"Chestow,Wednesday Evening."My Dear Duncombe,—My friend De St. Ethol tells me that he is obliged, at great personal inconvenience, to execute a commission for a friend which involves a somewhat unceremonious call upon you to-night. He desires me, therefore, to send you these few lines. The Marquis de St. Ethol and his wife are amongst my oldest friends. It gives me great pleasure to vouch for them both in every way."Yours sincerely,"Chestow."
"Chestow,Wednesday Evening.
"My Dear Duncombe,—My friend De St. Ethol tells me that he is obliged, at great personal inconvenience, to execute a commission for a friend which involves a somewhat unceremonious call upon you to-night. He desires me, therefore, to send you these few lines. The Marquis de St. Ethol and his wife are amongst my oldest friends. It gives me great pleasure to vouch for them both in every way.
"Yours sincerely,
"Chestow."
"The letter, I am afraid," the Marquis said, smiling, "does little to satisfy your curiosity. Permit me to explain my errand in a few words."
"Certainly," Duncombe interrupted. "But won't you take something? I am glad to see that Spencer is looking after your wife."
The Marquise had raised her veil, and was leaningback in a chair, with a sandwich poised in the fingers of one hand and a glass of Burgundy in the other. She was looking a little less bored, and was chatting gayly to Spencer, whose French was equal to her own.
"I thank you very much," the Marquis said. "I will not take anything to drink, but if you have cigarettes—ah, thanks!"
He lit one, and sat on the arm of an easy-chair.
"The facts are these," he said. "I have a great friend in Paris who, knowing that I was at Chestow, and returning to France to-morrow, has, I must say, taken some advantage of my good nature. I am asked to call here and escort home to her friends a young lady, who, I understand, is for the moment a guest under your roof. My friend, I must say, telegraphs in a most mysterious manner, but he is evidently very anxious that we should accede to his request. Our appearance here at this time of night I admit is most unjustifiable, but what were we to do? It is absolutely necessary for my wife to catch the two-twenty from Charing Cross to-morrow. I hope that my friend will some day appreciate my devotion. To come round by your house I have had to borrow a carriage from my friend Chestow. We shall have to drive to Norwich, and catch a train from there to London in the small hours of the morning. I presume the young lady is here?"
"The young lady is here!" Duncombe answered. "May I inquire the name of the friend to whom you are asked to take her?"
The Marquis yawned slightly. He, too, seemed weary.
"My dear Sir George," he said, "I trust that you will appreciate my position in this matter. I do not even know the young lady's name. My eccentric friend in his telegram, which occupied four forms, most specially insisted that I should ask or answer no questions concerning her."
"You are not aware, then, of the circumstances which led to her coming here?" Duncombe asked.
"I am utterly ignorant of them," the Marquis answered. "I am constrained to remain so."
"You no doubt have some message for her," Duncombe said. "Her position here is a little peculiar. She may desire some sort of information as to her destination."
The Marquis knocked the ash off his cigarette.
"If you will produce the young lady," he said, "I think that you will find her prepared to come with us without asking any questions."
Duncombe threw open the door which led into the inner room. The girl stepped forward as far as the threshold and looked out upon them.
"The Marquis and the Marquise de St. Ethol," Duncombe said to her. "They have brought me a letter from the Duke of Chestow, and they have come to take you back to France."
The girl looked fixedly for a moment at the Marquise. If any word or sign passed between them it escaped Duncombe. Phyllis was content, however, to ask no questions.
"I am quite ready," she said calmly.
The Marquise rose.
"Your luggage can be sent on," she remarked.
Duncombe approached Phyllis, and stood by her side.
"These people," he said, "will not tell me where they are taking you to. Are you content to go?"
"I must go," she answered simply.
"You wish me to give you——"
"If you please," she interrupted.
He turned towards the door.
"I have something belonging to Miss—to my guest," he said, "in my own room. If you will excuse me for a moment I will fetch it."
He returned with the sealed envelope which she had given him, and which he placed in her hands. He carried also a fur coat and an armful of wraps.
"You must take these," he declared. "It is cold travelling."
"But how can I return them to you?" she protested. "No, not the coat, please. I will take a rug if you like."
"You will take both," he said firmly. "There need be no trouble about returning them. I shall be in Paris myself shortly, and no doubt we shall come across one another."
Her eyes flashed something at him. What it was he could not rightly tell. It seemed to him that he saw pleasure there, and fear, but more of the latter. The Marquis intervened.
"I trust," he said, "that in that case you will give us the pleasure of seeing something of you. We live in the Avenue de St. Cloud."
"You are very kind," Duncombe said. "I shall not fail to come and see you."
Spencer threw open the door, and they passed out. Phyllis kept by Duncombe's side. He felt her hand steal into his.
"I want you to keep this envelope for me," shewhispered. "It contains nothing which could bring you into trouble, or which concerns any one else. It is just something which I should like to feel was in safe keeping."
He thrust it into his pocket.
"I will take care of it," he promised. "And—you won't forget me? We shall meet again—sooner perhaps than you expect."
She shook her head.
"I hope to Heaven that we shall not! At least, not yet," she murmured fervently.
From the carriage window she put out her hand.
"You have been very kind to me," she said. "Good-bye!"
"An impossible word," he answered, with well-affected gayety. "A pleasant journey to you."
Then the carriage rolled away, and Spencer and he were left alone. Duncombe secured the front door, and they walked slowly back to the library.
"You know Paris well," Duncombe said. "Have you ever heard of these people?"
Spencer smiled.
"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed. "De St. Ethol is one of the first nobles in France. I have seen him at the races many times."
"Not the sort of people to lend themselves to anything shady?"
"The last in the world," Spencer answered. "She was the Comtesse de Laugnan, and between them they are connected with half a dozen Royal houses. This business is getting exceedingly interesting, Duncombe!"
But Duncombe was thinking of the empty room.
"I Suppose," the boy said thoughtfully, "I must seem to you beastly ungrateful. You've been a perfect brick to me ever since that night. But I can't help being a bit homesick. You see, it was really the first time I'd ever been away from home for long, and though my little place isn't a patch on this, of course, still, I was born there, and I'm jolly fond of it."
His companion nodded, and his dark eyes rested for a moment upon the other's face. Guy Poynton was idly watching the reapers at work in the golden valley below, and he did not catch his friend's expression.
"You are very young,mon cher ami," he said. "As one grows older one demands change. Change always of scene and occupation. Now I, too, am most hideously bored here, although it is my home. For me to live is only possible in Paris—Paris, the beautiful."
Guy looked away from the fields. He resented a little his friend's air of superiority.
"There's only a year's difference in our ages!" he remarked.
Henri de Bergillac smiled—this time more expressively than ever, and held out his hands.
"I speak of experience, not years," he said. "You have lived for twenty years in a very delightful spot no doubt, but away from everything which makes life endurable, possible even, for the child of the cities. I have lived for twenty-one years mostly in Paris. Ah, the difference!"
Guy shrugged his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair.
"Well," he said briefly, "tastes differ. I've seen quite all I want to of Paris for the rest of my life. Give me a fine June morning in the country, and a tramp round the farm, or an early morning start in September walking down the partridges, or a gray day in November with a good gee underneath, plenty of grass ahead, and hounds talking. Good God, I wish I were back in England."
Henri smiled and caressed his upper lip, where symptoms of a moustache were beginning to appear.
"My dear Guy," he said, "you speak crudely because you do not understand. You know of Paris only its grosser side. How can one learn more when he cannot even speak its language? You know the Paris of the tourist. The real magic of my beautiful city has never entered into your heart. Your little dabble in its vices and frivolities must not count to you as anything final. The joy of Paris to one who understands is the exquisite refinement, the unsurpassed culture, of its abysmal wickedness."
"The devil!" Guy exclaimed. "Have you found out all that for yourself?"
Henri was slightly annoyed. He was always annoyed when he was not taken seriously.
"I have had the advantage," he said, "of many friendships with men whose names you would scarcely know, but who directed the intellectual tendencies of the younger generation of Parisians. People call us decadents—I suppose, because we prefer intellectual progression to physical activity. I am afraid, dear friend, that you would never be one of us."
"I am quite sure of it," Guy answered.
"You will not even drink absinthe," Henri continued, helping himself from a little carafe which stood between them, "absolutely the most artistic of all drinks. You prefer a thing you call a pipe to my choicest cigarettes, and you have upon your cheeks a color of which a ploughboy should be ashamed."
Guy laughed good-humoredly.
"Well, I can't help being sunburnt!" he declared. Henri sighed delicately.
"Ah, it is not only that," he said. "I wish so much that I could make you understand. You positively cultivate good health, take cold baths and walks and exercises to preserve it."
"Why the dickens shouldn't I?"
Henri half closed his eyes. He was a dutiful nephew, but he felt that another month with this clodhopper of an English boy would mean the snapping of his finely strung nerves.
"My friend," he began gently, "we in Paris of the set to whom I belong do not consider good health to be a state which makes for intellectual progression. Good health means the triumph of the physical side of man over the nervous. The healthy animal sleeps and eats too much. He does not know the stimulus of pain. His normal condition is unaspiring—not to say bovine. The first essential, therefore, of life,according to our tenets, is to get rid of superfluous health."
Guy did not trust himself to speak this time. He only stared at his companion, who seemed pleased to have evoked his interest.
"Directly the body is weakened," Henri continued, "the brain begins to act. With the indisposition for physical effort comes activity of the imagination. Cigarettes, drugs, our friend here," he continued, patting the carafe, "late nights,la belle passion—all these—all these——"
He broke off in the middle of his sentence. Simultaneously he abandoned his carefully chosen attitude of studied languor. He was leaning forward in his chair watching a carriage which had just come into sight along the straight wide road which led from the outside world to the chateau.
"The devil!" he exclaimed. "My respected uncle! Jacques!"
A man-servant stepped out upon the terrace.
"Monsieur!"
"Remove the absinthe, Jacques. Monsieur le Duc arrives!"
Guy, who also had been watching the carriage, gave utterance to a little exclamation. He pointed to two figures on horseback who rode behind the carriage.
"The gendarmes!" he exclaimed. "They have come for me at last!"
His face was no longer ruddy. The pallor of fear had crept to his cheeks. A note of despair rang in his voice.
His companion only laughed.
"Gendarmes, perhaps," he answered, "but not for you, my young friend. Have I not told you that you are in sanctuary here? A guest of the Duc de Bergillac evades all suspicion. Ah, I understand well those gendarmes. Let their presence cause you no anxiety,cher monsieur. They are a guard of honor for my reverend uncle and the personage who rides with him."
Guy resumed his chair, and sat with his head buried in his hands in an attitude of depression. His companion leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace and waved his hand to the occupants of the carriage below. They pulled up at the bottom of the steps and commenced slowly to ascend. In obedience to an imperious gesture from his uncle, Henri advanced to meet them. He greeted his uncle with graceful affection. Before the other man, although his appearance was homely and his dress almost untidy, he bowed very low indeed, and accepted his proffered hand as a mark of favor.
The Duc de Bergillac was tall, sallow, with black moustache and imperial. He possessed all the personal essentials of the aristocrat, and he had the air of one accustomed to command.
"Henri," he said, "your young friend is with you?"
"But certainly," his nephew answered with a sigh. "Am I not always obedient? He has scarcely been out of my sight since we arrived."
"Very good! You saw us arrive just now. Did you mention the name of Monsieur Grisson?" the Duke asked.
"But certainly not!" Henri answered.
The Duke nodded.
"You have discretion," he said. "Monsieur Grisson is here incognito. He wishes to hear your young friend's story from his own lips."
The Duke's companion nodded silently. He had the air of a silent man. He was short, inclined to be stout, and his dress and bearing were almost bourgeois. His features were large and not particularly intelligent, his cheeks were puffy, and his gray beard ill-humored. He had the double neck of the Frenchman of the lower class who has not denied himself the joys of the cuisine, and his appearance would have been hopelessly commonplace but for the deep-set brilliant black eyes which lit up his whole face and gave it an aspect of power.
"Afterdéjeuner, you understand," he said. "It is well that your young friend should not understand that I came here for no other reason. I will see first your manuscripts, Monsieur le Duc."
The Duke waved his hand courteously to Guy as the two men passed along on their way to the library. Henri resumed his seat with a little shrug of the shoulders.
"My respected uncle will bring such strange people here to see his manuscripts and collection of missals," he remarked. "For myself it is a hobby which wearies me. And you,mon cherGuy?"
"I know nothing about them," he answered. "But the gendarmes, Henri? Why did they ride with your uncle's carriage?"
Henri smiled reassuringly.
"The old gentleman," he said, "has something to do with the Government, and they were in attendance upon him. You can realize, my friend," he added, "thatyou are indeed in a republican country. Such people must have theentréeto our houses, even to our table. I presume that you will have the pleasure of taking luncheon with him even."
A man-servant came out upon the terrace.
"Monsieur le Duc desires me to say that luncheon is served," he announced.
Henri passed his arm through his friend's.
"Come," he said, "let us go and see if we can amuse ourselves with my uncle's venerable friend. I do not suppose that he speaks English, but I will interpret for you."
Guy moved uneasily upon his chair. The color mounted almost to his forehead. It was a humiliation this, upon which he had not counted. Monsieur Grisson was sitting within a few feet of him. A serviette was tucked carefully underneath his collar, and his face was a little flushed with the exercise of eating. His eyes, however, were undimmed, and his manners, although a little brusque, had certainly not merited the epithet of bourgeois.
"It isn't much of a story," Guy began, making a desperate effort. "It was my first visit to Paris, and I lost my head a bit. I drank too much wine and quarrelled with a fellow who certainly insulted me. They all told me that I must fight him, so——"
"Stop, Monsieur Poynton!"
Guy raised his head in surprise. The exclamation had come from the Duc de Bergillac. Monsieur Grisson was looking towards him as though for an explanation.
"My dear young friend," the Duke remarked with a smile, "it is my stupidity which is to blame. I had forgotten the little matter to which you are alluding, and—between ourselves—it is one which is very much better not related to Monsieur Grisson. I was alluding to your other adventure—up in the Pozen forest."
Guy for a moment was too astonished for words. Then he recovered himself with a little laugh and raised his head. There was nothing terrible in the other affair.
"I will tell Monsieur Grisson about that with pleasure," he said, "if it is likely to interest him. I was in the North of Germany on a walking-tour, and I had rather a stupid fancy to go as far as the Russian frontier, and then return by Vienna to Paris. I was quite alone, and had no one's plans but my own to consult, so I started off from Steritz, I think the place was called. Well, we were within about forty miles of a place called Renzan when our train was stopped and shunted. We were told that some specials were to go by. I should think we must have waited there for an hour or more. Anyhow I got sick of it, and passed through the cars on to the rear platform, and down on to the line. I spoke to the guard, and I understood him to say that we should not be starting for at least half an hour. I strolled along the line a little way and stopped to light a pipe. Suddenly I heard a whistle, and when I turned round the rear light of the train was moving away. I shouted and ran as hard as I could, but it was no use. In less than two minutes the train was out of my sight, and I was left alone."
The Duke pushed a small atlas across the table.
"I wonder," he said, "if you could put your finger on about the spot where you were? Here, you see, is the railway line."
Guy studied it for a few moments carefully, and looked at the scale. Then he pointed to a certain spot.
"As near as I could say," he declared, "about there."
The Duke and Monsieur Grisson exchanged quick glances. Guy was beginning to feel a little mystified.
"Proceed, if you please," the Duke said courteously. "I am sure that Monsieur Grisson finds your story most interesting. Permit me."
Guy sipped thefin champagnefrom the glass which the Duke had carefully filled, and took a cigarette from the box at his elbow.
"I found myself," he continued, "in the middle of a dense pine forest, with just sufficient clearing for two lines of rails and no more. There seemed to be nothing for me to do but to walk ahead in the direction which the train had taken. I lit a pipe and started out all right, but I very soon got tired. The sleepers were a long way apart, and the track between frightfully rough. I walked for hours without seeing the slightest sign of a station or a break in the woods, and finally I sat down dead beat. My feet were all blisters, and I felt that I couldn't walk another yard. Fortunately it was a warm night, and I made up my mind to crawl under the bracken just inside the wood and go to sleep. I found a comfortable place, and I'd just gone off when a noise close at hand woke me. I sat up and looked around.
"Within a few feet of me an engine and a single carriage had pulled up. At intervals along the line as far as I could see soldiers were stationed like sentries. I could see that they were looking sharply up and down, and even a little way into the wood. From the train three or four men in long cloaks had already descended. They were standing in the track talking together."
For the first time Monsieur Grisson interrupted.He took his cigar from his mouth and leaned over towards the young Englishman.
"You were lost yourself. You did not accost them? Ask them the way anywhere?"
"It seems odd, I suppose, that I didn't," Guy answered, "but do you know there was an air of secrecy about the whole thing which rather frightened me. And those soldiers had exactly the air of looking for somebody to shoot. Anyhow, while I was hesitating what to do, there was a whistle and another train came from the opposite direction. Then, of course, I waited to see what was going to happen."
"And you saw?" the Duke began.
"I saw another single carriage arrive, more men in long cloaks and more soldiers. There was a brief but hearty greeting between two men, who seemed to be the principals in this little pantomime. Then they both got into the train which had arrived first, and I could see them sitting at a table talking, and a third man, who seemed to be a sort of secretary, was writing all the time. In about half an hour they both stepped back on to the line, and every one commenced shaking hands and saying good-bye. Then the whole thing seemed to melt away. The trains went on, the soldiers climbed into a truck attached to one of them, and everything was just as quiet as before."
"And afterwards?"
"I waited until it was clear daylight, and then I resumed my walk along the line. I found the next station about five miles off, and I was thankful to see that the guard of the train which had left me behind had had the sense to put my luggage out there. I went to the hotel and had some breakfast, andafterwards I chucked my idea of going so far as the frontier, and left for Vienna. A week later I was in Paris."
The Duke nodded.
"I have asked you this question before," he said "but Monsieur Grisson is anxious to hear it from your own lips. To how many people did you tell this little adventure of yours before you reached Paris?"
"To not a soul!" Guy answered. "I was very dull in Vienna. I found no one who could speak English and my few words of German did me no good at all. I came on to Paris within a week."
The Duke nodded.
"And in Paris for the first time!" he remarked. "You mentioned the affair?"
"Yes! I took up an illustrated paper at a café on the night of my arrival whilst waiting for supper, and saw pictures of two men there who reminded me very much of the two whom I had seen on the railway near Pozen. I think I made some remark out loud which attracted the attention of a woman who was sitting at the next table, and later on I told her the whole story."
"And since then?"
"Since then I have told it to no one."
"Was there any one in the café you have spoken of who seemed to take any particular interest in you?"
Guy considered for a moment.
"There was a young lady from Vienna," he said, "who seemed to want to talk to me."
The two men exchanged glances.
"Madame has justified herself," the Duke murmured.
"She was trying to listen to what I was saying to the English girl—Mademoiselle Flossie, she called herself, and when she went away with her friends she threw me a note with two words on it—'prenez garde!' I know it struck me as being rather queer, because——"
He hesitated. The Duke nodded.
"Go on!" he said.
"Well, I may as well tell you everything," Guy continued, "even if it does sound rather like rot. All the time I was in Vienna and on the journey to Paris I fancied that I was being followed. I kept on seeing the same people, and a man who got in at Strasburg—I had seen him before at the hotel in Vienna—tried all he could to pal up to me. I hate Germans though, and I didn't like the look of the fellow, so I wouldn't have anything to say to him, though I feel sure he tipped the conductor to put him in my compartment. I gave him the slip at the railway station at Paris, but I'm almost sure I saw him that night at the Café Montmartre."
"Your story," Monsieur Grisson said quietly, "becomes more and more interesting. Monsieur le Duc here has hinted at some slight indiscretion of yours on the night of your arrival in Paris. I have some influence with the Government here, and I think I can promise you some very substantial help in return for the information you have given us. But I want you to turn your thoughts back to the night you spent by the railroad. Can you remember anything further about it, however trifling, which you have not told us?"
Guy leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment.
"By Jove," he declared, "there is something which I forgot altogether. Just before that little party in the railway saloon broke up the chap in the car who had been writing left his seat, and a loose page of paper fluttered through the window."
The two men leaned across the table almost simultaneously.
"What became of it?" the Duke asked sharply.
"I picked it up and put it in my pocket," Guy answered.
"Did you read it?" the Duke asked.
"I couldn't! It was in German!"
"Where is it now?" Monsieur Grisson demanded.
Guy reflected. The faces of the two men amazed him. It was as though great things depended upon his answer.
"It is with my pocketbook and my letter of credit. I remember that I kept it as a curiosity."
"A curiosity!" the Duke exclaimed. "You have it here?"
Guy shook his head.
"It is in my portmanteau!" he answered.
The faces of the two men betrayed their disappointment. They conversed for a few moments in rapid French. Then the Duke turned to Guy.
"You do not object to our sending a trusted person to look through your portmanteau!" he asked. "Monsieur Grisson and I are very curious about that sheet of paper."
"Certainly not," Guy answered. "But may I not have my luggage here?"
The Duke shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "It would not be wise. Wemust give Monsieur Grisson time to arrange your little affair."
"I don't want to seem a nuisance," Guy continued, "but about my sister?"
"She has been assured of your safety," the Duke declared. "For the rest we will talk later in the day. Monsieur Grisson and I are going to the telephone. You will find Henri on the terrace."
"At the sport, my young friend," Henri murmured, from the depths of his basket chair, "I yield you without question supremacy. Your rude games, trials mostly of brute strength, do not interest me. Your horsemanship I must confess that I envy, and I fear that you are a better shot. But two things remain to me."
"Only two?" Guy murmured. "What unexampled modesty!"
"I can drive a racing automobile at eighty miles an hour, and with the foils I can play with you."
"I give you the first," Guy answered, "but I'm beginning to fancy myself a bit with the sticks. Let's have a bout!"
"My dear Guy," Henri exclaimed, "forgive me, but what a crude suggestion! The first breeze of the day is just coming up from the lake. Close your eyes as I do. Can't you catch the perfume of the roses and the late lilac? Exquisite. In half an hour you will see a new green in the woods there as the sun drops. This is silent joy. You would exchange it for vulgar movement."
"I don't see anything vulgar about fencing," Guy replied. "It's all right here, of course, but I'm getting stiff, and I haven't the appetite of a kitten. Ishould like a good hour's bout, a swim afterwards in the baths, and a rub down. Come on, Henri! It'll make us as fit as possible."
Henri shivered a little.
"My young friend," he murmured, "you move me to despair. How can an alliance between nations with such contrary ideals be possible? You would desert a beautiful scene like this to gain by vulgar exercise an appetite that you may eat. Can't you realize the crudeness of it? Yet I must remember that you are my guest," he added, striking the bell by his side. "Antoine shall prepare my linen clothes, and I will give you a lesson. Antoine," he added, half turning to the man-servant who stood by his elbow, "my black linen fencing-clothes and shoes in the dressing-room, and have the floor in the fencing-gallery sprinkled with sand."
The man bowed, and Henri slowly rose from his chair.
"Don't bother about it, you know, if you mind very much," Guy said. "Would you rather have a game of billiards, or a swim in the lake?"
Henri thrust his arm through his friend's.
"By no means," he answered. "If we are to do anything at all we will do the thing in which I excel. It feeds my vanity, which is good for me, for by disposition I am over-modest."
But they were not destined to fence that night, for on their way across the hall the Duke's own servant intercepted them.
"Monsieur le Duc," he announced, "desires to speak with Monsieur in the library."
Henri let go his friend's arm.
"I return to the terrace,mon ami," he said. "Youcan fetch me when my respected uncle has finished with you."
Monsieur le Duc and Monsieur Grisson were still together. Immediately the door was closed the former turned to Guy.
"Your luggage has been thoroughly searched," he announced, "by a trusty agent. The letter of credit is still there, but the paper of which you spoke is missing."
Guy looked a little incredulous.
"I know it was there the evening I left the hotel," he answered. "It was fastened to my letter of credit by an elastic band. The man you sent must have missed it."
The Duke shook his head.
"That," he said, "is impossible. The paper has been abstracted."
"But who could have known about it?" Guy protested.
"Monsieur Poynton," the Duke said, "we think it well—Monsieur Grisson and I—to take you a little further into our confidence. Has it occurred to you, I wonder, to appreciate the significance of what you saw on the railway in the forest of Pozen?"
"I'm afraid—not altogether," Guy answered.
"We assumed as much," the Duke said. "What you did see was this. You saw a meeting between the German Emperor and the Czar of Russia. It was marvellously well arranged, and except those interested you were probably the only witness. According to the newspapers they were never less than four hundred miles apart, but on the day in question the Emperor was reported to be confined to his room by a slight chill,and the Czar to be resting after a fatiguing journey. You understand that this meeting was meant to be kept a profound secret?"
Guy nodded.
"But why?" he asked. "Was there any special reason why they should not meet?"
"My young friend," the Duke answered gravely, "this meeting of which you were the only witness might, but for your chance presence there, have altered the destiny of Europe. Try how you will you cannot appreciate its far-reaching possibilities. I will endeavor to give you the bare outlines of the affair. Even you, I suppose, have observed or heard of the growing friendship between my country and yours, which has culminated in what is called theentente cordiale."
"Yes, I know as much as that," Guy admitted.
"This movement," the Duke said, "has been looked upon with growing distaste and disfavor in Russia. Russia is the traditional and inevitable enemy of your country. Russia had, I may go so far as to say, made up her mind for war with England very soon after her first reverses at the hands of Japan. I am telling you now what is a matter of common knowledge amongst diplomatists when I tell you that it was the attitude of my country—of France—which alone has stayed her hand."
"This is very interesting," Guy said, "even to me, who have never taken any interest in politics, but——"
"Wait! Russia, as I say, found us indisposed to back her in any quarrel with England. She turned then, of course, to Germany. We became aware, through our secret service, that something was on foot between thetwo countries. With our utmost vigilance we were unable to obtain any particulars. It is you, Monsieur Poynton, who have brought us the first information of a definite character."
Guy looked his amazement, but he said nothing.
"To you," the Duke continued, "a secret meeting between these two monarchs may not seem at all an astonishing thing. To us it is of the gravest political importance. Some sort of an understanding was arrived at between them. What was it? That sheet of paper which was once in your possession might very possibly contain the clue. Now you can appreciate its importance to us."
"What an ass I was not to take more care of it!" Guy muttered.
"There are other things to be considered," the Duke continued. "For the last month every dockyard in Germany has been working night and day, and we have authentic information as to a huge mobilization scheme which is already on foot. We might have wondered against whom these preparations were intended but for you. As it is, the English Government has been fully apprised of everything. Your magnificent fleet, under the pretext of seeing the Baltic Squadron safely on its way, has been gradually concentrated. From despatches to the German Ambassador which we have managed to intercept in England, we know that it is intended to raise acasus belliduring the presence of the squadron in British waters. Quite unexpectedly, as it was hoped, Germany was to range herself on Russia's side and strike against England. We, Russia's nominal ally, have had no intimation of this whatever. We are apparently left to ourselves—ignored. Our friendship with your country has destroyed Russia's friendship for us. She relies no doubt on our neutrality, and she makes terms, doubtless absurdly favorable ones, with our ancient enemy. In the eyes of the world France is to be made to appear ridiculous. The German Empire is to be ruled from London, and the Emperor Wilhelm's known ambition is to be realized."
"It sounds," Guy admitted, "like a nightmare. I know you foreigners all think we English are a lot too cock-sure, but we have our own ideas, you know, about any attempt at invasion."
"I am afraid," the Duke said, "that when it comes to throwing a million men at different points of your coasts protected by a superb navy you might find yourselves unpleasantly surprised. But let that pass. Have I said enough to make you understand the importance of what you saw in the forest of Pozen? Good! Now I want you to understand this. In the interests of your country and mine it is most important that the fact of our knowledge of this meeting should be kept a profound secret."
"Yes," Guy said, "I understand that."
"Your presence there," the Duke continued, "created a certain amount of suspicion. You were watched to Paris by German spies, and if they had had the least idea of how much you had seen your life would not have been worth five minutes' purchase. As it is they are uneasy over your disappearance. There are at least a dozen men and women in Paris and England to-day who are searching for you! You are moderately safe here, but not altogether. I want to put them finally off the scent. I might, of course, putyou into such confinement that detection would be impossible. I do not want to do that. You have rendered your own country and mine an immense service. I prefer to treat you as a gentleman and a man of honor, and to take you, as I hope you will see that I have done, into our entire confidence."
"Monsieur le Duc," Guy answered, "I can assure you that I appreciate all that you have said. I am willing to do exactly as you say."
"To-morrow morning's papers," the Duke said slowly, "will contain an account of the finding of your body in the Seine."
"My what!" Guy exclaimed.
"Your body! We are going to stab and drown you. Perhaps I should say we are going to discover you stabbed and drowned."
Guy half rose from his seat.
"I say——" he began.
"I need not explain, of course," the Duke continued, "that you will suffer by proxy. The whole affair has been carefully arranged by the commissioners of police.
"An account of your doings since you arrived in Paris will be given, which I fear may not flatter you, but you must remember that it is necessary to put our German friends completely off the scent, and in a month's time or so you will reappear, and everything will be contradicted."
"But my sister?" Guy exclaimed.
"Concerning your sister," the Duke continued, "we have further explanations, perhaps I should say apologies, to offer you at some future time. For the present—this only. She is now in Paris. She is to some extent in our confidence, and you shall see her within the next few days."
"And what are you going to do with me really?" Guy asked.
"You will remain here. Half the servants of the household have been dismissed, and every one who is not absolutely trustworthy has been got rid of. We are in close consultation with your English Cabinet, and the moment the time arrives for us to disclose our knowledge of these secrets you will be free to go where you please."
"Absolutely free?" Guy asked anxiously.
"Certainly!" the Duke answered. "The other little affair is cancelled by your present services. In fact, as regards that, you need not give yourself another moment's anxiety."
A small telephone which stood upon the table rang sharply. The Duke exchanged a few sentences and replaced the receiver. He turned to Guy.
"It is an affair of the tides," he said. "Your body was washed up this afternoon, six hours before time. It will be in the evening papers. Ah!"
The telephone rang again. This time it was Monsieur Grisson who was required. He listened for a moment or two with inscrutable countenance. Then he glanced at the clock.
"The Russian Ambassador," he said, replacing the receiver, "desires an immediate interview with me on a matter of the utmost importance—and the Russian Fleet has left the Baltic!"
Duncombe was passed from the concierge to a footman, and from a footman to a quietly dressed groom of the chambers, who brought him at last to Madame la Marquise. She gave him the tips of her fingers and a somewhat inquiring gaze.
"Sir George Duncombe, is it not?" she remarked. "I am not receiving this afternoon, but your message was so urgent. Forgive me, but it was not by any chance my husband whom you wished to see?"
"Your husband would have done as well, Madame," Duncombe answered bluntly, "but I learned that he was not at home. My visit is really to Miss Poynton. I should be exceedingly obliged if you would allow me the privilege of a few minutes' conversation with her."
The forehead of the Marquise was wrinkled with surprise. She stood amidst all the wonders of her magnificent drawing-room like a dainty Dresden doll—petite, cold, dressed to perfection. Her manner and her tone were alike frigid.
"But, Monsieur," she said, "that is wholly impossible. Mademoiselle is too thoroughly upset by the terrible news in the paper this morning. It is unheard of. Monsieur may call again if he is a friend of Mademoiselle Poynton's—say, in a fortnight."
"Marquise," he said, "it is necessary that I see Mademoiselle at once. I am the bearer of good news."
The Marquise looked at him steadily.
"Of good news, Monsieur?"
"Certainly!"
"But how can that be?"
"If Madame will give me the opportunity," he said, "I should only be too glad to explain—to Mademoiselle Poynton."
"If, indeed, it should be good news," the Marquise said slowly, "it were better broken gradually to Mademoiselle. I will take her a message."
"Permit me to see her, Marquise," he begged. "My errand is indeed important."
She shook her head.
"It is not," she said, "according to theconvenances. Mademoiselle is under my protection. I have not the honor of knowing you, Monsieur."
Duncombe raised his eyebrows.
"But you remember calling at my house in Norfolk, and bringing Miss Poynton away," he said.
She stared at him calmly.
"The matter," she said, "has escaped my memory. I do not love your country, Monsieur, and my rare visits there do not linger in my mind."
"Your husband," he reminded her, "asked me to visit you here."
"My husband's friends," she replied, "are not mine."
The calm insolence of her manner towards him took him aback. He had scarcely expected such a reception.
"I can only apologize, Madame," he said with a bow,"for intruding. I will await your husband's return in the hall."
He bowed low, and turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the door before she stopped him.
"Wait!"
He turned round. Her voice was different.
"Come and sit down here," she said, pointing to a sofa by her side.
He obeyed her, thoroughly amazed. She leaned back amongst the cushions and looked at him thoughtfully.
"How is it that you—an Englishman—speak French so well?" she asked.
"I lived in Paris for some years," he answered.
"Indeed! And yet you returned to—Norfolk, is it?"
He bowed.
"It is true, Madame!" he admitted.
"How droll!" she murmured. "Miss Poynton—she is an old friend of yours?"
"I am very anxious to see her, Madame!"
"Why?"
He hesitated. After all, his was no secret mission.
"I have reason to believe," he said, "that a mistake has been made in the identity of the body found in the Seine and supposed to be her brother's."
She gave a little start. It seemed to him that from that moment she regarded him with more interest.
"But that, Monsieur," she said, "is not possible."
"Why not?"
She did not answer him for a moment. Instead she rang a bell.
A servant appeared almost immediately.
"Request Monsieur le Marquis to step this way immediately he returns," she ordered.
The man bowed and withdrew. The Marquise turned again to Duncombe.
"It is quite impossible!" she repeated. "Do you know who it was that identified—the young man?"
Duncombe shook his head.
"I know nothing," he said. "I saw the notice in the paper, and I have been to the Morgue with a friend."
"Were you allowed to see it?"
"No! For some reason or other we were not. But we managed to bribe one of the attendants, and we got the police description."
"This," Madame said, "is interesting. Well?"
"There was one point in particular in the description," Duncombe said, "and a very important one, which proved to us both that the dead man was not Guy Poynton."
"It is no secret, I presume?" she said. "Tell me what it was."
Duncombe hesitated. He saw no reason for concealing the facts.
"The height of the body," he said, "was given as five feet nine. Guy Poynton was over six feet."
The Marquise nodded her head slowly.
"And now," she said, "shall I tell you who it is who identified the body at the Morgue—apart from the papers which were found in his pocket, and which certainly belonged to Mr. Poynton?"
"I should be interested to know," he admitted.
"It was Miss Poynton herself. It is that which has upset her so. She recognized him at once."
"Are you sure of this, Madame?" Duncombe asked.
"I myself," the Marquise answered, "accompanied her there. It was terrible."
Duncombe looked very grave.
"I am indeed sorry to hear this," he said. "There can be no possibility of any mistake, then?"
"None whatever!" the Marquise declared.
"You will permit me to see her?" Duncombe begged. "If I am not a very old friend—I am at least an intimate one."
The Marquise shook her head.
"She is not in a fit state to see any one," she declared. "The visit to the Morgue has upset her almost as much as the affair itself. You must have patience, Monsieur. In a fortnight or three weeks at the earliest she may be disposed to see friends. Certainly not at present."
"I may send her a message?" Duncombe asked.
The Marquise nodded.
"Yes. You may write it, if you like."
"And I may wait for an answer?"
"Yes."
Duncombe scribbled a few lines on the back of a visiting-card. The Marquise took it from him and rose.
"I will return," she said. "You shall be entirely satisfied."
She left him alone for nearly ten minutes. She had scarcely left the room when another visitor entered.The Vicomte de Bergillac, in a dark brown suit and an apple-green tie, bowed to Duncombe, and carefully selected the most comfortable chair in his vicinity.
"So you took my advice, Monsieur," he remarked, helping himself to a cushion from another chair, and placing it behind his head.
"I admit it," Duncombe answered. "On the whole I believe that it was very good advice."
"Would you," the Vicomte murmured, "like another dose?"
"I trust," Duncombe said, "that there is no necessity."
The Vicomte reflected.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To see Miss Poynton."
"And again why?"
Duncombe smiled. The boy's manner was so devoid of impertinence that he found it impossible to resent his questions.
"Well," he said, "I came hoping to bring Miss Poynton some good news. I had information which led me seriously to doubt whether the body which has been found in the Seine is really her brother's."
The Vicomte sat up as though he had been shot.
"My friend," he said slowly, "I take some interest in you, but, upon my word, I begin to believe that you will end your days in the Morgue yourself. As you value your life, don't tell any one else what you have told me. I trust that I am the first."
"I have told the Marquise," Duncombe answered, "and she has gone to find out whether Miss Poynton will see me."
The Vicomte's patent boot tapped the floor slowly.
"You have told the Marquise," he repeated thoughtfully. "Stop! I must think!"
There was a short silence. Then the Vicomte looked up.
"Very well," he said. "Now listen! Have you any confidence in me?"
"Undoubtedly," Duncombe answered. "The advice you gave me before was, I know, good. It was confirmed a few hours following, and, as you know, I followed it."
"Then listen," the Vicomte said. "L'affaire Poyntonis in excellent hands. The young lady will come to no harm. You are here, I know, because you are her friend. You can help her if you will."
"How?" Duncombe asked.
"By leaving Paris to-day."
"Your advice," Duncombe said grimly, "seems to lack variety."
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.
"The other affair," he said; "is still open. If I stepped to the telephone here you would be arrested within the hour."
"Can't you leave the riddles out and talk so that an ordinary man can understand you for a few minutes?" Duncombe begged.
"It is exactly what remains impossible," the Vicomte answered smoothly. "But you know the old saying, you have doubtless something similar in your own country, 'It is from our friends we suffer most.' Your presence here, your—forgive me—somewhat clumsy attempts to solve thisaffaire Poynton, are likely to be a cause of embarrassment to the young lady herself and to others. Apart from that, it will certainly cost you your life."
"Without some shadow of an explanation," Duncombe said calmly, "I remain where I am in case I can be of assistance to Miss Poynton."
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and sauntering to a mirror rearranged his tie. Madame la Marquise entered.
"You, Henri!" she exclaimed.
He bowed low with exaggerated grace, and kissed the tips of her fingers.
"I!" he answered. "And—for this time with a perfectly legitimate reason for my coming. A commission from my uncle."
"L'affaire Poynton?"
"Exactly, dear cousin."
"But why," she asked, "did they not show you into my room?"
"I learnt that my friend Sir George Duncombe was here, and I desired to see him," he rejoined.
She shrugged her dainty shoulders.
"You will wait!" she directed. Then she turned to Duncombe, and handed him a sealed envelope.
"If you please," she said, "will you read that—now."
He tore it open, and read the few hasty lines. Then he looked up, and met the Marquise's expectant gaze.
"Madame," he said slowly, "does this come from Miss Poynton of her own free will?"
She laughed insolently.
"Monsieur," she said, "my guests are subject to no coercion in this house."
He bowed, and turned towards the door.
"Your answer, Monsieur?" she called out.
"There is no answer," he replied.
THE Marquise made a wry face at his departing figure, which changed swiftly into a smile as she turned to the young Vicomte.
"Ah, these Englishmen!" she exclaimed. "These dull, good, obstinate, stupid pigs of Englishmen! If they would lose their tempers once—get angry, anything. Do they make love as coldly, I wonder?"
"Dear cousin," he answered, "I do not know. But if you will permit me I will show you——"
"Henri!"
He sighed.
"You are so adorable, Angèle," he murmured.
"And you," she answered, "are so indiscreet. It is not your day, and I am expecting Gustav at any moment, I have left word that he is to be shown up here. There, my hand for one moment, not so roughly, sir. And now tell me why you came."
"On a diplomatic errand, my dear cousin. I must see Miss Poynton."
She touched a bell.
"I will send for her," she said. "I shall not let you see her alone. She is much too good-looking, and you are far too impressionable!"
He looked at her reproachfully.
"Angèle," he said, "you speak so of a young English miss—to me, Henri de Bergillac—to me who have known—who knows——"
She interrupted him laughing. The exaggerated devotion of his manner seemed to amuse her.
"My dear Henri!" she said. "I do not believe that even a young English miss is safe from you. But attend! She comes."
Phyllis entered the room and came towards them. She was dressed in black, and she was still pale, but her eyes and mouth were wholly without affinity to the class of young person whom Henri had expected to see. He rose and bowed, and Phyllis regarded him with frank interest.
"Phyllis," the Marquise said, "this is the Vicomte de Bergillac, and he brings you messages from some one or other. Your affairs are quite too complicated for my little head. Sit down and let him talk to you."
"If Monsieur le Vicomte has brought me messages from the right person," Phyllis said with a smile, "he will be very welcome. Seriously, Monsieur, I seem to have fallen amongst friends here whose only unkindness is an apparent desire to turn my life into a maze. I hope that you are going to lead me out."
"I can conceive, Mademoiselle," the Vicomte answered with his hand upon his heart, "no more delightful undertaking."
"Then I am quite sure," she answered, laughing softly, "that we are both going to be very happy. Please go on!"
"Mademoiselle speaks delightful French," he murmured, a little surprised.
"And, Monsieur, I can see," she answered, "is anapt flatterer. Afterwards as much as you please. But now—well, I want to hear about Guy."
"Mademoiselle has commanded," he said with a little gesture. "To proceed then. Monsieur Guy is well, and is my constant companion. He is with friends who wish him well, and this morning, Mademoiselle, the President himself has given written orders to the police to proceed no further in the unfortunate little affair of which Mademoiselle has knowledge."
Phyllis had lost all her pallor. She smiled delightfully upon him. Madame la Marquise rose with a little impatient movement, and walked to the further end of the room.
"How nice of you to come and tell me this," she exclaimed, "and what a relief! I am sure I think he is very fortunate to have made such good friends."
"Mademoiselle," he declared with emphasis, "one at least of those friends is more than repaid."
She laughed back into his eyes, frankly amused by his gallantry.
"And now," she said, "we come to the beginning of the riddles. Why is it necessary for him to be supposed drowned, if he is no longer in danger from the police?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I must speak to you now of strange things. But, first, I must implore you to promise me this, and remember it always. Every word that I am going to say to you now must remain for the present a profound secret. That is agreed?"
"Certainly!" she answered.
"Your brother," he continued, "in his travels on the Continent stumbled by chance upon a State secretof international importance. He had himself no idea of it, but a chance word which he let fall, on the first evening I met him, gave the clue to myself and some friends. In his enforced retirement we—that is, my uncle and others—learned from him the whole story of his adventure. It has placed the Government of this country under great obligations. This, together with your service to us, has secured his pardon."
"This is wonderful!" she murmured.
"It is not all," he continued. "The spies of the country where he learnt this secret have followed him to Paris. They are to-day searching for him everywhere. If they knew that he realized the importance of what he had seen, and had communicated it to the proper persons here, our advantage in knowing it would be largely lost. So far they have not traced him. Now, I think that you have the key to what must have puzzled you so much."
"This is wonderful!" she murmured. "Let me think for a moment."
"You are naturally anxious," the Vicomte continued, "to see your brother. Before very long, Mademoiselle, I trust that it may be my pleasure to bring you together. But when I tell you that you are watched continually in the hope that, through you, your brother's hiding-place may be found, you will understand the wisdom which for the present keeps you apart."
"I suppose so," she answered dubiously. "But now that his death is reported?"
"Exactly, Mademoiselle. The affair has been arranged so that the search for your brother will be abandoned and the espionage on you removed. If the story of hisdoings in Paris, and the tragic sequel to them, be believed by those whom we wish to believe it, then they will also assume that his secret has died with him, and that their schemes move on towards success. You understand?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, I understand," she answered slowly. "What, then, do you wish me to do?"
"Mademoiselle," the Vicomte answered, fixing his dark eyes impressively upon her, "for you there remains the hardest of all tasks—inaction. Believe me that when I came here, it was not my intention to put the truth of the matter so plainly before you. Neither was it the will of those whose orders I carry out. But I, Mademoiselle, before all things, I believe in inspiration. I find in Mademoiselle"—he bowed once more—"qualities which alter the situation. I—a judge of faces as I venture to believe myself—have looked into yours, and many things have happened."
She laughed delightfully. Her eyes were lit with humor.
"Ah, Monsieur!" she protested.
"With you, Mademoiselle," he continued, "reposes now a secret of great importance to your country and mine. I ask for no pledge of discretion, but I rely upon it. And, especially, Mademoiselle, may I warn you against your friends?"
"I understand," she answered. "You wish me to share this confidence with no one."
"With no one," the Vicomte repeated impressively. "Not even, Mademoiselle, if I may venture to mention a name, with your very persistent admirer, Sir George Duncombe, whom I saw here a few moments since."
She sighed, and the Vicomte's face became one of pale anxiety.
"I have not been permitted to see him," she answered. "He was here a few minutes ago."
"It is wiser so, Mademoiselle," the Vicomte said. "I wonder," he added, "whether Mademoiselle will pardon the impertinence of a purely personal question?"
"I will try," she answered demurely.
"This Englishman—Sir George Duncombe—are you perhaps—how you say, betrothed to him?"
A certain bluntness in the question, and the real or affected anxiety of the young man's tone brought the color streaming into her cheeks.
"Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you really must not——"
"Ah, but, Mademoiselle," he interrupted, "so much depends upon your answer."
"Absurd!" she murmured. "I really do not see why I should answer such a question at all."
"You will be merciful?" he begged, lowering his tone.
"I will," she answered. "I hope you will appreciate my confidence. I am not engaged to Sir George Duncombe."
His sigh of relief was marvellous. She found it harder than ever to keep the laughter from her eyes.
"Mademoiselle," he declared, "it makes me happy to have you say this."
"Really, Vicomte!" she protested.
"The situation, too," he said, "becomes less complex. We can very easily deal with him now. He shall annoy you no more!"
"But he doesn't annoy me," she answered calmly."On the contrary I should like to see him very much, if I were permitted."
"Mademoiselle will understand well the indiscretion," he said earnestly.
She sighed a little wearily.
"I am afraid," she said, "that I find it a little hard to understand anything clearly, but you see that I trust you. I will not see him."
"Mademoiselle is very wise," he answered. "Indeed, it is better not. There remains now a question which I have come to ask."
"Well?"
"Mademoiselle did not by chance whilst waiting for her brother think of examining his luggage?"
She nodded.
"I did look through it," she admitted.
"There was a paper there, which is missing now—a sheet of paper with writing on it—in German. It is not possible that Mademoiselle took possession of it?" he demanded eagerly.
She nodded.
"That is just what I did do," she said. "I could read a few words, and I could not understand how it came to be in his bag. It seemed to be part of an official agreement between two countries."
"You have it now?" he cried eagerly. "You have it in your possession?"
She shook her head
"I gave it to some one to take care of," she said, "when I was over in England. I got frightened when we were nearly caught at Runton, and I did not want it to be found upon me."