The White Lie
by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #29173 · 430,267 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The White Lie
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: June 20, 2009 [eBook #29173]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE LIE ***
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE WHITE
LIE
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_Author of "The Temptress," "In White Raiment,"
"The Room of Secrets," etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1915
[Illustration: "He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a
moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude." (Chapter
XVIII.) [_Frontispiece_]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--IS MAINLY MYSTERIOUS 7
II.--CONCERNS A PRETTY STRANGER 19
III.--DESCRIBES TWO INQUIRIES 34
IV.--DESCRIBES A TORN CARD 45
V.--SECRETS OF STATE 56
VI.--THE SAFE BREAKERS 67
VII.--THE DOWNWARD PATH 78
VIII.--REVEALS THE GRIM TRUTH 88
IX.--IN THE NIGHT 99
X.--HONOUR AMONG THIEVES 108
XI.--THE VOW 119
XII.--THE FATE OF "THE AMERICAN" 130
XIII.--SISTERS IN SILENCE 139
XIV.--JEAN LEARNS THE TRUTH 149
XV.--HIS LORDSHIP'S VISITOR 159
XVI.--JEAN HAS A SURPRISE 169
XVII.--THE DARKENING HORIZON 178
XVIII.--LORD BRACONDALE'S CONFESSION 188
XIX.--THE GARDEN OF LOVE 197
XX.--CROOKED CONFIDENCES 206
XXI.--THE GREEN TABLE 215
XXII.--DISCLOSES A SCHEME 224
XXIII.--THE FALLING SHADOW 235
XXIV.--THE BLOW 244
XXV.--TO PAY THE PRICE 255
XXVI.--A CHILD'S QUESTION 265
XXVII.--THE INTRUDER 275
XXVIII.--THE CLOSED BOX 284
XXIX.--DEADLY PERIL 293
XXX.--THE WHITE LIE 299
THE WHITE LIE
CHAPTER I.
IS MAINLY MYSTERIOUS.
"A woman--perhaps?"
"Who knows! Poor Dick Harborne was certainly a man of secrets, and of
many adventures."
"Well, it certainly is a most mysterious affair. You, my dear Barclay,
appear to be the last person to have spoken to him."
"Apparently I was," replied Lieutenant Noel Barclay, of the Naval Flying
Corps, a tall, slim, good-looking, clean-shaven man in aviator's garb,
and wearing a thick woollen muffler and a brown leather cap with rolls
at the ears, as he walked one August afternoon up the village street of
Mundesley-on-Sea, in Norfolk, a quaint, old-world street swept by the
fresh breeze of the North Sea. "Yesterday I flew over here from Yarmouth
to see the cable-laying, and met Dick in the post-office. I hadn't seen
him for a couple of years. We were shipmates in the _Antrim_ before he
retired from the service and went abroad."
"Came into money, I suppose?" remarked his companion, Francis Goring, a
long-legged, middle-aged man, who, in a suit of well-worn tweeds,
presented the ideal type of the English landowner, as indeed he
was--owner of Keswick Hall, a fine place a few miles distant, and a
Justice of the Peace for the county of Norfolk.
"No," replied the aviator, unwinding his woollen scarf. "That's just it.
I don't think he came into money. He simply retired, and next we heard
was that he was living a wandering, adventurous life on the Continent. I
ran up against him in town once or twice, and he always seemed amazingly
prosperous. Yet there was some sort of a mystery about him--of that I
have always felt certain."
"That's interesting," declared the man at his side. "Anything
suspicious--eh?"
"Well, I hardly know. Only, one night as I was walking from the Empire
along to the Rag, I passed a man very seedy and down-at-heel. He
recognised me in an instant, and hurried on towards Piccadilly Circus.
It was Dick--of that I'm absolutely convinced. I had a cocktail with him
in the club next day, but he never referred to the incident."
"If he had retired from the Navy, then what was his business, do you
suppose?"
"Haven't the slightest idea," Barclay replied. "I met him here with
a motor-bike late yesterday afternoon. We had a drink together across
at the Grand, against the sea, and I left him just after five o'clock.
I had the hydroplane out and went up from opposite the coastguard
station," he said, pointing to the small, well-kept grass plot on
the left, where stood the flagstaff and the white cottages of the
coastguard. "He watched me get up, and then, I suppose, he started off
on his bike for Norwich. What happened afterwards is entirely shrouded
in mystery. He was seen to pass through the market-place of North
Walsham, five miles away, and an hour and a quarter later he was found,
only three miles farther on, at a lonely spot near the junction of the
Norwich road and that leading up to Worstead Station, between Westwick
and Fairstead. A carter found him lying in a ditch at the roadside,
stabbed in the throat, while his motor-cycle was missing!"
"From the papers this morning it appears that your friend has been about
this neighbourhood a good deal of late. For what reason nobody knows.
He's been living sometimes at the Royal at Norwich and the King's Head
at Beccles for the past month or so, they say."
"He told me so himself. He promised to come over to me at the
air-station at Yarmouth to-morrow and lunch with me, poor fellow."
"I wonder what really happened?"
"Ah, I wonder!" remarked the slim, well-set-up, flying officer. "A mere
tramp doesn't kill a fellow of Dick Harborne's hard stamp in order to
rob him of his cycle."
"No. There's something much more behind the tragedy, without a doubt,"
declared the local Justice of the Peace. "Let's hope something will come
out at the inquest. Personally, I'm inclined to think that it's an act
of revenge. Most probably a woman is at the bottom of it."
Barclay shook his head. He did not incline to that opinion.
"I wonder with what motive he cycled so constantly over to this
neighbourhood from Norwich or Beccles?" exclaimed Goring. "What could
have been the attraction? There must have been one, for this is an
out-of-the-world place."
"Your theory is a woman. Mine isn't," declared the lieutenant, bluntly,
offering his friend a cigarette and lighting one himself. "No, depend
upon it, poor old Dick was a man of mystery. Many strange rumours were
afloat concerning him. Yet, after all, he was a real fine fellow, and
as smart an officer as ever trod a quarter-deck. He was a splendid
linguist, and had fine prospects, for he has an uncle an admiral on
the National Defence Committee. Yet he chucked it all and became a
cosmopolitan wanderer, and--if there be any truth in the gossip I've
heard--an adventurer."
"An outsider--eh?"
"Well--no, not exactly. Dick Harborne was a gentleman, therefore he
could never have been an outsider," replied the naval officer quickly.
"By adventurer I mean that he led a strange, unconventional life. He was
met by men who knew him in all sorts of out-of-the-world corners of
Europe, where he spent the greater part of his time idling at _cafés_
and in a section of society which was not altogether reputable."
"And you say he was not an adventurer?" remarked the staid British
landowner--one of a class perhaps the most conservative and
narrow-minded in all the world.
"My dear fellow, travel broadens a man's mind," exclaimed the naval
officer. "A man may be a cosmopolitan without being an adventurer. Dick
Harborne, though there were so many sinister whispers concerning him,
was a gentleman--a shrewd, deep-thinking, patriotic Englishman. And his
death is a mystery--one which I intend to solve. I've come over here
again to-day to find out what I can."
"Well," exclaimed Goring, "I for one am hardly satisfied with his recent
career. While he was in the Navy and afloat--gunnery-lieutenant of one
of His Majesty's first-class cruisers--there appears to have been
nothing against his personal character. Only after his retirement these
curious rumours arose."
"True, and nobody has fathomed the mystery of his late life," admitted
Barclay, drawing hard at his cigarette and examining the lighted end.
"I've heard of him being seen in Cairo, Assouan, Monte Carlo, Aix,
Berlin, Rome--all over the Continent, and in Egypt he seems to have
travelled, and with much more means at his disposal than ever he had in
the ward-room."
"There are strange mysteries in some men's lives, my dear Barclay.
Harborne was a man of secrets without a doubt. Some of those secrets may
come out at the inquest."
"I doubt it. Poor Dick!" he sighed. "He's dead--killed by an unknown
hand, and his secret, whatever it was, has, I believe, gone to the grave
with him. Perhaps, after all, it is best."
"The police are very busy, I understand."
"Oh, of course! The Norfolk Constabulary will be very active over it
all, but I somehow have an intuition that the crime was one of no
ordinary character. Dick must have dismounted to speak to his assailant.
If he had been overthrown his machine would most probably have been
damaged. The assassin wanted the motor-cycle intact to get away upon.
Besides," he added, "the victim took over an hour to cover the three
miles between North Walsham and the spot where he was found. Something
unusual must have occurred in that time."
"Well, it can only be left to the police to investigate," replied the
tall, country squire, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets.
"They won't discover much--depend upon it," remarked the naval officer,
who, as he strolled at his friend's side, presented the ideal type of
the keen, British naval officer. "Dick has been the victim of a very
carefully-prepared plot. That is my firm belief. I've been making some
inquiries at the Grand Hotel, and learn that Dick came over from Norwich
on his motor-cycle at nine o'clock yesterday morning for some purpose,
and idled about Mundesley and the neighbourhood all the day. The
head-waiter at the hotel knew him, for he had often lunched there. But
yesterday he evidently came here with some fixed purpose, for he seemed
to be eagerly expecting somebody, and at last, a little before two
o'clock, a young lady arrived by the motor-bus from Cromer. They
describe her as a neat, dark-haired, good-looking young person, rather
well-dressed--and evidently a summer visitor. The pair walked about the
village, and then went down to the beach and sat upon deck-chairs to
chat. They returned to the hotel at half-past three and had tea
together, _tête-à-tête_, in a small sitting-room. The waiter tells me
that once, when he went in, suddenly, she was standing up, apparently
urging him to act in opposition to his own inclinations. Her attitude,
he says, was one of unusual force, it being evident that Dick was very
reluctant to give some promise she was endeavouring to extract from him.
She left again by the motor-bus for Cromer just after four."
"Ah! There you are! The woman!" exclaimed the owner of Keswick Hall,
with a smile. "I thought as much."
"I don't think she had anything to do with the affair," said Barclay.
"The police this morning obtained a detailed description of her--just as
I have done--and they are now searching for her in Cromer, Runton, and
Sheringham, believing her to be staying somewhere along this coast. She
was dressed in a pale blue kit of a distinctly seaside cut, so the
police are hoping to find her. Perhaps she doesn't yet know of the
tragic fate that has befallen poor Dick."
"I wonder who the girl can be? No doubt she'd be able to make a very
interesting statement--if they could only discover her."
"I think she left Cromer last night," Noel Barclay suggested to his
companion.
"She would, if she were in any way implicated. Perhaps she has already
gone!"
"No, I don't agree. I believe she is still in ignorance."
"What, I wonder, was the motive for their meeting here--in this quiet,
out-of-the-world little place?" asked Goring. "If he wanted to see her,
he might have motored to wherever she was staying, and not have brought
her over here in a motor-bus. No, it was a secret meeting--that's my
opinion--and, as it was secret, it probably had some connection with the
tragedy which afterwards occurred."
The two men were now close to the "Gap," or steep, inclined cart-road
which ran down to the sands. On their right, a little way from the road,
stood a small, shed-like building where the rocket life-saving apparatus
of the Board of Trade was housed. In front, the roadway, and indeed all
down the "Gap" and across the sands to where the waves lapped the shore,
had been recently opened, for upon the previous day the shore end of
the new German telegraph-cable connecting England with Nordeney had been
laid. At that moment, while the cable-ship, on its return across the
North Sea, was hourly paying out the cable, a German telegraph engineer
was seated within the rocket-station, constantly making tests upon the
submerged line between the shore and the ship.
Up from the trench beside the rocket-house came the cable--black,
coiled, and snake-like, about three inches in thickness--its end
disappearing within the small building.
"Been inside to-day?" asked Goring, just as they were passing.
"No. Let's see how they are progressing," the other said; and both
turned into the little gate and asked permission to enter where the
tests were being made.
Herr Strantz, the German engineer, a dark-haired, round-faced,
middle-aged man, came forward, and, recognising the pair as visitors of
the previous day, greeted them warmly in rather imperfect English, and
bowed them into where, ranged on a long table, the whole length of the
left-hand wall, stood a great quantity of mysterious-looking electrical
appliances with a tangle of connecting wires, while below the tables
stood a row of fully fifty large batteries, such as are used in
telegraph work.
On the table, amid that bewildering assortment of queer-looking
instruments, all scrupulously clean and highly polished, were two small
brass lamps burning behind a long, narrow strip of transparent
celluloid whereon was marked a minute gauge. On the edge of the table,
before these lamps, was a switch, with black ebonite handle.
As the two Englishmen entered, the German's eyes caught the small, round
brass clock and noted that it was time to make the test--every five
minutes, night and day, while the cable was in process of completion.
Therefore, without further word to his visitors, he carefully pulled
over the long ebonite handle of the switch, and, at the same instant, a
tiny spot of bright light showed upon the transparent gauge.
This the engineer examined to see its exact place upon the
clearly-defined line, afterwards noting it in his book in cryptic
figures, and then carefully switching off again, when the tell-tale
light disappeared.
"Well?" asked Barclay. "How are you getting along? Not quite so much
excitement in this place as yesterday--eh?"
"No," laughed the engineer. "Der people here never see a shore-end
floated to land wiz bojes (buoys) before. Dey have already buried der
line in der trench, as you see. Ach! Your English workmen are far
smarter than ours, I confess," he added, with a pleasant accent.
"Is it being laid all right?" the airman asked.
"Ja, ja. Very good work. Der weather, he could not be better. We have
laid just over one hundert mile in twenty-four hours. Gut--eh?"
[Illustration: "A carter found him lying in a ditch at the roadside,
stabbed in the throat, while his motor-cycle was missing!" [_Page 9_]
As he spoke the Morse-sounder at the end of the green baize-covered
table started clicking calling him.
In a moment his expert hand was upon the key, tapping a response.
The ship tapped rapidly, and then the engineer made an enquiry, and
received a prompt reply.
Then tapped out the short-long-short-long and short, which meant
"finish," when, turning to the pair, he said:
"Dey hope to get it am Ufer (ashore) at daybreak to-morrow. By noon
there will be another through line between Berlin and London."
Lieutenant Barclay was silent. A sudden thought crossed his mind. At
Bacton, a couple of miles farther down the coast, the two existing
cables went out to the German shore. But this additional line would
prove of immense value if ever the army of the great War Lord attempted
an invasion of our island.
As a well-known naval aviator, and as chief of the whole chain of
air-stations along the East Coast, the lieutenant's mind was naturally
ever set upon the possibility of projected invasion, and of an adequate
defence. That a danger really existed had at last been tardily admitted
by the Government, and now with our Navy redistributed and centred in
the North Sea, our destroyer-flotillas exercising nightly, and the
establishment of the wireless at Felixstowe, Caister, Cleethorpes,
Scarborough, and Hunstanton, as well as the construction of naval
air-stations, with their aeroplanes and hydroplanes from the Nore up to
Cromarty we were at last on the alert for any emergency.
When would "_Der Tag_" ("The Day")--as it was toasted every evening in
the military messes of the German Empire--dawn? Aye, when? Who could
say?
CHAPTER II.
CONCERNS A PRETTY STRANGER.
A short, puffy, red-faced man in grey flannels went past.
It was Sir Hubert Atherton, of Overstrand--that little place declared to
be the richest village in all England--and Francis Goring, recognising
him, bade a hurried farewell to his naval friend, and with a hasty word
of thanks to the German, went out.
The naval airman and the German were left alone.
Again the round-faced cable engineer pulled over the double-throw
switch, examined the tiny point of light upon the gauge, and registered
its exact position.
"You remember, Herr Strantz, the gentleman who accompanied me here
yesterday," exclaimed Barclay, when the engineer had finished writing up
his technical log.
"Certainly. Der gentleman who was a motor-cyclist?"
"Yes. He was found on the road last evening, murdered."
"Zo!" gasped the German, staring at his visitor. "Killed!"
"Yes; stabbed to death fifteen miles from here, and his motor-cycle was
missing. It is a mystery."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Herr Strantz. "He took tea mit a lady over at
the hotel. I saw them there when I went off duty at half-past three
o'clock."
"I know. The police are now searching for that lady."
"Dey will not have much difficulty in finding her, I suppose--hein?" the
engineer replied. "I myself know her by sight."
"You know her!" cried the Englishman. "Why, I thought you only arrived
here from Germany two days ago. Where have you met her?"
"In Bremen, at the Krone Hotel, about three months ago. She call herself
Fräulein Montague, and vos awaiting her mother who vos on her way from
New York."
"Did she recognise you?"
"I think not. I never spoke to her in the hotel. She was always a very
reserved but very shrewd young lady," replied Herr Otto Strantz, slowly
but grammatically. "I was surprised to meet her again."
"Montague!" the airman repeated. "Do you know her Christian name?"
"Jean Montague," was the German's response as he busied himself
carefully screwing down one of the terminals of an instrument.
Noel Barclay made a quick note of the name in a tiny memorandum-book
which he always carried in his flying-jacket.
He offered the German one of his cigarettes--an excellent brand smoked
in most of the ward-rooms of His Majesty's Navy--and then endeavoured to
obtain some further information concerning his dead shipmate's visitor.
But Herr Strantz, whose sole attention seemed centred upon the shore-end
of the new cable which was so soon to form yet another direct link
between Berlin and London, was in ignorance of anything connected with
the mysterious young person.
The statement that Harborne--the motor-cyclist who had spoken the
German language so well when he had accompanied the pretty young girl
the day before to watch the testing--was dead, seemed to cause the
cable-engineer considerable reflection. He said nothing, but a close
observer would have noticed that the report of the murder had had a
distinct effect upon him. He was in possession of some fact, and this,
as a stranger on that coast, and a foreigner to boot, it was not, after
all, very difficult to hide.
Noel, however, did not notice it. His mind was chiefly occupied in
considering the best and most diplomatic means by which the missing
lady, who lived in Bremen as Miss Montague, could be traced.
The two men smoked their cigarettes; Strantz pulling over the switch
every five minutes--always to the very tick of the round brass
clock--examining the tiny point of light which resulted, and carefully
registering the exact amount of current and the position of the ship
engaged in paying out the black, insulated line into the bed of the
German Ocean.
While Noel watched he also wondered whether, in the near future, that
very cable across the sea would be used by England's enemy for the
purposes of her destruction. True, we had our new wireless stations all
along the coast, and at other places inland at Ipswich, Chelmsford, and
elsewhere, yet if what was feared really came to pass, all those,
together with the shore-ends of the cables, would be seized by advance
parties of Germans already upon British soil--picked men, soldiers all,
who were already living to-day in readiness upon the East Coast of
England as hotel-servants, clerks or workers in other trades. Our
shrewd, business-like friends across the grey, misty sea would take care
to strike a blow on our shores by the wrecking of bridges, the disabling
of railways, the destruction of telegraphs, and the like, simultaneous
with their frantic dash upon our shore. Germany never does anything by
halves, nor does she leave anything to chance.
Herr Strantz, having finished some calculations, and having tapped out a
message to the ship, raised his head, and with a smile upon his broad,
clean-shaven face, said, with his broad German accent:
"Ech! You are an officer. I suppose that, if the truth were told,
England hardly welcomes another cable laid by Germany--hein?"
"Well," laughed the airman, pushing his big, round goggles higher upon
his brow, "we sometimes wonder when your people are really coming."
"Who knows?" asked the other, smiling and elevating his shoulders.
"Never--perhaps."
"Ah! Many there are in England who still regard invasion by the Kaiser's
army as a bogey," Noel Barclay remarked. "But surely it is not
impossible, or why should the British authorities suddenly awaken to the
peril of the air?"
"All is possible to Germany--when the time is ripe. That is my private
opinion as a Deutscher, and as one who has an opportunity of observing,"
the other frankly responded.
"I quite agree," was Noel's reply. "Dreams of ten years ago are to-day
accomplished facts. Aeroplanes cross the Channel and the Alps, and fly
from country to country in disregard of diplomatic frontiers, while your
German airships--unfortunate as they may be--have actually crossed to us
here, and returned without us being any the wiser. Had they been hostile
they could have destroyed whole cities in a single night!"
"And your ever-watchful coastguards who actually saw them were
disbelieved," the German laughed.
"Yes. I admit the air is conquered by your people--and Great Britain is
now no longer an island. Wireless messages can be transmitted five
thousand miles to-day, and who knows that it may not be possible
to-morrow, by directing similar electric rays, to blow up explosives
wherever they may be concealed--in the magazines of battleships or in
land forts?"
"Ach, yes!" agreed the engineer. "Ten years ago war between England and
Germany was more improbable than it is to-day, for each day, I fear,
brings us nearer to hostilities--which we, in Germany, know to be
inevitable."
"And when that day dawns we shall have to exert every force, every
nerve, every muscle, if we are to repel you," remarked Noel, his
clear-cut face unusually dark and serious.
"I fear that you will, sir," was the other's quiet response.
"Individually we want to be friends mit England, but you, as a British
officer, know quite well that one day the powder magazine will explode
and there must be der war. It will be forced suddenly and swiftly upon
the Kaiser and upon the people."
"Yes," sighed the naval airman. "So all we can now do is to remain good
friends as long as ever we can--eh? Forewarned is forearmed."
"Exactly; but," added the German, "I trust the openness of my remarks
has given you no offence, sir. If it has, then I beg you to accept my
most sincere apologies. You are an officer and serve your country. I,
too, am an officer of reserve and serve mine."
"Surely no apologies are needed, my dear Herr Strantz," laughed the
lieutenant, extending his hand frankly. "We have both exchanged our
opinions. In most I agree with you, although, of course, I naturally
believe in England's invincible power on the sea."
"That is but natural, my dear lieutenant. You are English," was the
engineer's response, and while he turned again to pull over the
testing-switch and bent to examine the point of light, Noel was puzzled
as to his exact meaning.
Presently Noel Barclay, shaking Herr Strantz's hand, humorously
expressed a hope that they might never find themselves enemies, and that
the cable might be successfully completed and inaugurated on the morrow;
strode out into the village street, and down the "Gap" to that wide
expanse of golden sands where a big Post Office gang were busily at work
covering up the long black cable lying in its trench.
The engineer of the General Post Office who was in charge, recognising
the airman, wished him good afternoon; but his thoughts were centred
upon the mysterious death of the man about whom so many queer rumours
had been afloat.
Rumours! Ah, how well he recollected one of them--a rumour that had gone
around the Service--namely that he had retired with the money earned by
selling to a foreign power a certain secret concerning "plotting." For
that reason, it was said, he had lived so constantly abroad. Though the
offence had never been brought home to him by the Admiralty, yet the
rumour had never been contradicted. Mud thrown, alas! always sticks.
Was it true, or was it a lie? his friend was wondering, as he stood
looking out upon that calm blue summer sea, bathed in the warm light of
that August afternoon, the sea in the deep bed of which lay the new link
connecting Berlin with London.
What could Dick Harborne have been doing, motoring so constantly about
that rural, out-of-the-world corner of England, that delightful little
strip of the open Norfolk coast so aptly termed Poppyland? That he was
not there as a summer visitor was quite certain. He had his headquarters
in Norwich, twenty miles away, and his constant journeys over the roads
between the Norfolk capital and the sea were certainly not without some
definite motive.
That Strantz should have recognised Harborne's fair companion was also
remarkable. What could she have been doing in Bremen? he wondered.
Noel Barclay looked around him anxiously. The wind, which had risen for
the past couple of hours while he had been in Mundesley, was now
dropping. With the sunset he would have a nice flight back to the
hangars standing on the shore beyond Yarmouth. The "old bus," as the
fine Bleriot monoplane was affectionately termed by the four
flying-officers at the air station, had been running like a clock.
Indeed he had flown her from Eastchurch two days previously, and
intended, on the morrow, to make a flight to inspect the station up at
Scarborough.
He lit another cigarette and sat down upon a boat to think, the white
surf rolling almost to his feet.
During the time the naval aviator had been watching the testing of the
cable, a tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, clean-shaven,
broad-browed young man in a drab tweed golf suit and cap, a man whose
great, dark, deep-set eyes wore a keen, intense look, and whose
countenance was one which once seen would be easily remembered, lounged
into the Old Ship Hotel. He was accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired
girl in a summer gown of cream serge and wearing a neat little hat of
pale blue silk. The girl's skirt displayed small, well-shaped ankles,
yet her shoes were stout and serviceable, and there was a cheapness
about her dress and an independent air which stamped her as a girl
accustomed to earn her own living.
Both were foreigners--French, apparently, for they spoke that language
together. His clothes were English, evidently from a smart tailor, and
he wore them with that easy nonchalance of the English golfer, while his
pretty, dark-eyed companion, although her gown was of cheap material, it
was nevertheless cut well, and both in figure and in gait she had all
the _chic_ of the true Parisienne.
"Yes, dearest," the young man exclaimed in French, as he rose and looked
out into the village street, "this is a very interesting little place, I
believe. We will have a stroll along the _plage_ and see it after our
tea. How quiet, how charming it is, after London--eh?"
"Ah! I always love the country, Ralph," was her reply in English, and as
she sat composedly in her chair, after walking from Overstrand, where
they had been to see that lonely, crumbling old church tower which the
late Clement Scott has called "the Garden of Sleep," she gave him a look
which was unmistakable--a look of true, passionate affection.
Indeed, upon her finger, now that she had removed her glove, was a
diamond engagement ring, an ornament which meant so very much to her--as
it does to all girls in all stations of life who are beloved.
The man turned from the window, his big, deep-set eyes upon her, and,
bending, kissed her fondly. But the expression upon his hard, aquiline
face as he turned away was a strange, unusual one, though, perhaps
unfortunately for her, she was unable to see it. The look was not one of
love--nay, rather of world-weariness and of deep anxiety.
"I wish my holiday was not yet at an end, Ralph," she sighed, wistfully,
after a brief pause. "But father is inexorable, and says he must get
back to business, while, as you know, I am due back at the Maison
Collette on Monday morning. I've already had three days longer than the
other girls--three delightful sunny days."
"Yes," sighed the young man. "I suppose, dearest, you will be compelled
to go back for a time to your _modes_ and your hat-making and your
workroom friends. But only until November--until you become my wife." He
spoke English with only a slight trace of accent.
"Ah! What supreme happiness!" cried the girl, in ecstasy, again speaking
in French, as he bent until his lips touched hers. "I will remain
patient, Ralph, till then, even though all the girls may envy me. They
are all English, and just because I happen to be French, they are never
too friendly."
The young man was silent for a few moments; then he sprang from her side
as the waiter entered with the tea.
After he had swallowed a cup of tea he suddenly exclaimed in perfect
French:
"Ah! I quite forgot, dearest. I wonder if you would excuse me if I leave
you here for ten minutes or so? I want to send a telegram."
"_Certainement_," she laughed happily. "I shall be quite all right,
Ralph. There are papers here to amuse me."
"Very well," he said; "I won't be a minute longer than possible," and,
taking up his cap, he went out and closed the door behind him.
It was then about half-past five o'clock.
But the instant he had gone she sprang to her feet. Her face changed. A
haunted, wild look shone in her dark, terrified eyes, and she stood
rigid, her hands clenched, her face pale to the lips.
"_Dieu!_" she whispered aloud, to herself, startled at the sound of her
own voice, and staring straight before her. "I was a fool--a great fool
to return here to-day! Someone may recognise me, though it was to the
other hotel I went with M. Harborne. Ah! No, I cannot--I dare not go
down on the beach," she went on in French. "I must get away from this
accursed place as soon as ever Ralph returns. What if he is suspected?
Besides, the police may be looking for me, as it must now be known that
I was here with him in Mundesley yesterday. Ah, yes! I was a fool to
dare to return like this, even in different clothes. As soon as Ralph
comes back I must feign serious illness, and he will take me back to
Cromer, and on to London to-morrow. What evil fate it was that he should
bring me here--here, to the one place on all the earth that I desired
never again in my life to see!"
And the girl sank back inertly into the horsehair arm-chair in the
old-fashioned room, and sat, white-faced and breathlessly anxious,
staring straight before her.
Meanwhile Ralph Ansell--who, although actually a Frenchman, bore an
English name--walked quickly up the village street and out upon the high
road towards Parton. From time to time he turned, as though he feared
that he might be followed, but there being nobody in the vicinity, he
suddenly, when about half a mile from the village, struggled through a
hedge into a grass-field where, in the corner, sheltered from the wind,
stood Noel Barclay's naval monoplane, with its star-like Gnome engine
and wide planes of pale yellow.
The spot was a lonely one. Before him stretched a wide heath covered
with gorse, and the Norfolk Broads beyond. Nobody was nigh.
Bending, he crept swiftly along the high hedge, until he reached the
machine. His attitude was that of an evil-doer. From his pocket he
produced a small bolt of wood painted to resemble steel. He advanced to
the left wing-spar of the monoplane and, apparently possessing expert
knowledge of the point where it was the most vulnerable, he swiftly drew
out a split pin, removed a small steel bolt at the end of the main-stay
cable, and replaced it with the imitation bolt.
The dastardly, murderous action was only the work of a couple of
minutes, when, placing the bolt in his pocket, he crept back again
beneath the hedge, and ten minutes later reached the Old Ship unnoticed,
having taken a certain route with which he seemed well acquainted.
As he approached the hotel he came face to face with Noel Barclay, who,
cigarette in mouth, strode at an easy pace along the road towards the
spot where he had left his machine. He passed the young foreigner
without recognition. The man in the golf suit was a mere summer visitor,
and to his knowledge he had never seen him before. Unsuspicious of what
had been done, he went forward, eager to rise in the air again and
return to his headquarters.
But when he had passed Ralph Ansell turned and, glancing covertly after
him, an evil expression upon his strong, clean-shaven face, muttered a
fierce imprecation in French beneath his breath.
The officer, however, strolled forward in ignorance of the stranger's
sinister glance or his malediction, while the foreigner, with a crafty
smile of triumph, entered the hotel, to find, to his alarm, that Jean
had been taken very unwell.
In a moment he expressed the greatest consternation, and at once rang
and ordered a cab in which to drive her back to Cromer.
A quarter of an hour later Jean Libert--whose feigned illness had now
almost passed--was seated happily at her lover's side, slowly ascending
the hill on the cliff-road leading towards Cromer, when, of a sudden, a
loud whirr was heard in the air behind them.
"Why, look, there is an aeroplane!" cried the girl, enthusiastically,
turning and watching with interest the naval monoplane rising beyond the
village they had just left.
The driver pulled up, and the pair stood up in the vehicle to watch the
splendid ascent of the dauntless aviator, who rose against the clear sky
in a wide spiral higher and higher, twice passing over their heads,
until he had reached an altitude of fully eight hundred feet. Then,
after a final circle, he turned and made straight towards the yellow
declining sun, speeding evenly and swiftly in the direction of Great
Yarmouth.
Next second a loud, shrill shriek escaped the girl as she covered her
face with her hands to shut out the appalling sight which met her gaze.
The machine, flying so beautifully, had, of a sudden, collapsed as
though she had broken her wing, which rose at right angles, and then the
machine, out of control, pitched forward and, nose first, fell straight
to the ground like a stone.
CHAPTER III.
DESCRIBES TWO INQUIRIES.
The fatal accident to Lieutenant Noel Barclay caused a wave of sympathy
throughout the country.
As a daring and experienced aviator he was well known. He had assisted
in the foundation of the Naval Flying School at Eastchurch, and had been
the first aviator to fly from land and greet the King on the occasion of
a great review off Weymouth. Many splendid feats of airmanship had he
accomplished, flying from Paris to London on three occasions, and going
far out to sea and back, scouting on one or other of the Government
hydroplanes.
Several important inventions were to his credit, and it had been due to
his genius that certain of the aircraft had been fitted with wireless
apparatus and experiments carried out with success. He had done
excellent service during the naval manoeuvres of the previous year,
and his name had been written large in the annals of aviation.
But alas! the public had one morning opened their daily papers to find a
tragic picture of his wrecked machine, and beneath was printed the news
of his fatal fall from a distance of eight hundred feet.
The inquest had been held at the Old Ship Hotel at Mundesley, the day
after the accident, and, in addition to representatives of the
Admiralty, a number of aviation experts who had examined the wreckage
had been present.
The inquiry was a searching one, for an important London newspaper had
hinted that, owing to the parsimonious policy of the Admiralty, certain
of their aeroplanes were not of the same stability as those owned by
private individuals. Hence the authorities at Whitehall had set
themselves to refute such damaging allegations.
To that quiet little fishing village had come some of the greatest
aviation experts, world-famous pilots, and representatives of that
select body whose dictum in all aviation is law--the Royal Aero Club.
And all were there with one object--to decide as to the reason of the
sudden collapse of the naval Bleriot.
The coroner sat in a stuffy little room, the windows of which were open.
Nevertheless, with the place crowded the atmosphere was oppressively
hot. The inquiry was long and tedious, for after evidence had been given
as to the lieutenant's departure, and eyewitnesses had described his
fall, there came a quantity of highly technical evidence put forward by
the Admiralty with the object of proving that the machine had been in a
perfectly satisfactory condition. The Gnome engine was of 80
horse-power, the monoplane had been thoroughly overhauled only four days
previously, and the flights which Barclay had made in her from
Eastchurch proved that there had been no defect which could have been
detected.
Curious it was that that inquiry was being held in the same hotel where
Ralph Ansell and Jean Libert had taken their tea.
One man alone knew the terrible truth--the man who, on that fatal
evening, had crept under the hedge unseen, and substituted the small
steel bolt with one of wood with such an expert, unerring hand--the man
who had stood up in the cab and calmly watched the awful result of his
evil handiwork without the slightest sign of pity or remorse.
He had hurled Noel Barclay to his death with as little compunction as he
would have crushed a fly. And yet little Jean, with the neat figure and
great, dark eyes, in her innocence and ignorance, loved him so dearly
and so well. She never dreamed the truth, and therefore he was her
ideal, while she was his affianced wife.
In that small, over-crowded room, clean-shaven experts stood up one
after the other, each expressing a different theory as to the cause of
the accident.
When poor Barclay had been found, the engine was lying upon his chest,
his neck was broken, his face battered out of all recognition, and both
arms were broken. So utterly wrecked was the machine that it presented
the appearance of a mass of splintered wood, tangled wires, and torn
strips of fabric flapping in the wind.
All had been examined carefully, piece by piece, after the mangled
remains of the unfortunate pilot had been extricated. The bolt was
missing and search failed to find it. A quantity of evidence was
forthcoming, and many theories advanced, the conclusion arrived at being
that the left wing collapsed owing to undue strain, and the machine,
instantly out of control, fell to earth.
There was but one verdict which the twelve honest men of Mundesley could
return.
Expert evidence agreed that the quick-release at the end of one of the
stay-wires was faulty. The steel bolt holding the main-stay cable and
secured by a split-pin could not be found. It had evidently broken and
fallen out, so that the left wing, being thus unsupported, had collapsed
in mid-air.
And in face of these facts the jury returned a verdict of "Accidental
death."
This the public read next morning in their newspapers, together with
expressions of deep sympathy and declarations that the air was, as yet,
unconquered.
On the same day as the inquest was held upon the body of Lieutenant
Barclay, a coroner's inquiry was held at the little market-town of North
Walsham, which, though inland, is the relay for the telegraph-cables
diverging to Northern Europe, into the discovery on the highway of the
body of the motor-cyclist, Mr. Richard Harborne.
Held in a schoolroom near the railway station, public and witnesses sat
upon the school benches, while the coroner occupied the headmaster's
desk.
Again there was an array of witnesses, but from the first the crowd at
the back of the room scented mystery.
A carter of the village of Worstead, speaking in his broad Norfolk
brogue, described how he had discovered the body and had come into North
Walsham and told a constable.
"I was a coomin' into North Walsham wi' a load o' hay what I'd got from
Mr. Summers, o' Stalham, when just after I turned into the Norwich road
I saw sawmthin' a-lyin' in the ditch," he said slowly, while the
grey-haired deputy-coroner carefully wrote down his words.
"Well?" asked the official, looking up at the witness.
"Well, sir, I found it was 'im," the man replied.
"Who?"
"The gentleman what war killed."
"The deceased, you mean," said the coroner.
"Yes, sir. I went over and found 'im a-lyin' face downwards," was the
reply. "I thought 'e wor drunk at first, but when I see blood on the
road I knowed there'd been sawmthin' up. So I went over to 'im."
"In what position was the body when you discovered it?" the coroner
asked.
"'E wor a-lyin' with 'is feet in the water an' 'is 'ead in the brambles
like."
"As if he had fallen there?"
"No, sir. As if 'e'd been thrown into the side o' the road. There was
blood--a lot of it all alon' the road."
"What did you do?"
"Well, I pulled 'im out, and saw a nasty cut in 'is throat. So I drove
on to North Walsham and saw Mr. Bennet."
"Anything else?"
"No, sir, nawthin' else."
"Any juryman wish to ask a question?" inquired the coroner, looking
across at the twelve local taxpayers.
The foreman, a stout farmer, said:
"I'd like, sir, to ask the witness if the gentleman was dead when he
pulled him out of the ditch."
"Dead as mutton," was the witness's prompt reply.
"You think he was dead? He may not have been," the coroner remarked.
"Well, I put my 'and on 'is 'eart an' it didn't beat, sir."
"Very well," said the official holding the inquiry, "that will do."
Superintendent Bennet, of the Norfolk Constabulary, stationed at North
Walsham, gave evidence regarding the discovery. He described how the
previous witness had called at the police-station, and how they went out
in a light trap on the Norwich road together.
"I found deceased lying on the grass on the left side of the road close
to a telegraph post," he said, while a tall, grey-faced, well-dressed
man of forty-five, of a somewhat military appearance, who was seated at
the back of the room, leaned forward attentively to catch every word.
"The thorn bushes beside the ditch were broken down by the body
apparently being cast there. It was getting dusk when I arrived on the
spot, but I could clearly see traces of blood for about forty feet from
the ditch forward in the direction of Norwich."
"Then the body must have been carried back from the spot where the blow
was struck?"
"It was dragged back. A shower had fallen in the afternoon, and there
were distinct marks on the damp road where the heels of the deceased had
scraped along, and also the footmarks of the murderer."
At these words those present in court held their breath.
"Have you taken any action in regard to those footmarks?"
"I have not, sir. But the detectives from Norwich have," answered the
officer.
"Could you see the track of deceased's motor-cycle?"
"Quite plainly. The deceased apparently dismounted close to the spot
where the first trace of blood appeared, for there were marks of a
struggle. The gentleman must have been struck down and promptly flung
into the ditch, after which his assailant mounted the cycle and rode
off."
"Towards Norwich?"
"Yes, sir--in that direction."
The grey-faced man at the back of the room was now all attention. Upon
his countenance was a curious, intense look. The coroner noticed him,
and became puzzled, even suspicious. Nobody knew the man or why he was
present. Yet to him the death of Richard Harborne was, without a doubt,
of the very greatest concern.
More than once the coroner looked suddenly up from writing the
depositions, regarding him with covert glances. Though he had all the
appearance of a gentleman, yet there was about him a strange, almost
imperceptible air of the adventurer. A close observer would have noticed
that his clothes bore the cut of a foreign tailor--French or
Italian--and his boots were too long and pointed to be English. His
well-kept, white hands were the hands of a foreigner, long and pointed,
with nails trimmed to points, and upon his left wrist, concealed by his
round shirt-cuff secured by solitaires in place of links, he wore a gold
bangle which inside bore an inscription.
At times his grey, hard face was impassive and sphinx-like, yet to the
narrative of how Richard Harborne was discovered he listened with a rapt
attention it was impossible to conceal.
Yes, the coroner himself decided that there was an air of mystery
surrounding the stranger, and resolved to tell the police at the
conclusion of the inquiry.
Superintendent Bennet, in answer to further questions put by the
coroner, said:
"At Gordon's Farm, to which we carried the body, I searched the dead
man's pockets. From the Foreign Office passport I found, I learned the
name of the gentleman, and from some letters addressed to him at the
King's Head, at Beccles, I was soon able to ascertain by telephone that
he had been stopping there for some little time. Most of the letters
were private ones, but two of them were enclosed in double envelopes,
and written on plain paper without any address or any signature. They
were written in the dots and dashes of the Morse alphabet. A post-office
telegraphist has seen them, and says that the letters are a jumble and
form no words, therefore they must be secret correspondence in code."
And he handed the two letters in question to the coroner, who examined
them with considerable curiosity, while the stranger at the back of the
court folded his arms suddenly and looked entirely unconcerned.
"I also found this," the superintendent went on, handing a piece of
tracing linen to the coroner. "As far as I can make out, it is a tracing
of some plan or other. But its actual significance I have been unable to
determine."
The coroner spread it out upon his writing-pad and looked at it with a
puzzled expression.
"Anything else?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir; this," and the officer produced the torn half of a man's
visiting-card.
"This is apparently part of one of the deceased's own cards," the
coroner remarked, holding it before him, while the court saw that it had
been torn across obliquely, leaving a jagged edge.
"He seems to have signed his name across the front of it, too, before it
was torn," he added.
"The piece of card was carefully preserved in the inside pocket of his
wallet," the inspector said. "On the back, sir, you will see it is
numbered '213 G.'"
The coroner turned it over and saw on the back the number and letter as
the police-officer had stated.
"There are three others, almost exactly similar," the inspector went on,
producing them carefully from an envelope. "They are numbered '103 F,'
'91 I,' and '321 G.'"
"Curious," remarked the coroner, taking them. "Very curious indeed. They
are all signed across, yet only half the card is preserved. They have
some secret significance without a doubt."
He glanced across at the stranger, but the face of the latter betrayed
no sign of further interest. Indeed, just at that moment, when the whole
court was on the tenterhooks of curiosity he looked as though bored by
the entire procedure.
"The deceased carried a Smith-Wesson hammerless revolver fully loaded,"
the officer added; "but he was so suddenly attacked, it seems, that he
had no time to draw it."
The detectives from Norwich who had the case in hand were not called to
give evidence, for obvious reasons, but Dr. Dennan, of North Walsham,
whom the police called, a short, white-haired, business-like little man,
stepped forward, was sworn, and deposed that when he saw the body at
Gordon's Farm, deceased had been dead nearly two hours.
"He was struck in the throat by some thin, sharp instrument--a deep
wound. The artery was severed, and death must have occurred within a
few minutes," he said. "Probably deceased could not speak. He certainly
could not have uttered a cry. The blade of the instrument was, I should
judge, only about half an inch wide, extremely keen, and tapered to a
fine point. Whoever struck the blow was, I am inclined to think,
possessed of some surgical knowledge. With Doctor Taylor, I made a
post-mortem yesterday and found everything normal. There were some
scratches and abrasions on the hands and face, but those were no doubt
due to the deceased having been flung into the brambles."
Again the grey-faced stranger craned his thin neck, listening to every
word as it fell from the doctor's lips.
And again the coroner noticed him--and wondered.
CHAPTER IV.
DESCRIBES A TORN CARD.
"The Norfolk Mystery," as it was termed by the sensational journalists
and Press-photographers, was but a nine days' wonder, as, indeed, is
every modern murder mystery.
It provided material for the sensational section of the Press for a full
week; a hundred theories were advanced, and the police started out upon
a dozen or more false scents, but all to no purpose. Therefore the
public curiosity quickly died down, and within ten days or so the affair
was forgotten amid the hundred and one other "sensations" of crime and
politics, of war rumours, and financial booms, which hourly follow upon
each other's heels and which combine to make up the strenuous unrest of
our daily life.
And so was the fatal accident to the naval aviator quickly forgotten by
the public.
Many readers of these present lines no doubt saw reports of both
affairs in the papers, but few, I expect, will recollect the actual
facts, or if they do, they little dream of the remarkable romance of
life of which those two unexplained tragedies formed the prologue.
On the night when the coroner's jury returned in the case of Richard
Harborne a verdict of "Wilful murder by some person unknown," a girl sat
in her small, plainly-furnished bedroom on the top floor of a house in
New Oxford Street, in London, holding the evening paper in her thin,
nerveless fingers.
It was Jean Libert.
She had been reading an account of the evidence given at the inquest,
devouring it eagerly, with pale face and bated breath. And as she read
her chest rose and fell quickly, her dark eyes were filled with horror,
and her lips were ashen grey. The light had faded from her pretty face,
her cheeks were sunken, her face haggard and drawn, and about her mouth
were hard lines, an expression of bitter grief, remorse, despair.
A quarter of an hour ago, while in the small, cheap French restaurant
below, kept by her father--a long, narrow place with red-plush seats
along the white walls and small tables set before them--an urchin had
passed, selling the "extra special." On the contents bill he carried in
front of him were the words, in bold type: "Norfolk Mystery--Verdict."
She had rushed out into the street, bought a paper, and hastily
concealing it, had ascended to her room, and there locked herself in.
Then she sank upon her bed and read it. Three times had she carefully
read every word, for the report was a rather full one. Afterwards she
sat, the paper still in her white hand, staring straight at the old
mahogany chest of drawers before her.
"Poor Dick!" she murmured. "Ah! Heaven! Who could have done it? Why--why
was he killed on that evening? If he had not gone to Mundesley to meet
me he would not have lost his life. And yet----"
She paused, startled at the sound of her own voice, so nervous had she
now become.
She glanced at the mirror, and started at sight of her own white, drawn
countenance.
She placed both hands upon her eyes, as though striving to recall
something, and in that position she remained, bent and pensive, for some
moments.
Her lips moved at last.
"I wonder," she exclaimed, very faintly, speaking to herself, "I wonder
whether Ralph will ever know that I met Dick? Ah! yes," she sighed; "I
was foolish--mad--to dare to go to Mundesley that afternoon. If only I
could have foreseen the consequence of our secret meeting--ah! if only I
had known what I know now!"
Again she was silent, her face pale, with a fixed, intense look, when at
last she rose, unlocked one of the small top drawers of the chest, and,
taking the drawer entirely out, extracted something that had been
concealed beneath it.
She held it in her hand. There were two halves of one of Dick Harborne's
visiting-cards--signed and torn across in a similar manner to those
pieces which had been handed for the coroner's inspection. Each half
bore a number on its back, while on the front, as she placed them
together, was Harborne's name, both printed and written.
For a long time she had her eyes fixed upon it. Her brows narrowed, and
in her eyes showed a distinct expression of terror.
"Yes," she whispered; "I was a fool--a great fool to have dared so
much--to have listened, and to have consented to go across to Bremen.
But no one knows, except Dick--and he, alas!--he's dead! Therefore who
can possibly know?--no one."
She held the halves of the torn card between her fingers for some
moments, looking at them. Then, sighing deeply, she rose with sudden
impulse and, crossing the room, took up a box of matches. Striking one,
she applied it to the corners of the half cards and held the latter
until the blue flame crept upwards and consumed them.
Then she cast them from her into the grate.
It was the end of her romance with that man who had been struck that
cowardly blow in secret--Richard Harborne.
She stood gazing upon the tiny piece of tinder in the fender, immovable
as a statue. Her dark brows slowly narrowed, her white, even teeth were
set, her small hands clenched, as, beneath her breath, she uttered a
fierce vow--a hard, bitter vow of vengeance.
Before her arose the vision of her good-looking lover, the man with the
dark, intense eyes--Ralph Ansell. And then the memory of the dead Dick
Harborne instantly faded from her mind.
Her romance with Dick had been but a passing fancy. She had never really
loved him. Indeed, he had never spoken to her of love. Yet he had
fascinated her, and in his presence she had found herself impelled by
his charm and his easy-going cosmopolitanism, so that she had listened
to him and obeyed, even against her own will.
She recollected vividly that adventurous journey to Bremen--recalled it
all as some half-forgotten, misty dream. She could feel now the crisp
crackling of those Bank of England notes which she had carried secreted
in her cheap little dressing-case with its electro-plated fittings. She
remembered, too, the face of the stranger, the fat, sandy-haired German,
whom she had met by appointment upon a flat country road a mile distant
from the city towards Ottersberg--how he had given her, as credential,
one of those pieces of visiting-card, together with a bulky letter, and
how, in return, she had handed him the English bank-notes.
Then there was the mysterious packet she had subsequently given to Dick,
when she had met him one evening and dined with him at the Trocadero.
Then he had thanked her, and declared his great indebtedness.
From that night, until the day of the tragedy, she had not seen him.
Indeed, she had made up her mind never to do so. Yet he had persuaded
her to meet him at Mundesley, and she had consented, even though she
knew what risk of detection by Ralph she must run.
Was it possible that Ralph knew?
The thought held her breathless.
Ralph Ansell loved her. He had sworn many times that no other man should
love her. What if Dick's death had been due to Ralph's fierce jealousy!
The very suspicion staggered her.
Again she sank upon her little white bed, gripping the coverlet in her
nervous fingers and burying her face in the pillow.
She examined her own heart, analysing her feelings as only a woman can
analyse them.
Yes. She loved Ralph Ansell--loved him sincerely and well. Eighteen
months ago he had casually entered the little restaurant one evening and
ordered some supper from Pierre, the shabby, bald-headed waiter, who had
been for so many years in her father's service. At that moment Jean--who
was employed in the daytime at the Maison Collette, the well-known
milliners in Conduit Street--happened to be in the cash-desk of her
father's little establishment where one-and-sixpenny four-course
luncheons and two-shilling six-course dinners were served.
From behind the brass grille she had gazed out upon the lonely,
good-looking, well-dressed young fellow whom she saw was very nervous
and agitated. Their eyes met, when he had instantly become calm, and had
smiled at her.
He came the next night and the next, with eyes only for her, until he
summed up courage to speak to her, with the result that they had become
acquainted.
A young man of French birth, though his father had been an American
domiciled in Paris, he was possessed of independent means, and lived in
a cosy little bachelor flat half-way up Shaftesbury Avenue on the
right-hand side. Far more French than English, in spite of his English
name, he quickly introduced himself into the good graces of Jean's
father--the short, dapper old _restaurateur_, Louis Libert, a Provençal
from the remote little town of Aix, a Frenchman whom many years'
residence in London had failed to anglicise.
For nearly twenty years old Louis Libert had kept the Restaurant
Provence, in Oxford Street, yet Mme. Libert, on account of the English
climate, had preferred to live with her mother in Paris, and for fully
half the period had had her daughter Jean with her. In consequence,
Jean, though she spoke English well, was, nevertheless, a true
Parisienne.
Since her mother's death, four years previously, she had lived in
London, and was at present engaged as modiste at the Maison Collette,
where many of the "creations" of that world-famous house were due to her
own artistic taste and originality.
At first, her father had looked askance at the well-dressed young
stranger who so constantly had dinner or supper at the restaurant, but
ere long, in consequence of secret inquiries he had made of the hall
porter of the flats in Shaftesbury Avenue, he had accepted the young
man, and had even been gratified by the proposal of marriage which
Ralph had placed before him.
Thus the pair had become engaged, the wedding being fixed to take place
in the middle of November. Even as Jean stood there, a faint tap was
heard at the door, and the maid-of-all-work announced:
"Mr. Ansell is downstairs, miss."
Jean responded, and after washing her hands and patting her hair before
the glass, put on her hat and descended to the rather dingy,
old-fashioned drawing-room over the shop, where stood her lover alone at
the open window, looking down upon the traffic in the broad,
brilliantly-lit London thoroughfare.
Very neat and dainty she looked in her well-cut, dark skirt, and blouse
of white crêpe de Chine, which she wore with a distinctly foreign
_chic_, and as she entered, her pretty face was bright and happy:
different, indeed, to the heavy, troubled expression upon it ten minutes
before.
"Ah, Ralph!" she cried, in warm welcome, as she sprang into his ready
arms, and he bent till his lips touched hers. "You are earlier than you
expected," she added in French. "I hardly thought you would be able to
get back from the country in time to-night."
"Well, you see, dearest, I made an effort, and here I am," replied the
young man with the strong, clean-shaven features and the large, round,
penetrating eyes. "I've been travelling ever since three o'clock, and
it's now nearly ten."
Though he, too, spoke in French, his appearance was very English. No one
would have taken him for anything else but an honest, upright,
thorough-going young Englishman. He was of that strong, manly,
well-set-up type, the kind of level-headed, steady young man, with whom
no father would hesitate to entrust his daughter's future. As he stood
in his smart, blue serge suit with well-ironed trousers, and a fine
diamond in his cravat, holding her in his arms and kissing her fondly,
he looked the true lover, and assuredly their hearts beat in unison.
Jean Libert loved him with a great, all-consuming affection, a blind
passion which obliterated any defects which she might have observed, and
which endowed him in her eyes with all the qualities of a hero of
romance.
They were, indeed, a handsome pair. Her dark head was resting upon his
shoulder, while his strong right arm was about her slim waist.
Since her return, three days ago, from her summer holiday by the sea at
Cromer they had not met. That morning, being Monday, she had resumed her
daily labours in the big, long workroom of the Jewish firm who traded
under the name of the Maison Collette, and she had, as is usual with
girls, related to her friends many of the incidents of what she declared
to be "a ripping holiday."
As she stood with her white hand tenderly upon his shoulder, looking
lovingly into his eyes, she was describing her return to business, and
how she regretted that the long summer seaside days were no more,
whereupon he said, cheerfully, in English:
"Never mind, darling; November will soon come, and you will then have no
further need to go to business. You will be mine. Shall we go out for a
walk?" he suggested, noticing that she already had her hat on.
To his suggestion she willingly assented, and, raising her full, red
lips to his, she kissed him, and then they descended to the restaurant
below, empty at that hour save for the seedy old waiter, Pierre, and her
father, an elderly, grey, sad-looking man, whose business in later years
had, alas! sadly declined on account of the many restaurants which had
sprung up along Oxford Street during the past ten years. He had seen
better times, but nowadays it was always a hard struggle to make both
ends meet, to pay the landlord and to live.
Ralph and old Libert exchanged greetings in French, and then, with Jean
upon his arm, young Ansell stepped out into Oxford Street.
The August night was dry, warm, and starlit. Few people were about as
they strolled along, chatting and laughing merrily. Before the theatres
discharge their chattering crowds, the main thoroughfares of central
London are usually quiet and half-deserted, and as the pair walked in
the direction of Regent Street, Jean's heart beat gladly with supreme
satisfaction that at last Ralph had returned to London.
November! Far off seemed that day of all days in her life when she would
be Ralph's bride.
Upon her finger was the engagement ring he had given her, one set with
diamonds of such fine quality that old Libert had wondered. Indeed, a
jeweller, whose habit it was to take his luncheon there each day, had
noticed it upon Jean's finger, and had valued it roughly at a hundred
pounds. Therefore Ralph could certainly not be badly off!
They had turned the corner into Regent Street, but were too engrossed in
each other's conversation to notice that, in passing, a tall, grey-faced
man, who wore a crush-hat, with a black coat over his evening clothes,
had suddenly recognised Ansell.
For a few steps he strode on with apparent unconcern, then he paused
and, having gazed for several moments after them still walking with
linked arms, unconscious of being remarked, he turned on his heel,
crossed the road, and strolled in the direction they were walking.
The watcher was the same grey-faced, keen-looking stranger who, earlier
that day, had sat in the country schoolroom at North Walsham listening
to the evidence given before the coroner concerning the mystery of the
Norwich Road.
His thin lips curled in a smile--a smile of bitter triumph--as he went
on with crafty footsteps behind the pair, watching them from across the
road.
CHAPTER V.
SECRETS OF STATE.
The right honourable the Earl of Bracondale, His Majesty's Principal
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, crossed his big, business-like
library at Bracondale Hall, near Torquay, and stood upon the Turkey
hearthrug ready to receive his visitor.
Beneath the red-shaded lamplight he presented a handsome picture, a
tall, well-built man of refined elegance, upon whom the cares of State
weighed rather heavily. His age was about forty-three, though, in his
well-cut evening clothes, he looked much younger; yet his face
undoubtedly denoted strength and cleverness, a sharpened intellect ever
on the alert to outwit foreign diplomacy, while the lines across his
brow betokened deep thought and frequent nights of sleeplessness.
To Great Britain's Foreign Minister is entrusted the care of her good
relations with both friends and enemies abroad, and surely no member of
the Cabinet occupies such a position of grave responsibilities, for a
false step upon his part, the revelation of a secret policy, of an
unfriendly attitude maintained injudiciously, may at any moment cause
the spark in the powder magazine of Europe.
To preserve peace, and yet be in a position to dictate to the Powers is
what a British Foreign Minister must do, a task the magnitude and
difficulty of which in these days can very easily be understood.
With his hands behind his back, his dark brow slightly contracted, his
eyes were fixed blankly upon the big, littered writing-table before him;
he was thinking deeply.
In profile his features were clean-cut, his forehead high and above the
average intelligence; his hair, though a trifle scanty on top, was as
yet untinged by grey, while he wore the ends of his carefully-trimmed
moustache upturned, which gave him a slightly French appearance.
In his youthful days, long before he had succeeded to the title, he had
been honorary attaché at the Embassy in Rome, and afterwards in Paris,
to which was attributable the rather Continental style in which he wore
both hair and moustache.
He drew his hand wearily across his brow, for ever since dinner he had
never left his writing-table, so busy had he been with the great pile of
documents which had been brought that afternoon by special messenger
from the Foreign Office.
Suddenly Jenner, the grave old butler who had been fifty years in the
service of his family, opened the door and announced:
"Mr. Darnborough, m'lord."
"Halloa, Darnborough!" cried the earl cheerily, as his visitor entered.
"Where have you sprung from at this time of night?"
"From London," replied the other. "I wanted to see you urgently, so I
ran down."
And the two men shook hands.
That the visitor was no stranger to the house was apparent, for, without
invitation, he sank into an arm-chair, stretched out his legs, and
looked very gravely up into the face of the Cabinet Minister before him.
He was dressed in a dark brown suit, and was none other than the
grey-faced stranger who, four days before, had sat in the schoolroom at
North Walsham and had aroused the curiosity of the coroner.
"Well, Darnborough, what's the matter?" asked the Earl, passing his
visitor the cigar-box. "I can see there's trouble by your face. What's
the latest problem--eh?"
The visitor selected a cigar, turned it over in his fingers critically,
and then, rising suddenly, bit off the end viciously and crossed to the
electric lighter near the fireplace.
"Well," he answered, "there are several things. First, we know why poor
Harborne was killed."
"Good," replied his lordship. "You Secret Service men always get to know
all there is to know. You're marvellous! Have you told them at Scotland
Yard?"
"No, and I don't mean to," replied Hugh Darnborough, the chief of the
British Secret Service, the clever, ingenious man whose fingers were
upon the pulse of each of the Great Powers, and whose trusty agents were
in every European capital. Long ago he had held a commission in the
Tenth Hussars, but had resigned it to join the Secret Service, just as
Dick Harborne had resigned from the Navy to become a cosmopolitan, and
to be dubbed an adventurer by those in ignorance. That had been years
ago, and now he held the position of being the most trusted man in any
Government department, the confidant of each member of the Cabinet, and
even of the Sovereign himself, who frequently received him in private
audience.
"You have reasons for not telling them at Scotland Yard--eh?" asked the
Foreign Minister.
"Strong ones," replied the other, pulling hard at his cigar. "A woman
who, I have ascertained, was on one occasion very useful to us, would be
dragged into it--perhaps incriminated. And you know we are never anxious
to court publicity."
"Ah! A woman--eh?"
"Yes; a young, and rather pretty, woman."
"And you've come all the way from London, and got here at eleven o'clock
at night, to tell me this?"
"I have something else--of greater gravity."
"Well, let's hear the worst," said the Earl with a sigh. "Every day
brings its troubles. Look yonder!" and he pointed to the table. "Those
are despatches from all the Embassies. The eternal Balkan trouble seems
threatening to break out, unless we take strong action. Bulgaria is
mobilising again, and Turkey is protesting."
"There has been a leakage from the Admiralty. How, I cannot explain. A
copy of the secret report upon our last naval manoeuvres is in the
hands of our friends in the Wilhelmstrasse."
"What?" cried the Earl, starting, his face pale with alarm.
"I repeat that the report is known in Germany--every word of it!"
"And our weakness is thereby revealed?"
"The exact position is known."
"But the confidential report has not yet come through to me!"
"And yet it has somehow leaked out from Whitehall," Darnborough replied,
drily.
"A full and drastic inquiry must be ordered. I will telephone at once to
the First Lord."
"He already knows. I saw him this afternoon," was the quiet reply of the
head of the Secret Service, a man whose coolness in great crises was
always remarkable. When danger threatened he was always far more cool
and collected than when all was plain sailing.
"But what are the main features of the report? Tell me, Darnborough. You
always know everything."
"The chief points of the secret report reached me from one of my agents
in Berlin this morning. It was brought over by messenger," replied the
Earl's visitor, seating himself and puffing thoughtfully at his cigar.
"You will recollect that two fleets were engaged in the North Sea, Blue
being the British Fleet, and Red representing the German."
"How foolish of the Admiralty not to have issued a report for public
consumption. They ought to have done so long ago, and issued the
confidential report afterwards--as was done two years ago," interrupted
His Majesty's Minister.
"Yes, that is what should have been done," the other assented. "It is
useless to tell the world the truth when national defence is in
question. But to resume. Blue's commander was given two hundred and
thirty ships to Red's one hundred and seventeen, or nearly two to one.
Blue had twenty-eight battleships and battle-cruisers to Red's eighteen,
or fifty-five per cent. more."
"An advantage far greater than we should possess in actual war, unless
every British fighting ship was brought home from the Mediterranean."
"Exactly. War was declared on June 18th--earlier than is usual--and six
days later a truce was suddenly ordered from Whitehall. War was resumed
three days afterwards, but was stopped suddenly four days later."
"Well, and what did really happen? I mean, what facts have our friends
in Berlin got hold of?" asked the Earl, with the greatest interest.
"Proofs undeniable that, under our present arrangements for home
defence, a serious raid must entail a vital blow at the heart of the
Empire," he replied slowly.
"How?" asked Lord Bracondale sharply.
"Because the enemy, notwithstanding all our efforts at defence, our
destroyers, our scouting hydroplanes, and our look-outs along the coast,
raided the Humber, landing thirty-six thousand men, and, on the
following day, made raids on the Wear, Blyth, and Sunderland, putting
twenty-four thousand men ashore. Thus, four of the most important ports
and bases on the East Coast were captured within two days, together with
the wireless stations at Cleethorpes, Hunstanton, and Caister, and sixty
thousand men were ashore. Moreover, the supposed enemy inflicted very
heavy losses upon us without sustaining any disasters, and, further,
they sent a strong force of cruisers into the Atlantic to prey upon
British trade."
"Bad," sighed the Earl, the corners of his mouth hardening. "Very bad,
Darnborough. It is to be hoped that the Press won't get wind of this!"
The ubiquitous Chief of the Secret Service shrugged his shoulders.
"It may leak out to the Opposition journals, just as it has already
leaked out to the Wilhelmstrasse. If the Admiralty had not ordered a
sudden cessation of hostilities the enemy's admiral would next have been
heard of in such a position that a panic would have been caused
throughout the country. As it was, the enemy's submarines of the D and E
classes, which were sent away to hunt on their own, established a reign
of terror, getting to the entrance of Cromarty Harbour, which was our
base, and torpedoing the ships which were guarding the Fleet inside.
They also torpedoed the Dreadnoughts _St. Vincent_ and _Collingwood_,
while another section of the enemy's submarines inflicted very heavy
loss on the British Fleet in the North Sea and seized the wireless at
Cleethorpes."
The Earl was silent for a long time, thoughtfully stroking his
moustache.
"But all this betrays our weakness to Germany!" he exclaimed at last.
"It is astounding--incredible!"
"But it is, nevertheless, true," remarked Darnborough. "The security of
the country is in gravest danger. Why, only a few days ago the Post
Office allowed Germany to lay another cable across the North Sea from
Mundesley, in Norfolk, to the Island of Nordeney."
"Mundesley?" repeated the Earl. "Why, that was where poor Harborne went
on the day he lost his life."
"Yes. He had been in that neighbourhood for some time--upon a secret
mission, poor fellow!--a mission which he had not lived to fulfil."
A silence fell between the two men.
"The situation is, I see, one of the utmost gravity. Steps must be taken
at once to reassure the public in case rumours should be published
regarding the truth. The Opposition will certainly not spare the
Government the facts, and must, if disclosed, give an impetus to the
campaign for universal service, which would be very inconvenient to us
at the present time. And more than that--Germany now actually knows the
rottenness of our defences!"
"That, unfortunately, is the case."
The Earl of Bracondale bit his under lip. A Cabinet Council had been
summoned for the next afternoon, and he must place the true situation
before it. All the clever diplomacy he had exercised with the Powers
during the past five years had now been nullified, and England stood
exposed in all her vulnerability. The inflated bubble of the strong,
invincible British Navy had been pricked and burst.
Black days had, alas! fallen upon our nation, and a grave peril hourly
threatened. Germany had hitherto hesitated to attack England because of
the uncertainty regarding our true strength. Our land defences were
known to Germany, even to the most minute detail, all reported
accurately and methodically by the enemy's spies living amongst us. But
our naval secrets had all been well preserved, so that the British Fleet
had always been regarded as able to repel invasion and make reprisals.
Now, however, its failure to prevent an armed raid was known to our
friends across the North Sea, and most certainly they would seek to take
advantage of the valuable knowledge they had gained.
Suddenly the Earl, turning to where Darnborough stood, exclaimed:
"You spoke of poor Harborne. He was a smart agent, I believe?"
"The best I ever had. He was clever, ingenious, utterly fearless, and
devoted to the service. You will recollect how he obtained the accurate
clauses of the secret Japanese treaty, and how he brought to us news of
the secret French agreement over the Morocco question."
"I recollect," replied the Foreign Minister. "When he told me I would
not believe it. Yet his information proved correct."
"Harborne's death is to be deeply regretted," Darnborough said. "I
attended the inquest. Of course, to the public, the motive is a
mystery."
"Not to you--eh, Darnborough?"
"No. If Richard Harborne had lived, Germany would never have learnt the
truth regarding the recent naval manoeuvres," was the reply of the
Chief of the Secret Service.
"You said something about a woman. Is she known?"
"No. I have suspicions that an indiscretion was committed--a grave
indiscretion, which cost poor Harborne his life. Yet what is one man's
life to his enemies when such a secret is at stake?"
"But who was the woman?"
"A friend of Harborne's. She had been, I believe, useful to him in
certain negotiations regarding the purchase of copies of plans of the
new Krupp aerial gun, and in several other matters."
"Any suspicion regarding her?" asked the Earl quickly.
"None. She is, of course, in ignorance of the truth, and probably
unaware who killed the man with whom she was so friendly. I am
endeavouring to trace her."
"Is she a lady?"
"No. A French milliner, I understand."
"A little romance of Harborne's which has ended fatally?"
"Yes--poor Harborne!" sighed the grey-faced man, in whose keeping were
the secrets of the Empire, and who knew more of the political
undercurrents of Europe than any other living person. "His loss is very
great to us, for he was a fine specimen of the true-hearted, patriotic
Englishman," he added, pulling hard at his cigar. "His place will be
hard to fill--very hard."
"I know, Darnborough," remarked Lord Bracondale gravely. "To such a man
the country ought to erect a monument, for he has laid down his life for
his country. But, alas! our country recognises no heroes of the Secret
Service!"
And as the Cabinet Minister spoke the telephone-bell rang. He crossed to
his writing-table, took up the instrument, and responded to an urgent
call from the House of Commons in London, where an important and heated
debate regarding our foreign relations was in progress.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SAFE-BREAKERS.
The day had been hot and stifling in London--one of those blazing days
when the tar on the roadway perfumes the air, the dry pavements reflect
back the heat into one's face, and the straw-hatted Metropolis--or the
portion of it that is still in town--gasps and longs for the country or
the sea.
The warm weather was nearly at an end, and most holiday-makers were back
again. London's workers had had their annual fortnight long ago, and had
nearly forgotten it, and now only principals were away golfing, taking
waters at Harrogate, Woodhall Spa, or in the Scotch hydros, or perhaps
travelling on the Continent.
From the high-up windows in Shaftesbury Avenue, close to Piccadilly
Circus, Ralph Ansell looked down upon the busy traffic of motor-buses,
taxis, and cars, the dark-red after-glow shining full upon his keen,
clean-shaven face.
He was already dressed to go out to dinner, and as he stood in his cosy
bachelor rooms--a pleasant, artistic little place with soft crimson
carpet, big, comfortable, leather arm-chairs, and a profusion of
photographs, mostly of the fair sex, decorating mantelshelf and
walls--his brows were narrowed and he blew big clouds of cigarette smoke
from his lips.
Suddenly the door opened and a man, shorter and rather thick-set, also
in evening clothes, entered. He was evidently French, and possessed
neither the good looks nor the elegance of Ansell.
"Ah! my dear Adolphe!" Ralph cried in French, springing forward to
welcome him. "I hardly expected you yet. Your train from Paris was not
late--eh? Well, how goes it?"
"Infernally hard up--as usual," was his visitor's reply, as he tossed
his black overcoat on to the couch, flung his soft felt hat after it,
and then sank into a chair. "Why all this emergency--eh?"
The man who spoke was of low type, with black, rather curly hair, sharp,
shrewd eyes like his friend's, ears that lay slightly away from his
head, and a large, rather loose, clean-shaven mouth. Between his eyes
were three straight lines, for his brow wore a constant look of care and
anxiety. He did not possess that careless, easy, gentlemanly air of
Ansell, but was of a coarser and commoner French type, the type one
meets every day in the Montmartre, which was, indeed, the home of
Adolphe Carlier.
Ansell walked to the door, opened it as if to ascertain there was no
eavesdropper, and, closing and locking it, returned to his friend's
side.
"I sent for you, my dear friend, because I want you," he said, in a low
voice, gazing straight at him.
"Anything good?" asked the other, stretching out his legs and placing
his clasped hands behind his head wearily.
"Yes, an easy job. The usual game."
"A jeweller's?"
Ansell nodded in the affirmative.
"Where?"
"Not far from here."
"Much stuff?"
"A lot of good stones."
"And the safe?"
"Easy enough with the jet," Ansell answered. "You've brought over all
the things, I suppose?"
"Yes. But it was infernally risky. I was afraid the Customs might open
them at Charing Cross," Carlier replied.
"You never need fear. They never open anything here. This is not like
Calais or Boulogne."
"I shan't take them back."
"You won't require to, my dear Adolphe," laughed Ansell, who, though in
London he posed as a young man of means, was well known in a certain
criminal set in Paris as "The American," because of his daring exploits
in burglary and robbery with violence.
A year before, this exemplary young man, together with Adolphe Carlier,
known as "_Fil-en-Quatre_," or "The Eel," had been members of the
famous Bonnemain gang, to whose credit stood some of the greatest and
most daring jewel robberies in France. For several years the police had
tried to bring their crimes home to them, but without avail, until the
great robbery at Louis Verrier's, in the Rue des Petit-Champs, when a
clerk in the employ of the well-known diamond dealer was shot dead by
Paul Bonnemain. The latter was arrested, tried for murder, and executed,
the gang being afterwards broken up.
The malefactors had numbered eight, six of whom, including Bonnemain
himself, had been arrested, the only ones escaping being Carlier, who
had fled to Bordeaux, where he had worked at the docks till the affair
had blown over, while Ansell, whose _dossier_ showed a very bad record,
had sought refuge in England.
The pair had not met since the memorable evening nine months before,
when Ansell had been sitting in the Grand Café, and Carlier had slipped
in to warn him that the police had arrested Bonnemain and the rest, and
had already been to his lodgings. Two hours later, without baggage or
any encumbrance, he had reached Melun in a hired motor-car, and had
thence left it at midnight for Lyons, after which he doubled his tracks
and travelled by way of Cherbourg across to Southampton, while Carlier
had, on that same night, fled to Orleans.
Part of the proceeds of the robbery at the diamond merchants had been
divided up by the gang prior to Bonnemain's arrest--or rather the fifty
thousand francs advanced by the Jew broker from Amsterdam to whom they
always sold their booty. Therefore both men had been possessed of funds.
Like others of their profession, they made large gains, but spent
freely, and were continually short of money. Old Bonnemain, however, had
brought burglary to a fine art, and from the proceeds of each _coup_ he
used to keep back a certain amount out of which to assist the needy
among his accomplices.
Ansell, in addition, had a second source of revenue, inasmuch as he was
on friendly terms with a certain Belgian Baron, who, though living in
affluence in Paris, was nevertheless a high official of the German
Secret Service. It was, indeed, his habit to undertake for the Baron
certain disagreeable little duties which he did not care to perform
himself, and for such services he was usually highly paid. Hence, when
he fled to London, it was not long before a German secret agent called
upon him and put before him a certain proposal, the acceptance of which
had resulted in the death of Dick Harborne.
The young adventurer threw himself into the arm-chair opposite to where
Adolphe Carlier was seated, and in the twilight unfolded his scheme for
a _coup_ at a well-known jeweller's in Bond Street, at which he was
already a customer and had thoroughly surveyed the premises.
"I expected that you had some new scheme in hand," Carlier said at last,
in French, after listening attentively to the details of the
proposition, every one of which had been most carefully thought out by
the pupil of the notorious Bonnemain. "On arrival this afternoon I put
up at the Charing Cross Hotel--so as to be handy if we have to get out
quickly."
"Good. Probably we shall be compelled to move pretty slick," Ansell
said, in English. Then, after a few moments' pause, he added: "Do you
know, my dear Adolphe, I have some news for you."
"News?"
"Yes. I'm going to be married in November."
"Married!" echoed Carlier, staring at his friend. "Who's the lucky
girl?"
"She's French; lives here in London; smart, sweet--a perfect peach," was
his answer. "She'll be a lot of use to us in future."
Carlier was silent for a few moments.
"Does she know anything?" he asked in a low, serious voice.
"Nothing."
"What will she say when she knows?"
"What can she say?" asked Ansell, with a grin.
"She's not one of us, I suppose?"
"One of us? Why, no, my dear fellow. I'll introduce you to-morrow. You
must dine with us--dine before we go out and do the job. But she must
not suspect anything--you understand?"
"Of course," replied the young Frenchman. "I'll be delighted to meet
her, Ralph, but--but I'm thinking it is rather dangerous for you to
marry an honourable girl."
"What?" cried the other, angry in an instant. "Do you insinuate that I'm
not worthy to have a decent, well-brought-up girl for a wife?"
"Ah! you misunderstand me, _mon vieux_. I insinuate nothing," replied
Carlier. "I scent danger, that is all. She may turn from you
when--well--when she knows what we really are."
Ansell's mouth hardened.
"When she knows she'll have to grin and bear it," was the answer.
"She might give us away."
"No, she won't do that, I can assure you. The little fool loves me too
well."
"Is that the way you speak of her?"
"Every girl who loves a man blindly is, in my estimation, a fool."
"Then your estimation of woman is far poorer than I believed, Ralph,"
responded Carlier. "If a girl loves a man truly and well, as apparently
this young lady loves you, then surely she ought not to be sneered at.
We have, all of us, loved at one time or other in our lives."
"You're always a sentimental fool where women are concerned, Adolphe,"
laughed his companion.
"I may be," answered the other. "And I can assure you that I would never
dare to marry while leading the life I do."
"And what better life can you ever hope to lead, pray? Do we not get
excitement, adventure, money, pleasure--everything that makes life worth
living? Neither you nor I could ever settle down to the humdrum
existence of so-called respectability. But are these people who pose as
being so highly respectable really any more honest than we are? No, my
dear friend. The sharks on the Bourse and the sharp men of business are
just as dishonest. They are thieves like ourselves under a more
euphonious name."
Carlier smiled at his friend's philosophy. Yet he was thinking of the
future of the girl with whom he was, as yet, unacquainted--the girl who
had chosen to link her life with that of the merry, careless, but
unscrupulous young fellow before him. They were bosom friends, it was
true, yet he knew, alas! how utterly callous Ralph Ansell was where
women were concerned, and he recollected certain ugly rumours he had
heard, even in their own undesirable circle.
They spoke of Jean again, and Ralph told him her name.
"We will dine there to-morrow night," he added. "Then we will come on
here, and go forth to Bond Street at half-past eleven. I've watched the
police for the past week, and know their exact beat. Better bring round
the things you've brought from Paris in a taxi to-morrow morning."
The "things" referred to were an oxy-acetylene gas-jet, and a number of
the latest inventions of burglarious tools--indeed, all the equipment of
the expert safe-breaker.
That night the pair went forth and dined at the Café Royal in Regent
Street, and afterwards went to the Palace Theatre, finishing up at a
night club in Wardour Street. Then, on the following morning, Carlier
returned, bringing with him the heavy but unsuspicious-looking
travelling trunk he had conveyed from Paris.
In the evening Ralph and he went to the Provence Restaurant, but,
to their disappointment, Jean was not there. She had been home, but
had left half an hour later to go to Balham to visit one of her
fellow-assistants at the Maison Collette who was dangerously ill. She
had taken with her some fruit and flowers.
Annoyed at her absence, Ralph had suggested the Trocadero for dinner.
"It's better than in this wretched little hole," he added to Carlier, in
an undertone. "And we'll want a good dinner before we get to business,"
he added, with a sinister grin.
So they had wished old Libert a merry _bon soir_, and were driven in a
taxi along to the Trocadero grill-room, where, amid the clatter of
plates, the chatter, and the accompanying orchestra, they found
themselves in their own element.
At half-past ten they ascended to Ansell's flat, and each had a stiff
brandy-and-soda and a cigar.
Both men were expert thieves, therefore it was not surprising that, by
half-past two o'clock next morning, wearing cotton gloves and dark
spectacles to hide the glare from the jet, they stood together before
the great safe at the back of Matheson and Wilson's, the well-known
jewellers, and while Ansell put up his hand and cleared shelf after
shelf of magnificent ornaments, Adolphe expertly packed them away into
the small black canvas bag he held open.
Those were breathless, exciting moments. The jet had done its work. It
had gone through the hardened steel plates like a knife through butter,
and the door, believed to be burglar-proof, stood open, displaying
wonderful diamond tiaras in cases, ropes of pearls and paper packets
containing uncut gems worth a huge amount.
The haul was a magnificent one, and though they had not yet succeeded in
getting clear, both men were gloating over their booty--a triumphant
satisfaction that no burglar can repress.
The scene was a weird one. The glaring light thrown by the jet had been
extinguished, but the steel still glowed with heat, and Ansell blistered
his fingers when they had accidentally touched the edge. The only light
now was a small electric torch which threw direct rays in a small zone.
But of a sudden, both men heard a noise--the distinct footsteps of a man
crossing the shop!
They straightened their backs, and, for a second, looked at each other
in alarm.
Next instant a big, burly night-watchman dashed in upon them, crying:
"What do you fellows want 'ere--eh?"
"Nothing. Take that!" replied Ansell, as he raised his hand and dashed
something into the man's face.
But too late. The man raised his revolver and fired.
Though the bullet went wide, the report was deafening in that small
inner room, and both intruders knew that the alarm was raised. Not a
second was to be lost. The police-constable on duty outside would hear
it!
Without hesitation, Ralph Ansell raised his arm and instantly fired,
point blank, at the man defending the property of his master.
A second report rang out, and the unfortunate night-watchman fell back
into the darkness. There was a sound of muffled footsteps.
Then all was silence.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DOWNWARD PATH.
A year had gone by.
Since that memorable night when Ansell and Carlier had so narrowly
escaped capture in Bond Street, and had been compelled to fly and leave
their booty behind, things had gone badly with both of them.
With Bonnemain executed, and their other companions in penal servitude
at Cayenne, a cloud of misfortune seemed to have settled upon them.
Of the tragedy on the Norwich road no more had been heard. The police
had relinquished their inquiries, the affair had been placed upon the
long list of unsolved mysteries, and it had passed out of the public
mind. Only to the British Cabinet had the matter caused great suspense
and serious consideration, while it had cost the Earl of Bracondale, as
Foreign Minister, the greatest efforts of the most delicate diplomacy
to hold his own in defiance to the German intentions. For two whole
months the Foreign Office had lived in daily expectation of sudden
hostilities. In the Wilhelmstrasse the advisability of a raid upon our
shores had been seriously discussed, and the War Council were nearly
unanimous in favour of crossing swords with England.
Only by the clever and ingenious efforts of British secret agents in
Berlin, who kept Darnborough informed of all in progress, was Lord
Bracondale able to stem the tide and guide the ship of state into the
smooth waters of peace.
And of all this the British public had remained in blissful ignorance.
The reader of the morning paper was assured that never in this decade
had the European outlook been so peaceful, and that our relations with
our friends in Berlin were of the most cordial nature. Indeed, there was
some talk of an _entente_.
The reader was, however, in ignorance that for weeks on end the British
fleet had been kept in the vicinity of the North Sea, and that the
destroyer flotillas were lying in the East Coast harbours with steam up,
ready to proceed to sea at a moment's notice.
Nevertheless, the peril had passed once again, thanks to the firm,
fearless attitude adopted by Lord Bracondale, and though the secret of
England's weakness was known and freely commented upon in Government
circles in Berlin, yet the clamorous demands of the war party were not
acceded to. The British lion had shown his teeth, and Germany had again
hesitated.
Ralph Ansell and Adolphe Carlier, after the failure of their plot to rob
Matheson and Wilson's, in Bond Street, had fled next day to Belgium, and
thence had returned to France.
Ralph had seen Jean for a few moments before his flight, explaining that
his sudden departure was due to the death of his uncle, a landowner near
Valence, in whose estate he was interested, and she, of course, believed
him.
So cleverly, indeed, did he deceive her that it was not surprising that
old Libert and his daughter should meet the young adventurer at the
Hotel Terminus at Lyons one day in November, and that three days later
Ralph and Jean were married at the Mairie. Then while the old
_restaurateur_ returned to London, the happy pair went South to Nice for
their honeymoon.
While there Adolphe Carlier called one day at their hotel--a modest one
near the station--and was introduced to Jean.
From the first moment they met, Adolphe's heart went forth to her in
pity and sympathy. Though a thief bred and born, and the son of a man
who had spent the greater part of his life in prison, Carlier was ever
chivalrous, even considerate, towards a woman. He was coarser, and
outwardly more brutal than Ralph Ansell, whose veneer of polish she, in
her ignorance of life, found so attractive, yet at heart, though an
expert burglar, and utterly unscrupulous towards his fellows, he was,
nevertheless, always honourable towards a woman.
When their hands clasped and their eyes met upon their introduction,
she instantly lowered hers, for, with a woman's intuition, she knew that
in this companion of her husband's she had a true friend. And he, on his
part, became filled with admiration of her great beauty, her wonderful
eyes, and her soft, musical voice.
And he turned away, affecting unconcern, although in secret he sighed
for her and for her future. She was far too good to be the wife of such
a man as Ralph Ansell.
Months went on, and to Jean the mystery surrounding Ralph became more
and more obscure.
At first they had lived quietly near Bordeaux, now and then receiving
visits from Adolphe. On such occasions the two men would be closeted
together for hours, talking confidentially in undertones. Then, two
months after their marriage, came a telegram one day, stating that her
father had died suddenly. Both went at once to London, only to find that
poor old Libert had died deeply in debt. Indeed, there remained
insufficient money to pay for the funeral.
Therefore, having seen her father buried at Highgate, Jean returned with
Ralph to Paris, where they first took a small, cosy apartment of five
rooms in the Austerlitz quarter; but as funds decreased, they were
forced to economise and sink lower in the social scale--to the
Montmartre.
To Jean, who had believed Ralph to be possessed of ample means, all this
came as a gradual disillusionment. Her husband began quickly to neglect
her, to spend his days in the _cafés_, often in Adolphe's company, while
the men he brought to their rooms were, though well-dressed, of a very
different class to those with whom she had been in the habit of
associating in London.
But the girl never complained. She loved Ralph with a fond, silent
passion, and even the poor circumstances in which already, after ten
months of married life, she now found herself, did not trouble her so
long as her husband treated her with consideration.
As regards Adolphe, she rather avoided than encouraged him. Her woman's
keenness of observation showed her that he sympathised with her and
admired her--in fact, that he was deeply in love with her, though he
strenuously endeavoured not to betray his affection.
Thus, within a year of the tragic end of Dick Harborne, Jean found
herself living in a second-floor flat in a secluded house in the
Boulogne quarter, not far from the Seine, a poor, working-class
neighbourhood. The rooms, four in number, were furnished in the usual
cheap and gaudy French style, the floor of bare, varnished boards, save
where strips of Japanese matting were placed.
On that warm August evening, Jean, in a plain, neatly-made black dress,
with a little white collar of Swiss embroidery, and wearing a little
apron of spotted print--for their circumstances did not permit the
keeping of a "bonne"--was seated in her small living-room, sewing, and
awaiting the return of her husband.
She had, alas! met with sad disillusionment. Instead of the happy,
affluent circumstances which she had fondly imagined would be hers, she
had found herself sinking lower and lower. Her parents were now both
dead, and she had no one in whom to confide her suspicions or fears.
Besides, day after day, Ralph went out in the morning after his
_café-au-lait_, and only returned at eight o'clock to eat the dinner
which she prepared--alas! often to grumble at it. Slowly--ah! so very
slowly--the hideousness and mockery of her marriage was being forced
upon her.
Gradually, as she sat at the open window waiting his coming, and annoyed
because the evening meal which she had so carefully cooked was spoilt by
his tardiness, the dusk faded and darkness crept on.
She felt stifled, and longed again for the fresh air of the country.
Before her, as she sat with her hands idle in her lap, there arose
memories of that warm afternoon when, in that charming little fishing
village in England, she had met her good friend Richard Harborne, the
man who that very same evening fell beneath an assassin's knife.
Her thoughts were stirred from the fact that, while out that morning,
Mme. Garnier, from whom she purchased her vegetables daily, had given
her a marguerite. This she wore in the breast of her gown, and its sight
caused her to reflect that on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon at
Mundesley, when she had walked with Harborne, he, too, had given her a
similar flower. Perfumes and flowers always stir our memories of the
past!
She sat gazing out into the little moss-grown courtyard below, watching
for Ralph's coming. That quarter of Paris was a poor one, inhabited
mainly by artisans, yet the house was somewhat secluded, situated as it
was in a big square courtyard away from the main thoroughfare. Because
it was quiet, Ralph had taken it, and further, because Mme. Brouet, the
_concierge_, a sharp-faced, middle-aged woman, wife of a cobbler, who
habitually wore a small black knitted shawl, happened to be an
acquaintance of his.
But, alas! the place was dismal enough. The outlook was upon a high,
blank, dirty wall, while below, among the stones, grass and rank weeds
grew everywhere.
The living room in which the girl sat was poor and comfortless, though
she industriously kept the place clean. It was papered gaudily with
broad stripes, while the furniture consisted of a cheap little walnut
sideboard, upon which stood a photograph in a frame, a decanter, a china
sugar-bowl, and some plates, while near it was a painted, movable
cupboard on which stood a paraffin lamp with green cardboard shade, and
a small fancy timepiece, which was out of order and had stopped.
In the centre of the room was a round table, upon which was a white
cloth with blue border and places laid for two, and four rush-bottomed
chairs placed upon the square of Japanese matting covering the centre
of the room completed the picture.
Jean laid aside her needlework--mending one of Ralph's shirts--and
sighed over the might-have-been.
"I wonder what it all means?" she asked herself aloud. "I wonder what
mysterious business Ralph has so constantly with Adolphe? And why does
Mme. Brouet inquire so anxiously after Ralph every day?"
For the past fortnight her husband, whose clothes had now become very
shabby, had given her only a few francs each day, just sufficient with
which to buy food. Hitherto he had taken her out for walks after dusk,
and sometimes they had gone to a cinema or to one of the cheaper
music-halls. But, alas! nowadays he never invited her to go with him.
Usually he rose at noon, after smoking many cigarettes in bed, ate his
luncheon, and went out, returning at any time between six and eight, ate
his dinner, often sulkily, and then at nine Carlier would call for him,
and the pair would be out till midnight.
She little guessed in what a queer, disreputable set the pair moved, and
that her husband was known in the Montmartre as "The American." She was
in ignorance, too, how Ralph, finding himself without funds, had gone to
the Belgian Baron--the secret agent of Germany--and offered him further
services, which had, however, been declined.
At first Ansell had been defiant and threatening, declaring that he
would expose the Baron to the police as a foreign spy. But the stout,
fair-moustached man who lived in the fine house standing in its own
spacious grounds out at Neuilly, on the other side of the Bois de
Boulogne, had merely smiled and invited him to carry out his threat.
"Do so, my friend," he laughed, "and you will quickly find yourself
arrested and extradited to England charged with murder. So if you value
your neck, it will, I think, be best for you to keep a still tongue.
There is the door. _Bon soir._"
And he had shown his visitor out.
At first Ansell, who took a walk alone in the Bois, vowed vengeance, but
a few hours later, after reflecting upon the whole of the grim
circumstances, had come to the conclusion that silence would be best.
Though he had endeavoured not to show it, he was already regretting
deeply that he had married. Had he been in better circumstances, Jean
might, he thought, have been induced to assist him in some of his
swindling operations, just as the wives of other men he knew had done. A
woman can so often succeed where a man fails. But as he was almost
without a sou, what could he do?
Truth to tell, both he and Carlier were in desperate straits.
Jean had been quick to notice the change in both men, but she had
remained in patience, making no remark, though the whole circumstances
puzzled her, and often she recollected how happy she had been at the
Maison Collette when she had lived at home, and Ralph, so smart and
gentlemanly, had called to see her each evening.
These and similar thoughts were passing through her mind, when suddenly
she was recalled to her present surroundings by Ralph's sudden entrance.
"Halloa!" he cried roughly. "Dinner ready?"
"It has been ready more than an hour, dear," she replied, in French,
jumping to her feet and passing at once into the tiny kitchen beyond.
CHAPTER VIII.
REVEALS THE GRIM TRUTH.
Though Ralph Ansell's clean-shaven face was strong, and his eyes keen
and searching, in the dress he wore he presented anything but the
appearance of the gentleman he did when, twelve months before, he had
lived in the cosy little bachelor flat in Shaftesbury Avenue.
His clothes were black, striped with grey, the coat edged with braid in
the foreign manner, his neck was encircled by a soft collar tied with a
loose, black cravat. His waistcoat was open, displaying his soft, white
shirt and the leather belt around his waist, while on his head was a
cloth cap with an unusually large peak.
He looked the true Parisian loafer, as indeed he was. Yet love is blind,
and as yet Jean would believe nothing to his discredit, crushing out any
suspicion that had arisen within her.
Having discarded his cap and tossed it across upon a chair, revealing
his high, square forehead, he threw off his coat, and in his
shirt-sleeves sat down at the table, exclaiming:
"Now, then, girl, I hope you've got something eatable to-night. I shall
want something to keep me going before to-morrow morning."
"Why?" asked the girl, putting down the tureen of _pot-au-feu_ and
seating herself.
"I've got a little business on, that's all," he snapped, taking his
soup, commencing it, and grumbling that it was badly made.
"I do my best, Ralph," she protested. "You know I've had no money for
three days now."
"And if you had, the soup would be just the same," he declared. "You may
be all very well to make hats, but you're no good as a man's wife. I've
discovered that long ago. I--"
His words were interrupted by a loud rap at the door.
He started in alarm, but the next second sprang up and welcomed his
visitor warmly.
"You, Adolphe, old fellow!" he cried. "Why, you gave me quite a start.
Come in and have a bit of dinner. I want to talk to you. I was coming to
find you as soon as I'd finished. Jean, another plate for Adolphe."
So the man who had entered laid his hard-felt hat on the sideboard, as
was his habit, and sat down at the table in the chair that his friend
had placed for him.
Then Ansell, having carefully closed the window, went back to the table
and, bending towards his friend, said:
"Listen. I'm going to tell you something important. I've got a good
thing on for us both to-night. You know the Baron's out at Neuilly?
Well, to-night, it quite----"
"Hush, Ralph! Madame----" his companion cried, glancing at Jean,
apprehensively.
"Oh, she may just as well know the truth at first as at last," laughed
Ansell roughly. Then, turning to his wife, he exclaimed, with a sinister
grin: "Perhaps, Jean, you may wonder how we live--how I have got my
money in the past. Well, I may as well tell you, for one day you will
surely discover our secret. We are burglars."
The girl started, staring blankly at her husband, and uttered a low
scream.
"Burglars!" she gasped, astounded.
"Yes. And now you know the truth, take care that you never blab out a
word to anyone, or, by Heaven, it will be the worse for you! If you say
a word," he added, fiercely, with knit brows and glaring eyes, "if you
let drop a hint to anybody, I'll break every bone in your body."
"Ralph!" she cried, starting up in horror. "Have you taken leave of your
senses?"
"Enough!" protested Adolphe, angrily. "I won't stand by and hear such
threats, Ralph."
"What, pray, is it to do with you?" asked Ansell, fiercely. "She's my
wife, and I can speak to her. I can tell her what home-truths I like
without your interference."
"I should have deemed it more prudent to have said nothing, Ralph,"
answered the other quietly.
Though Carlier was dressed also in a striped jacket and waistcoat and
black trousers, he wore no collar, and looked even a greater blackguard
than his friend.
His eyes met Jean's, and in them he saw an expression of silent thanks
for taking her part.
Then she turned and, covering her face with her hands, burst into
bitter, blinding tears, and disappeared into the little kitchen.
"Sit down," Ansell urged. "Now that little fool has gone, we can talk."
"You are a perfect idiot," declared the other, in disgust.
"That's my affair. She'll have to be brought to her senses and know the
truth."
"It has upset her."
"I can't help that," he laughed. "She must get over it. If she wants
fine dresses and a good time she must help us. And I mean that she shall
before long. Look at Tavernier's wife."
"She is of a different type to madame."
"Rubbish!" he laughed. "Wait and see what I'll do. She'll be a valuable
asset to us before long."
Adolphe leaned his elbows upon the table and shrugged his shoulders.
"_Bien!_" he said. "Let me hear the proposition."
"It is quite simple," the young adventurer said. "I know the interior of
the Baron's house. There is a lot of good stuff there--some jewellery,
too, and even enough table silver to make the job worth while. In his
safe he keeps a lot of papers. If we could only get them they would
fetch something in certain quarters--enough to make us both rich; but
the worst of it is that we left our jet in London, and we cannot get it
without." And he took a caporal from the packet before him and slowly
lit it. Then he resumed, saying: "Now, I propose that we leave the safe
out of the question, and go for the plate in the _salle-à-manger_. We
have no tools for a really artistic job, so we must be content this time
with the Baron's embroideries. His papers may come later--at least,
that's my project. I've been out at Neuilly all day, and have had a good
look around, and decided on the way we shall get in. It is perfectly
easy--all save the watchdog. But a bit of doctored meat will do the
trick. I got a little dose for him from old Père Lebrun on my way home,"
and from his pocket he produced a small bottle.
"Is the Baron at home?" asked his accomplice, to whom, of course, Ansell
had never spoken about the failure of his plot for blackmail.
"Of course," was the reply. "But what does that matter? He'll be sound
asleep, and to-morrow we shall be a couple of thousand francs the
richer. It is childishly easy, my dear friend, I assure you."
"And if we meet the Baron, who, if all I hear be true, is an extremely
shrewd person, what shall we do?"
"Well, if we meet anybody, we must act as we have always acted."
"Shoot, eh?"
Ansell nodded and grinned.
"We had bad luck in London, remember," said "The Eel."
"Yes; but it is easy out at Neuilly," the other declared. "I've been in
the _salle-à-manger_, remember. Every bit of plate in use is solid
silver. Much of it is kept in drawers in the room. Besides, there were a
lot of knick-knacks about in the large _salon_. Levy will buy them in a
moment. We are on a soft thing, I can assure you. I was an ass not to
have thought of it long ago. Once the dog is silenced the rest is quite
easy."
Carlier, who had only two francs in his pocket, reflected deeply. He was
silent for fully three minutes, while his companion watched his face
narrowly.
"When do you propose starting?"
"Say at eleven. We'll get your things from your place, and I'll take my
flash-lamp, keys, and a few other necessaries."
"No, you'll not, Ralph!" cried Jean, as she rushed out from the kitchen,
where behind the half-closed door she had been listening to the plot.
"Shut up, girl, will you?" her husband commanded roughly. "We want no
woman's advice in our business."
And rising from his chair, he unlocked the drawer in the movable
cupboard wherein he kept certain of his private belongings, and took
therefrom a serviceable-looking revolver, which he examined and saw was
fully loaded.
He also drew forth some skeleton keys, a burglar's jemmy in two
sections, a pair of india-rubber gloves, a small, thin saw, and an
electric pocket-lamp, all of which he carefully stowed away in his
pockets.
The contents of that drawer were a startling revelation to Jean. He had
always kept it locked, and she had often wondered what it contained.
Now that she knew she stood staggered.
She looked in horror at the revolver he held in his hand, and then with
a sudden movement she flung herself upon him and grasped his arms,
appealing to him for the sake of her love to desist from such an
adventure.
Quick and passionate came the words, the full, fervent appeal of a woman
deeply and honestly in love. But he heeded not either her tears or her
words, and only cast her from him with a rough malediction, declaring
her to be an encumbrance.
"But think!" she cried. "Now that I know what you are I am in deadly
fear that--that one day they may come, Ralph, and take you away from
me."
And she stood pale-faced and trembling before him.
"Ah, never fear, my girl," replied her husband. "They'll never have me.
They've tried a good many times, haven't they Adolphe?" and he laughed
defiantly. "The police! Zut! I do not fear them!" and he snapped his
thin, long fingers in contempt.
"But one day, dear--one day they may be successful. And--and what should
I do?"
"Do?" he asked. "Well, if I were put away I suppose you'd have to do as
a good many other women have done."
She looked at him very straight in deep reproach, but uttered no word.
Disillusionment had fallen upon her, and utterly crushed her. Ralph--her
Ralph--the man in whom all her love, all her thoughts, all her
sympathies were centred, was a thief, and, further, he had cursed her as
an encumbrance.
The poor girl drew her hand across her brow as though unable to actually
realise the astounding facts. She was stunned by the hideous truth which
had that evening been revealed. The blow had in an instant crushed all
the light out of her life.
She now realised the reason of those many secret conferences with
Carlier, and certain other rather disreputable-looking companions,
jail-birds, without a doubt. She knew why he was sometimes absent all
night, why he had stolen in, weary and worn, in the early hours of the
morning, and why, on one occasion, he had remained in the house for two
whole weeks and had never once gone out.
"Well, now you know the truth, girl, I hope you won't ask any more
inquisitive questions," Ralph said, noticing how strangely she had
stared at him. "Our business concerns nobody but ourselves--you
understand?"
"Yes, I understand," she replied, slowly, in a strange, hard voice. "I
understand, too, Ralph, that you no longer love me, or you would never
have spoken to me as you have to-night."
And she burst into tears.
"Ralph, Ralph, this is too bad!" protested his friend. "You ought to
have a little pity for poor madame--you really ought."
"I tell you I don't want any interference in my domestic affairs, so
shut up, or you and I won't agree. Do you hear that--once and for all?"
replied Ansell determinedly, thrusting his bony face into that of this
companion.
The latter shrugged his shoulders, and merely remarked:
"Well, you surprise me greatly."
Of a sudden, however, Jean, with a quick movement, sprang towards her
husband, who had already put on his coat and cap, and placed the
revolver in his pocket preparatory to departing upon his midnight
adventure. She seized him by both wrists and, throwing herself wildly
upon her knees, begged and implored him not to go.
"For my sake, Ralph, don't go!" she urged. "Don't go! Give up the
project! Work and lead an honest life, I beg of you."
"Honest life!" he laughed with a sneer. "Can you imagine me sitting in
an office all day, adding up figures, or writing letters for some other
thief with a brass plate on his office door? No, I'm not cut out for
that, I assure you," he added.
"But for my sake, don't go," she urged again, his hands still in hers,
for she held them firmly, and placed them to her lips.
His confession that he was a thief had fallen upon her, and for the
first few moments had held her speechless, but now she had found tongue,
and even though the disgraceful truth was out, her first thought was
for his safety.
"You're a confounded little fool!" he declared, roughly. "Let me go.
Come on, Adolphe! We haven't any use for women's tears."
And he twisted her hands roughly so that she was compelled to relinquish
her hold.
He was leaving the room, but again she caught him, clinging to him
resolutely, and beseeching him to heed her word.
This angered him. His face was pale, his eyes flashed quickly and,
gripping her by the right hand, he raised his fist to strike her.
In a flash, however, Carlier, who stood with his hat on ready to depart,
sprang in from behind, and gripped the brute's arm, shouting:
"No, you shall not strike her--not while I am present! Come away, you
infernal coward!"
Jean gave vent to a hysterical shriek, and shook herself free, but ere
she could realise what had actually happened, the two men, without
further word, had left the room, her husband slamming the door after him
with a fierce imprecation.
Then she stood alone, white-faced, terrified, heart-broken.
Ralph Ansell had at last shown himself in his true colours--a thief, a
bully, a coward, and a blackguard.
And yet she had loved him until that hour--loved him with all the
strength of her being--loved him as she had loved no other man in her
whole life.
She had lived only for him, and she would have willingly died for him
had he not raised his hand against her.
But she stood in the centre of that meagre little room, staring straight
before her, her countenance white to the lips, her big, dark eyes fixed
like one in a dream.
Poor Jean! Even then her brain was awhirl. She could scarcely realise
the grim, terrible truth.
For a few moments she stood there motionless as a statue, then suddenly
she staggered, reeled, and collapsed, inert and senseless, upon the
floor.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE NIGHT.
Not until several hours afterwards did Jean regain consciousness.
When slowly she opened her eyes and gazed wonderingly about the silent
room, she found herself lying in a heap upon the floor, a terrible
throbbing across her brow and a lump in her throat.
Gradually she recollected the horror of that half-hour before she had
fainted, and slowly she raised herself and tottered to a chair.
Upon the table stood the empty bottle from which Ralph and Adolphe had
drunk glass after glass of red wine, before going forth to commit the
crime. There were the three empty plates, too; while on the top of the
cupboard the cheap, evil-smelling lamp which Jean had lit on Ralph's
arrival, was burning low, shedding a small zone of dim, yellow light.
"Gone!" she gasped aloud. "Oh, I can't believe it! Ralph--my own
Ralph--a common thief! Impossible! impossible!" Then she sobbed, burying
her pale face in both her hands in blank despair.
The horrible, bitter truth had been forced upon her, and she saw it in
all its hideousness.
"He raised his hand to strike me down!" she murmured to herself. "He
would have struck me, had it not been for Adolphe. Ah! yes," she sighed.
"Adolphe knows--he knows the truth--of all I have suffered. Ralph is a
thief, and--and the police will one day arrest him. He will be tried and
punished, and I shall be left alone--alone!"
For a long time the despairing girl sat in her lonely room, bent and
utterly crushed. Her thoughts were of the man she loved, and who, in
return, had now revealed his contempt, even hatred. He had told her that
she was but an encumbrance. He had not minced matters, but spoken openly
and frankly, like the brute he was.
She was unaware that "The American" was well known in the Montmartre as
a keen, unscrupulous man, against whom were so many charges. Next to
Bonnemain himself, he had been the most daring and expert of all that
dangerous gang.
How cleverly he had deceived her, however, she now knew. Her senses
seemed benumbed, for the blow had rendered her, for the time,
insensible.
A full hour went by.
The room was silent, save that from the courtyard below rose the drunken
voice of a workman who lived in the ground-floor flat--the husband of
the slatternly _concierge_--who had just returned.
The broken clock still pointed to the hour of four, therefore she had no
idea of the time, but sat staring in front of her, like one in a dream.
Once or twice her breast slowly heaved and fell beneath her neat, black
gown. Then at last she rose and, crossing to the cupboard with firm
resolve, took out a small, ten-centime bottle of ink and an envelope.
Seating herself at the table, she took the pen in her trembling fingers,
and with tears falling upon the paper, traced uneven words in French, as
follows:
"In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer longer.
Certain hidden things in your life frighten me. Farewell.
Forget me.--JEAN."
Slowly she folded it, took off her wedding-ring, and placed it in the
envelope, together with the letter. Afterwards she addressed it to her
husband, and left it upon the table. Then slowly she rose with a hard,
fixed look, and passed into the adjoining room, which was a bedroom.
She took a sad farewell of the few little treasures which she had
brought from her own room in Oxford Street--knick-knacks, photographs,
and the like--and, putting on her hat, passed back across the
living-room, and then crept down the stairs and out--undiscovered and
unheard by the ever-watchful old woman in the black, knitted shawl.
Without a glance back, she gained the broad, well-lit thoroughfare, and,
turning to the left, went blindly and broken-hearted along in the
direction of the Bois, out into the world, sad, despairing, and alone,
heedless of where her steps led her, out into the unknown.
Meanwhile "The American" and "The Eel" were busy with their adventure.
To the left of the broad, main avenue, which, running through
Neuilly-on-Seine, crosses the river to Courbevoie, lived the wealthy
Baron de Rycker.
The house stood alone in a secluded spot, surrounded by its own spacious
grounds, and hidden from the road by a high wall. In this was a big gate
of ornamental iron, the top of which was gilded--a gate which the
_concierge_, who lived in the lodge beside it, always kept locked.
But, through the gate, the house itself could not be seen, because
plates of iron had been fixed half-way up, shutting out the view of
house and well-kept grounds from the public view.
As Ralph was aware, the _concierge_ was more than a mere lodge-keeper.
He knew who were the Baron's friends, and admitted them without
question, in whatever garb they might chance to be. But any inquisitive
person, or stranger, never got within that gate, or if they attempted,
they met with a warm reception from the fierce dog which constantly
prowled about the grounds.
The two men arrived in Neuilly soon after eleven o'clock and, entering a
_café_ near the river, remained there smoking and drinking coffee, till
midnight, when they went forth, treading lightly, for at "The Eel's"
lodgings in the Rue Lapage, off the Boulevard de Clichy, they had both
put on boots with india-rubber soles.
Passing the wall of the Baron's garden, they found all quiet and in
darkness.
Then "The American" went back as far as the gate and threw a stone
against the ironwork, with the result that the dog, which prowled there
at night, barked furiously.
That was what Ralph Ansell desired.
Taking from his pocket a stone, to which was tied by cotton a piece of
poisoned liver, he threw it over the gate and listened to it drop upon
the gravel.
In a moment the dog, with natural curiosity, pounced upon it, and
finding it to be a toothsome delicacy, could not resist it.
For another five minutes Ralph waited without making a sound.
Then he threw another stone against the iron sheeting of the gate.
The noise was loud. But there was no answering bark.
Then he crept back to where Adolphe lurked in the shadow.
A quarter of an hour later, both men were crouching before a long window
which led out upon a well-kept lawn. They had scaled the wall, and crept
across the grass without a sound.
The weather favoured them, for there was a slight west wind which, while
catching the foliage of the trees, caused it to rustle and so conceal
any slight noise they might make.
Ralph pressed the button of his electric lamp, and a small spot of light
shone upon the glass. Then, with expert hand, he quickly smeared it with
treacle, and afterwards, with a glazier's diamond, cut out a piece
sufficient to allow him to insert his hand and turn the latch within.
A moment later, both men were inside the large, well-furnished
_salle-à-manger_, treading noiselessly upon the thick Turkey carpet,
though "The Eel," in entering, unfortunately stumbled, and in grabbing
the door to prevent himself falling, cut his hand badly, even through
the india-rubber gloves they both wore.
The pair lost no time in clearing the fine, carved sideboard of the
quantity of valuable plate it contained. Then, led by Ralph, to whom the
interior of the big house was well known, "The Eel" entered the cosy,
luxuriously-furnished library, which was the private den of the chief
secret agent of the German Empire.
It was not a large room. Its size was revealed to Adolphe by the
flashing of his companion's lamp. Lined with books, and with a big,
business-like writing-table placed in the window, it was a cosy place--a
place with which many a spy of Germany was familiar and in which many a
man had received a bundle of hundred-franc notes in return for
information, or plans of France's armaments or defences.
From it a door led straight into the grounds, so that a visitor was not
compelled to pass through the house in order to have a confidential chat
with its owner, while in a farther corner of the garden was a door in
the wall by which a side road might be gained.
Neither man spoke as they made a noiseless tour of the room. "The Eel"
carried a capacious sack of black material, and into it thrust what
knick-knacks seemed to be of value--several miniatures, a couple of gold
snuff-boxes, a small box of Limoges enamel, and the like, while "The
American" was busy with his skeleton keys at the drawers of the big
writing-table.
Suddenly he beckoned to Adolphe, and the latter, as he approached, saw
that he had succeeded in opening one of the small drawers. Within was a
secret cavity known to the thief, for he had twice watched the German
spy take money from it.
There was a spring at the back of the drawer, and as "The Eel" directed
the rays of light inside, his companion fingered it, with the result
that of a sudden a portion of the wood fell back and from within the
other drew out a large bundle of French thousand-franc notes secured by
an elastic band.
With a low whistle Ansell, with gloating eyes, slipped them into his
breast pocket.
Then, diving his hand in again, he drew out several handsome bracelets
set with diamonds and emeralds, two strings of matched pearls, a diamond
and platinum pendant, a muff-chain set with diamonds, and a child's
coral necklace--the jewellery belonging to the Baron's dead wife and his
little daughter--which he kept concealed there--a relic of a long-past
domestic happiness.
With scarce a glance at the valuables, the thief thrust them into his
pocket.
Eagerly they cleared the secret space behind the back of the drawer.
There were three other bank-notes lying loose, about twenty golden
louis, two ruby rings, and lastly a safe-key, which Ralph held up in
triumph, whispering:
"What about the Baron's secret correspondence--eh?"
"Where's the safe?" asked his companion.
"Upstairs--in his room, I expect. It is not here."
Then, leaving the drawer open, Ralph Ansell crossed the room and,
opening his big clasp-knife, the blade of which was as sharp as a razor,
he commenced to slash vigorously at the pale green silk upholstery of
the couch and easy chairs. He was angry and vicious in his attacks upon
the furniture, cutting and slashing everywhere in his triumph over the
man who had refused to further assist him.
"The Eel" watched without uttering a remark. He had seen such explosions
of anger before on the part of his companion when they were doing other
"jobs." It is, indeed, well known to criminologists and to all police
officials that the average burglar is never satisfied with mere theft,
however great may be his _coup_, but that some force impels him to spend
time in committing wanton damage to the furniture.
It was so with Ralph Ansell. He hated the Baron, therefore he slashed
his furniture. In many other homes he had acted in a similar way, just
as, indeed, Bonnemain always acted, carrying a keen knife for the
purpose.
"Shall we risk going to his room?" whispered Adolphe, who approached
him.
"Of course, my friend. A few of those papers will be worth thousands of
francs to us," he replied in a low breath. "This is the job of our
lives, _mon vieux_. I daresay there are papers there which the German
Government would buy back at any price we chose to put on them."
"All right, then," was "The Eel's" reply. "If there's no great risk,
then let us have a try."
"You've got your revolver--eh?"
"No. I never carry one now," was Adolphe's response.
"Never mind, I've got one; and I shall shoot--if necessary," Ralph
replied. "I mean to have those papers at all costs. So don't lose your
head."
"I never do."
"_Bien!_ Then to work."
And the pair crept from the room without a sound, and along the dark,
thickly-carpeted corridor.
CHAPTER X.
HONOUR AMONG THIEVES.
They ascended the broad, dark staircase noiselessly and crept along to a
door which _Fil-en-Quatre_ opened cautiously, when they found themselves
in the big salon, a spacious, luxuriantly-furnished room, where many of
the notables of Paris, both social and political, were wont to assemble.
Society was in ignorance of the true _métier_ of this wealthy Belgian,
and as he entertained lavishly upon the money secretly supplied to him
from Berlin, he was accepted at his own valuation, and was highly
popular in the embassy set.
The little ray of light from Ralph's lamp travelled slowly around,
revealing quantities of _bric-à-brac_; but so much booty had they
already obtained that the pair only selected two gold spoons from a
glass-topped specimen-table, with a little box, also of chased gold.
As Ralph looked around, he again became seized by that uncontrollable
desire to commit damage for the mere sake of wanton destruction;
therefore drawing his knife, he slashed quickly at a big ottoman covered
with old rose silk damask, cutting it across and across. Afterwards he
treated a down cushion in the same fierce fashion, causing the feathers
to fly about the room.
"Come--enough!" whispered "The Eel" at his elbow. "Where is the Baron's
room?"
"We've got to find it," was the reply. "And, by Heaven! if the spy
moves, I'll put some lead into him!"
And together the pair stole forth on their tour of discovery.
The silent house was weird and full of distorted shadows. Through the
long windows of stained glass which lit the great staircase the moon
shone, its rays striking straight across the upper landing. Several of
the doors were closed. They were bedrooms, evidently.
At one of them Ralph paused, raising his finger to command a halt. With
the light touch of the expert he placed his fingers upon the
door-handle, and, turning it, without raising the slightest click, he
stole inside and stood in silence, listening attentively. All was dark,
and there was no noise.
For a few moments he waited in patience. Then, hearing no sound of any
sleeper, he switched on his little electric lamp, finding the apartment
to be a small, well-furnished bedroom, but empty.
Both men examined it critically by the light of the torch, arriving at
the conclusion that it contained nothing of worth.
Therefore, after Ralph had made a vicious slash at the satin-covered
down quilt upon the bed, and also drawn his sharp knife across the
carpet, severing it clearly, they went out to the next room, and to the
next, with similar result.
Apparently the Baron did not sleep on that floor at all.
At last, however, they came to a locked door at the end of the corridor.
A rapid examination showed that it had been locked from the inside, and
the key was missing. Therefore, without further ado, Ralph knelt down at
the lock, and with "The Eel" holding the little lamp, he commenced to
attack the fastening with his skeleton keys. At such work he was an
expert, for in three minutes the door stood open, and they found
themselves standing in a small place, almost a box-room, for it only
contained a plain little leather-covered table, set against the wall,
and a chair; while in the opposite corner, upon a strong, wooden stand,
stood a big, green-painted fireproof safe, about six feet in height.
Both men uttered ejaculations of surprise when their eyes fell upon it.
"The papers--the secrets of Germany--are in here!" Ralph exclaimed, in a
whisper. "Come! There's no time to lose. Let's get at them. I hope this
is the key. I suppose he preferred to keep it in hiding in the secret
place in his writing-table than to carry it about with him."
Taking the bright little key from his pocket, he examined it critically
by the light of the lamp. Then he examined the maker's name upon the
brass plate on the safe.
"Yes," he said, "I think I'm right. And if so, we shall each be richer
by a couple of hundred thousand francs."
"You don't seem to like the Baron, Ralph!" whispered his friend, with a
smile.
"Like him! Why, I hate him! I've been here before--as his visitor."
"Is he really what you alleged--a German spy?"
"Yes. And I can prove it. Why, in doing what we are now we are acting as
patriots, not as common burglars. We are acting for the honour of
France."
"And for our pockets, my dear fellow," laughed his companion, as he bent
beside him and watched him draw aside the brass cover of the lock and
insert the key.
Gripping the big brass handle--for he knew the mechanism of that
much-advertised make of safe--Ralph first turned it to the right. Then
he turned the key, which worked evenly and easily, afterwards twisting
the handle in an opposite direction.
Next moment, the bolts being shot back, the heavy, steel door came
slowly open; but suddenly, at the same instant, a huge electric alarm
bell in the main hall was set ringing.
At first so startled were they both that they did not move. But next
second the truth dawned upon them.
"_Diable!_ Let's fly!" cried Ansell. "It's all up! Across the garden and
over the wall by the gate in the corner. Quick!"
Out of the room and down the stairs dashed the men like lightning. Along
the corridor through the room by which they had entered, and out into
the moonlight in the garden.
They heard loud shouts of alarm from the windows. Electric lights were
being switched on everywhere, and loud cries were being raised of
"Thieves! Assassins! Thieves!" while somebody fired three shots at them
from a window as they crossed the grounds and sought concealment in the
shadows.
As fast as their legs could carry them they made for the corner of the
wall wherein was the Baron's secret exit, and, scaling the wall with
quick agility, were soon on the other side--and clear away.
As they ran back in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne they could
hear shouts and cries of the Baron and his servants. Twice were
revolvers emptied to attract the police, and then the hubbub grew
fainter, and at last, beneath the deep shadow of a wall, they halted to
regain breath.
"Never mind, Adolphe!" laughed Ralph; "we've got a nice haul, and it was
an easy job, after all. I never expected the spy to have an alarm
attached to the door of his safe. He's a wary bird, after all!"
"Let's get back to your place at once," urged "The Eel." "It will be
growing light soon, and we ought to be in before anyone gets about."
"You're right. Jean will be wondering where we are--poor, innocent
little thing," he laughed, jeeringly. "I suppose she's been
fretting--but fretting always does a woman good."
"Don't speak like that, old chap," said the other. "I don't like to hear
it."
"Ah! You always take her part. You're too chicken-hearted where women
are concerned. A woman will be your ruin one day, mark me," was Ralph's
reply. "But come along."
And they hurried forward, in the direction of Ansell's house.
Half an hour later, just before the first flush of dawn, the two men
entered the weedy courtyard, and Ansell let himself in with his key.
Their movements were stealthy; but, nevertheless, Mother Brouet, in
suspicion of the truth, for she had known _Fil-en-Quatre_ for several
years, put her head out of her door, asking:
"Halloa, my boys! Something on--eh?"
"Yes, mother," laughed Ralph lightly. "Something quite good. Keep your
eyes open, and if anybody calls, we're not receiving visitors--you
understand! And there's a couple of louis for you," he added with a
grin.
The old woman grasped the coins with her claw-like hand, saying:
"_Tres bien, m'sieur_," and the head, adorned by curlers, disappeared.
The two men then mounted the stairs on tip-toe, and Ansell noiselessly
unlocked the door of his apartment, believing Jean to be asleep.
But they found the lamp still burning as they had left it, the dirty
plates still upon the table, and the atmosphere filled by the nauseous
perfumes of petroleum.
Ralph's quick eye caught the letter lying upon the table.
"Halloa! What's this?" he cried, taking it up, glancing at the
superscription, and tearing open the envelope.
He read through the brief, farewell message; then, crushing the paper in
his hand fiercely, he stood for a few seconds without uttering a word.
"She's gone!" he exclaimed at last; "and a good job, too. I'm freer
without her; but, by Heaven! I'll make her pay for deserting me like
this! That I will!"
"Madame gone?" cried Carlier, starting in blank surprise.
"Yes."
"Well, and I don't wonder, after what you said to her last night. It was
shameful."
"That's my own affair," the other said. "It don't concern you, so we
need not discuss it."
"Where has she gone?"
"I don't know, and, moreover, I don't care. You, however, seem to take a
particular interest in her."
"I hate to see a woman maltreated," replied Adolphe frankly.
"I tell you it is no concern of yours," replied the other, crushing
Jean's letter into his jacket pocket and tossing away his cap, while
Adolphe re-bound his cut hand with the handkerchief which was already
saturated with blood.
"Sit down and let's have a drink," said Ansell, lighting a candle, for
the lamp was now very dim, and producing another bottle of red wine
from the cupboard.
The pair seated themselves, and drank merrily to their own success,
after which Ralph Ansell produced from his pockets the jewellery and the
bundle of bank-notes, which he proceeded to examine.
Beneath the light of the single candle stuck in the tin candlestick the
fine stones sparkled--diamonds, emeralds, and rubies--as "The American"
produced them in a mass from his pocket and laid them upon the table.
"Quite a decent lot," he remarked. "Old Levy will give us twenty
thousand francs for them, if we pretend we're not hard up. He went back
to Amsterdam on Friday, but I'll wire him later on, and get him over."
"But we're not hard up," laughed "The Eel" with a grin of satisfaction.
"No--not quite," answered his companion, taking off the india-rubber
band from the bundle of notes and carefully counting them, one by one.
There were seventy-five blue and pink notes of the Bank of France for
one thousand francs each--or three thousand pounds, as well as the loose
cash.
Ralph Ansell swallowed another glass of wine.
"I'm sorry we had such horribly bad luck with that safe," he remarked.
"But we were fortunate in getting away as we did. We were not a moment
too soon, either."
"They saw us cross the garden," Adolphe said. "I don't like being fired
at."
"By Jove! If I had met anyone he'd have gone down, I assure you,"
declared Ralph. "I had my revolver ready."
"A good job that we got out as we did. It is always a risky thing to try
and get political papers. Remember the affair at the Austrian
Ambassador's, when a stranger offered poor Bonnemain twenty thousand
francs to get certain documents? I kept watch outside the Embassy that
night, and we were nearly caught--all of us."
"Well--this is enough to keep the flag flying for a bit," said Ansell,
as he proceeded to divide the bank-notes, placing fifty in his own
pocket and giving Adolphe twenty-five.
The men had some sharp words, as thieves always have when it comes to a
division of the spoils, but Ansell claimed a double share because he had
been the instigator of the affair.
Adolphe Carlier protested vehemently, gesticulating wildly; but at last,
finding argument of no avail, he shrugged his shoulders and accepted the
inevitable. He had had previous experience of Ralph's overbearing
American manners.
"Then you agree--eh?" asked Ansell, at last.
"I suppose I must," was the response, as "The Eel" thrust a thousand
pounds into the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Must! Why, it is only fair!" declared Ansell. "Without my guidance you
would never have brought off such a _coup_. Now this stuff," he added,
indicating the jewellery. "I'll keep it till I get the money from old
Levy--eh?"
"Very well," replied his companion. "But half shares of that, you know."
"Of course. That's agreed," responded the other, and both lifted the
tumblers of wine in celebration of their success and safety.
"Phew! How warm I feel," exclaimed "The Eel."
"Take off your coat, old fellow, and wait here till the morning, Then
we'll go out and wire to that old scoundrel, Levy," urged Ansell. "We
can both do with an hour's rest after to-night's work."
"Right. But I'll bathe my hand first. It is very painful."
"Yes. Go into my room," said the other, indicating the door.
Therefore Adolphe threw off his coat, hung it upon a nail, and,
unwrapping his injured hand, entered the adjoining room, closing the
door after him.
"You'll find water in there," shouted his host, whose face, at the
moment, relaxed into a hard, sinister smile.
He placed his hand in his jacket pocket, and it came into contact with
Jean's letter.
The recollection of it maddened him. He remembered that the man in the
room beyond had stood her champion, and had taken her part.
"Curse you!" he muttered, beneath his breath. "What business is it of
yours--you soft-hearted fool?"
But scarce had the words fallen from his lips when the door opened
suddenly, and the old woman from below, who acted as _concierge_,
terrified and panting, entered, and with a loud whisper, cried:
"Ah, M'sieur Ansell. Quick! quick! The police are here! The commissary
is asking for you. Quick! Get away, or you'll be caught like a rat in a
trap. You know the way. Leave the rest to me!"
And without another word she disappeared, closing the door after her,
while the wanted man stood staggered, pale, and dumb.
CHAPTER XI.
THE VOW.
For a second, pale with alarm, Ralph Ansell glanced around the room.
Suddenly an idea suggested itself. He was always resourceful.
Next moment he dashed across to the door and locked it, afterwards
rushing to the door which led into the bedroom--the room in which his
friend was bathing his wound. There was a bolt upon the door, and this
he slipped, thus imprisoning the man who was, as yet, unconscious of
danger.
Then, crossing to where Adolphe's jacket hung, he quickly drew out the
twenty-five thousand francs in notes and placed them in his own pocket.
He held his breath and listened. As yet, all was quiet, save for a man's
rough voice below. He was apparently in conversation with Mme. Brouet's
husband.
That was sufficient for Ansell.
Quickly he pushed away the table from the centre of the room, and,
kicking aside the Japanese grass-mats, there was revealed in the floor a
trap-door with an iron ring in it.
Without more ado he lifted the heavy flap, disclosing the cavernous
darkness of a kind of shaft which led to the cellar, whence there was a
secret exit into a neighbouring street. Placing his foot upon the first
rung of the rickety ladder, he quickly disappeared, closing the flap
after him and bolting it from beneath.
Thus Adolphe, robbed and imprisoned by the man he had trusted so
implicitly, was left to his fate.
Scarcely had the fugitive, carrying with him the whole of the booty,
closed down the flap in the floor when Adolphe, whose hand was very
painful and bleeding profusely, suddenly heard the voices below.
He started, crept to the window, and looked cautiously down into the
courtyard.
Two men were there--men whom he instantly recognised as police agents in
plain clothes.
"The Eel" listened for a second, then dashed to the door to warn Ralph.
He turned the handle, but, to his surprise and dismay, found the door
bolted.
"Ralph! Ralph!" he cried. "Are you there? Quick! Let me in! The police!"
There was no response.
"Ralph!" he repeated. "Quick! The police are below!"
And he tugged frantically at the door. But it was securely fastened.
He was caught--like a rat in a trap!
Bending, he peered through the keyhole, surprised to discover that the
table had been moved. He could see, too, that the matting had been cast
aside, revealing the trap-door. That house had long been the abode of
thieves. Bonnemain himself had lived in those same rooms for six years,
and he had had the secret exit constructed. More than once it had been
used, and the fugitive escaped by that secret way.
In a moment the grim truth flashed across Adolphe's mind. Ansell had for
some reason bolted the door, and had forgotten to unlock it before
escaping.
But why had he not warned him?
The voices outside were now raised, and he could hear the tramp of
several other men over the moss-grown stones of the weedy courtyard.
Not a second was to be lost; therefore, taking up one of the
rush-bottomed chairs and raising it above his head, he advanced to the
door and brought it down with a crash upon the panel just over the lock.
A great crack showed, and by a second heavy blow the panel gave way
sufficiently to allow him to insert his hand and draw the bolt from the
opposite side.
He dashed across the living-room to where his coat hung, in order to
seize his portion of the booty. Quickly he searched the pockets, but in
vain!
The notes were gone!
Then, for the first time, he realised that he had been robbed, and from
his dry lips there fell a fierce vow of vengeance against the man whose
willing tool he had been--the man whose wife had left him because of his
callous brutality.
Twice he searched his pockets, then he cast his coat from him in despair
and, bending to the floor, tugged at the iron ring.
That, too, was secured. He could not lift it because the scoundrel had
bolted it from beneath. Not only had he stolen his money, but he had
made him a prisoner, knowing that he must fall into the hands of the
police.
With his long, black hair ruffled, his great, dark eyes starting from
their sockets, and both fists clenched in desperation, he gazed wildly
around for some means of escape. There were none. Heavy footsteps
sounded upon the uncarpeted stairs, yet if he attempted to jump from the
window he would fall into the arms of the police, who had by this time
surrounded the house.
This was Ralph's revenge--because he had taken his poor little wife's
part, because he had prevented him from striking her down!
A bitter thought arose in the young thief's heart. He bit his lip, and
in an undertone declared:
"If ever I meet the cowardly blackguard I will kill him! That I swear.
Not only has he robbed me, but he has also betrayed me to the police,
knowing that I must be sent to prison, while he will remain safe!"
At that instant there came a heavy banging upon the door, while a loud,
imperative voice cried:
"We are agents of police. Open--in the name of the law!"
The victim shrank back in terror. It was the end of his criminal career!
He never dreamed that the police were so hot upon their track, and that
they had been traced right over from Neuilly.
"Open--in the name of the law!" was again repeated, loud and commanding,
followed by a sharp rapping.
For a few seconds Adolphe stood motionless, his fist still clenched, his
terrified eyes fixed upon the door. He seemed rooted to the spot.
"Open this door--or we shall break it down!" shouted the police-officer
on the stairs.
Then, finding resistance impossible, Ansell's victim was compelled to
bow to the inevitable.
He crossed the room slowly, turned the key, and drew the bolt.
Next second three men in plain clothes and a couple of police-agents in
uniform burst into the room, and Adolphe found himself seized roughly
and secured.
"Just caught you, my young friend!" laughed the police-commissary, with
satisfaction. He wore an overcoat and hard felt hat, and carried in his
hand an ebony cane with silver knob.
Adolphe, in the hands of the two other men in plain clothes, made no
reply, but at the moment Mme. Brouet entered at the door, with
curiosity, to watch the proceedings.
The commissary, noticing the smashed panel of the bedroom door, ran
inside, while the men in uniform quickly searched the place.
"Where is 'The American'?" asked the commissary, of Adolphe. "We know he
is here, somewhere. You need not affect innocence, for your hand tells
the truth. You and he did the job at the Baron de Rycker's, and you left
a large blood-stain behind. What have you done with the stolen
property--eh? Now, out with it! Give it up, and it will be better for
you when in court."
"I haven't any," protested the young man. "Ralph has it all."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He locked me in yonder room and got away."
"Got away with the swag? Ah! Just like 'The American'! He did that same
trick three years ago. I remember a complaint made by one of your
fraternity whom I arrested at Versailles," replied the commissary. "How
did he get away?"
Adolphe pointed to where the commissary was standing, and the official,
looking down, saw, to his surprise, for the first time, the rusty ring
in the floor.
He bent and tried to raise it, but found it firmly secured.
"He's gone!" he cried to the two agents in uniform, who were cyclists,
wearing the flat-peaked caps with the arms of the City of Paris upon
them. "Go out and scour all the streets in the neighbourhood. You may
catch him yet!"
Without a second's delay, both men dashed out to do the bidding of their
superior officer.
Adolphe Carlier was left with the two agents of the Sûreté--both dark,
shrewd little men, broad-shouldered, and short of stature,--while the
commissary, who wore the button of the Légion d'Honneur in his overcoat,
made a tour of the apartment.
Another agent of police, in plain clothes, entered and saluted.
"Did you see anything of the fugitive, Leblanc?" asked the commissary
eagerly.
"Nothing, m'sieur. I came along from the depôt, but met nobody."
"Search this place," he said. "There is some stolen stuff hidden in this
rat-hole, I expect."
"I tell you Ralph Ansell has it all," declared the man held by the two
officers, who were now allowing him to bandage up his hand, prior to
putting handcuffs upon his wrists. "Arrest Ansell, and you will find
everything upon him."
"Do you live here?" asked the commissary.
"No. Ansell lives here with his wife."
"His wife! Where is she?"
"I don't know. She was here at dinner-time, but now she's gone. She's
left him."
"Why?"
"Because of his brutality." And Adolphe described the scene of the
previous night.
"We must find her," said the commissary, decisively. "Perhaps she knows
something. Ansell and you are the last two members of the Bonnemain
gang. Am I not correct?"
"Quite, m'sieur."
"I thought I was," and the commissary smiled. "Well," he added, "your
friend robbed you and threw you right into our hands. No wonder you are
ready to give him away."
The commissary well knew the ways of criminals, and was also aware with
what murderous hatred a man was regarded who robbed his accomplice.
"Do not discuss him, m'sieur," replied the man under arrest. "He has
placed me in your hands, and I am helpless. I suppose I shall only get
what I deserve," he added, in a low, pensive tone.
"You are reasonable, Carlier, and I'm glad to see it," responded the
commissary in a softer tone. "Your friend is an arrant blackguard to
have treated his wife as he has, and to have betrayed you because you
took her part. But you surely knew how unscrupulous he was, and also
that he was a most dangerous character. We know of one or two of his
exploits, and I may tell you that if he is caught, there are two charges
of murder against him."
"I know," replied the thief, briefly. "Though you have arrested me, I
can truly say that I have never raised a knife, or fired a revolver, or
attempted to take the life of any man."
"You will not be charged with any crime more serious than burglary,
Carlier," replied the official. "But besides the Baron's affair
to-night, there is also the robbery at the widow's apartment in the Rue
Léonce Reynaud, the theft from the Château des Grandes Vignes, out at
Moret in the Forest of Fontainebleau, and the safe-breaking at
Thessier's in the Boulevard des Italiens. You were in all of them,
remember."
"M'sieur knows," replied Adolphe with a grim smile.
"It is my duty to know, eh?" was the rather sympathetic reply, for the
commissary had quickly seen that this member of the broken Bonnemain
gang, which had for years given such trouble to the Sûreté, was, though
a criminal and outwardly a rough scoundrel of the Apache type, yet
nevertheless a man possessed of better feelings than the ordinary thief.
The treatment that Carlier had received at his friend's hands had
crushed him. He did not crave for mercy, as so many criminals did when
suddenly cornered and placed under arrest. He merely regarded it as a
stroke of ill-luck, and with the true sportsman-like air "faced the
music."
As a matter of fact, he was wondering at that moment what had become of
little Mme. Ansell, and whether the efforts of the police to discover
her would be successful. No doubt they would, for one cannot travel far
in Paris if one is searched for by the Sûreté, unless one is a
professional thief, and therefore knows the holes in the underworld of
Parisian life in which to hide successfully.
The commissary, pointing with his stick at the movable cupboard, ordered
one of the agents to search it, and then, moving from one object to
another, he had everything turned upside down in search of any property
which might be concealed. The cupboard and sideboard were shifted away
from the wall, the chairs were examined, the pictures taken down and
pulled from their frames; indeed, no stone was left unturned.
When the French police make a search, they do so with a creditable
thoroughness.
Adolphe, the gyves upon his wrists, craved a cigarette, and a
police-officer took one from the packet lying upon the sideboard. Then,
with both hands, the prisoner lit it, and sat upon a chair watching them
turn the place upside down.
In the adjoining room they investigated everything. They even cut open
the mattress and searched for stolen jewellery or bank-notes.
"It's no use, m'sieur; there is nothing here," Carlier assured the
commissary. "We have not done a job for a long time."
"Are you sure that 'The American' has it all?" asked the official
earnestly.
"I've already told m'sieur," was "The Eel's" reply. "And, further, may I
crave a favour?"
"What is that?"
"To speak alone with you just for a moment. I want to tell you
something--for your ear alone."
The official was instantly suspicious. But, as the prisoner was securely
handcuffed, there was, he saw, no danger.
So he permitted him to pass inside the disordered bedroom, and then he
closed the broken door.
CHAPTER XII.
THE FATE OF "THE AMERICAN."
"Monsieur," said Carlier, in a low, confidential voice, when they were
alone, "though I may be a thief, and under arrest, I am still a son of
France, am I not?"
"I suppose so," replied the commissary, rather puzzled.
"Well," said the man before him, "if you keep observation upon the Baron
de Rycker, you will find that what he has lost he well deserved to
lose."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the Baron is a spy--a secret agent of Germany."
The commissary looked at him sharply, and asked:
"How do you know that?"
"Ansell told me."
"Are you quite certain?"
"Quite. Ansell has done some jobs for him, and has been well paid for
them. He has acted as a spy for our enemies."
"A spy as well as a thief--eh?"
"Exactly, m'sieur. Ansell has been in the Baron's pay for nearly two
years."
"But this allegation is quite unsubstantiated. The Baron de Rycker is
well known and highly popular in Paris. He moves in the best society,
and the Ministers frequently dine at his table."
"I know that, m'sieur. But search that safe in the little room
upstairs--the safe we opened. Go there in pretence of examining our
finger-prints, and you will find in the safe quantities of compromising
papers. It was that collection of secret correspondence which we were
after when the alarm-bell rang. We intended to secure it and sell it
back to Germany."
"If what you say is really true, Carlier, our friends in Berlin would
probably give you quite a handsome price for it," replied the official
thoughtfully.
He had watched the thief's face, and knew that he was telling the truth.
"Will you have inquiries made?" urged the thief.
"Most certainly," was the reply. "And if I find you have told the truth,
I will endeavour to obtain some slight favour for you--a shorter
sentence, perhaps."
"I have told you the truth, m'sieur. It is surely the duty of every
Frenchman, even though he be a thief like myself, to unmask a spy."
"Most certainly," declared the official. "And I am very glad indeed that
you have told me. I shall make a report to the Prefect of Police this
morning, and tell him the name of my informant. The matter will be
dealt with at once by the political department of the Sûreté."
"The Baron will not be told who informed against him?" asked Adolphe
anxiously.
"Certainly not. But if Ralph Ansell is arrested, he will be charged with
assisting foreign spies--a charge quite as serious as breaking into the
Baron's house."
"He hated the Baron because the latter had discharged him from his
secret service."
"What were his duties?"
"Ah! that I do not quite know, except that he performed delicate
missions, and sometimes went abroad, to Holland, England, Norway, and
other places."
"Ansell evidently knew the arrangements of the house--eh?"
"He had been to see the Baron in secret many times."
"And been well paid for his work, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; heavily paid."
"Well," remarked the police official, "you may rest assured that the
Baron will, in future, be well watched. We have no love for foreign
spies in Paris, as you know."
And then the commissary went on to question Carlier closely regarding
his antecedents and his connection with the notorious Bonnemain gang,
which had now been so fortunately broken up.
To all his questions Adolphe replied quite frankly, concealing nothing,
well knowing that his sentence would not be made heavier if he spoke
openly.
"I've heard stories of you for a long time, Carlier," the commissary
said at last. "And I suppose we should not have met now, except for the
blackguardly action of this man who posed as your friend."
"No. I should have escaped, I expect, just as I have done so often that
my friends call me 'The Eel,' on account, I suppose, of my
slipperiness!" And he grimaced.
The official laughed, and, with a word of thanks for the information
concerning the Baron, both captor and prisoner passed back into the
living-room, where the police-agents were concluding their searching
investigations.
Nothing had been found of an incriminating nature, and the commissary
now saw that the man arrested had spoken the truth.
While Ansell's house was being turned upside down and Adolphe and the
commissary were exchanging confidences, "The American" was having a
truly hot and exciting time, as indeed he richly deserved.
Having entered the shaft, after securing the trap-door with its stout,
iron bolt, he descended the rickety ladder to the cellar; thence,
passing by a short tunnel, which Bonnemain had constructed with his own
hands, he ascended a few rough wooden steps, and found himself in a
lean-to outhouse close to a door in a high wall which led into a side
street.
Creeping to the door he drew the bolt, and in a moment was free.
Turning to the left, he took to his heels, and ran as fast as his legs
would carry him, intending, if possible, to get away to the country.
He was elated at his narrow escape, and how cleverly he had tricked his
friend, with whom he knew the police would be busy and so allow him time
to get clean away.
He was lithe and active, and a good runner. Therefore in his
rubber-soled shoes he ran swiftly in the grey light of early morning,
turning corner after corner, doubling and re-doubling until he came to a
main thoroughfare. Then, walking slowly, he crossed it, and dived into a
maze of small turnings, all of which were familiar to him.
His first idea had been to seek refuge in the house of a friend--a
thief, like himself, named Toussaint--but such a course would, he
reflected, be highly dangerous. The police knew Toussaint to be a friend
of his, and would, perhaps, go there in search of him.
No. The best course was to get away into the country, and then to
Belgium or Spain. With that snug little sum in his pocket, he could live
quietly for at least a year.
At last, out of breath, he ceased running, and, moreover, he noticed
some men, going to their work early, look askance at his hurry.
So he walked quietly, and lit a cigarette so as to assume an air of
unconcern.
"'The Eel' has been trapped at last," he laughed to himself. Then, as he
put his hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, it came into contact
with Jean's letter of farewell.
He drew it out, glanced at it, and put it into his inner pocket with an
imprecation followed by a triumphant laugh.
Then he whistled in a low tone to himself a popular and catchy refrain.
He was walking along briskly, smiling within himself at his alert
cleverness at escaping, when, on suddenly turning the corner of a narrow
street close to the Seine, he found himself face to face with two agents
of police on cycles.
They were about a hundred yards away and coming in his direction. They
instantly recognised him. They were the two men sent out by the
commissary.
In a moment, by the attitude of the two officers, Ralph Ansell realised
his danger. But too late. They threw down their cycles and fell upon
him.
For a few seconds there was a fierce struggle, but in desperation Ansell
drew his revolver and fired point-blank at one of his captors, who
staggered and fell back with a bullet-wound in the face.
Then in a moment the thief had wrenched himself free and was away.
The sound of the shot alarmed two other police-cyclists who were in the
vicinity, and, attracted by the shouts of the injured man's companion,
they were soon on the scene, and lost no time in pursuing the fugitive.
The chase was a stern one. Through narrow, crooked streets "The
American" ran with all speed possible, his endeavour being to reach a
narrow lane protected from wheeled traffic by posts at either end,
where he knew the cyclists would be compelled to dismount.
The quarter where he was, chanced to be a not altogether respectable
one, therefore the wild shouts of the pursuing cyclists brought no
assistance from the onlookers. Indeed, the people shouted to the
fugitive, crying:
"Run, young fellow! Run on and they won't get you! Run!"
And men and women shouted after him encouragingly.
With their cries in his ears, Ansell mended his pace, but his pursuers
were fast gaining upon him, and had almost overtaken him when he reached
the narrow passage between two high, dark-looking houses, close to the
river.
He was now near to the river-bank, and within sight of the Pont des
Peupliers, which crosses the Seine to Issy. The two police-agents threw
aside their cycles and sped after him, but he was too quick for them,
and when they had passed through the passage, they saw him dashing along
by the edge of the river.
In his mad haste he stumbled and fell, and his pursuers were instantly
upon him. But ere they could reach him he had jumped again to his feet
and, levelling his revolver, fired point-blank at them.
The bullet passed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to
work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice,
again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in
good odour with the public, as are the police of London.
"Keep on, brave boy!" they shouted. "Go it! Don't give up!" And so on.
The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no
heed of the men's jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot;
therefore they intended to arrest his assailant, alive or dead.
Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired
at Ansell in return.
"Coward!" cried the men, reproachfully. "You can't catch the man, so
you'd shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?"
On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such
criticism, for they were used to it.
At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly
done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting
out of his head.
He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for
the two men had now out-run him.
They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy,
black revolver in his hand.
Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash--liberty or
death?
He chose the latter, and ere his pursuers were aware of his intention,
he halted on the stone edge of the embankment.
For a second he paused, and laughing back triumphantly at the agents,
who had cornered him, he raised his hands above his head and dived into
the swiftly flowing stream.
The men who had chased him drew up instantly, and the elder, raising his
weapon, fired at the thief's head as it appeared above the water. Three
times he fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the head disappear
beneath the surface close to the dark shadow of the bridge.
That he had wounded him was plainly evident. Therefore, in satisfaction,
the two men stood and watched to see the fugitive rise again.
But they watched in vain.
If he did rise, it was beneath the great bridge, where the dark shadow
obscured him, for it was not yet daylight.
Ralph Ansell, alias "The American," and alias half-a-dozen other names,
known in criminal circles in Paris, London, and New York, sank in the
swift, muddy Seine flood--and disappeared.
CHAPTER XIII.
SISTERS IN SILENCE.
Just before eleven o'clock on the following morning two sisters of the
Order of Saint Agnes, one of the religious Orders which devote
themselves to nursing the poor, were passing through the Tuileries
Gardens, sombre figures in their ample plain, black habits, black
head-dresses, and deep, white collars, their hands beneath their gowns
and gaze downturned, when one of them chanced to note the frail,
pathetic little figure of a woman resting upon one of the seats.
It was Jean Ansell. Worn and weary after hours of aimless wandering, she
had entered those gardens so beloved of Parisian _bonnes_ and children,
and sunk down upon that seat just within the high railings skirting the
busy Rue de Rivoli, and had then burst into bitter tears. Her young
heart was broken.
Within sound of the hum of the never-ceasing motor traffic, up and down
that fine, straight street of colonnades to the great Place de la
Concorde, where the fountains were playing, the stream of everyday life
of the Gay City had passed her by. None cared--none, indeed, heed a
woman's tears.
Men glanced at her and shrugged their shoulders, and the women who went
by only grinned. Her troubles were no concern of theirs. Hatless, with
only an old black shawl about her, and with her apron still on, she
found herself hungry, homeless, and abandoned. Moreover, she was the
wedded wife of a dangerous criminal!
Those who passed her by little dreamed of the strange tragedy that was
hers, of the incidents of the past night, of the burglary, the betrayal,
the arrest, the flight, and the crowning tragedy. Indeed, she herself
sat in ignorance of what had happened to the pair after they had left
the house.
She was only wondering whether Ralph had found her note, and whether on
reading it, he had experienced any pang of regret.
She was only an encumbrance. He had bluntly told her so.
And as she again burst into tears, for the twentieth time in the
half-hour she had rested upon that seat, the two grave-faced sisters
noticed her. Then, after discussing her at a distance, they ventured to
approach.
She was sitting in blank despair, her elbow upon the arm of the seat,
her head bent, her hand upon her brow, her whole frame convulsed by
sobs.
"Sister, you are in trouble," exclaimed the elder of the two thin-faced,
ascetic-looking women, addressing her as she placed a hand tenderly upon
her shoulder. "Can we be of any assistance?"
Poor Jean looked up startled, dazed for the moment. She was amazed at
sight of them. Ah, only those who have been adrift in Paris--the bright,
laughter-loving, gay city of world-wide fame--know how hard, cruel, and
unsympathetic Paris is, how the dazzling shops, the well-dressed crowds,
the brilliantly-lit boulevards, the merry _cafés_, and the clattering
restaurants all combine to mock the hungry and weary, the despairing,
the penniless.
The girl looked up into the kind, rather sad features framed by the
white linen head-dress, and tried to speak. She endeavoured to reply,
but so weak was she after a whole day and night without food, that she
suddenly fainted.
It was some time before she recovered consciousness, but as soon as she
was sufficiently calm she gave them a brief account of what had
happened. She said nothing about her husband's latest exploit, but
merely told them how she had left him because of his neglect and
brutality, combined with the fact that she had made the astounding
discovery that he was a thief.
They sat beside her, listening attentively to her story, and expressing
the deepest sympathy.
Then, after a quarter of an hour's conversation, the two sisters agreed
that they could not leave her there alone, and suggested that she should
accompany them to the convent, situated a few kilometres out of Paris,
close to Enghien.
So, after taking her to a small restaurant near and giving her some
food, they took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and half an hour later
entered the big convent of the Order, a grey, inartistic, but spacious
place, with large shady gardens at the rear, sloping down to the Lake of
Enghien.
In the heavy door was a small grille, and when one of the sisters rang
the clanging bell a woman's face peered forth at them with curiosity
before admitting them.
Jean, in her weak, nervous state, had visions of long, stone corridors,
of ghostly figures in black habits and white caps moving noiselessly,
and of a peace and silence entirely strange to her. Inside, no one
spoke. Save those conducting her to the rooms of the Mother Superior,
all were mute.
On every wall was a crucifix, and at each corner in a small niche stood
a statue of the Holy Virgin.
They passed by the fine chapel, and Jean saw the long, stained-glass
windows, the rows of empty chairs, and the Roman Catholic altar, the
burning candles reflecting upon the burnished gilt, and the arum lilies
in the big brass vases on either side.
At last, shown into a large bare room, the walls of which were panelled
half-way up--a room bare, austere, and comfortless, with an utter lack
of any attempt at decoration--Jean sank into a big leather-covered
arm-chair, and one of the sisters took the old black shawl from her
shoulders.
A few minutes later there entered an elderly, stately woman, with hard
mouth and aquiline nose, yet in whose eyes was a pleasant, sympathetic
expression--a woman very calm, very possessed, even austere. She was the
Mother Superior.
With her was another sister, also a probationer in the white dress, big
apron, and cap with strings, proclaiming her to be a nurse.
The two sisters who had found the poor girl introduced her to the Mother
Superior, who at first looked askance at her and whose manner was by no
means cordial.
She heard all in silence, gazing coldly at the girl seated in the chair.
Then she questioned her in a hard, unmusical voice.
"You have been brought up in London--eh?"
"Yes, madame. I was a modiste, and my father was a restaurant keeper."
"You speak English?"
"Quite well, madame. I have lived there ten years."
"We have a branch of the sisterhood in England--near Richmond. Perhaps
you know it?"
"Yes, madame. I remember my father pointing the convent out to me."
"Ah, you know it!" exclaimed the elder woman. "I was there last year."
Then she reverted to Jean's husband, asking where they were married, and
many details concerning their life since that event.
To all the questions Jean replied frankly and openly. All she concealed
was the fact that Ralph and Adolphe had committed a burglary on the
night when she had taken her departure.
"I could not stand it any longer, madame," she assured the Mother
Superior, with hot tears in her big eyes. "He tried to strike me, but
his friend prevented him."
"His friend sympathised with you--eh?" remarked the woman, who had had
much experience of the wrongs of other women.
"Yes, madame."
"In love with you? Answer me that truthfully!" she asked sternly.
"I--I--I really don't know," was the reply, and a hot flush came to her
pale cheeks.
The questioner's lips grew harder.
"But it is plain," she said. "That man was in love with you! Did he ever
suggest that you should leave your husband?"
"No--never--never!" she declared very emphatically. "He never made such
a suggestion."
"He did not know your intention of leaving your home?"
"No. He knew nothing."
The Mother Superior was silent for a few moments, surveying the pale,
despairing little figure in the huge carved chair; then, with a woman's
sympathy, she advanced towards her and, placing her hand upon her
shoulder, said:
"My child, I believe your story. I feel that it is true. The man who was
a criminal deceived you, and you were right to leave him to his own
devices, if he refused to listen to your appeal to him to walk in the
path of honesty. To such as you our Order extends its protection. Remain
here with us, child, and your home in future shall be a home of peace,
and your life shall be spent in doing good to others, according to the
Divine command."
At her words the three sisters bent to her enthusiastically, calling her
by her Christian name; while Jean, on her part, raised the thin, bony
hand of the Mother Superior and kissed it in deep gratitude.
From that moment she became a probationer, and joined the peaceful,
happy circle who kept their religious observations so rigidly, and who,
during the hours of recreation, chattered and made merry together as
women will.
In her white dress, linen apron, and flat cap with strings, her first
duties were in the linen-room, where she employed her time in sewing,
with three other probationers as companions, while each day she attended
a class for instruction in first aid in nursing.
Thus the weeks went on until, in the month of November, the Mother
Superior came to her one afternoon with the news--not altogether
welcome--that as she spoke English so well, it had been arranged that
she should be transferred to the branch in London, and that she was to
leave in two days' time.
So attached had she become to them all that she burst into tears and
appealed to be allowed to remain. The matter, however, had been decided
by the Council of the Order, therefore to stay was impossible. The only
hope that the Mother Superior held out was that she might come back to
Paris at frequent intervals as a visitor.
Long and many were the leave-takings, but at last came the hour of her
departure.
Then, with a final farewell to the Mother Superior, she entered the taxi
with her small belongings and drove to the Gare du Nord, where, in the
black habit of the Order, she took train for London.
The journey by way of Calais and Dover had no novelty for her. She had
done it several times before. But on the arrival platform at Charing
Cross she saw two sisters of her Order awaiting her, and was quickly
welcomed by them.
Then, hailing a taxi, the three drove at once away through Kensington,
across Hammersmith Bridge, along Castlenau, across Barnes Common, and at
last into Roehampton Lane, that long, narrow thoroughfare which, even
to-day, retains a semi-rural aspect, its big, old-fashioned houses
surrounded by spacious grounds, and its several institutions which have
been built on sites of mansions demolished during the past five years or
so.
The Convent of Saint Agnes was a big building, constructed specially by
the Order some twenty years ago. Shut off from the dusty, narrow roads
by a high, grey wall with a small, arched door as the only entrance, it
stood about half-way between the border of Barnes Common and Richmond
Park, a place with many little arched windows and a niche with a statue
of the Virgin over the door.
Here the Mother Superior--a woman slightly older than the directress in
Paris, but with a face rather more pleasant--welcomed her warmly, and
before the next day had passed Jean had settled down to her duties--the
same as those in Paris, the mending of linen, at which she had become an
adept.
In the dull November days, as she sat at the window of the linen-room
overlooking the frost-bitten garden with its leafless trees and dead
flowers, she fell to wondering how Ralph fared. She wondered how all her
friends were at the Maison Collette, and who was now proprietor of her
dead father's little restaurant in Oxford Street.
Through the open windows of her little cubicle, in the silence of night,
she could see the red glare over London, and could hear the distant roar
of the great Metropolis. Oft-times she lay thinking for hours, thinking
and wondering what had become of the man she so unwisely loved--the man
who had destroyed all her fondest hopes and illusions.
December went on, a new year dawned--a year of new hopes and new
resolutions.
She had settled down in her new home, and, among the English sisters,
found herself just as happy as she had been at Enghien. No one in the
whole sisterhood was more attentive to her instruction, both religious
and in nursing, for she was looking forward with hope that by March she
would pass from the grade of probationer to that of nurse, and that she
would soon go forth upon her errands of mercy among the poor and
afflicted.
And so, after the storm and stress of life in the underworld of Paris,
Jean Ansell lived in an atmosphere of devotion, of perfect happiness,
and blissful peace.
CHAPTER XIV.
JEAN LEARNS THE TRUTH.
Months--months of a quiet, peaceful, uneventful life--went by, and Jean
had become even more popular among the English sisters than she had been
in Paris.
Though her life had so entirely changed, and she had naught to worry
her, not a thought nor a care beyond her religious duties and her
nursing, in which she was now growing proficient, she would sometimes
sit and think over her brief married life, and become filled by wonder.
Where was her husband? Where, too, was the low-born thief who had taken
her part and prevented the blow upon that never-to-be-forgotten night?
Sometimes when she reflected upon it all she sat horrified. And when she
recollected how shamefully she had been deceived by the man she so
implicitly trusted and so dearly loved, tears would well in her great,
big eyes. Sister Gertrude, one of the nurses, a tall, fair woman, who
was her most intimate friend, often noticed the redness of her eyes, and
guessed the truth.
Seldom, if ever, Jean went out farther than across Barnes Common or into
Richmond Park for exercise, and always accompanied by Sister Gertrude,
the latter wearing the black habit of the Sisterhood, while Jean herself
was in a distinctive garb as a nurse of the Order of Saint Agnes.
Never once in all those months had she been in London. All she saw of it
was the red glare upon the night sky. But she was happy enough. London,
and especially the neighbourhood of Regent Street, would remind her too
vividly of Ralph and of her dear father.
One spring afternoon, while seated at the open window finishing some
needlework destined for a poor family living in a back street off the
Hammersmith Broadway, she was chatting merrily with Sister Gertrude.
Over their needlework the rules allowed them to chatter, and in that
barely-furnished little room she and Sister Gertrude enjoyed many a
pleasant gossip.
Outside, the garden was gay with daffodils and hyacinths, and the trees
were just bursting into bud, the fresh green rendered the brighter by
the warm sunshine.
Jean concluded her work at last, placed her needle in the cushion, and
removed her thimble.
"At last!" she sighed. "I've been over this a whole week," she added.
"Yes; you've been most patient," declared her friend. "Soon you will
abandon needlework and be sent out nursing. I heard the Mother Superior
talking about it with Sister Lilian after vespers last night. Now that
Sister Hannah has gone back to Paris we are one nurse short, and you are
to take her place."
"Am I?" cried Jean, with delight, for she had studied long and
diligently in the hope that soon outside work would be given her. She
was devoted to nursing, and had made herself proficient in most of the
subjects.
"Yes. I believe you will hear something in the course of a few days.
But," added Sister Gertrude, "I know another secret. Your friend, the
Mother Superior in Paris, is coming here, and ours has been transferred
to Antwerp. The change will be announced, I expect, to-morrow."
At this news Jean expressed the greatest satisfaction, for the grave,
yet rather hard-faced, directress of the convent at Enghien had been so
good and generous that she had become devotedly attached to her. Indeed,
to her she owed her life, for in her despondent state on that morning
when found in the Tuileries Gardens she had seriously contemplated
throwing herself into the Seine.
Jean was therefore loud in praise of the directress from Enghien, and
highly delighted at the thought of her coming to take over the direction
of the English branch of the Order.
"Here is some paper and string to wrap up your work," Sister Gertrude
said at last, handing her an old copy of the _Daily Telegraph_. "I am
taking it with me to Hammersmith this evening."
And then she left the room, promising to return in a few minutes.
Alone, Jean, standing at the window, gazed idly at the newspaper, the
date of which was a Monday in the previous October.
It was strictly against the rules of the Order to read any newspaper,
but as she turned it over, a column headed "Paris Day by Day" caught her
eye. The temptation proved too much, and she scanned it down as she had
been in the habit of scanning the paper each evening in the days when
she had lived at home.
Suddenly a paragraph caught her eye. Her mouth stood open, her eyes
started from their sockets as she read. Then she held her breath,
placing her left hand to her breast as though to stay the beating of her
heart.
Her countenance was blanched to the lips. The words she read were as
follows:
"The daring exploits of the notorious criminal, Ansell,
alias 'The American,' and Carlier, alias 'The Eel,' are at
an end. Yesterday, in Paris, Carlier was sentenced to seven
years' hard labour, and Ansell, it will be remembered, was
shot by the police while swimming the Seine, but his body
was never recovered."
"Dead!" she gasped, white as death. "Shot down by the police--_my
husband!_"
She staggered, clutching at the small deal work-table for support, or
she would have fallen.
"And Adolphe has been sent to prison for seven years!" she went on,
speaking to herself in a low mechanical tone. "Was it for the crime
committed on that night, I wonder? Were my fears well-grounded, and did
my prediction of discovery come true? Ah, if Ralph had but listened to
my appeal!" she cried in agony. "But he is dead--dead! Shot by the
police--shot down like an animal. Ah, what an ignominious end!"
The newspaper fell from her fingers. The blow had stunned her.
She stood swaying slightly, her white face turned towards the open
window, her eyes staring straight before her--silent, motionless,
aghast.
Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly
unconscious of her presence.
"You are unwell, Jean," she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before
entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the
daughter of a well-known Paris banker. "Tell me, dear, what ails you?"
Jean started, and stared at her in amazement.
"I--I--oh, there is nothing," she faltered. "I don't feel very
well--that's all."
The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white,
nerveless fingers.
In Jean's face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of
the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those
few moments of her absence.
"Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?" she asked her
friend, to whom she was so much attached.
"Nothing, thanks," was her reply, with a great effort. "I shall be quite
well soon, I hope."
Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the
girl's shoulder tenderly, said:
"You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your
secret? Why not confide in me?"
"Secret!" she echoed. "It is no secret!"
"Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?"
Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of
a notorious thief--a man who had been shot like a dog by the police?
No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that
moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two
sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And
none should now know.
"Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare," she laughed,
well feigning amusement at the situation. "I am quite well now. Quite
well, I assure you."
And picking up the old copy of the newspaper, she resumed the wrapping
up of the parcel of underclothing which she had made with her own hands
for charitable purposes.
And the big bell having clanged out for tea in the refectory, Jean and
Sister Gertrude passed arm-in-arm through the long stone corridor to the
big, vaulted hall, where all the inmates of the convent had assembled
and the Mother Superior was presiding over the four shining tea-urns at
the top table.
But Jean sat silent and thoughtfully sipping her tea, heedless of all
about her.
Her mind was full of that terse announcement which she had read, the
obituary notice of the notorious thief known in Paris as "The
American"--the man whom she loved and who was her husband.
She was thinking, too, of _Fil-en-Quatre_, the shock-headed, rather
uncouth Parisian loafer--the man who had been sentenced to seven years'
hard labour. That meant Cayenne, without a doubt--drudgery at Devil's
Island, that ill-governed penal settlement established by the Republic
of France.
She remembered him. Ah, how often he had sympathised with her! How
frequently he had uttered cheering words to her in secret, although he
had never once betrayed his friend's real profession, nor had he ever
once spoken of the great and fervent affection which he had borne her.
Though he was a thief, a scoundrel of the underworld of Paris,
ingenious, unscrupulous, and even dangerous if cornered, he was
nevertheless loyal and honest towards his friend, and behaved as a
gentleman towards his friend's wife.
Yes, Adolphe Carlier, though a thief, was still a gentleman in the true
sense of the word.
The weeks went by, and poor Jean, a widow in secret--for she told no one
of what had occurred--was sent forth daily in the poorer districts of
London on her mission to the sick, to whom she carried food and
delicacies prepared by the kind hands of the sisters.
The slums she visited in Clerkenwell and other places often reminded her
of those last few days of her married life, those days before she parted
for ever from "Le Costaud." Where men feared to venture, and where no
police-constable cared to go alone, she went without fear, down into the
deepest depths of the unknown underworld of London, and through months
she worked hard each day amid the most sordid and poverty-stricken
surroundings, returning each night to the convent fagged and hungry. But
now that she knew the bitter truth, her whole life was devoted to her
work of mercy and to her religious duties. Her sweetness of disposition,
her calm patience, her soft voice, and her cheerful manner all endeared
her to those whom she tended with such unremitting care.
Thus she passed the long summer days in the stifling slums of London.
So devoted was she, and so hard did she work, that at last a serious
illness was threatened, in consequence of which she was sent by the
Mother Superior to the West of England branch of the Order, who had a
small convent at Babbacombe, near Torquay, and in the latter town, in
better air, she continued her labours.
Not far from the convent, on the road leading to Newton Abbot, was the
ivy-covered lodge and great, handsome gates of ornamental iron leading
to Bracondale Park, the seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of
Bracondale, K.G.
The park, a spacious domain with great oaks and elms, was situated high
up, overlooking the English Channel, and away in the distance the long,
rather low-built mansion with a square, castellated turret at the
western end. The fine domain of the Bracondales, one of the most ancient
families in England, extended over many thousands of fertile acres in
Devon, besides which the Earl possessed a deer forest near Grantown, in
the Highlands; a pretty winter villa at Beaulieu, close to Nice; the
old-fashioned town house in Belgrave Square, and a pretty seaside villa
in the new and fashionable little resort, Saint-Addresse, near Havre.
But, as His Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,
the Earl of Bracondale had but little time in which to enjoy his
beautiful residences. True, he spent a few weeks on the Riviera in
winter, shot once or twice over the Bracondale coverts in the season,
and spent an annual fortnight up at the shooting lodge in Scotland; but
he was usually to be found either at Downing Street or down at
Bracondale immersed and absorbed by the affairs of State.
His one hobby was motoring, and he frequently drove his own car--a big
six-cylinder open one. Years ago, on the introduction of the motor-car,
he had been a young man, and had quickly become an enthusiast. He had
motored ever since the early days, and was still an expert driver. Once
he had held a world's distance record, and nowadays, even with the heavy
responsibilities upon him, he was never so happy as in overcoat and cap
at the steering-wheel. And in this recreation he found a very beneficial
change after so many hours of studying complicated reports and worrying
despatches from the Embassies abroad.
One summer's night he had been addressing a big political meeting at
Plymouth, and at ten o'clock he turned out of the garage of the Royal
Hotel, and alone drove through the brilliant, starlit night back to
Babbacombe. Usually when he went out at night he took Budron, the head
chauffeur, with him. But on this occasion he had left the man in London,
superintending some repairs to one of the other cars. Hence he put on a
cigar, and, alone, drove leisurely along the rather narrow, winding high
road which leads from Plymouth through Plympton and Ivybridge.
The distance was twenty-five miles or so, and he travelled swiftly
during the last portion of it.
It was nearly half-past eleven when he passed through Torquay, then
silent and deserted, and ascending the hill, was quickly on the
Babbacombe road.
Suddenly, however, when within half a mile of his own lodge gates, at a
sharp bend in the narrow road along the cliffs, he found himself facing
a heavy wagon, the driver of which was asleep.
There was the crash of a heavy impact, a shattering of glass, a rearing
of horses, and next second his lordship, shot out of his seat, was lying
on the other side of a low hedge, doubled up and quite still, while the
car itself was overturned and completely wrecked.
CHAPTER XV.
HIS LORDSHIP'S VISITOR.
The two doctors, summoned by telephone from Torquay, stood beside Lord
Bracondale's bed, and after careful examination and long consultation,
grew very grave.
His lordship had been carried unconscious to the park and upstairs into
his own tastefully-furnished room, where he still remained motionless
and senseless, though two hours had now passed.
In addition to severe contusions, his shoulder was badly dislocated, and
it was also feared that he had suffered severe internal injury through
being thrown against the steering-pillar of the car. The examination had
occupied a long time, and the greatest consternation had been caused in
the big household, the servants going about pale and scared.
Dr. Wright-Gilson, the elder of the two medical practitioners, a rather
bent, grey-bearded man, addressing his colleague, said, after a long
discussion:
"I really think that Morrison should see him. If I telephoned to him at
Cavendish Square he could be down here by ten o'clock to-morrow. We
could then have a consultation, and decide whether to operate or not."
To this the younger man agreed; therefore Wright-Gilson went into the
library with Jenner, the stout, white-headed old butler, and, using the
private telephone to Downing Street, which stood upon the big, littered
writing-table, he was quickly put on to the house of Sir Evered
Morrison, the great surgeon.
The specialist, who was asleep, answered the telephone at his bedside,
and, hearing of the accident, promised he would catch the next train
from Paddington. Then he rose, dressed hurriedly, and left by the
newspaper-train.
At eleven o'clock the next morning--by which hour the world knew of his
lordship's accident--the great specialist had made his examination and
was seated in the library with the two Torquay doctors.
"No," said Sir Evered, a tall, thin, clean-shaven man, who was a
personal friend of Lord Bracondale's. "In my opinion an operation is not
advisable. The case is a serious one, and full of grave danger. But I do
not think we need despair. I'll remain here, and by this evening I shall
hope to see consciousness restored." Then he added: "By the way, are
there any good nurses in Torquay?"
"The Convent of Saint Agnes is quite close. They are a Nursing Order, as
you know," replied Dr. Wright-Gilson.
"Yes, and usually most excellent. We had better send for the Mother
Superior and get her to give us two trustworthy nurses. Having myself
had experience of them, I have always found them most painstaking, and
in every way excellent."
"That is also my own experience, Sir Evered. Several of my patients have
employed them with great success."
"Very well; we will have them." And Jenner was at o
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