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diff --git a/old/63580-0.txt b/old/63580-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e07849d..0000000 --- a/old/63580-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6994 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Loot of Cities, by Arnold Bennett - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: The Loot of Cities - -Subtitle: Being the Adventures of a Millionaire in Search of Joy (A - Fantasia); And Other Stories - -Author: Arnold Bennett - -Release Date: October 30, 2020 [EBook #63580] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive) - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOT OF CITIES *** - - - - - THE - LOOT OF CITIES - - BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A - MILLIONAIRE IN SEARCH OF JOY - (A FANTASIA); AND OTHER STORIES - - BY - ARNOLD BENNETT - AUTHOR OF “THE OLD WIVES’ TALE” - - [Illustration: ·1798· - - EDINBURGH] - - THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD. - LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK - - - _Pensa, lettor, se quel che qui s’inizia - non procedesse, come tu avresti - di più sapere angosciosa carizia._ - - DANTE. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - THE LOOT OF CITIES 7 - - MR. PENFOUND’S TWO BURGLARS 157 - - MIDNIGHT AT THE GRAND BABYLON 173 - - THE POLICE STATION 193 - - THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIMA DONNA 214 - - THE EPISODE IN ROOM 222 225 - - SATURDAY TO MONDAY 235 - - A DINNER AT THE LOUVRE 244 - - - - -THE LOOT OF CITIES. - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE FIRE OF LONDON. - -“You’re wanted on the telephone, sir.” - -Mr. Bruce Bowring, managing director of the Consolidated Mining and -Investment Corporation, Limited (capital two millions, in one-pound -shares, which stood at twenty-seven-and-six), turned and gazed -querulously across the electric-lit spaces of his superb private -office at the confidential clerk who addressed him. Mr. Bowring, in -shirt-sleeves before a Florentine mirror, was brushing his hair with -the solicitude of a mother who has failed to rear most of a large -family. - -“Who is it?” he asked, as if that demand for him were the last straw -but one. “Nearly seven on Friday evening!” he added, martyrised. - -“I think a friend, sir.” - -The middle-aged financier dropped his gold-mounted brush and, -wading through the deep pile of the Oriental carpet, passed into the -telephone-cabinet and shut the door. - -“Hallo!” he accosted the transmitter, resolved not to be angry with it. -“Hal_lo_! Are you there? Yes, I’m Bowring. Who are you?” - -“_Nrrrr_,” the faint, unhuman voice of the receiver whispered in his -ear. “_Nrrrr. Cluck._ I’m a friend.” - -“What name?” - -“No name. I thought you might like to know that a determined robbery -is going to be attempted to-night at your house in Lowndes Square, a -robbery of cash--and before nine o’clock. _Nrrrr._ I thought you might -like to know.” - -“Ah!” said Mr. Bowring to the transmitter. - -The feeble exclamation was all he could achieve at first. In the -confined, hot silence of the telephone-cabinet this message, coming to -him mysteriously out of the vast unknown of London, struck him with a -sudden sick fear that perhaps his wondrously organised scheme might yet -mis-carry, even at the final moment. Why that night of all nights? And -why before nine o’clock? Could it be that the secret was out, then? - -“Any further interesting details?” he inquired, bracing himself to an -assumption of imperturbable and gay coolness. - -But there was no answer. And when after some difficulty he got the -exchange-girl to disclose the number which had rung him up, he found -that his interlocutor had been using a public call-office in Oxford -Street. He returned to his room, donned his frock-coat, took a large -envelope from a locked drawer and put it in his pocket, and sat down to -think a little. - -At that time Mr. Bruce Bowring was one of the most famous conjurers in -the City. He had begun, ten years earlier, with nothing but a silk hat; -and out of that empty hat had been produced, first the Hoop-La Limited, -a South African gold-mine of numerous stamps and frequent dividends, -then the Hoop-La No. 2 Limited, a mine with as many reincarnations as -Buddha, and then a dazzling succession of mines and combination of -mines. The more the hat emptied itself, the more it was full; and the -emerging objects (which now included the house in Lowndes Square and -a perfect dream of a place in Hampshire) grew constantly larger, and -the conjurer more impressive and persuasive, and the audience more -enthusiastic in its applause. At last, with a unique flourish, and a -new turning-up of sleeves to prove that there was no deception, had -come out of the hat the C.M.I.C., a sort of incredibly enormous Union -Jack, which enwrapped all the other objects in its splendid folds. -The shares of the C.M.I.C. were affectionately known in the Kaffir -circus as “Solids”; they yielded handsome though irregular dividends, -earned chiefly by flotation and speculation; the circus believed in -them. And in view of the annual meeting of shareholders to be held on -the following Tuesday afternoon (the conjurer in the chair and his hat -on the table), the market price, after a period of depression, had -stiffened. - -Mr. Bowring’s meditations were soon interrupted by a telegram. He -opened it and read: “_Cook drunk again. Will dine with you Devonshire, -seven-thirty. Impossible here. Have arranged about luggage.--Marie._” -Marie was Mr. Bowring’s wife. He told himself that he felt greatly -relieved by that telegram; he clutched at it; and his spirits seemed -to rise. At any rate, since he would not now go near Lowndes Square, -he could certainly laugh at the threatened robbery. He thought what a -wonderful thing Providence was, after all. - -“Just look at that,” he said to his clerk, showing the telegram with a -humorous affectation of dismay. - -“Tut, tut,” said the clerk, discreetly sympathetic towards his employer -thus victimised by debauched cooks. “I suppose you’re going down to -Hampshire to-night as usual, sir?” - -Mr. Bowring replied that he was, and that everything appeared to be in -order for the meeting, and that he should be back on Monday afternoon -or at the latest very early on Tuesday. - -Then, with a few parting instructions, and with that eagle glance -round his own room and into circumjacent rooms which a truly efficient -head of affairs never omits on leaving business for the week-end, Mr. -Bowring sedately, yet magnificently, departed from the noble registered -offices of the C.M.I.C. - -“Why didn’t Marie telephone instead of wiring?” he mused, as his pair -of greys whirled him and his coachman and his footman off to the -Devonshire. - - -II. - -The Devonshire Mansion, a bright edifice of eleven storeys in the -Foster and Dicksee style, constructional ironwork by Homan, lifts -by Waygood, decorations by Waring, and terra-cotta by the rood, is -situate on the edge of Hyde Park. It is a composite building. Its -foundations are firmly fixed in the Tube railway; above that comes -the wine cellarage, then the vast laundry, and then (a row of windows -scarcely level with the street) a sporting club, a billiard-room, a -grill-room, and a cigarette-merchant whose name ends in “opoulos.” -On the first floor is the renowned Devonshire Mansion Restaurant. -Always, in London, there is just one restaurant where, if you are -an entirely correct person, “you can get a decent meal.” The place -changes from season to season, but there is never more than one of -it at a time. That season it happened to be the Devonshire. (The -_chef_ of the Devonshire had invented tripe suppers, _tripes à la -mode de Caen_, and these suppers--seven-and-six--had been the rage.) -Consequently all entirely correct people fed as a matter of course at -the Devonshire, since there was no other place fit to go to. The vogue -of the restaurant favourably affected the vogue of the nine floors of -furnished suites above the restaurant; they were always full; and the -heavenward attics, where the servants took off their smart liveries -and became human, held much wealth. The vogue of the restaurant also -exercised a beneficial influence over the status of the Kitcat Club, -which was a cock-and-hen club of the latest pattern and had its “house” -on the third floor. - -It was a little after half-past seven when Mr. Bruce Bowring -haughtily ascended the grand staircase of this resort of opulence, -and paused for an instant near the immense fireplace at the summit -(September was inclement, and a fire burned nicely) to inquire from -the head-waiter whether Mrs. Bowring had secured a table. But Marie -had not arrived--Marie, who was never late! Uneasy and chagrined, -he proceeded, under the escort of the head-waiter, to the glittering -Salle Louis Quatorze and selected, because of his morning attire, a -table half-hidden behind an onyx pillar. The great room was moderately -full of fair women and possessive men, despite the month. Immediately -afterwards a youngish couple (the man handsomer and better dressed -than the woman) took the table on the other side of the pillar. Mr. -Bowring waited five minutes, then he ordered Sole Mornay and a bottle -of Romanée-Conti, and then he waited another five minutes. He went -somewhat in fear of his wife, and did not care to begin without her. - -“Can’t you read?” It was the youngish man at the next table -speaking in a raised voice to a squinting lackey with a -telegraph form in his hand. “‘Solids! Solids,’ my friend. -‘Sell--Solids--to--any--amount--to-morrow--and--Monday.’ Got it? Well, -send it off at once.” - -“Quite clear, my lord,” said the lackey, and fled. The youngish man -gazed fixedly but absently at Mr. Bowring and seemed to see through -him to the tapestry behind. Mr. Bowring, to his own keen annoyance, -reddened. Partly to conceal the blush, and partly because it was a -quarter to eight and there was the train to catch, he lowered his face, -and began upon the sole. A few minutes later the lackey returned, -gave some change to the youngish man, and surprised Mr. Bowring -by advancing towards him and handing him an envelope--an envelope -which bore on its flap the legend “Kitcat Club.” The note within was -scribbled in pencil in his wife’s handwriting, and ran: “_Just arrived. -Delayed by luggage. I’m too nervous to face the restaurant, and am -eating a chop here alone. The place is fortunately empty. Come and -fetch me as soon as you’re ready._” - -Mr. Bowring sighed angrily. He hated his wife’s club, and this -succession of messages telephonic, telegraphic, and caligraphic was -exasperating him. - -“No answer!” he ejaculated, and then he beckoned the lackey closer. -“Who’s that gentleman at the next table with the lady?” he murmured. - -“I’m not rightly sure, sir,” was the whispered reply. “Some authorities -say he’s the strong man at the Hippodrome, while others affirm he’s a -sort of American millionaire.” - -“But you addressed him as ‘my lord.’” - -“Just then I thought he was the strong man, sir,” said the lackey, -retiring. - -“My bill!” Mr. Bowring demanded fiercely of the waiter, and at the same -time the youngish gentleman and his companion rose and departed. - -At the lift Mr. Bowring found the squinting lackey in charge. - -“You’re the liftman, too?” - -“To-night, sir, I am many things. The fact is, the regular liftman has -got a couple of hours off--being the recent father of twins.” - -“Well--Kitcat Club.” - -The lift seemed to shoot far upwards, and Mr. Bowring thought the -lackey had mistaken the floor, but on gaining the corridor he saw -across the portals in front of him the remembered gold sign, “Kitcat -Club. Members only.” He pushed the door open and went in. - - -III. - -Instead of the familiar vestibule of his wife’s club, Mr. Bowring -discovered a small antechamber, and beyond, through a doorway -half-screened by a _portière_, he had glimpses of a rich, rose-lit -drawing-room. In the doorway, with one hand raised to the _portière_, -stood the youngish man who had forced him to blush in the restaurant. - -“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Bowring, stiffly--“is this the Kitcat -Club?” - -The other man advanced to the outer door, his brilliant eyes fixed on -Mr. Bowring’s; his arm crept round the cheek of the door and came back -bearing the gold sign; then he shut the door and locked it. “No, this -isn’t the Kitcat Club at all,” he replied. “It is my flat. Come and -sit down. I was expecting you.” - -“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Bowring disdainfully. - -“But when I tell you that I know you are going to decamp to-night, Mr. -Bowring----” - -The youngish man smiled affably. - -“Decamp?” The spine of the financier suddenly grew flaccid. - -“I used the word.” - -“Who the devil are you?” snapped the financier, forcing his spine to -rigidity. - -“I am the ‘friend’ on the telephone. I specially wanted you at the -Devonshire to-night, and I thought that the fear of a robbery at -Lowndes Square might make your arrival here more certain. I am he -who devised the story of the inebriated cook and favoured you with a -telegram signed ‘Marie.’ I am the humorist who pretended in a loud -voice to send off telegraphic instructions to sell ‘Solids,’ in order -to watch your demeanour under the test. I am the expert who forged your -wife’s handwriting in a note from the Kitcat. I am the patron of the -cross-eyed menial who gave you the note and who afterwards raised you -too high in the lift. I am the artificer of this gold sign, an exact -duplicate of the genuine one two floors below, which induced you to -visit me. The sign alone cost me nine-and-six; the servant’s livery -came to two pounds fifteen. But I never consider expense when, by dint -of a generous outlay, I can avoid violence. I hate violence.” He gently -waved the sign to and fro. - -“Then my wife----” Mr. Bowring stammered in a panic rage. - -“Is probably at Lowndes Square, wondering what on earth has happened to -you.” - -Mr. Bowring took breath, remembered that he was a great man, and -steadied himself. - -“You must be mad,” he remarked quietly. “Open this door at once.” - -“Perhaps,” the stranger judicially admitted. “Perhaps a sort of -madness. But do come and sit down. We have no time to lose.” - -Mr. Bowring gazed at that handsome face, with the fine nostrils, large -mouth, and square clean chin, and the dark eyes, the black hair, and -long, black moustache; and he noticed the long, thin hands. “Decadent!” -he decided. Nevertheless, and though it was with the air of indulging -the caprice of a lunatic, he did in fact obey the stranger’s request. - -It was a beautiful Chippendale drawing-room that he entered. Near -the hearth, to which a morsel of fire gave cheerfulness, were two -easy-chairs, and between them a small table. Behind was extended a -fourfold draught-screen. - -“I can give you just five minutes,” said Mr. Bowring, magisterially -sitting down. - -“They will suffice,” the stranger responded, sitting down also. “You -have in your pocket, Mr. Bowring--probably your breast-pocket--fifty -Bank of England notes for a thousand pounds each, and a number of -smaller notes amounting to another ten thousand.” - -“Well?” - -“I must demand from you the first-named fifty.” - -Mr. Bowring, in the silence of the rose-lit drawing-room, thought of -all the Devonshire Mansion, with its endless corridors and innumerable -rooms, its acres of carpets, its forests of furniture, its gold and -silver, and its jewels and its wines, its pretty women and possessive -men--the whole humming microcosm founded on a unanimous pretence that -the sacredness of property was a natural law. And he thought how -disconcerting it was that he should be trapped there, helpless, in -the very middle of the vast pretence, and forced to admit that the -sacredness of property was a purely artificial convention. - -“By what right do you make this demand?” he inquired, bravely sarcastic. - -“By the right of my unique knowledge,” said the stranger, with a -bright smile. “Listen to what you and I alone know. You are at the -end of the tether. The Consolidated is at the same spot. You have a -past consisting chiefly of nineteen fraudulent flotations. You have -paid dividends out of capital till there is no capital left. You have -speculated and lost. You have cooked balance-sheets to a turn and -ruined the eyesight of auditors with dust. You have lived like ten -lords. Your houses are mortgaged. You own an unrivalled collection of -unreceipted bills. You are worse than a common thief. (Excuse these -personalities.)” - -“My dear, good sir----” Mr. Bowring interrupted, grandly. - -“Permit me. What is more serious, your self-confidence has been -gradually deserting you. At last, perceiving that some blundering -person was bound soon to put his foot through the brittle shell of -your ostentation and tread on nothing, and foreseeing for yourself an -immediate future consisting chiefly of Holloway, you have by a supreme -effort of your genius, borrowed £60,000 from a bank on C.M.I.C. scrip, -for a week (eh?), and you have arranged, you and your wife, to--melt -into thin air. You will affect to set out as usual for your country -place in Hampshire, but it is Southampton that will see you to-night, -and Havre will see you to-morrow. You may run over to Paris to change -some notes, but by Monday you will be on your way to----frankly, I -don’t know where; perhaps Monte Video. Of course you take the risk of -extradition, but the risk is preferable to the certainty that awaits -you in England. I think you will elude extradition. If I thought -otherwise, I should not have had you here to-night, because, once -extradited, you might begin to amuse yourself by talking about me.” - -“So it’s blackmail,” said Mr. Bowring, grim. - -The dark eyes opposite to him sparkled gaily. - -“It desolates me,” the youngish man observed, “to have to commit you -to the deep with only ten thousand. But, really, not less than fifty -thousand will requite me for the brain-tissue which I have expended in -the study of your interesting situation.” - -Mr. Bowring consulted his watch. - -“Come, now,” he said, huskily; “I’ll give you ten thousand. I flatter -myself I can look facts in the face, and so I’ll give you ten thousand.” - -“My friend,” answered the spider, “you are a judge of character. Do -you honestly think I don’t mean precisely what I say--to sixpence? It -is eight-thirty. You are, if I may be allowed the remark, running it -rather fine.” - -“And suppose I refuse to part?” said Mr. Bowring, after reflection. -“What then?” - -“I have confessed to you that I hate violence. You would therefore -leave this room unmolested, but you wouldn’t step off the island.” - -Mr. Bowring scanned the agreeable features of the stranger. Then, while -the lifts were ascending and descending, and the wine was sparkling, -and the jewels flashing, and the gold chinking, and the pretty women -being pretty, in all the four quarters of the Devonshire, Mr. Bruce -Bowring in the silent parlour counted out fifty notes on to the table. -After all, it was a fortune, that little pile of white on the crimson -polished wood. - -“_Bon voyage!_” said the stranger. “Don’t imagine that I am not full of -sympathy for you. I am. You have only been unfortunate. _Bon voyage!_” - -“No! By Heaven!” Mr. Bowring almost shouted, rushing back from the -door, and drawing a revolver from his hip pocket. “It’s too much! I -didn’t mean to--but confound it! what’s a revolver for?” - -The youngish man jumped up quickly and put his hands on the notes. - -“Violence is always foolish, Mr. Bowring,” he murmured. - -“Will you give them up, or won’t you?” - -“I won’t.” - -The stranger’s fine eyes seemed to glint with joy in the drama. - -“Then----” - -The revolver was raised, but in the same instant a tiny hand snatched -it from the hand of Mr. Bowring, who turned and beheld by his side a -woman. The huge screen sank slowly and noiselessly to the floor in the -surprising manner peculiar to screens that have been overset. - -Mr. Bowring cursed. “An accomplice! I might have guessed!” he grumbled -in final disgust. - -He ran to the door, unlocked it, and was no more seen. - - -IV. - -The lady was aged twenty-seven or so; of medium height, and slim, with -a plain, very intelligent and expressive face, lighted by courageous, -grey eyes and crowned with loose, abundant, fluffy hair. Perhaps it was -the fluffy hair, perhaps it was the mouth that twitched as she dropped -the revolver--who can say?--but the whole atmosphere of the rose-lit -chamber was suddenly changed. The incalculable had invaded it. - -“You seem surprised, Miss Fincastle,” said the possessor of the -bank-notes, laughing gaily. - -“Surprised!” echoed the lady, controlling that mouth. “My dear Mr. -Thorold, when, strictly as a journalist, I accepted your invitation, I -did not anticipate this sequel; frankly I did not.” - -She tried to speak coldly and evenly, on the assumption that a -journalist has no sex during business hours. But just then she happened -to be neither less nor more a woman than a woman always is. - -“If I have had the misfortune to annoy you----!” Thorold threw up his -arms in gallant despair. - -“Annoy is not the word,” said Miss Fincastle, nervously smiling. -“May I sit down? Thanks. Let us recount. You arrive in England, from -somewhere, as the son and heir of the late Ahasuerus Thorold, the New -York operator, who died worth six million dollars. It becomes known -that while in Algiers in the spring you stayed at the Hôtel St. James, -famous as the scene of what is called the ‘Algiers Mystery,’ familiar -to English newspaper-readers since last April. The editor of my journal -therefore instructs me to obtain an interview with you. I do so. -The first thing I discover is that, though an American, you have no -American accent. You explain this by saying that since infancy you have -always lived in Europe with your mother.” - -“But surely you do not doubt that I am Cecil Thorold!” said the man. -Their faces were approximate over the table. - -“Of course not. I merely recount. To continue. I interview you as to -the Algerian mystery, and get some new items concerning it. Then -you regale me with tea and your opinions, and my questions grow more -personal. So it comes about that, strictly on behalf of my paper, I -inquire what your recreations are. And suddenly you answer: ‘Ah! My -recreations! Come to dinner to-night, quite informally, and I will show -you how I amuse myself!’ I come. I dine. I am stuck behind that screen -and told to listen. And--and--the millionaire proves to be nothing but -a blackmailer.” - -“You must understand, my dear lady----” - -“I understand everything, Mr. Thorold, except your object in admitting -me to the scene.” - -“A whim!” cried Thorold vivaciously, “a freak of mine! Possibly due to -the eternal and universal desire of man to show off before woman!” - -The journalist tried to smile, but something in her face caused Thorold -to run to a chiffonier. - -“Drink this,” he said, returning with a glass. - -“I need nothing.” The voice was a whisper. - -“Oblige me.” - -Miss Fincastle drank and coughed. - -“Why did you do it?” she asked sadly, looking at the notes. - -“You don’t mean to say,” Thorold burst out, “that you are feeling sorry -for Mr. Bruce Bowring? He has merely parted with what he stole. And -the people from whom he stole, stole. All the activities which centre -about the Stock Exchange are simply various manifestations of one -primeval instinct. Suppose I had not--had not interfered. No one would -have been a penny the better off except Mr. Bruce Bowring. Whereas----” - -“You intend to restore this money to the Consolidated?” said Miss -Fincastle eagerly. - -“Not quite! The Consolidated doesn’t deserve it. You must not regard -its shareholders as a set of innocent shorn lambs. They knew the game. -They went in for what they could get. Besides, how could I restore the -money without giving myself away? I want the money myself.” - -“But you are a millionaire.” - -“It is precisely because I am a millionaire that I want more. All -millionaires are like that.” - -“I am sorry to find you a thief, Mr. Thorold.” - -“A thief! No. I am only direct, I only avoid the middleman. At dinner, -Miss Fincastle, you displayed somewhat advanced views about property, -marriage, and the aristocracy of brains. You said that labels were -for the stupid majority, and that the wise minority examined the -ideas behind the labels. You label me a thief, but examine the idea, -and you will perceive that you might as well call yourself a thief. -Your newspaper every day suppresses the truth about the City, and it -does so in order to live. In other words, it touches the pitch, it -participates in the game. To-day it has a fifty-line advertisement of a -false balance-sheet of the Consolidated, at two shillings a line. That -five pounds, part of the loot of a great city, will help to pay for -your account of our interview this afternoon.” - -“Our interview to-night,” Miss Fincastle corrected him stiffly, “and -all that I have seen and heard.” - -At these words she stood up, and as Cecil Thorold gazed at her his face -changed. - -“I shall begin to wish,” he said slowly, “that I had deprived myself of -the pleasure of your company this evening.” - -“You might have been a dead man had you done so,” Miss Fincastle -retorted, and observing his blank countenance she touched the revolver. -“Have you forgotten already?” she asked tartly. - -“Of course it wasn’t loaded,” he remarked. “Of course I had seen to -that earlier in the day. I am not such a bungler----” - -“Then I didn’t save your life?” - -“You force me to say that you did not, and to remind you that you gave -me your word not to emerge from behind the screen. However, seeing -the motive, I can only thank you for that lapse. The pity is that it -hopelessly compromises you.” - -“Me?” exclaimed Miss Fincastle. - -“You. Can’t you see that you are in it, in this robbery, to give the -thing a label. You were alone with the robber. You succoured the robber -at a critical moment.... ‘Accomplice,’ Mr. Bowring himself said. My -dear journalist, the episode of the revolver, empty though the revolver -was, seals your lips.” - -Miss Fincastle laughed rather hysterically, leaning over the table with -her hands on it. - -“My dear millionaire,” she said rapidly, “you don’t know the new -journalism to which I have the honour to belong. You would know it -better had you lived more in New York. All I have to announce is that, -compromised or not, a full account of this affair will appear in my -paper to-morrow morning. No, I shall not inform the police. I am a -journalist simply, but a journalist I _am_.” - -“And your promise, which you gave me before going behind the screen, -your solemn promise that you would reveal nothing? I was loth to -mention it.” - -“Some promises, Mr. Thorold, it is a duty to break, and it is my duty -to break this one. I should never have given it had I had the slightest -idea of the nature of your recreations.” - -Thorold still smiled, though faintly. - -“Really, you know,” he murmured, “this is getting just a little -serious.” - -“It is very serious,” she stammered. - -And then Thorold noticed that the new journalist was softly weeping. - - -V. - -The door opened. - -“Miss Kitty Sartorius,” said the erstwhile liftman, who was now in -plain clothes and had mysteriously ceased to squint. - -A beautiful girl, a girl who had remarkable loveliness and was aware of -it (one of the prettiest women of the Devonshire), ran impulsively into -the room and caught Miss Fincastle by the hand. - -“My dearest Eve, you’re crying. What’s the matter?” - -“Lecky,” said Thorold aside to the servant. “I told you to admit no -one.” - -The beautiful blonde turned sharply to Thorold. - -“I told him I wished to enter,” she said imperiously, half closing her -eyes. - -“Yes, sir,” said Lecky. “That was it. The lady wished to enter.” - -Thorold bowed. - -“It was sufficient,” he said. “That will do, Lecky.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“But I say, Lecky, when next you address me publicly, try to remember -that I am not in the peerage.” - -The servant squinted. - -“Certainly, sir.” And he retired. - -“Now we are alone,” said Miss Sartorius. “Introduce us, Eve, and -explain.” - -Miss Fincastle, having regained self-control, introduced her dear -friend the radiant star of the Regency Theatre, and her acquaintance -the millionaire. - -“Eve didn’t feel _quite_ sure of you,” the actress stated; “and so we -arranged that if she wasn’t up at my flat by nine o’clock, I was to -come down and reconnoitre. What have you been doing to make Eve cry?” - -“Unintentional, I assure you----” Thorold began. - -“There’s something between you two,” said Kitty Sartorius sagaciously, -in significant accents. “What is it?” - -She sat down, touched her picture hat, smoothed her white gown, and -tapped her foot. “What is it, now? Mr. Thorold, I think _you_ had -better tell me.” - -Thorold raised his eyebrows and obediently commenced the narration, -standing with his back to the fire. - -“How perfectly splendid!” Kitty exclaimed. “I’m so glad you cornered -Mr. Bowring. I met him one night and I thought he was horrid. And -these are the notes? Well, of all the----!” - -Thorold proceeded with his story. - -“Oh, but you can’t do _that_, Eve!” said Kitty, suddenly serious. “You -can’t go and split! It would mean all sorts of bother; your wretched -newspaper would be sure to keep you hanging about in London, and we -shouldn’t be able to start on our holiday to-morrow. Eve and I are -starting on quite a long tour to-morrow, Mr. Thorold; we begin with -Ostend.” - -“Indeed!” said Thorold. “I, too, am going in that direction soon. -Perhaps we may meet.” - -“I hope so,” Kitty smiled, and then she looked at Eve Fincastle. “You -really mustn’t do _that_, Eve,” she said. - -“I must, I must!” Miss Fincastle insisted, clenching her hands. - -“And she will,” said Kitty tragically, after considering her friend’s -face. “She will, and our holiday’s ruined. I see it--I see it plainly. -She’s in one of her stupid conscientious moods. She’s fearfully -advanced and careless and unconventional in theory, Eve is; but when it -comes to practice----! Mr. Thorold, you have just got everything into a -dreadful knot. Why did you want those notes so very particularly?” - -“I don’t want them so very particularly.” - -“Well, anyhow, it’s a most peculiar predicament. Mr. Bowring doesn’t -count, and this Consolidated thingummy isn’t any the worse off. Nobody -suffers who oughtn’t to suffer. It’s your unlawful gain that’s wrong. -Why not pitch the wretched notes in the fire?” Kitty laughed at her own -playful humour. - -“Certainly,” said Thorold. And with a quick movement he put the fifty -trifles in the grate, where they made a bluish yellow flame. - -Both the women screamed and sprang up. - -“_Mr._ Thorold!” - -“Mr. _Thorold_!” (“He’s adorable!” Kitty breathed.) - -“The incident, I venture to hope, is now closed,” said Thorold calmly, -but with his dark eyes sparkling. “I must thank you both for a very -enjoyable evening. Some day, perhaps, I may have an opportunity of -further explaining my philosophy to you.” - - -CHAPTER II. - -A COMEDY ON THE GOLD COAST. - -It was five o’clock on an afternoon in mid-September, and a couple of -American millionaires (they abounded that year, did millionaires) sat -chatting together on the wide terrace which separates the entrance to -the Kursaal from the promenade. Some yards away, against the balustrade -of the terrace, in the natural, unconsidered attitude of one to whom -short frocks are a matter of history, certainly, but very recent -history, stood a charming and imperious girl; you could see that she -was eating chocolate while meditating upon the riddle of life. The -elder millionaire glanced at every pretty woman within view, excepting -only the girl; but his companion seemed to be intent on counting the -chocolates. - -The immense crystal dome of the Kursaal dominated the gold coast, and -on either side of the great building were stretched out in a straight -line the hotels, the restaurants, the _cafés_, the shops, the theatres, -the concert-halls, and the pawnbrokers of the City of Pleasure--Ostend. -At one extremity of that long array of ornate white architecture -(which resembled the icing on a bride-cake more than the roofs of men) -was the palace of a king; at the other were the lighthouse and the -railway signals which guided into the city the continuously arriving -cargoes of wealth, beauty, and desire. In front, the ocean, grey and -lethargic, idly beat up a little genteel foam under the promenade for -the wetting of pink feet and stylish bathing-costumes. And after a hard -day’s work, the sun, by arrangement with the authorities during August -and September, was setting over the sea exactly opposite the superb -portals of the Kursaal. - -The younger of the millionaires was Cecil Thorold. The other, a man -fifty-five or so, was Simeon Rainshore, father of the girl at the -balustrade, and president of the famous Dry Goods Trust, of exciting -memory. The contrast between the two men, alike only in extreme riches, -was remarkable: Cecil still youthful, slim, dark, languid of movement, -with delicate features, eyes almost Spanish, and an accent of purest -English; and Rainshore with his nasal twang, his stout frame, his -rounded, bluish-red chin, his little eyes, and that demeanour of false -briskness by means of which ageing men seek to prove to themselves -that they are as young as ever they were. Simeon had been a friend and -opponent of Cecil’s father; in former days those twain had victimised -each other for colossal sums. Consequently Simeon had been glad to -meet the son of his dead antagonist, and, in less than a week of -Ostend repose, despite a fundamental disparity of temperament, the -formidable president and the Europeanised wanderer had achieved a sort -of intimacy, an intimacy which was about to be intensified. - -“The difference between you and me is this,” Cecil was saying. “You -exhaust yourself by making money among men who are all bent on making -money, in a place specially set apart for the purpose. I amuse myself -by making money among men who, having made or inherited money, are bent -on spending it, in places specially set apart for the purpose. I take -people off their guard. They don’t precisely see me coming. I don’t -rent an office and put up a sign which is equivalent to announcing that -the rest of the world had better look out for itself. Our codes are the -same, but is not my way more original and more diverting? Look at this -place. Half the wealth of Europe is collected here; the other half is -at Trouville. The entire coast reeks of money; the sands are golden -with it. You’ve only to put out your hand--so!” - -“So?” ejaculated Rainshore, quizzical. “How? Show me?” - -“Ah! That would be telling.” - -“I guess you wouldn’t get much out of Simeon--not as much as your -father did.” - -“Do you imagine I should try?” said Cecil gravely. “My amusements are -always discreet.” - -“But you confess you are often bored. Now, on Wall Street we are never -bored.” - -“Yes,” Cecil admitted. “I embarked on these--these enterprises mainly -to escape boredom.” - -“You ought to marry,” said Rainshore pointedly. “You ought to marry, my -friend.” - -“I have my yacht.” - -“No doubt. And she’s a beauty, and feminine too; but not feminine -enough. You ought to marry. Now, I’ll----” - -Mr. Rainshore paused. His daughter had suddenly ceased to eat -chocolates and was leaning over the balustrade in order to converse -with a tall, young man whose fair, tanned face and white hat overtopped -the carved masonry and were thus visible to the millionaires. The -latter glanced at one another and then glanced away, each slightly -self-conscious. - -“I thought Mr. Vaux-Lowry had left?” said Cecil. - -“He came back last night,” Rainshore replied curtly. “And he leaves -again to-night.” - -“Then--then it’s a match after all!” Cecil ventured. - -“Who says that?” was Simeon’s sharp inquiry. - -“The birds of the air whisper it. One heard it at every corner three -days ago.” - -Rainshore turned his chair a little towards Cecil’s. “You’ll allow I -ought to know something about it,” he said. “Well, I tell you it’s a -lie.” - -“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Cecil apologised. - -“Not at all,” said Simeon, stroking his chin. “I’m glad you did. -Because now you can just tell all the birds of the air direct from me -that in this particular case there isn’t going to be the usual alliance -between the beauty and dollars of America and the aristocratic blood of -Great Britain. Listen right here,” he continued confidentially, like -a man whose secret feelings have been inconveniencing him for several -hours. “This young spark--mind, I’ve nothing against him!--asks me to -consent to his engagement with Geraldine. I tell him that I intend to -settle half a million dollars on my daughter, and that the man she -marries must cover that half-million with another. He says he has a -thousand a year of his own, pounds--just nice for Geraldine’s gloves -and candy!--and that he is the heir of his uncle, Lord Lowry; and that -there is an entail; and that Lord Lowry is very rich, very old, and -very unmarried; but that, being also very peculiar, he won’t come down -with any money. It occurs to me to remark: ‘Suppose Lord Lowry marries -and develops into the father of a man-child, where do _you_ come in, -Mr. Vaux-Lowry?’ ‘Oho! Lord Lowry marry! Impossible! Laughable!’ Then -Geraldine begins to worry at me, and her mother too. And so I kind of -issue an ultimatum--namely, I will consent to an engagement without a -settlement if, on the marriage, Lord Lowry will give a note of hand -for half a million dollars to Geraldine, payable on _his_ marriage. -See? My lord’s nephew goes off to persuade my lord, and returns with -my lord’s answer in an envelope sealed with the great seal. I open -it and I read--this is what I read: ‘To Mr. S. Rainshore, American -draper. Sir--As a humorist you rank high. Accept the admiration of Your -obedient servant, Lowry.’” - -The millionaire laughed. - -“Oh! It’s clever enough!” said Rainshore. “It’s very English and -grand. Dashed if I don’t admire it! All the same, I’ve requested Mr. -Vaux-Lowry, under the circumstances, to quit this town. I didn’t show -him the letter--no. I spared his delicate feelings. I merely told him -Lord Lowry had refused, and that I would be ready to consider his -application favourably any time when he happened to have half a million -dollars in his pocket.” - -“And Miss Geraldine?” - -“She’s flying the red flag, but she knows when my back’s against -the wall. She knows her father. She’ll recover. Great Scott! She’s -eighteen, he’s twenty-one; the whole affair is a high farce. And, -moreover, I guess I want Geraldine to marry an American, after all.” - -“And if she elopes?” Cecil murmured as if to himself, gazing at the set -features of the girl, who was now alone once more. - -“_Elopes?_” - -Rainshore’s face reddened as his mood shifted suddenly from indulgent -cynicism to profound anger. Cecil was amazed at the transformation, -until he remembered to have heard long ago that Simeon himself had -eloped. - -“It was just a fancy that flashed into my mind,” Cecil smiled -diplomatically. - -“I should let it flash out again if I were you,” said Rainshore, with -a certain grimness. And Cecil perceived the truth of the maxim that a -parent can never forgive his own fault in his child. - - -II. - -“You’ve come to sympathise with me,” said Geraldine Rainshore calmly, -as Cecil, leaving the father for a few moments, strolled across the -terrace towards the daughter. - -“It’s my honest, kindly face that gives me away,” he responded lightly. -“But what am I to sympathise with you about?” - -“You know what,” the girl said briefly. - -They stood together near the balustrade, looking out over the sea into -the crimson eye of the sun; and all the afternoon activities of Ostend -were surging round them--the muffled sound of musical instruments -from within the Kursaal, the shrill cries of late bathers from the -shore, the toot of a tramway-horn to the left, the roar of a siren to -the right, and everywhere the ceaseless hum of an existence at once -gay, feverish, and futile; but Cecil was conscious of nothing but the -individuality by his side. Some women, he reflected, are older at -eighteen than they are at thirty-eight, and Geraldine was one of those. -She happened to be very young and very old at the same time. She might -be immature, crude, even gawky in her girlishness; but she was just -then in the first flush of mentally realising the absolute independence -of the human spirit. She had force, and she had also the enterprise to -act on it. - -As Cecil glanced at her intelligent, expressive face, he thought of her -playing with life as a child plays with a razor. - -“You mean----?” he inquired. - -“I mean that father has been talking about me to you. I could tell by -his eyes. Well?” - -“Your directness unnerves me,” he smiled. - -“Pull yourself together, then, Mr. Thorold. Be a man.” - -“Will you let me treat you as a friend?” - -“Why, yes,” she said, “if you’ll promise not to tell me I’m only -eighteen.” - -“I am incapable of such rudeness,” Cecil replied. “A woman is as old as -she feels. You feel at least thirty; therefore you are at least thirty. -This being understood, I am going to suggest, as a friend, that if you -and Mr. Vaux-Lowry are--perhaps pardonably--contemplating any extreme -step----” - -“Extreme step, Mr. Thorold?” - -“Anything rash.” - -“And suppose we are?” Geraldine demanded, raising her chin scornfully -and defiantly and dangling her parasol. - -“I should respectfully and confidentially advise you to refrain. Be -content to wait, my dear middle-aged woman. Your father may relent. And -also, I have a notion that I may be able to--to----” - -“Help us?” - -“Possibly.” - -“You are real good,” said Geraldine coldly. “But what gave you the idea -that Harry and I were meaning to----?” - -“Something in your eyes--your fine, daring eyes. I read you as you -read your father, you see?” - -“Well, then, Mr. Thorold, there’s something wrong with my fine, daring -eyes. I’m just the last girl in all America to do anything--rash. Why! -if I did anything rash, I’m sure I should feel ever afterwards as if I -wanted to be excused off the very face of the earth. I’m that sort of -girl. Do you think I don’t know that father will give way? I guess he’s -just got to. With time and hammering, you can knock sense into the head -of any parent.” - -“I apologise,” said Cecil, both startled and convinced. “And I -congratulate Mr. Vaux-Lowry.” - -“Say. You like Harry, don’t you?” - -“Very much. He’s the ideal type of Englishman.” - -Geraldine nodded sweetly. “And so obedient! He does everything I tell -him. He is leaving for England to-night, not because father asked him -to, but because I did. I’m going to take mother to Brussels for a few -days’ shopping--lace, you know. That will give father an opportunity to -meditate in solitude on his own greatness. Tell me, Mr. Thorold, do you -consider that Harry and I would be justified in corresponding secretly?” - -Cecil assumed a pose of judicial gravity. - -“I think you would,” he decided. “But don’t tell anyone I said so.” - -“Not even Harry?” - -She ran off into the Kursaal, saying she must seek her mother. But -instead of seeking her mother, Geraldine passed straight through the -concert-hall, where a thousand and one wondrously attired women were -doing fancy needle-work to the accompaniment of a band of music, -into the maze of corridors beyond, and so to the rear entrance of -the Kursaal on the Boulevard van Isoghem. Here she met Mr. Harry -Vaux-Lowry, who was most obviously waiting for her. They crossed the -road to the empty tramway waiting-room and entered it and sat down; -and by the mere act of looking into each other’s eyes, these two--the -stiff, simple, honest-faced young Englishman with “Oxford” written all -over him, and the charming child of a civilisation equally proud, but -with fewer conventions, suddenly transformed the little bureau into a -Cupid’s bower. - -“It’s just as I thought, you darling boy,” Geraldine began to talk -rapidly. “Father’s the least bit in the world scared; and when he’s -scared, he’s bound to confide in someone; and he’s confided in that -sweet Mr. Thorold. And Mr. Thorold has been requested to reason with -me and advise me to be a good girl and wait. I know what _that_ means. -It means that father thinks we shall soon forget each other, my poor -Harry. And I do believe it means that father wants me to marry Mr. -Thorold.” - -“What did you say to him, dear?” the lover demanded, pale. - -“Trust me to fool him, Harry. I simply walked round him. He thinks we -are going to be very good and wait patiently. As if father ever _would_ -give way until he was forced!” - -She laughed disdainfully. “So we’re perfectly safe so long as we act -with discretion. Now let’s clearly understand. To-day’s Monday. You -return to England to-night.” - -“Yes. And I’ll arrange about the licence and things.” - -“Your cousin Mary is just as important as the licence, Harry,” said -Geraldine primly. - -“She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on -Thursday.” - -“Very well. In the meantime, I behave as if life were a blank. Brussels -will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on -Thursday afternoon. That night there is a _soirée dansante_ at the -Kursaal. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will -have to go all the same. I will dance before all men till a quarter -to ten--I will even dance with Mr. Thorold. What a pity I can’t dance -before father, but he’s certain to be in the gambling-rooms then, -winning money; he always is at that hour! At a quarter to ten I will -slip out, and you’ll be here at this back door with a carriage. We -drive to the quay and just catch the 11.5 steamer, and I meet your -cousin Mary. On Friday morning we are married; and then, then we shall -be in a position to talk to father. He’ll pretend to be furious, but he -can’t say much, because he eloped himself. Didn’t you know?” - -“I didn’t,” said Harry, with a certain dryness. - -“Oh, yes! It’s in the family! But you needn’t look so starched, -my English lord.” He took her hand. “You’re sure your uncle won’t -disinherit you, or anything horrid of that kind?” - -“He can’t,” said Harry. - -“What a perfectly lovely country England is!” Geraldine exclaimed. -“Fancy the poor old thing not being _able_ to disinherit you! Why, it’s -just too delicious for words!” - -And for some reason or other he kissed her violently. - -Then an official entered the bureau and asked them if they wanted -to go to Blankenburghe; because, if so, the tram was awaiting their -distinguished pleasure. They looked at each other foolishly and sidled -out, and the bureau ceased to be Cupid’s bower. - - -III. - -By Simeon’s request, Cecil dined with the Rainshores that night at the -Continental. After dinner they all sat out on the balcony and sustained -themselves with coffee while watching the gay traffic of the Digue, -the brilliant illumination of the Kursaal, and the distant lights on -the invisible but murmuring sea. Geraldine was in one of her moods of -philosophic pessimism, and would persist in dwelling on the uncertainty -of riches and the vicissitudes of millionaires. She found a text in the -famous Bowring case, of which the newspaper contained many interesting -details. - -“I wonder if he’ll be caught?” she remarked. - -“I wonder,” said Cecil. - -“What do you think, father?” - -“I think you had better go to bed,” Simeon replied. - -The chit rose and kissed him duteously. - -“Good night,” she said. “Aren’t you glad the sea keeps so calm?” - -“Why?” - -“Can you ask? Mr. Vaux-Lowry crosses to-night, and he’s a dreadfully -bad sailor. Come along, mother. Mr. Thorold, when mother and I return -from Brussels, we shall expect to be taken for a cruise in the -_Claribel_.” - -Simeon sighed with relief upon the departure of his family and began a -fresh cigar. On the whole, his day had been rather too domestic. He was -quite pleased when Cecil, having apparently by accident broached the -subject of the Dry Goods Trust, proceeded to exhibit a minute curiosity -concerning the past, the present, and the future of the greatest of all -the Rainshore enterprises. - -“Are you thinking of coming in?” Simeon demanded at length, pricking up -his ears. - -“No,” said Cecil, “I’m thinking of going out. The fact is, I haven’t -mentioned it before, but I’m ready to sell a very large block of -shares.” - -“The deuce you are!” Simeon exclaimed. “And what do you call a very -large block?” - -“Well,” said Cecil, “it would cost me nearly half a million to take -them up now.” - -“Dollars?” - -“Pounds sterling. Twenty-five thousand shares, at 95-3/8.” - -Rainshore whistled two bars of “Follow me!” from “The Belle of New -York.” - -“Is this how you amuse yourself at Ostend?” he inquired. - -Cecil smiled: “This is quite an exceptional transaction. And not too -profitable, either.” - -“But you can’t dump that lot on the market,” Simeon protested. - -“Yes, I can,” said Cecil. “I must, and I will. There are reasons. You -yourself wouldn’t care to handle it, I suppose?” - -The president of the Trust pondered. - -“I’d handle it at 93-3/8,” he answered quietly. - -“Oh, come! That’s dropping two points!” said Cecil, shocked. “A minute -ago you were prophesying a further rise.” - -Rainshore’s face gleamed out momentarily in the darkness as he puffed -at his cigar. - -“If you must unload,” he remarked, as if addressing the red end of the -cigar, “I’m your man at 93-3/8.” - -Cecil argued: but Simeon Rainshore never argued--it was not his -method. In a quarter of an hour the younger man had contracted to -sell twenty-five thousand shares of a hundred dollars each in the -United States Dry Goods Trust at two points below the current market -quotation, and six and five-eighths points below par. - -The hoot of an outgoing steamer sounded across the city. - -“I must go,” said Cecil. - -“You’re in a mighty hurry,” Simeon complained. - - -IV. - -Five minutes later Cecil was in his own rooms at the Hôtel de la Plage. -Soon there was a discreet knock at the door. - -“Come in, Lecky,” he said. - -It was his servant who entered, the small, thin man with very mobile -eyes and of no particular age, who, in various capacities and -incarnations--now as liftman, now as financial agent, now as no matter -what--assisted Cecil in his diversions. - -“Mr. Vaux-Lowry really did go by the boat, sir.” - -“Good. And you have given directions about the yacht?” - -“The affair is in order.” - -“And you’ve procured one of Mr. Rainshore’s Homburg hats?” - -“It is in your dressing-room. There was no mark of identification -on it. So, in order to smooth the difficulties of the police when -they find it on the beach, I have taken the liberty of writing Mr. -Rainshore’s name on the lining.” - -“A kindly thought,” said Cecil. “You’ll catch the special G.S.N. -steamer direct for London at 1 a.m. That will get you into town before -two o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Things have turned out as I expected, -and I’ve nothing else to say to you; but, before leaving me, perhaps -you had better repeat your instructions.” - -“With pleasure, sir,” said Lecky. “Tuesday afternoon.--I call at -Cloak Lane and intimate that we want to sell Dry Goods shares. I -ineffectually try to conceal a secret cause for alarm, and I gradually -disclose the fact that we are very anxious indeed to sell really a -lot of Dry Goods shares, in a hurry. I permit myself to be pumped, -and the information is wormed out of me that Mr. Simeon Rainshore has -disappeared, has possibly committed suicide; but that, at present, -no one is aware of this except ourselves. I express doubts as to the -soundness of the Trust, and I remark on the unfortunateness of this -disappearance so soon after the lamentable panic connected with the -lately vanished Bruce Bowring and his companies. I send our friends on -’Change with orders to see what they can do and to report. I then go -to Birchin Lane and repeat the performance there without variation. -Then I call at the City office of the _Evening Messenger_ and talk -privily in a despondent vein with the financial editor concerning the -Trust, but I breathe not a word as to Mr. Rainshore’s disappearance. -Wednesday morning.--The rot in Dry Goods has set in sharply, but I am -now, very foolishly, disposed to haggle about the selling price. Our -friends urge me to accept what I can get, and I leave them, saying that -I must telegraph to you. Wednesday afternoon.--I see a reporter of the -_Morning Journal_ and let out that Simeon Rainshore has disappeared. -The _Journal_ will wire to Ostend for confirmation, which confirmation -it will receive. Thursday morning.--The bottom is knocked out of the -price of Dry Goods shares. Then I am to call on our other friends in -Throgmorton Street and tell them to buy, buy, buy, in London, New York, -Paris, everywhere.” - -“Go in peace,” said Cecil. “If we are lucky, the price will drop to -seventy.” - - -V. - -“I see, Mr. Thorold,” said Geraldine Rainshore, “that you are about to -ask me for the next dance. It is yours.” - -“You are the queen of diviners,” Cecil replied, bowing. - -It was precisely half-past nine on Thursday evening, and they had -met in a corner of the pillared and balconied _salle de danse_, in -the Kursaal behind the concert-hall. The slippery, glittering floor -was crowded with dancers--the men in ordinary evening dress, the -women very variously attired, save that nearly all wore picture-hats. -Geraldine was in a white frock, high at the neck, with a large hat of -black velvet; and amidst that brilliant, multicoloured, light-hearted -throng, lit by the blaze of the electric chandeliers and swayed by the -irresistible melody of the “Doctrinen” waltz, the young girl, simply -dressed as she was, easily held her own. - -“So you’ve come back from Brussels?” Cecil said, taking her arm and -waist. - -“Yes. We arrived just on time for dinner. But what have you been doing -with father? We’ve seen nothing of him.” - -“Ah!” said Cecil mysteriously. “We’ve been on a little voyage, and, -like you, we’ve only just returned.” - -“In the _Claribel_?” - -He nodded. - -“You might have waited,” she pouted. - -“Perhaps you wouldn’t have liked it. Things happened, you know.” - -“Why, what? Do tell me.” - -“Well, you left your poor father alone, and he was moping all day on -Tuesday. So on Tuesday night I had the happy idea of going out in the -yacht to witness a sham night attack by the French Channel Squadron on -Calais. I caught your honoured parent just as he was retiring to bed, -and we went. He was only too glad. But we hadn’t left the harbour much -more than an hour and a half when our engines broke down.” - -“What fun! And at night, too!” - -“Yes. Wasn’t it? The shaft was broken. So we didn’t see much of any -night attack on Calais. Fortunately the weather was all that the -weather ought to be when a ship’s engines break down. Still, it took -us over forty hours to repair--over forty hours! I’m proud we were able -to do the thing without being ignominiously towed into port. But I fear -your father may have grown a little impatient, though we had excellent -views of Ostend and Dunkirk, and the passing vessels were a constant -diversion.” - -“Was there plenty to eat?” Geraldine asked simply. - -“Ample.” - -“Then father wouldn’t really mind. When did you land?” - -“About an hour ago. Your father did not expect you to-night, I fancy. -He dressed and went straight to the tables. He has to make up for a -night lost, you see.” - -They danced in silence for a few moments, and then suddenly Geraldine -said-- - -“Will you excuse me? I feel tired. Good night.” - -The clock under the orchestra showed seventeen minutes to ten. - -“Instantly?” Cecil queried. - -“Instantly.” And the girl added, with a hint of mischief in her voice, -as she shook hands: “I look on you as quite a friend since our last -little talk; so you will excuse this abruptness, won’t you?” - -He was about to answer when a sort of commotion arose near behind -them. Still holding her hand he turned to look. - -“Why!” he said. “It’s your mother! She must be unwell!” - -Mrs. Rainshore, stout, and robed, as always, in tight, sumptuous black, -sat among a little bevy of chaperons. She held a newspaper in trembling -hands, and she was uttering a succession of staccato “Oh-oh’s,” while -everyone in the vicinity gazed at her with alarm. Then she dropped the -paper, and, murmuring, “Simeon’s dead!” sank gently to the polished -floor just as Cecil and Geraldine approached. - -Geraldine’s first instinctive move was to seize the newspaper, which -was that day’s Paris edition of the _New York Herald_. She read the -headlines in a flash: “Strange disappearance of Simeon Rainshore. -Suicide feared. Takes advantage of his family’s absence. Heavy drop in -Dry Goods. Shares at 72 and still falling.” - - -VI. - -“My good Rebecca, I assure you that I am alive.” - -This was Mr. Rainshore’s attempt to calm the hysteric sobbing of his -wife, who had recovered from her short swoon in the little retreat of -the person who sold Tauchnitzes, picture-postcards, and French novels, -between the main corridor and the reading-rooms. Geraldine and Cecil -were also in the tiny chamber. - -“As for this,” Simeon continued, kicking the newspaper, “it’s a -singular thing that a man can’t take a couple of days off without -upsetting the entire universe. What should you do in my place, Thorold? -This is the fault of your shaft.” - -“I should buy Dry Goods shares,” said Cecil. - -“And I will.” - -There was an imperative knock at the door. An official of police -entered. - -“Monsieur Ryneshor?” - -“The same.” - -“We have received telegraphs from New York and Londres to demand if you -are dead.” - -“I am not. I still live.” - -“But Monsieur’s hat has been found on the beach.” - -“My hat?” - -“It carries Monsieur’s name.” - -“Then it isn’t mine, sir.” - -“_Mais comment donc----?_” - -“I tell you it isn’t mine, sir.” - -“Don’t be angry, Simeon,” his wife pleaded between her sobs. - -The exit of the official was immediately followed by another summons -for admission, even more imperative. A lady entered and handed to -Simeon a card: “Miss Eve Fincastle. _The Morning Journal._” - -“My paper----” she began. - -“You wish to know if I exist, madam!” said Simeon. - -“I----” Miss Fincastle caught sight of Cecil Thorold, paused, and bowed -stiffly. Cecil bowed; he also blushed. - -“I continue to exist, madam,” Simeon proceeded. “I have not killed -myself. But homicide of some sort is not improbable if---- In short, -madam, good night!” - -Miss Fincastle, with a long, searching, silent look at Cecil, departed. - -“Bolt that door,” said Simeon to his daughter. - -Then there was a third knock, followed by a hammering. - -“Go away!” Simeon commanded. - -“Open the door!” pleaded a muffled voice. - -“It’s Harry!” Geraldine whispered solemnly in Cecil’s ear. “Please go -and calm him. Tell him I say it’s too late to-night.” - -Cecil went, astounded. - -“What’s happened to Geraldine?” cried the boy, extremely excited, in -the corridor. “There are all sorts of rumours. Is she ill?” - -Cecil gave an explanation, and in his turn asked for another one. “You -look unnerved,” he said. “What are you doing here? What is it? Come -and have a drink. And tell me all, my young friend.” And when, over -cognac, he had learnt the details of a scheme which had no connection -with his own, he exclaimed, with the utmost sincerity: “The minx! The -minx!” - -“What do you mean?” inquired Harry Vaux-Lowry. - -“I mean that you and the minx have had the nearest possible shave of -ruining your united careers. Listen to me. Give it up, my boy. I’ll -try to arrange things. You delivered a letter to the father-in-law of -your desire a few days ago. I’ll give you another one to deliver, and I -fancy the result will be, different.” - -The letter which Cecil wrote ran thus:-- - - “DEAR RAINSHORE,--I enclose cheque for £100,000. It represents parts - of the gold that can be picked up on the gold coast by putting out - one’s hand--so! You will observe that it is dated the day after the - next settling-day of the London Stock Exchange. I contracted on - Monday last to sell you 25,000 shares of a certain Trust at 93-3/8, - I did not possess the shares then, but my agents have to-day bought - them for me at an average price of 72. I stand to realise, therefore, - rather more than half a million dollars. The round half-million Mr. - Vaux-Lowry happens to bring you in his pocket; you will not forget - your promise to him that when he did so you would consider his - application favourably. I wish to make no profit out of the little - transaction, but I will venture to keep the balance for out-of-pocket - expenses, such as mending the _Claribel’s_ shaft. (How convenient it - is to have a yacht that will break down when required!) The shares - will doubtless recover in due course, and I hope the reputation of - the Trust may not suffer, and that for the sake of old times with my - father you will regard the episode in its proper light and bear me no - ill-will.--Yours sincerely, - - “C. THOROLD.” - -The next day the engagement of Mr. Harry Nigel Selincourt Vaux-Lowry -and Miss Geraldine Rainshore was announced to two continents. - - -CHAPTER III. - -A BRACELET AT BRUGES. - -The bracelet had fallen into the canal. - -And the fact that the canal was the most picturesque canal in the old -Flemish city of Bruges, and that the ripples caused by the splash of -the bracelet had disturbed reflections of wondrous belfries, towers, -steeples, and other unique examples of Gothic architecture, did nothing -whatever to assuage the sudden agony of that disappearance. For the -bracelet had been given to Kitty Sartorius by her grateful and lordly -manager, Lionel Belmont (U.S.A.), upon the completion of the unexampled -run of “The Delmonico Doll,” at the Regency Theatre, London. And its -diamonds were worth five hundred pounds, to say nothing of the gold. - -The beautiful Kitty, and her friend Eve Fincastle, the journalist, -having exhausted Ostend, had duly arrived at Bruges in the course of -their holiday tour. The question of Kitty’s jewellery had arisen at the -start. Kitty had insisted that she must travel with all her jewels, -according to the custom of the theatrical stars of great magnitude. Eve -had equally insisted that Kitty must travel without jewels, and had -exhorted her to remember the days of her simplicity. They compromised. -Kitty was allowed to bring the bracelet, but nothing else save the -usual half-dozen rings. The ravishing creature could not have persuaded -herself to leave the bracelet behind, because it was so recent a gift -and still new and strange and heavenly to her. But, since prudence -forbade even Kitty to let the trifle lie about in hotel bedrooms, she -was obliged always to wear it. And she had been wearing it this bright -afternoon in early October, when the girls, during a stroll, had met -one of their new friends, Madame Lawrence, on the world-famous Quai du -Rosaire, just at the back of the Hôtel de Ville and the Halles. - -Madame Lawrence resided permanently in Bruges. She was between -twenty-five and forty-five, dark, with the air of continually -subduing a natural instinct to dash, and well dressed in black. -Equally interested in the peerage and in the poor, she had made the -acquaintance of Eve and Kitty at the Hôtel de la Grande Place, where -she called from time to time to induce English travellers to buy -genuine Bruges lace, wrought under her own supervision by her own -paupers. She was Belgian by birth, and when complimented on her fluent -and correct English, she gave all the praise to her deceased husband, -an English barrister. She had settled in Bruges like many people settle -there, because Bruges is inexpensive, picturesque, and inordinately -respectable. Besides an English church and chaplain, it has two -cathedrals and an episcopal palace, with a real bishop in it. - -“What an exquisite bracelet! May I look at it?” - -It was these simple but ecstatic words, spoken with Madame Lawrence’s -charming foreign accent, which had begun the tragedy. The three women -had stopped to admire the always admirable view from the little quay, -and they were leaning over the rails when Kitty unclasped the bracelet -for the inspection of the widow. The next instant there was a _plop_, -an affrighted exclamation from Madame Lawrence in her native tongue, -and the bracelet was engulfed before the very eyes of all three. - -The three looked at each other non-plussed. Then they looked around, -but not a single person was in sight. Then, for some reason which, -doubtless, psychology can explain, they stared hard at the water, -though the water there was just as black and foul as it is everywhere -else in the canal system of Bruges. - -“Surely you’ve not dropped it!” Eve Fincastle exclaimed in a voice of -horror. Yet she knew positively that Madame Lawrence had. - -The delinquent took a handkerchief from her muff and sobbed into it. -And between her sobs she murmured: “We must inform the police.” - -“Yes, of course,” said Kitty, with the lightness of one to whom a -five-hundred-pound bracelet is a bagatelle. “They’ll fish it up in no -time.” - -“Well,” Eve decided, “you go to the police at once, Kitty; and Madame -Lawrence will go with you, because she speaks French, and I’ll stay -here to mark the exact spot.” - -The other two started, but Madame Lawrence, after a few steps, put -her hand to her side. “I can’t,” she sighed, pale. “I am too upset. I -cannot walk. You go with Miss Sartorius,” she said to Eve, “and I will -stay,” and she leaned heavily against the railings. - -Eve and Kitty ran off, just as if it was an affair of seconds, and the -bracelet had to be saved from drowning. But they had scarcely turned -the corner, thirty yards away, when they reappeared in company with a -high official of police, whom, by the most lucky chance in the world, -they had encountered in the covered passage leading to the Place du -Bourg. This official, instantly enslaved by Kitty’s beauty, proved to -be the very mirror of politeness and optimism. He took their names -and addresses, and a full description of the bracelet, and informed -them that at that place the canal was nine feet deep. He said that the -bracelet should undoubtedly be recovered on the morrow, but that, as -dusk was imminent, it would be futile to commence angling that night. -In the meantime the loss should be kept secret; and to make all sure, a -succession of gendarmes should guard the spot during the night. - -Kitty grew radiant, and rewarded the gallant officer with smiles; Eve -was satisfied, and the face of Madame Lawrence wore a less mournful hue. - -“And now,” said Kitty to Madame, when everything had been arranged, and -the first of the gendarmes was duly installed at the exact spot against -the railings, “you must come and take tea with us in our winter garden; -and be gay! Smile: I insist. And I insist that you don’t worry.” - -Madame Lawrence tried feebly to smile. - -“You are very good-natured,” she stammered. - -Which was decidedly true. - - -II. - -The winter-garden of the Hôtel de la Grande Place, referred to in all -the hotel’s advertisements, was merely the inner court of the hotel, -roofed in by glass at the height of the first storey. Cane flourished -there, in the shape of lounge-chairs, but no other plant. One of the -lounge-chairs was occupied when, just as the carillon in the belfry -at the other end of the Place began to play Gounod’s “Nazareth,” -indicating the hour of five o’clock, the three ladies entered the -winter-garden. Apparently the toilettes of two of them had been -adjusted and embellished as for a somewhat ceremonious occasion. - -“Lo!” cried Kitty Sartorius, when she perceived the occupant of the -chair, “the millionaire! Mr. Thorold, how charming of you to reappear -like this! I invite you to tea.” - -Cecil Thorold rose with appropriate eagerness. - -“Delighted!” he said, smiling, and then explained that he had arrived -from Ostend about two hours before and had taken rooms in the hotel. - -“You knew we were staying here?” Eve asked as he shook hands with her. - -“No,” he replied; “but I am very glad to find you again.” - -“Are you?” She spoke languidly, but her colour heightened and those -eyes of hers sparkled. - -“Madame Lawrence,” Kitty chirruped, “let me present Mr. Cecil Thorold. -He is appallingly rich, but we mustn’t let that frighten us.” - -From a mouth less adorable than the mouth of Miss Sartorius such an -introduction might have been judged lacking in the elements of good -form, but for more than two years now Kitty had known that whatever -she did or said was perfectly correct because she did or said it. The -new acquaintances laughed amiably, and a certain intimacy was at once -established. - -“Shall I order tea, dear?” Eve suggested. - -“No, dear,” said Kitty quietly. “We will wait for the Count.” - -“The Count?” demanded Cecil Thorold. - -“The Comte d’Avrec,” Kitty explained. “He is staying here.” - -“A French nobleman, doubtless?” - -“Yes,” said Kitty; and she added, “you will like him. He is an -archæologist, and a musician--oh, and lots of things!” - -“If I am one minute late, I entreat pardon,” said a fine tenor voice at -the door. - -It was the Count. After he had been introduced to Madame Lawrence, and -Cecil Thorold had been introduced to him, tea was served. - -Now, the Comte d’Avrec was everything that a French count ought to -be. As dark as Cecil Thorold, and even handsomer, he was a little -older and a little taller than the millionaire, and a short, pointed, -black beard, exquisitely trimmed, gave him an appearance of staid -reliability which Cecil lacked. His bow was a vertebrate poem, his -smile a consolation for all misfortunes, and he managed his hat, stick, -gloves, and cup with the dazzling assurance of a conjurer. To observe -him at afternoon tea was to be convinced that he had been specially -created to shine gloriously in drawing-rooms, winter-gardens, and -_tables d’hôte_. He was one of those men who always do the right thing -at the right moment, who are capable of speaking an indefinite number -of languages with absolute purity of accent (he spoke English much -better than Madame Lawrence), and who can and do discourse with _verve_ -and accuracy on all sciences, arts, sports, and religions. In short, -he was a phœnix of a count; and this was certainly the opinion of Miss -Kitty Sartorius and of Miss Eve Fincastle, both of whom reckoned that -what they did not know about men might be ignored. Kitty and the Count, -it soon became evident, were mutually attracted; their souls were -approaching each other with a velocity which increased inversely as the -square of the lessening distance between them. And Eve was watching -this approximation with undisguised interest and relish. - -Nothing of the least importance occurred, save the Count’s marvellous -exhibition of how to behave at afternoon tea, until the refection was -nearly over; and then, during a brief pause in the talk, Cecil, who was -sitting to the left of Madame Lawrence, looked sharply round at the -right shoulder of his tweed coat; he repeated the gesture a second and -yet a third time. - -“What is the matter with the man?” asked Eve Fincastle. Both she and -Kitty were extremely bright, animated, and even excited. - -“Nothing. I thought I saw something on my shoulder, that’s all,” -said Cecil. “Ah! It’s only a bit of thread.” And he picked off the -thread with his left hand and held it before Madame Lawrence. “See! -It’s a piece of thin black silk, knotted. At first I took it for an -insect--you know how queer things look out of the corner of your eye. -Pardon!” He had dropped the fragment on to Madame Lawrence’s black silk -dress. “Now it’s lost.” - -“If you will excuse me, kind friends,” said Madame Lawrence, “I will -go.” She spoke hurriedly, and as though in mental distress. - -“Poor thing!” Kitty Sartorius exclaimed when the widow had gone. “She’s -still dreadfully upset”; and Kitty and Eve proceeded jointly to relate -the story of the diamond bracelet, upon which hitherto they had kept -silence (though with difficulty), out of regard for Madame Lawrence’s -feelings. - -Cecil made almost no comment. - -The Count, with the sympathetic excitability of his race, walked up and -down the winter-garden, asseverating earnestly that such clumsiness -amounted to a crime; then he grew calm and confessed that he shared the -optimism of the police as to the recovery of the bracelet; lastly he -complimented Kitty on her equable demeanour under this affliction. - -“Do you know, Count,” said Cecil Thorold, later, after they had all -four ascended to the drawing-room overlooking the Grande Place, “I was -quite surprised when I saw at tea that you had to be introduced to -Madame Lawrence.” - -“Why so, my dear Mr. Thorold?” the Count inquired suavely. - -“I thought I had seen you together in Ostend a few days ago.” - -The Count shook his wonderful head. - -“Perhaps you have a brother----?” Cecil paused. - -“No,” said the Count. “But it is a favourite theory of mine that -everyone has his double somewhere in the world.” Previously the Count -had been discussing Planchette--he was a great authority on the -supernatural, the sub-conscious, and the subliminal. He now deviated -gracefully to the discussion of the theory of doubles. - -“I suppose you aren’t going out for a walk, dear, before dinner?” said -Eve to Kitty. - -“No, dear,” said Kitty, positively. - -“I think I shall,” said Eve. - -And her glance at Cecil Thorold intimated in the plainest possible -manner that she wished not only to have a companion for a stroll, but -to leave Kitty and the Count in dual solitude. - -“I shouldn’t, if I were you, Miss Fincastle,” Cecil remarked, with calm -and studied blindness. “It’s risky here in the evenings--with these -canals exhaling miasma and mosquitoes and bracelets and all sorts of -things.” - -“I will take the risk, thank you,” said Eve, in an icy tone, and she -haughtily departed; she would not cower before Cecil’s millions. As for -Cecil, he joined in the discussion of the theory of doubles. - - -III. - -On the next afternoon but one, policemen were still fishing, without -success, for the bracelet, and raising from the ancient duct -long-buried odours which threatened to destroy the inhabitants of the -quay. (When Kitty Sartorius had hinted that perhaps the authorities -might see their way to drawing off the water from the canal, the -authorities had intimated that the death-rate of Bruges was already as -high as convenient.) Nevertheless, though nothing had happened, the -situation had somehow developed, and in such a manner that the bracelet -itself was in danger of being partially forgotten; and of all places -in Bruges, the situation had developed on the top of the renowned -Belfry which dominates the Grande Place in particular and the city in -general. - -The summit of the Belfry is three hundred and fifty feet high, and it -is reached by four hundred and two winding stone steps, each a separate -menace to life and limb. Eve Fincastle had climbed those steps alone, -perhaps in quest of the view at the top, perhaps in quest of spiritual -calm. She had not been leaning over the parapet more than a minute -before Cecil Thorold had appeared, his field-glasses slung over his -shoulder. They had begun to talk a little, but nervously and only in -snatches. The wind blew free up there among the forty-eight bells, but -the social atmosphere was oppressive. - -“The Count is a most charming man,” Eve was saying, as if in defence of -the Count. - -“He is,” said Cecil; “I agree with you.” - -“Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Thorold! Oh, no, you don’t!” - -Then there was a pause, and the twain looked down upon Bruges, with -its venerable streets, its grass-grown squares, its waterways, and -its innumerable monuments, spread out maplike beneath them in the -mellow October sunshine. Citizens passed along the thoroughfare in the -semblance of tiny dwarfs. - -“If you didn’t hate him,” said Eve, “you wouldn’t behave as you do.” - -“How do I behave, then?” - -Eve schooled her voice to an imitation of jocularity-- - -“All Tuesday evening, and all day yesterday, you couldn’t leave them -alone. You know you couldn’t.” - -Five minutes later the conversation had shifted. - -“You actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal?” said Cecil. - -“I actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal. And no one could have -got it out while Kitty and I were away, because we weren’t away half a -minute.” - -But they could not dismiss the subject of the Count, and presently he -was again the topic. - -“Naturally it would be a good match for the Count--for _any_ man,” said -Eve; “but then it would also be a good match for Kitty. Of course, he -is not so rich as some people, but he is rich.” - -Cecil examined the horizon with his glasses, and then the streets near -the Grande Place. - -“Rich, is he? I’m glad of it. By the by, he’s gone to Ghent for the -day, hasn’t he?” - -“Yes, he went by the 9.27, and returns by the 4.38.” - -Another pause. - -“Well,” said Cecil at length, handing the glasses to Eve Fincastle, -“kindly glance down there. Follow the line of the Rue St. Nicolas. You -see the cream-coloured house with the enclosed courtyard? Now, do you -see two figures standing together near a door--a man and a woman, the -woman on the steps? Who are they?” - -“I can’t see very well,” said Eve. - -“Oh, yes, my dear lady, you can,” said Cecil. “These glasses are the -very best. Try again.” - -“They look like the Comte d’Avrec and Madame Lawrence,” Eve murmured. - -“But the Count is on his way from Ghent! I see the steam of the 4.38 -over there. The curious thing is that the Count entered the house of -Madame Lawrence, to whom he was introduced for the first time the day -before yesterday, at ten o’clock this morning. Yes, it would be a very -good match for the Count. When one comes to think of it, it usually is -that sort of man that contrives to marry a brilliant and successful -actress. There! He’s just leaving, isn’t he? Now let us descend and -listen to the recital of his day’s doings in Ghent--shall we?” - -“You mean to insinuate,” Eve burst out in sudden wrath, “that the Count -is an--an _adventurer_, and that Madame Lawrence---- Oh! Mr. Thorold!” -She laughed condescendingly. “This jealousy is too absurd. Do you -suppose I haven’t noticed how impressed you were with Kitty at the -Devonshire Mansion that night, and again at Ostend, and again here? -You’re simply carried away by jealousy; and you think because you are a -millionaire you must have all you want. I haven’t the slightest doubt -that the Count----” - -“Anyhow,” said Cecil, “let us go down and hear about Ghent.” - -His eyes made a number of remarks (indulgent, angry, amused, -protective, admiring, perspicacious, puzzled), too subtle for the -medium of words. - -They groped their way down to earth in silence, and it was in silence -that they crossed the Grande Place. The Count was seated on the -_terrasse_ in front of the hotel, with a liqueur glass before him, and -he was making graceful and expressive signs to Kitty Sartorius, who -leaned her marvellous beauty out of a first-storey window. He greeted -Cecil Thorold and Eve with an equal grace. - -“And how is Ghent?” Cecil inquired. - -“Did you go to Ghent, after all, Count?” Eve put in. The Comte d’Avrec -looked from one to another, and then, instead of replying, he sipped -at his glass. “No,” he said, “I didn’t go. The rather curious fact is -that I happened to meet Madame Lawrence, who offered to show me her -collection of lace. I have been an amateur of lace for some years, and -really Madame Lawrence’s collection is amazing. You have seen it? No? -You should do so. I’m afraid I have spent most of the day there.” - -When the Count had gone to join Kitty in the drawing-room, Eve -Fincastle looked victoriously at Cecil, as if to demand of him: “Will -you apologise?” - -“My dear journalist,” Cecil remarked simply, “you gave the show away.” - -That evening the continued obstinacy of the bracelet, which still -refused to be caught, began at last to disturb the birdlike mind of -Kitty Sartorius. Moreover, the secret was out, and the whole town of -Bruges was discussing the episode and the chances of success. - -“Let us consult Planchette,” said the Count. The proposal was received -with enthusiasm by Kitty. Eve had disappeared. - -Planchette was produced; and when asked if the bracelet would be -recovered, it wrote, under the hands of Kitty and the Count, a -trembling “Yes.” When asked: “By whom?” it wrote a word which faintly -resembled “Avrec.” - -The Count stated that he should personally commence dragging operations -at sunrise. “You will see,” he said, “I shall succeed.” - -“Let me try this toy, may I?” Cecil asked blandly, and, upon Kitty -agreeing, he addressed Planchette in a clear voice: “Now, Planchette, -who will restore the bracelet to its owner?” - -And Planchette wrote “Thorold,” but in characters as firm and regular -as those of a copy-book. - -“Mr. Thorold is laughing at us,” observed the Count, imperturbably -bland. - -“How horrid you are, Mr. Thorold!” Kitty exclaimed. - - -IV. - -Of the four persons more or less interested in the affair, three -were secretly active that night, in and out of the hotel. Only Kitty -Sartorius, chief mourner for the bracelet, slept placidly in her bed. -It was towards three o’clock in the morning that a sort of preliminary -crisis was reached. - -From the multiplicity of doors which ventilate its rooms, one would -imagine that the average foreign hotel must have been designed -immediately after its architect had been to see a Palais Royal farce, -in which every room opens into every other room in every act. The Hôtel -de la Grande Place was not peculiar in this respect; it abounded in -doors. All the chambers on the second storey, over the public rooms, -fronting the Place, communicated one with the next, but naturally most -of the communicating doors were locked. Cecil Thorold and the Comte -d’Avrec had each a bedroom and a sitting-room on that floor. The -Count’s sitting-room adjoined Cecil’s; and the door between was locked, -and the key in the possession of the landlord. - -Nevertheless, at three a.m. this particular door opened noiselessly -from Cecil’s side, and Cecil entered the domain of the Count. The -moon shone, and Cecil could plainly see not only the silhouette of -the Belfry across the Place, but also the principal objects within -the room. He noticed the table in the middle, the large easy-chair -turned towards the hearth, the old-fashioned sofa; but not a single -article did he perceive which might have been the personal property of -the Count. He cautiously passed across the room through the moonlight -to the door of the Count’s bedroom, which apparently, to his immense -surprise, was not only shut, but locked, and the key in the lock on the -sitting-room side. Silently unlocking it, he entered the bedroom and -disappeared.... - -In less than five minutes he crept back into the Count’s sitting-room, -closed the door and locked it. - -“Odd!” he murmured reflectively; but he seemed quite happy. - -There was a sudden movement in the region of the hearth, and a form -rose from the armchair. Cecil rushed to the switch and turned on the -electric light. Eve Fincastle stood before him. They faced each other. - -“What are you doing here at this time, Miss Fincastle?” he asked, -sternly. “You can talk freely; the Count will not waken.” - -“I may ask you the same question,” Eve replied, with cold bitterness. - -“Excuse me. You may not. You are a woman. This is the Count’s room----” - -“You are in error,” she interrupted him. “It is not the Count’s room. -It is mine. Last night I told the Count I had some important writing -to do, and I asked him as a favour to relinquish this room to me for -twenty-four hours. He very kindly consented. He removed his belongings, -handed me the key of that door, and the transfer was made in the hotel -books. And now,” she added, “may I inquire, Mr. Thorold, what you are -doing in my room?” - -“I--I thought it was the Count’s,” Cecil faltered, decidedly at a loss -for a moment. “In offering my humblest apologies, permit me to say that -I admire you, Miss Fincastle.” - -“I wish I could return the compliment,” Eve exclaimed, and she repeated -with almost plaintive sincerity: “I do wish I could.” - -Cecil raised his arms and let them fall to his side. - -“You meant to catch me,” he said. “You suspected something, then? The -‘important writing’ was an invention.” And he added, with a faint -smile: “You really ought not to have fallen asleep. Suppose I had not -wakened you?” - -“Please don’t laugh, Mr. Thorold. Yes, I did suspect. There was -something in the demeanour of your servant Lecky that gave me the -idea... I did mean to catch you. Why you, a millionaire, should be a -burglar, I cannot understand. I never understood that incident at the -Devonshire Mansion; it was beyond me. I am by no means sure that you -didn’t have a great deal to do with the Rainshore affair at Ostend. -But that you should have stooped to slander is the worst. I confess -you are a mystery. I confess that I can make no guess at the nature of -your present scheme. And what I shall do, now that I have caught you, -I don’t know. I can’t decide; I must think. If, however, anything is -missing to-morrow morning, I shall be bound in any case to denounce -you. You grasp that?” - -“I grasp it perfectly, my dear journalist,” Cecil replied. “And -something will not improbably be missing. But take the advice of a -burglar and a mystery, and go to bed, it is half-past three.” - -And Eve went. And Cecil bowed her out and then retired to his own -rooms. And the Count’s apartment was left to the moonlight. - - -V. - -“Planchette is a very safe prophet,” said Cecil to Kitty Sartorius the -next morning, “provided it has firm guidance.” - -They were at breakfast. - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean that Planchette prophesied last night that I should restore to -you your bracelet. I do.” - -He took the lovely gewgaw from his pocket and handed it to Kitty. - -“Ho-ow did you find it, you dear thing?” Kitty stammered, trembling -under the shock of joy. - -“I fished it up out--out of the mire by a contrivance of my own.” - -“But when?” - -“Oh! Very early. At three o’clock a.m. You see, I was determined to be -first.” - -“In the dark, then?” - -“I had a light. Don’t you think I’m rather clever?” - -Kitty’s scene of ecstatic gratitude does not come into the story. -Suffice it to say that not until the moment of its restoration did she -realise how precious the bracelet was to her. - -It was ten o’clock before Eve descended. She had breakfasted in her -room, and Kitty had already exhibited to her the prodigal bracelet. - -“I particularly want you to go up the Belfry with me, Miss Fincastle,” -Cecil greeted her; and his tone was so serious and so urgent that -she consented. They left Kitty playing waltzes on the piano in the -drawing-room. - -“And now, O man of mystery?” Eve questioned, when they had toiled to -the summit, and saw the city and its dwarfs beneath them. - -“We are in no danger of being disturbed here,” Cecil began; “but I -will make my explanation--the explanation which I certainly owe you--as -brief as possible. Your Comte d’Avrec is an adventurer (please don’t -be angry), and your Madame Lawrence is an adventuress. I knew that I -had seen them together. They work in concert, and for the most part -make a living on the gaming-tables of Europe. Madame Lawrence was -expelled from Monte Carlo last year for being too intimate with a -croupier. You may be aware that at a roulette-table one can do a great -deal with the aid of the croupier. Madame Lawrence appropriated the -bracelet ‘on her own,’ as it were. The Count (he may be a real Count, -for anything I know) heard first of that enterprise from the lips of -Miss Sartorius. He was annoyed, angry--because he was really a little -in love with your friend, and he saw golden prospects. It is just this -fact--the Count’s genuine passion for Miss Sartorius--that renders -the case psychologically interesting. To proceed, Madame Lawrence -became jealous. The Count spent six hours yesterday in trying to get -the bracelet from her, and failed. He tried again last night, and -succeeded, but not too easily, for he did not re-enter the hotel till -after one o’clock. At first I thought he had succeeded in the daytime, -and I had arranged accordingly, for I did not see why he should have -the honour and glory of restoring the bracelet to its owner. Lecky and -I fixed up a sleeping-draught for him. The minor details were simple. -When you caught me this morning, the bracelet was in my pocket, and in -its stead I had left a brief note for the perusal of the Count, which -has had the singular effect of inducing him to decamp; probably he has -not gone alone. But isn’t it amusing that, since you so elaborately -took his sitting-room, he will be convinced that you are a party to his -undoing--you, his staunchest defender?” - -Eve’s face gradually broke into an embarrassed smile. - -“You haven’t explained,” she said, “how Madame Lawrence got the -bracelet.” - -“Come over here,” Cecil answered. “Take these glasses and look down at -the Quai du Rosaire. You see everything plainly?” Eve could, in fact, -see on the quay the little mounds of mud which had been extracted -from the canal in the quest of the bracelet. Cecil continued: “On -my arrival in Bruges on Monday, I had a fancy to climb the Belfry -at once. I witnessed the whole scene between you and Miss Sartorius -and Madame Lawrence, through my glasses. Immediately your backs were -turned, Madame Lawrence, her hands behind her, and her back against -the railing, began to make a sort of rapid, drawing up motion with her -forearms. Then I saw a momentary glitter.... Considerably mystified, I -visited the spot after you had left it, chatted with the gendarme on -duty and got round him, and then it dawned on me that a robbery had -been planned, prepared, and executed with extraordinary originality and -ingenuity. A long, thin thread of black silk must have been ready tied -to the railing, with perhaps a hook at the other end. As soon as Madame -Lawrence held the bracelet she attached the hook to it and dropped it. -The silk, especially as it was the last thing in the world you would -look for, would be as good as invisible. When you went for the police, -Madame retrieved the bracelet, hid it in her muff, and broke off the -silk. Only, in her haste, she left a bit of silk tied to the railing. -That fragment I carried to the hotel. All along she must have been a -little uneasy about me.... And that’s all. Except that I wonder you -thought I was jealous of the Count’s attentions to your friend.” He -gazed at her admiringly. - -“I’m glad you are not a thief, Mr. Thorold,” said Eve. - -“Well,” Cecil smiled, “as for that, I left him a couple of louis for -fares, and I shall pay his hotel bill.” - -“Why?” - -“There were notes for nearly ten thousand francs with the bracelet. -Ill-gotten gains, I am sure. A trifle, but the only reward I shall have -for my trouble. I shall put them to good use.” He laughed, serenely -gay. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A SOLUTION OF THE ALGIERS MYSTERY. - -“And the launch?” - -“I am unaware of the precise technical term, sir, but the launch awaits -you. Perhaps I should have said it is alongside.” - -The reliable Lecky hated the sea; and when his master’s excursions -became marine, he always squinted more formidably and suddenly than -usual, and added to his reliability a certain quality of ironic -bitterness. - -“My overcoat, please,” said Cecil Thorold, who was in evening dress. - -The apartment, large and low, was panelled with bird’s-eye maple; -divans ran along the walls, and above the divans orange curtains were -drawn; the floor was hidden by the skins of wild African animals; in -one corner was a Steinway piano, with the score of “The Orchid” open on -the music-stand; in another lay a large, flat bowl filled with blossoms -that do not bloom in England; the illumination, soft and yellow, -came from behind the cornice of the room, being reflected therefrom -downwards by the cream-coloured ceiling. Only by a faintly-heard tremor -of some gigantic but repressed force, and by a very slight unsteadiness -on the part of the floor, could you have guessed that you were aboard a -steam-yacht and not in a large, luxurious house. - -Lecky, having arrayed the millionaire in overcoat, muffler, crush-hat, -and white gloves, drew aside a _portière_ and followed him up a flight -of stairs. They stood on deck, surrounded by the mild but treacherous -Algerian night. From the white double funnels a thin smoke oozed. On -the white bridge, the second mate, a spectral figure, was testing -the engine-room signals, and the sharp noise of the bell seemed to -desecrate the mysterious silence of the bay; but there was no other -sign of life; the waiting launch was completely hidden under the high -bows of the _Claribel_. In distant regions of the deck, glimmering -beams came oddly up from below, throwing into relief some part of a -boat on its davits or a section of a mast. - -Cecil looked about him, at the serried lights of the Boulevard Carnot, -and the riding lanterns of the vessels in the harbour. Away to the left -on the hill, a few gleams showed Mustapha Supérieure, where the great -English hotels are; and ten miles further east, the lighthouse on Cape -Matifou flashed its eternal message to the Mediterranean. He was on the -verge of feeling poetic. - -“Suppose anything happens while you are at this dance, sir?” - -Lecky jerked his thumb in the direction of a small steamer which -lay moored scarcely a cable’s-length away, under the eastern jetty. -“Suppose----?” He jerked his thumb again in exactly the same direction. -His tone was still pessimistic and cynical. - -“You had better fire our beautiful brass cannon,” Cecil replied. “Have -it fired three times. I shall hear it well enough up at Mustapha.” - -He descended carefully into the launch, and was whisked puffingly over -the dark surface of the bay to the landing-stage, where he summoned a -fiacre. - -“Hôtel St. James,” he instructed the driver. - -And the driver smiled joyously; everyone who went to the Hôtel St. -James was rich and lordly, and paid well, because the hill was long and -steep and so hard on the poor Algerian horses. - - -II. - -Every hotel up at Mustapha Supérieure has the finest view, the finest -hygienic installation, and the finest cooking in Algeria; in other -words, each is better than all the others. Hence the Hôtel St. James -could not be called “first among equals,” since there are no equals, -and one must be content to describe it as first among the unequalled. -First it undoubtedly was--and perhaps will be again. Although it was -new, it had what one visitor termed “that indefinable thing--_cachet_.” -It was frequented by the best people--namely, the richest people, -the idlest people, the most arrogant people, the most bored people, -the most titled people--that came to the southern shores of the -Mediterranean in search of what they would never find--an escape from -themselves. It was a vast building, planned on a scale of spaciousness -only possible in a district where commercial crises have depressed the -value of land, and it stood in the midst of a vast garden of oranges, -lemons, and medlars. Every room--and there were three storeys and two -hundred rooms--faced south: this was charged for in the bill. The -public rooms, Oriental in character, were immense and complete. They -included a dining-room, a drawing-room, a reading-room, a smoking-room, -a billiard-room, a bridge-room, a ping-pong-room, a concert-room (with -resident orchestra), and a room where Aissouias, negroes, and other -curiosities from the native town might perform before select parties. -Thus it was entirely self-sufficient, and lacked nothing which is -necessary to the proper existence of the best people. On Thursday -nights, throughout the season, there was a five-franc dance in the -concert-hall. You paid five francs, and ate and drank as much as you -could while standing up at the supper-tables arrayed in the dining-room. - -On a certain Thursday night in early January, this Anglo-Saxon -microcosm, set so haughtily in a French colony between the -Mediterranean and the Djujura Mountains (with the Sahara behind), was -at its most brilliant. The hotel was crammed, the prices were high, and -everybody was supremely conscious of doing the correct thing. The dance -had begun somewhat earlier than usual, because the eagerness of the -younger guests could not be restrained. And the orchestra seemed gayer, -and the electric lights brighter, and the toilettes more resplendent -that night. Of course, guests came in from the other hotels. Indeed, -they came in to such an extent that to dance in the ballroom was an -affair of compromise and ingenuity. And the other rooms were occupied, -too. The bridge players recked not of Terpsichore, the cheerful sound -of ping-pong came regularly from the ping-pong-room; the retired Indian -judge was giving points as usual in the billiard-room; and in the -reading-room the steadfast intellectuals were studying the _World_ and -the Paris _New York Herald_. - -And all was English and American, pure Anglo-Saxon in thought and -speech and gesture--save the manager of the hotel, who was Italian, -the waiters, who were anything, and the wonderful concierge, who was -everything. - -As Cecil passed through the imposing suite of public rooms, he saw in -the reading-room--posted so that no arrival could escape her eye--the -elegant form of Mrs. Macalister, and, by way of a wild, impulsive -freak, he stopped and talked to her, and ultimately sat down by her -side. - -Mrs. Macalister was one of those English-women that are to be found -only in large and fashionable hotels. Everything about her was -mysterious, except the fact that she was in search of a second husband. -She was tall, pretty, dashing, daring, well-dressed, well-informed, -and, perhaps thirty-four. But no one had known her husband or her -family, and no one knew her county, or the origin of her income, or -how she got herself into the best cliques in the hotel. She had the -air of being the merriest person in Algiers; really, she was one of -the saddest, for the reason that every day left her older, and harder, -and less likely to hook--well, to hook a millionaire. She had met -Cecil Thorold at the dance of the previous week, and had clung to him -so artfully that the coteries talked of it for three days, as Cecil -well knew. And to-night he thought he might, as well as not, give Mrs. -Macalister an hour’s excitement of the chase, and the coteries another -three days’ employment. - -So he sat down beside her, and they talked. - -First she asked him whether he slept on his yacht or in the hotel; and -he replied, sometimes in the hotel and sometimes on the yacht. Then -she asked him where his bedroom was, and he said it was on the second -floor, and she settled that it must be three doors from her own. Then -they discussed bridge, the Fiscal Inquiry, the weather, dancing, food, -the responsibilities of great wealth, Algerian railway-travelling, -Cannes, gambling, Mr. Morley’s “Life of Gladstone,” and the -extraordinary success of the hotel. Thus, quite inevitably, they -reached the subject of the Algiers Mystery. During the season, at any -rate, no two guests in the hotel ever talked small-talk for more than -ten minutes without reaching the subject of the Algiers Mystery. - -For the hotel had itself been the scene of the Algiers Mystery, and the -Algiers Mystery was at once the simplest, the most charming, and the -most perplexing mystery in the world. One morning, the first of April -in the previous year, an honest John Bull of a guest had come down to -the hotel-office, and laying a five-pound note before the head clerk, -had exclaimed: “I found that lying on my dressing-table. It isn’t -mine. It looks good enough, but I expect it’s someone’s joke.” Seven -other people that day confessed that they had found five-pound notes -in their rooms, or pieces of paper that resembled five-pound notes. -They compared these notes, and then the eight went off in a body down -to an agency in the Boulevard de la République, and without the least -demur the notes were changed for gold. On the second of April, twelve -more people found five-pound notes in their rooms, now prominent on the -bed, now secreted--as, for instance, under a candlestick. Cecil himself -had been a recipient. Watches were set, but with no result whatever. -In a week nearly seven hundred pounds had been distributed amongst the -guests by the generous, invisible ghosts. It was magnificent, and it -was very soon in every newspaper in England and America. Some of the -guests did not “care” for it; thought it “queer,” and “uncanny,” and -not “nice,” and these left. But the majority cared for it very much -indeed, and remained till the utmost limit of the season. - -The rainfall of notes had not recommenced so far, in the present -season. Nevertheless, the hotel had been thoroughly well patronised -from November onwards, and there was scarcely a guest but who went to -sleep at night hoping to descry a fiver in the morning. - -“Advertisement!” said some perspicacious individuals. Of course, the -explanation was an obvious one. But the manager had indignantly and -honestly denied all knowledge of the business, and, moreover, not a -single guest had caught a single note in the act of settling down. -Further, the hotel changed hands and that manager left. The mystery, -therefore, remained, a delightful topic always at hand for discussion. - -After having chatted, Cecil Thorold and Mrs. Macalister danced--two -dances. And the hotel began audibly to wonder that Cecil could be -such a fool. When, at midnight, he retired to bed, many mothers of -daughters and daughters of mothers were justifiably angry, and consoled -themselves by saying that he had disappeared in order to hide the shame -which must have suddenly overtaken him. As for Mrs. Macalister, she was -radiant. - -Safely in his room, Cecil locked and wedged the door, and opened the -window and looked out from the balcony at the starry night. He could -hear cats playing on the roof. He smiled when he thought of the things -Mrs. Macalister had said, and of the ardour of her glances. Then -he felt sorry for her. Perhaps it was the whisky-and-soda which he -had just drunk that momentarily warmed his heart towards the lonely -creature. Only one item of her artless gossip had interested him--a -statement that the new Italian manager had been ill in bed all day. - -He emptied his pockets, and, standing on a chair, he put his -pocket-book on the top of the wardrobe, where no Algerian marauder -would think of looking for it; his revolver he tucked under his pillow. -In three minutes he was asleep. - - -III. - -He was awakened by a vigorous pulling and shaking of his arm; and he, -who usually woke wide at the least noise, came to his senses with -difficulty. He looked up. The electric light had been turned on. - -“There’s a ghost in my room, Mr. Thorold! You’ll forgive me--but I’m -so----” - -It was Mrs. Macalister, dishevelled and in white, who stood over him. - -“This is really a bit too thick,” he thought vaguely and sleepily, -regretting his impulsive flirtation of the previous evening. Then he -collected himself and said sternly, severely, that if Mrs. Macalister -would retire to the corridor, he would follow in a moment; he added -that she might leave the door open if she felt afraid. Mrs. Macalister -retired, sobbing, and Cecil arose. He went first to consult his watch; -it was gone--a chronometer worth a couple of hundred pounds. He -whistled, climbed on to a chair, and discovered that his pocket-book -was no longer in a place of safety on the top of the wardrobe; it had -contained something over five hundred pounds in a highly negotiable -form. Picking up his overcoat, which lay on the floor, he found that -the fur lining--a millionaire’s fancy, which had cost him nearly a -hundred and fifty pounds--had been cut away, and was no more to be -seen. Even the revolver had departed from under his pillow! - -“Well!” he murmured, “this is decidedly the grand manner.” - -Quite suddenly it occurred to him, as he noticed a peculiar taste -in his mouth, that the whisky-and-soda had contained more than -whisky-and-soda--he had been drugged! He tried to recall the face of -the waiter who had served him. Eyeing the window and the door, he -argued that the thief had entered by the former and departed by the -latter. “But the pocket-book!” he mused. “I must have been watched!” - -Mrs. Macalister, stripped now of all dash and all daring, could be -heard in the corridor. - -“Can she----?” He speculated for a moment, and then decided positively -in the negative. Mrs. Macalister could have no design on anything but a -bachelor’s freedom. - -He assumed his dressing-gown and slippers and went to her. The corridor -was in darkness, but she stood in the light of his doorway. - -“Now,” he said, “this ghost of yours, dear lady!” - -“You must go first,” she whimpered. “I daren’t. It was white ... but -with a black face. It was at the window.” - -Cecil, getting a candle, obeyed. And having penetrated alone into the -lady’s chamber, he perceived, to begin with, that a pane had been -pushed out of the window by the old, noiseless device of a sheet of -treacled paper, and then, examining the window more closely, he saw -that, outside, a silk ladder depended from the roof and trailed in the -balcony. - -“Come in without fear,” he said to the trembling widow. “It must have -been someone with more appetite than a ghost that you saw. Perhaps an -Arab.” - -She came in, femininely trusting to him; and between them they -ascertained that she had lost a watch, sixteen rings, an opal necklace, -and some money. Mrs. Macalister would not say how much money. “My -resources are slight,” she remarked. “I was expecting remittances.” - -Cecil thought: “This is not merely in the grand manner. If it fulfils -its promise, it will prove to be one of the greatest things of the age.” - -He asked her to keep cool, not to be afraid, and to dress herself. Then -he returned to his room and dressed as quickly as he could. The hotel -was absolutely quiet, but out of the depths below came the sound of a -clock striking four. When, adequately but not æsthetically attired, he -opened his door again, another door near by also opened, and Cecil saw -a man’s head. - -“I say,” drawled the man’s head, “excuse me, but have _you_ noticed -anything?” - -“Why? What?” - -“Well, I’ve been robbed!” - -The Englishman laughed awkwardly, apologetically, as though ashamed to -have to confess that he had been victimised. - -“Much?” Cecil inquired. - -“Two hundred or so. No joke, you know.” - -“So have I been robbed,” said Cecil. “Let us go downstairs. Got a -candle? These corridors are usually lighted all night.” - -“Perhaps our thief has been at the switches,” said the Englishman. - -“Say our thieves,” Cecil corrected. - -“You think there was more than one?” - -“I think there were more than half a dozen,” Cecil replied. - -The Englishman was dressed, and the two descended together, candles in -hand, forgetting the lone lady. But the lone lady had no intention of -being forgotten, and she came after them, almost screaming. They had -not reached the ground floor before three other doors had opened and -three other victims proclaimed themselves. - -Cecil led the way through the splendid saloons, now so ghostly in -their elegance, which only three hours before had been the illuminated -scene of such polite revelry. Ere he reached the entrance-hall, where -a solitary jet was burning, the assistant-concierge (one of those -officials who seem never to sleep) advanced towards him, demanding in -his broken English what was the matter. - -“There have been thieves in the hotel,” said Cecil. “Waken the -concierge.” - -From that point, events succeeded each other in a sort of complex -rapidity. Mrs. Macalister fainted at the door of the billiard-room -and was laid out on a billiard-table, with a white ball between her -shoulders. The head concierge was not in his narrow bed in the alcove -by the main entrance, and he could not be found. Nor could the Italian -manager be found (though he was supposed to be ill in bed), nor the -Italian manager’s wife. Two stablemen were searched out from somewhere; -also a cook. And then the Englishman who had lost two hundred or so -went forth into the Algerian night to bring a gendarme from the post in -the Rue d’Isly. - -Cecil Thorold contented himself with talking to people as, in ones -and twos, and in various stages of incorrectness, they came into the -public rooms, now brilliantly lighted. All who came had been robbed. -What surprised him was the slowness of the hotel to wake up. There were -two hundred and twenty guests in the place. Of these, in a quarter -of an hour, perhaps fifteen had risen. The remainder were apparently -oblivious of the fact that something very extraordinary, and something -probably very interesting to them personally, had occurred and was -occurring. - -“Why! It’s a conspiracy, sir. It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is!” -decided the Indian judge. - -“Gang is a shorter word,” Cecil observed, and a young girl in a -macintosh giggled. - -Sleepy _employés_ now began to appear, and the rumour ran that six -waiters and a chambermaid were missing. Mrs. Macalister rallied from -the billiard table and came into the drawing-room, where most of the -company had gathered. Cecil yawned (the influence of the drug was still -upon him) as she approached him and weakly spoke. He answered absently; -he was engaged in watching the demeanour of these idlers on the face of -the earth--how incapable they seemed of any initiative, and yet with -what magnificent Britannic phlegm they endured the strange situation! -The talking was neither loud nor impassioned. - -Then the low, distant sound of a cannon was heard. Once, twice, thrice. - -Silence ensued. - -“Heavens!” sighed Mrs. Macalister, swaying towards Cecil. “What can -that be?” - -He avoided her, hurried out of the room, and snatched somebody else’s -hat from the hat-racks in the hall. But just as he was turning the -handle of the main door of the hotel, the Englishman who had lost two -hundred or so returned out of the Algerian night with an inspector -of police. The latter courteously requested Cecil not to leave the -building, as he must open the inquiry (_ouvrir l’enquête_) at once. -Cecil was obliged, regretfully, to comply. - -The inspector of police then commenced his labours. He telephoned -(no one had thought of the telephone) for assistance and asked the -Central Bureau to watch the railway station, the port, and the stage -coaches. He acquired the names and addresses of _tout le monde_. -He made catalogues of articles. He locked all the servants in the -ping-pong-room. He took down narratives, beginning with Cecil’s. And -while the functionary was engaged with Mrs. Macalister, Cecil quietly -but firmly disappeared. - -After his departure, the affair loomed larger and larger in mere -magnitude, but nothing that came to light altered its leading -characteristics. A wholesale robbery had been planned with the most -minute care and knowledge, and executed with the most daring skill. -Some ten persons--the manager and his wife, a chambermaid, six waiters, -and the concierge--seemed to have been concerned in the enterprise, -excluding Mrs. Macalister’s Arab and no doubt other assistants. (The -guests suddenly remembered how superior the concierge and the waiters -had been to the ordinary concierge and waiter!) At a quarter-past -five o’clock the police had ascertained that a hundred rooms had been -entered, and horrified guests were still descending! The occupants of -many rooms, however, made no response to a summons to awake. These, it -was discovered afterwards, had either, like Cecil, received a sedative -unawares, or they had been neatly gagged and bound. In the result, -the list of missing valuables comprised nearly two hundred watches, -eight hundred rings, a hundred and fifty other articles of jewellery, -several thousand pounds’ worth of furs, three thousand pounds in -coin, and twenty-one thousand pounds in bank-notes and other forms of -currency. One lady, a doctor’s wife, said she had been robbed of eight -hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, but her story obtained little -credit; other tales of enormous loss, chiefly by women, were also taken -with salt. When the dawn began, at about six o’clock, an official -examination of the façade of the hotel indicated that nearly every room -had been invaded by the balconied window, either from the roof or from -the ground. But the stone flags of the terrace, and the beautifully -asphalted pathways of the garden disclosed no trace of the plunderers. - -“I guess your British habit of sleeping with the window open don’t cut -much ice to-day, anyhow!” said an American from Indianapolis to the -company. - -That morning no omnibus from the hotel arrived at the station to catch -the six-thirty train which takes two days to ramble to Tunis and -to Biskra. And all the liveried porters talked together in excited -Swiss-German. - - -IV. - -“My compliments to Captain Black,” said Cecil Thorold, “and repeat -to him that all I want him to do is to keep her in sight. He needn’t -overhaul her too much.” - -“Precisely, sir.” Lecky bowed; he was pale. - -“And you had better lie down.” - -“I thank you, sir, but I find a recumbent position inconvenient. -Perpetual motion seems more agreeable.” - -Cecil was back in the large, low room panelled with bird’s-eye maple. -Below him the power of two thousand horses drove through the nocturnal -Mediterranean swell his _Claribel_ of a thousand tons. Thirty men were -awake and active on board her, and twenty slept in the vast, clean -forecastle, with electric lights blazing six inches above their noses. -He lit a cigarette, and going to the piano, struck a few chords from -“The Orchid”; but since the music would not remain on the stand, he -abandoned that attempt and lay down on a divan to think. - -He had reached the harbour, from the hotel, in twenty minutes, partly -on foot at racing speed, and partly in an Arab cart, also at racing -speed. The _Claribel’s_ launch awaited him, and in another five minutes -the launch was slung to her davits, and the _Claribel_ under way. He -learnt that the small and sinister vessel, the _Perroquet Vert_ (of -Oran), which he and his men had been watching for several days, had -slipped unostentatiously between the southern and eastern jetties, had -stopped for a few minutes to hold converse with a boat that had put -off from the neighbourhood of Lower Mustapha, and had then pointed her -head north-west, as though for some port in the province of Oran or in -Morocco. - -And in the rings of cigarette smoke which he made, Cecil seemed now -to see clearly the whole business. He had never relaxed his interest -in the affair of the five-pound notes. He had vaguely suspected it to -be part of some large scheme; he had presumed, on slight grounds, a -connection between the _Perroquet Vert_ and the Italian manager of the -hotel. Nay, more, he had felt sure that some great stroke was about -to be accomplished. But of precise knowledge, of satisfactory theory, -of definite expectation, he had had none--until Mrs. Macalister, -that unconscious and man-hunting agent of Destiny, had fortunately -wakened him in the nick of time. Had it not been for his flirtation -of the previous evening, he might still be asleep in his bed at the -hotel.... He perceived the entire plan. The five-pound notes had been -mysteriously scattered, certainly to advertise the hotel, but only -to advertise it for a particular and colossal end, to fill it full -and overflowing with fat victims. The situation had been thoroughly -studied in all its details, and the task had been divided and allotted -to various brains. Every room must have been examined, watched, and -separately plotted against; the habits and idiosyncrasy of every -victim must have been individually weighed and considered. Nothing, no -trifle, could have been forgotten. And then some supreme intelligence -had drawn the threads together and woven them swiftly into the pattern -of a single night, almost a single hour!... And the loot (Cecil could -estimate it pretty accurately) had been transported down the hill to -Mustapha Inférieure, tossed into a boat, and so to the _Perroquet -Vert_. And the _Perroquet Vert_, with loot and looters on board, -was bound, probably, for one of those obscure and infamous ports of -Oran or Morocco--Tenez, Mostaganem, Beni Sar, Melilla, or the city of -Oran, or Tangier itself! He knew something of the Spanish and Maltese -dens of Oran and Tangier, the clearing-houses for stolen goods of two -continents, and the impregnable refuge of scores of ingenious villains. - -And when he reflected upon the grandeur and immensity of the scheme, -so simple in its essence, and so leisurely in its achievement, like -most grand schemes; when he reflected upon the imagination which had -been necessary even to conceive it, and the generalship which had been -necessary to its successful conclusion, he murmured admiringly-- - -“The man who thought of that and did it may be a scoundrel; but he is -also an artist, and a great one!” - -And just because he, Cecil Thorold, was a millionaire, and possessed -a hundred-thousand-pound toy, which could do nineteen knots an hour, -and cost fifteen hundred pounds a month to run, he was about to defeat -that great artist and nullify that great scheme, and incidentally to -retrieve his watch, his revolver, his fur, and his five hundred pounds. -He had only to follow, and to warn one of the French torpedo-boats -which are always patrolling the coast between Algiers and Oran, and the -bubble would burst! - -He sighed for the doomed artist; and he wondered what that victimised -crowd of European loungers, who lounged sadly round the Mediterranean -in winter, and sadly round northern Europe in summer, had done in their -languid and luxurious lives that they should be saved, after all, from -the pillage to which the great artist in theft had subjected them! - -Then Lecky re-entered the state room. - -“We shall have a difficulty in keeping the _Perroquet Vert_ in sight, -sir.” - -“What!” exclaimed Cecil. “That tub! That coffin! You don’t mean she can -do twenty knots?” - -“Exactly, sir. Coffin! It--I mean she--is sinking.” - -Cecil ran on deck. Dawn was breaking over Matifou, and a faint, cold, -grey light touched here and there the heaving sea. His captain spoke -and pointed. Ahead, right ahead, less than a mile away, the _Perroquet -Vert_ was sinking by the stern, and even as they gazed at her, a little -boat detached itself from her side in the haze of the morning mist; and -she sank, disappeared, vanished amid a cloud of escaping steam. They -were four miles north-east of Cape Caxine. Two miles further westward, -a big Dominion liner, bound direct for Algiers from the New World, was -approaching and had observed the catastrophe--for she altered her -course. In a few minutes, the _Claribel_ picked up the boat of the -_Perroquet Vert_. It contained three Arabs. - - -V. - -The tale told by the Arabs (two of them were brothers, and all -three came from Oran) fully sustained Cecil Thorold’s theory of the -spoliation of the hotel. Naturally they pretended at first to an -entire innocence concerning the schemes of those who had charge of the -_Perroquet Vert_. The two brothers, who were black with coal-dust when -rescued, swore that they had been physically forced to work in the -stokehold; but ultimately all three had to admit a knowledge of things -which was decidedly incriminating, and all three got three years’ -imprisonment. The only part of the Algiers Mystery which remained a -mystery was the cause of the sinking of the _Perroquet Vert_. Whether -she was thoroughly unseaworthy (she had been picked up cheap at -Melilla), or whether someone (not on board) had deliberately arranged -her destruction, perhaps to satisfy a Moorish vengeance, was not -ascertained. The three Arabs could only be persuaded to say that there -had been eleven Europeans and seven natives on the ship, and that they -alone, by the mercy of Allah, had escaped from the swift catastrophe. - -The hotel underwent an acute crisis, from which, however, it is -emerging. For over a week a number of the pillaged guests discussed -a diving enterprise of salvage. But the estimates were too high, and -it came to nothing. So they all, Cecil included, began to get used to -the idea of possessing irrecoverable property to the value of forty -thousand pounds in the Mediterranean. A superb business in telegraphed -remittances was done for several days. The fifteen beings who had -accompanied the _Perroquet Vert_ to the bottom were scarcely thought -of, for it was almost universally agreed that the way of transgressors -is, and ought to be, hard. - -As for Cecil Thorold, the adventure, at first so full of the promise -of joy, left him melancholy, until an unexpected sequel diverted the -channel of his thoughts. - - -CHAPTER V. - -IN THE CAPITAL OF THE SAHARA. - -Mrs. Macalister turned with sudden eagerness and alarm towards Cecil -Thorold--the crowd on the lawn in front of the railings was so dense -that only heads could be moved--and she said excitedly-- - -“I’m sure I can see my ghost across there!” - -She indicated with her agreeable snub nose the opposite side of the -course. - -“Your ghost?” Cecil questioned, puzzled for a moment by this -extraordinary remark. - -Then the Arab horsemen swept by in a cloud of dust and of thunder, and -monopolised the attention of the lawn and the grand stand, and the -_élite_ of Biskra crammed thereon and therein. They had one more lap to -accomplish for the Prix de la Ville. - -Biskra is an oasis in the desert, and the capital of the Algerian -Sahara. Two days’ journey by train from Algiers, over the Djujura -Ranges, it is the last outpost of the Algerian State Railways. It has a -hundred and sixty thousand palm trees; but the first symptom of Biskra -to be observed from the approaching first-class carriage is the chimney -of the electric light plant. Besides the hundred and sixty thousand -palm trees, it possesses half a dozen large hotels, five native -villages, a fort, a huge barracks, a very ornamental town hall, shops -for photographic materials, a whole street of dancing-girls, the finest -winter climate in all Africa, and a gambling Casino. It is a unique -thing in oases. It completely upsets the conventional idea of an oasis -as a pool of water bordered with a few date palms, and the limitless -desert all round! Nevertheless, though Biskra as much resembles Paris -as it resembles the conventional idea of an oasis, it is genuine -enough, and the limitless desert is, in fact, all around. You may walk -out into the desert--and meet a motor-car manœuvring in the sand; but -the sand remains the sand, and the desert remains the desert, and the -Sahara, more majestic than the sea itself, refuses to be cheapened by -the pneumatic tyres of a Mercedes, or the blue rays of the electric -light, or the feet of English, French, and Germans wandering in search -of novelty--it persists in being august. - -Once a year, in February, Biskra becomes really and excessively -excited, and the occasion is its annual two-day race-meeting. Then the -tribes and their chieftains and their horses and their camels arrive -magically out of the four corners of the desert and fill the oasis. -And the English, French, and Germans arrive from the Mediterranean -coast, with their trunks and their civilisation, and crowd the -hotels till beds in Biskra are precious beyond rubies. And under the -tropical sun, East and West meet magnificently in the afternoon on the -racecourse to the north of the European reserve. And the tribesmen, -their scraggy steeds trailing superb horsecloths, are arranged in -hundreds behind the motor-cars and landaus, with the _pari-mutuel_ -in full swing twenty yards away. And the dancing-girls, the renowned -Ouled-Nails, covered with gold coins and with muslin in high, crude, -violent purples, greens, vermilions, shriek and whinny on their benches -just opposite the grand stand, where the Western women, arrayed in -the toilettes of Worth, Doucet, and Redfern, quiz them through their -glasses. And, fringing all, is a crowd of the adventurers and rascals -of two continents, the dark and the light. And in the background -the palms wave eternally in the breeze. And to the east the Aurès -mountains, snow-capped, rise in hues of saffron and pale rose, like -stage mountains, against the sapphire sky. And to the south a line of -telegraph poles lessens and disappears over the verge into the inmost -heart of the mysterious and unchangeable Sahara. - -It was amid this singular scene that Mrs. Macalister made to Cecil -Thorold her bizarre remark about a ghost. - -“What ghost?” the millionaire repeated, when the horsemen had passed. - -Then he remembered that on the famous night, now nearly a month -ago, when the Hôtel St. James at Algiers was literally sacked by an -organised band of depredators, and valuables to the tune of forty -thousand pounds disappeared, Mrs. Macalister had given the first alarm -by crying out that there was a ghost in her room. - -“Ah!” He smiled easily, condescendingly, to this pertinacious widow, -who had been pursuing him, so fruitlessly, for four mortal weeks, from -Algiers to Tunis, from Tunis back to Constantine, and from Constantine -here to Biskra. “All Arabs look more or less alike, you know.” - -“But----” - -“Yes,” he said again. “They all look alike, to us, like Chinamen.” - -Considering that he himself, from his own yacht, had witnessed the -total loss in the Mediterranean of the vessel which contained the -plunder and the fleeing band of thieves; considering that his own yacht -had rescued the only three survivors of that shipwreck, and that these -survivors had made a full confession, and had, only two days since, -been duly sentenced by the criminal court at Algiers--he did not feel -inclined to minister to Mrs. Macalister’s feminine fancies. - -“Did you ever see an Arab with a mole on his chin?” asked Mrs. -Macalister. - -“No, I never did.” - -“Well, my Arab had a mole on his chin, and that is why I am sure it was -he that I saw a minute ago--over there. No, he’s gone now!” - -The competing horsemen appeared round the bend for the last time, the -dancing-girls whinnied in their high treble, the crowd roared, and the -Prix de la Ville was won and lost. It was the final race on the card, -and in the _mêlée_ which followed, Cecil became separated from his -adorer. She was to depart on the morrow by the six a.m. train. “Urgent -business,” she said. She had given up the chase of the millionaire. -“Perhaps she’s out of funds, poor thing!” he reflected. “Anyhow, I hope -I may never see her again.” As a matter of fact he never did see her -again. She passed out of his life as casually as she had come into it. - -He strolled slowly towards the hotel through the perturbed crowd of -Arabs, Europeans, carriages, camels, horses and motor-cars. The mounted -tribesmen were in a state of intense excitement, and were continually -burning powder in that mad fashion which seems to afford a peculiar joy -to the Arab soul. From time to time a tribesman would break out of the -ranks of his clan, and, spurring his horse and dropping the reins on -the animal’s neck, would fire revolvers from both hands as he flew over -the rough ground. It was unrivalled horsemanship, and Cecil admired -immensely the manner in which, at the end of the frenzied performance, -these men, drunk with powder, would wheel their horses sharply while at -full gallop, and stop dead. - -And then, as one man, who had passed him like a hurricane, turned, -paused, and jogged back to his tribe, Cecil saw that he had a mole on -his chin. He stood still to watch the splendid fellow, and he noticed -something far more important than the mole--he perceived that the -revolver in the man’s right hand had a chased butt. - -“I can’t swear to it,” Cecil mused. “But if that isn’t my revolver, -stolen from under my pillow at the Hôtel St. James, Algiers, on the -tenth of January last, my name is Norval, and not Thorold.” - -And the whole edifice of his ideas concerning the robbery at the Hôtel -de Paris began to shake. - -“That revolver ought to be at the bottom of the Mediterranean,” he -said to himself; “and so ought Mrs. Macalister’s man with the mole, -according to the accepted theory of the crime and the story of the -survivors of the shipwreck of the _Perroquet Vert_.” - -He walked on, keeping the man in sight. - -“Suppose,” he murmured--“suppose all that stuff isn’t at the bottom of -the Mediterranean after all?” - -A hundred yards further on, he happened to meet one of the white-clad -native guides attached to the Royal Hotel where he had lunched. The -guide saluted and offered service, as all the Biskra guides do on all -occasions. Cecil’s reply was to point out the man with the mole. - -“You see him, Mahomet,” said Cecil. “Make no mistake. Find out what -tribe he belongs to, where he comes from, and where he sleeps in -Biskra, and I will give you a sovereign. Meet me at the Casino to-night -at ten.” - -Mahomet grinned an honest grin and promised to earn the sovereign. - -Cecil stopped an empty landau and drove hurriedly to the station -to meet the afternoon train from civilisation. He had arrived in -Biskra that morning by road from El Kantara, and Lecky was coming by -the afternoon train with the luggage. On seeing him, he gave that -invaluable factotum some surprising orders. - -In addition to Lecky, the millionaire observed among the passengers -descending from the train two other people who were known to him; but -he carefully hid himself from these ladies. In three minutes he had -disappeared into the nocturnal whirl and uproar of Biskra, solely bent -on proving or disproving the truth of a brand-new theory concerning the -historic sack of the Hôtel St. James. - -But that night he waited in vain for Mahomet at the packed Casino, -where the Arab chieftains and the English gentlemen, alike in their -tremendous calm, were losing money at _petits chevaux_ with all the -imperturbability of stone statues. - - -II. - -Nor did Cecil see anything of Mahomet during the next day, and he had -reasons for not making inquiries about him at the Royal Hotel. But at -night, as he was crossing the deserted market, Mahomet came up to him -suddenly out of nowhere, and, grinning the eternal, honest, foolish -grin, said in his odd English-- - -“I have found--him.” - -“Where?” - -“Come,” said Mahomet, mysteriously. The Eastern guide loves to be -mysterious. - -Cecil followed him far down the carnivalesque street of the -Ouled-Nails, where tom-toms and nameless instruments of music sounded -from every other house, and the _premières danseuses_ of the Sahara -showed themselves gorgeously behind grilles, like beautiful animals -in cages. Then Mahomet entered a crowded _café_, passed through it, -and pushing aside a suspended mat at the other end, bade Cecil proceed -further. Cecil touched his revolver (his new revolver), to make sure of -its company, and proceeded further. He found himself in a low Oriental -room, lighted by an odorous English lamp with a circular wick, and -furnished with a fine carpet and two bedroom chairs certainly made -in Curtain Road, Shoreditch--a room characteristic of Biskra. On one -chair sat a man. But this person was not Mrs. Macalister’s man with -a mole. He was obviously a Frenchman, by his dress, gestures, and -speech. He greeted the millionaire in French and then dropped into -English--excellently grammatical and often idiomatic English, spoken -with a strong French accent. He was rather a little man, thin, grey, -and vivacious. - -“Give yourself the pain of sitting down,” said the Frenchman. “I am -glad to see you. You may be able to help us.” - -“You have the advantage of me,” Cecil replied, smiling. - -“Perhaps,” said the Frenchman. “You came to Biskra yesterday, Mr. -Thorold, with the intention of staying at the Royal Hotel, where rooms -were engaged for you. But yesterday afternoon you went to the station -to meet your servant, and you ordered him to return to Constantine -with your luggage and to await your instructions there. You then took -a handbag and went to the Casino Hotel, and you managed, by means -of diplomacy and of money, to get a bed in the _salle à manger_. It -was all they could do for you. You gave the name of Collins. Biskra, -therefore, is not officially aware of the presence of Mr. Cecil -Thorold, the millionaire; while Mr. Collins is free to carry on his -researches, to appear and to disappear as it pleases him.” - -“Yes,” Cecil remarked. “You have got that fairly right. But may I -ask----” - -“Let us come to business at once,” said the Frenchman, politely -interrupting him. “Is this your watch?” - -He dramatically pulled a watch and chain from his pocket. - -“It is,” said Cecil quietly. He refrained from embroidering the -affirmative with exclamations. “It was stolen from my bedroom at the -Hôtel St. James, with my revolver, some fur, and a quantity of money, -on the tenth of January.” - -“You are surprised to find it is not sunk in the Mediterranean?” - -“Thirty hours ago I should have been surprised,” said Cecil. “Now I am -not.” - -“And why not now?” - -“Because I have formed a new theory. But have the goodness to give me -the watch.” - -“I cannot,” said the Frenchman, graciously. “Not at present.” - -There was a pause. The sound of music was heard from the _café_. - -“But, my dear sir, I insist.” Cecil spoke positively. - -The Frenchman laughed. “I will be perfectly frank with you, Mr. -Thorold. Your cleverness in forming a new theory of the great robbery -merits all my candour. My name is Sylvain, and I am head of the -detective force of Algiers, _chef de la sureté_. You will perceive -that I cannot part with the watch without proper formalities. Mr. -Thorold, the robbery at the Hôtel St. James was a work of the highest -criminal art. Possibly I had better tell you the nature of our recent -discoveries.” - -“I always thought well of the robbery,” Cecil observed, “and my opinion -of it is rising. Pray continue.” - -“According to your new theory, Mr. Thorold, how many persons were on -board the _Perroquet Vert_ when she began to sink?” - -“Three,” said Cecil promptly, as though answering a conundrum. - -The Frenchman beamed. “You are admirable,” he exclaimed. “Yes, instead -of eighteen, there were three. The wreck of the _Perroquet Vert_ -carefully pre-arranged; the visit of the boat to the _Perroquet Vert_ -off Mustapha Inférieure was what you call, I believe, a ‘plant.’ -The stolen goods never left dry land. There were three Arabs only -on the _Perroquet Vert_--one to steer her, and the other two in the -engine-room. And these three were very careful to get themselves saved. -They scuttled their ship in sight of your yacht and of another vessel. -There is no doubt, Mr. Thorold,” the Frenchman smiled with a hint of -irony, “that the thieves were fully _au courant_ of your doings on the -_Claribel_. The shipwreck was done deliberately, with you and your -yacht for an audience. It was a masterly stroke,” he proceeded, almost -enthusiastically, “for it had the effect, not merely of drawing away -suspicion from the true direction, but of putting an end to all further -inquiries. Were not the goods at the bottom of the sea, and the thieves -drowned? What motive could the police have for further activity? In six -months--nay, three months--all the notes and securities could be safely -negotiated, because no measures would have to be taken to stop them. -Why take measures to stop notes that are at the bottom of the sea?” - -“But the three survivors who are now in prison,” Cecil said. “Their -behaviour, their lying, needs some accounting for.” - -“Quite simple,” the Frenchman went on. “They are in prison for three -years. What is that to an Arab? He will suffer it with stoicism. -Say that ten thousand francs are deposited with each of their -families. When they come out, they are rich for life. At a cost of -thirty thousand francs and the price of the ship--say another thirty -thousand--the thieves reasonably expected to obtain absolute security.” - -“It was a heroic idea!” said Cecil. - -“It was,” said the Frenchman. “But it has failed.” - -“Evidently. But why?” - -“Can you ask? You know as well as I do! It has failed, partly because -there were too many persons in the secret, partly because of the Arab -love of display on great occasions, and partly because of a mole on a -man’s chin.” - -“By the way, that was the man I came here to see,” Cecil remarked. - -“He is arrested,” said the Frenchman curtly, and then he sighed. “The -booty was not guarded with sufficient restrictions. It was not kept in -bulk. One thief probably said: ‘I cannot do without this lovely watch.’ -And another said: ‘What a revolver! I must have it.’ Ah! The Arab, the -Arab! The Europeans ought to have provided for that. That is where they -were foolish--the idiots! The idiots!” he repeated angrily. - -“You seem annoyed.” - -“Mr. Thorold, I am a poet in these things. It annoys me to see a fine -composition ruined by bad construction in the fifth act.... However, as -chief of the surety, I rejoice.” - -“You have located the thieves and the plunder?” - -“I think I have. Certainly I have captured two of the thieves and -several articles. The bulk lies at----” He stopped and looked round. -“Mr. Thorold, may I rely on you? I know, perhaps more than you think, -of your powers. May I rely on you?” - -“You may,” said Cecil. - -“You will hold yourself at my disposition during to-morrow, to assist -me?” - -“With pleasure.” - -“Then let us take coffee. In the morning, I shall have acquired certain -precise information which at the moment I lack. Let us take coffee.” - - -III. - -On the following morning, somewhat early, while walking near Mecid, one -of the tiny outlying villages of the oasis, Cecil met Eve Fincastle -and Kitty Sartorius, whom he had not spoken with since the affair of -the bracelet at Bruges, though he had heard from them and had, indeed, -seen them at the station two days before. Eve Fincastle had fallen -rather seriously ill at Mentone, and the holiday of the two girls, -which should have finished before the end of the year, was prolonged. -Financially, the enforced leisure was a matter of trifling importance -to Kitty Sartorius, who had insisted on remaining with her friend, much -to the disgust of her London manager. But the journalist’s resources -were less royal, and Eve considered herself fortunate that she had -obtained from her newspaper some special descriptive correspondence in -Algeria. It was this commission which had brought her, and Kitty with -her, in the natural course of an Algerian tour, to Biskra. - -Cecil was charmed to see his acquaintances; for Eve interested him, -and Kitty’s beauty (it goes without saying) dazzled him. Nevertheless, -he had been, as it were, hiding himself, and, in his character as an -amateur of the loot of cities, he would have preferred to have met them -on some morning other than that particular morning. - -“You will go with us to Sidi Okba, won’t you, to-day?” said Kitty, -after they had talked a while. “We’ve secured a carriage, and I’m dying -for a drive in the real, true desert.” - -“Sorry I can’t,” said Cecil. - -“Oh, but----” Eve Fincastle began, and stopped. - -“Of course you can,” said Kitty imperiously. “You must. We leave -to-morrow--we’re only here for two days--for Algiers and France. -Another two days in Paris, and then London, my darling London, and -work! So it’s understood?” - -“It desolates me,” said Cecil. “But I can’t go with you to Sidi Okba -to-day.” - -They both saw that he meant to refuse them. - -“That settles it, then,” Eve agreed quietly. - -“You’re horrid, Mr. Thorold,” said the bewitching actress. “And if you -imagine for a single moment we haven’t seen that you’ve been keeping -out of our way, you’re mistaken. You must have noticed us at the -station. Eve thinks you’ve got another of your----” - -“No, I don’t, Kitty,” said Eve quickly. - -“If Miss Fincastle suspects that I’ve got another of my----” he paused -humorously, “Miss Fincastle is right. I _have_ got another of my---- I -throw myself on your magnanimity. I am staying in Biskra under the name -of Collins, and my time, like my name, is not my own.” - -“In that case,” Eve remarked, “we will pass on.” - -And they shook hands, with a certain frigidity on the part of the two -girls. - -During the morning, M. Sylvain made no sign, and Cecil lunched in -solitude at the Dar Eef, adjoining the Casino. The races being over, -streams of natives, with their tents and their quadrupeds, were -leaving Biskra for the desert; they made an interminable procession -which could be seen from the window of the Dar Eef coffee room. Cecil -was idly watching this procession, when a hand touched his shoulder. He -turned and saw a gendarme. - -“Monsieur Collang?” questioned the gendarme. - -Cecil assented. - -“_Voulez-vous avoir l’obligeance de me suivre, monsieur?_” - -Cecil obediently followed, and found in the street M. Sylvain well -wrapped up, and seated in an open carriage. - -“I have need of you,” said M. Sylvain. “Can you come at once?” - -“Certainly.” - -In two minutes they were driving away together into the desert. - -“Our destination is Sidi Okba,” said M. Sylvain. “A curious place.” - -The road (so called) led across the Biskra River (so called), and then -in a straight line eastwards. The river had about the depth of a dinner -plate. As for the road, in some parts it not only merely failed to be -a road--it was nothing but virgin desert, intact; at its best it was -a heaving and treacherous mixture of sand and pebbles, through which, -and not over which, the two unhappy horses had to drag M. Sylvain’s -unfortunate open carriage. - -M. Sylvain himself drove. - -“I am well acquainted with this part of the desert,” he said. “We have -strange cases sometimes. And when I am on important business, I never -trust an Arab. By the way, you have a revolver? I do not anticipate -danger, but----” - -“I have one,” said Cecil. - -“And it is loaded?” - -Cecil took the weapon from his hip pocket and examined it. - -“It is loaded,” he said. - -“Good!” exclaimed the Frenchman, and then he turned to the gendarme, -who was sitting as impassively as the leaps and bounds of the carriage -would allow, on a small seat immediately behind the other two, and -demanded of him in French whether his revolver also was loaded. The -man gave a respectful affirmative. “Good!” exclaimed M. Sylvain again, -and launched into a description of the wondrous gardens of the Comte -Landon, whose walls, on the confines of the oasis, they were just -passing. - -Straight in front could be seen a short line of palm trees, waving in -the desert breeze under the desert sun, and Cecil asked what they were. - -“Sidi Okba,” replied M. Sylvain. “The hundred and eighty thousand palms -of the desert city of Sidi Okba. They seem near to you, no doubt, but -we shall travel twenty kilometres before we reach them. The effect of -nearness is due to the singular quality of the atmosphere. It is a two -hours’ journey.” - -“Then do we return in the dark?” Cecil inquired. - -“If we are lucky, we may return at once, and arrive in Biskra at dusk. -If not--well, we shall spend the night in Sidi Okba. You object?” - -“Not at all.” - -“A curious place,” observed M. Sylvain. - -Soon they had left behind all trace of the oasis, and were in the -“real, true desert.” They met and passed native equipages and strings -of camels, and from time to time on either hand at short distances -from the road could be seen the encampments of wandering tribes. And -after interminable joltings, in which M. Sylvain, his guest, and his -gendarme were frequently hurled at each other’s heads with excessive -violence, the short line of palm trees began to seem a little nearer -and to occupy a little more of the horizon. And then they could descry -the wall of the city. And at last they reached its gate and the beggars -squatting within its gate. - -“Descend!” M. Sylvain ordered his subordinate. - -The man disappeared, and M. Sylvain and Cecil drove into the city; -they met several carriages of Biskra visitors just setting forth on -their return journey. - -In insisting that Sidi Okba was a curious place, M. Sylvain did not -exaggerate. It is an Eastern town of the most antique sort, built -solely of mud, with the simplicity, the foulness, the smells, and the -avowed and the secret horrors which might be expected in a community -which has not altered its habits in any particular for a thousand -years. During several months of each year it is visited daily by -Europeans (its mosque is the oldest Mohammedan building in Africa, -therefore no respectable tourist dares to miss it), and yet it remains -absolutely uninfluenced by European notions. The European person must -take his food with him; he is allowed to eat it in the garden of a -_café_ which is European as far as its sign and its counter, but no -further; he could not eat it in the _café_ itself. This _café_ is the -mark which civilisation has succeeded in making on Sidi Okba in ten -centuries. - -As Cecil drove with M. Sylvain through the narrow, winding street, -he acutely felt the East closing in upon him; and, since the sun was -getting low over the palm trees, he was glad to have the detective by -his side. - -They arrived at the wretched _café_. A pair-horse vehicle, with the -horses’ heads towards Biskra, was waiting at the door. Unspeakable -lanes, fetid, winding, sinister, and strangely peopled, led away in -several directions. - -M. Sylvain glanced about him. - -“We shall succeed,” he murmured cheerfully. “Follow me.” - -And they went into the mark of civilisation, and saw the counter, and a -female creature behind the bar, and, through another door, a glimpse of -the garden beyond. - -“Follow me,” murmured M. Sylvain again, opening another door to the -left into a dark passage. “Straight on. There is a room at the other -end.” - -They vanished. - -In a few seconds M. Sylvain returned into the _café_. - - -IV. - -Now, in the garden were Eve Fincastle and Kitty Sartorius, tying up -some wraps preparatory to their departure for Biskra. They caught sight -of Cecil Thorold and his companion entering the _café_, and they were -surprised to find the millionaire in Sidi Okba after his refusal to -accompany them. - -Through the back door of the _café_ they saw Cecil’s companion reappear -out of the passage. They saw the creature behind the counter stoop and -produce a revolver and then offer it to the Frenchman with a furtive -movement. They saw that the Frenchman declined it, and drew another -revolver from his own pocket and winked. And the character of the wink -given by the Frenchman to the woman made them turn pale under the -sudden, knife-like thrust of an awful suspicion. - -The Frenchman looked up and perceived the girls in the garden, and one -glance at Kitty’s beauty was not enough for him. - -“Can you keep him here a minute while I warn Mr. Thorold?” said Eve -quickly. - -Kitty Sartorius nodded and began to smile on the Frenchman; she then -lifted her finger beckoningly. If millions had depended on his refusal, -it is doubtful whether he would have resisted that charming gesture. -(Not for nothing did Kitty Sartorius receive a hundred a week at the -Regency Theatre.) In a moment the Frenchman was talking to her, and she -had enveloped him in a golden mist of enchantment. - -Guided by a profound instinct, Eve ran up the passage and into the room -where Cecil was awaiting the return of his M. Sylvain. - -“Come out,” she whispered passionately, as if between violent anger and -dreadful alarm. “You are trapped--you--with your schemes!” - -“Trapped!” he exclaimed, smiling. “Not at all. I have my revolver!” His -hand touched his pocket. “By Jove! I haven’t! It’s gone!” - -The miraculous change in his face was of the highest interest. - -“Come out!” she cried. “Our carriage is waiting!” - -In the _café_, Kitty Sartorius was talking to the Frenchman. She -stroked his sleeve with her gloved hand, and he, the Frenchman, still -held the revolver which he had displayed to the woman of the counter. - -Inspired by the consummate and swiftly aroused emotion of that moment, -Cecil snatched at the revolver. The three friends walked hastily to -the street, jumped into the carriage, and drove away. Already as they -approached the city gate, they could see the white tower of the Royal -Hotel at Biskra shining across the desert like a promise of security.... - -The whole episode had lasted perhaps two minutes, but they were minutes -of such intense and blinding revelation as Cecil had never before -experienced. He sighed with relief as he lay back in the carriage. - -“And that’s the man,” he meditated, astounded, “who must have planned -the robbery of the Hôtel St. James! And I never suspected it! I never -suspected that his gendarme was a sham! I wonder whether his murder of -me would have been as leisurely and artistic as his method of trapping -me! I wonder!... Well, this time I have certainly enjoyed myself.” - -Then he gazed at Eve Fincastle. - -The women said nothing for a long time, and even then the talk was of -trifles. - - -V. - -Eve Fincastle had gone up on to the vast, flat roof of the Royal Hotel, -and Cecil, knowing that she was there, followed. The sun had just -set, and Biskra lay spread out below them in the rich evening light -which already, eastwards, had turned to sapphire. They could still see -the line of the palm trees of Sidi Okba, and in another direction, -the long, lonely road to Figuig, stretching across the desert like a -rope which had been flung from heaven on the waste of sand. The Aurès -mountains were black and jagged. Nearer, immediately under them, was -the various life of the great oasis, and the sounds of that life--human -speech, the rattle of carriages, the grunts of camels in the camel -enclosure, the whistling of an engine at the station, the melancholy -wails of hawkers--ascended softly in the twilight of the Sahara. - -Cecil approached her, but she did not turn towards him. - -“I want to thank you,” he started. - -She made no movement, and then suddenly she burst out. “Why do you -continue with these shameful plots and schemes?” she demanded, looking -always steadily away from him. “Why do you disgrace yourself? Was -this another theft, another blackmailing, another affair like that -at Ostend? Why----” She stopped, deeply disturbed, unable to control -herself. - -“My dear journalist,” he said quietly, “you don’t understand. Let me -tell you.” - -He gave her his history from the night summons by Mrs. Macalister to -that same afternoon. - -She faced him. - -“I’m so glad,” she murmured. “You can’t imagine----” - -“I want to thank you for saving my life,” he said again. - -She began to cry; her body shook; she hid her face. - -“But----” he stammered awkwardly. - -“It wasn’t I who saved your life,” she said, sobbing passionately. -“I wasn’t beautiful enough. Only Kitty could have done it. Only a -beautiful woman could have kept that man----” - -“I know all about it, my dear girl,” Cecil silenced her disavowal. -Something moved him to take her hand. She smiled sadly, not resisting. -“You must excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m not myself to-night.... It’s -because of the excitement.... Anyhow, I’m glad you haven’t taken any -‘loot’ this time.” - -“But I have,” he protested. (He was surprised to find his voice -trembling.) - -“What?” - -“This.” He pressed her hand tenderly. - -“That?” She looked at her hand, lying in his, as though she had never -seen it before. - -“Eve,” he whispered. - - * * * * * - -About two-thirds of the loot of the Hôtel St. James was ultimately -recovered; not at Sidi Okba, but in the cellars of the Hôtel St. James -itself. From first to last that robbery was a masterpiece of audacity. -Its originator, the _soi-disant_ M. Sylvain, head of the Algiers -detective force, is still at large. - - -CHAPTER VI. - -“LO! ’TWAS A GALA NIGHT!” - -Paris. And not merely Paris, but Paris _en fête_, Paris decorated, -Paris idle, Paris determined to enjoy itself, and succeeding -brilliantly. Venetian masts of red and gold lined the gay pavements -of the _grand boulevard_ and the Avenue de l’Opéra; and suspended -from these in every direction, transverse and lateral, hung garlands -of flowers whose petals were of coloured paper, and whose hearts were -electric globes that in the evening would burst into flame. The effect -of the city’s toilette reached the extreme of opulence, for no expense -had been spared. Paris was welcoming monarchs, and had spent two -million francs in obedience to the maxim that what is worth doing at -all is worth doing well. - -The Grand Hotel, with its eight hundred rooms full of English and -Americans, at the upper end of the Avenue de l’Opéra, looked down at -the Grand Hôtel du Louvre, with its four hundred rooms full of English -and Americans, at the lower end of the Avenue de l’Opéra. These two -establishments had the best views in the whole city; and perhaps the -finest view of all was that obtainable from a certain second floor -window of the Grand Hotel, precisely at the corner of the Boulevard -des Capucines and the Rue Auber. From this window one could see the -boulevards in both directions, the Opéra, the Place de l’Opéra, the -Avenue de l’Opéra, the Rue du Quatre Septembre, and the multitudinous -life of the vivid thoroughfares--the glittering _cafés_, the dazzling -shops, the painted kiosks, the lumbering omnibuses, the gliding trams, -the hooting automobiles, the swift and careless cabs, the private -carriages, the suicidal bicycles, the newsmen, the toy sellers, the -touts, the beggars, and all the holiday crowd, sombre men and radiant -women, chattering, laughing, bustling, staring, drinking, under the -innumerable tricolours and garlands of paper flowers. - -That particular view was a millionaire’s view, and it happened to be -the temporary property of Cecil Thorold, who was enjoying it and the -afternoon sun at the open window, with three companions. Eve Fincastle -looked at it with the analytic eye of the journalist, while Kitty -Sartorius, as was quite proper for an actress, deemed it a sort of -frame for herself, as she leaned over the balcony like a Juliet on the -stage. The third guest in Cecil’s sitting-room was Lionel Belmont, the -Napoleonic Anglo-American theatrical manager, in whose crown Kitty -herself was the chief star. Mr. Belmont, a big, burly, good-humoured, -shrewd man of something over forty, said he had come to Paris on -business. But for two days the business had been solely to look after -Kitty Sartorius and minister to her caprices. At the present moment his -share of the view consisted mainly of Kitty; in the same way Cecil’s -share of the view consisted mainly of Eve Fincastle; but this at least -was right and decorous, for the betrothal of the millionaire and the -journalist had been definitely announced. Otherwise Eve would have been -back at work in Fleet Street a week ago. - -“The gala performance is to-night, isn’t it?” said Eve, gazing at the -vast and superbly ornamented Opera House. - -“Yes,” said Cecil. - -“What a pity we can’t be there! I should so have liked to see the young -Queen in evening dress. And they say the interior decorations----” - -“Nothing simpler,” said Cecil. “If you want to go, dear, let us go.” - -Kitty Sartorius looked round quickly. “Mr. Belmont has tried to get -seats, and can’t. Haven’t you, Bel? You know the whole audience is -invited. The invitations are issued by the Minister of Fine Arts.” - -“Still, in Paris, anything can be got by paying for it,” Cecil insisted. - -“My dear young friend,” said Lionel Belmont, “I guess if seats were to -be had, I should have struck one or two yesterday. I put no limit on -the price, and I reckon I ought to know what theatre prices run to. -Over at the Metropolitan in New York I’ve seen a box change hands at -two thousand dollars, for one night.” - -“Nevertheless----” Cecil began again. - -“And the performance starting in six hours from now!” Lionel Belmont -exclaimed. “Not much!” - -But Cecil persisted. - -“Seen the _Herald_ to-day?” Belmont questioned. “No? Well, listen. This -will interest you.” He drew a paper from his pocket and read: “Seats -for the Opéra Gala. The traffic in seats for the gala performance at -the Opéra during the last Royal Visit to Paris aroused considerable -comment and not a little dissatisfaction. Nothing, however, was -done, and the traffic in seats for to-night’s spectacle, at which -the President and their Imperial Majesties will be present, has, it -is said, amounted to a scandal. Of course, the offer so suddenly -made, five days ago, by Madame Félise and Mademoiselle Malva, the two -greatest living dramatic sopranos, to take part in the performance, -immediately and enormously intensified interest in the affair, for -never yet have these two supreme artists appeared in the same theatre -on the same night. No theatre could afford the luxury. Our readers may -remember that in our columns and in the columns of the _Figaro_ there -appeared four days ago an advertisement to the following effect: ‘_A -box, also two orchestra stalls, for the Opéra Gala, to be disposed -of, owing to illness. Apply, 155, Rue de la Paix._’ We sent four -several reporters to answer that advertisement. The first was offered -a stage-box for seven thousand five hundred francs, and two orchestra -stalls in the second row for twelve hundred and fifty francs. The -second was offered a box opposite the stage on the second tier, and -two stalls in the seventh row. The third had the chance of four stalls -in the back row and a small box just behind them; the fourth was -offered something else. The thing was obviously, therefore, a regular -agency. Everybody is asking: ‘How were these seats obtained? From the -Ministry of Fine Arts, or from the _invités_?’ Echo answers ‘How?’ -The authorities, however, are stated to have interfered at last, and -to have put an end to this buying and selling of what should be an -honourable distinction.” - -“Bravo!” said Cecil. - -“And that’s so!” Belmont remarked, dropping the paper. “I went to 155, -Rue de la Paix myself yesterday, and was told that nothing whatever -was to be had, not at any price.” - -“Perhaps you didn’t offer enough,” said Cecil. - -“Moreover, I notice the advertisement does not appear to-day. I guess -the authorities have crumpled it up.” - -“Still----” Cecil went on monotonously. - -“Look here,” said Belmont, grim and a little nettled. “Just to cut it -short, I’ll bet you a two-hundred-dollar dinner at Paillard’s that you -can’t get seats for to-night--not even two, let alone four.” - -“You really want to bet?” - -“Well,” drawled Belmont, with a certain irony, slightly imitating -Cecil’s manner, “it means something to eat for these ladies.” - -“I accept,” said Cecil. And he rang the bell. - - -II. - -“Lecky,” Cecil said to his valet, who had entered the room, “I want you -to go to No. 155, Rue de la Paix, and find out on which floor they are -disposing of seats for the Opéra to-night. When you have found out, I -want you to get me four seats--preferably a box. Understand?” - -The servant stared at his master, squinting violently for a few -seconds. Then he replied suddenly, as though light had just dawned on -him. “Exactly, sir. You intend to be present at the gala performance?” - -“You have successfully grasped my intention,” said Cecil. “Present my -card.” He scribbled a word or two on a card and gave it to the man. - -“And the price, sir?” - -“You still have that blank cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais that I gave -you yesterday morning. Use that.” - -“Yes, sir. Then there is the question of my French, sir, my feeble -French--a delicate plant.” - -“My friend,” Belmont put in. “I will accompany you as interpreter. I -should like to see this thing through.” - -Lecky bowed and gave up squinting. - -In three minutes (for they had only to go round the corner), Lionel -Belmont and Lecky were in a room on the fourth floor of 155, Rue de la -Paix. It had the appearance of an ordinary drawing-room, save that it -contained an office table; at this table sat a young man, French. - -“You wish, messieurs?” said the young man. - -“Have the goodness to interpret for me,” said Lecky to the Napoleon of -Anglo-Saxon theatres. “Mr. Cecil Thorold, of the Devonshire Mansion, -London, the Grand Hotel, Paris, the Hôtel Continental, Rome, and the -Ghezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, presents his compliments, and wishes a -box for the gala performance at the Opéra to-night.” - -Belmont translated, while Lecky handed the card. - -“Owing to the unfortunate indisposition of a Minister and his wife,” -replied the young man gravely, having perused the card, “it happens -that I have a stage-box on the second tier.” - -“You told me yesterday----” Belmont began. - -“I will take it,” said Lecky in a sort of French, interrupting his -interpreter. “The price? And a pen.” - -“The price is twenty-five thousand francs.” - -“Gemini!” Belmont exclaimed in American. “This is Paris, and no -mistake!” - -“Yes,” said Lecky, as he filled up the blank cheque, “Paris still -succeeds in being Paris. I have noticed it before, Mr. Belmont, if you -will pardon the liberty.” - -The young man opened a drawer and handed to Lecky a magnificent gilt -card, signed by the Minister of Fine Arts, which Lecky hid within his -breast. - -“That signature of the Minister is genuine, eh?” Belmont asked the -young man. - -“I answer for it,” said the young man, smiling imperturbably. - -“The deuce you do!” Belmont murmured. - -So the four friends dined at Paillard’s at the rate of about a dollar -and a-half a mouthful, and the mystified Belmont, who was not in the -habit of being mystified, and so felt it, had the ecstasy of paying -the bill. - - -III. - -It was nine o’clock when they entered the magnificent precincts of the -Opéra House. Like everybody else, they went very early--the performance -was not to commence until nine-thirty--in order to see and be seen to -the fullest possible extent. A week had elapsed since the two girls -had arrived from Algiers in Paris, under the escort of Cecil Thorold, -and in that time they had not been idle. Kitty Sartorius had spent -tolerable sums at the best _modistes_, in the Rue de la Paix and the -establishments in the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, while Eve had bought -one frock (a dream, needless to say), and had also been nearly covered -with jewellery by her betrothed. That afternoon, between the bet and -the dinner, Cecil had made more than one mysterious disappearance. He -finally came back with a diamond tiara for his dear journalist. “You -ridiculous thing!” exclaimed the dear journalist, kissing him. It thus -occurred that Eve, usually so severe of aspect, had more jewels than -she could wear, while Kitty, accustomed to display, had practically -nothing but her famous bracelet. Eve insisted on pooling the lot, and -dividing equally, for the gala. - -Consequently, the party presented a very pretty appearance as it -ascended the celebrated grand staircase of the Opéra, wreathed to-night -in flowers. Lionel Belmont, with Kitty on his arm, was in high spirits, -uplifted, joyous; but Cecil himself seemed to be a little nervous, and -this nervousness communicated itself to Eve Fincastle--or perhaps Eve -was rather overpowered by her tiara. At the head of the staircase was a -notice requesting everyone to be seated at nine-twenty-five, previous -to the arrival of the President and the Imperial guests of the Republic. - -The row of officials at the _controle_ took the expensive gilt card -from Cecil, examined it, returned it, and bowed low with an intimation -that he should turn to the right and climb two floors; and the party -proceeded further into the interior of the great building. The immense -corridors and _foyers_ and stairs were crowded with a collection of the -best-known people in Paris. It was a gathering of all the renowns. The -garish, gorgeous Opéra seemed to be changed that night into something -new and strange. Even those shabby old harridans, the box-openers, the -_ouvreuses_, wore bows of red, white and blue, and smiled effusively in -expectation of tips inconceivably large. - -“_Tiens!_” exclaimed the box-opener who had taken charge of Cecil’s -party, as she unlocked the door of the box. - -And well might she exclaim, for the box (No. 74--no possible error) -was already occupied by a lady and two gentlemen, who were talking -rather loudly in French! Cecil undoubtedly turned pale, while Lionel -Belmont laughed within his moustache. - -“These people have made a mistake,” Cecil was saying to the _ouvreuse_, -when a male official in evening dress approached him with an air of -importance. - -“Pardon, monsieur. You are Monsieur Cecil Thorold?” - -“I am,” said Cecil. - -“Will you kindly follow me? Monsieur the Directeur wishes to see you.” - -“You are expected, evidently,” said Lionel Belmont. The girls kept -apart, as girls should in these crises between men. - -“I have a ticket for this box,” Cecil remarked to the official. “And I -wish first to take possession of it.” - -“It is precisely that point which Monsieur the Directeur wishes to -discuss with Monsieur,” rejoined the official, ineffably suave. -He turned with a wonderful bow to the girls, and added with that -politeness of which the French alone have the secret: “Perhaps, in the -meantime, these ladies would like to see the view of the Avenue de -l’Opéra from the balcony? The illuminations have begun, and the effect -is certainly charming.” - -Cecil bit his lip. - -“Yes,” he said. “Belmont, take them.” - -So, while Lionel Belmont escorted the girls to the balcony, there to -discuss the startling situation and to watch the Imperial party drive -up the resplendent, fairy-like, and unique avenue, Cecil followed the -official. - -He was guided along various passages and round unnumbered corners to -the rear part of the colossal building. There, in a sumptuous bureau, -the official introduced him to a still higher official, the Directeur, -who had a decoration and a long, white moustache. - -“Monsieur,” said this latter, “I am desolated to have to inform you -that the Minister of Fine Arts has withdrawn his original invitation -for Box No. 74 to-night.” - -“I have received no intimation of the withdrawal,” Cecil replied. - -“No. Because the original invitation was not issued to you,” said the -Directeur, excited and nervous. “The Minister of Fine Arts instructs -me to inform you that his invitation to meet the President and their -Imperial Majesties cannot be bought and sold.” - -“But is it not notorious that many such invitations have been bought -and sold?” - -“It is, unfortunately, too notorious.” - -Here the Directeur looked at his watch and rang a bell impatiently. - -“Then why am I singled out?” - -The Directeur gazed blandly at Cecil. “The reason, perhaps, is best -known to yourself,” said he, and he rang the bell again. - -“I appear to incommode you,” Cecil remarked. “Permit me to retire.” - -“Not at all, I assure you,” said the Directeur. “On the contrary. I am -a little agitated on account of the non-arrival of Mademoiselle Malva.” - -A minor functionary entered. - -“She has come?” - -“No, Monsieur the Directeur.” - -“And it is nine-fifteen. _Sapristi!_” - -The functionary departed. - -“The invitation to Box No. 74,” proceeded the Directeur, commanding -himself, “was sold for two thousand francs. Allow me to hand you notes -for the amount, dear monsieur.” - -“But I paid twenty-five thousand,” said Cecil, smiling. - -“It is conceivable. But the Minister can only concern himself with the -original figure. You refuse the notes?” - -“By no means,” said Cecil, accepting them. “But I have brought here -to-night three guests, including two ladies. Imagine my position.” - -“I imagine it,” the Directeur responded. “But you will not deny that -the Minister has always the right to cancel an invitation. Seats ought -to be sold subject to the contingency of that right being exercised.” - -At that moment still another official plunged into the room. - -“She is not here yet!” he sighed, as if in extremity. - -“It is unfortunate,” Cecil sympathetically put in. - -“It is more than unfortunate, dear monsieur,” said the Directeur, -gesticulating. “It is unthinkable. The performance _must_ begin at -nine-thirty, and it _must_ begin with the garden scene from ‘Faust,’ in -which Mademoiselle Malva takes _Marguerite_.” - -“Why not change the order?” Cecil suggested. - -“Impossible. There are only two other items. The first act of -‘Lohengrin,’ with Madame Félise, and the ballet ‘Sylvia.’ We cannot -commence with the ballet. No one ever heard of such a thing. And do you -suppose that Félise will sing before Malva? Not for millions. Not for -a throne. The etiquette of sopranos is stricter than that of Courts. -Besides, to-night we cannot have a German opera preceding a French one.” - -“Then the President and their Majesties will have to wait a little, -till Malva arrives,” Cecil said. - -“Their Majesties wait! Impossible!” - -“Impossible!” echoed the other official, aghast. - -Two more officials entered. And the atmosphere of alarm, of being -scotched, of being up a tree of incredible height, the atmosphere which -at that moment permeated the whole of the vast region behind the scenes -of the Paris Opéra, seemed to rush with them into the bureau of the -Directeur and to concentrate itself there. - -“Nine-twenty! And she couldn’t dress in less than fifteen minutes.” - -“You have sent to the Hôtel du Louvre?” the Directeur questioned -despairingly. - -“Yes, Monsieur the Directeur. She left there two hours ago.” - -Cecil coughed. - -“I could have told you as much,” he remarked, very distinctly. - -“What!” cried the Directeur. “You know Mademoiselle Malva?” - -“She is among my intimate friends,” said Cecil smoothly. - -“Perhaps you know where she is?” - -“I have a most accurate idea,” said Cecil. - -“Where?” - -“I will tell you when I am seated in my box with my friends,” Cecil -answered. - -“Dear monsieur,” panted the Directeur, “tell us at once! I give you my -word of honour that you shall have your box.” - -Cecil bowed. - -“Certainly,” he said. “I may remark that I had gathered information -which led me to anticipate this difficulty with the Minister of Fine -Arts----” - -“But Malva, Malva--where is she?” - -“Be at ease. It is only nine-twenty-three, and Mademoiselle Malva is -less than three minutes away, and ready dressed. I was observing that -I had gathered information which led me to anticipate this difficulty -with the Minister of Fine Arts, and accordingly I took measures to -protect myself. There is no such thing as absolute arbitrary power, -dear Directeur, even in a Republic, and I have proved it. Mademoiselle -Malva is in room No. 429 at the Grand Hotel, across the road.... Stay, -she will not come without this note.” - -He handed out a small, folded letter from his waistcoat pocket. - -Then he added: “Adieu, Monsieur the Directeur. You have just time to -reach the State entrance in order to welcome the Presidential and -Imperial party.” - -At nine-thirty, Cecil and his friends were ushered by a trinity of -subservient officials into their box, which had been mysteriously -emptied of its previous occupants. And at the same moment the monarchs, -with monarchical punctuality, accompanied by the President, entered -the Presidential box in the middle of the grand tier of the superb -auditorium. The distinguished and dazzling audience rose to its feet, -and the band played the National Anthem. - -“You fixed it up then?” Belmont whispered under cover of the National -Anthem. He was beaten, after all. - -“Oh, yes!” said Cecil lightly. “A trivial misconception, nothing more. -And I have made a little out of it, too.” - -“Indeed! Much?” - -“No, not much! Two thousand francs. But you must remember that I have -been less than half an hour in making them.” - -The curtain rose on the garden scene from “Faust.” - - -IV. - - -“My dear,” said Eve. - -When a woman has been definitely linked with a man, either by betrothal -or by marriage, there are moments, especially at the commencement, -when she assumes an air and a tone of absolute exclusive possession of -him. It is a wonderful trick, which no male can successfully imitate, -try how he will. One of these moments had arrived in the history of -Eve Fincastle and her millionaire lover. They sat in a large, deserted -public room, all gold, of the Grand Hotel. It was midnight less a -quarter, and they had just returned, somewhat excited and flushed, -from the glories of the gala performances. During the latter part of -the evening, Eve had been absent from Cecil’s box for nearly half an -hour. - -Kitty Sartorius and Lionel Belmont were conversing in an adjoining -_salon_. - -“Yes,” said Cecil. - -“Are you quite, quite sure that you love me?” - -Only one answer is possible to such a question. Cecil gave it. - -“That is all very well,” Eve pursued with equal gravity and charm. “But -it was really tremendously sudden, wasn’t it? I can’t think what you -see in me, dearest.” - -“My dear Eve,” Cecil observed, holding her hand, “the best things, the -most enduring things, very often occur suddenly.” - -“Say you love me,” she persisted. - -So he said it, this time. Then her gravity deepened, though she smiled. - -“You’ve given up all those--those schemes and things of yours, haven’t -you?” she questioned. - -“Absolutely,” he replied. - -“My dear, I’m so glad. I never could understand why----” - -“Listen,” he said. “What was I to do? I was rich. I was bored. I had -no great attainments. I was interested in life and in the arts, but -not desperately, not vitally. You may, perhaps, say I should have taken -up philanthropy. Well, I’m not built that way. I can’t help it, but -I’m not a born philanthropist, and the philanthropist without a gift -for philanthropy usually does vastly more harm than good. I might have -gone into business. Well, I should only have doubled my millions, while -boring myself all the time. Yet the instinct which I inherited from my -father, the great American instinct to be a little cleverer and smarter -than someone else, drove me to action. It was part of my character, and -one can’t get away from one’s character. So finally I took to these -rather original ‘schemes,’ as you call them. They had the advantage -of being exciting and sometimes dangerous, and though they were often -profitable, they were not too profitable. In short, they amused me and -gave me joy. They also gave me _you_.” - -Eve smiled again, but without committing herself. - -“But you have abandoned them now completely?” she said. - -“Oh, yes,” he answered. - -“Then what about this Opéra affair to-night?” She sprang the question -on him sharply. She did her best to look severe, but the endeavour -ended with a laugh. - -“I meant to tell you,” he said. “But how--how did you know? How did -you guess?” - -“You forget that I am still a journalist,” she replied, “and still on -the staff of my paper. I wished to interview Malva to-night for the -_Journal_, and I did so. It was she who let out things. She thought -I knew all about it; and when she saw that I didn’t she stopped and -advised me mysteriously to consult you for details.” - -“It was the scandal at the gala performance last autumn that gave -me an action for making a corner in seats at the very next gala -performance that should ever occur at the Paris Opéra,” Cecil began his -confession. “I knew that seats could be got direct from more or less -minor officials at the Ministry of Fine Arts, and also that a large -proportion of the people invited to these performances were prepared -to sell their seats. You can’t imagine how venal certain circles are -in Paris. It just happened that the details and date of to-night’s -performance were announced on the day we arrived here. I could not -resist the chance. Now you comprehend sundry strange absences of mine -during the week. I went to a reporter on the _Echo de Paris_ whom I -knew, and who knows everybody. And we got out a list of the people -likely to be invited and likely to be willing to sell their seats. We -also opened negotiations at the Ministry.” - -“How on earth do these ideas occur to you?” asked Eve. - -“How can I tell?” Cecil answered. “It is because they occur to me that -I am I--you see. Well, in twenty-four hours my reporter and two of -his friends had interviewed half the interviewable people in Paris, -and the Minister of Fine Arts had sent out his invitations, and I had -obtained the refusal of over three hundred seats, at a total cost of -about seventy-five thousand francs. Then I saw that my friend the -incomparable Malva was staying at the Ritz, and the keystone idea of -the entire affair presented itself to me. I got her to offer to sing. -Of course, her rival Félise could not be behind her in a patriotic -desire to cement the friendliness of two great nations. The gala -performance blossomed into a terrific boom. We took a kind of office in -the Rue de la Paix. We advertised very discreetly. Every evening, after -bidding you ‘Good-night,’ I saw my reporter and Lecky, and arranged the -development of the campaign. In three days we had sold all our seats, -except one box, which I kept, for something like two hundred thousand -francs.” - -“Then this afternoon you merely bought the box from yourself?” - -“Exactly, my love. I had meant the surprise of getting a box to come a -little later than it did--say at dinner; but you and Belmont, between -you, forced it on.” - -“And that is all?” - -“Not quite. The minions of the Minister of Fine Arts were extremely -cross. And they meant to revenge themselves on me by depriving me -of my box at the last moment. However, I got wind of that, and by -the simplest possible arrangement with Malva I protected myself. The -scheme--my last bachelor fling, Eve--has been a great success, and the -official world of Paris has been taught a lesson which may lead to -excellent results.” - -“And you have cleared a hundred and twenty-five thousand francs?” - -“By no means. The profits of these undertakings are the least part of -them. The expenses are heavy. I reckon the expenses will be nearly -forty thousand francs. Then I must give Malva a necklace, and that -necklace must cost twenty-five thousand francs.” - -“That leaves sixty thousand clear?” said Eve. - -“Say sixty-two thousand.” - -“Why?” - -“I was forgetting an extra two thousand made this evening.” - -“And your other ‘schemes’?” Eve continued her cross-examination. “How -much have they yielded?” - -“The Devonshire House scheme was a dead loss. My dear, why did you -lead me to destroy that fifty thousand pounds? Waste not, want not. -There may come a day when we shall need that fifty thousand pounds, and -then----” - -“Don’t be funny,” said Eve. “I am serious--very serious.” - -“Well, Ostend and Mr. Rainshore yielded twenty-one thousand pounds net. -Bruges and the bracelet yielded nine thousand five hundred francs. -Algiers and Biskra resulted in a loss of----” - -“Never mind the losses,” Eve interrupted. “Are there any more gains?” - -“Yes, a few. At Rome last year I somehow managed to clear fifty -thousand francs. Then there was an episode at the Chancellory at -Berlin. And----” - -“Tell me the total gains, my love,” said Eve--“the gross gains.” - -Cecil consulted a pocket-book. - -“A trifle,” he answered. “Between thirty-eight and forty thousand -pounds.” - -“My dear Cecil,” the girl said, “call it forty thousand--a million -francs--and give me a cheque. Do you mind?” - -“I shall be charmed, my darling.” - -“And when we get to London,” Eve finished, “I will hand it over to the -hospitals anonymously.” - -He paused, gazed at her, and kissed her. - -Then Kitty Sartorius entered, a marvellous vision, with Belmont in -her wake. Kitty glanced hesitatingly at the massive and good-humoured -Lionel. - -“The fact is----” said Kitty, and paused. - -“We are engaged,” said Lionel. “You aren’t surprised?” - -“Our warmest congratulations!” Cecil observed. “No. We can’t truthfully -say that we are staggered. It is in the secret nature of things that a -leading lady must marry her manager--a universal law that may not be -transgressed.” - -“Moreover,” said Eve later, in Cecil’s private ear, as they were -separating for the night, “we might have guessed much earlier. -Theatrical managers don’t go scattering five-hundred-pound bracelets -all over the place merely for business reasons.” - -“But he only scattered one, my dear,” Cecil murmured. - -“Yes, well. That’s what I mean.” - - - - -MR. PENFOUND’S TWO BURGLARS. - -THE STORY OF HIS WALK WITH THEM. - - -The chain of circumstances leading to the sudden and unexpected return -of Mr. and Mrs. Penfound from their Continental holiday was in itself -curious and even remarkable, but it has nothing to do with the present -narrative, which begins with the actual arrival of Mr. and Mrs. -Penfound before the portal of their suburban residence, No. 7, Munster -Gardens, at a quarter before midnight on the 30th of August. - -It was a detached house with a spacious triangular garden at the back; -it had an air of comfort, of sobriety, of good form, of success; one -divined by looking at it that the rent ran to about £80, and that the -tenant was not a man who had to save up for quarter days. It was a -credit to the street, which upon the whole, with its noble trees and -its pretty curve, is distinctly the best street in Fulham. And, in -fact, No. 7 in every way justified the innocent pride of the Penfounds. - -“I can feel cobwebs all over me,” said Mrs. Penfound, crossly, as they -entered the porch and Mr. Penfound took out his latchkey. She was -hungry, hot, and tired, and she exhibited a certain pettishness--a -pettishness which Mr. Penfound, whenever it occurred, found a -particular pleasure in soothing. Mr. Penfound himself was seldom -ruffled. - -Most men would have been preoccupied with the discomforts of the -arrival, but not George Penfound. Mr. Penfound was not, and had never -been, of those who go daily into the city by a particular train, and -think the world is coming to an end if the newsagent fails to put the -newspaper on the doorstep before 8 a.m. - -Mr. Penfound had lived. He had lived adventurously and he had lived -everywhere. He had slept under the stars and over the throbbing screws -of ocean steamers. He knew the harbours of the British Empire, and the -waste places of the unpeopled West, and the mysterious environs of -foreign cities. He had been first mate of a tramp steamer, wood sawyer -in Ontario, ganger on the Canadian Pacific Railway, clerk at a Rand -mine, and land agent in California. - -It was the last occupation that had happened to yield the eighty -thousand dollars which rendered him independent and established him so -splendidly, at the age of forty, in Fulham, the place of his birth. -Thin, shrewd, clear, and kindly, his face was the face of a man who has -learnt the true philosophy of life. He took the world as he found it, -and he found it good. - -To such a man an unexpected journey, even though it ended at a deserted -and unprepared home, whose larder proved as empty as his stomach, was -really nothing. - -By the time Mr. Penfound had locked up the house, turned out the light -in the hall, and arrived in the bedroom, Mrs. Penfound was fast asleep. -He sat down in the armchair by the window, charmed by the gentle -radiance of the night, and unwilling to go to bed. Like most men who -have seen the world, he had developed the instincts of a poet, and was -something of a dreamer. Half an hour--or it might have been an hour: -poets are oblivious of time--had passed, when into Mr. Penfound’s -visions there entered a sinister element. He straightened himself -stiffly in the chair and listened, smiling. - -“By Jove!” he whispered. “I do believe it’s a burglar. I’ll give the -beggar time to get fairly in, and then we’ll have some fun.” - -It seemed to him that he heard a few clicking noises at the back of the -house, and then a sound as if something was being shoved hard. - -“The dining-room window,” he said. - -In a few minutes it became perfectly evident to his trained and acute -ear that a burglar occupied the dining-room, and accordingly he -proceeded to carry out other arrangements. - -Removing his boots, he assumed a pair of soft, woollen house slippers -which lay under the bed. Then he went to a chest of drawers, and took -out two revolvers. Handling these lovingly, he glanced once at his -sleeping wife, and, shod in the silent woollen, passed noiselessly out -of the room. By stepping very close to the wall, so as to put as slight -a strain as possible upon the woodwork, he contrived to descend to the -half-landing without causing a sound, but on the half-landing itself -there occurred an awful creak--a creak that seemed to reverberate into -infinite space. Mr. Penfound stopped a second, but, perceiving the -unwisdom of a halt, immediately proceeded. - -In that second of consternation he had remembered that only two -chambers of one revolver and one chamber of the other were loaded. -It was an unfortunate mischance. Should he return and load fully? -Preposterous! He remembered with pride the sensation which he had -caused one night ten years before in a private shooting-saloon in -Paris. Three shots to cripple one burglar--for _him_; it was a positive -extravagance of means. And he continued down the stairs, cautiously but -rapidly feeling his way. - -The next occurrence brought him up standing at the dining-room door, -which was open. He heard voices in the dining-room. There were, then, -two burglars. Three shots for two burglars? Pooh! Ample! This was what -he heard:-- - -“Did you drink out of this glass, Jack?” - -“Not I. I took a pull out of the bottle.” - -“So did I.” - -“Well?” - -There was a pause. Mr. Penfound discovered that by putting an eye to -the crack at the hinges he could see the burglars, who had lighted one -gas jet, and were sitting at the table. They were his first burglars, -and they rather shocked his preconceived notions of the type. They -hadn’t the look of burglars--no bluish chins, no lowering eyes, no -corduroy, no knotted red handkerchiefs. - -One, the younger, dressed in blue serge, with linen collar and a soiled -pink necktie, might have been a city clerk of the lower grade; he had -light, bushy hair and a yellow moustache, his eyes were large and pale -blue, his chin weak; altogether Mr. Penfound decided that had he seen -the young man elsewhere than in that dining-room he would never have -suspected him to be a burglar. The other was of middle age, neatly -dressed in dark grey, but with a ruffian’s face, and black hair, cut -extremely close; he wore a soft felt hat at a negligent poise, and -was smoking a cigarette. He was examining the glass out of which Mr. -Penfound had but recently drunk whisky. - -“Look here, Jack,” the man in grey said to his companion. “You haven’t -drunk out of this glass, and I haven’t; but someone’s drunk out of it. -It’s wet.” - -The young man paled, and with an oath snatched up the glass to look -at it. Mr. Penfound noticed how suddenly his features writhed into a -complicated expression of cowardice, cunning, and vice. He no longer -doubted that the youth was an authentic burglar. The older man remained -calm. - -“This house isn’t so empty as we thought, my boy. There’s someone here.” - -“Yes, gentlemen, there is,” remarked Mr. Penfound, quietly stepping -into the room with a revolver upraised in each hand. - -The young man dropped the glass, and, after rolling along the table, it -fell on the floor and broke, making a marvellous noise in the silence. - -“Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed the burglar in grey, and turned to the -window. - -“Don’t stir; put your hands up, and look slippy--I mean business,” said -Mr. Penfound steadily. - -The burglar in grey made two hasty steps to the window. Mr. Penfound’s -revolver spoke--it was the one in his left hand, containing two -shots--and with a muffled howl the burglar suddenly halted, cursing -with pain and anger. - -“Hands up, both of you!” repeated Mr. Penfound imperturbably. - -A few drops of blood appeared on the left wrist of the older burglar, -showing where he had been hit. With evident pain he raised both hands -to the level of his shoulders; the left hand clearly was useless; -it hung sideways in a peculiar fashion. The youthful criminal was -trembling like a spray of maidenhair, and had his hands high up over -his head. - -Mr. Penfound joyfully reflected that no London burglar had ever before -found himself in such a ridiculous position as these two, and he took a -genuine, artistic pleasure in the spectacle. - -But what to do next. - -The youth began to speak with a whine like that of a beggar. - -“Silence!” said Mr. Penfound impressively, and proceeded with his -cogitations, a revolver firm and steady in each hand. The shot -had evidently not wakened his wife, and to disturb her now from a -refreshing and long-needed sleep in order to send her for the police -would not only be unchivalrous, it would disclose a lack of resource, a -certain clumsiness of management, in an affair which Mr. Penfound felt -sure he ought to be able to carry neatly to an effective conclusion. - -Besides, if a revolver-shot in the house had not wakened his wife, what -could wake her? He could not go upstairs to her and leave the burglars -to await his return. - -Then an idea occurred to Mr. Penfound. - -“Now, my men,” he said cheerfully, “I think you understand that I am -not joking, and that I can shoot a bit, and that, whatever the laws of -this country, I _do_ shoot.” He waved the muzzle of one revolver in the -direction of the grey man’s injured wrist. - -“Look here, governor,” the owner of the wrist pleaded, “it hurts -dreadful. I shall faint.” - -“Faint, then. I know it hurts.” - -The man’s face was white with pain, but Mr. Penfound had seen too many -strange sights in his life to be greatly moved by the sight of a rascal -with a bullet in his anatomy. - -“To proceed. You will stand side by side and turn round. The young -gentleman will open the window, and you will pass out into the garden. -March! Slower, slower, I say. Halt!” - -The burglars were now outside, while Mr. Penfound was still within -the room. He followed them, and in doing so stumbled over a black bag -which lay on the floor. Fortunately he recovered himself instantly. He -noticed lying on the top of the bag a small bunch of skeleton keys, -some putty, and what looked like a thong of raw hide. He also observed -that three small panes of the French window had been forced inwards. - -“Turn to your left, go down the pathway, and halt when you come to the -side gate. And don’t hurry, mind you.” - -They obeyed, without speaking even to each other. Mr. Penfound had no -fear of their disobedience. He was within two yards of their heels, and -he said to himself that his hands were superbly steady. - -It was at this point that Mr. Penfound began to feel hungry, really -hungry. The whisky had appeased the cravings of his stomach for a short -time, but now its demands were imperious. Owing to the exigencies of -the day’s journey he had not had a satisfying meal for thirty hours; -and Mr. Penfound since settling down had developed a liking for regular -meals. However, there was nothing to be done at present. - -He therefore proceeded with and safely accomplished his plan of driving -the burglars before him into the street. - -“Here,” he thought, “we shall soon be seeing a policeman, or some late -bird who will fetch a policeman.” And he drove his curious team up -Munster Park Gardens towards Fulham Road, that interminable highway, -once rural but rural no longer. - -The thoroughfares seemed to be absolutely deserted. Mr. Penfound could -scarcely believe that London, even in the dead of night, could be so -lonely. The gas-lamps shone steady in the still, warm air, and above -them the star-studded sky, with a thin sickle moon, at which, however, -beautiful as it was, Mr. Penfound could not look. His gaze was fixed -on the burglars. As he inspected their backs he wondered what their -thoughts were. - -He felt that in their place he should have been somewhat amused by the -humour of the predicament. But their backs showed no sign of feeling, -unless it were that of resignation. The older man had dropped his -injured arm, with Mr. Penfound’s tacit consent, and it now hung loose -by his side. - -The procession moved slowly eastward along Fulham Road, the two -burglars first, silent, glum, and disgusted, and Mr. Penfound with his -revolvers close behind. - -Still no policeman, no wayfarer. Mr. Penfound began to feel a little -anxious. And his hunger was insufferable. This little procession of his -could not move for ever. Something must occur, and Mr. Penfound said -that something must occur quickly. He looked up at the houses with a -swift glance, but these dark faces of brick, all with closed eyelids, -gave him no sign of encouragement. He thought of firing his revolver -in order to attract attention, but remembered in time that if he did -so he would have only one shot left for his burglars, an insufficient -allowance in case of contingencies. - -But presently, as the clock of Fulham parish church struck three, Mr. -Penfound beheld an oasis of waving palms and cool water in this desert; -that is to say, he saw in the distance one of those coffee-stalls which -just before midnight mysteriously dot themselves about London, only -to disappear again at breakfast time. The burglars also saw it, and -stopped almost involuntarily. - -“Get on now,” said Mr. Penfound gruffly, “and stop five paces _past_ -the coffee-stall. D’ye hear?” - -“Yes, sir,” whined the young burglar. - -“Ay,” remarked the old burglar coolly. - -As Mr. Penfound approached the coffee-stall, he observed that it was no -ordinary coffee-stall. It belonged to the aristocracy of coffee-stalls. -It was painted a lovely deep crimson, and on this crimson, amid -flowers and scrolls, had been inscribed the names of the delicacies -within:--Tea, coffee, cocoa, rolls, sandwiches, toast, sausages, even -bacon and eggs. Mr. Penfound’s stomach called aloud within him at the -rumour of these good things. - -When the trio arrived, the stallkeeper happened to be bending over a -tea-urn, and he did not notice the halt of the procession until Mr. -Penfound spoke. - -“I say,” Mr. Penfound began, holding the revolvers about the level of -his top waistcoat button, and with his eyes fixed on the burglars--“I -say!” - -“Tea or coffee?” asked the stallkeeper shortly, looking up. - -“Neither--that is, at present,” replied Mr. Penfound sweetly. “The fact -is, I’ve got two burglars here.” - -“Two _what_--where?” - -Mr. Penfound then explained the whole circumstances. “And I want you to -fetch a couple of policemen.” - -The stallkeeper paused a moment. He was a grim fellow, so Mr. Penfound -gathered from the corner of his eye. - -“Well, that’s about the best story as I ever ’eard,” the stallkeeper -said. “And you want me to fetch a policeman?” - -“Yes; and I hope you’ll hurry up. I’m tired of holding these revolvers.” - -“And I’m to leave my stall, am I?” - -“Certainly.” - -The stallkeeper placed the first finger of his left hand upright -against his nose. - -“Well, I just ain’t then. What d’ye take me for? A bloomin’ owl? Look -’ere, mister: no kid! Nigh every night some jokers tries to get me away -from my stall, so as they can empty it and run off. But I ain’t been in -this line nineteen year for nuthin’. No, you go and take yer tale and -yer pistols and yer bloomin’ burglars somewhere else. ’Ear?” - -“As you please,” said Mr. Penfound, with dignity. “Only I’ll wait here -till a policeman comes, or someone. You will then learn that I have -told you the truth. How soon will a policeman be along?” - -“Might be a ’our, might be more. There ain’t likely to be no other -people till four-thirty or thereabouts; that’s when my trade begins.” - -Mr. Penfound was annoyed. His hunger, exasperated by the exquisite -odours of the stall, increased every second, and the prospect of -waiting an hour, even half an hour, was appalling. - -Another idea occurred to him. - -“Will you,” he said to the stallkeeper, “kindly put one of those -sausages into my mouth? I daren’t loose these revolvers.” - -“Not till I sees yer money.” - -Hunger made Mr. Penfound humble, and he continued-- - -“Will you come round and take the money out of my pocket?” - -“No, I won’t. I don’t leave this ’ere counter. I know yer dodges.” - -“Very well, I will wait.” - -“Steady on, governor. You aren’t the only chap that’s hungry.” - -Mr. Penfound turned sharply at the voice. It was the elder burglar -who spoke, and the elder burglar had faced him and was approaching -the stall, regardless of revolvers. Mr. Penfound noticed a twinkle in -the man’s eye, a faint appreciation of the fact that the situation -was funny, and Mr. Penfound gave way to a slight smile. He was being -disobeyed flatly, but for the life of him he could not shoot. Besides, -there was no occasion to shoot, as the burglar was certainly making no -attempt to escape. The fellow was brave enough, after all. - -“Two slabs and a pint o’ thick,” he said to the stallkeeper, and -was immediately served with a jug of coffee and two huge pieces of -bread-and-butter, for which he flung down twopence. - -Mr. Penfound was astounded--he was too astounded to speak--by the -coolness of this criminal. - -“Look here,” the elder burglar continued, quietly handing one of the -pieces of bread-and-butter to his companion in sin, who by this time -had also crept up, “you can put down them revolvers and tuck in till -the peeler comes along. We know when we’re copped, and we aren’t going -to skip. You tuck in, governor.” - -“Give it a name,” said the stallkeeper, with an eye to business. - -Mr. Penfound, scarcely knowing what he did or why he did it, put down -one revolver and then the other, fished a shilling from his pocket, and -presently was engaged in the consumption of a ham sandwich and coffee. - -“You’re a cool one,” he said at length, rather admiringly, to the elder -burglar. - -“So are you,” said the elder burglar; and he and Mr. Penfound both -glanced somewhat scornfully at the other burglar, undersized, cringing, -pale. - -“Ever been caught before?” asked Mr. Penfound pleasantly. - -“What’s that got to do with you?” - -The retort was gruff, final--a snub, and Mr. Penfound felt it as such. -He had the curious sensation that he was in the presence of a superior -spirit, a stronger personality than his own. - -“Here’s a policeman,” remarked the stallkeeper casually, and they all -listened, and heard the noise of regular footfalls away round a distant -corner. - -Mr. Penfound struggled inwardly with a sudden overmastering impulse, -and then yielded. - -“You can go,” he said quietly to the elder burglar, “so clear off -before the policeman sees you.” - -“Straight?” the man said, looking him in the eyes to make sure there -was no joking. - -“Straight, my friend.... Here, shake.” - -So it happened that Mr. Penfound and the elder burglar shook hands. The -next instant Mr. Penfound was alone with the stallkeeper; the other -two, with the celerity born of practice, had vanished into the night. - -“Did you ever see such a man?” said Mr. Penfound to the stallkeeper, -putting the revolvers in his pocket, and feeling strangely happy, as -one who has done a good action. - -“Yer don’t kid me,” was the curt reply. “It was all a plant. Want -anythink else? Because if not, ye’d best go.” - -“Yes, I do,” said Mr. Penfound, for he had thought of his wife. He -spent sevenpence in various good things, and was just gathering his -purchases together when the policeman appeared. - -“Good night, officer,” he called out blithely, and set off to run home, -as though for his life. - -As he re-entered the bedroom at No. 7 his wife sat up in bed, a -beautiful but accusing figure. - -“George,” she said, “where have you been?” - -“My love,” he answered, “I’ve been out into the night to get you this -sausage, and this cake, and this sandwich. Eat them. They will do you -good.” - - - - -MIDNIGHT AT THE GRAND BABYLON. - - -I. - -Well, said the doctor, you say I’ve been very secretive lately. Perhaps -I have. However, I don’t mind telling you--just you fellows--the whole -history of the affair that has preoccupied me. I shan’t assert that -it’s the most curious case in all my experience. My experience has been -pretty varied, and pretty lively, as you know, and cases are curious -in such different ways. Still, a poisoning business is always a bit -curious, and this one was extremely so. It isn’t often that a person -who means to commit murder by poison calls in a physician to assist him -and deliberately uses the unconscious medico as his tool. Yet that is -exactly what happened. It isn’t often that a poisoner contrives to hit -on a poison which is at once original, almost untraceable, and to be -obtained from any chemist without a doctor’s prescription. Yet that, -too, is exactly what happened. I can assure you that the entire episode -was a lesson to me. It opened my eyes to the possibilities which lie -ready to the hand of a really intelligent murderer in this twentieth -century. People talk about the masterpieces of poisoning in the middle -ages. Pooh! Second-rate! They didn’t know enough in the middle ages -to achieve anything which a modern poisoner with genius would deem -first-rate; they simply didn’t know enough. Another point in the matter -which forcibly struck me was the singular usefulness of a big London -hotel to a talented criminal. You can do precisely what you please in a -big hotel, and nobody takes the least notice. You wander in, you wander -out, and who cares? You are only an item in a crowd. And when you have -reached the upper corridors you are as lost to pursuit and observation -as a needle in a haystack. You may take two rooms, one after the other, -in different names, and in different parts of the hotel; the servants -and officials will be none the wiser, because the second floor knows -not the third, nor the third the fourth; you may oscillate between -those two rooms in a manner to puzzle Inspector Anderson himself. And -you are just as secure in your apartments as a mediæval baron in his -castle--yes, and more! On that night there were over a thousand guests -in the Grand Babylon Hotel (there was a ball in the Gold Rooms, and a -couple of banquets); and in the midst of all that diverse humanity, -unperceived, unsuspected, a poignant and terrible drama was going on, -and things so occurred that I tumbled right into it. Well, I’ll tell -you. - - -II. - -I was called in to the Grand Babylon about nine p.m.; suite No. 63, -second floor, name of Russell. The outer door of the suite was opened -for me by a well-dressed woman of thirty or so, slim, with a face -expressive and intelligent rather than handsome. I liked her face--I -was attracted by its look of honesty and alert good-nature. - -“Good evening, doctor,” she said. She had a charming low voice, as she -led me into a highly-luxurious drawing-room. “My name is Russell, and I -wish you to see a young friend of mine who is not well.” She hesitated -and turned to an old bald-headed man, who stood looking out of the -window at the twilight panorama of the Thames. “My friend’s solicitor, -Mr. Dancer,” she explained. We bowed, Mr. Dancer and I. - -“Nothing serious, I hope,” I remarked. - -“No, no!” said Miss Russell. - -Nevertheless, she seemed to me to be extremely nervous and anxious, as -she preceded me into the bedroom, a chamber quite as magnificent as the -drawing-room. - -On the bed lay a beautiful young girl. Yes, you may laugh, you fellows, -but she was genuinely beautiful. She smiled faintly as we entered. Her -features had an ashy tint, and tiny drops of cold perspiration stood on -the forehead. However, she certainly wasn’t very ill--I could see that -in a moment, and I fixed my conversational tone accordingly. - -“Do you feel as if you could breathe freely, but that if you did it -would kill you?” I inquired, after I had examined her. And she nodded, -smiling again. Miss Russell also smiled, evidently pleased that I had -diagnosed the case so quickly. - -My patient was suffering from a mild attack of pseudo-angina, nothing -worse. Not angina pectoris, you know--that’s usually associated with -old age. Pseudo-angina is a different thing. With a weak heart, it -may be caused by indigestion. The symptoms are cardiac spasms, acute -pain in the chest, a strong disinclination to make even the smallest -movement, and a state of mental depression, together with that queer -fancy about breathing. The girl had these symptoms, and she also had a -headache and a dicrotism of the pulse--two pulsations instead of one, -not unusual. I found that she had been eating a too hearty dinner, and -that she had suffered from several similar attacks in the immediate -past. - -“You had a doctor in before?” I asked. - -“Yes,” said Miss Russell. “But he was unable to come to-night, and as -your house is so near we sent for you.” - -“There is no danger whatever--no real cause for anxiety,” I summed up. -“I will have some medicine made up instantly.” - -“Trinitrin?” demanded Miss Russell. - -“Yes,” I answered, a little astonished at this readiness. “Your regular -physician prescribed it?” - -(I should explain to you that trinitrin is nothing but nitro-glycerine -in a non-explosive form.) - -“I think it was trinitrin,” Miss Russell replied, with an appearance -of doubtfulness. “Perhaps you will write the prescription and I will -despatch a messenger at once. I should be obliged, doctor, if you would -remain with us until--if you would remain with us.” - -“Decidedly!” I said. “I will remain with pleasure. But do accept my -assurance,” I added, gazing at her face, so anxious and apprehensive, -“that there is no cause for alarm.” - -She smiled and concurred. But I could see that I had not convinced her. -And I began to suspect that she was not after all so intelligent as I -had imagined. My patient, who was not now in any pain, lay calmly, with -closed eyes. - - -III. - -Do not forget the old bald-headed lawyer in the drawing-room. - -“I suppose you are often summoned to the Grand Babylon, sir, living, -as you do, just round the corner,” he remarked to me somewhat -pompously. He had a big nose and a habit of staring at you over his -eye-glasses with his mouth wide-open, after having spoken. We were -alone together in the drawing-room. I was waiting for the arrival of -the medicine, and he was waiting for--I didn’t know what he was waiting -for. - -“Occasionally. Not often,” I responded. “I am called more frequently to -the Majestic, over the way.” - -“Ah, just so, just so,” he murmured. - -I could see that he meant to be polite in his high and dry antique -legal style; and I could see also that he was very bored in that -hotel drawing-room. So I proceeded to explain the case to him, and to -question him discreetly about my patient and Miss Russell. - -“You are, of course, aware, sir, that the young lady is Miss Spanton, -Miss Adelaide Spanton?” he said. - -“What? Not ‘the’ Spanton?” - -“Precisely, sir. The daughter of Edgar Spanton, my late client, the -great newspaper proprietor.” - -“And this Miss Russell?” - -“Miss Russell was formerly Miss Adelaide’s governess. She is now her -friend, and profoundly attached to the young lady; a disinterested -attachment, so far as I can judge, though naturally many people -will think otherwise. Miss Adelaide is of a very shy and retiring -disposition; she has no other friends, and she has no near relatives. -Save for Miss Russell she is, sir, if I may so phrase it, alone in the -world.” - -“But Miss Spanton is surely very wealthy?” - -“You come to the point, sir. If my young client reaches her -twenty-first birthday she will be the absolute mistress of the whole of -her father’s fortune. You may have noticed in the public press that I -swore his estate at more than three millions.” - -“And how far is Miss Spanton from her twenty-first birthday?” I -demanded. - -The old lawyer glanced at his watch. - -“Something less than three hours. At midnight she will have legally -entered on her 22nd year.” - -“I see,” I said. “Now I can understand Miss Russell’s anxiety, which -refuses to be relieved even by my positive assurance. No doubt Miss -Russell has worked herself up into a highly nervous condition. And may -I inquire what will happen--I mean, what would have happened, if Miss -Spanton had not reached her majority?” - -“The entire estate would have passed to a cousin, a Mr. Samuel Grist, -of Melbourne. I daresay you know the name. Mr. Grist is understood -to be the leading theatrical manager in Australia. Speaking as one -professional man to another, sir, I may venture to remark that Mr. -Grist’s reputation is more than a little doubtful--you may have -heard--many transactions and adventures. Ha, ha! Still, he is my late -client’s sole surviving relative, except Miss Adelaide. I have never -had the pleasure of meeting him; he confines himself exclusively to -Australia.” - -“This night then,” I laughed, “will see the end of any hopes which Mr. -Grist may have entertained.” - -“Exactly, sir,” the lawyer agreed. “It will also see the end of Miss -Russell’s immediate anxieties. Upon my word, since Mr. Spanton’s -regrettable death, she has been both father and mother to my -lonely young client. A practical woman, sir, Miss Russell! And the -excessiveness of her apprehensions, if I may so phrase it, must be -excused. She has begged me to remain here till midnight, in order -that I may witness to Miss Spanton’s--er--vitality, and also in order -to obtain Miss Spanton’s signature to certain necessary documents. I -should not be surprised, sir, if she requested you also to remain. She -is not a woman to omit precautions.” - -“I’m afraid I can’t stop till twelve,” I said. The conversation ceased, -and I fell into meditation. - -I do not mind admitting that I was deeply impressed by what I will call -the romantic quality of the situation. I thought of old Spanton, who -had begun with something less than nothing and died virtually the owner -of three daily papers and twenty-five weeklies and monthlies. I thought -of Spantons, Ltd., and their colossal offices spreading half round -Salisbury Square. Why, I even had a copy of the extra special edition -of the _Evening Gazette_ in my pocket! Do any of you fellows remember -Spanton starting the _Evening Gazette_? He sold three hundred thousand -the first day. And now old Spanton was dead--you know he died of drink, -and there was nothing left of the Spanton blood except this girl -lying there on the bed, and the man in Australia. And all the Spanton -editors, and the Spanton sub-editors, and the Spanton artists, and the -Spanton reporters and compositors, and the Spanton rotary presses, and -the Spanton paper mills, and the Spanton cyclists, were slaving and -toiling to put eighty thousand a year into this girl’s purse. And there -she was, feeble and depressed, and solitary, except for Miss Russell, -and the man in Australia perhaps hoping she would die; and there was -Miss Russell, worrying and fussing and apprehending and fearing. And -the entire hotel oblivious of the romantic, I could almost say the -pathetic, situation. And then I thought of Miss Spanton’s future, -burdened with those three millions, and I wondered if those three -millions would buy her happiness. - -“Here is the medicine, doctor,” said Miss Russell, entering the -drawing-room hurriedly, and handing me the bottle with the chemist’s -label on it. I went with her into the bedroom. The beautiful -Adelaide Spanton was already better, and she admitted as much when -I administered the medicine--two minims of a one per cent. solution -of trinitrin, otherwise nitro-glycerine, the usual remedy for -pseudo-angina. - -Miss Russell took the bottle from my hand, corked it and placed it on -the dressing-table. Shortly afterwards I left the hotel. The lawyer had -been right in supposing that Miss Russell would ask me to stay, but I -was unable to do so. I promised, however, to return in an hour, all the -while insisting that there was not the slightest danger for the patient. - - -IV. - -It was 10.30 when I came back. - -“Second floor!” I said carelessly to the lift boy, and he whirled me -upwards; the Grand Babylon lifts travel very fast. - -“Here you are, sir,” he murmured respectfully, and I stepped out. - -“Is this the second floor?” I asked suddenly. - -“Beg pardon! I thought you said seventh, sir.” - -“It’s time you were in bed, my lad!” was my retort, and I was just -re-entering the lift when I caught sight of Miss Russell in the -corridor. I called to her, thinking she would perhaps descend with -me, but she did not hear, and so I followed her down the corridor, -wondering what was her business on the seventh floor. She opened a door -and disappeared into a room. - -“Well?” I heard a sinister voice exclaim within the room, and then the -door was pushed to; it was not latched. - -“I did say the seventh!” I called to the lift-boy, and he vanished with -his machine. - -The voice within the room startled me. It gave me furiously to think, -as the French say. With a sort of instinctive unpremeditated action I -pressed gently against the door till it stood ajar about an inch. And I -listened. - -“It’s a confounded mysterious case to me!” the voice was saying, “that -that dose the other day didn’t finish her. We’re running it a dashed -sight too close! Here, take this--it’s all ready, label and everything. -Substitute the bottles. I’ll run no risks this time. One dose will do -the trick inside half an hour, and on that I’ll bet my boots!” - -“Very well,” said Miss Russell, quite calmly. “It’s pure trinitrin, is -it?” - -“You’re the coolest customer that I ever struck!” the voice exclaimed, -in an admiring tone. “Yes, it’s pure trinitrin--beautiful, convenient -stuff! Looks like water, no taste, very little smell, and so volatile -that all the doctors on the Medical Council couldn’t trace it at a -post-mortem. Besides the doctor prescribed a solution of trinitrin, and -you got it from the chemist, and in case there’s a rumpus we can shove -the mistake on to the chemist’s dispenser, and a fine old row he’ll get -into. By the way, what’s the new doctor like?” - -“Oh! So-so!” said Miss Russell, in her even tones. - -“It’s a good thing on the whole, perhaps, that I arranged that carriage -accident for the first one!” the hard, sinister voice remarked. “One -never knows. Get along now at once, and don’t look so anxious. Your -face belies your voice. Give us a kiss!” - -“To-morrow!” said Miss Russell. - -I hurried away, as it were drunk, overwhelmed with horror and -amazement, and turning a corner so as to avoid discovery, reached the -second floor by the staircase. I did not wish to meet Miss Russell in -the lift. - -My first thought was not one of alarm for Adelaide Spanton--of course, -I knew I could prevent the murder--but of profound sorrow that Miss -Russell should have proved to be a woman so unspeakably wicked. I swore -never to trust a woman’s face again. I had liked her face. Then I dwelt -on the chance, the mere chance, my careless pronunciation, a lift-boy’s -error, which had saved the life of the poor millionaire girl. And -lastly I marvelled at the combined simplicity and ingenuity of the -plot. The scoundrel upstairs--possibly Samuel Grist himself--had taken -the cleverest advantage of Miss Spanton’s tendency to pseudo-angina. -What could be more clever than to poison with the physician’s own -medicine? Very probably the girl’s present attack had been induced -by an artful appeal to her appetite; young women afflicted as she -was are frequently just a little greedy. And I perceived that the -villain was correct in assuming that nitro-glycerine would never be -traced at a post-mortem save in the smallest possible quantity--just -such a quantity as I had myself prescribed. He was also right in his -assumption that the pure drug would infallibly kill in half an hour. - -I pulled myself together, and having surreptitiously watched Miss -Russell into Suite No. 63, I followed her. When I arrived at the -bedroom she was pouring medicine from a bottle; a maid stood at the -foot of the bed. - -“I am just giving the second dose,” said Miss Russell easily to me. - -“What a nerve!” I said to myself, and aloud: “By all means.” - -She measured the dose, and approached the bed without a tremor. -Adelaide Spanton opened her mouth. - -“Stop!” I cried firmly. “We’ll delay that dose for half an hour. Kindly -give me the glass!” I took the glass from Miss Russell’s passive -fingers. “And I would like to have a word with you now, Miss Russell!” -I added. - -The maid went swiftly from the room. - - -V. - -The old bald-headed lawyer had gone down to the hotel smoking-saloon -for a little diversion, and we faced each other in the -drawing-room--Miss Russell and I. The glass was still in my hand. - -“And the new doctor is so-so, eh?” I remarked. - -“What do you mean?” she faltered. - -“I think you know what I mean,” I retorted. “I need only tell you that -by a sheer chance I stumbled upon your atrocious plot--the plot of that -scoundrel upstairs. All you had to do was to exchange the bottles, and -administer pure trinitrin instead of my prescribed solution of it, -and Miss Spanton would be dead in half an hour. The three millions -would go to the Australian cousin, and you would doubtless have your -reward--say, a cool hundred thousand, or perhaps marriage. And you were -about to give the poison when I stopped you.” - -“I was not!” she cried. And she fell into a chair, and hid her face in -her hands, and then looked, as it were longingly, towards the bedroom. - -“Miss Spanton is in no danger,” I said sneeringly. “She will be quite -well to-morrow. So you were not going to give the poison, after all?” I -laughed. - -“I beg you to listen, doctor,” she said at length, standing up. “I am -in a most invidious position. Nevertheless, I think I can convince you -that your suspicions against me are unfounded.” - -I laughed again. But secretly I admired her for acting the part so well. - -“Doubtless!” I interjected sarcastically, in the pause. - -“The man upstairs is Samuel Grist, supposed to be in Australia. It -is four months ago since I, who am Adelaide Spanton’s sole friend, -discovered that he was scheming her death. The skill of his methods -appalled me. There was nothing to put before the police, and yet -I had a horrible fear of the worst. I felt that he would stop at -nothing--absolutely at nothing. I felt that, if we ran away, he would -follow us. I had a presentiment that he would infallibly succeed, and I -was haunted by it day and night. Then an idea occurred to me--I would -pretend to be his accomplice. And I saw suddenly that that was the -surest way--the sole way, of defeating him. I approached him and he -accepted the bait. I carried out all his instructions, except the fatal -instructions. It is by his orders, and for his purposes, that we are -staying in this hotel. Heavens! To make certain of saving my darling -Adelaide, I have even gone through the farce of promising to marry him!” - -“And do you seriously expect me to believe this?” I asked coldly. - -“Should I have had the solicitor here?” she demanded, “if I had really -meant--meant to----” - -She sobbed momentarily, and then regained control of herself. - -“I don’t know,” I said, “but it occurs to me that the brain that -was capable of deliberately arranging a murder to take place in the -presence of the doctor might have some hidden purpose in securing also -the presence of the solicitor at the performance.” - -“Mr. Grist is unaware that the solicitor is here. He has been informed -that Mr. Dancer is my uncle, and favourable to the--to the----” she -stopped, apparently overcome. - -“Oh, indeed!” I ejaculated, adding: “And after all you did not mean to -administer this poison! I suppose you meant to withdraw the glass at -the last instant?” - -“It is not poison,” she replied. - -“Not poison?” - -“No. I did not exchange the bottles. I only pretended to.” - -“There seems to have been a good deal of pretending,” I observed. “By -the way, may I ask why you were giving this stuff, whether it is poison -or not, to my patient? I do not recollect that I ordered a second dose.” - -“For the same reason that I pretended to change the bottle. For the -benefit of the maid whom we saw just now in the bedroom.” - -“And why for the benefit of the maid?” - -“Because I found out this morning that she is in the pay of Grist. -That discovery accounts for my nervousness to-night about Adelaide. By -this time the maid has probably told Mr. Grist what has taken place, -and, and--I shall rely on your help if anything should happen, doctor. -Surely, surely, you believe me?” - -“I regret to say, madam,” I answered, “that I find myself unable to -believe you at present. But there is a simple way of giving credence -to your story. You state that you did not exchange the bottles. This -liquid, then, is the medicine prescribed by me, and it is harmless. -Oblige me by drinking it.” - -And I held the glass towards her. - -She took it. - -“Fool!” I said to myself, as soon as her fingers had grasped it. “She -will drop it on the floor, and an invaluable piece of evidence will be -destroyed.” - -But she did not drop it on the floor. She drank it at one gulp, and -looked me in the eyes, and murmured, “Now do you believe me?” - -“Yes,” I said. And I did. - -At the same moment her face changed colour, and she sank to the ground. -“What have I drunk?” she moaned. The glass rolled on the carpet, -unbroken. - -Miss Russell had in fact drunk a full dose of pure trinitrin. I -recognised all the symptoms at once. I rang for assistance. I got -a stomach pump. I got ice, and sent for ergot and for atropine. I -injected six minims of the Injectis Ergotini Hypodermica. I despaired -of saving her; but I saved her, after four injections. I need not -describe to you all the details. Let it suffice that she recovered. - -“Then you did exchange the bottles?” I could not help putting this -question to her as soon as she was in a fit state to hear it. - -“I swear to you that I had not meant to,” she whispered. “In my -nervousness I must have confused them. You have saved Adelaide’s life.” - -“I have saved yours, anyway,” I said. - -“But you believe me?” - -“Yes,” I said; and the curious thing is that I did believe her. I was -convinced, and I am convinced, that she did not mean to exchange the -bottles. - -“Listen!” she exclaimed. We could hear Big Ben striking twelve. - -“Midnight,” I said. - -She clutched my hand with a swift movement. “Go and see that my -Adelaide lives,” she cried almost hysterically. - -I opened the door between the two rooms and went into the sleeping -chamber. - -“Miss Spanton is dozing quietly,” I said, on my return. - -“Thank God!” Miss Russell murmured. And then old bald-headed Mr. Dancer -came into the room, blandly unconscious of all that had passed during -his sojourn in the smoking saloon. - -When I left the precincts of the Grand Babylon at one o’clock, the -guests were beginning to leave the Gold Rooms, and the great courtyard -was a scene of flashing lights, and champing horses, and pretty -laughing women. - -“What a queer place a hotel is!” I thought. - -Neither Mr. Grist nor the mysterious maid was seen again in -London. Possibly they consoled each other. The beautiful Adelaide -Spanton--under my care, ahem!--is completely restored to health. - -Yes, I am going to marry her. No, not the beautiful Adelaide, you -duffers--besides she is too young for my middle age--but Miss Russell. -Her Christian name is Ethel. Do you not like it? As for the beautiful -Adelaide, there is now a viscount in the case. - - - - -THE POLICE STATION. - - -Lord Trent has several times remarked to me that I am a philosopher. -And I am one. I have guided my life by four rules: To keep my place, -to make others keep theirs, to save half my income, and to beware of -women. The strict observance of these rules has made me (in my station) -a successful and respected man. Once, and only once, I was lax in my -observance, and that single laxity resulted in a most curious and -annoying adventure, which I will relate. - -It was the fourth rule that I transgressed. I did not beware of a -woman. The woman was Miss Susan Berry, lady’s maid to the Marchioness -of Cockfosters. - -The Cockfosters family is a very old one. To my mind its traditions are -superior to anything in the peerage of Great Britain; but then I may -be prejudiced. I was brought up in the Cockfosters household, first -at Cockfosters Castle in Devon, and afterwards at the well-known town -house at the south-east corner of Eaton Square. - -My father was valet to the old Marquis for thirty years; my mother -rose from the position of fifth housemaid to be housekeeper at the -Castle. Without ever having been definitely assigned to the situation, -I became, as it were by gradual attachment, valet to Lord Trent--eldest -son of the Marquis, and as gay and good-natured a gentleman as ever -drank brandy-and-soda before breakfast. - -When Lord Trent married Miss Edna Stuyvesant, the American heiress, -and with some of her money bought and furnished in a superb manner a -mansion near the north-west corner of Eaton Square, I quite naturally -followed him across the Square, and soon found myself, after his -lordship and my lady, the most considerable personage at No. 441. Even -the butler had to mind his “p’s” and “q’s” with me. - -Perhaps it was this pre-eminence of mine which led to my being selected -for a duty which I never cared for, and which ultimately I asked his -lordship to allow me to relinquish--of course he did so. That duty -related to the celebrated Cockfosters emeralds. Lady Trent had money -(over a million sterling, as his lordship himself told me), but money -could not buy the Cockfosters emeralds, and having seen these she -desired nothing less fine. With her ladyship, to desire was to obtain. -I have always admired her for that trait in her character. Being an -American she had faults, but she knew her own mind, which is a great -thing; and I must admit that, on the whole, she carried herself well -and committed few blunders. She must have been accustomed to good -servants. - -In the matter of the emeralds, I certainly took her side. Strictly -speaking, they belonged to the old Marchioness, but the Marchioness -never went into society; she was always engaged with temperance -propaganda, militant Protestantism, and that sort of thing, and -consequently never wore the emeralds. There was no valid reason, -therefore, why Lady Trent should not have the gratification of wearing -them. But the Marchioness, I say it with respect, was a woman of -peculiar and decided views. She had, in fact, fads; and one of her fads -was the emeralds. She could not bear to part with them. She said she -was afraid something might happen to the precious heirlooms. - -A prolonged war ensued between the Marchioness and my lady, and -ultimately a compromise was effected. My lady won permission to wear -the emeralds whenever she chose, but they were always to be brought -to her and taken back again by Susan Berry, in whom the Marchioness -had more confidence than in anyone else in the world. Consequently, -whenever my lady required the emeralds, word was sent across the Square -in the afternoon; Susan Berry brought them over, and Susan Berry -removed them at night when my lady returned from her ball or reception. - -The arrangement was highly inconvenient for Susan Berry, for sometimes -it would be very late when my lady came home; but the Marchioness -insisted, and since Susan Berry was one of those persons who seem to -take a positive joy in martyrising themselves, she had none of my pity. -The nuisance was that someone from our house had to accompany her -across the Square. Eaton Square is very large (probably the largest -in London, but I may be mistaken on such a trivial point); its main -avenue is shut in by trees; and at 2 a.m. it is distinctly not the -place for an unprotected female in charge of valuable property. Now -the Marchioness had been good enough to suggest that she would prefer -me to escort her maid on this brief nocturnal journey. I accepted the -responsibility, but I did not hide my dislike for it. Knowing something -of Miss Berry’s disposition, I knew that our household would inevitably -begin, sooner or later, to couple our names together, and I was not -deceived. - -Such was the situation when one night--it was a Whit-Monday, I -remember, and about a quarter past one--Lord and Lady Trent returned -from an entertainment at a well-known mansion near St. James’s Palace. -I got his lordship some whisky in the library, and he then told me -that I might go to bed, as he should not retire for an hour or so. I -withdrew to the little office off the hall, and engaged in conversation -with the second footman, who was on duty. Presently his lordship came -down into the hall and began to pace about--it was a strange habit of -his--smoking a cigarette. He caught sight of me. - -“Saunders,” he said, “I told you you could go to bed.” - -“Yes, my lord.” - -“Why don’t you go?” - -“Your lordship forgets the emeralds.” - -“Ah, yes, of course.” He laughed. I motioned to the footman to clear -out. - -“You don’t seem to care for that job, Saunders,” his lordship resumed, -quizzing me. “Surely Berry is a charming companion. In your place I -should regard it as excellent fun. But I have often told you that you -have no sense of humour.” - -“Not all men laugh at the same jokes, my lord,” I observed. - -As a matter of fact, in earlier and wilder days, his lordship had -sometimes thrown a book or a boot at me for smiling too openly in the -wrong place. - -The conversation might have continued further, for his lordship would -often talk with me, but at that moment Susan Berry appeared with the -bag containing the case in which were the emeralds. Lady Trent’s own -maid was with her, and the two stood talking for an instant at the foot -of the stairs, while Lady Trent’s maid locked the bag and handed the -key to Berry. Heaven knows how long that simple business would have -occupied had not the voice of my lady resounded from the first floor, -somewhat excitedly calling for her maid, who vanished with a hurried -good-night. His lordship had already departed from the hall. - -“May I relieve you of the bag, Miss Berry?” I asked. - -“Thank you, Mr. Saunders,” she replied, “but the Marchioness prefers -that I myself should carry it.” - -That little dialogue passed between us every time the emeralds had to -be returned. - -We started on our short walk, Miss Berry and I, proceeding towards -the main avenue which runs through the centre of the Square east and -west. It was a beautiful moonlight night. Talking of moonlight nights, -I may as well make my confession at once. The fact is that Miss -Berry had indeed a certain influence over me. In her presence I was -always conscious of feeling a pleasurable elation--an excitement, a -perturbation, which another man might have guessed to be the beginning -of love. - -I, however, knew that it was not love. It was merely a fancy. It only -affected me when I was in her company. When she was absent I could -regard her in my mind’s eye as she actually was--namely, a somewhat -designing young woman, with dark eyes and too much will of her own. -Nevertheless, she had, as I say, a certain influence over me, and I -have already remarked that it was a moonlight night. - -Need I say more? In spite of what I had implied to Lord Trent I did -enjoy the walk with Susan Berry. Susan Berry took care that I should. -She laid herself out to fascinate me; turning her brunette face up to -mine with an air of deference, and flashing upon me the glance of those -dark lustrous eyes. - -She started by sympathising with me in the matter of the butler. This -was, I now recognise, very clever of her, for the butler has always -been a sore point with me. I began to think (be good enough to remember -the moonlight and the trees) that life with Susan Berry might have its -advantages. - -Then she turned to the topic of her invalid sister, Jane Mary, who was -lame and lived in lodgings near Sloane Street, and kept herself, with a -little aid from Susan, by manufacturing artificial flowers. For a month -past Miss Berry had referred regularly to this sister, who appeared to -be the apple of her eye. I had no objection to the topic, though it -did not specially interest me; but on the previous evening Miss Berry -had told me, with a peculiar emphasis, that her poor dear sister often -expressed a longing to see the famous Cockfosters emeralds, and that -she resided quite close too. I did not like that. - -To-night Miss Berry made a proposition which alarmed me. “Mr. -Saunders,” she said insinuatingly, “you are so good-natured that I have -almost a mind to ask you a favour. Would you object to walking round -with me to my sister’s--it is only a few minutes away--so that I could -just give her a peep at these emeralds. She is dying to see them, and -I’m sure the Marchioness wouldn’t object. We should not be a quarter of -an hour away.” - -My discretion was aroused. I ought to have given a decided negative at -once; but somehow I couldn’t, while Susan was looking at me. - -“But surely your sister will be in bed,” I suggested. - -“Oh, no!” with a sigh. “She has to work very late--very late indeed. -And besides, if she is, I could take them up to her room. It would do -her good to see them, and she has few pleasures.” - -“The Marchioness might not like it,” I said, driven back to the second -line of fortification. “You know your mistress is very particular about -these emeralds.” - -“The Marchioness need never know,” Susan Berry whispered, putting her -face close up to mine. “No one need know, except just us two.” - -The accent which she put on those three words “just us two,” was -extremely tender. - -I hesitated. We were already at the end of the Square, and should have -turned down to the left towards Cockfosters House. - -“Come along,” she entreated, placing her hand on my shoulder. - -“Well, you know----” I muttered, but I went along with her towards -Sloane Street. We passed Eaton Place. - -“Really, Miss Berry----” I began again, collecting my courage. - -Then there was a step behind us, and another hand was placed on my -shoulder. I turned round sharply. It was a policeman. His buttons shone -in the moonlight. - -“Your name is Charles Saunders,” he said to me; “and yours Susan -Berry,” to my companion. - -“True,” I replied, for both of us. - -“I have a warrant for your arrest.” - -“Our arrest!” - -“Yes, on a charge of attempting to steal some emeralds, the property of -the Marquis of Cockfosters.” - -“Impossible,” I exclaimed. - -“Yes,” he sneered, “that’s what they all say.” - -“But the emeralds are here in this bag.” - -“I know they are,” he said. “I’ve just copped you in time. But you’ve -been suspected for days.” - -“The thing is ridiculous,” I said, striving to keep calm. “We are -taking the emeralds back to Lady Cockfosters, and----” - -Then I stopped. If we were merely taking the emeralds back to Lady -Cockfosters, that is, from one house in Eaton Square to another house -in Eaton Square, what were we doing out of the Square? - -I glanced at Susan Berry. She was as white as a sheet. The solution -of the puzzle occurred to me at once. Susan’s sister was an ingenious -fiction. Susan was a jewel thief, working with a gang of jewel thieves, -and her request that I would accompany her to this mythical sister was -part of a plan for stealing the emeralds. - -“At whose instance has the warrant been issued?” I asked. - -“The Marquis of Cockfosters.” - -My suspicions were only too well confirmed. - -I did not speak a word to Susan Berry. I could not. I merely looked at -her. - -“You’ll come quietly to the station?” the policeman said. - -“Certainly,” I replied. “As for us, the matter can soon be cleared up. -I am Lord Trent’s valet, No. 441, Eaton Square, and he must be sent -for.” - -“Oh, must he!” the constable jeered. “Come on. Perhaps you’d prefer a -cab.” - -A four-wheeler was passing. I myself hailed the sleepy cabman, and we -all three got in. The policeman prudently took the bag from Susan’s -nerveless hands. None of us spoke. I was too depressed, Susan was -probably too ashamed, and the constable was no doubt too bored. - -After a brief drive we drew up. Another policeman opened the door of -the cab, and over the open portal of the building in front of us I saw -the familiar blue lamp, with the legend “Metropolitan Police” in white -letters. The two policemen carefully watched us as we alighted, and -escorted us up the steps into the station. Happily, there was no one -about; my humiliation was abject enough without that. - -Charles Saunders a prisoner in a police station! I could scarcely -credit my senses. One becomes used to a police station--in the -newspapers; but to be inside one--that is different, widely different. - -The two policemen took us into a bare room, innocent of any furniture -save a wooden form, a desk, a chair, some printed notices of rewards -offered, and an array of handcuffs and revolvers on the mantelpiece. -In the chair, with a big book in front of him on the desk, sat the -inspector in charge. He was in his shirt-sleeves. - -“A hot night,” he said, smiling, to the policeman. - -I silently agreed. - -It appeared that we were expected. - -They took our full names, our addresses and occupations, and then the -inspector read the warrant to us. Of course, it didn’t explain things -in the least. I began to speak. - -“Let me warn you,” said the inspector, “that anything you say now may -be used against you at your trial.” - -My trial! - -“Can I write a note to Lord Trent?” I asked, nettled. - -“Yes, if you will pay for a cab to take it.” - -I threw down half-a-crown, and scribbled a line to my master, begging -him to come at once. - -“The constable must search you,” the inspector said, when this was done -and the first policeman had disappeared with the note. - -“I will save him the trouble,” I said proudly, and I emptied my pockets -of a gold watch and chain, a handkerchief, two sovereigns, a sixpence, -two halfpennies, a bunch of keys, my master’s linen book, and a new -necktie which I had bought that very evening; of which articles the -inspector made an inventory. - -“Which is the key of the bag?” asked the inspector. The bag was on the -desk in front of him, and he had been trying to open it. - -“I know nothing of that,” I said. - -“Now you, Susan Berry, give up the key,” the inspector said, sternly, -turning to her. - -For answer Susan burst into sobs, and flung herself against my breast. -The situation was excessively embarrassing for me. Heaven knows I had -sufficient reason to hate the woman, but though a thief, she was in -distress, and I must own that I felt for her. - -The constable stepped towards Susan. - -“Surely,” I said, “you have a female searcher?” - -“A female searcher! Ah, yes!” smiled the inspector, suddenly suave. “Is -she here, constable?” - -“Not now, sir; she’s gone.” - -“That must wait, then. Take them to the cells.” - -“Sorry, sir, all the cells are full. Bank Holiday drunks.” - -The inspector thought a moment. - -“Lock ’em up in the back room,” he said. “That’ll do for the present. -Perhaps the male prisoner may be getting an answer to his note soon. -After that they’ll have to go to Vine Street or Marlborough.” - -The constable touched his helmet, and marched us out. In another moment -we were ensconced in a small room, absolutely bare of any furniture, -except a short wooden form. The constable was locking the door when -Susan Berry screamed out: “You aren’t going to lock us up here together -in the dark?” - -“Why, what do you want? Didn’t you hear the cells are full?” - -I was profoundly thankful they were full. I did not fancy a night in a -cell. - -“I want a candle,” she said, fiercely. - -He brought one, or rather half of one, stuck in a bottle, and placed it -on the mantelpiece. Then he left us. - -Again I say the situation was excessively embarrassing. For myself, I -said nothing. Susan Berry dropped on the form, and hiding her face in -her hands, gave way to tears without any manner of restraint. I pitied -her a little, but that influence which previously she had exercised -over me was gone. “Oh, Mr. Saunders,” she sobbed, “what shall we do?” -And as she spoke she suddenly looked up at me with a glance of feminine -appeal. I withstood it. - -“Miss Berry,” I said severely, “I wonder that you can look me in the -face. I trusted you as a woman, and you have outraged that trust. I -never dreamed that you were--that you were an adventuress. It was -certainly a clever plot, and but for the smartness of the police I -should, in my innocence, have fallen a victim to your designs. For -myself, I am grateful to the police. I can understand and excuse their -mistake in regarding me as your accomplice. That will soon be set -right, for Lord Trent will be here. In the meantime, of course, I have -been put to considerable humiliation. Nevertheless, even this is better -than having followed you to your ‘sister’s.’ In your ‘sister’s’ lodging -I might have been knocked senseless, or even murdered. Moreover, the -emeralds are safe.” - -She put on an innocent expression, playing the injured maiden. - -“Mr. Saunders, you surely do not imagine----” - -“Miss Berry, no protestations, I beg. Let me say now that I have always -detected in your character something underhand, something crafty.” - -“I swear----” she began again. - -“Don’t trouble,” I interrupted her icily, “for I shall not believe you. -This night will certainly be a warning to me.” - -With that I leaned my back against the mantelpiece, and abandoned -myself to gloomy thought. It was a moment for me of self-abasement. I -searched my heart, and I sorrowfully admitted that my predicament was -primarily due to disobeying that golden rule--beware of women. I saw -now that it was only my absurd fancy for this wicked creature which had -led me to accept the office of guarding those emeralds during their -night-passage across Eaton Square. I ought to have refused in the first -place, for the job was entirely outside my functions; strictly, the -butler should have done it. - -And this woman in front of me--this Susan Berry, in whom the old -Marchioness had such unbounded trust! So she belonged to the -con-fraternity of jewel thieves--a genus of which I had often read, but -which I had never before met with. What audacity such people must need -in order to execute their schemes! - -But then the game was high. The Cockfosters emeralds were worth, at -a moderate estimate, twelve thousand pounds. There are emeralds and -emeralds, the value depends on the colour; these were the finest -Colombian stones, of a marvellous tint, and many of them were -absolutely without a flaw. There were five stones of seven carats each, -and these alone must have been worth at least six thousand pounds. Yes, -it would have been a great haul, a colossal haul. - -Time passed, the candle was burning low, and there was no sign of Lord -Trent. I went to the door and knocked, first gently, then more loudly, -but I could get no answer. Then I walked about the room, keeping an -eye on Susan Berry, who had, I freely admit, the decency to avoid my -gaze. I was beginning to get extremely tired. I wished to sit down, -but there was only one form; Susan Berry was already upon it, and, as -I said before, it was a very short form. At last I could hold out no -longer. Taking my courage in both hands, I sat down boldly at one end -of the form. It was a relief to me. Miss Berry sighed. There were not -six inches between us. - -The candle was low in the socket, we both watched it. Without a -second’s warning the flame leapt up and then expired. We were in the -dark. Miss Berry screamed, and afterwards I heard her crying. I myself -made no sign. Fortunately the dawn broke almost immediately. - -By this time I was getting seriously annoyed with Lord Trent. I had -served him faithfully, and yet at the moment of my genuine need he had -not come to my succour. I went again to the door and knocked with my -knuckles. No answer. Then I kicked it. No answer. Then I seized the -handle and violently shook it. To my astonishment the door opened. The -policeman had forgotten to lock it. - -I crept out into the passage, softly closing the door behind me. It was -now quite light. The door leading to the street was open, and I could -see neither constables nor inspector. I went into the charge room; it -was empty. Then I proceeded into the street. On the pavement a piece of -paper was lying. I picked it up; it was the note which I had written to -Lord Trent. - -A workman happened to be loitering along a road which crossed this -street at right angles. I called out and ran to him. - -“Can you tell me,” I asked, “why all the officers have left the police -station?” - -“Look ’ere, matey,” he says, “you get on ’ome; you’ve been making a -night of it, that’s wot you ’ave.” - -“But, seriously,” I said. - -Then I saw a policeman at a distant corner. The workman whistled, and -the policeman was obliging enough to come to us. - -“’Ere’s a cove wants to know why all the police ’as left the police -station,” the workman said. - -“What police station?” the constable said sharply. - -“Why, this one down here in this side-street,” I said, pointing to the -building. As I looked at it I saw that the lamp which I had observed on -the previous night no longer hung over the doorway. - -The constable laughed good-humouredly. - -“Get away home,” he said. - -I began to tell him my story. - -“Get away home,” he repeated--gruffly this time, “or I’ll run you in.” - -“All right,” I said huffily, and I made as if to walk down the other -road. The constable and the workman grinned to each other and departed. -As soon as they were out of sight, I returned to my police station. - -It was not a police station! It was merely a rather large and -plain-fronted empty house, which had been transformed into a police -station, for one night only, by means of a lamp, a desk, two forms, a -few handcuffs, and some unparalleled cheek. Jewel thieves they were, -but Susan Berry was not among them. After all Susan Berry probably had -an invalid sister named Jane Mary. - -The first policeman, the cabman, the second policeman, the -inspector--these were the jewel thieves, and Susan Berry and I (and -of course the Marchioness) had been the victims of as audacious and -brilliant a robbery as was ever planned. We had been robbed openly, -quietly, deliberately, with the aid of a sham police station. Our -movements must have been watched for weeks. I gave my meed of -admiration to the imagination, the skill, and the _sangfroid_ which -must have gone to the carrying out of this coup. - -Going back into the room where Susan Berry and I had spent the night -hours, I found that wronged woman sweetly asleep on the form, with her -back against the wall. I dared not wake her. And so I left her for -the present to enjoy some much-needed repose. I directed my steps -in search of Eaton Square, having closed the great door of my police -station. - -At length I found my whereabouts, and I arrived at No. 441 at five -o’clock precisely. The morning was lovely. After some trouble I roused -a housemaid, who let me in. She seemed surprised, but I ignored her. I -went straight upstairs and knocked at my master’s door. To wake him had -always been a difficult matter, and this morning the task seemed more -difficult than ever. At last he replied sleepily to my summons. - -“It is I--Saunders--your lordship.” - -“Go to the devil, then.” - -“I must see your lordship instantly. Very seriously.” - -“Eh, what? I’ll come in a minute,” and I heard him stirring, and the -voice of Lady Trent. - -How should I break the news to him? What would the Marchioness say -when she knew? Twelve thousand pounds’ worth of jewels is no trifle. -Not to mention my gold watch, my two sovereigns, my sixpence, and my -two halfpennies. And also the half-crown which I had given to have -the message despatched to his lordship. It was the half-crown that -specially rankled. - -Lord Trent appeared at the door of his room, arrayed in his crimson -dressing-gown. - -“Well, Saunders, what in the name of----” - -“My lord,” I stammered, and then I told him the whole story. - -He smiled, he laughed, he roared. - -“I daresay it sounds very funny, my lord,” I said, “but it wasn’t funny -at the time, and Lady Cockfosters won’t think it very funny.” - -“Oh, won’t she! She will. No one will enjoy it more. She might have -taken it seriously if the emeralds had been in the bag, but they -weren’t.” - -“Not in the bag, my lord!” - -“No. Lady Trent’s maid ran off with the bag, thinking that your -mistress had put the jewels in it. But she had not. Lady Trent came to -the top of the stairs to call her back, as soon as she found the bag -gone, but you and Berry were out of the house. So the emeralds stayed -here for one night. They are on Lady Trent’s dressing-table at the -present moment. Go and get a stiff whisky, Saunders. You need it. And -then may I suggest that you should return for the sleeping Berry? By -the way, the least you can do is to marry her, Saunders.” - -“Never, my lord!” I said with decision. “I have meddled sufficiently -with women.” - - - - -THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIMA DONNA. - - -Many years ago the fear of dynamite stalked through the land. An -immense organisation of anarchists whose headquarters were in the -United States had arranged for a number of simultaneous displays in -London, Glasgow, and Quebec. As is well known now, the Parliament House -at Quebec and the gasworks at Glasgow were to be blown up, while the -programme for London included Scotland Yard, most of Whitehall, the -House of Commons, the Tower, and four great railway stations thrown in. - -This plot was laid bare, stopped, and made public, and--except a number -of people who happened quite innocently to carry black bags--no one was -put to the slightest inconvenience. - -The dynamite scare was deemed to be at an end. But the dread -organisation was in fact still active, as the sixty policemen who -were injured in what is called the “Haymarket Massacre” explosion at -Chicago, on May 4, 1886, have dire occasion to know. - -Everyone who reads the papers is familiar with the details of the -Haymarket Massacre. Few people, however, are aware that a far more -dastardly outrage had been planned to intimidate London a few days -later. Through the agency of a courageous woman this affair too was -unmasked in its turn, but for commercial and other reasons it was kept -from the general public. - -The scheme was to blow up the Opera House at Covent Garden on the first -night of the season. Had the facts got abroad, the audience would -probably have been somewhat sparse on that occasion; but the facts did -not get abroad, and the house was crowded in every part; for the famous -prima donna Louise Vesea (since retired) was singing “Marguerite,” in -“Faust,” and enthusiasm about her was such that though the popular -tenor had unaccountably thrown up his engagement, the price of stalls -rose to thirty-three shillings. The police were sure of themselves, -and the evening passed off with nothing more explosive than applause. -Nevertheless, that night, after the curtain had fallen and Louise Vesea -had gathered up all the wreaths and other tributes of admiration which -had been showered upon her, there happened the singular incident which -it is our purpose to record. - -Vesea, wrapped in rich furs--it was midnight, and our usual wintry -May--was just leaving the stage door for her carriage, when a -gentleman respectfully accosted her. He was an English detective on -special service, and Vesea appeared to know him. - -“It will be desirable for you to run no risks, Madame,” he said. “So -far as we know all the principals have left the country in alarm, but -there are always others.” - -Vesea smiled. She was then over thirty, in the full flower of her fame -and beauty. Tall, dark, calm, mysterious, she had the firm yet gentle -look of one who keeps a kind heart under the regal manner induced by -universal adoration. - -“What have I to fear?” she said. - -“Vengeance,” the detective answered simply. “I have arranged to have -you shadowed, in case----” - -“You will do nothing of the kind,” she said. “The idea is intolerable -to me. I am not afraid.” - -The detective argued, but in vain. - -“It shall be as you wish, Madame,” he said, ultimately. - -Vesea got into her carriage, and was driven away. The pair of chestnuts -travelled at a brisk trot through the dark deserted streets of Soho -towards the West End. The carriage had crossed Regent Street and was -just entering Berkeley Square when a hansom, coming at a gallop along -Struton Street on the wrong side of the road, collided violently with -Vesea’s horses at the corner. At the same moment another carriage, a -brougham, came up and stopped. A gentleman jumped out, and assisted in -disengaging Vesea’s coachman and footman from the medley of harness and -horse-flesh. This done, he spoke to Vesea, who, uninjured, was standing -on the footpath. - -“One of your chestnuts will have to be shot,” he said, raising his hat. -“May I place my own carriage at your disposal?” - -Vesea thankfully accepted his offer. - -“Where to?” he inquired. - -“Upper Brook Street,” she answered. “But you are sure I do not -inconvenience you?” - -“Curiously enough,” he said, “I live in Upper Brook Street myself, and -if I may accompany you----” - -“You are more than kind,” she said, and they both entered the brougham, -the gentleman having first thoughtfully taken the number of the peccant -cabby, and given some valuable advice to Vesea’s coachman. - -The brougham disappeared at a terrific pace. But it never went within -half a mile of Upper Brook Street. It turned abruptly to the north, -crossed Oxford Street, and stopped in front of a large house in a -remote street near Paddington Station. At the same instant the door -of the house opened, and a man ran down to the carriage. In a moment -Vesea, with a cloth wrapped round her head, was carried struggling -into the house, and the brougham departed. The thing was done as -quickly and silently as in a dream. - -The cloth was removed at length, and Vesea found herself in a long bare -room, furnished only with chairs and a table. She realised that the -carriage accident was merely part of a plot to capture her without fuss -and violence. She was incapable of fear, but she was extremely annoyed -and indignant. She looked round for the man who enticed her into his -brougham. He was not to be seen; his share of the matter was over. Two -other men sat at the table. Vesea stared at them in speechless anger. -As to them, they seemed to ignore her. - -“Where is the Chief?” said one to the other. - -“He will be here in three minutes. We are to proceed with the -examination; time is short.” - -Then the two men turned to Vesea, and the elder spoke. - -“You will be anxious to know why you are here,” he said. - -She gazed at him scornfully, and he continued: - -“You are here because you have betrayed the anarchist cause.” - -“I am not an anarchist,” she said coldly. - -“Admitted. But a week ago a member of our society gave you a warning -to keep away from the Opera House to-night. In so warning you he was -false to his oath----” - -“Do you refer to Salti, the tenor?” she asked. - -“I do. You perceive we have adherents in high places. Salti, then, -warned you--and you instantly told the police. That was your idea of -gratitude. Did Salti love you?” - -“I decline to be cross-examined.” - -“It is immaterial. We know that he loved you. Now it is perilous for an -anarchist to love.” - -“I do not believe that Salti is one of you,” she broke in. - -“He is not,” the man said quietly. “He is dead. He was in the way.” - -In spite of herself she started, and both men smiled cynically. - -“The point is this,” the elder man proceeded. “We do not know how much -Salti told you. It is possible that he may have blurted out other and -more important--er--schemes than this of the Opera House which has -failed. Have you anything to say?” - -“Nothing,” she answered. - -“Ah! We expected that. Now, let me point out that you are dangerous to -us, that there is only one possible course open to you. You must join -us.” - -“Join you?” she exclaimed, and then laughed. - -“Yes,” the man said. “I repeat there is no alternative--none whatever. -You must take the oaths.” - -“And if I refuse?” - -The man shrugged his shoulders, and after a suggestive pause murmured: - -“Well--think of Salti.” - -“I do refuse,” she said. - -A door opened at the other end of the room, and a third man entered. - -“The Chief!” said the younger of the men at the table. “He will -continue the examination.” - -The new-comer was comparatively youthful--under thirty--and had the -look of a well-born Italian. He gave a glance at Vesea, stood still, -and then approached the table and sat down. - -“This is Louise Vesea,” the first speaker said, and rapidly indicated -how far he had gone. There was a long silence. - -“Thanks, brothers,” the Chief said. “By a strange coincidence I know -this lady--this woman, and I feel convinced that it will be better, in -the interests of our cause, if--if I examine her alone.” He spoke with -authority, and yet with a certain queer hesitation. - -The two men silently, but with obvious reluctance, rose and left the -room. - -When they were alone, the great singer and the Chief fronted each other -in silence. - -“Well?” said Vesea. - -“Madame,” the Chief began slowly and thoughtfully. “Do you remember -singing in Milan ten years ago? You were at the beginning of your -career then, but already famous.” - -His voice was rich and curiously persuasive. - -Without wishing to do so, Vesea nodded an affirmative. - -“One night you were driving home from the opera, and there was a -riot going on in the streets. The police were everywhere. People -whispered of a secret revolutionary society among the students of -the University. As for the students, after a pitched battle near the -Cathedral, they were flying. Suddenly, looking from your carriage, you -saw a very youthful student, who had been struck on the head, fall -down in the gutter and then get up again and struggle on. You stopped -your carriage. ‘Save me,’ the youth cried, ‘Save me, Signorina. If -the police catch me I shall get ten years’ imprisonment!’ You opened -the door of your carriage, and the youth jumped in. ‘Quick, under the -rug,’ you said quietly. You did not ask me any questions. You didn’t -stay to consider whether the youth might be a dangerous person. You -merely said, ‘Quick, under the rug!’ The youth crept under the rug. The -carriage moved on slowly, and the police, who shortly appeared, never -thought of looking within it for a fugitive young anarchist. The youth -was saved. For two days you had him in your lodging, and then he got -safely away to the coast, and so by ship to another country. Do you -remember that incident, Madame?” - -“I remember it well,” she answered. “What happened to the youth?” - -“I am he,” the Chief said. - -“You?” she exclaimed. “I should scarcely have guessed but for your -voice. You are changed.” - -“In our profession one changes quickly.” - -“Why do you remind me of that incident?” she asked. - -“You saved my life then. I shall save yours now.” - -“Is my life really in danger?” - -“Unless you joined us--yes.” - -She laughed incredulously. - -“In London! Impossible!” - -He made a gesture with his hands. - -“Do not let us argue on that point,” he said gravely. “Go through that -door,” he pointed to the door by which he himself had entered. “You -will find yourself in a small garden. The garden gate leads to a narrow -passage past some stables and so into the street. Go quickly, and take -a cab. Don’t return to your own house. Go somewhere else--anywhere -else. And leave London early to-morrow morning.” - -He silently opened the door for her. - -“Thank you,” she said. His seriousness had affected her. “How shall you -explain my departure to your--your friends?” - -“In my own way,” he replied calmly. “When a man has deliberately -betrayed his cause, there is only one explanation.” - -“Betrayed his cause!” She repeated the phrase wonderingly. - -“Madame,” he said, “do you suppose they will call it anything else? Go -at once. I will wait half an hour before summoning my comrades. By that -time they will have become impatient. Then you will be safe, and I will -give them my explanation.” - -“And that will be----?” - -He put her right hand to his lip and then stopped. - -“Good-bye, Madame,” he said without replying to the question. “We are -quits. I kiss your hand.” - -Almost reluctantly Louise Vesea went forth. And as she reached the -street she felt for the first time that it was indeed a fatal danger -from which she had escaped. She reflected that the Chief had imposed no -secrecy upon her, made no conditions; and she could not help but admire -such a method of repaying a debt. She wondered what his explanation to -his comrades would be. - -Half an hour later, when Vesea was far away, there was the sound of a -revolver shot. The other two plotters rushed into the room which the -prima donna had left, and found all the explanation which the Chief had -vouchsafed. - - - - -THE EPISODE IN ROOM 222. - - -The date was the fifth of November, a date easy to remember; not that I -could ever fail to recall it, even without the aid of the associations -which cluster round Guy Fawkes. It was a Friday--and yet there are -people who affect to believe that Friday is not a day singled out from -its six companions for mystery, strangeness, and disaster! The number -of the room was 222, as easy to remember as the date; not that I could -ever fail to recall the number also. Every circumstance in the affair -is fixed in my mind immovably and for ever. The hotel I shall call by -the name of the Grand Junction Terminus Hotel. If this tale were not a -simple and undecorated record of fact, I might with impunity choose for -its scene any one of the big London hotels in order by such a detail -to give a semblance of veracity to my invention; but the story happens -to be absolutely true, and I must therefore, for obvious reasons, -disguise the identity of the place where it occurred. I would only -say that the Grand Junction Railway is one of the largest and one of -the best-managed systems in England, or in the world: and that these -qualities of vastness and of good management extend also to its immense -Terminus Hotel in the North of Central London. The caravanserai (I have -observed that professional writers invariably refer to a hotel as a -caravanserai) is full every night in the week except Friday, Saturday, -and Sunday; and every commercial traveller knows that, except on -these nights, if he wishes to secure a room at the Grand Junction he -must write or telegraph for it in advance. And there are four hundred -bedrooms. - -It was somewhat late in the evening when I arrived in London. I had -meant to sleep at a large new hotel in the Strand, but I felt tired, -and I suddenly, on the spur of the moment, decided to stay at the Grand -Junction, if there was space for me. It is thus that Fate works. - -I walked into the hall, followed by a platform porter with my bag. The -place seemed just as usual, the perfection of the commonplace, the -business-like, and the unspiritual. - -“Have you a room?” I asked the young lady in black, whose yellow hair -shone gaily at the office window under the electric light. - -She glanced at her ledgers in the impassive and detached manner which -hotel young ladies with yellow hair invariably affect, and ejaculated: - -“No. 221.” - -“Pity you couldn’t make it all twos,” I ventured, with timid -jocularity. (How could I guess the import of what I was saying?) - -She smiled very slightly, with a distant condescension. It is -astonishing the skill with which a feminine hotel clerk can make a -masculine guest feel small and self-conscious. - -“Name?” she demanded. - -“Edge.” - -“Fourth floor,” she said, writing out the room-ticket and handing it to -me. - -In another moment I was in the lift. - -No. 221 was the last door but one at the end of the eastern corridor -of the fourth floor. It proved to be a double-bedded room, large, -exquisitely ugly, but perfectly appointed in all matters of comfort; in -short, it was characteristic of the hotel. I knew that every bedroom in -that corridor, and every bedroom in every corridor, presented exactly -the same aspect. One instinctively felt the impossibility of anything -weird, anything bizarre, anything terrible, entering the precincts of -an abode so solid, cheerful, orderly, and middle-class. And yet--but I -shall come to that presently. - -It will be well for me to relate all that I did that evening. I washed, -and then took some valuables out of my bag and put them in my pocket. -Then I glanced round the chamber, and amongst other satisfactory -details noticed that the electric lights were so fixed that I could -read in bed without distressing my eyes. I then went downstairs, by -the lift, and into the smoke-room. I had dined on board the express, -and so I ordered nothing but a _café noir_ and a packet of Virginian -cigarettes. After finishing the coffee I passed into the billiard-room, -and played a hundred up with the marker. To show that my nerves were at -least as steady as usual that night, I may mention that, although the -marker gave me fifty and beat me, I made a break of twenty odd which -won his generous approval. The game concluded, I went into the hall -and asked the porter if there were any telegrams for me. There were -not. I noticed that the porter--it was the night-porter, and he had -just come on duty--seemed to have a peculiarly honest and attractive -face. Wishing him good-night, I retired to bed. It was something after -eleven. I read a chapter of Mr. Walter Crane’s “The Bases of Design,” -and having turned off the light, sank into the righteous slumber of a -man who has made a pretty break of 20 odd and drunk nothing but coffee. -At three o’clock I awoke--not with a start, but rather gradually. I -know it was exactly three o’clock because the striking of a notoriously -noisy church clock in the neighbourhood was the first thing I heard. -But the clock had not wakened me. I felt sure that something else, -something far more sinister than a church clock, had been the origin of -disturbance. - -I listened. Then I heard it again--It. It was the sound of a groan in -the next room. - -“Someone indisposed, either in body or mind,” I thought lightly, -and I tried to go to sleep again. But I could not sleep. The groans -continued, and grew more poignant, more fearsome. At last I jumped out -of bed and turned on the light--I felt easier when I had turned on the -light. - -“That man, whoever he is, is dying.” The idea, as it were, sprang at my -throat. “He is dying. Only a dying man, only a man who saw Death by his -side and trembled before the apparition, could groan like that.” - -I put on some clothes, and went into the corridor. The corridor seemed -to stretch away into illimitable distance; and far off, miles off, a -solitary electric light glimmered. My end of the corridor was a haunt -of gloomy shadows, except where the open door allowed the light from -my bedroom to illuminate the long monotonous pattern of the carpet. -I proceeded to the door next my own--the door of No. 222, and put my -ear against the panel. The sound of groans was now much more distinct -and more terrifying. Yes. I admit that I was frightened. I called. No -answer. “What’s the matter?” I inquired. No answer. “Are you ill, -or are you doing this for your own amusement?” It was with a sort of -bravado that I threw this last query at the unknown occupant of the -room. No answer. Then I tried to open the door, but it was fast. - -“Yes,” I said to myself; “either he’s dying or he’s committed a murder -and is feeling sorry for it. I must fetch the night-porter.” - -Now, hotel lifts are not in the habit of working at three a.m., and so -I was compelled to find my way along endless corridors and down flights -of stairs apparently innumerable. Here and there an electric light -sought with its yellow eye to pierce the gloom. At length I reached the -hall, and I well recollect that the tiled floor struck cold into my -slippered but sockless feet. - -“There’s a man either dying or very ill in No. 222,” I said to the -night-porter. He was reading _The Evening News_, and appeared to be -very snug in his basket chair. - -“Is that so, sir?” he replied. - -“Yes,” I insisted. “I think he’s dying. Hadn’t you better do something?” - -“I’ll come upstairs with you,” he answered readily, and without further -parley we began the ascent. At the first floor landing the night-porter -stopped and faced me. He was a man about forty-five--every hall-porter -seems to be that age--and he looked like the father of a family. - -“If you think he’s dying, sir, I’ll call up the manager, Mr. Thom.” - -“Do,” I said. - -The manager slept on the first floor, and he soon appeared--a youngish -man in a terra-cotta Jaeger dressing-gown, his eyes full of sleep, yet -alert and anxious to do his duty. I had seen him previously in the -billiard-room. We all three continued our progress to the fourth floor. -Arrived in front of No. 222 we listened intently, but we could only -hear a faint occasional groan. - -“He’s nearly dead,” I said. The manager called aloud, but there was -no answer. Then he vainly tried to open the door. The night-porter -departed, and returned with a stout pair of steel tongs. With these, -and the natural ingenuity peculiar to hotel-porters, he forced open the -door, and we entered No. 222. - -A stout, middle-aged man lay on the bed fully dressed in black. On the -floor near the bed was a silk hat. As we approached the great body -seemed to flutter, and then it lay profoundly and terribly still. The -manager put his hand on the man’s head, and held the glass of his watch -to the man’s parted grey lips. - -“He is dead,” said the manager. - -“H’m!” I said. - -“I’m sorry you’ve been put to any inconvenience,” said the manager, -“and I’m much obliged to you.” - -The cold but polite tone was a request to me to re-enter my own -chamber, and leave the corpse to the manager and the night-porter. I -obeyed. - - * * * * * - -“What about that man?” I asked the hall-porter early the next, or -rather the same, morning. I had not slept a wink since three o’clock, -nor had I heard a sound in the corridor. - -“What man, sir?” the porter said. - -“You know,” I returned, rather angrily. “The man who died in the -night--No. 222.” - -“I assure you, sir,” he said, “I haven’t the least notion what you -mean.” - -Yet his face seemed as honest and open as ever. - -I inquired at the office for the manager, and after some difficulty saw -him in his private room. - -“I thought I’d just see about that man,” I began. - -“What man?” the manager asked, exactly as the porter had asked. - -“Look here,” I said, as I was now really annoyed, “it’s all very well -giving instructions to the hall-porter, and I can quite understand you -want the thing kept as quiet as possible. Of course I know that hotels -have a violent objection to corpses. But as I saw the corpse, and was -of some assistance to you----” - -“Excuse me,” said the manager. “Either you or I must be completely mad. -And,” he added, “I don’t think it is myself.” - -“Do you mean to say,” I remarked with frosty sarcasm, “that you didn’t -enter Room 222 with me this morning at three a.m. and find a dead man -there?” - -“I mean to say just that,” he answered. - -“Well----.” I got no further. I paid my bill and left. But before -leaving, I went and carefully examined the door of No. 222. The door -plainly showed marks of some iron instrument. - -“Here,” I said to the porter as I departed. “Accept this half-crown -from me. I admire you.” - - * * * * * - -I had a serious illness extending over three months. I was frequently -delirious, and nearly every day I saw the scene in Room No. 222. In the -course of my subsequent travels, I once more found myself, late one -night, at the Grand Junction Terminus Hotel. - -“Mr. Edge,” said the night-porter, “I’ve been looking out for you for -weeks and weeks. The manager’s compliments, and he would like to see -you in his room.” - -Again I saw the youngish, alert manager. - -“Mr. Edge,” he began at once, “it is probable that I owe you an -apology. At any rate, I think it right to inform you that on the night -of the fifth of November, the year before last, exactly twelve months -before your last visit here, a stout man died in Room No. 222, at three -a.m. I forgot the circumstance when you last came to see me in this -room.” - -“It seems queer,” I said coldly, “that you should have forgotten such a -circumstance.” - -“The fact is,” he replied, “I was not the manager at that time. My -predecessor died two days after the discovery of the corpse in Room -222.” - -“And the night-porter--is he, too, a new man?” - -“Yes,” said the manager. “The porter who, with the late manager, found -the corpse in Room 222, is now in Hanwell Lunatic Asylum.” - -I paused, perhaps in awe. - -“Then you think,” I said, “that I was the victim of a hallucination -on my previous visit here? You think I had a glimpse of the world of -spirits?” - -“On these matters,” said the manager, “I prefer to think nothing.” - - - - -SATURDAY TO MONDAY. - - -So at length I yielded to repeated invitations, and made up my mind to -visit the Vernons again. And it was in June. I had not been for nearly -two years. The last visit was in the month of August: I remembered it -too well--that year, that month, that day! - -Under the most favourable circumstances, it needs enterprise and energy -for a Londoner to pay a week-end visit to a friend’s house in the -country. No matter how intimate the friend--and the Vernons, though -charming and full of good nature, were not really very intimate friends -of mine--there is always an element of risk in the affair; I will go -further and say an element of preliminary unpleasantness. It means -the disarrangement of regular habits; it means packing one’s bag and -lugging it into a hansom; it means a train-journey; it often means a -drive at the other end; it means sleeping in a strange bed and finding -a suitable hook for one’s razor strop the next morning; it means -accommodating oneself to a new social atmosphere, and the expenditure -of much formal politeness. And suppose some hitch occurs--some trifling -contretemps to ruffle the smoothness of the hours--where are you then? -You are bound to sit tight and smile till Monday, and at parting to -enlarge on your sorrow that the visit is over, all the while feeling -intensely relieved; and you have got nothing in exchange for your -discomfort and inconvenience save the satisfaction of duty done--a -poor return, I venture to add. You know you have wasted a week-end, an -irrecoverable week-end of eternity. - -However, I boarded the train at St. Pancras in a fairly cheerful -mood, and I tried to look on the bright side of life. The afternoon -was certainly beautiful, and the train not too crowded, and I derived -some pleasure, too, from the contemplation of a new pair of American -boots which I had recently purchased. I remembered that Mrs. Vernon -used to accuse me of a slight foppishness in the matter of boots, at -the same time wishing audibly (in his hearing) that Jack would give -a little more attention to the lower portions of his toilet; Jack -was a sportsman, and her husband. And I thought of their roomy and -comfortable house on the side of the long slope to Bedbury, and of -their orchard and the hammocks under the trees in the orchard, and of -tea and cakes being brought out to those hammocks, and of the sunsets -over the Delectable Mountains (we always called them the Delectable -Mountains because they are the identical hills which Bunyan had in mind -when he wrote “The Pilgrim’s Progress”), and of Jack’s easy drawl and -Mrs. Vernon’s chatter, and the barking of the dogs, and the stamping -of the horses in the stable. And I actually thought: This will be a -pleasant change after London. - -“I do hope they won’t be awkward and self-conscious,” I said to myself. -“And I also must try not to be.” - -You see I was thinking of that last visit and what occurred during -it. I was engaged to be married then, to a girl named Lucy Wren. Just -as I had arrived at the Vernons’ house in their dog-cart the highly -rural postman came up in his cart, and after delivering some letters -produced still another letter and asked if anyone of the name of -Bostock was staying there. I took the letter: the address was in Lucy’s -handwriting (I had seen her only on the previous night, and of course -she knew of my visit). I read the letter, standing there in the garden -near the front door, and having read it I laughed loudly and handed -it to Mrs. Vernon, saying: “What do you think of that for a letter?” -In the letter Lucy said that she had decided to jilt me (she didn’t -use those words--oh no!), and that on the following day she was going -to be married to another man. Yes, that was a cheerful visit I paid -to the Vernons, that August! At first I didn’t know what I was doing. -They soothed me, calmed me. They did their best. It wasn’t their fault -after all. They suggested I should run back to town and see Lucy; Jack -offered to go with me. (Jack!) I declined. I declined to do anything. I -ate hearty meals. I insisted on our usual excursions. I talked a lot. I -forced them to pretend that nothing had happened. And on Monday morning -I went off with a cold smile. But it was awful. It stood between me -and the Vernons for a long time, a terrible memory. And when next Mrs. -Vernon encountered me, in London, there were tears in her eyes and she -was speechless. - -Now you will understand better why I said to myself, with much -sincerity: “I do hope they won’t be awkward and self-conscious. And I -also must try not to be.” - -As the train approached Bedbury I had qualms. I had qualms about the -advisability of this visit to the Vernons. How could it possibly -succeed, with that memory stalking like a ghost in the garden near the -front door of their delightful and hospitable house? How could----? -Then we rumbled over the familiar bridge, and I saw the familiar -station yard, and the familiar dog-cart, and the familiar Dalmatian -dog, and the familiar white mare that was rather young and skittish -when Lucy jilted me. “That mare must be rising seven now,” I thought, -“and settled down in life.” - -I descried Mrs. Vernon waiting on the platform to welcome me, with -the twins. Alas! I had forgotten the twins, those charming and frail -little girls always dressed alike. Invariably, on my previous visits, I -had brought something for the twins--a toy, a box of sweets, a couple -of bead necklaces. Never once had I omitted to lay my tribute on the -altar of their adorable infancy. And now I had forgotten, and my -forgetfulness saddened me, because I knew that it would sadden them; -they would expect, and they would be disappointed; they would taste the -bitterness of life. “My poor little dears!” I thought, as they smiled -and shouted, to see my head out of the carriage window, “I feel for you -deeply.” - -This beginning was a bad one. Like all men who have suffered without -having deserved to suffer, I was superstitious, and I felt that the -beginning augured ill. I resigned myself, even before the train had -quite stopped, to a constrained and bored week-end with the Vernons. - -“Well?” I exclaimed, with an affectation of jollity, descending from -the carriage. - -“Well?” responded Mrs. Vernon, with the same affectation. - -It was lamentable, simply lamentable, the way in which that tragic -memory stood between us and prevented either of us from showing a -true, natural, simple self to the other. Mrs. Vernon could say little; -I could say little; and what we did say was said stiffly, clumsily. -Perhaps it was fortunate, on the whole, that the twins were present. -They at any rate were natural and self-possessed. - -“And how old are you now?” I asked them. - -“We are seven,” they answered politely in their high, thin voices. - -“Then you are like the little girl’s family in Wordsworth’s poem,” I -remarked. - -It was astonishing how this really rather good joke fell flat. Of -course the twins did not see it. But Mrs. Vernon herself did not see -it, and I too thought it, at the moment, inexpressibly feeble. As for -the twins they could not hide their disappointment. Always before, I -had handed them a little parcel, immediately, either at the station -if they came to meet me, or at the house-door, if they did not. And -to-day I had no little parcel. I could perceive that they were hoping -against hope, even yet. I could perceive that they were saying to each -other with their large, expressive eyes: “Perhaps he has put it in his -portmanteau this time. He can’t have forgotten us.” - -I could have wept for them. (I was in that state.) But I could not for -the life of me tell them outright that I had forgotten the customary -gift, and that I should send it by post on my return. No, I could not -do that. I was too constrained, too ill at ease. So we all climbed up -into the dog-cart. Mrs. Vernon and I in front, and the twins behind -with the portmanteau to make weight; and the white mare set off with a -bound, and the Dalmatian barked joyously, and we all pretended to be as -joyous as the dog. - -“Where’s Jack?” I inquired. - -“Oh!” said Mrs. Vernon, as though I had startled her. “He had to go to -Bedbury Sands to look at a couple of greyhounds--it would have been too -late on Monday. I’m afraid he won’t be back for tea.” - -I guessed instantly that, with the average man’s cowardice, he had run -away in order to escape meeting me as I entered the house. He had left -that to his wife. No doubt he hoped that by the time he returned I -should have settled down and the first awkwardness and constraint would -be past. - -We said scarcely anything else, Mrs. Vernon and I, during the -three-mile drive. And it was in silence that we crossed the portal -of the house. Instead of having tea in the orchard we had it in the -drawing-room, the twins being present. And the tea might have been a -funeral feast. - -“Well,” I thought, “I anticipated a certain mutual diffidence, but -nothing so bad as this. If they couldn’t be brighter than this, why in -heaven’s name did they force me to come down?” - -Mrs. Vernon was decidedly in a pitiable condition. She felt for me so -much that I felt for her. - -“Come along, dears,” she said to the twins, after tea was over, and the -tea-things cleared away. And she took the children out of the room. But -before leaving she handed me a note, in silence. I opened it and read: -“Be as kind to her as you can; she has suffered a great deal.” - -Then, ere I had time to think, the door, which Mrs. Vernon had softly -closed, was softly opened, and a woman entered. It was Lucy, once Lucy -Wren. She was as beautiful as ever, and no older. But her face was the -face of one who had learnt the meaning of life. Till that moment I had -sought everywhere for reasons to condemn her conduct towards me, to -intensify its wickedness. Now, suddenly, I began to seek everywhere -for reasons to excuse her. She had been so young, so guileless, so -ignorant. I had been too stern for her. I had frightened her. How -could she be expected to know that the man who had supplanted me was -worthless? She had acted as she did partly from youthful foolishness -and partly from timidity. She had been in a quandary. She had lost her -head. And so it had occurred that one night, that night in August, she -had kissed me falsely, with a lie on her lips, knowing that her jilting -letter was already in the post. What pangs she must have experienced -then! Yes, as she entered the room and gazed at me with her blue eyes, -my heart overflowed with genuine sorrow for her. - -“Lucy!” I murmured, “you are in mourning!” - -“Yes,” she said. “Didn’t you know? Has Mrs. Vernon said nothing? He is -dead.” - -And she sank down by the side of my chair and hid her face, and I could -only see her honey-coloured hair. I stroked it. I knew all her history, -in that supreme moment, without a word of explanation. I knew that she -had been self-deceived, that she had been through many an agony, that -she had always loved me.... And she was so young, so young. - -I kissed her hair. - - * * * * * - -“How thankful I am!” breathed Mrs. Vernon afterwards. “Suppose it had -not turned out well!” - -Jack Vernon had calculated with some skill. When he came back, the -constraint, the diffidence, was at an end. - - - - -A DINNER AT THE LOUVRE. - - -The real name of this renowned West-End restaurant is not the Louvre. -I have christened it so because the title seems to me to suit it very -nicely, and because a certain disguise is essential. The proprietors of -the Louvre--it belongs to an esteemed firm of caterers--would decidedly -object to the coupling of the name of their principal establishment -with an affair so curious and disconcerting as that which I am about -to relate. And their objection would be perfectly justifiable. -Nevertheless, the following story is a true one, and the details of it -are familiar to at least half a dozen persons whose business it is, -for one reason or another, to keep an eye upon that world of crime and -pleasure, which is bounded on the east by Bow Street and on the left by -Hyde Park Corner. - -It was on an evening in the last week of May that I asked Rosie Mardon -to dine with me at the Louvre. I selected the Louvre, well knowing that -from some mysterious cause all popular actresses prefer the Louvre -to other restaurants, although the quality of the food there is not -always impeccable. I am not in the habit of inviting the favourites -of the stage to dinner, especially favourites who enjoy a salary of -seventy-five pounds a week, as Rosie Mardon did and does. But in the -present case I had a particular object in view. Rosie Mardon was -taking the chief feminine rôle in my new light comedy, then in active -rehearsal at the Alcazar Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. We had almost -quarrelled over her interpretation of the big scene in the second act, -which differed materially from my own idea of how the scene ought -to go. Diplomacy was necessary. I prided myself on my powers as a -diplomatist: I knew that if I could chat with Miss Rosie in the privacy -of a table for two at a public restaurant (there is no privacy more -discreet), I could convert her to my opinions on that second act. - -“Have you engaged a table upstairs?” was her first inquiry, as with the -assistance of a stout and gorgeous official I helped her to alight from -her brougham at the portico of the house. (She looked lovely, and half -the street was envying me; but unfortunately Rosie’s looks have nothing -to do with the tale; let me therefore dismiss them as a dangerous -topic.) - -“No,” I said; “but I expect there’ll be plenty of room.” - -“Plenty of room!” she exclaimed, with a charming scorn and a glance -which said: “This young man really has a great deal to learn about the -art of entertaining ladies at the Louvre.” I admit that I had. - -“Oh, yes!” I insisted with bravado. “Plenty!” - -“Ask the booking-clerk,” she commanded, and with all her inimitable -grace she sank like a fatigued sylph into one of the easy-chairs that -furnished the entrance-hall, and drew her cloak round her shoulders. - -The booking-clerk, in faultless evening-dress, with a formidable silver -chain encircling his neck, stood at the foot of the grand staircase, -which was very grand. The booking-clerk politely but coldly informed -me that he had not a table upstairs; he said that every table had been -booked since a quarter to seven. - -“Well, I suppose we must be content with downstairs, but I much prefer -the balcony,” said Rosie when I told her. And Rosie was obviously -cross. My dinner was beginning ominously. - -I returned to the booking-clerk, who was then good enough to tell me -that he had no table downstairs either. I felt rather an ass, but I -never permit my asininity to go too far. I assumed an attitude of -martial decision, and ordered one of the pages to get me a hansom. - -“We will dine at the Savoy,” I said, very loud. Every official in the -neighbourhood heard me. Rosie smiled, whether at the prospect of the -Savoy or at my superb indignation I know not. - -Just as we were emerging into the street the booking-clerk, his silver -chain clinking, touched me on the shoulder. - -“I can let you have a table upstairs now, sir,” said he. “A party that -engaged one has not arrived.” - -“I thought they wouldn’t let us run away to the Savoy,” I remarked to -Rosie _sotto voce_ and with satisfaction. I had triumphed, and the -pretty creature was a witness of my triumph. - -“What name, sir?” asked the clerk. - -“John Delf,” I replied. - -His gesture showed that he recognised that name, and this pleased me -too. Had not my first farcical comedy run a hundred and sixty nights at -the Alcazar? It was only proper that my reputation should have reached -even the clerks of restaurants. Another official recognised Miss -Rosie’s much-photographed face, and we passed up the staircase with -considerable éclat. - -“You managed that rather well,” said Miss Rosie, dimpling with -satisfaction, as we sat down in the balcony of the Grand Hall of the -Louvre. The dinner was not beginning so ominously after all. - -I narrate these preliminary incidents to show how large a part is -played by pure chance in the gravest events of our lives. - -I ordered the ten-and-sixpenny dinner. Who could offer to the unique -Rosie Mardon a five-shilling or a seven-and-sixpenny repast when one -at half-a-guinea was to be obtained? Not I! The meal started with -anchovies, which Rosie said she adored. (She also adored nougat, -_crême de menthe_, and other pagan gods.) As Rosie put the first bit -of anchovy into her adorable mouth, the Yellow Hungarian Band at the -other end of the crowded hall struck up the Rakocsy March, and the -whole place was filled with clamour. Why people insist on deafening -music as an accompaniment to the business of eating I cannot imagine. -Personally, I like to eat in peace and quietude. But I fear I am an -exception. Rosie’s eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sound of the -band, and I judged the moment opportune to ascertain her wishes on -the subject of wine. She stated them in her own imperious way, and I -signalled to the waiter. - -Now I had precisely noticed, or I fancied I noticed, an extraordinary -obsequiousness in this waiter--an obsequiousness surpassing the -usual obsequiousness of waiters. I object to it, and my attitude of -antagonism naturally served to intensify it. - -“What’s the matter with the fellow?” I said to Rosie after I had -ordered the wine. - -“He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?” was her only reply, as she gazed -absently at the floor below us crowded with elegant diners. - -And the waiter was indeed somewhat handsome. A light-haired man, and, -like all the waiters at the Louvre, a foreigner with a deficient -knowledge of English. - -“I expect he’s lost on his bets to-day,” Rosie added. “They all bet, -you know, and he’s after a rousing tip to make up.” - -“Oh, is that it?” I said, wondering at the pretty creature’s knowledge -of the world. And then I began to talk about my play in my best -diplomatic manner, inwardly chafing at the interruption of that weird -Yellow Hungarian orchestra, which with bitter irony had hung over the -railings of its stand a placard bearing the words, “By desire.” - -The meal proceeded brilliantly. My diplomacy was a success. The -champagne was a success. We arrived at the sorbet, that icy and sweet -product which in these days of enormous repasts is placed half-way -through the meal in order to renew one’s appetite for the second half. -Your modern chef is the cruel tyrant of the stomach, and shows no mercy. - -The fair-haired waiter’s hand distinctly trembled as he served the -sorbets. I looked at mine for some moments, hesitating whether or not -to venture upon it. I am a martyr to indigestion. - -“It’s delicious,” said Rosie. “More delicious than the second act of -your ‘Partners.’” - -“Then I must risk it,” I replied, and plunged the spoon into the -half-frozen greenish mass. As I did so I caught sight of our waiter, -who was leaning against the service table at the corner of the balcony. -His face was as white as a sheet. I thought he must be ill, and I felt -sorry for him. However, I began to swallow the sorbet, and the sorbet -was in truth rather choice. Presently our waiter clutched at the sleeve -of another waiter who was passing, and whispered a few words in his -ear. The second waiter turned to look at me, and replied. Then our -waiter almost ran towards our table. - -“Excuse me, sirr,” he murmured indistinctly, rolling the “r.” “Are you -not Count Vandernoff?” - -“I am not,” I replied briefly. - -He hesitated; his hand wavered towards the sorbet, but he withdrew it -and departed. - -“Mon Dieu!” I heard him exclaim weakly under his breath. - -“Possibly he’s been taking me for an aristocratic compatriot of his -own,” I said to Rosie, “and that explains the obsequiousness. You were -wrong about the betting.” - -I laughed, but I felt ill at ease, and to cover my self-consciousness I -went on eating the sorbet very slowly. - -I must have consumed nearly a third of it when I became conscious of a -movement behind me; a mysterious hand shot out and snatched away the -sorbet. - -“Sir!” I protested, looking round. A tall, youngish man in evening -dress, but wearing his hat, stood on my left. “Sir! what in the name -of----?” - -“Your pardon!” answered the man in a low hurried voice. I could not -guess his nationality. “Let me beg you to leave here at once, and come -with me.” - -“I shall do no such thing,” I replied. “Waiter--call the manager.” But -our waiter had disappeared. - -“It is a matter of life and death,” said the man. - -“To whom?” - -“To you.” - -The man removed his hat and looked appealingly at Miss Rosie. - -“Don’t let’s have a scene in here,” said Rosie, with her worldly -wisdom. And, impelled by the utter seriousness of the man, we went out. -I forgot the bill, and no one presented it. - -“I solemnly ask you to take a little drive with me,” said the man, when -we had reached the foyer. “I have a carriage at the door.” - -“Again, why?” I demanded. - -He whispered: “You are poisoned. I am saving your life. I rely on your -discretion.” - -My spine turned chilly, and I glanced at Miss Rosie. “I will come with -you,” she said. - -In five minutes we had driven to a large house in Golden Square. We -were ushered into a lavishly-furnished drawing-room, and we sat down. -Rosie’s lips were set. I admired her demeanour during those moments. - -The man who said he was saving my life poured some liquid from a phial -into a glass, and handed it to me. - -“Emetics are useless. Drink this. In an hour you will feel the first -symptoms of illness. They may be severe, though that is improbable, -since you ate only a portion of the stuff. In any event, they will not -last. To-morrow you will be perfectly well. Let me advise you to go to -bed at once. My carriage is at your service and the service of this -lady.” He bowed. - -I drank the antidote. - -“Thanks for all these surprises,” I said coldly. “But does it not occur -to you that some explanation is due to me?” - -He pondered a minute. - -“I will explain,” he replied. “It is your right. I will explain in two -words. You have heard of Count Vandernoff, attached to the Russian -Embassy in London? You may have seen in the papers that the Count has -been appointed by the Tsar to be the new governor of Helsingfors, the -Finnish capital?” - -I nodded. - -“You are aware,” he continued suavely, “of the widespread persecutions -in Finland, the taking away of the Constitution, the Russianising -of all offices, the censorship of the Press? This persecution has -given rise to a secret society, which I will call the Friends of -Finnish Freedom. Its methods are drastic. Count Vandernoff was known -to be violently antagonistic to Finnish freedom. He dines often -at the Louvre. He had engaged a table for to-night. The waiter in -charge of that table was, like myself, a member of the society, but, -unfortunately, rather a raw hand. The Count, quite unexpectedly, did -not arrive at the Louvre to-night. The waiter, however, took you for -the Count. The sorbet which I snatched out of your hand was---- Need I -say more?” - -“Poisoned?” - -“Poisoned. The affair was carefully arranged, and only a pure accident -could have upset it. That accident occurred.” - -“What was it?” - -“The Count’s coupé was knocked over by an omnibus in Piccadilly two -hours ago, and the Count was killed.” - -There was a pause. - -“Then he will never be governor of Helsingfors,” I said. - -“Heaven helps the right!” the man answered. “You English love freedom. -You cannot guess what we in Finland have suffered. Let me repeat that I -rely on your discretion.” - -We left, Miss Rosie and I; and the kind-hearted girl delivered me -safely into the hands of my housekeeper. I was ill, but I soon -recovered. - -A few days later I met Miss Rosie at rehearsal. - -“Did you notice?” she said to me, with an awed air, “our table was No. -13 that night.” - - -THE END. - - -PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN. - - - - - ESTABLISHED 1798 - - [Illustration] - - T. 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