Annette did not remain long in her delusion. Gradually, but surely her bright hopes faded away, to be replaced by a terrible feeling of hopeless resignation. The serpent cannot change its nature, and the worst features in Newman Chaytor's character began to assert themselves soon after the signing the document which Gilbert Bidaud had described as the preliminary marriage contract. He was sure of Annette; what need, therefore, for the wearing of an irksome mask? He threw it aside, and exhibited himself in his true colours, to the grief and despair of the girl he had successfully deceived. She heard him, in conversation with her uncle, use language and utter sentiments at which her soul revolted; she saw him frequently the worse for liquor; and often now she purposely avoided him when he sought her society. Brightness died out of the world, and she thought shudderingly of the future. The flowers in her young heart were withered. And yet she dwelt mournfully upon the image of the man she had adored, and asked herself, Can it be possible--can it be possible? The answer was there, in the same house with her, sitting by her side, pressing her hand, while he uttered coarse jokes, or gazing darkly at Gilbert Bidaud, who was ever ready to give smiles for frowns. For this was the old man's method; he was urbane and light-hearted in the family circle, and nothing that Chaytor said could disturb his equanimity. He had the traitor in his toils, and he played his game with the air of an indulgent master.
The Villa Bidaud was a great rambling house of two storeys, standing in its own grounds. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, and stood far back from the public road; when the strong iron gates were locked it resembled a prison. Annette, chilled at heart, began to feel that it was one and but for the companionship of her faithful maid Emily, her life would have been dark and gloomy indeed. It was a relief to her when her uncle announced that he and the man to whom she was betrothed were going away on business for two or three weeks.
Their mission was special and important, and has been attempted by hundreds of other gulls. Gilbert Bidaud had discovered a system by which he could break the bank at Monte Carlo. The one diversion of the two knaves at the Villa Bidaud was gambling. Never a day passed but they were closeted together in a locked room rattling the dice or shuffling the cards. It may be questioned whether the demon of play is not more potent than the demon of drink, and it is certain that it had so fastened itself upon Newman Chaytor that he could not escape from it. His losses maddened him, but his infatuation led him on to deeper and deeper losses, Gilbert Bidaud always declaring that the luck must change and that the money Chaytor lost was only money lent. Occasionally he professed indifference to the fatal pastime, and lured Chaytor on to persuasion, replying, "Well, as you insist." One day Chaytor, as usual, was savagely growling at his ill-luck, when Gilbert said carelessly: "You can get it all back, ten, twenty, a hundred-fold, if you like."
"How?" eagerly demanded Chaytor.
Then Gilbert unfolded his plan. He had made a wonderful discovery, an absolutely infallible system by which fortunes could be won at the roulette tables of Monte Carlo and elsewhere. Chaytor caught at the bait, but with smaller cunning threw doubt upon it.
"You can demonstrate it," said Gilbert. "I have here a roulette table to which I have not yet introduced you, and upon which I have proved my figures. You shall take the bank, and I will carry out my system. We will play for small stakes. What say you?"
Chaytor suggested that the stakes should be imaginary, but to this the cleverer knave would not agree.
"You insist that the bank must win," he said. "Take the bank and try."
They played for three days, during which, as luck would have it, Gilbert rose invariably a winner. At the end of the third day, he said:
"See now. I have won from you an average of one hundred pounds a day. All we have to do at Monte Carlo is to increase the stakes, and we can win as much as we please. Say, to be moderate, three thousand pounds a day. Fifty days, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Seventy five thousand each."
Chaytor was eager to begin, but there was first a bargain to be struck. In return for the fortune they were to win, and of which Chaytor was to have an equal share, Gilbert Bidaud stipulated that his partner should provide the funds for the venture. At first Chaytor refused, but when Gilbert said, "Very well, there is an end of the matter," he implored to be admitted upon the stipulated terms.
"We commence with a bank of five thousand pounds," said Gilbert.
Chaytor drew a long face at mention of this sum, but he was in the toils and avarice compelled compliance. On the morning of their departure he handed over the amount in Bank of England notes, it being another of Gilbert's conditions that he should be the treasurer. Now, on the previous day, after Chaytor had consented to provide the five thousand pounds, Gilbert had resolved to ascertain where he was in the habit of concealing his treasure. It was easy enough to carry out this resolve. The Villa Bidaud was an old house, with the peculiarities of which Gilbert had made himself familiar at the time he purchased it. In one part of the room in which Chaytor slept, the wall was double, an outer panel admitting of the entrance of any person who wished to play the spy. All he had to do was to ascend three steps, when an artfully concealed peep-hole enabled him to see all the movements of the occupant of the inner room. From that point of observation Gilbert watched Chaytor's proceedings; saw him carefully lock the door and mask the keyhole, so that no one could see into the room through it; saw him as carefully cover the windows and render himself safe in that direction; saw him take his hoard of banknotes from the artfully-contrived pockets in his clothes, count them over, place a small pile aside, and return the balance to its hiding-place. Gilbert saw something more. He beheld Chaytor suddenly pause and look before him, while upon his features gathered a convulsed and horror-stricken expression, as though he was gazing on some appalling phantom. It was at such a moment that the character of Chaytor's face became entirely changed, all likeness to Basil being completely obliterated. Chaytor's arms were stretched out in the act of repelling a presence visible only to himself; his limbs trembled, a cold sweat bathed his countenance, and he exhibited all the symptoms of a man in the throes of a mortal agony.
Slowly and thoughtfully Gilbert left his post and returned to his own apartment. His suspicions were absolutely confirmed, so far as the evidence he had obtained could confirm them. On the following morning he and Chaytor took their departure.
"They part from us without regret," he observed as they rode away. "Who are they?" asked Chaytor, in a morose tone. He knew to whom his companion referred. Annette had exhibited no concern when he informed her that business compelled a separation of a couple of weeks. She had received this intimation in silence, and when he kissed her good bye had not returned his kiss. He inwardly resolved that when he and Annette were married she should pay for her growing coldness towards him.
"I was thinking of my niece," replied Gilbert. "She displayed but small grief at the departure of her lover. And such a lover!"
Chaytor looked sharply at him, for there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but Gilbert's countenance was expressionless.
"Women are queer cattle," he said roughly.
"True, true," assented Gilbert, "and cattle must be taught to know who are their masters. Bah! We will not talk of them. Let us rather talk of the fortune we are pursuing and shall overtake."
So they fell to discussing this most agreeable theme, and indulging in visions of vast gains. Chaytor did not know what his companion knew--that the "system" discovered by Gilbert would have been really a certain thing but for one combination or series of figures which might not be drawn for many days together.
It was upon the chance of this series not presenting itself that Gilbert relied; if they escaped it, their purses would be filled; if it occurred, it was not his money that would be lost.
No time was wasted at Monte Carlo: within an hour of their arrival they commenced to play, and before they retired to rest they counted their winnings.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Gilbert gaily.
"No," replied Chaytor, feverishly fingering the gold and notes. "We must win more, more!"
"We will. The world is at our feet. Let us divide."
This was a part of Gilbert's plan; the winnings of each day were to be divided; thus he made sure of gain to himself, whatever might happen to his partner. For some days their operations prospered, and then came the inevitable bad experience. They sustained a loss, another, another; a large sum had to be staked to recover their losses, and that also was swept in by the croupiers, upon whose stony faces ruin and despair produced no impression. Chaytor stormed and reviled, and Gilbert listened with calmness to his reproaches. In desperation the younger man took the game in hand himself, and plunged wildly at the tables, Gilbert looking on in silence. The result was that, after a fortnight had passed, Chaytor had lost ten thousand pounds of his ill-gotten wealth.
Nearly half the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent possession was gone. With a gloomy countenance he counted what remained; his heart was filled with bitterness towards his companion, whose design it was to lead Chaytor on step by step until his ruin was complete. For a little while Chaytor contemplated flight, but so unwearying was the watch kept on him by Gilbert, that, had he nerved himself determinedly to his design, he could not have put it in execution. Besides, the thought of Annette held him back. No, he would not fly, he would return to the Villa Bidaud, he would marry Annette, he would compel Gilbert to make restitution of his niece's fortune, and then he would bid farewell for ever to his evil genius and take Annette to America, where he would commence a new life.
"I have had enough of this," he said to Gilbert. "If I followed your counsels any longer I should land in the gutter."
"Not so, not so," responded the unruffled Gilbert; "if you were guided by me you would land in a palace. See, now, I kept a record of the numbers while you were so recklessly staking your money on this chance and that, throwing away, like a madman, the certainty I offered you. You know my system; sit down with these numbers before you, follow them, back them according to my notation, and discover how you would have got back all your losses, and been in the end a large gainer. I leave you for an hour to the lesson I set you."
Chaytor applied himself to the task, with a savage desire to prove by mathematical demonstration that his associate had robbed him, and finding that Gilbert was right and that by following the system he would have recovered his money, cursed his luck, and Gilbert, and all the world. His paroxysm of anger abated, a sense of comfort stole upon him. When he had freed himself from the shackles which Gilbert had thrown around him, when Annette was his and he and she were alone, he would come back to Monte Carlo and carry out on his sole account the system he had so foolishly abandoned. Then all the money that was won would be his own: there would be no Gilbert Bidaud to cheat him of half. "Have you verified my figures?" asked the old man, returning. "Have you established your folly?"
"No," replied Chaytor, thrusting the paper upon which he made his calculations into his pocket, "you have deceived and tricked me."
"Ah, ah," ejaculated Gilbert, in a light and pleasant tone, "I have deceived and tricked you--and you have seen through me! Clever Basil, clever Basil! I am as a child in your hands. Come, let us get back to our dear Annette. Let us fly on the wings of love."
They had not announced their intended return, and their arrival at the villa Bidaud was therefore unexpected. The gates were unlocked for them by a servant, and they entered the grounds. Gilbert took the keys from the man, and relocked the gates.
"You are precious careful," said Chaytor. "Are you frightened of thieves?"
"I am old," said Gilbert, with a smile; "I am losing my nerve. We stopped at the post-house, did we not, to inquire for letters?"
"We did."
"You heard me speak to the woman?"
"You were talking, I know, but I did not hear what passed between you."
"Your thoughts were on our sweet Annette. Why is she not here to receive us? Why does she not fly into our arms? Ah, I forgot. We did not write that we were coming. Yes, I spoke to the woman at the post-house; I asked her for the news."
"News in this den!" exclaimed Chaytor, scornfully. "One might as well be out of the world."
"Out of the world--yes, out of the world. Speak not of it; I have passed the sixties."
"I tell you what," said Chaytor, with a gloomy look around, "I don't intend to keep here much longer. It is as much like a tomb as any place I have ever seen."
"There again, there again! Out of the world, and tombs. You mock the old man. What was I saying when you interrupted me? Ah, about the woman at the post-house. I asked her for news, and she told me that three strangers had been seen this afternoon in the village."
"Rare news that. She might have saved her breath."
"Everything is news in these small villages. Now, why is it that my mind dwells upon these strangers? Such visits are common enough. Doubtless they are but passing through, and we shall hear no more of them."
"Then why keep talking about them?"
"Gently, gently. I had a bad dream last night, I saw you pursued by foes, and I hastened after you in my dreams to assist you."
"More than you would do if you were awake."
"You misjudge me. But to continue. How many foes were pursuing you? Three. How many strangers appeared in the village this afternoon? Three. See you any warning, any hidden danger in this?"
"It is a coincidence, nothing more," replied Chaytor, with an uneasy shifting of his body. "Look here--I am not going to stand this, you know."
"You are not going to stand what?"
"This infernal badgering--this attempt to make me uncomfortable. Haven't I enough to worry me as it is? What do I care about your dreams and your three strangers?"
"I want to make you comfortable--and happy; yes, very, very happy. And you will be if you do not quarrel with me."
"And if Idoquarrel with you?"
Gilbert Bidaud toyed musingly with a charm on Chaytor's watch chain. "Be advised. Keep friends with me, the best of friends. Old as I am, it is not safe to quarrel with me."
"Oh, tush!" cried Chaytor, vainly endeavouring to conceal his discomposure. "Have you done with your post-woman and her three strangers?"
"Not quite. I made further inquiries about them and learnt all there was to learn. They came to the village, they inquired for the Villa Bidaud, they walked all round the walls, they lingered at the gate, they looked up at the house, which, as you know, is not to be seen from any part of the road, they talked together, they lingered still longer, and then--they went away."
"The King of France went up the hill," quoted Chaytor. "Shall I tell you what I make of all this?"
"Do."
"The dream you had was ofyourenemies, not mine. These three strangers are interested in you, and not, by any remote possibility, in me. They inquired for the Villa Bidaud--yourvilla,yourname. The fact is, my friend, something you have forgotten in the past has been raked up against you, and these three strangers have come to remind you of it." He laughed in great enjoyment at this turning of the tables.
"It is an ingenious theory," said Gilbert, composedly. "Something I have forgotten in the past! But I have been so very, very careful. Is it possible that anything can have escaped me? Perhaps, perhaps? We cannot be for ever on our guard. Thank you for reminding me. You asked me if I was frightened of thieves. Friend of my soul, I am frightened of everything, of everybody. That is why I gave instructions that these gates were never to be opened to strangers unless by my orders. None can gain admittance here against my wish. It is a necessary precaution. Ah, here is my sister." He saluted her on both cheeks, and then inquired for Annette.
"She keeps her room," was the answer.
"Sick?"
"In temper only."
"She knows of our return?"
"Yes, I informed her myself."
"And her reply?"
"She will come down later."
Gilbert turned to Chaytor and said, "Our little one has a will and a temper of her own, but you will tame her; yes, you will tame her."
Chaytor said nothing; he did not like the signs, and the temptation came again upon him to fly. But still the image of Annette acted as a counterpoise--her very avoidance of him made the prize more precious.
"Why did you not come to welcome us?" he asked, when at length she made her appearance.
"I was not well," she answered, with her eyes on the ground.
"Are you better now?"
"No."
"This is a nice lover's greeting," he said.
She shivered. He gazed frowningly at her, but she did not raise her head. "I will break her spirit," he thought.
Aloud he said, "You do not seem happy, Annette."
"I am most unhappy."
"Am I the cause?" he asked, and waited for the reply which did not come. "It is clear then; do you wish to break the contract?"
"Can I?" she said, with sudden eagerness.
"No," he answered, roughly. "You are bound by the paper we signed."
This was her own belief. With a sigh she turned away, and strove to fix her mind upon a book. But the words swam before her eyes; she turned over page after page mechanically, without the least understanding of their sense. All at once her attention was arrested by mention of a name--Old Corrie. For some reason of his own, Gilbert Bidaud had directed the conversation he was holding with Chaytor to the old Australian days, and he had just inquired whether Chaytor could give him any information of Old Corrie. The old fellow's visit to Emily's mother in Bournemouth had been made about the time that Annette's feelings were undergoing a change towards the man to whom she had engaged herself, as she believed, irrevocably. This would not have been a sufficient cause for her not speaking of the visit to Chaytor, but he had latterly expressed himself sick of Australia and all allusions to it.
"Don't speak of it again to me," he had said, pettishly, "or of anybody I knew there."
She obeyed him, and thus it was that he was ignorant of particulars, the knowledge of which would have saved him from tripping on the present occasion.
"Corrie," said Chaytor, "the woodman? Oh, that old fool!" Annette started. The brutal tone in which Chaytor spoke shocked her. "He's dead; and a good riddance too." Annette covered her eyes with her hands. Old Corrie was dead; he must have died lately--since his visit to Bournemouth. How strange that the man who had just spoken had said nothing to her of the good old man's death! She held her breath, and listened in amazement to what followed.
"Dead, eh?" said Gilbert, callously. "Long since?"
"A good many years ago."
"In Australia, then?"
"Of course, in Australia." Gilbert would have dropped the subject, as being of small interest; but, observing that Annette was listening to the conversation with somewhat unusual attention, was impelled to say something more upon it.
"Did he leave any money behind him?"
"Not a shilling. Drank it all away. He died in a fit of delirium tremens."
Annette rose from her chair in horror.
"You saw him dead?" pursued Gilbert, maliciously.
"I was with him at the time. You are mighty particular with your questions."
He was not aware that Annette had slowly approached him, and was only made conscious of it by the touch of her hand on his arm.
"Well?" he said.
She looked steadily at him; every vestige of colour had fled from her face, her eyes dilated, her lips were apart; thus they gazed at each other in silence, and Gilbert, leaning back in his chair, watched them closely. There was an accusing quality in Annette's steady gaze which fascinated Chaytor, and the colour died out of his face as it had died out of hers. His eyes began to shift, his limbs to twitch.
"How is this going to end?" thought Gilbert Bidaud, his interest in the scene growing. "My niece has the upper hand here. Faith, she has the Bidaud blood in her."
His suddenly-aroused pride in her was a personal tribute to himself. For fully five minutes there was dead silence in the room; then Annette removed her hand from Chaytor's arm, and quitted the apartment.
The spell broken, Chaytor jumped up in fury, and looked after her retreating form. Turning to Gilbert, he cried:
"The girl has lost her senses. Is there insanity in your family, M. Gilbert Bidaud?"
"We were ever remarkable," replied Gilbert, in a more serious tone than that in which he generally spoke, "for well-balanced brains. It is that which has kept us always on the safe side, which has enabled us to swim while others sink. Instead of losing her senses, Annette, perhaps, has come to them. I give you my honest word, there crept into my mind, while you were playing that silent scene with her, a profound admiration for the young lady, my niece. She has qualities of the Bidaud type; I pay her tribute." He bowed towards the door, half mockingly, half admiringly.
"I don't want your honest word," cried Chaytor in wrath and fear, for it dawned upon him that the ally upon whom he reckoned might declare himself against him. "I want your plain meaning."
"You shall have it," said Gilbert; "but as walls have ears, and there may be danger--to you and not to me--in what you force me to say, I propose that we adjourn to the lodge by the gates, where we may exchange confidences in safety."
He led the way to the grounds, and Chaytor followed him, as a whipped dog follows its master.
The lodge to which Gilbert Bidaud referred stood close to the gates through which entrance was obtained to the house and grounds. It contained four rooms, two above and two below, and was furnished for residence. There were times when Gilbert himself occupied it, and it was always kept ready for him, the two rooms below affording him all the accommodation he required. Between these two rooms ran a narrow passage, at the back end of which was a door, but seldom used, leading out to the grounds. A staircase at the side of this passage led to the rooms above.
Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor had arrived at the villa late in the day, and it was now night. Dark clouds had gathered, obscuring moon and stars.
"There will be a storm before sunrise," said Gilbert, as they reached the front door of the lodge, which he unlocked and threw open. "Enter, my dear friend."
Chaytor uttered no word, and followed Gilbert into the passage. The old man carefully locked the door, and the two men stood in darkness a moment, listening. Then the master of Villa Bidaud turned the handle of the door of the sitting-room, and stepping towards the window, closed the shutters through which no chink of light could be seen from without. Having thus secured themselves from observation, he struck a match and lit a lamp, which threw a bright light around. In a basket by the sideboard were some bottles of red wine, and glasses and corkscrew were handy. Gilbert uncorked a bottle and put glasses on the table.
"Will you drink?" he asked.
"Have you nothing stronger than this stuff?" asked Chaytor, in reply.
"There is a bottle of brandy somewhere," said Gilbert, opening a door in the sideboard. "Ah, here it is. I am glad that am able to accommodate you. I am always glad to accommodate my friends."
Chaytor half filled a tumbler with the spirit, and drank it neat. His companion took the bottle, and replaced it in the cupboard.
"You are a generous host," observed Chaytor.
"It is not that," said Gilbert, genially. "It is that you need your wits to understand my plain meaning. Will you sit or stand?"
"I will do as I please."
"Do so. Your pleasure is a law to me. Pardon me a moment's consideration. I am debating by what name to address you."
"My name is Basil Whittingham, as you well know."
"How should I well know it? It is not my custom to accept men as they present themselves. I judge for myself. Man is a study. I study him, and each one who crosses my path and enters, for a time short or long, into my life, affords me scope for observation and contemplation. As you have done."
"As I have done," said Chaytor, moodily.
"As you have done," repeated Gilbert.
"I suppose I may make one observation."
"One! A dozen--a hundred. What you say shall be attentively received. Be sure of that."
"I recall," said Chaytor, "a conversation we had. You said you would not pry into my secrets, and expressed a desire that I should not pry into yours."
"I remember. I said also something about our cupboards with their skeletons, and that each should keep his key."
"Yes--and you concluded with these words: 'What I choose to reveal, I reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step.' I am correct in the quotation, I think?"
"It is freely admitted. You have a retentive memory, and my observations must have made an impression upon you."
"I have not," said Chaytor, "attempted to pry into your secrets. Why do you attempt to pry into mine?"
"My dear friend," said Gilbert, in his blandest tone, "you forget. It is by your invitation we are now conversing, and it is for your safety I proposed we should converse here in secresy. You said to me, 'I want your plain meaning.' If you have changed your mind, we will finish now, this moment, and will return to our dear Annette."
"No," said Chaytor, "we will not finish now. I will hear what you have to say."
"You are gracious. But pray believe me; I have not attempted to pry into your secrets. You have yourself revealed yourself to me by a thousand signs. I am a man gifted with a fair intelligence. I do not say to my mind, Observe, it observes intuitively, without command or direction. What is the result? I learn, not what you are, but what you are not."
"Indeed! And what am I not?"
"Plainly?"
"Quite plainly."
"My dear friend," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a smile and a confident nod, "you are not Basil Whittingham."
"That is your game, is it?" cried Chaytor, but his heart was chilled by the cold assurance of Gilbert's voice and manner.
"Not my game--yours. I did not intrude upon you; you intruded upon me. By your own design you came, and if there is a pit before you, it is you, not I, who have dug it. But you can yet save yourself."
"How?" said Chaytor involuntarily, and was instantly made aware of his imprudence by the amused smile which his exclamation called up to Gilbert's lips. "Curse it! I mean, what have I revealed, as you so cleverly express it?"
"I will tell you. You come to Paris, and play the spy upon us. You take rooms opposite our hotel, and so arrange a foreground of observation, that you can see what passes in our apartments without dreaming that you have laid yourself open to observation."
"Oh, you found that out, did you?" exclaimed Chaytor.
"I found that out; and I found out also that you had been in Paris a long, long time, although you declared to my niece, when you first presented yourself to us, that you had but just arrived by the night train. I take no merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while you were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 'Why this lie? Why this secret espionage?' and since then it is that I found the answer. Naturally we spoke of Australia; naturally I recalled the incidents of my first meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother's plantation. They were incidents it was not possible to forget by either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely ignorant of them; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing what never occurred. In this way did you again reveal to me, not what you are, but what you are not. Finding your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I confess it, a simple, innocent trap, which you, being Basil Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to yourself. In that case it would have been I, not you, who would have had to eat humble pie--is not that your English saying? I invented scenes and incidents in our meeting and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to which you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a comedy, these imaginary conversations and incidents of my conjuring up, and you saying, 'Yes, yes, I remember, I remember.' Fie, fie, dear friend, it was clumsy of you. Again, those English newspapers, with their celebrated case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explanation did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read them so eagerly. There were here to my hand the pieces of a puzzle not difficult to put together. Let me tell you--you deceived not one of us completely. My sister says, 'That man is not Basil Whittingham.' My niece says no word--her grief is too great--she suffers, through you, a martyrdom; but she doubts you none the less. Some strong confirmation--I know not what--of her doubts you presented her with this very night when you spoke so freely of Old Corrie's death."
"Curse you!" cried Chaytor. "You drew me on."
"Could I guess what was coming when his name was introduced? Could I divine what you were about to say? Take this from me, my friend; my niece knows something of Old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and when she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those eyes of yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, you felt as I felt, that she accused you of lying. Even her maid, Emily, who never set eyes on Basil Whittingham, believes not in you. And the fault is all your own. It is you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blustering and denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as we are concerned, the game is up."
"So you mean to say that you withdraw from the marriage contract between me and Annette?"
"It is not I who withdraw; it is she, who will choose death rather. She may consider herself bound--I cannot say; but she and you will never stand side by side at the altar."
"The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce."
"That is, to disappear?"
"You can express it in those words if you choose. Mind, I do not leave your hospitable abode because I am afraid. What is there to be afraid of? I can afford to laugh at what you have said, which is false from beginning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done pretty well out of me; you are a cunning old bird, and you have feathered your nest with my feathers. I calculate that you have at least five thousand pounds of my money in your pocket."
"Of your money?" queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile.
"Of my money."
"No, no; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of Basil Whittingham's money."
"Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. Have you anything else to say to me?"
"Yes. You are not free to go yet."
"What! Will you stop me?"
"No; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. We will have the case in the papers, and you shall have an opportunity of clearing yourself of the accusation I bring against you. Basil Whittingham maybe alive; Old Corrie may be alive; people who know really who you are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought forward to acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, fuss, publicity, you shall have them. There is, however, an alternative."
"Let me hear it."
"Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed forgery by affixing his name to two documents in my possession. Not being Basil Whittingham, you have obtained by fraud the fortune which was his. So apprehensive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have done, but you carry it about with you, in secret pockets, on your person." Chaytor started. "I could put my finger on the precise spots in which Basil Whittingham's fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising your hand--you are doing it unconsciously at this moment--to your side, to your breast, to assure yourself that the money is safe. Shall we make terms?"
"Name them."
"I do not desire to know the amount of your wealth; I think only of myself, and of what the secret in my possession is worth. Shall we say five thousand pounds?"
"You may say five thousand pounds," blustered Chaytor, and then suddenly paused, overwhelmed by the sense of power in his companion's smiling face. "Hang it," he said presently, "give me some brandy."
Gilbert Bidaud produced the bottle, and, as Newman Chaytor gulped the liquor down, repeated, "Shall we say five thousand pounds?"
"I will give you one," said Chaytor faintly. "Five. Decide quickly. Observe, I take out my watch; it wants two minutes to the hour. If at the end of these two minutes you do not agree, I shall double the terms. By this time you know me, and know that you cannot with safety trifle with me."
Chaytor stepped forward and looked at the second-hand, his mind dazed with whirling thought. Should he refuse? Should he show fight? Did he dare to risk the exposure which Gilbert threatened?
"It wants thirty seconds yet," said Gilbert, calmly? "they are precious moments, these that are flying so fast? Twenty--fifteen--ten--five----"
"I consent to be robbed," said Chaytor, hurriedly. He did not dare to fight.
"Good," said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his pocket. "The bargain must be completed to-night, after which without loss of time, I should advise you to disappear. I will make excuses to my niece; she will not be anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight, here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you have purchased safety we will bid each other an eternal farewell. I will have a horse ready for you, on which you can ride to--where you please. Let us now return to the bosom of my beloved family; a longer absence may arouse suspicion."
During the visit of Gilbert and Chaytor to Monte Carlo some important action had been taken by Annette's staunch maid, Emily. Loyal to the backbone to her young mistress, she had fully sympathised with her in her unhappiness, and had gone farther than Annette, in her reflections upon the future. She saw that a marriage with a man to whom Annette had pledged herself would result in lifelong misery, and she set her mind to work to consider how the dreadful consequence could be averted. She saw but one way to accomplish this; she and her mistress must fly from the Villa Bidaud. She did not moot this project to Annette, for whenever she commenced to speak upon the subject of the approaching union Annette stopped her, and would not listen to what she had to say. "But at the last moment," thought the faithful maid, "when she sees that there is no other escape for her, she will agree to fly with me from this horrible place. We will go to mother in Bournemouth; she will be safer there than in these wicked foreign countries." Having reached thus far in her deliberations she did not pursue them farther; she was not an argumentative person, and she was comfortably satisfied with the general reflection that, after that, things would be sure to come all right. Such a belief is common with numbers of worthy people when they are considering knotty questions, and if it evidences no deep powers of mental analysis, is at all events a proof of the possession of an inherent dependence upon the goodness of Providence--which, in its way, is a kind of religion not to be despised.
With a certain conclusion in her mind, Annette busied herself as to the means of carrying it out when the proper time arrived. By Gilbert Bidaud's orders the gates were kept locked, and the duty of opening them devolved upon a man who did all the outdoor work in the house and grounds. Emily's advances towards this man met with no response; other means, therefore, must be tried. She had always been successful in making friends outside Gilbert Bidaud's establishment, through whom she obtained her letters from home, and the friend she had made in the village in which the Villa Bidaud was situated was the woman who kept the post-house. It was a matter easily arranged. Annette was a liberal mistress, and Emily was a saving girl; a judicious system of small bribes effected all that Emily desired in this respect. Twice or thrice every week she visited the post-mistress to enquire for letters, and these visits were made in the night, the darkest hours being chosen. The gates being locked she could not get out that way, and she sought another mode of egress. She found it in the lodge in which Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor held their conference. There was a secure lock on the front door, of which Gilbert, or his sister, kept the key, but the lock on the back door was frail, and Emily discovered how to manage it, so that she could get in and out of the lodge without any person being the wiser. Once inside the lodge Emily would creep up the stairs to the first floor, the window of the back room of which almost touched the stone wall which ran round the grounds. This wall was some seven feet in height, but there were dilapidations in it which served for foot-holes, and by means of these luckily-formed steps the courageous girl was enabled to pass to and fro and make the desired visits to the post-mistress. Of course there was the danger of discovery, but Emily was a girl in a thousand, and the extraordinary care she took in these enterprises was a fair guarantee of safety. The lonely situation of the house assisted her; there were nights when, for hours together, not a human being traversed the narrow road into which the front gate opened.
On the night of the secret interview between Gilbert and Chaytor, Emily had planned a visit to the post-mistress. She made her way into the lodge unobserved, crept up the stairs in the dark, and was about to open the back window, when her attention was arrested by a sound below, which, as she afterwards described, sent her heart into her mouth. It was the sound of the unlocking of the front door. Emily's heart went rub-a-dub with the fear that she was discovered, but as the slow minutes passed without anything occurring, her fear lessened, and she became sufficiently composed to give attention to the circumstances. Softly opening the door which led to the staircase, she heard voices in a room below which she recognised as those of Gilbert Bidaud and the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. What had they come there to say? Why could they not have spoken in the house? They must be hatching some plot against her young mistress. At all hazards, she would try to hear what they were saying to each other. Quietly, very quietly, she descended the stairs, setting her feet down with the greatest care, and pausing between each step. A cat could not have trod more noiselessly than she. At length she reached the door beyond which the conversation was taking place, and crouching down she applied her eye to the keyhole. There were the two men, one with a smile on his face, the other, dark and sinister; and Emily observed that they were not standing side by side, but that a broad table was between them. This precaution had been taken by Gilbert, who was quite prepared for any sudden attempt at violence on Chaytor's part.
Emily was too late to hear all that was said, but she heard enough. Had she not exercised control over her feelings she would have screamed with mingled joy and horror; as it was, the tears ran down her face as fast as she wiped them away, for she wanted to see as much as she could. The brave girl thanked God that a fortunate conjuncture had made her a witness of the interview between the two villains. Now, certainly, her dear mistress was saved, and she the instrument to avert the misery with which she was threatened; for it was not alone the projected marriage which was breaking Annette's heart, but the loss of faith in the purity and nobility of Basil's nature. Emily waited very nearly to the end; she saw Gilbert take out his watch and count the moments, she heard the bargain agreed to and the second interview at midnight planned, and then, just in time, she crept up the stairs as softly as she had crept down, and waited in the room above until the two men left the lodge.
What now should she do? Return to the house, and acquaint Annette with what she had heard, or go to the post-mistress to see if there was a letter for her? If she went straight to Annette she might not have another opportunity of getting out that night; besides, she expected a letter from her mother, and was anxious for it. She decided to go first to the post-mistress; Annette knew that she would be away for some little while, and had said, "I shall wait up for you, Emily."
She threw open the window, and climbed on to the wall, and down into the road. It was very dark, and as Gilbert Bidaud had prognosticated, a storm was gathering, but Emily knew her way well to the post-office, and was not afraid of darkness. So she sped along under the waving branches and over black shadows till she arrived at her destination. Once on her way she was startled; she thought she saw something more substantial than shadow moving by the road side, but after pausing to look and listen her alarm subsided; all was quiet and still.
There was no light in the post-house, which was little better than a cottage, but Emily did not expect to see one. She tapped at the shutters, and a woman's voice from within asked if that was "Miss Emily." The girl answering in the affirmative, a woman appeared at the door and bade her enter.
"Have you a letter for me?" said Emily.
"Yes," the woman replied, "she had a letter for her," and produced it.
"Why," cried Emily, "this is not from England?" No, said the woman, it was not from England, and explained that a gentleman had visited her in the evening, and had made enquiries concerning the Villa Bidaud and its inmates. Hearing that Miss Annette Bidaud was there, he had then inquired for the young lady's maid, mentioning her by name, Miss Emily Crawford. The gentleman asked if the post-mistress was likely to see the girl, and whether she could convey a letter to her secretly that night or early in the morning. The post-mistress said she could not promise to do so that night, but she would endeavour to convey the letter in the morning, and added that it was not unlikely Miss Emily would come before them to inquire for letters. "If she does," said the gentleman, "give her this, and ask her to read it here, before she goes back to the villa. It is a letter of the utmost importance, and it must fall into no other hands than Miss Emily's." The post-mistress concluded by saying that the gentleman had paid her well for the service, and that she was sure there was something very particular in the letter.
Emily, although burning with impatience, listened quietly to the tale, holding the letter tight in her hand all the time, and when the woman had done speaking asked only one question.
"Was the gentleman an Englishman?"
"Yes," replied the woman; "he was an Englishman."
Then Emily opened the letter, and read: