The police sergeant cut him short.
"That is enough!... I am going to take you to Rouen!... You can account for yourself to the magistrates!"
Juve and Henri de Loubersac passed the night on the quay. Daybreak found them marching side by side, keeping their weary watch and ward. De Loubersac had fallen silent; monosyllabic replies to Juve's remarks had given place to no remarks at all. Juve looked at Henri and smiled.
"He has gone to the country of dreams: he sleeps standing."
In brotherly fashion, the policeman guided the young man towards the shelter: settled him in, and left him. He was within call if needed; meanwhile, he could have his sleep out.
Filling his pipe afresh, Juve resumed his walk along the quay. He was uneasy; he was also in a bad humour. Why did Vinson and this priest tarry on the way? Why should Corporal Vinson, bearer of this compromising artillery piece, plant himself at a little hotel in Rouen for the night? Had they been warned and stopped? Juve feared so.
"Evidently these men are acting for Fantômas," said he to himself: "Fantômas must be watching the police: he knows them, but they do not know him.... Suppose he knows of our arrival at Dieppe?... Suppose the two traitors, being warned, have given our men the slip on the way? Suppose this stop at Rouen was caused by the telegram they received at the garage?... If our arrival here has been signalled, our watch will be fruitless: neither Vinson nor the priest will show themselves on this quay!"
As he kept his tireless vigil. Juve eyed the yacht swinging gently on the rising tide. Could he find a pretext which would take him aboard—justify a thorough investigation of boat and crew?... The answer to more than one tormenting problem might lie hidden there!
Then Juve recalled his talk with de Loubersac. Had he been happily inspired to speak so to him of the girl he loved, the enigmatic Wilhelmine? Suppose de Loubersac, instead of questioning her, broke with her?
"It would be abominable of me to spoil this child's love affair for what are less than suspicions on my part—only the vaguest hypothesis!"
Juve smoked and ruminated as he paced the lonely quay.
"I need not worry," concluded he at last. "Granting that we shall clear up all these mysteries, Wilhelmine's innocence, her candour, will be made manifest; that being so, Henri de Loubersac will be the first to acknowledge it, the first to beg her forgiveness!... Lovers' quarrels are not serious quarrels—so!"...
Juve continued his tireless promenade.
Sailors seeking their fishing-boats swung past him in the growing light of day.
Juve looked at his watch.
"I told them to put on a special for the night, and they have instructions to send me any telegrams.... Still, it is six o'clock.... I will see if there is anything fresh!"
Juve found de Loubersac fast asleep in the sentry box, and shook him by the shoulder.
"Lieutenant!... Lieutenant!" he shouted: "Wake up! I want you to keep watch while I run to Headquarters here.... There may be news!"
De Loubersac jumped up, wide awake in a moment. He took his turn on the quay at once. Juve hurried to the police station. He was on the doorstep when a telegraph boy rode up with a telegram. It was for our detective. The paper shook in Juve's hands as his eyes devoured the message: it was in cypher.
"Corporal Vinson taken refuge in London—recognised and identified by me this morning at four o'clock when leaving Victoria Station. I followed him and knowwhere he is. What to be done next? Awaiting your orders."
"Corporal Vinson taken refuge in London—recognised and identified by me this morning at four o'clock when leaving Victoria Station. I followed him and knowwhere he is. What to be done next? Awaiting your orders."
Juve wondered whether he was on his head or his heels. Vinson in London! Left Victoria Station this morning! What did it mean?
"The wire is precise in its details. The man who sends it is a sharp police spy—never hesitates, never makes a blunder!... It seems evident that Vinson has given us the slip! He must have reached the coast at some point, and, in an unnoticed boat, has passed under our noses this very night!... Here's a go! The very deuce of a go!"
Intensely irritated, excited, Juve read and reread the telegram, fussed and fumed about the police station under the scared eyes of the policeman on guard duty. That worthy began to think the detective from Paris was an unmitigated nuisance.
Juve did not take this humble colleague into his confidence. He issued orders.
"You must not stir from here till the superintendent arrives. You will hand him this telegram addressed to me here. I will wire instructions in the morning where they are to be forwarded to me in England."
"In England!"
"Yes, I am crossing immediately by a Cook's excursion steamer, which goes in an hour, unless I am mistaken!"
Juve found de Loubersac pacing the quay. He had been smoking cigar after cigar to clear his head. Juve handed him a sheet of paper; on it he had copied the text of the telegram.
"Read that!" he cried.... "These confounded spies have found means to escape our attentions—but this is not the end of the game!"
Lieutenant Henri was thunderstruck.
"What are you going to do, Juve?"
"Reach London with all speed. Will you come, Lieutenant?"
De Loubersac considered.
"No," he decided.... "In the first place, I have noright to leave the country unless authorised to do so. I am not free to act according to my own good will and pleasure: besides, I have an idea there is work for me in Paris.... To watch that little intriguer, Bobinette, will be an interesting task: from what you told me yesterday, she is up to the neck in those villainous plots and plans! While you investigate in London, Paris shall be my field of operations. You approve of this, Juve?"
"I think you are right."
Juve accompanied the lieutenant to the station: de Loubersac was in a hurry to be off. He would not wait for the noon express: he took the slow train. As it began to move, he and Juve exchanged a cordial handshake.
"Good luck!" cried he.
"Thanks, Lieutenant. Good courage!"
The latter admonition was given with a purpose; for Juve was under no illusion as to de Loubersac's feelings.
"At any other time," thought he, "de Loubersac would have seen it to be his duty to accompany me to London: he could have secured an authorisation from his headquarters if required; besides, attached to the Second Bureau as he is, no doubt the ordinary military rules and regulations would hardly apply to him: to a large extent he must be allowed a free hand in emergencies. This is an emergency—an important one!... No, he wishes to see Wilhelmine: he is in love, is worried, suspicious: he wishes to clear up the mystery surrounding Wilhelmine's identity: he is determined to know what exactly were her relations with Captain Brocq: also, he wants to find out all there is to find regarding Bobinette and her doings.... To get to the bottom of these dark mysteries, unravel the tangled threads needs a clear head and a brave heart, for his feelings are deeply involved, and they may yet be cut to the quick!... He is a straight goer, that young man!" was Juve's concluding thought.... "He will do his duty: and when one does one's duty, with rare exceptions, the result is happiness."
Whilst Juve returned to the jetty to await the departure of the excursion steamer, Henri de Loubersac, alone in his compartment, reflected sadly on his relations withWilhelmine.... He had loved her a long time. A frank, a sincere affection for her had gradually grown into a love which filled his whole heart and mind. Juve's words had troubled him profoundly. This spy chase had been a momentary distraction, but now his anxieties, his suspicions, his fears, swarmed and buzzed among his thoughts: he could not banish them!
His reflections so absorbed him that he lost consciousness of time and place: when the train came to a stand-still in Rouen station, he could have vowed they had left Dieppe but a few miles behind!
He would stretch his limbs on the platform. He jumped out; but, as he strolled past the kiosks, gazing at the papers and magazines exhibited in them, his mind was haunted but by one vision: Wilhelmine....
The train was about to leave: the porters were shouting: he hastened to his compartment: his foot was on the mounting board: it might have been nailed there, for the moment!... A young woman was seated in the further corner. She had lowered her window, and, with head out, was either saying good-bye to someone or was watching the comings and goings of the station.
Her attitude, the lines of her figure, were familiar to de Loubersac. He felt sure he knew her. He took his seat and awaited the turning of her head.
A piercing whistle and the train began to move. The young woman drew back, pulled up the window, and sat back in her seat.
Henri de Loubersac saw her.
She made a movement of surprise.
"You! Monsieur Henri!"
"You! Mademoiselle Bobinette!"
"By what chance?" began de Loubersac.
Bobinette interrupted:
"It is rather I who might ask you that, Monsieur Henri!... As for me, I have been spending four days with my family at Rouen.... I asked for a holiday and Monsieur de Naarboveck very kindly granted it ... but you?"
De Loubersac was nervously chewing the end of his blonde moustache. With a shrug he replied:
"Oh, I! It is never surprising to meet me in a train: I am constantly on the move: here—there—everywhere!... You have news of Mademoiselle Wilhelmine?"
"Excellent news. You are coming to Monsieur de Naarboveck's soon?"
"I think of calling on the baron this evening."
Talk continued, commonplace, desultory. What questions crowded to his lips, sternly repressed!
"She lies," thought he, while listening to the details of her family visit. "She certainly lies!... I must pretend to be her dupe—the miserable creature!"
His whole soul revolted at the thought that this Bobinette, involved as she must be in disgraceful adventures, abominable tragedies, shared Wilhelmine's home, was her so-called friend! He was seized by a mad desire to grip Bobinette by the throat—silence her lying tongue—arrest, handcuff her on the spot—render her powerless!
He had noticed a vague line of black showing below her light coloured taffeta skirt. It might be the frill of a petticoat just too long. Thinking no more of it he continued to chat of indifferent things.... Presently, a quick movement of Bobinette's raised her skirt a little more. This time the watchful de Loubersac could not be mistaken: he had seen clearly that what showed beneath Bobinette's skirt, every now and again, was a priest's cassock!
Bobinette's dress concealed the disguise of a priest.
Too well he understood the part this perverse creature had been playing! Now he could account for their meeting in this train coming from Rouen!... She had recently associated with Corporal Vinson as a priest. She had seen him off, no doubt, and, anxious to rid herself of her ecclesiastical exterior as quickly as might be, she had slipped on a dress over her ecclesiastical garment.
What was all this but a painful confirmation of Juve's words?... How could Wilhelmine be entirely ignorant of this dreadful creature's character? How could Wilhelmine be wholly innocent of the terribly compromising actions of her daily companion? Did Wilhelmine lack intuition? Was she without that delicate sensitivenesswhich is the birthright of all nice women? How could a pure girl breathe the miasmic atmosphere which must emanate from the soul of this abominable woman?
It was terrible!
The desultory commonplace chat went on, whilst de Loubersac was considering how best to act.
Arrest Bobinette?
Yes. He must not, dare not, hesitate. It was his duty. If he held this young woman at his mercy, it was, perhaps, the only way, painful as it was, to ultimately clear up the position of Wilhelmine.
How proceed?
Whilst still chattering of this and that, Henri de Loubersac made up his mind.
"Being a soldier, and not a policeman, I cannot myself arrest this woman. The scandal would be tremendous! I should get into the hottest of hot water with my chiefs: it is not my job.... Directly we arrive at the Saint Lazare station I will manage to signal one of the plain clothes men always on the watch there! Two of them will have her fast before she knows where she is!"
This seemed the easier because Bobinette had a heavy valise with her: she would have to call a porter and give him instructions—this would give him time to act.
Reassured, Henri de Loubersac continued to laugh and joke, though it went sorely against the grain....
At last! Saint Lazare station! The train stopped.
"I will say good-bye, Mademoiselle Bobinette.... I must hurry away!... You will excuse me?"
De Loubersac leaped on to the platform, jostling the passengers crowding his path. He must reach the platform exit without a second's delay!... As he handed his ticket to the collecter, a hubbub arose. Passengers were stopping, turning back, running—something sensational must have happened!
He paused. He heard a porter at his elbow say in a low voice:
"Don't stop, Monsieur Henri—you may be noticed."
De Loubersac identified the speaker as a man in the employ of the Second Bureau. He handed his wraps to this detective, dressed as an ordinary porter.
"What is happening, then?" he asked.
"An arrest, ordered by the Second Bureau. There was a man, or a woman, in your train."
"Ah, Bobinette must have been identified at Rouen when she got into the train—Juve's men must have wired from there!" Henri de Loubersac rejoiced. How he hated this creature, whose detestable influence must harm Wilhelmine, whose wickedness might work woe to the girl he loved! This traitorous wretch would be under lock and key now!
Splendid!
With mind relieved, he thanked the informer and prepared to leave the station. But, as he descended the steps leading to the Cour du Havre he stopped. Two police detectives whom he knew well were walking on either side a soldier in corporal's uniform—Vinson, of course! They must be taking him to the Cherche Midi prison.
De Loubersac realised what had happened.
"By-Jove! The telegram Juve had received at Dieppe must have been false!... Vinson and Bobinette, discovering that they were under observation, had found means to send Juve a telegram announcing that Vinson had been met in London: having thus drawn Juve over to England they had returned to Paris.... The traitors must have separated: this would lessen their chances of being recognised.... They must have arrested Vinson as he was leaving the train.... Bobinette, become unrecognisable when her cassock was hidden, must have escaped!"
De Loubersac ran back. He hunted the station all over. He jumped into a taxi and drove up and down all the adjoining streets; but the chase was a useless one! Bobinette was invisible—Bobinette had seized her opportunity. She had disappeared!
"Have another whisky, old sport?"
"Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is."
"You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seems more beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching."
Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail of the bar the two topers solemnly clinked glasses.
The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at one go, but his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven, and slightly bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contents escaped on to the floor.
The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilled so quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank on and on automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companion barely wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor.
It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was an animated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar.
Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The great place for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight, and does not close them till the small hours are well advanced. When evening falls, the scene grows animated: business men and women of pleasure crowd the rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitan character. A band of Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductive music. The crush increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst this babel of voices, the racket, the din, the barmaids ply their tradewith calm determination: they flirt with their customers and egg them on to drink glass after glass of wine and spirits for the good of the house, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke.
Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latest evening editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixed nationality who, for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue, partly French, partly English.
In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together familiarly.
The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the confidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary nature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:
"But what is your profession, then?"
"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown—a musical clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a negro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air which was the rage of the moment.
The dark young man interrupted with another question:
"What is your native country, Tommy?"
"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"
The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had to pass for an account of himself.
"I... I'm Canadian—just come from Canada—hardly three months ago."
"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.
Butler seemed upset by this question.
"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way about, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try as I will... it seems no use."...
"What can you do?"
"A little of everything."
"That is to say—nothing!"
Butler said slowly:
"I can do book-keeping."
The clown burst out laughing.
"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of stick-in-the-muds at that job!"
"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.
His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.
"There is only one career in the world—the theatre!... There is only one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never cared a hang for my future—I soon earned plenty money; now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a fortune!"
The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age—no chicken.
His companion gazed at him admiringly.
Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.
"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"
The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses of whisky were having their effect.
Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:
"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"
Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass and declared:
"I swear it!"
"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves marvellously well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames Embankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known this long while ... a very good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a glass together.... Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was 'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paul explained that he did not need a clown, but a professor.... I promised tofind him one if I could.... Would you like to be this professor?"
"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed at the question.
"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to teach Japanese canaries to sing!"
Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown declared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canaries to sing.... The important point was that the professor of singing Japanese canary birds would receive immediate payment.
Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind—for he had persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one—the clown fidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air fromFaustin a falsetto voice. The clown stopped.
"Come, Butler, is it settled?"
Butler hesitated.
"I am not sure that I had better."
"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it happens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the room downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet and talk the thing over."
"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"
"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like myself—we are compatriots."
The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left him, saying:
"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be his professor of Japanese singing canaries."
Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky.
Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room, the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven man seated before a full glass: it was untouched.
"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.
Juve nodded.
"Captain Loreuil?"
"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our arrangement, is it not?"
"Quite so.... Anything fresh?"
Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man."
"Sure of it?"
Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low.
"He calls himself Butler... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has been in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him perfectly. I had already seen him at Châlons, when he had a connection with the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of the leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff."
"That is Corporal Vinson, then?"
"Consequently you must intervene," said Loreuil.
Juve reflected. After a short silence he said:
"Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, and there is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused of murder, simply of treason.
"I like that word 'simply,'" remarked Loreuil ironically.
"Don't take that in bad part," smiled Juve; "but it has its importance from an international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in England on the pretext that he is a spy."
"Happily we have foreseen that difficulty," said Loreuil. "Butler will accompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium means France, as far as we are concerned—the three of us!"
Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at Scotland Yard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend, informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officer of the Second Bureau.
Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their heads together. They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering to his description had been in London several weeks. This was the truth. Juve would not admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in England only a few hours ahead of him.
Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest ofVinson, considered he had done his part as soon as he had identified the corporal. Juve would do the rest.
"We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler as Paul, the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer of canaries ... the rest you can manage for yourself.... Be circumspect! The fellow is on the lookout!"
"He must leave with me to-night—it is urgent!" insisted Juve.... "You must help me, Captain!"
Captain Loreuil frowned.
"I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he.
"But this affair is more serious even than you know," said Juve. "This Vinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vast network of mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind."
Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinister comedy; to make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to the authorities for punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juve overcame his hesitations with the words:
"It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a question of National Defence."
"I will help you, Monsieur," was the captain's answer to this, adding:
"Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out."
The Dover Express, the Continental Mail, was moving out of Charing Cross station.
Three travellers were seated in a first-class compartment. They were smoking big cigars: their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed; they looked like big men who had dined well. These were Butler, Tommy and Paul, leaving for Belgium: otherwise Juve, Loreuil and Vinson bound for France! Copious libations of generous wines and strong liqueurs had reduced Butler-Vinson to the condition of a maudlin puppet: Tommy and Paul had made Butler most conveniently drunk.
The train rushed forward through station after station, brilliantly lighted, then plunged into the obscurity of the country. A stupefying warmth from the heating apparatus impelled slumber. Unfortunate Butler-Vinson, lulled by the regular movement of the train, was soon fast asleep.
Juve and Loreuil kept vigil. They were sitting side by side facing their captive.
"Dover will be the difficulty," whispered Juve, who had drawn closer to the captain.
"Yes, that is the crucial point," agreed Loreuil....
The express was entering the tunnels pierced in the precipitous coastline of the Channel near Dover. There was a short stop at Dover Town station before it drew up on the Pier. There the travellers would embark. Of these there were two distant streams: those crossing to Belgium: those bound for France. Butler-Vinson still slept soundly. Juve was waiting till the last minute. Then he would awaken his prisoner as he already considered him and shepherd him aboard the Calais boat.
Captain Loreuil got out and went on ahead.
"Come along, Butler!" Juve cried suddenly. He shook the slumbering traitor sharply.
Butler-Vinson leaped to his feet with frightened eyes and gaping mouth.
"What is it?" he stuttered. "What do you want with me?"
Juve's smile was a masterpiece of hypocrisy.
"Why, old fellow, you must wake up! We must go aboard our boat!"
The corporal heard men shouting:
"SteamerVictoriafor Ostend! SteamerEmpressfor Calais!"
"We must hurry!" cried Juve, pushing the bemused Butler-Vinson out of the compartment.
There was a sea fog growing denser every minute. Without their powerful electric lights it would have been impossible to recognise the boats or the gangways leading to them.
Juve had Butler by the arm: a necessary precaution, for the wretched man could scarcely keep on his feet. Juve propelled him towards a gangway: a minute later both were on the boat.
Vinson caught sight of the inscriptionEmpresson the lifebuoys. A flash of reason illumined Butler-Vinson's drink-soddened mind. He hesitated, drew back with a frightened look.
"Didn't I hear just now that this boat goes to Calais?"
A passing sailor heard this question. He was about to enlighten Butler-Vinson, but Juve pushed him aside—this imbecile was going to spoil everything!
"No, old fellow, you are quite mistaken! It is theVictoriathat goes to Calais: we go to Ostend with theEmpress."
Butler-Vinson accepted this statement as true.
An ear-piercing whistle sounded; the cables were drawn up: a vibratory motion told the passengers they were off.
The mast-head light was extinguished: the mail-boat silently made its way out to sea.
There was a dense fog in the Channel. The fog-horn sounded its lugubrious note.
The sea was rough: a strong wind from the south-west had been blowing all the afternoon. The boat began to pitch and toss: the passengers were drenched.
Though nothing of a sailor in the nautical sense, Juve took his duckings with equanimity: a bit of a pitch and toss would keep Vinson occupied.
The fog was Juve's friend: it lent an air of vagueness, of confusion, to Butler-Vinson's surroundings. The vagaries of the steamer would further distract what thoughts he was capable of. Still, they were on an English boat, and should the corporal grasp what was happening and refuse to disembark, Juve would be in a fix. Butler-Vinson must be kept in ignorance of the truth till they were on French soil.
Captain Loreuil had remained at Dover, declaring he still had much to do in England. Besides, he could not be brought to consider that to arrest criminals came within the scope of his duties: to mark them down, point them out, yes. Thus he had tracked down the traitor and left him in good hands.
Meanwhile, Butler-Vinson was suffering from a severe attack of sea-sickness. His head seemed splitting with throbbing pain.
"How long shall we be getting across?" he asked in a faint voice.
"Three hours," said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover and Ostend.
Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings and drenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing!
At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamer slowed down. The fog-horn was silent: theEmpressmoved alongside the jetties of Calais.
The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying away luggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station.
"Now for it!" thought Juve.
Once on French soil it was all up with the liberty of Corporal Vinson! His arrest would be immediate.
Juve considered the miserable heap collapsed on a side bench: this traitorous rag of humanity had once been anupright man—a true soldier of France! It was terrible! It was piteous!
Juve raised Butler-Vinson. The wretched fellow could hardly stand up. Juve signed to a sailor, who took the corporal's left arm while Juve supported him on the right. Vinson disembarked. He set his feet on the soil—the sacred soil of France!
The crowd was pouring into the great hall, where customs officers were examining the small baggage.
Juve drew Butler-Vinson to the left: the traitor must not catch sight of the French uniforms. An individual seemed to rise out of the ground in front of them: Juve said to him in a low voice:
"Our man!"
Revived by a cordial, Vinson gradually recovered his senses. Painfully he raised his heavy eyelids: he looked about him curiously, anxiously. He was in a large, square room, dimly lighted, almost empty, with bare white walls.
"Where am I?" he asked Juve. Three men surrounded him. Juve's was the sole face he knew.
Juve wore a solemn look: his words were gently spoken.
"You are at Calais, in the special police quarters connected with the station. Corporal Vinson, I am sorry to have to tell you that you are under arrest."
"My God!" exclaimed the traitor. He attempted to rise, but fell back on his seat: his eyes were staring at the handcuffs on his wrists! He burst into tears.
Juve felt pity for this miserable being, huddled up there in the depths of humiliation and terror. But the dreadful fact remained—Vinson was a criminal, a traitor! Perhaps his errors were due to a bad bringing-up, to deplorable examples, alas!... Juve was not there to pass judgment, but to deliver the guilty wretch into the hands of the authorities.
"Come now!" he said, tapping Vinson on the shoulder. "Come, we are leaving for Paris!"
Corporal Vinson, traitor, raised supplicating eyes to Juve: then, realising all resistance was vain, he rose painfully: he assumed an air of indifference.
A policeman from Headquarters had joined Juve. The three men got into an empty second-class compartment.
In a voice quivering with shame, Vinson begged Juve not to allow anyone to enter. "I should be so ashamed," he muttered, with hanging head and hunched shoulders.
"We shall do our best to prevent it," Juve assured him. After an explanation with the station-master, the compartment was labelled "Reserved."
The train started. Vinson was wide awake now, and dejected to the last degree. After a hand-to-mouth existence, but still a free one, in England, he had allowed himself to be nabbed by the police, like the veriest simpleton! The papers would be full of it!
Vinson, who had been led into criminal ways by his love for a bad woman, troubled himself much less regarding the punishment to be meted out to him than about the dreadful distress his arrest would cause his mother. The old Alsatian mother, when she learned that her son was in prison charged with treason to France, would die of grief. Vinson wished with all his heart that he had stuck to his first decision—that he had killed himself rather than make confession to the journalist, Jérôme Fandor, who had wished to save him, and had helped him to escape, but who had really done him a bad service, since, deserter as he was, he had been caught like the most vulgar of criminals!
The train stopped at a station.
"I am dying of thirst," mumbled Vinson.
Juve sent his second in command for a bottle of water from the refreshment buffet.
Vinson thanked Juve with a grateful nod.
Refreshed, Vinson pulled his wits together.
Juve, noticing this, began questioning him, promising to treat him as well as he possibly could, if he would speak out, in confidence; assuring him of the leniency of the judges if he consented to denounce his accomplices.
When Vinson realised that he was to stand his trial for spying, for betraying his country, as well as for desertion, he was only too glad to obey Juve's suggestion.
"Ah!" murmured he, while tears rolled down his cheeks, "Cursed be the day when I first agreed to enterinto relations with the band of criminals who have made of me what I am to-day!"
Vinson gave Juve a full account of his temptation, his errors; nevertheless he did not tell the detective of his relations with Jérôme Fandor. Had he not promised absolute secrecy? Traitor and spy as he was, Vinson had given his word of honour, and this journalist had been kind to him in return, had given him a chance to escape and start afresh: not for anything in the world would he have betrayed his oath!
Juve was a hundred leagues from suspecting the substitution which had taken place between Vinson and Fandor. He was convinced he had Corporal Vinson before his eyes; but he also thought he had his grip on the individual who had left Paris the night before, accompanied by an ecclesiastic, for the purpose of handing over to a foreign power a most important piece of a gun stolen from the Arsenal, as well as the descriptive plan that went with it.
But when he cross-questioned Vinson on this point, the corporal did not in the least understand what he was driving at! Juve, who had been congratulating himself on his prisoner's frankness, grew angry with what he believed was a culpable reservation. Why did the corporal, who, up to this, had spoken so freely, now feign ignorance of the gun piece affair?... Well, he would find out his prisoner's reasons presently.... Not wishing to scare him, Juve changed the subject.... He had any number of questions to ask the culprit. Did he not know Vagualame, the real Vagualame?
Vinson told him many things about the old accordion player with the patriarchal white beard which he already knew; but one remark particularly impressed him.
"If only the police knew all that goes on in the house in the rue Monge!"... Vinson stopped short.
This remark opened new horizons to Juve. When they arrived at the North station, some hours later, and Juve had transferred his prisoner to a cab, giving the driver the address of the Cherche-Midi prison, our detective had learned that Vagualame-Fantômas was in the habit of visiting a mysterious house in rue Monge. Here he metmany of his accomplices. It was here the band of spies and traitors, of which he seemed chief, disguised themselves, issuing forth to ply their nefarious trade and mock the police.
Juve made a compact with himself.
"As soon as I have handed my corporal over to the military jailors, I know where I shall go to smoke a cigarette!"
"You are alone, Wilhelmine?"
Mademoiselle de Naarboveck had just left the house in the rue Fabert. It was three in the afternoon, and she was going shopping. At the corner of the rue de l'Université she came on Henri de Loubersac.
It was a delightful surprise. She had not seen him for several days. She was aware of the difficult and dangerous nature of her future fiancé's duties; that they frequently took him from Paris for days at a time; that they forbade him writing even a post card to let her know where he was!... Now she felt delightedly sure that he had taken advantage of his first free moment to pay her a visit. How charming of him!
The truth was that de Loubersac, whose anxieties and suspicions had increased hour by hour, till he was suffering the tortures of the damned, had made up his mind to have a decisive talk with Wilhelmine. A clear and final explanation he would have, cost what it might!
Full of joy at the meeting, Wilhelmine did not seem to notice his anxious looks, his strained expression. She answered his question with a welcoming smile.
"I am alone."
"Your father?"
"Went away this morning: the calls of diplomacy are numerous, and frequently sudden, you know!"
"And Mademoiselle Berthe?"
Wilhelmine raised her beautiful bright eyes and met her fiancé's questioning glance.
"No news of her for several days. Berthe seems to have disappeared." Her tone was grave.
De Loubersac did not speak: mechanically he fitted his step to Wilhelmine's. Presently he asked:
"Where do you think of going?"
"I was going to do a little shopping ... nothing much ... there is no sort of hurry!"
She felt that Henri wished to discuss something important with her: hers was too direct a nature to put him off with flimsy excuses when he desired a serious talk.
"Should we walk on a little, talking as we go?" she suggested, with a charming smile. To walk and talk with Henri was such a pleasure!
De Loubersac agreed.
The young couple crossed the Esplanade des Invalides, and by way of the rue Saint-Dominique, the boulevard Saint-Germain, and rue Buonaparte, reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Here they could talk at ease.
A few casual remarks, and Henri de Loubersac came to his point.
"Dear Wilhelmine, there is a series of mysteries in your life which I cannot help thinking about: mysteries which trouble me greatly!... Forgive me for speaking to you so frankly!... You know how sincere my feeling for you is!... My love for you is strong and deep.... My one desire in life is to join my fate, my existence, to yours.... But before that, there are some things we must speak of together, serious things perhaps, about which we must have a clear understanding."
Wilhelmine had grown strangely pale. Despite the protestations of love in which her future fiancé had wrapped his questions, she was greatly troubled. The painful moment she had waited for had come: she must tell Henri de Loubersac the secret of her life: no very grave secret if considered by itself; but the consequences of it, and the innumerable deductions that could be drawn from it, might react unfavourably on their relations to each other!
Wilhelmine must speak out.
They were just outside the church of Saint-Sulpice. Some large drops of rain fell.
"Let us go into the church!" said Wilhelmine: "It will be quiet there. If what I have to say to you is said inthat holy place, you will feel that I am speaking the truth. It is almost a confession." The poor girl's voice trembled slightly as she uttered these decisive words—words that frightened de Loubersac. What shocking revelations did they foreshadow?
He acquiesced: the lovers entered the porch.
As he stepped aside to let Wilhelmine pass, he noticed a cab with drawn blinds which had that minute drawn up not far from the space in front of the church. He examined it anxiously.
"It seemed to me we were being followed—shadowed," replied de Loubersac. "It is of little importance, however—we must expect that in our service."
"Yes, you also have secrets," remarked Wilhelmine.
"They are only professional ones: there is nothing about my personality to hide: my life is an open book for all the world to read!"
De Loubersac's tone was hard.
It hurt Wilhelmine.
For some while they had been seated behind a pillar, in the shadow: Wilhelmine had been speaking: Henri had been listening.
She told him she was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that her real name was Thérèse Auvernois.[5]