't want it explained," Spencer said, "even if it would do any
good--which it wouldn't! I should have retired in any case in less than
a year, and, as it is, I believe my successor is on his way over
already. Now would you like to know why I have come here at this hour of
the night to tell you this?"
Duncombe nodded.
"Go on!" he said. "Afterwards I've something to tell you."
"I've come," Spencer said, "because I'm free now, if you like, to help
you. I was interested in your story before. I am ten times more
interested in it now. If you still want me I'll do what I can for you."
"Want you! Spencer, do you mean it?" Duncombe exclaimed. "Want you! Why,
there's no one I'd rather interest in the affair than you."
"Well, I can promise you my interest is pretty well excited already,"
Spencer answered. "I'm with you right along. Now tell me where you've
been this evening, and what's happened."
Duncombe recounted the evening's events. His new ally listened and
afterwards smoked for a moment or two in silence.
"It is simply wonderful," he declared. "The whole secret-service system
of Paris is working to cover up the traces of this boy and girl. Their
spies, of course, are everywhere, and their organization perfect. The
first one of their creatures who tries to break away is Mademoiselle
Flossie. The poor little fool lived for only a few hours afterwards.
Your bribe was high, but she ought to have known better."
"You mean----"
"Why, of course! The theft of her poor little jewels was only a blind.
It was to deceive the public, for, as a matter of fact, her murderer
would have been perfectly safe if he had strolled into the nearest
police station and made his report. She was killed because she was going
to give you certain information."
Duncombe shuddered.
"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed. "Tell me, Spencer, who or what can be at
the back of all this? Guy Poynton was simply a healthy-minded, not
over-intelligent, young Saxon, unambitious, and passionately fond of his
home and his country life. He had no friends over here, no interests, no
ties of any sort. He was abroad for the first time of his life. He
regarded foreign countries and people simply with the tolerant curiosity
of the untravelled Britisher. He appears in Paris for one night and
disappears, and forthwith all the genius of French espionage seems to
have combined to cover up his traces. It is the same with his sister,
only as she came afterwards it was evidently on his account that she
also is drawn into the mystery. What can be the meaning of it, Spencer?"
"My young friend," Spencer said, "I will be frank with you. I have not
the least idea! I only know that somehow or other you're up against a
big thing. In a week--perhaps a day--I may know more. Meanwhile I want
you to go on your way precisely as though you and I had not discussed
this matter."
"We may not work together then?" Duncombe asked.
"Certainly not! You are a marked man everywhere. Every door is closed to
you. I shall nominally stick to my post. You must be content to be the
actual looker-on, though you had better not abandon your inquiries
altogether. I will put you up at the Cercle Anglais. It will serve to
pass the time, and you may gain information at the most unlikely places.
And now good-bye."
The liftman thrust a pencilled note into Duncombe's hand as he ascended
to his room.
"From I do not know whom, Monsieur," he announced. "It was left here by
some one! Whom I cannot say."
Duncombe opened it in his dressing-room. There was only one sentence:--
"Monsieur would be well advised to leave Paris to-night."
CHAPTER XI
A WORD OF WARNING
"In the most unlikely places!" Duncombe murmured to himself as he bowed
to the Frenchman, whose name his friend had mentioned. "I am very glad
to meet you again, Monsieur le Baron!" he said, aloud.
They were in the covered garden at the Ritz. Duncombe had accepted the
pressing invitation of an old college friend, whom he had met on the
boulevards to drop in and be introduced to his wife. And the third at
the tea-table was Monsieur Louis, known in society apparently as
Monsieur le Baron de Seurs.
Lady Hadley, his friend's wife, smiled languidly upon them both. She was
a frail pink and white little woman, with the reputation of a beauty to
sustain, wherein lay her life's work.
"You two know one another, of course!" she remarked. "Paris is no larger
than London, after all."
"Sir George and I have met once at least," the Baron said, smiling. "I
am glad that he does me the honor of remembering the occasion."
Duncombe felt himself no match for his companion with the foils. He let
the conversation drift, and waited for his opportunity. Presently some
more guests arrived, and Duncombe drew his host on one side.
"Hadley," he said, "how long have you known the Baron?"
"Met him at Dorset House about two years ago, I think," Hadley answered.
"He was doing a round of country-houses. I'm not sure that he didn't
stay at Sandringham. One of the real old French families, you know, De
Seurs."
Duncombe nodded. There did not seem to be much that he could say. He
mingled with the other guests, and observed his social duties. But he
watched the Baron, and he took care that they left together.
"Are you going my way, Baron?" he asked, as they stepped into the Place
Vendôme.
"I was going to the Cercle Anglais," the Baron answered. "Do you
belong?"
"I am up for a month's membership, but I am not elected yet," Duncombe
answered.
"Then you shall come in as my guest," the Baron declared.
"You are exceedingly kind," Duncombe answered. "I wonder whether I might
presume still further upon your good nature and ask you a question."
"The asking," the Baron murmured, "involves nothing."
"You bear, I am told, an honored name, and you are well received in
society. Why do you associate with murderers and thieves in that hell of
a café where I saw you first?"
The Baron smiled.
"My friend," he said, "I seek always the life amusing, and I find it
there."
"I was robbed before your eyes, Baron."
The Frenchman sighed.
"I am so sorry," he said, "that I did not see it. That indeed would have
been amusing."
"You know that the young lady who sat with us is dead?"
"A most bizarre happening," the Baron assented with a little sigh. "I
cannot imagine how it occurred. The newspaper reports are not
convincing. One would like to reconstruct the story. Poor little
Flossie! She was most amusing, but just a little, a very little, too
fond of flourishing her jewellery. One will miss her, though."
"Referring for one moment to our meeting at the café. You told me a
story there--you and your friend Madame--of a young English lady--which
the facts seem scarcely to sustain."
The Baron sighed.
"My friend," he said, "we did the best we could at a moment's notice. I
rather fancied the story myself. As to facts--what have they to do with
it? You demanded a story, and you got it. I rather flattered myself that
under the circumstances it was not bad."
"You admit now, then, that it was not the truth!"
"The truth! My dear Sir George! Supposing that the whereabouts of your
charming young friend had been known to me, do you suppose that I should
have permitted myself to be bullied into disclosing it? Forgive me if I
speak plainly, but if you really wished for information which you
supposed that I had, your method of seeking it put you at once out of
court. A French gentleman does not permit himself to be bullied."
Duncombe was silent for several moments. There were many things which he
could have said, but where was the use?
"As a French gentleman, then," he said at last, "will you permit me to
make a personal appeal to you? Miss Phyllis Poynton is a young lady in
whom I am deeply interested. She was last seen at the Café Montmartre,
from which place she disappeared. I am an Englishman of your own
station. Tell me where I can find her, or what has become of her."
"My dear Sir George," the Baron said, "you might have saved yourself a
great deal of trouble if you had spoken like this to me at the first.
Frankly, then, I have not the least idea. Young English ladies come and
go every evening at the Café Montmartre, and such places. One remembers
only those who happen to have amused one, and not always those. Forgive
me if I speak plainly. A young lady who had visited the Café Montmartre
alone--well, you might look for her anywhere, but most assuredly in that
case if your anxiety was to induce her to return to her friends, you
would be a little too late. Ah! We have arrived. Now, my friend, I must
make you free of the place."
Duncombe was fuming with anger, but he had discretion enough to remain
silent.
"Do you play Bridge?" the Baron asked, as they entered the card-room.
"Occasionally," Duncombe assented.
"I will go and see if I can find any men," the Baron remarked. "I will
leave my young friend De Bergillac to entertain you. The Vicomte de
Bergillac--Sir George Duncombe."
Duncombe shook hands with a pale, weary-looking youth, whose whole
appearance was distinguished by marked symptoms of lassitude and
ill-health. They sat in easy-chairs almost opposite to one another, and
Duncombe found the other's scrutiny almost embarrassing.
"You speak French, perhaps--yes?" the young man asked at length.
"Yes! I speak French," Duncombe admitted.
"Then listen to me," the Vicomte said slowly. "I speak as one man of
honor to another. Do not play cards in this club!"
"Not play cards? Why not?" Duncombe asked, amazed.
"You can take my advice or leave it," the Vicomte answered calmly. "I
have no explanation to offer you. If you chose to repeat my remark you
would place me in an exceedingly awkward position. You see, I rely upon
you as a man of honor."
"I am only too much obliged to you for the hint," Duncombe declared.
"But this club--the Cercle Anglais----"
"The club is all right," the Vicomte admitted calmly. "Unfortunately
there is no place in Paris which would be entirely safe for you. You
have the misfortune, you see, to be in opposition to some of my friends,
who have really unlimited opportunities for making things disagreeable
for you. Now I am beginning to talk, and it is very foolish of me. Why
don't you leave Paris, Sir George?"
"Why should I?" Duncombe asked, a little sharply. "I break no laws here,
I wrong no one. I am here on my own business, and I only ask to be let
alone."
The Vicomte regarded him as one might look at a spoilt child whom it was
yet advisable to humor.
"Ah," he said, "they will not let you alone. You are so obstinate, like
all your country-people, or you would recognize it without my risking
so much by speaking. You will have to leave Paris, and very soon. It is
so easily to be managed. A dispute at cards here--you would certainly be
in the wrong, and an ugly scandal if you were not away in twenty-four
hours. It is one method of a thousand."
"You know so much," Duncombe said. "I have no doubt that you know the
one thing which I would give years of my life to be satisfied about."
The boy's dark eyes were fixed steadily upon his.
"Sir George," he said, "there is nothing which I can possibly say to
you. My warning has been exceeding foolish, but after all if I can
persuade you to leave Paris I shall have done no great harm. As for the
cards--well, I must plead guilty to weakness there. I have not the
slightest objection to taking the life of a man who is making a nuisance
of himself, but his honor I think one should not tamper with. May I
offer you a cigarette? Well, Louis, what luck?"
The Baron had strolled back into the room, and was sitting on the arm of
a chair.
"It will be all right directly," the Baron answered. "We have three, and
old D'Arcon has telephoned that he will be here in five minutes."
Duncombe rose to his feet.
"It was really very careless of me," he said, "but I completely forgot
that I had an engagement at the hotel at six o'clock. I am afraid that I
shall not be able to stop."
The Baron glanced quickly at his young friend. There was nothing
whatever to be learnt, though, from his pale, boyish face. His own
countenance had darkened for the moment, but he recovered his composure
immediately.
"As you will," he answered carelessly. "Perhaps you can drop in later.
Come and dine, will you, at half-past eight?"
"I am much obliged to you, Baron," Duncombe said, "but I cannot accept
your invitation. I am a lover of plain speaking, so I will not plead a
previous engagement. But the one thing I want from you, the thing which
I have almost a right to demand, you will not give. I do not feel,
therefore, that any more than ordinary intercourse is possible between
us."
The Baron bowed gravely.
"My dear Sir George," he said, "I am answered. I wish I could drive out
of your mind that extraordinary hallucination relative to my supposed
knowledge of your young English friend. It is impossible! Very good! I
shall look forward to a time, Sir George, when we may meet on a better
footing."
Duncombe left the hotel with the recollection of that curiously ironic
smile fresh in his mind.
CHAPTER XII
THE SHADOWING OF DUNCOMBE
For three days Duncombe saw nothing of Spencer. Three long days devoid
of incident, hopelessly dull, aimless, and uninteresting. On the fourth
the only change in the situation was scarcely a reassuring one. He
became aware that he was being watched.
There was no particular secrecy about it. Even in the hotel itself some
one was always on his heels. The absence of any attempt at concealment
convinced him that it was the authorized police who had thus suddenly
showed their interest in him. The suspicion was soon to be confirmed.
The manager called him on the fourth morning into his private office.
"Monsieur will pardon me, I trust," he said, "if I take the liberty of
asking him a question."
"Certainly!" Duncombe answered. "Go ahead!"
"Monsieur is aware that he has been placed under the surveillance of the
police?"
"The fact," Duncombe said, "has been borne in upon me during the last
few hours. What of it?"
The manager coughed.
"This is a cosmopolitan hotel, Sir George," he said, "and we make no
pretence at ultra-exclusiveness, but we do not care to see the police on
the premises."
"Neither do I," Duncombe answered. "Can you suggest how we may get rid
of them?"
"Monsieur does not quite understand," the manager said smoothly.
"Clearly he has done something to bring him under the suspicion of the
law. Under these circumstances it would be more agreeable to the
management of the hotel if Monsieur would depart."
Duncombe did not wish to depart. The hotel at which Phyllis Poynton's
trunks were still awaiting her return was the hotel at which he wished
to stay.
"Look here, Monsieur Huber," he said. "I give you my word of honor that
I have broken no law, nor engaged in any criminal action whatever since
I came to Paris. This game of having me watched is simply a piece of
bluff. I have done nothing except make inquiries in different quarters
respecting those two young English people who are still missing. In
doing this I seem to have run up against what is nothing more nor less
than a disgraceful conspiracy. Every hand is against me. Instead of
helping me to discover them, the police seem only anxious to cover up
the tracks of those young people."
The manager looked down at his desk.
"We hotel-keepers," he said, "are very much in the hands of the police.
We cannot judge between them and the people whom they treat as suspected
persons. I know very well, Sir George, that you are a person of
respectability and character, but if the police choose to think
otherwise I must adapt my views to theirs. I am sorry, but we must
really ask you to leave."
Sir George turned on his heel.
"Very good!" he said. "I will go and take rooms elsewhere."
He left the hotel, and walked towards the Ritz. At the corner of the
Place Vendôme an automobile was pulled up with a jerk within a few feet
of him. A tired-looking boy leaned over wearily towards him from the
front seat.
"Sir George," he said, "can you give me five minutes?"
"With pleasure!" he answered. "I was going into the Ritz. Come and have
something."
"To Maxim's, if you don't mind," the Vicomte said. "It will take us only
a moment."
Sir George stepped in. The Vicomte, in whose fingers the wheel seemed
scarcely to rest, so light and apparently careless was his touch,
touched a lever by his side, released the clutch, and swung the great
car round the corner at a speed which made Duncombe grasp the sides. At
a pace which seemed to him most ridiculous, they dashed into the Rue de
Rivoli, and with another sharp turn pulled up before Maxim's. The
Vicomte rose with a yawn as though he had just awoke from a refreshing
dream. His servant slipped off his fur coat, and he descended to the
pavement faultlessly dressed and quite unruffled. The commissionaire
preceded them, hat in hand, to the door. A couple of waiters ushered
them to the table which the Vicomte intimated by a gesture.
"I myself," he remarked, drawing off his gloves, "take nothing but
absinthe. What may I have the pleasure of ordering for you?"
Duncombe ordered a whisky and soda.
"I think," he said, "there is one thing which I ought to tell you at
once. I am being shadowed by the police. The man who has just arrived,
and who seems a little breathless, is, I believe, the person whose duty
it is to dog my footsteps in the daytime."
"What a pity!" the Vicomte murmured. "I would at least have taken you a
mile or so round the boulevards if I had known. But wait! You are
sure--that it is the police by whom you are being watched?"
"Quite," Duncombe answered. "The manager of the hotel has spoken to me
about it. He has asked me, in fact, to leave."
"To leave the hotel?"
"Yes! I was on my way to the Ritz to secure rooms when I met you."
The Vicomte sipped his absinthe gravely.
"I should not take those rooms," he said. "You will in all probability
not occupy them."
"Why not?"
"It has been decided," the Vicomte said, "that you are to be driven out
of Paris. In the end you will have to go. I think if I were you I would
not wait. The train de luxe to Calais is more comfortable than a wet
bench in the Morgue or a French prison."
"Who has decided this?" Duncombe asked. "What Emperor has signed the
decree of my banishment?"
"There have been worse served Emperors," the Vicomte remarked, "than
the, shall we say person, who bids you go!"
"What is my offence?" Duncombe asked.
"I know nothing," the Vicomte answered slowly, pouring himself out some
absinthe.
"Who are my judges, then? What secret authorities have I incensed? I am
an honest man, engaged in an honest mission. Why should I not be allowed
to execute it?"
The Vicomte half closed his eyes. Duncombe was a little angry. The
Vicomte regarded him with reproachful wonder.
"You ask me so many questions," he murmured, "and I tell you that I know
nothing. I have asked you to come here with me because I had just this
to say. I can answer no questions, offer no explanations. I have no
particular liking for you, but I am afflicted with a cursedly sensitive
disposition, and--there are things which I find it hard to watch with
equanimity. There is a train for England at nine o'clock this evening,
Sir George. Take it!"
Duncombe rose from his seat.
"I am very much obliged to you," he said. "I believe that you are giving
me what you believe to be good advice. Whether I can follow it or not is
a different matter."
The Vicomte sighed.
"You Englishmen," he said, "are so obstinate. It is the anxiety
concerning your friends, I suppose, which keeps you here?"
"Yes!"
The Vicomte hesitated. He looked up and down the room, and especially at
the man whom Duncombe had pointed out to him. He had edged nearer and
nearer till he was almost within earshot. The Vicomte's voice, always
low, became a whisper.
"I can tell you this much, at any rate," he said. "Whatever their
present condition may be, it is more likely to be improved than made
worse by your departure. You are a well-meaning person, Monsieur, but
you do nobody any good here, and you risk--more than I dare tell you."
The Vicomte turned away to greet a little party of friends who had just
entered. Duncombe strolled back to the hotel, and found Spencer walking
restlessly up and down the hall waiting for him.
"At last!" he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "Come up into my room,
Spencer. We can talk there."
He rang for the lift, and as they ascended he watched the other
anxiously. Spencer was looking pale and disturbed. His eyes showed signs
of sleeplessness, and he had not the air of a man who has good news to
impart. As soon as they were inside the room he locked the door.
"Duncombe," he said, "there is a train which leaves Paris for London at
four o'clock. You must catch it--if you are allowed to. Don't look like
that, man. I tell you you've got to do it. If you are in Paris to-night
you will be in prison."
"For what offence?" Duncombe asked.
"For the murder of Mademoiselle Flossie. They are training the witnesses
now. The whole thing is as easy as A B C. They can prove you so guilty
that not even your best friend would doubt it. Pack your clothes, man,
or ring for the valet."
Duncombe hesitated, but he, too, was pale.
"Are you serious, Spencer?" he asked.
"I am so serious," Spencer answered, "that unless you obey me I will not
move another finger in this matter. You lose nothing by going. All that
a human being can do I will do! But you lose your life, or, at any rate,
your liberty if you stay."
Duncombe bowed his head to fate.
"Very well!" he said. "I will go!"
CHAPTER XIII
"HER VOICE."
"You have heard now," Duncombe said, finally, "the whole history of my
wanderings. I feel like a man who has been beating the air, who has been
at war with unseen and irresistible forces. I never seemed to have a
chance. In plain words, I have failed utterly!"
The two men were sitting in a room impossible of classification. It
might have been a study, smoking-room, or gun-room. The walls were
adorned with stags' heads and various trophies of the chase. There were
guns and rifles in plenty in a rack by the chimney-piece, a row of
bookcases along the north wall, golf clubs, cricket bats, and foils
everywhere. A pile of logs ready for burning stood in the open grate,
and magnificent rugs were spread about the floor. Nowhere was there the
slightest trace of a woman's presence, for Duncombe had no sisters, and
his was entirely a bachelor household.
Duncombe himself and Andrew Pelham were seated in great easy-chairs in
front of the open window. It was his first fine evening at home, and he
was drinking in great draughts of the fresh pure air, fragrant with the
perfume of roses and huge clusters of wallflowers. Paris had seemed to
him like a great oven. All the time he had been half stifled, and yet he
knew very well that at a word from Spencer he would have returned there
at an hour's notice. He knew, too, that the home which he had loved all
his days could never be quite the same place to him again.
Andrew roused himself from rather a prolonged silence.
"You were a brick to go, George," he said. "It is more than any one else
in the world would have done for me."
Duncombe laughed a little uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe
and refilled it slowly.
"Andrew," he said, "I don't want to seem a fraud. I dare say that I
might have gone for you alone--but I didn't."
His friend smiled faintly.
"Ah!" he remarked. "I had forgotten your little infatuation. It hasn't
worn off yet, then?"
"No, nor any signs of it," Duncombe answered bluntly. "It's an odd
position for a matter-of-fact person like myself, isn't it? I tell you,
Andrew, I've really tried to care for some of the girls about here. The
place wants a mistress, and I'm the tenth baronet in the direct line.
One's got to think about these things, you know. I've tried hard, and
I've never even come near it."
"It will wear off," Andrew said. "It is a very charming little fancy, a
most delightful bit of sentiment, George, but with nothing behind it it
can't last."
"Perhaps not," Duncombe answered quietly. "All that I know is that it
has shown no signs of wearing off up to now. It was in Paris exactly as
it is here. And I know very well that if I thought it would do her the
least bit of good I would start back to Paris or to the end of the world
to-night."
"I must readjust my views of you, George," his friend said with mild
satire. "I always looked upon you as fair game for the Norfolk dowagers
with their broods of daughters, but I never contemplated your fixing
your affections upon a little piece of paste-board."
"Rot! It is the girl herself," Duncombe declared.
"But you have never seen her."
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. What was the use?
Never seen her! Had she not found her way into every beautiful place his
life had knowledge of?
"If you had," Andrew murmured--"ah, well, the picture is like her. I
remember when she was a child. She was always fascinating, always
delightful to watch."
Duncombe looked out upon the gardens which he loved, and sighed.
"If only Spencer would send for me to go back to Paris," he said with a
sigh.
Andrew turned his head.
"You can imagine now," he said, "what I have been suffering. The desire
for action sometimes is almost maddening. I think that the man who sits
and waits has the hardest task."
They were silent for some time, smoking steadily. Then Duncombe reverted
once more to his wanderings.
"You remember the story they told me at the Café, Andrew," he said. "It
was a lie, of course, but was Miss Poynton anything of an artist?"
"To the best of my belief," Andrew answered, "she has never touched a
brush or a pencil since she left school."
Duncombe looked out into the gathering twilight.
"It is a devil's riddle, this!" he said slowly. "Why did she go to that
place at all?"
"God only knows!" Andrew murmured.
Duncombe's teeth were hard set. A paper-knife, which he had caught up
from the table, snapped in his fingers. There was something in his
throat which nearly choked him.
"Phyllis Poynton," Andrew continued, "was as sweet and pure a woman as
ever breathed. She must have loathed that place. She could only have
gone there to seek for her brother, or----"
"Or for whom?"
"For those who knew where he was."
Duncombe turned his head.
"Andrew!"
"Yes, old chap!"
"Let me look at her photograph again."
Andrew drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Duncombe studied it
for several moments under the lamplight.
"You are right, Andrew," he said slowly. "For her the other things would
not be possible. I wonder----"
His fingers clung to the photograph. He looked across at his friend.
There was a slight flush in his face. He spoke nervously.
"Andrew," he said, "I'm afraid it sounds a bit brutal, but--this
photograph is no use to you just now, is it, until your eyes get better.
Will you lend it me?"
"I couldn't," Andrew answered quietly. "I can't see it now of course,
but I like to feel it in my pocket, and it will be the first thing I
shall look at when the doctor lets me take off these beastly
glasses--if ever he does. Until then--well, I like to feel I've got it.
That's all!"
They both smoked furiously for several moments without looking at one
another. Duncombe spoke first.
"Andrew!"
"Well?"
"If she comes back--shall you ever ask her to marry you?"
"I don't know, George. I'm poor, and I'm twelve years older than she is.
I don't know."
There was another silence. Then the conversation drifted back once more
to the one subject which was monopolizing the thought of both of them.
"I tell you what seems to me to be the most extraordinary part of the
whole business," Duncombe said. "First the brother disappears. Then
without a word to any one the sister also rushes off to Paris, and
vanishes from the face of the earth after a series of extraordinary
proceedings. One supposes naturally that if they have come to harm
anywhere--if there has been a crime--there must have been a motive. What
is it? You say that their banking account has been undisturbed?"
"It was last week. I should hear if any cheques were presented."
"And the boy's letter of credit even has never been drawn upon!"
"No! Not since he left Vienna."
"Then the motive cannot be robbery. Thank Heaven," Duncombe added, with
a little shudder, "that it was the boy who went first."
"Don't!"
A great winged insect came buzzing into the room. Duncombe struck
viciously at it with the palm of his hand.
"Lord!" he muttered, "what a fool I am! I've never been away from home
before, Andrew, without longing to get back, and here I am, just back
from Paris in August, from turning night into day, from living just the
sort of life I hate, and I'd give anything to be going back there
to-morrow. I'm a haunted man, Andrew. I got up last night simply because
I couldn't sleep, and walked down as far as the paddock. I seemed to see
her face in all the shadowy corners, to see her moving towards me from
amongst the trees. And I'm not an imaginative person, Andrew, and I've
got no nerves. Look!"
He held out his hand, strong and firm and brown. It was as steady as a
rock.
"I can't sleep," he continued, "I can't rest. Is there witchcraft in
this thing, Andrew?"
Andrew Pelham laughed shortly. It was a laugh which had no kinship to
mirth.
"And I," he said, "have seen her grow up. We were boy and girl together.
I stole apples for her. I have watched her grow from girlhood into
womanhood. I have known flesh and blood, and you a cardboard image. I
too am a strong man, and I am helpless. I lie awake at night and I
think. It is as though the red flames of hell were curling up around me.
George, if she has come to any evil, whether I am blind or whether I can
see, I'll grope my way from country to country till my hand is upon the
throat of the beast who has harmed her."
The man's voice shook with passion. Duncombe was awed into silence. He
had known Andrew Pelham always as a good-natured, good-hearted giant,
beloved of children and animals, deeply religious, a man whose temper,
if he possessed such a thing, was always strictly under control. Such an
outburst as this was a revelation. Duncombe understood then how slight a
thing his own suffering was.
"You shall not go alone, Andrew," he said softly. "But for the present
we must wait. If any one can help us, Spencer will."
A servant came in with the whisky and glasses, and silently arranged
them upon the table. Duncombe rose and attended to his duties as host.
"Can I get you anything further, sir?" the man asked.
"Nothing, thanks," Duncombe answered. "Tell the servants to go to bed.
We will lock up. Say when, Andrew!"
Andrew took his glass mechanically. Out in the lane the silence of the
summer night was suddenly broken by the regular tread of horses' feet
and the rumbling of vehicles. Duncombe Hall was built like many of the
old-fashioned houses in the country, with its back to the road, and the
window at which they were sitting looked out upon it. Duncombe leaned
forward in his chair.
"Visitors by the last train going up to Runton Place," he remarked.
"Runton has quite a large party for the first. Hullo! They're stopping.
I'd better go out."
He rose from his chair. The omnibus had stopped in the lane, and they
could hear the voices of the occupants clearly through the soft
darkness. Some one was apparently getting out, and stumbled. A girl's
soft laugh rang out distinctly above the man's exclamation. Duncombe
was already stepping over the window-sill when he felt a clutch like
iron upon his shoulder. He looked round in amazement. Andrew's face was
transformed. He was struggling for words.
"Her voice!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Am I dreaming, George? It was her
voice!"
CHAPTER XIV
LAUGHTER OF WOMEN
The door of the omnibus was opened as Duncombe stepped over the low wall
into the road. A tall man in a long light Inverness descended.
"Hullo, Duncombe!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand; "I was coming in
to see you for a moment."
"Good man!" Duncombe answered. "Bring your friends, won't you?"
He held open the gate hospitably, but Lord Runton shook his head.
"I only wanted a word with you," he said. "We're all starving, and if
you don't mind we'll get on as quickly as we can. About to-morrow. You
shoot with us, of course?"
"Delighted!" Duncombe answered.
"Cresswell met me at the station," Lord Runton continued. "I'd drawn out
a plan for the shoot, but it seems that Cresswell--old fool--hasn't got
his harvest in from the two fields by Ketton's Gorse. What I wanted to
ask you was if we might take your turnips up from Mile's bottom to the
north end of the gorse. We can make our circuit then without a break."
"My dear fellow!" Duncombe protested, "was it worth while asking me such
a thing? Of course you can."
"That's settled, then," Lord Runton declared, turning back towards the
omnibus. "Let me introduce you to my friends," he added, resting his
hand upon the other's shoulder, "and then we'll be off."
Duncombe, in whose ears his friend's cry was still ringing, pressed
eagerly forward.
"This is my neighbor, Sir George Duncombe," Lord Runton said, looking
into the carriage, "who will shoot with us to-morrow. Miss Fielding and
Mr. Fielding, Lady Angrave and the Baron Von Rothe."
Lady Angrave held out her hand.
"Sir George and I are almost old friends," she said, with a somewhat
languid smile. "We were both at Castle Holkham last autumn."
Duncombe murmured something conventional as he bowed over her fingers.
His whole attention was riveted upon the tall, pale girl in the further
corner of the omnibus. Her acknowledgment of his introduction had been
of the slightest, and her features were obscured by a white veil. She
looked away from him at once and continued a whispered conversation with
the white-haired gentleman at her side. Duncombe could think of no
excuse for addressing her.
"I shall have the pleasure of meeting you all again to-morrow," he said,
closing the door after Lord Runton. "I won't keep you now. I know what
the journey is down from town. Good night, Runton!"
"Good night, George. Ten o'clock sharp!"
The carriage rolled off, and Duncombe returned to his own domain. Andrew
was waiting for him impatiently by the gate.
"Well!" he exclaimed eagerly, "you have seen her. Well?"
The man was trembling with excitement. There were drops of perspiration
upon his forehead. His voice sounded unnatural.
"I saw a young lady in the carriage," Duncombe answered, "or rather I
did not see her, for she wore a veil, and she scarcely looked at me. But
she was introduced to me as Miss Fielding, and her father was with her."
"Fielding! Fielding!" Andrew repeated. "Never mind that. What was she
like! What colored hair had she?"
"I told you that she kept her veil down," Duncombe repeated. "Her hair
was a sort of deep, red-brown--what I could see of it. But, seriously,
Andrew, what is the use of discussing her? One might as soon expect one
of my housemaids to change into Phyllis Poynton, as to discover her with
a brand-new father, a brand-new name, and a guest at Runton Place."
Andrew was silent for a moment. He touched his spectacles with a weary
gesture, and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose you are right. I suppose I am a fool.
But--the voice!"
"The laughter of women," said Duncombe, "is music all the world over.
One cannot differ very much from the other."
"You are quite wrong, George," Andrew said. "The voices of women vary
like the thumb-marks of criminals. There are no two attuned exactly
alike. It is the receptive organs that are at fault. We, who have lost
one sense, find the others a little keener. The laughter of that
girl--George, will you keep me a few days longer? Somehow I cannot bring
myself to leave until I have heard her voice once more."
Duncombe laughed heartily.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I shall bless your uncommonly sensitive ears
if they keep you here with me even for an extra few days. You shall have
your opportunity, too. I always dine at Runton Place after our first
shoot, and I know Runton quite well enough to take you. You shall sit at
the same table. Hullo, what's this light wobbling up the drive?"
He strolled a yard or so away, and returned.
"A bicycle," he remarked. "One of the grooms has been down to the
village. I shall have to speak to Burdett in the morning. I will not
have these fellows coming home at all sorts of times in the morning.
Come along in, Andrew. Just a drain, eh? And a cigarette--and then to
bed. Runton's keen on his bag, and they say that German, Von Rothe, is a
fine shot. Can't let them have it all their own way."
"No fear of that," Andrew answered, stepping through the window. "I'll
have the cigarette, please, but I don't care about any more whisky. The
'Field' mentioned your name only a few weeks ago as one of the finest
shots at rising birds in the country, so I don't think you need fear the
German."
"I ought to hold my own with the partridges," Duncombe admitted, helping
himself from the siphon, "but come in, come in!"
A servant entered with a telegram upon a silver salver.
"A boy has just brought this from Runton, sir," he said.
Duncombe tore it open. He was expecting a message from his gun-maker,
and he opened it without any particular interest, but as he read, his
whole manner changed. He held the sheet in front of him long enough to
have read it a dozen times. He could not restrain the slight start--a
half exclamation. Then his teeth came together. He remembered the
servant and looked up.
"There will be no answer to-night, Murray," he said. "Give the boy a
shilling and some supper. If he goes home by the Runton gates, tell him
to be sure and close them, because of the deer."
"Very good, sir!"
The man departed. Duncombe laid the telegram upon the table. He felt
that Andrew was waiting impatiently for him to speak.
"Well?"
"The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said.
"From Paris?"
"Yes."
"He has discovered something?"
"On the contrary," Duncombe answered, "he is asking me for information,
and very curious information, too."
"What does he want to know?"
"The telegram," Duncombe said slowly, "is in French. He asks me to wire
him at once the names of all the guests at Runton Place."
Andrew struck the table a mighty blow with his clenched fist.
"I knew it!" he cried. "It was her laugh, her voice. Phyllis Poynton is
there!"
Duncombe looked at his friend incredulously.
"My dear Andrew," he said, "be reasonable. The young lady and her father
in that omnibus were introduced to me by Runton himself as Mr. and Miss
Fielding. They are going to his house as his guests. Naturally,
therefore, he knows all about them. Miss Poynton, as you have told me
more than once, is an orphan."
"Common-sense won't even admit it as a matter of argument," Andrew said.
"I know that quite well. But how do you account for Spencer's telegram?"
"Remember that he is a newspaper correspondent," Duncombe said. "He has
many interests and many friends with whom he is constantly exchanging
information. It is a coincidence, I admit. But the wildest flight of
imagination could not make any more of it."
"You must be right," Andrew said quietly. "It all sounds, and is, so
convincing. But I wish that I had not heard that laugh!"
CHAPTER XV
MISS FIELDING FROM AMERICA
Duncombe leaned his gun up against a gate. A few yards away his host was
talking to the servants who had brought down luncheon. The rest of the
party were only just in sight a field or two off.
"Have a glass of sherry before lunch, George?" his host asked, strolling
towards him.
"Nothing to drink, thanks! I'd like a cigarette, if you have one."
Lord Runton produced his case, and a servant brought them matches. They
both leaned over the gate, and watched the scattered little party slowly
coming towards them.
"Who is your friend Fielding?" Duncombe asked, a little bluntly.
"Fellow from New York," Lord Runton answered. "He's been very decent to
my brother out there, and Archibald wrote and asked me to do all we
could for them. The girl is very handsome. You'll see her at dinner
to-night."
"Here for long?"
"No, unfortunately," Lord Runton answered. "I had very hard work to get
them to come at all. Cicely has written them three or four times, I
think, but they've always had engagements. They're only staying till
Monday, I think. Very quiet, inoffensive sort of chap, Fielding, but the
girl's a ripper! Hullo! Here they are. I'll introduce you."
A groom had thrown open the gate of the field across which they were
looking, and Lady Runton from the box seat of a small mail phaeton waved
her whip. She drove straight across the furrows towards them a little
recklessly, the groom running behind. By her side was a girl with coils
of deep brown hair, and a thick black veil worn after the fashion of the
travelling American.
"Just in time, aren't we?" Lady Runton remarked, as she brought the
horses to a standstill. "Help me down, Jack, and look after Miss
Fielding, Sir George. By the bye, have you two met yet?"
Duncombe bowed--he was bareheaded--and held out his hands.
"I saw Miss Fielding for a moment last night," he said, "or rather I
didn't see her. We were introduced, however. What do you think of our
maligned English weather, Miss Fielding?" he asked.
She raised her veil and looked at him deliberately. He had been prepared
for this meeting, and yet it was with difficulty that he refrained from
a start. The likeness of the photograph (it was even at that moment in
his pocket) was wonderful. She looked a little older, perhaps. There
were shadows in her face of which there were no traces in the picture.
And yet the likeness was wonderful.
"To-day at least is charming," she said. "But then I am quite used to
your climate, you know. I have lived in Europe almost as much as in
America."
She certainly had no trace of any accent. She spoke a little more
slowly, perhaps, than most young Englishwomen, but there was nothing
whatever in her words or in her pronunciation of them to suggest a
transatlantic origin. She stood by his side looking about her with an
air of interest, and Duncombe began to wonder whether after all she was
not more beautiful than the photograph which he had treasured so
jealously. He became conscious of a desire to keep her by his side.
"Is your father shooting, Miss Fielding?"
She laughed softly.
"You don't know my father, Sir George," she answered. "He hates
exercise, detests being out of doors, and his idea of Paradise when he
is away from business is to be in a large hotel where every one speaks
English, where there are tapes and special editions and an American
bar."
Duncombe laughed.
"Then I am afraid Mr. Fielding will find it rather hard to amuse himself
down here."
"Well, he's discovered the telephone," she said. "He's spending the
morning ringing up people all over the country. He was talking to his
bankers when we came out. Oh, here come the rest of them. How tired they
look, poor things--especially the Baron! Nature never meant him to tramp
over ploughed fields, I am sure. Baron, I was just saying how warm you
look."
The Baron took off his cap, gave up his gun to a keeper, and turned a
glowing face towards them.
"My dear young lady," he declared, "I am warm. I admit it, but it is
good for me. Very good indeed. I tried to make your father walk with
us. He will be sure to suffer some day if he takes no exercise."
"Oh, father's never ill," the girl answered. "But then he eats nothing,
Sir George, I hope you're going to devote yourself to me at luncheon.
I'm terribly hungry."
"So we all are," Lady Runton declared. "Come along, every one."
Luncheon was served in a large open barn, pleasantly fragrant of dried
hay, and with a delightful view of the sea far away in the distance.
Miss Fielding chattered to every one, was amusing and amused. The Baron
gave her as much of his attention as he was ever disposed to bestow upon
any one at meal-times, and Duncombe almost forgot that he had
breakfasted at eight o'clock.
"Charming young person, that!" said Lady Runton's neighbor to her. "One
of our future Duchesses, I suppose?"
Lady Runton smiled.
"Lots of money, Teddy," she answered. "What a pity you haven't a title!"
The young man--he was in the Foreign Office--sighed, and shook his head.
"Such things are not for me," he declared sententiously. "My affections
are engaged."
"That isn't the least reason why you shouldn't marry money," her
ladyship declared, lighting a cigarette. "Go and talk to her!"
"Can't spoil sport!" he answered, shaking his head. "By Jove! Duncombe
is making the running, though, isn't he?"
Her ladyship raised her glasses. Duncombe and Miss Fielding had
strolled outside the barn. He was showing her his house--a very
picturesque old place it looked, down in the valley.
"It's nothing but a farmhouse, of course," he said. "No pretensions to
architecture or anything of that sort, of course, but it's rather a
comfortable old place."
"I think it is perfectly charming," the girl said. "Do you live there
all alone? You have sisters perhaps?"
He shook his head.
"No such luck!" he answered. "Mine is entirely a bachelor establishment.
A great part of the time I am alone. Just now I have a pal staying with
me--awfully decent chap, from Devonshire."
She was certainly silent for a moment. He fancied too that there was a
change in her face.
"From Devonshire!" she repeated, with a carelessness which, if it was
not natural, was exceedingly well assumed. "I believe I knew some people
once who came from there. What is your friend's name, Sir George?"
He turned slowly towards her.
"Andrew Pelham!" he said quietly. "He comes from a place called
Raynesworth."
"He is staying here now--with you?"
"Yes," he answered gravely.
It was not his fancy this time. Of that he felt sure. Her face for the
moment had been the color of chalk--a little exclamation had been
strangled upon her lips. She shot a quick glance at him. He met it
steadily.
"You know the name?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"The name--yes," she answered, "but not the person. A very old friend
of mine was called Andrew Pelham, but he was an American, and he has
never been in England. It startled me, though, to hear the exact name
from you."
She was herself again. Her explanation was carelessly given. It sounded
even convincing, but Duncombe himself was not convinced. He knew that
she wanted him to be. He felt her eyes seeking his, studying his face.
Perhaps she was only anxious that he should not misunderstand.
"George, are you ready?" his host called out. "We're going to take
Smith's pastures."
"Quite!" Duncombe answered. "Until this evening, Miss Fielding."
"You are dining at Runton Place?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," he answered. "Will you tell me all about your Andrew Pelham?"
She raised her eyes to his and smiled.
"Do you think that you would be interested?" she asked.
"You know that I should," he answered quietly.
For a time he shot badly. Then he felt that his host's eye was upon him,
and pulled himself together. But he was never at his best. He felt that
the whole world of his sensations had been suddenly disturbed. It was
impossible that there could be any connection between this girl and the
photograph which had first fired him with the impulse to undertake that
most extraordinary and quixotic mission. Yet the fact remained that the
girl herself had had very much the same effect upon him as his first
sight of the photograph. It was a coincidence, of course. Miss Fielding
was charming. There was no reason why he should not indulge to the full
his admiration of her. She had affected him in a most curious manner.
Another man would have declared himself in love with her. It was not
possible that she could be any one but Miss Fielding. That start which
he had fancied that he had noticed, the sudden aging of her face, the
look almost of fear! Absurd! He was losing his nerves. It was not
possible, he told himself steadfastly. And yet----
Some of the women were following them in a leisurely sort of way behind.
Miss Fielding was there, walking a little apart. She carried her hat in
her hand. The wind, which was blowing the skirts of her white cloth
dress about her, was making havoc in her glorious hair. She walked with
her head thrown back, with all the effortless grace of youth--a light
heart, an easy conscience. He deliberately left his place and walked
back to meet her. She waved her hand gayly. There was color in her
cheeks now, and her eyes laughed into his. The shadows were gone. He
felt that this was madness, and yet he said what he had come back to
say.
"I thought that you might be interested to know, Miss Fielding, that you
will meet the gentleman--with the same name as your friend--this
evening. Lord Runton has been good enough to ask him to come up and
dine."
She nodded gayly.
"What a crowd of sentimental memories his coming will evoke!" she
declared. "Be nice to me, won't you, and help me dispel them?"
"Perhaps," he said, smiling with a great relief; "I might prefer to try
to construct a few on my own account."
"Go and do your duty," she commanded, laughing.
Duncombe hastened to his place. His eyes were bright. He felt that he
was walking upon air.
"What a double distilled ass I nearly made of myself!" he muttered.
CHAPTER XVI
MISS FIELDING ASKS A QUESTION
She came into the room a little late, and her entrance created almost a
sensation. Duncombe only knew that she wore a black gown and looked
divine. Lady Runton murmured "Paquin" with a sigh and frown.
"These girls might at least leave us black," she murmured to her
neighbor. "What pearls!"
Duncombe stepped forward to meet her. He could not keep the admiration
from his eyes. Her shoulders and slim graceful neck were as white as
alabaster, her hair was a gorgeous brown kissed into fine gold
glimmering as though with a touch of some hidden fire. She moved with
the delightful freedom of absolute naturalness. He murmured something
which sounded ridiculously commonplace, and she laughed at him.
"Do you know that you are going to take me in?" she said. "I hope that
you are prepared to be very amusing. Do tell me which is your friend."
Then Duncombe remembered Andrew, who was standing by his side. He turned
towards him, and the words suddenly died away upon his lips. Andrew's
tall frame was shaking as though with some powerful emotion. He was
standing with his head thrust forward as though listening intently.
Duncombe set his teeth.
"Will you allow me to present my friend Miss Fielding?" he said.
"Andrew, this is Miss Fielding. Mr. Pelham, Miss Fielding."
She held out her hand and took his passive fingers.
"I am so glad to know you, Mr. Pelham," she said pleasantly. "Sir George
gave me quite a shock to-day when he spoke of you. I was once very
nearly engaged to an Andrew Pelham in Baltimore, and I had most
distressing visions of all my old sweethearts turning up to spoil my
good time here."
Andrew's voice sounded odd and restrained.
"I have never been in America," he said.
She laughed.
"You need not be afraid that I am going to claim you," she declared.
"You are at least a foot taller than my Andrew. You don't even inspire
me with any tender recollections of him. Baron, I do hope that you have
not taken too much exercise."
"My dear young lady," he answered, bowing, "I never felt better in my
life! Be thankful that it is not your hard fate to be my dinner
companion. I am so hungry I should have no time for conversation."
"On the contrary," she declared, "I--almost regret it! I much prefer to
do some of the talking myself, but I seldom get a chance. Will you
promise to give me a show to-night, Sir George?"
"As long as you permit me to say two or three things which are in my
mind," he answered, lowering his voice a little, "you may do all the
rest of the talking."
"Dear me, I am curious already," she exclaimed. "What are the two or
three things, Sir George? Why! Do you see--nearly every one has gone,"
she added suddenly. "Come along!"
She laid her hand upon his arm and led him away. Soon he was by her side
at the table. Their companions were uninteresting. Andrew was out of
sight. Duncombe forgot everything else in the world except that he was
with her.
Their conversation was of trifles, yet intimate trifles. The general
talk buzzed all round them. Neither made any effort to arrest it. To
Duncombe she seemed simply the image he had created and worshipped
suddenly come to life. That it was not in fact her picture went for
nothing. There was no infidelity. The girl who had existed in his dreams
was here. It was for her that he had departed from the even tenor of his
ways, for her he had searched in Paris, for her he had braved the
horrors of that unhappy week. Already he felt that she belonged to him,
and in a vague sort of way she, too, seemed to be letting herself drift,
to be giving color to his unconscious assumption by her lowered tone, by
the light in her eyes which answered his, by all those little nameless
trifles which go to the sealing of unwritten compacts.
Once her manner changed. Her father, who was on the opposite side of the
table a little way off, leaned forward and addressed her.
"Say, Sybil, where did we stay in Paris? I've forgotten the name of the
place."
"L'hôtel d'Athènes," she answered, and at once resumed her conversation
with Duncombe.
But somehow the thread was broken. Duncombe found himself watching the
little gray man opposite, who ate and drank so sparingly, who talked
only when he was spoken to, and yet who seemed to be taking a keen but
covert interest in everything that went on about him. Her father! There
was no likeness, no shadow of a likeness. Yet Duncombe felt almost a
personal interest in him. They would know one another better some day,
he felt.
"So you've been in Paris lately?" he asked her suddenly.
She nodded.
"For a few days."
"I arrived from there barely a week ago," he remarked.
"I hate the place!" she answered. "Talk of something else."
And he obeyed.
The second interruption came from Andrew. During a momentary lull in the
conversation they heard his firm clear voice talking.
"My time was up yesterday, but I find so much to interest me down here
that I think I shall stay on for a few more days, if my host remains as
hospitable as ever."
"So much to interest him," she murmured. "Are not all places the same to
the blind? What does he mean?"
"He is not really blind!" Duncombe answered, lowering his voice. "He can
see things very dimly. The doctor has told him that if he wears those
glasses for a few more months he may be able to preserve some measure of
eyesight. Poor chap!"
"He does not attract me--your friend," she said a little coldly. "What
can he find to interest him so much here? Do you see how he keeps his
head turned this way? It is almost as though he wished to listen to what
we were saying."
"There is a sort of reason for that," Duncombe answered. "Shall I
explain it?"
"Do!"
"Pelham lives, as I think I told you, in a small country-house near
Raynesworth," Duncombe began. "The hall in his village was occupied by a
young man--a boy, really--and his sister. Early in the year the boy, who
had never been abroad, thought that he would like to travel a little in
Europe. He wandered about some time in Germany and Austria, and was
coming home by Paris. Suddenly all letters from him ceased. He did not
return. He did not write. He drew no money from his letter of credit. He
simply disappeared."
The girl was proceeding tranquilly with her dinner. The story so far did
not seem to interest her.
"His sister, who went over to Paris to meet him, found herself quite
alone there, and we supposed that she devoted herself to searching for
him. And then curiously enough she, too, disappeared. Letters from her
suddenly ceased. No one knew what had become of her."
She looked at him with a faint smile.
"Now," she said, "your story is becoming interesting. Do go on. I want
to know where you and Mr. Pelham come in."
"Pelham, I think," he continued gravely, "was their oldest friend. He
sent for me. We were old college chums, and I went. This trouble with
his eyes had only just come on, and he was practically helpless--much
more helpless than the ordinary blind person, because it was all new to
him. This boy and girl were his old and dear friends. He was longing to
be off to Paris to search for them himself, and yet he knew that so far
as he was concerned it would be simply wasted time. He showed me the
girl's photograph."
"Well?"
"I went in his place."
"And did you find either of them?"
"No."
"I wonder," she said, "why you have told me this story?"
"I am going to tell you why," he answered. "Because when Pelham heard
you laugh last night he was like a madman. He believed that it was the
voice of Phyllis Poynton. And I--I--when I saw you, I also felt that
miracles were at hand. Look here!"
He drew a photograph from his pocket and showed it to her. She looked at
it long and earnestly.
"Yes," she admitted, "there is a likeness. It is like what I might have
been years ago. But will you tell me something?"
"Of course!"
"Why do you carry the picture of that girl about with you?"
He leaned towards her, and at that moment Lady Runton rose from her
place.
"In the winter garden afterwards," he whispered. "You have asked me the
very question that I wanted to answer!"
CHAPTER XVII
GEORGE DUNCOMBE'S LIE
There was something strange about Andrew's manner as he moved up to
Duncombe's side. The latter, who was in curiously high spirits, talked
incessantly for several minutes. Then he came to a dead stop. He was
aware that his friend was not listening.
"What is the matter with you, old chap?" he asked abruptly. "You are
positively glum."
Andrew Pelham shook his head.
"Nothing much!" he said.
"Rubbish! What is it?"
Andrew dropped his voice almost to a whisper. The words came hoarsely.
He seemed scarcely master of himself.
"The girl's voice tortures me," he declared. "It doesn't seem possible
that there can be two so much alike. And then Spencer's telegram. What
does it mean?"
"Be reasonable, old fellow!" Duncombe answered. "You knew Phyllis
Poynton well. Do you believe that she would be content to masquerade
under a false name, invent a father, be received here--Heaven knows
how--and meet you, an old friend, as a stranger? The thing's absurd,
isn't it?"
"Granted. But what about Spencer's telegram?"
"It is an enigma, of course. We can only wait for his solution. I have
wired him the information he asked for. In the meantime----"
"Well, in the meantime?"
"There is nothing to be gained by framing absurd hypotheses. I don't
mind telling you, Andrew, that I find Miss Fielding the most delightful
girl I ever met in my life."
"Tell me exactly, George, how she compares with the photograph you have
of Phyllis Poynton."
Duncombe sipped his wine slowly.
"She is very like it," he said, "and yet there are differences. She is
certainly a little thinner and taller. The features are similar, but the
hair is quite differently arranged. I should say that Miss Fielding is
two or three years older than Phyllis Poynton, and she has the air of
having travelled and been about more."
"A few months of events," Andrew murmured, "might account for all those
differences."
Duncombe laughed as he followed his host's lead and rose.
"Get that maggot out of your brain, Andrew," he exclaimed, "as quickly
as possible. Will you take my arm? Mind the corner."
They found the drawing-room almost deserted. Runton raised his eyeglass
and looked around.
"I bet those women have collared the billiard table," he remarked. "Come
along, you fellows."
They re-crossed the hall and entered the billiard-room. Lady Runton was
playing with the Lord Lieutenant's wife, the Countess of Appleton. The
others were all sitting about, either on the lounge or in the winter
garden beyond. Miss Fielding was standing on the threshold, and
Duncombe advanced eagerly towards her. On the way, however, he was
buttonholed by an acquaintance, and the master of the hounds had
something to say to him afterwards about one of his covers. When he was
free, Miss Fielding had disappeared. He made his way into the winter
garden, only to find her sitting in a secluded corner with the Baron.
She looked up at his entrance, but made no sign. Duncombe reluctantly
re-entered the billiard-room, and was captured by his host for a rubber
of bridge.
The rubber was a long one. Duncombe played badly and lost his money.
Declining to cut in again, he returned to the winter garden. Miss
Fielding and the Baron were still together, only they had now pushed
their chairs a little further back, and were apparently engaged in a
very confidential conversation. Duncombe turned on his heel and
re-entered the billiard-room.
It was not until the party broke up that he found a chance of speaking
to her. He was sensible at once of a change in her manner. She would
have passed him with a little nod, but he barred her way.
"You have treated me shockingly," he declared, with a smile which was a
little forced. "You promised to let me show you the winter garden."
"Did I?" she answered. "I am so sorry. I must have forgotten all about
it. The Baron has been entertaining me delightfully. Good night!"
He half stood aside.
"I haven't by any chance offended you, have I?" he asked in a low tone.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Certainly not!" she answered. "Excuse me, won't you? I want to speak
to Lady Runton before she goes upstairs."
Duncombe stood on one side and let her pass with a stiff bow. As he
raised his eyes he saw that Mr. Fielding was standing within a few feet
of him, smoking a cigarette. He might almost have overheard their
conversation.
"Good night, Mr. Fielding," he said, holding out his hand. "Are you
staying down here for long?"
"For two days, I believe," Mr. Fielding answered. "My daughter makes our
plans."
He spoke very slowly, but without any accent. Nothing in his appearance,
except perhaps the fact that he wore a black evening tie, accorded with
the popular ideas of the travelling American.
"If you have an hour to spare," Duncombe said, "it would give me a great
deal of pleasure if you and your daughter would walk down and have a
look over my place. Part of the hall is Elizabethan, and I have some
relics which might interest Miss Fielding."
Mr. Fielding removed the cigarette from his mouth.
"I thank you very much, sir," he said. "We are Lord Runton's guests, and
our stay is so short that we could scarcely make any arrangements to
visit elsewhere. Glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you all the
same."
Duncombe sought out his host.
"Runton, old chap," he said, "do me a favor. Bring that fellow Fielding
and his daughter round to my place before they go."
Lord Runton laughed heartily.
"Is it a case?" he exclaimed. "And you, our show bachelor, too! Never
mind my chaff, old chap. She's a ripping good-looking girl, and money
enough to buy the country."
"I don't mind your chaff," Duncombe answered, "but will you bring her?"
Lord Runton looked thoughtful.
"How the dickens can I? We are all shooting at the Duke's to-morrow, and
I believe they're off on Saturday. You're not in earnest by any chance,
are you, George?"
"Damnably!" he answered.
Lord Runton whistled softly.
"Fielding doesn't shoot," he remarked, "but they're going with us to
Beaumanor. Shall I drop him a hint? He might stay a day longer--just to
make a few inquiries about you on the spot, you know."
"Get him to stay a day longer, if you can," Duncombe answered, "but
don't give me away. The old chap's none too cordial as it is."
"I must talk to him," Runton said. "Your Baronetcy is a thundering sight
better than any of these mushroom peerages. He probably doesn't
understand that sort of thing. But what about the girl? Old Von Rothe
has been making the running pretty strong, you know."
"We all have to take our chance in that sort of thing," Duncombe said
quietly. "I am not afraid of Von Rothe!"
"I'll do what I can for you," Runton promised. "Good night!"
Andrew, who had left an hour or so earlier, was sitting in the library
smoking a pipe when his host returned.
"Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a
whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired."
"Very good of you--I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are
you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to
stay--say another couple of days with you?"
Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not
immediate.
"Andrew," he said, "you know very well that I haven't a pal in the world
I'd sooner have here than you for just as long as you choose to stay,
but--forgive me if I ask you one question. Is it because you want to
watch Miss Fielding that you have changed your mind?"
"That has a good deal to do with it, George," Andrew said quietly. "If I
left without meeting that young lady again I should be miserable. I want
to hear her speak when she does not know that any one is listening."
Duncombe crossed the room and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder.
"Andrew, old fellow," he said, "I can't have it. I can't allow even my
best friend to spy upon Miss Fielding. You see--I've come a bit of a
cropper. Quick work, I suppose, you'd say. But I'm there all the same."
"Who wants to spy upon Miss Fielding?" Andrew exclaimed hoarsely. "She
can be the daughter of a multi-millionaire or a penniless adventurer for
all I care. All I want is to be sure that she isn't Phyllis Poynton."
"You are not yet convinced?"
"No."
There was a moment's silence. Duncombe walked to the window and
returned.
"Andrew," he said, "doesn't what I told you just now make a
difference?"
Andrew groaned.
"Of course it would," he answered, "but--I'm fool enough to feel the
same about Phyllis Poynton."
Duncombe, in the full glow of sensations which seemed to him to give a
larger and more wonderful outlook on life, felt his sympathies suddenly
awakened. Andrew Pelham, his old chum, sitting there with his huge,
disfiguring glasses and bowed head, was surely the type of all that was
pathetic. He forgot all his small irritation at the other's obstinacy.
He remembered only their long years of comradeship and the tragedy which
loomed over the life of his chosen friend. Once more his arm rested upon
his shoulder.
"I'm a selfish brute, Andrew!" he said. "Stay as long as you please, and
get this idea out of your brain. I'm trying to get Miss Fielding and her
father down here, and if I can manage it anyhow I'll leave you two
alone, and you shall talk as long as you like. Come, we'll have a drink
together now and a pipe afterwards."
He walked across to the sideboard, where the glasses and decanters were
arranged. Then for the first time he saw upon the tray awaiting him a
telegram. He gave a little exclamation as he tore it open.
Andrew looked up.
"What is it, George?" he asked. "A telegram?"
Duncombe stood with his eyes glued upon the oblong strip of paper. A
curious pallor had crept into his face from underneath the healthy tan
of his complexion. Andrew, sightless though he was, seemed to feel the
presence in the room of some exciting influence. He rose to his feet and
moved softly across to the sideboard.
"Is it a telegram, George?" he whispered hoarsely. "Read it to me. Is it
from Spencer?"
Duncombe collected himself with an effort.
"It's nothing," he answered with a little laugh, in which all the
elements of mirth were lacking, "nothing at all! A note from Heggs, my
head-keeper--about some poachers. Confound the fellow!"
Andrew's hand was suddenly upon the sideboard, travelling furtively
across its shining surface. Duncombe watched it with a curious sense of
fascination. He felt altogether powerless to interfere. He was simply
wondering how long it would be before those long, powerful fingers
seized upon what they sought. He might even then have swept aside the
envelope, but he felt no inclination to do so. The fingers were moving
slowly but surely. Finally, with a little grab, they seized upon it.
Then there was another moment of suspense.
Slowly the hand was withdrawn. Without a second's warning Duncombe felt
himself held in the grip of a giant. Andrew had him by the throat.
"You have lied to me, George!" he cried. "There was a telegram!"
CHAPTER XVIII
"WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"
It seemed to Duncombe that time stood still. Andrew's face, wholly
disfigured by the hideous dark spectacles, unrecognizable, threatening,
was within a few inches of his own. He felt the other's hot breath upon
his cheek. For a moment there stole through his numbed senses the fear
of more terrible things. And then the grip which held him relaxed.
Andrew stood away gasping. The crisis was over.
"You lied to me, George. Why?"
Duncombe did not answer. He could not. It was as though his body had
been emptied of all breath.
"You meant to keep the contents of that telegram a secret from me. Why?
Was I right after all? Read me that telegram, George. Read it me
truthfully."
"The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said. "He is coming here."
"Here? Is he giving up the search? Has he failed, then?"
"He does not say," Duncombe answered. "He says simply that he is coming
here. He has wired for a motor to meet him at Lynn. He may be here
to-night."
A discordant laugh broke from Pelham's lips.
"What about your Miss Fielding, now?" he exclaimed. "Why do you suppose
that he is leaving Paris, and coming here? I was right. I knew that I
was right."
Duncombe stood up. His expanse of shirt-front was crumpled and battered.
His white tie was hanging down in ribbons.
"Listen, Andrew!" he exclaimed. "I am speaking of the girl by whose side
I sat to-night at dinner, who calls herself Miss Fielding, who has--in
plain words--denied that she knows anything of Phyllis Poynton. I want
you to understand this. Whatever she may choose to call herself that
shall be her name. I will not have her questioned or bullied or watched.
If Spencer comes here to do either I have finished with him. I elect
myself her protector. I will stand between her and all suspicion of evil
things."
"She has found a champion indeed!" Pelham exclaimed fiercely. "With Miss
Fielding I have nothing to do. Yet you had better understand this. If
she be Phyllis Poynton she belongs to me, and not to you. She was mine
before you heard her name. I have watched her grow up from a child, I
taught her to ride and to shoot and to swim. I have watched her
listening to the wind, bending over the flowers in her garden. I have
walked with her over the moor when the twilight fell and the mists rose.
We have seen the kindling of the stars, and we have seen the moon grow
pale and the eastern sky ablaze. I have taught her where to look for the
beautiful things of life. She has belonged to me in all ways, save one.
I am a poor, helpless creature now, George, but, by the gods, I will let
no one rob me of my one holy compensation. She is the girl I love; the
better part of myself."
"Phyllis Poynton may be all these things to you," Duncombe answered. "I
do not know her. I do not recognize her. Find her, if you can; make of
her what you will. All that I ask of you is that you divest your mind of
these senseless suspicions. Seek Phyllis Poynton where you will, but
leave alone the woman whom I love. I will not have her troubled or
annoyed by needless importunities. She says she is Miss Fielding. Then
she is Miss Fielding. It is enough for me. It must be enough for you!"
"And what about Spencer?" Pelham asked grimly.
"Spencer in this matter is my servant," Duncombe answered. "If his
search for Phyllis Poynton entails his annoying Miss Fielding, then he
is dismissed. I will have no more to do with the business."
"I have heard of this man Spencer," Andrew answered. "If you think that
he is the sort of creature whom you can order about like that, I fancy
that you are mistaken. You may try to call him off, if you like, but you
won't succeed. He is searching for Phyllis Poynton, and he is coming
here. I believe that he will find her."
The windows were wide open, and both men suddenly turned round. There
was no mistaking the sound which came to them from the road outside--the
regular throb and beat of a perfectly balanced engine. Then they heard a
man's voice, cool and precise.
"Here you are, then, and a sovereign for yourself. A capital little car
this. Good night!"
The little iron gate opened and closed. A tall man in a loose
travelling-coat, and carrying a small bag, entered. He saw Duncombe
standing at the open window, and waved his hand. As he approached his
boyish face lit up into a smile.
"What luck to find you up!" he exclaimed. "You got my telegram?"
"An hour ago," Duncombe answered. "This is my friend, Mr. Andrew Pelham.
What will you have?"
"Whisky and soda, and a biscuit, please," was the prompt reply. "Haven't
upset you, I hope, coming down from the clouds in this fashion?"
"Not in the least," Duncombe answered. "You've made us very curious,
though."
"Dear me!" Spencer exclaimed, "what a pity! I came here to ask
questions, not to answer them. You've set me a regular poser, Duncombe.
By Jove! that's good whisky."
"Help yourself," Duncombe answered. "We won't bother you to-night. I'll
show you a room as soon as you've had a cigarette. Fair crossing?"
"No idea," Spencer answered. "I slept all the way. Jolly place you've
got here, Duncombe. Nice country, too."
"There is just one question," Pelham began.
"Sha'n't answer it--to-night," Spencer interrupted firmly. "I'm dead
sleepy, and I couldn't guarantee to tell the truth. And when to-morrow
comes--I'll be frank with you--I've very little to say. Pardon me, but
where does Mr. Pelham come in in this matter?"
"Pelham," Duncombe said slowly, "was a neighbor of Miss Poynton's, in
Devonshire. It was through him that I first went to Paris to search for
her."
Spencer nodded.
"Glad to meet him, then," he remarked. "There are a few questions I
shall be glad to ask him in the morning."
"There is one," Pelham said, "which you must answer now."
Spencer raised his eyebrows. He was standing with his back to them now,
helping himself to sandwiches from a dish upon the sideboard.
"By Jove, your cook does understand these things," he remarked, with his
mouth full. "No idea I was so hungry. What was that, Mr. Pelham? A
question which must be answered now?"
"Yes. You telegraphed to Duncombe to know the names of Lord Runton's
guests, and now you have come here yourself. Why?"
Spencer helped himself to another sandwich.
"I came here," he said, "because I didn't seem to be getting on in
Paris. It struck me that the clue to Miss Poynton's disappearance might
after all be on this side of the Channel."
Pelham guided himself by the table to the sideboard. He stood close to
Spencer.
"Mr. Spencer," he said, "I am almost blind, and I cannot see your face,
but I want you to tell me the truth. I expect it from you."
"My dear fellow," Spencer answered. "I'm awfully sorry for you, of
course, but I really don't see why I should answer your questions at
all, truthfully or untruthfully. I have been making a few inquiries for
my friend Duncombe. At present I regret to say that I have been
unsuccessful. In their present crude state I should prefer keeping my
discoveries, such as they are, to myself."
Pelham struck the sideboard with his clenched fist so that all the
glasses rattled upon the tray. His face was dark with passion.
"I will not be ignored in this matter," he declared. "Phyllis Poynton
and her brother are nothing to Duncombe. He acted only for me. He cannot
deny it. Ask him for yourself."
"I do not need to ask him," Spencer answered. "I am perfectly well aware
of the circumstances of the case. All the same, I go about my business
my own way. I am not ready to answer questions from you or anybody
else."
"You shall tell me this at least," Pelham declared. "You shall tell me
why you telegraphed here for the names of Lord Runton's house party."
"Simplest thing in the world," Spencer answered, relinquishing his
attack upon the sandwiches, and lighting a cigarette. "I did it to
oblige a friend who writes society notes for the 'New York Herald.'"
Duncombe gave vent to a little exclamation of triumph. Pelham for the
moment was speechless.
"Awfully sorry if I misled you in any way," Spencer continued. "I never
imagined your connecting my request with the disappearance of Phyllis
Poynton. Why should I?"
"The fact is," Duncombe interposed, "there is a girl staying at Runton
Place whose voice Pelham declares is exactly like Phyllis Poynton's, and
whose general appearance, I will admit, is somewhat similar to the
photograph I showed you. It is a coincidence, of course, but beyond that
it is absurd to go. This young lady is a Miss Fielding. She is there
with her father, and they are invited guests, with all the proper
credentials."
Spencer nodded.
"I suppose it is because I am not a lady's man," he said carelessly,
"but I must admit that all girls' voices sound pretty much alike to me."
"I wish to Heaven that I could see your face!" Pelham exclaimed, "I
should know then whether you were telling me the truth."
"The weak point about my temporary profession is," Spencer remarked
thoughtfully, "that it enables even strangers to insult one with
impunity."
"If I have misjudged you," Pelham said with some dignity, "I am sorry. I
am to understand, then, that you have no news whatever to give us about
the disappearance of Phyllis Poynton and her brother?"
"Not a scrap!" Spencer answered.
"I will wish you both good night, then," Pelham said. "No, don't
trouble, George. I can find my way quite well by myself."
He disappeared, and Duncombe drew a little sigh of relief.
"Excitable person, your friend!" Spencer remarked.
Duncombe nodded.
"Very! I am frightened to death that he will make an ass of himself
before Miss Fielding. If he hears her speak he loses his head."
"Nice girl?" Spencer asked.
"Yes--very!"
"What sort of a fellow's the father?"
"Very quiet. I've scarcely spoken to him. They're Americans. Friends of
Lord Runton's brother, out in New York. Ever heard of them?"
"Yes. A few times."
"You seem interested."
"I am--very."
Duncombe turned suddenly white.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Spencer held his cigarette between his fingers and looked at it
thoughtfully.
"Mr. Fielding, of New York," he said, "sailed for America from Havre
last Saturday. His daughter has gone to Russia with a party of friends."
Duncombe sprang from his seat. His cigarette slipped from his fingers
and fell unheeded upon the carpet.
"Then who--who are these people?" he exclaimed.
Spencer shrugged his shoulders.
"I thought it worth while," he said, "to come over and find out."
CHAPTER XIX
A HILLSIDE ENCOUNTER
A few minutes before ten the following morning a mounted messenger from
Runton Place brought the following note for Duncombe:--
"RUNTON PLACE, _Friday Morning_.
"MY DEAR DUNCOMBE,--Fielding has cried off the shoot
to-day. Says he has a motor coming over for him to try from
Norwich, and his dutiful daughter remains with him. Thought I
would let you know in case you cared to come and look them up.
Best I could do for you.
"Ever yours sincerely,
"RUNTON."
Duncombe had breakfasted alone. Pelham had asked for something to be
sent up for him, and Spencer, after a cup of coffee in his room, had
gone out. Duncombe did not hesitate for a moment. He started at once for
Runton Place.
A marvellous change had taken place in the weather since the previous
day. The calm splendor of the early autumn seemed to have vanished. A
strong north wind was blowing, and the sky was everywhere gray and
threatening. The fields of uncut corn were bent, like the waves of the
sea, and the yellow leaves came down from the trees in showers. Piled up
masses of black clouds were driven across the sky. Scanty drops of rain
kept falling, an earnest of what was to come as soon as the wind should
fail. Duncombe had almost to fight his way along until, through a
private gate, he entered Runton Park. The house lay down in the valley
about a mile away. To reach it one had to cross a ridge of hills covered
with furze bushes and tumbled fragments of ancient rock.
Half-way up the first ascent he paused. A figure had struggled into
sight from the opposite side--the figure of a girl. Her skirts and cloak
were being blown wildly about her. She wore a flat Tam-o'-Shanter hat,
from under the confines of which her hair was defying the restraint of
hatpins and elastic. She stood there swaying a little from the violence
of the wind, slim and elegant, notwithstanding a certain intensity of
gaze and bearing. Duncombe felt his heart give a quick jump as he
recognized her. Then he started up the hill as fast as he could go.
She stood perfectly still, watching him clamber up to her side. Her face
showed no sign of pleasure or annoyance at his coming. He felt at once
that it was not he alone who had realized the coming of the tragedy.
No words of conventional greeting passed between them as he clambered
breathless to her side. The wind had brought no color into her cheeks.
There were rims under her eyes. She had the appearance of one who had
come into touch with fearsome things.
"What do you want with me?" she asked. "Why are you here?"
"To be with you," he answered. "You know why."
She laughed mirthlessly.
"Better go back," she exclaimed. "I am no fit companion for any one
to-day. I came out to be alone."
A gust of wind came tearing up the hillside. They both struggled for
breath.
"I came," he said, "to find you. I was going to the house. Something has
happened which you ought to know."
She looked back towards the long white front of the house, and there was
terror in her eyes.
"Something is happening there," she muttered, "and I am afraid."
He took her gloveless hand. It was as cold as ice. She did not resist
his touch, but her fingers lay passively in his.
"Let me be your friend," he pleaded. "Never mind what has happened, or
what is going to happen. You are in trouble. Let me share it with you."
"You cannot," she answered. "You, nor any one else in the world. Let me
go! You don't understand!"
"I understand more than you think!" he answered.
She turned her startled eyes upon him.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"I mean that the man whom we employed to trace the whereabouts of
Phyllis Poynton and her brother arrived from Paris last night," he
answered. "He wanted a list of Lord Runton's house party. Can you guess
why?"
"Go on!"
"Mr. Fielding, of New York, left Havre on Saturday----"
"Stop!"
Her voice was a staccato note of agony. Between the fingers which were
pressed to her face he could see the slow, painful flushing of her
cheeks.
"Why did you come to tell me this?" she asked in a low tone.
"You know," he answered.
"Did you guess last night that we were impostors?" she asked.
"Certainly not," he answered. "Andrew was tortured with doubts about
you. He believed that you were Phyllis Poynton!"
"I am!" she whispered. "I was afraid of him all the evening. He must
have known."
It seemed to Duncombe that the rocks and gorse bushes were spinning
round and the ground was swaying under his feet. The wind, which had
kept them both half breathless, seemed full of mocking voices. She was
an impostor. These were her own words. She was in danger of detection,
perhaps of other things. At that very moment Spencer might have gained
an entrance into Runton Place. He felt uncertain of himself, and all the
time her eyes watched him jealously.
"Why did you come here?" she cried. "Why do you look at me like that? It
is no concern of yours who I am. Why do you interfere?"
"Everything that concerns you concerns me," he answered. "I don't care
who you are, or who you say you are. I don't even ask you for any sort
of explanation. I came to warn you about Spencer. For the rest, here am
I your friend whatever happens. You are terrified! Don't go back to the
house. Give me the right to take care of you. I'll do it!"
Then for the first time a really human expression lit up her face. The
sick fear passed away. Her features were suddenly softer. The light in
her eyes was a beautiful thing.
"You are kind," she murmured, "kinder than I ever dreamed any one could
be who--knew. Will you be kinder still?"
"Try me!" he begged.
"Then go away. Forget who I am. Forget who I am not. Shut yourself up in
your study for twenty-four hours, and come out without any memories at
all. Oh, do this for me--do this!" she begged, with a sudden break in
her voice.
She leaned a little towards him. A long wisp of her hair blew in his
face. A moment of madness came to him with the gust of wind which blew
her almost into his arms. For one exquisite moment he held her. The
violets at her bosom were crushed against his coat. Then she tore
herself away.
"You are mad," she cried. "It is my fault. Oh, let me go!"
"Never," he answered, passionately clasping at her hand. "Call yourself
by what name you will, I love you. If you are in trouble, let me help.
Let me go back to the house with you, and we will face it together,
whatever it may be. Come!"
She wrung her hands. The joy had all gone from her face.
"Oh, what have I done?" she moaned. "Don't you understand that I am an
impostor? The man down there is not my father. I--oh, let me go!"
She wrenched herself free. She stood away from him, her skirt gathered
up into her hand, prepared for flight.
"If you would really do me a kindness," she cried, "get Mr. Spencer to
stop his search for me. Tell him to forget that such a person ever
existed. And you, too! You must do the same. What I have done, I have
done of my own free will. I am my own mistress. I will not be interfered
with. Listen!"
She turned a white, intent face towards the house. Duncombe could hear
nothing for the roaring of the wind, but the girl's face was once more
convulsed with terror.
"What was that?" she cried.
"I heard nothing," he answered. "What can one hear? The wind is strong
to drown even our voices."
"And those?" she cried again, pointing with outstretched finger to two
rapidly moving black specks coming towards them along the winding road
which led from the highway to Runton Place.
Duncombe watched them for a moment.
"They are the Runton shooting brakes," he declared.
"I expect Lord Runton and the rest of them are coming back."
"Coming back!" she repeated, with a little gasp.
"But they were going to shoot all day and dine there. They are not
expected home till past midnight."
"I expect the shoot is off," Duncombe remarked. "One couldn't possibly
hit anything a day like this. I wonder they ever started."
Her face was white enough before, but it was deathly now. Her lips
parted, but only a little moan came from them. He heard the rush of her
skirts, and saw her spring forward. He was left alone upon the hilltop.
CHAPTER XX
MR. FIELDING IN A NEW RÔLE
Runton was apparently enjoying the relaxation of having got rid of
practically the whole of its guests for the day. The women servants were
going about their duties faithfully enough, but with a marked absence of
any superfluous energy. Mr. Harrison, the butler, was enjoying a quiet
pipe in his room and a leisurely perusal of the morning paper. Mrs.
Ellis, the much-respected housekeeper, was also in her room comfortably
ensconced in an easy-chair, and studying a new volume of collected menus
which a friend had sent her from Paris. The servants were not exactly
neglecting their work, but every one was appreciating a certain sense of
peace which the emptying of the house from a crowd of more or less
exacting guests had brought about.
In one room only things were different, and neither Mrs. Ellis nor Mr.
Harrison, nor any of the household, knew anything about that. It was the
principal guest-chamber on the first floor--a large and handsomely
furnished apartment. Barely an hour ago it had been left in spotless
order by a couple of painstaking servants. Just now it had another
aspect.
In the middle of the room a man lay stretched upon the floor, face
downwards. The blood was slowly trickling from a wound in the side of
the head down on to the carpet. With nearly every breath he drew he
groaned. Overturned chairs and tables showed that he had taken part in
no ordinary struggle. The condition of the other man also testified
this.
The other man was Mr. Fielding. He was down on his knees upon the floor,
rapidly going through the contents of a dark mahogany box, which was
apparently full of papers. Scattered over the carpet by his side were
various strange-looking tools, by means of which he had forced the lock.
Mr. Fielding was not at all his usual self. His face was absolutely
colorless, and every few moments his hand went up to his shoulder-blade
and a shiver went through his whole frame. There was a faint odor of
gunpowder in the room, and somewhere near the feet of the prostrate man
lay a small shining revolver. Nevertheless, Mr. Fielding persevered in
his task.
Suddenly there came an interruption. Footsteps outside in the corridor
had paused. There was a sharp tapping at the door. The prostrate man
groaned louder than ever, and half turned over, proving that he was not
wholly unconscious. Mr. Fielding closed the box and staggered to his
feet.
He stood for a moment staring wildly at the door. Who could it be? He
had asked, as a special favor, that he might not be disturbed, and Mr.
Fielding knew how to ask favors of servants. Interruption now meant
disaster, absolute and unqualified--the end, perhaps, of a career in
which he had achieved some success. Big drops of perspiration stood out
upon his forehead, drawn there by the pain and this new fear. Slowly,
and on tiptoe, he drew near the door.
"Who is that?" he asked with wonderful calmness.
"It is I! Let me in," came the swift answer, and Mr. Fielding drew a
little breath of relief. Nevertheless he was angry. He opened the door
and drew the girl in.
"You fool!" he exclaimed. "I sent you out of the way on purpose. Why
have you come back?"
She opened her lips, but no words came. The man on the floor groaned
again. She swayed upon her feet. It was all so horrible.
"Speak, can't you!" he muttered between his teeth. "Things have gone
badly here. I'm wounded, and I'm afraid--I've hurt that chap--pretty
badly."
"I was in the park," she faltered, "and saw them. They a
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