"To whom?" he cried.
"To Sir George Duncombe!"
The Vicomte was silent for a moment.
"You believe," he asked, "that Sir George Duncombe would guard it carefully?"
"I am sure he would," she answered.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "this is very important. Your brother's luggage has been searched, and we came to the conclusion that the paper had been taken by those who had followed him here, and may possibly have been aware that he had it. If we can get possession of it, it will be very much to the advantage of your country and mine. I scarcely dare say more. Will you give me a letter to Sir George instructing him to deliver it up to me?"
She leaned a little forward and looked steadily into his eyes.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, "I do not know you very well, and it is very hard indeed for me to tell who are my friends here. Can I trust you?"
"Mademoiselle," he answered, "I will not say 'like your brother,' for it is a relationship I have no wish to bear. Let me say like the person to whom your welfare is dearer even than his own."
Phyllis felt her lips curve into a smile. Despite his youth and manner, which seemed to her a little affected, there was nevertheless undoubted earnestness in the admiration which he took no pains to conceal.
"Very well, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, "I will give you the letter."
They came face to face in the hall of the Grand Hotel. Duncombe had just returned from his call upon the Marquise. Andrew was leaning upon the arm of a dark, smooth-shaven man, and had apparently just descended from the lift. At the sound of Duncombe's little exclamation they both stopped short. Andrew turned his heavily spectacled eyes in Duncombe's direction, but it was obvious that he saw nothing.
"You here, Andrew!"
"Yes! Why not?"
The tone was curt, almost discourteous. Duncombe understood at once.
"Let us sit down somewhere, and talk for a few minutes," he said. "I did not expect you. You should have let me know that you were coming."
Andrew laughed a little bitterly.
"I scarcely see why," he said. "To tell you the truth, I see no advantage to either of us in any intercourse."
Duncombe took him by the arm and led him towards the smoking-room.
"Andrew," he said, "perhaps I have behaved badly—at least from your point of view, but remember that I warned you. Let us sit down here. Who is your friend?"
"Never mind," Andrew answered. "You can say what you have to before him. He is in my confidence."
Duncombe glanced around. The man had taken the chair next to them, and was evidently prepared to listen to all that was said. His clothes and bearing, and quiet, unobtrusive manners, all seemed to suggest truthfully enough his possible identity—an English detective from an advertised office. Duncombe smiled as he realized the almost pitiful inadequacy of such methods.
"Come, Andrew," he said, turning to his friend, "you have a small grievance against me, and you think you have a great one."
"A small grievance!" Andrew murmured softly. "Thank you, Duncombe."
"Go on, then. State it!" Duncombe declared. "Let me hear what is in your mind."
Andrew raised his brows slowly. Twice he seemed to speak, but at the last moment remained silent. He was obviously struggling to control himself.
"There is this in my mind against you, Duncombe," he said finally. "I sent for you as a friend. You accepted a charge from me—as my friend. And you betrayed me."
Duncombe shook his head.
"Listen, Andrew," he said. "I want to remind you again of what I said just now. I warned you! No, don't interrupt. It may have sounded like nonsense to you. I meant every word I said. I honestly tried to make you understand. I came here; I risked many things. I failed! I returned to England. Up till then you had nothing to complain of. Then, Heaven knows why, but the very girl whom I had gone toParis to seek came to Runton in the guise at least of an adventuress."
Andrew lifted his head quickly.
"You admit it at last, then?" he cried.
"Yes, I admit it now," Duncombe agreed.
"You lied to me there—to me who had no eyes, who trusted you. What was that but betrayal, rank, inexcusable betrayal!"
"Listen, Andrew," Duncombe said. "She told me that she was not Phyllis Poynton. It was enough for me. I disregarded my convictions. Her word was my law. She said that she was not Phyllis Poynton, and to me she never was Phyllis Poynton. She was afraid of you, and I helped her to avoid you. I admit it! It is the extent of my failing in our friendship, and you were warned."
"And now?"
"I am here now," Duncombe said a little sadly, "because I love her, and because I cannot keep away. But she will not see me, and I am no nearer solving the mystery than ever. On the contrary, I know that I am in danger here. It is possible that I may be driven to leave Paris to-night."
"You know where she is now?"
"Yes."
Andrew leaned suddenly over, and his grip was on Duncombe's shoulder like a vise.
"Then, by God, you shall tell me!" he said fiercely. "Don't you know, man, that Guy has been found in the Seine, robbed and drugged, and murdered without a doubt? Do you want me to wait whilst something of the same sort happens to her? You shall tell me where she is, Duncombe. I say that you shall tell me!"
Duncombe hesitated.
"You can do no more than I have done," he said.
"Then at least I will do as much," Andrew answered. "I am her oldest friend, and I have claims upon her which you never could have. Now that she is in this terrible trouble my place is by her side. I——"
"One moment, Andrew," Duncombe interrupted. "Are you sure that it was Guy Poynton who was found in the Seine? The height was given as five feet nine, and Guy Poynton was over six feet."
"You should read the papers," Andrew answered shortly. "He was identified by his sister."
"The papers said so," Duncombe answered hesitatingly; "but——"
"Look here," Andrew interrupted, "I have had enough of this playing with facts. You have grown too complex about this business altogether, Duncombe. Give me Phyllis Poynton's address."
"You shall have it," Duncombe answered, taking a leaf from his pocketbook and writing. "I don't think that it will be any good to you. I think that it is more likely to lead you into trouble. Miss Poynton is with the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. They are of the first nobility in France. Their position as people of honor and circumstance appears undoubted. But nevertheless, if you are allowed to see her I shall be surprised."
The hall-porter approached them, hat in hand.
"A lady to see Monsieur," he announced to Andrew.
Andrew rose and took his companion's arm. He scarcely glanced again towards Duncombe, who followed them out of the room. And there in the hall awaitingthem was the young lady from Vienna, quietly dressed in black, but unmistakable with her pretty hair and perfumes. Duncombe watched them shake hands and move away before he could recover sufficiently from his first fit of surprise to intervene. Then a realization of what had happened rushed in upon him. They, too, then, had been to the Café Montmartre, with their obvious Anglicisms, their clumsy inquiries—to make of themselves without doubt the jest of that little nest of intriguers, and afterwards their tool. Duncombe thought of the fruits of his own inquiries there, and shivered. He hurried after the little party, who were apparently on their way to the café.
"Andrew," he said, grasping him by the arm, "I must speak with you alone—at once."
"I see no object in any further discussion between us," Andrew said calmly.
"Don't be a fool!" Duncombe answered. "That woman you are with is a spy. If you have anything to do with her you are injuring Phyllis Poynton. She is not here to give you information. She is at work for her own ends."
"You are becoming more communicative, my friend," Andrew said, with something which was almost a sneer. "You did not talk so freely a few minutes back. It seems as though we were on the eve of a discovery."
"You are on the brink of making an idiot of yourself," Duncombe answered quickly. "You were mad to bring that blundering English detective over here. What the French police cannot or do not choose to discover, do you suppose that they would allow an Englishman to find out—a stranger to Paris, and with an accentlike that? If I cannot keep you from folly by any other means I must break my word to others. Come back into the smoking-room with me, and I will tell you why you are mad to have anything to do with that woman."
"Thank you," Andrew answered, "I think not. I have confidence in Mr. Lloyd, my friend here, and I have none in you."
"Andrew!"
"I speak as I feel!"
"Leave me out of the question. It is Phyllis Poynton you will harm. I see that your friend is listening, and Mademoiselle is impatient. Make your excuses for ten minutes, Andrew. You will never regret it."
The detective, who had evidently overheard everything, stepped back to them.
"You will excuse my interfering, sir," he said, "but if this case is to remain in my hands at all it is necessary for me to hear all that Sir George Duncombe has to say. The young lady will wait for a moment. This case is difficult enough as it is, what with the jealousy of the French police, who naturally don't want us to find out what they can't. If Sir George Duncombe has any information to give now," the man added with emphasis, "which he withheld a few minutes ago, I think that I ought to hear it from his own lips."
"I agree entirely with what Mr. Lloyd has said," Andrew declared.
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He looked around him cautiously, but they were in a corner of the entresol, and no one was within hearing distance.
"Very well," he said. "To save you from danger, and Miss Poynton from further trouble, I am going to break a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to give you the benefit of my own surmises. In the first place, Mr. Lloyd is mistaken in supposing that the French police have been in the least puzzled by this double disappearance. On the contrary, they are perfectly well aware of all the facts of the case, and could have produced Miss Poynton or her brother at any moment. They are working not for us, but against us!"
"Indeed!" Mr. Lloyd said in a tone of disbelief. "And their object?"
"Here is as much of the truth as I dare tell you," Duncombe said. "Guy Poynton whilst on the Continent became the chance possessor of an important State secret. He was followed to France by spies from that country—we will call it Germany—and the young lady who awaits you so impatiently is, if not one of them, at least one of their friends. At the Café Montmartre he gave his secret away to people who are in some measure allied with the secret service police of France. He was kidnapped by them, and induced to remain hidden by a trick. Meanwhile diplomacy makes use of his information, and foreign spies look for him in vain. His sister, when she came to search for him, was simply an inconvenience which these people had not contemplated. She was worked upon by fears concerning her brother's safety to go into hiding. Both have been well cared for, and the report of Guy's death is, I firmly believe, nothing but an attempt to lull the anxieties of the spies who are searching for him. This young woman here may be able to tell you into whose handshe has fallen, but you may take my word for it that she is in greater need of information than you are, and that she is an exceedingly dangerous person for you to discuss the Poyntons with. There are the crude facts. I have only known them a few hours myself, and there is a good deal which I cannot explain. But this I honestly and firmly believe. Neither you nor I nor Mr. Lloyd here can do the slightest good by interfering in this matter. For myself, I am leaving for England to-night."
Duncombe, like most honest men, expected to be believed. If he had entertained the slightest doubt about it he would not have dared to open his mouth. The silence that followed he could understand. No doubt they were as amazed as he had been. But it was a different thing when he saw the expression on Andrew's face as he turned to his companion.
"What do you think of this, Lloyd?" he asked.
"I am afraid, sir," the man answered, "that some of the clever ones have been imposing upon Sir George. It generally turns out so when amateurs tackle a job like this."
Duncombe looked at him in astonishment.
"Do you mean to say that you don't believe me?" he exclaimed.
"I wouldn't put it like that, sir," the man answered with a deprecating smile. "I think you have been misled by those who did not wish you to discover the truth."
Duncombe turned sharply on his heel.
"And you, Andrew?"
"I wish to do you justice," Andrew answered coldly, "and I am willing to believe that you have faith yourself in the extraordinary story you have just told us. But frankly I think that you have been too credulous."
Duncombe lost his temper. He turned on his heel, and walked back into the hotel.
"You can go to the devil your own way!" he declared.
Spencer tried to rise from the sofa, but the effort was too much for him. Pale and thin, with black lines under his eyes, and bloodless lips, he seemed scarcely more than the wreck of his former self.
His visitor laid his stick and hat upon the table. Then he bowed once more to Spencer, and stood looking at him, leaning slightly against the table.
"I am permitted," he asked gently, "to introduce myself?"
"Quite unnecessary!" Spencer answered.
The Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"You know me?" he asked.
The shadow of a smile flitted across Spencer's face.
"By many names, Monsieur Louis," he answered.
His visitor smiled. Debonair in dress and deportment, there seemed nothing to inspire alarm in the air of gentle concern with which he regarded the man whom he had come to visit. Yet Spencer cursed the languor which had kept him from recovering the revolver which an hour or more before had slipped from underneath his cushion.
"It saves trouble," Monsieur Louis said. "I come to you. Monsieur Spencer, as a friend."
"You alarm me," Spencer murmured.
Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"You are pleased to be witty," he answered. "But indeed I am no such terrible person. It is permitted that I smoke?"
"Certainly," Spencer answered. "If you care for wine or liqueurs pray ring for my servant. I can assure you that it is not by my own will that you find me so indifferent a host."
"I thank you," Monsieur Louis answered. "I think that we will not ring the bell. It would be a pity to disturb an interview to which I have looked forward with so much pleasure."
"L'affaire Poynton?" Spencer suggested.
"Precisely!"
"You have perhaps come to complete the little affair in which so far you have succeeded so admirably?"
"Pray do not suggest such a thing," Monsieur Louis answered deprecatingly. "For one thing I should not personally run the risk. And for another have I not already assured you that I come as a friend?"
"It was then," Spencer answered, "that I began to be frightened."
Monsieur Louis smiled. He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, and calmly lit a cigarette.
"Since you permit,mon ami," he said. "Good! I speak better when I smoke. You are not so ill, I see, but that you retain that charming sense of humor your readers have learnt so well how to appreciate."
"The dose was scarcely strong enough," Spencer answered. "Or perhaps by good fortune I stumbled upon the proper antidote."
"I see that you like plain speaking," Monsieur Louis continued with a gentle smile. "Permit me to assure you then that the dose was quite as strong as we wished.Extremes are sometimes necessary, but we avoid them whenever possible."
"I wonder where it happened," Spencer said reflectively. "I have been on my guard all the time. I have watched my wine and coffee at the cafés, and I have eaten only in the restaurants that I know."
Monsieur Louis did not seem to think the matter important.
"It was bound to happen," he said. "If you had been like your friends—the English baronet and the last two, who are even more amusing—perhaps it would not have been necessary. But you understand—you were beginning to discover things."
"Yes," Spencer admitted. "I was beginning to get interested."
"Exactly! We were forced to act. I can assure you, Monsieur Spencer, that it was with reluctance. The others of whom I have spoken—Sir George Duncombe, Monsieur Pelham, and his toy detective—forgive me that I smile—walk all the time in the palm of our hand. But they remain unharmed. If by any chance they should blunder into the knowledge of things which might cause us annoyance, why, then—there would be more invalids in Paris. Indeed, Monsieur, we do not seek to abuse our power. My errand to you to-day is one of mercy."
"You make me ashamed," Spencer said, with a sarcasm which he took no pains to conceal, "of my unworthy suspicions. To proceed."
"You have sent for Sir George Duncombe to come and see you!"
Spencer was silent for a moment. His own servant unfaithful? It was not possible.
"Well?"
"Even you," the Baron continued, "have not yet solved the mystery ofl'affaire Poynton. But you know more than Sir George. Let me recommend that you do not share your knowledge with him."
"Why not?"
"If you do Sir George will at once share your indisposition."
"I begin to understand," Spencer said.
"How otherwise? Send Sir George home. You see the delicacy of our position. It is not so much that we fear Sir George Duncombe's interference, but he again is followed and watched over by our enemies, who would easily possess themselves of any information which he might gain."
Spencer nodded.
"It is good reasoning," he admitted.
"Listen," Monsieur Louis continued. "I speak now on behalf of my friends. You know whom I mean. You have solved the mystery of our existence. We are omnipotent. The police and the secret service police and the Government itself are with us. We have license throughout the city. We may do what others may not. For us there is no crime. I kill you now perhaps. The police arrive. I am before the Commissioner. I give him the sign—it isl'affaire Poynton. I go free! It is a certain thing."
"Granted!" Spencer said. "Proceed with your killing, or your argument."
"With the latter, if you please," Monsieur Louis answered. "I do not choose to kill.L'affaire Poynton, then. Harm is not meant to either of these young people. That I assure you upon my honor. In threeweeks, or say a month, we have finished. They may return to their homes if they will. We have no further interest in them. For those three weeks you must remain as you are—you, and if you have influence over him, Sir George Duncombe. The other two fools we have no care for. If they blundered into knowledge—well, they must pay. They are not our concern, yours and mine. For you, I bring you an offer, Monsieur Spencer."
"Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!" Spencer murmured.
Monsieur Louis smiled.
"My gift," he answered, "will not terrify you. You are a journalist. I offer to make the fortune of your paper. You shall be the first to announce an affair of the greatest international importance since the war between Russia and Japan was declared. No, I will go further than that. It is the greatest event since Waterloo."
"L'affaire Poyntonstrikes so deep?" Spencer remarked.
"So deep," the Baron answered. "It is the fools who grope their way into great places. So did the boy Poynton. You, my friend, shall be the one brilliant exception. You shall make yourself the king of journalists, and you shall be quoted down the century as having achieved the greatest journalistic feat of modern days."
Spencer turned his drawn, haggard face towards his visitor. A slight flush of color stained his cheek.
"You fascinate me," he said slowly. "I admit it. You have found the weak spot in my armor. Proceed! For whom do you speak?"
Monsieur Louis abandoned his somewhat loungingattitude. He stood by Spencer's side, and, leaning down, whispered in his ear. Spencer's eyes grew bright.
"Monsieur Louis," he said, "you play at a great game."
The Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"Me!" he answered. "I am but a pawn. I do what I am told."
"To return for a moment tol'affaire Poynton," Spencer said. "I am in the humor to trust you. Have I then your assurance that the boy and girl do not suffer?"
"Upon my own honor and the honor of the company to whom I belong," he answered with some show of dignity. "It is a pledge which I have never yet broken."
"I am a bribed man," Spencer answered.
Monsieur Louis threw away his second cigarette. He cast a look almost of admiration upon the man who still lay stretched upon the couch.
"You are the only Englishman I ever met, Monsieur Spencer," he said, "who was not pig-headed. You have the tenacity of your countrymen, but you have the genius to pick out the right thread from the tangle, to know truth when you meet it, even in unlikely places. I doff my hat to you, Monsieur Spencer. If you permit I will send my own physician to you. You will be yourself in a week."
"You know the antidote?" Spencer remarked grimly.
"Naturally! Accidents will happen. You wish that I should send him?"
"Without doubt," Spencer answered. "I am weary of this couch."
"You shall leave it in a week," Monsieur promised, as he left the room.
Spencer closed his eyes. Already he felt coming on the daily headache, which, with the terrible weakness, was a part of his symptoms. But there was no rest for him yet. Monsieur Louis had scarcely been gone five minutes when Duncombe arrived.
Duncombe had had no word of his friend's illness. He stood over his couch in shocked surprise.
"My dear fellow," he exclaimed. "I had no idea that you were ill. This is why I have not heard from you, then."
Spencer smiled as he held out his hand, and Duncombe, who seemed to catch some meaning in the upraised eyebrows of his friend, was shocked.
"You mean?" he exclaimed.
Spencer nodded.
"L'affaire Poynton" he said gently. "A very subtle dose of poison indeed, my friend. I shall not die, but I have had my little lesson. Here the individual has little chance. We fight against forces that are too many for us. I told you so at the start."
"Yet I," Duncombe answered, "have not suffered."
"My friend," Spencer answered, "it is because I am the more dangerous."
"You have discovered something?" Duncombe exclaimed.
"I came near discovering a great deal," Spencer answered. "Perhaps it would have been better for my system if I had discovered a little less. As it is I have finished withl'affaire Poyntonfor the present. You see how very nearlyl'affaire Poyntonfinished me."
"It is not like you," Duncombe said thoughtfully, "to give anything up."
"We come face to face sometimes with unique experiences, which destroy precedent," Spencer answered. "This is one of them."
"And what," Duncombe asked, "do you advise me to do?"
"Always the same advice," Spencer answered. "Leave Paris to-day. Go straight back to Norfolk, read the newspapers, and await events."
"Well, I think that I shall do so," Duncombe answered slowly. "I have found out where Miss Poynton is, but she will not see me. I have made an enemy of my dearest friend, and I have, at any rate, interrupted your career and endangered your life. Yes, I will go back home."
"You may yet save your friend some—inconvenience," Spencer suggested. "Try to persuade him to go back with you."
"He will not listen to me," Duncombe answered. "He has brought an English detective with him, and he is as obstinate as a mule. For myself I leave at nine o'clock."
"You are well advised, exceedingly well advised," Spencer said. "Mind I do not take the responsibility of sending you away without serious reasons. I honestly believe that Miss Poynton is safe, whatever may have happened to her brother, and I believe that you will serve her best by your temporary absence."
Duncombe stood for a moment wrapped in thought. The last few months had aged him strangely. The strenuous days and nights of anxious thought had left their mark in deep lines upon his face. He lookedout of the window of Spencer's room, and his eyes saw little of the busy street below. He was alone once more with this strange, terrified girl upon the hillside, with the wind in their faces, and making wild havoc in her hair. He was with her in different moods in the little room behind his library, when the natural joy of her young life had for the moment reasserted itself. He was with her at their parting. He saw half the fearful regret with which she had left his care and accepted the intervention of the Marquise. Stirring times these had been for a man of his quiet temperament, whom matters of sentiment and romance had passed lightly by, and whose passions had never before been touched by the finger of fire. And now he was going back to an empty life—a life at least empty of joy, save the hope of seeing her again. For good or for evil, the great thing had found its way into his life. His days of calm animal enjoyment were over. Sorrow or joy was to be his. He had passed into the shadows of the complex life.
He remembered where he was at last, and turned to Spencer.
"About yourself, Spencer," he said. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yes. I am not seriously ill," his friend answered. "The worst is over now. And, Duncombe, it's hard for you to go, I know—but look here, I believe that you will be back in a month, and taking Miss Poynton to lunchchezRitz. I never felt so sure of it as I do to-day."
Duncombe remembered the answer to his note, and found it hard to share his friend's cheerfulness.
Duncombe laid down his cue and strolled towards the sideboard, where his guest was already mixing himself a whisky and soda.
"By the by, Runton," he said, "have you seen anything of our friend Von Rothe since that little affair at your place?"
Lord Runton shook his head.
"Not once," he answered. "He behaved very decently about it on the whole; treated it quite lightly—but he wouldn't let me go near the police. It was a long way the most unpleasant thing that ever happened in my house."
"Never any further light upon it, I suppose?" Duncombe asked.
Lord Runton shook his head.
"None. Of course we could have traced them both without a doubt if we had put it in the hands of the police, but Von Rothe wouldn't hear of it. He tried to treat it lightly, but I know that he was very much worried."
"Do you yourself believe," Duncombe asked, "that it was a political affair or an ordinary robbery?"
"I think that it was the former," Lord Runton answered. "Those people were not common adventurers. By the by, George, have you got over your little weakness yet?" he added with a smile.
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders.
"Nearly made a fool of myself, didn't I?" he remarked, with a levity which did not sound altogether natural.
"She was an uncommonly fascinating young woman," Lord Runton said, "but she didn't seem to me very old at the game. She was clever enough to fool Von Rothe, though. He admits that he told her that he was expecting a special messenger from Berlin."
Duncombe seemed to have had enough of the subject. He got up and filled his pipe.
"Is Jack coming down this week?" he asked.
"No! He wired this morning that he can't get away. Sefton isn't coming, either. Between ourselves, George, something seems to be going on at the Foreign Office which I don't understand."
"What do you mean?" Duncombe asked. "There has been no hint at any sort of trouble in the papers."
"That's just what I don't understand," Lord Runton continued. "It is certain that there is an extraordinary amount of activity at Portsmouth and Woolwich, but even the little halfpenny sensational papers make no more than a passing allusion to it. Then look at the movements of our fleet. The whole of the Mediterranean Fleet is at Gibraltar, and the Channel Squadron is moving up the North Sea as though to join the Home Division. All these movements are quite unusual."
"What do you make of them then?" Duncombe asked.
"I scarcely know," Lord Runton answered. "But I can tell you this. There have been three Cabinet Councils this week, and there is a curious air of apprehension in official circles in town, as though somethingwere about to happen. The service clubs are almost deserted, and I know for a fact that all leave in the navy has been suspended. What I don't understand is the silence everywhere. It looks to me as though there were really going to be trouble. The Baltic Fleet sailed this morning, you know."
Duncombe nodded.
"But," he said, "even if they were ill disposed to us, as no doubt Russia is just now, what could they do? One squadron of our fleet could send them to the bottom."
"No doubt," Lord Runton answered. "But supposing they found an ally?"
"France will never go to war with us for Russia's benefit," Duncombe declared.
"Granted," Lord Runton answered, "but have you watched Germany's attitude lately?"
"I can't say that I have," Duncombe admitted, "but I should never look upon Germany as a war-seeking nation."
"No, I dare say not," Lord Runton answered. "Nor would a great many other people. Every one is willing to admit that she would like our Colonies, but no one will believe that she has the courage to strike a blow for them. I will tell you what I believe, Duncombe. I believe that no Great Power has ever before been in so dangerous a position as we are in to-day."
Duncombe sat up in his chair. The weariness passed from his face, and he was distinctly interested. Lord Runton, without being an ardent politician, was a man of common-sense, and was closely connected with more than one member of the Cabinet.
"Are you serious, Runton?" he asked.
"Absolutely! Remember, I was in Berlin for two years, and I had many opportunities of gaining an insight into affairs there. What I can see coming now I have expected for years. There are two great factors which make for war. One is the character of the Emperor himself, and the other the inevitable rot, which must creep like a disease into a great army kept always upon a war footing, through a decade or more of inactivity. The Emperor is shrewd enough to see this. Nothing can possibly exist at its best which is not used for the purpose to which it owes its existence. That is why we have this flood of literature just now telling us of the gross abuses and general rottenness of the German army. Another five years of idleness, and Germany's position as the first military nation will have passed away. Like every other great power, it is rusting for want of use. The Emperor knows this."
Duncombe for many reasons was fascinated by his friend's quiet words. Apart from their obvious plausibility, they brought with them many startling suggestions. Had chance, he wondered, really made Phyllis Poynton and her brother pawns in the great game? He felt himself stirred to a rare emotion by the flood of possibilities which swept in suddenly upon him. Lord Runton noted with surprise the signs of growing excitement in his listener.
"Go on, Runton. Anything else?"
Lord Runton helped himself to a cigarette, and leaned across to light it.
"Of course," he continued, "I know that there are a great many people who firmly believe that for commercial reasons Germany would never seek a quarrel with us. I will agree with them so far as to say that I do not believe that a war with England would be popular amongst the bourgeois of Germany. On the other hand, they would be quite powerless to prevent it. The Emperor and his ministers have the affair in their own hands. A slight break in our diplomatic relations, some trifle seized hold of by the Press and magnified at once into an insult, and the war torch is kindled. To-day war does not come about by the slowly growing desire of nations. The threads of fate are in the hands of a few diplomatists at Berlin and London—a turn of the wrist, and there is tension which a breath can turn either way. You ask me why the Emperor should choose England for attack. There are many reasons: first, because England alone could repay him for the struggle; secondly, because he is intensely and miserably jealous of our own King, who has avoided all his own hot-headed errors, and has yet played a great and individual part in the world's affairs; thirdly, because England is most easily attacked. I could give you other reasons if you wanted them."
"Quite enough," Duncombe answered. "What do you suppose would be thecasus belli?"
"The progress of the Russian fleet through English waters," Lord Runton answered promptly. "Russia's interest in such a misunderstanding would be, of course, immense. She has only to fire on an English ship, by mistake of course, and the whole fat would be in the fire. England probably would insist upon the squadron being detained, Germany would protest against any suchaction. We might very well be at war with Russia and Germany within ten days. Russia would immediately either make terms with Japan, or abandon any active operations in Manchuria and move upon India. Germany would come for us."
"Is this all purely imagination?" Duncombe asked, "or have you anything to go on?"
"So far as I am concerned," Lord Runton said slowly, "I, of course, know nothing. But I have a strong idea that the Government have at least a suspicion of some secret understanding between Russia and Germany. Their preparations seem almost to suggest it. Of course we outsiders can only guess, after all, at what is going on, but it seems to me that there is a chance to-day for our Government to achieve a diplomaticcoup."
"In what direction?"
"An alliance with France. Mind, I am afraid that there are insurmountable obstacles, but if it were possible it would be checkmate to our friend the Emperor, and he would have nothing left but to climb down. The trouble is that in the absence of any definite proof of an understanding between Russia and Germany, France could not break away from her alliance with the former. Our present arrangement would ensure, I believe, a benevolent neutrality, but an alliance, if only it could be compassed, would be the greatest diplomatic triumph of our days. Hullo! Visitors at this hour. Wasn't that your front-door bell, Duncombe?"
"It sounded like it," Duncombe answered. "Perhaps it is your man."
"Like his cheek, if it is!" Lord Runton answered, rising to his feet and strolling towards the sideboard. "I told him I would telephone round to the stables when I was ready. I suppose it is rather late, though I sha'n't apologize for keeping you up."
"I hope you won't," Duncombe answered. "I have never been more interested in my life—for many reasons. Don't bother about your man. Groves will see to him. Help yourself to another whisky and soda, and come and sit down."
There was a knock at the door, and the butler appeared.
"There are three gentlemen outside, sir, who wish to see you," he announced to Duncombe. "They will not give their names, but they say that their business is important, or they would not have troubled you so late."
Duncombe glanced at the clock. It was past midnight.
"Three gentlemen," he repeated, "at this time of night. But where on earth have they come from, Groves?"
"They did not say, sir," the man answered. "One of them I should judge to be a foreigner. They have a motor car outside."
Lord Runton held out his hand.
"Well, it's time I was off, anyhow," he remarked. "Come over and have lunch to-morrow. Don't bother about me. I'll stroll round to the stables and start from there. Good night."
Duncombe hesitated. He was on the point of asking his friend to stay, but before he could make up his mind Runton had lit a cigarette and strolled away.
"You can show the gentlemen in here, Groves," Duncombe said.
"Very good, sir."
The man disappeared. Duncombe, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the room, and opening an oak cupboard, slipped a small revolver into his pocket.
One of his three visitors Duncombe recognized immediately. It was Monsieur Louis. Of the other two one was a Frenchman, a somewhat sombre-looking person, in a black beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, the other as unmistakably an Englishman of the lower middle class. His broad shoulders and somewhat stiff bearing seemed to suggest some sort of drill. Looking them over, Duncombe found himself instinctively wondering whether the personal strength of these two, which was obvious, might become a factor in the coming interview.
The Baron naturally was spokesman. He bowed very gravely to Duncombe, and did not offer his hand.
"I must apologize, Sir George," he said, "for disturbing you at such an inopportune hour. Our business, however, made it necessary for us to reach you with as little delay as possible."
"Perhaps you will be good enough to explain," Duncombe answered, "what that business is."
The Baron raised his hands with a little protesting gesture.
"I regret to tell you, Sir George," he announced, "that it is of a most unpleasant nature. I could wish that its execution had fallen into other hands. My companions are Monsieur Ridalle, of the French detective service, and our other friend here, whom Ido not know, is a constable from the Norwich Police Court. My own connections with the police service of my country you have already, without doubt, surmised."
"Go on," Duncombe said.
"I regret to say," Monsieur Louis continued, "that my friends here are in charge of a warrant for your arrest. You will find them possessed of all the legal documents, French and English. We shall have to ask you to come to Norwich with us to-night."
"Arrest!" Duncombe repeated. "On what charge?"
"An extremely serious one," the Baron answered gravely. "The charge of murder!"
Duncombe stared at him in amazement.
"Murder!" he repeated. "What rubbish!"
"The murder of Mademoiselle de Mermillon in her lodging on the night of the seventh of June last," the Baron said gravely. "Please do not make any remarks before these men. The evidence against you is already sufficiently strong."
Duncombe laughed derisively.
"What sort of a puppet show is this?" he exclaimed. "You know as well as any man living how that poor girl came to her end. This is a cover for something else, of course. What do you want of me? Let's get at it without wasting time."
"What we want of you is, I am afraid, only too simple," the Baron answered, shrugging his shoulders. "We must ask you to accompany us at once to Norwich Castle. You will have to appear before the magistrates in the morning, when they will sign the extradition warrant. Our friend here, Monsieur Ridalle, will then take charge of you. Perhaps you would liketo look through the documents. You will find them all in perfect order."
Duncombe mechanically glanced through the French and English papers which were spread out before him. They had certainly a most uncomfortable appearance of being genuine. He began to feel a little bewildered.
"You mean to say that you have come here to arrest me on this charge? That you want me to go away with you to-night?" he asked.
"It is not a matter of wanting you to come," the Baron answered coldly. "It is a matter of necessity."
Duncombe moved towards the fireplace.
"Will you allow me the privilege of a few moments' conversation with you in private?" he said to the Baron. "Your companions will perhaps excuse you for a moment."
The Baron followed without remark. They stood facing one another upon the hearthrug. Duncombe leaned one elbow upon the mantlepiece, and turned towards his companion.
"Look here," he said, "those papers seem genuine enough, and if you insist upon it I will go with you to Norwich. I shall take care not to let you out of my sight, and if when we get there I find that this is any part of one of your confounded conspiracies you will find that the penalties for this sort of thing in England are pretty severe. However, no doubt you are well aware of that. The question is this. What do you really want from me?"
Monsieur Louis, who had lit a cigarette, withdrew it from his mouth and examined the lighted end for a moment in silence.
"The documents," he said, "are genuine. You arearraigned in perfectly legal fashion. Upon the affidavits there the magistrates must grant the extradition warrant without hesitation. We have nothing to fear in that direction."
"The police," Duncombe remarked, "are perfectly aware of my innocence."
Monsieur shrugged his shoulders.
"The evidence," he said, "is remarkably convincing."
"Police-concocted evidence," Duncombe remarked, "would necessarily be so. I admit that you hold a strong card against me. I don't believe, however, that you have gone to all this trouble without some ulterior motive. What is it? What can I offer you in exchange for these documents?"
Monsieur Louis smiled.
"You are a man of common-sense, Sir George," he said. "I will speak to you without reserve. It is possible that you might be able to offer the Government department of my country to which I am attached an inducement to interest themselves in your behalf. Mind, I am not sure. But if my information is correct there is certainly a possibility."
"The Government department of your country to which you are attached," Duncombe repeated thoughtfully. "Let me understand you. You mean the secret service police?"
Monsieur Louis glanced a little nervously over his shoulder.
"Never mind what I mean, Sir George," he said quickly. "There are things which we do not speak of openly. This much is sufficient. I represent a power which can influence and direct even the criminal courts of justice of France."
"What bribe have I to offer you?" Duncombe asked. "Information? You know more than I do. I am afraid you have been misled."
"I think not," Monsieur Louis said quickly. "I will tell you what we want. A paper was left in your charge by Miss Phyllis Poynton at the time she was visiting at Runton Place."
"What of it?" Duncombe asked.
The Frenchman's face was suddenly tense with excitement. He recovered himself almost at once, but his voice shook, and a new earnestness found its way into his manner.
"Miss Poynton and her brother are with us," he said. "It is we who have been their benefactors. You know a good deal of their peculiar circumstances. A sudden need has arisen for the production of that paper within twenty-four hours. Give it to me now, and I will run the greatest risk I have ever run in my career. I will tear those warrants through."
"Have you any authority from Miss Poynton?" Duncombe asked.
"There was no time to procure it," Monsieur Louis explained. "Events march rapidly to-day. To be effective that paper must be in Paris to-morrow. The necessity for its production arose only a few hours ago."
"You ask me, then," Duncombe said slowly, "to hand over to you a paper which was placed in my charge by Miss Poynton?"
"In effect—yes!"
"I cannot do it!"
Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not insist," he remarked. "I may be permittedto remind you, however, that I have offered a great price."
"Perhaps!" Duncombe answered quietly.
Monsieur Louis turned to his assistants.
"Sir George Duncombe will accompany us," he said. "I can give you ten minutes, Sir George," he added, "in case you care to change your clothes."
"And supposing I refuse to come?" Duncombe asked.
Monsieur Louis smiled.
"You would scarcely be so foolish," he remarked. "In that case I should send the policeman here to the nearest station with the warrants and a demand for help. Our documents are in perfect order, and our case complete. You would scarcely be so foolish, I think, as to set yourself in direct opposition to the law!"
Duncombe was silent for several moments. Then he rang the bell. Monsieur Louis looked at him inquiringly, but before he could frame a question the butler was in the room.
"Pack my things for a week, Groves," Duncombe ordered. "I am going away to-night."
The man bowed and withdrew. Monsieur Louis merely shrugged his shoulders.
"A week!" he remarked. "You will be fortunate if you ever see your home again. Come, Sir George, be reasonable! I give you my word of honor that it is altogether to the interest of Miss Poynton that those papers be immediately produced. If she were here herself she would place them in my hands without a moment's hesitation."
"Possibly!" Duncombe answered. "Suppositions,however, do not interest me. I undertook the charge of what she gave me, and I shall fulfil my trust."
Monsieur Louis turned to the policeman.
"Officer," he said, "this is Sir George Duncombe. Do your duty."
The man stepped forward and laid his hand upon Sir George's shoulder.
"Very sorry, sir," he said. "I am forced to arrest you on this warrant for the murder of Florence Mermillon on the night of the seventh of June. You will be brought before the magistrates at Norwich to-morrow."
Duncombe waved his hand towards the sideboard.
"If you gentlemen," he remarked, "would care for a little refreshment before you start?"
"It is against the rules, sir, thank you," the man answered. "I should be glad to get away as soon as possible."
Duncombe filled both his pockets with cigars and cigarettes. Then he turned towards the door.
"I am quite ready," he said.
They followed him out. There was a few minutes' delay waiting for Duncombe's bag.
"Your address, Sir George?" Groves inquired, as he brought it down.
"A little doubtful," Duncombe answered. "I will wire."
"In front, please, Sir George," Monsieur Louis insisted.
So they drove off, Duncombe in the front seat, the other three behind. The car gathered speed rapidly. In less than an hour they were half-way to Norwich. Then suddenly the driver took a sharp corner and turned down a long desolate lane.
"You're off the main road," Duncombe explained. "You should have kept straight on for Norwich."
The man took no notice. He even increased his speed. Duncombe was in the act of turning round when he felt the sudden swish of a wet cloth upon his face. He tried to break away, but he was held from behind as in a vise. Then his head fell back, and he remembered no more.
At three o'clock in the morning Groves, in a discarded dressing-gown of his master's, opened the front door and peered cautiously out into the darkness. Monsieur Louis, who was standing upon the door-step, pushed past him into the hall.
"Your master has sent me back to fetch some papers," he announced, displaying a bunch of keys. "I am sorry to disturb you like this, but the matter is important. Please bring me a cup of coffee into the library in half an hour."
Groves, who was sorely perplexed, stood with his back to the door which Monsieur Louis had approached.
"Really, sir," he answered, "I scarcely know what to say. I am afraid that I cannot allow you to interfere with any of my master's property in his absence."
Monsieur Louis held out the keys.
"Quite right!" he said. "It is an awkward situation, of course. Your master did not tell you the reason of his sudden departure, I suppose?"
"Not a word, sir."
"There can be no harm in telling you this much, at any rate," Monsieur Louis continued smoothly. "Your master, through no fault of his own, got mixed up in a very unpleasant affair in Paris, and he will have to appear in the courts there. I am his friend, and wish to do all that I can to help him. Wehave been talking the matter over, and I have strongly advised him to produce some papers which I think will help him materially. The police officer in whose charge he is would not allow him to return, so he handed me his keys and asked me to fetch them. I can assure you that I am your master's friend, and wish to do all that I can to help him. If he had not trusted me he would not have given me his keys, which no doubt you recognize."
Groves reluctantly stood on one side.
"I suppose I must let you in, sir," he said, "but I wish that the master had sent me a line."
"We had neither pencil nor paper," Monsieur Louis said, "and the affair was urgent. I must be back in Norwich by eight o'clock."
"I will prepare the coffee, sir," Groves said, turning away. "If you require more light the switches are behind the door."
"Very good," Monsieur Louis said. "You need not have the slightest anxiety. I am here on your master's behalf."
Groves hesitated, and looked for a moment curiously around the room. He seemed as though he had something else to say, but checked himself at the last moment and withdrew. Monsieur Louis drew a little breath of relief.
He did not immediately proceed to work. He threw off his overcoat and lit a cigarette. His fingers were steady enough, but he was conscious of an unwonted sense of excitement. He was face to face with destiny. He had played before for great stakes, but never such as these. A single false step, an evil turn in the wheel of fortune, spelt death—and he wasafraid to die. He moved to the sideboard. Everything there was as they had left it. He poured out some brandy and drank it off.
With fresh courage he moved to the safe, which stood in the corner of the room. It must be there, if anywhere, that this precious document lay. He tried his keys one by one. At last he found the right one. The great door swung slowly open.
He was spared all anxiety. There, on the top of a pile of legal-looking documents, leases, title-deeds, and the like, was a long envelope, and across it in Duncombe's sprawling writing these few words:—