“Cecil won’t go if I ask him to come with me,” she said confidently.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Perhaps not. The more reason why I should.”
She turned away from me half amused, half vexed. Just then Cecil appeared, and she beckoned him eagerly to her side.
“Cecil, Mr. Morton tells me that you have promised to ride with Beatrice this morning,” she said.
“So we did,” he exclaimed. “Awfully sorry to disappoint her, but, of course, I didn’t know anything about the meet.”
“Oh, I am glad that you are not going to desert me, then,” she said, laughing. “Mr. Morton declares that he is going to keep his engagement.”
“Very good of him, if he is,” remarked Cecil, stirring his tea with great cheerfulness.
“Don’t pity me,” I said, rising. “I’m sure I shall enjoy it.Au revoir, Miss Hamilton.”
And I did enjoy it. Many a time afterwards I thought of that slim little figure in the long riding-habit, her golden hair streaming in the breeze, and her dainty, flushed face aglow with excitement and delight, and of the pleasant prattle which her little ladyship poured into my willing ears. I remembered, too, her quaint, naïve ways, and the grave way in which she thanked me for taking care of her—little mannerisms which soon yielded to familiarity and vanished altogether. And, strange though it may seem, I found always more satisfaction in recalling these things than the winged look and merry speeches of Miss Agnes Hamilton.
For the first time in my life I was in London—and alone. There had been no reply from Mr. Marx to the telegrams commanding his instant return, and so on the third morning after my arrival at Ravenor Castle I quitted it again to go in search of him. Accustomed though he was to conceal his feelings, and admirably though he succeeded in doing so in the presence of his guests, I could see that Mr. Ravenor was deeply anxious to have the suspicions which my story had awakened either dispelled or confirmed. Nor, indeed, although their purport was scarcely so clear to me, was I less so.
I suppose that no one, especially if he had never before been in a great city, could pass across London for the first time without some emotion of wonder. To me it was like entering an unknown world. The vast throng of people, the ceaseless din of traffic, and the huge buildings, all filled me with amazement which, as we drove through the Strand to Northumberland Avenue, grew into bewilderment. Only the recollection of my mission and its grave import recalled me to myself as the cab drew up before the Hotel Metropole.
My bag was taken possession of at once by one of the hall-porters and I engaged a room. Then I made inquiries about Mr. Marx.
The clerk turned over two or three pages of the ledger and shook his head. There was no one of that name stopping in the hotel, he informed me.
“Can you tell me whether anyone of that name has been staying here during the last week?” I asked.
He made a further search and shook his head.
“We have not had the name of Marx upon our books at all, sir, during my recollection,” he declared. “Quite an uncommon name, too; I should certainly have remembered it.”
“There have been letters addressed to him here by that name,” I said; “can you tell me what has become of them?”
He shook his head.
“That would not be in my department, sir; you will ascertain by inquiring at the head-porter’s bureau round the corner.”
I thanked him and made my way thither across the reception hall. The answer to my question was given at once.
“There are letters for a Mr. Marx nearly every morning, sir, and telegrams,” said the official; “but I don’t think that Mr. Marx himself is stopping at the hotel; another gentleman always applies for them and sends them on.”
“And is the other gentleman staying here?” I asked.
“Yes, sir; No. 110.”
“Has he any authority to receive them from Mr. Marx?” I inquired.
“I believe so. He showed us a note from Mr. Marx, asking him to receive and forward them, and he has to sign, too, for every one he receives. It is a rule with us that anyone receiving letters not addressed to himself should do so, whether he has authority or not.”
“Can you tell me his name?” I asked. “I am sorry to give you so much trouble, but I particularly wish to ascertain Mr. Marx’s whereabouts, and this gentleman knows it.”
“Certainly, sir. John, what is No. 110’s name?” he asked an assistant.
“Count de Cartienne,” was the prompt reply.
My surprise at this last piece of information could not pass unnoticed. Both the hall-porter and his assistant were evidently well-trained servants, but they looked curiously at me and then exchanged rapid glances with one another. I recovered myself, however, in an instant.
“This Count de Cartienne,” I asked, “is he young? I think I know him. Rather dark and thin and short? Is that he?”
The man shook his head.
“No, sir. Count de Cartienne is a tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman, middle-aged. You are certain to see him about the hotel. He is in and out a great deal.”
I thanked him and moved away, for the people were beginning to flock in, inquiring for their keys. As it was nearly dinner-time, I followed their example and went to my room to change my travelling clothes for more conventional attire.
The lift was almost full when I entered it; but as we were on the point of starting, a lady, followed by an elderly gentleman, stepped in. I rose at once, being nearest the gate, to offer my seat, but the words which I had intended to speak died away upon my lips.
Something in the graceful figure, the soft, sweet eyes, and the delicately-cut features, seemed to remind me of my mother. It was a faint resemblance, perhaps—scarcely more than a suggestion—but it was still enough to make my heart beat fast, and to arrest for a moment my recollection of where I was. Then suddenly I remembered that I was behaving, to say the least of it, strangely, and I turned abruptly away.
At the third floor I stepped out and walked across the corridor to my room without glancing once behind. But it was some time before I unpacked my portmanteau, or even thought of dressing. Then I remembered that if they were dining at the hotel I should see them again, and, turning out my clothes at once, I dressed with feverish haste. For the moment I had forgotten all about Count de Cartienne, forgotten even the very purpose of my visit to London. Only one face, linked with a memory, dwelt in my mind and usurped all my thoughts. I felt a strange excitability stealing through my frame, and the fingers which sought to fasten my tie shook so that they failed in their duty. I seemed to have stepped into another state of being.
When I descended into the dining-room it was already almost full, and there were very few empty tables. For a minute or two I stood behind the entrance screen, looking around. Nowhere could I see any sign of the lady whose face had so interested me. Either she was dining away from the hotel or had not yet put in an appearance. Hoping devoutly that the latter was the case, I took possession of a small table laid for three facing the door and ordered my dinner.
I had scarcely finished my soup before an instinctive consciousness that I was being watched made me look quickly up. Standing just inside the room, calmly surveying the assembled guests, and myself in particular, was a tall, distinguished-looking man, perfectly clean-shaven, rather fair than otherwise, with a single eye-glass stuck in his eye, through which he was coolly examining me. He carried an Inverness cape and an opera-hat, and his evening clothes, which fitted him perfectly, were in the best possible taste, even down to the plain gold stud in his shirt front. His age might have been anything from thirty to fifty, for his carriage was perfectly upright, and his hair only slightly streaked with grey. Altogether his appearance was that of a well-turned-out, well-bred man, and as I glanced away I felt a little mild curiosity to know who he was.
He came a few steps farther into the room, and after a moment’s hesitation passed by a larger table laid for six and took the vacant seat at mine. He wished me good-evening in a clear, pleasant voice, with a slight foreign accent, resigned his coat and hat to a more than ordinarily attentive waiter, and drawing a card from his pocket began deliberately to write out his dishes from the menu. Then he shut up his pencil, and leaning back in his chair once more glanced round at the roomful of people. Having apparently satisfied his curiosity, he yawned, and turning towards me, began to talk.
Soon I began to feel myself quite at home with him, and to enjoy my dinner with a greatly-added zest. Indeed, in listening to some of his quaint recitals of adventures at foreign hotels, I almost forgot to watch for the advent of the lady and gentleman for whom I had been looking out so eagerly only a few minutes before.
As it happened, however, I saw them enter, and my attention immediately wandered from the story which my companion was telling.
Something in the fragility of her appearance, and the weight with which she leaned upon her husband’s arm, seemed to mark her as an invalid, and this expression was in a measure heightened by her black lace dress, which, combined with the too perfect complexion and slight figure, gave to her face an almost ethereal expression. As I looked into the deep blue eyes I seemed again to be able to trace that vague likeness to my mother, and I felt my heart beat fast as the impression grew upon me. It was only when my new friend stopped abruptly in his anecdote and looked at me questioningly, that I could withdraw my eyes from her.
“Are they friends of yours who have just come in?” he asked, without turning round.
“No; I never saw them before this afternoon in my life. I wonder if you could tell me who they are?”
He moved his chair a little, so as to be able to do so without rudeness, and looked round. I happened to be watching him, and I saw at once that he recognised them.
Strange to say, the recognition seemed to afford him anything but pleasure; a change passed over his face like a flash of lightning, and although I only just caught it, it made me feel for the moment decidedly uncomfortable. While it lasted the face had not been a pleasant one to look upon. But it was not that alone which troubled me. During the moment that his expression had been transformed, it had given me an odd, disagreeable sense of familiarity.
He was himself again almost immediately—so soon that I could scarcely credit the change—and more than once afterwards I felt inclined to put that evil look and lowering brow down to a trick of my imagination. Even when I had decided to do so, however, I caught myself wondering more than once of whom they had reminded me.
He moved his chair again and went on with his dinner in silence.
“You recognised them?” I ventured to remark,
“Yes,” he answered curtly.
“Would you mind telling me who they are, then?” I persisted. “I feel interested in them.”
He looked up curiously and kept his eyes fixed on me while he answered my question.
“The man is Lord Langerdale, an Irish peer, and the lady with him is his wife.”
“Thank you. The lady’s face reminded me of someone I knew once.”
He removed his eyes and his tone grew lighter.
“Indeed! Rather an uncommon type of face, too. She’s a lovely woman still, though she looks delicate.”
I assented silently. Somehow I did not care to discuss her with this stranger.
“Perhaps you noticed,” he went on, after a short pause, “that it was rather a shock to me to see them here?”
“Yes, I did notice that,” I admitted.
He sighed and looked grave for a moment. Then he poured himself out a glass of champagne and drank it deliberately off.
“It was purely a matter of association,” he said, in a low tone. “A somewhat painful incident in my life was connected with that family, although with no present member of it. Pass the bottle, and let us change the subject.”
We talked of other things, and for a time all my former interest in his piquant anecdotes and trenchant remarks was renewed. But while he was gravely considering with a waiter the relative merits of two brands of claret, I found my eyes wandering to the table at our right, in search of the woman whose face had so attracted me. This time my eyes met hers.
Then a strange thing happened. Instead of looking away at once, she kept her eyes steadily fixed upon me and suddenly gave a distinct start. I saw the colour rush into her face and leave it again almost as swiftly; her thin lips were slightly parted, and her whole expression was one of great agitation. I tried to look away, but I could not; I felt somehow forced to return her steady gaze. But when she turned to her husband and touched him on the arm, evidently to direct his attention to me, the spell was broken, and I moved my chair slightly, making some casual remark to my companion which was sufficient to set the ball of conversation rolling again. But one stolen glance a few moments later showed me that both husband and wife were regarding me attentively, and several times afterwards, when I looked over towards their table, I met Lady Langerdale’s eyes, full of a sad, wistful, and withal puzzled expression which I could not read.
As dinner drew towards a close it occurred to me that myvis-à-vishad studiously avoided turning once towards our neighbours. If he desired to escape recognition, however, he was unsuccessful, for just as we were beginning to think of quitting our places, Lord Langerdale left his seat to speak to some acquaintances at the other end of the room, and on his way back he looked straight into my companion’s face. He started slightly, hesitated, and then came slowly up to our table.
“Eugène!” he exclaimed. “By all that’s wonderful, is it really you? Why, we heard that you had become an Oriental, and forsworn the ways and haunts of civilisation.”
He spoke lightly, but it was easy to see that the meeting was a very embarrassing one for both of them.
“I have not been in England long,” was the quiet reply. “Lady Langerdale, I am glad to see, is well.”
“She is fairly well. How strange that we should meet here! Why, it must be twenty years since I have seen you.”
“I have spent but little time in England.”
“I suppose not,” Lord Langerdale answered slowly. “We have heard of you occasionally. Will you come and speak to my wife?”
“I think not,” was the calm reply. “It could only be very painful for both of us. If Lady Langerdale desires it—not unless—I will call upon you at your rooms. But, frankly, I would rather not.”
Lord Langerdale appeared by no means offended, rather a little relieved, and answered sadly:
“It is for you to choose. If you can tell her that the past has lost some of its bitterness for you, and—and——”
He hesitated and seemed at a loss how to express himself. Myvis-à-vissmiled—a smile of peculiar bitterness it was—and interrupted cynically:
“And that I am a reformed character, I suppose you would say, and have become a respectable member of society! No, no, Lord Langerdale, I am no hypocrite, and I shall never tell her that. A wanderer upon the face of the earth I have been during the best years of my life, and a wanderer I shall always be—adventurer, some people have said. Well, well, let it be so; what matter?”
Lord Langerdale shook his head doubtfully.
“I am sorry to hear you talk so, Eugène; but of one thing you may always be sure—Elsie and I will never be your judges. If you feel that it will reopen old wounds, stop away; but if not, why, come and see us. You have a young friend with you,” he added, turning slightly towards me and speaking a little more earnestly than the occasion seemed to require.
The man whom he called Eugène shook his head.
“I am not so fortunate,” he said stiffly. “I can claim no more than what on the Continent we call a ‘table acquaintance’ with this young gentleman.”
It might have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that Lord Langerdale looked distinctly disappointed. He bowed courteously to me, however, shook hands with his friend and rejoined his wife. My new acquaintance resumed his former position, and, with it, his old nonchalant manner.
“Your pardon,” he said lightly, “for this long digression. And now tell me,mon ami, shall we spend the evening together? You are a stranger in London, you say; I am not,” he added drily. “Come, shall I be your cicerone?”
I really had nothing else to do, so I assented at once.
“Good! Let us finish the bottle to a pleasant evening. But, ah! I forgot. We must be introduced. The English custom demands it, even though we introduce ourselves. Your name is?”
“Morton,” I answered—“Philip Morton. I haven’t a card.”
“Good! Then, Mr. Philip Morton, permit me the honour of introducing to you—myself. I am called de Cartienne—the Count Eugène de Cartienne—but I do not use the title in this country.”
For a moment or two I remained quite silent, for the simple reason that I was far too astonished to make any remark. My new acquaintance sat looking at me with slightly-raised eyebrows and carelessly toying with his eyeglass; yet, notwithstanding his apparent nonchalance, I felt somehow aware that he was watching me keenly.
“My name appears to be a surprise to you,” he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon my face. “Have you heard it before, may I ask?”
“Yes,” I assented, “one of the fellows down at Borden Tower——”
“What, you know Leonard?” he interrupted. “Egad! how strange! Then you are one of Dr. Randall’s pupils, I suppose?”
“Yes; I have only been there a very short time, though. And Leonard is——”
“My son.”
I looked at him intently. Now that the fact itself had been suggested to me, I could certainly trace come faint likeness. But what puzzled me most was that he seemed also to remind me, although more vaguely, of someone else, whom I could not call to mind at all. Neither did he seem particularly anxious for me to assist him, for, as though somewhat annoyed at my close scrutiny, he rose abruptly to his feet.
“Come, what do you say to cigarettes and coffee? We are outstaying everybody here.”
I followed him downstairs into the smoke-room. We seated ourselves upon a luxurious divan, and the Count immediately began to talk about his son.
“And so you know Leonard? How strange! Do you see much of one another?”
“Naturally, considering that there are only three of us at Dr. Randall’s,” I reminded him.
“Ah, just so! And your other fellow pupil is young Lord Silchester, is he not? Rather an awkward number, three. Do you all chum together pretty well?”
What was I to say? I could not tell him that my relations with his son were decidedly inimical; so, after a moment’s hesitation, I answered a little evasively:
“I’m afraid we’re not a very sociable trio. You see, Cis and I are very keen on out-of-door amusements, and your son rather prefers reading.”
He nodded.
“Yes; I quite understand. You and Lord Silchester are thoroughly English, and essentially so in your tastes and love of sport. Leonard, now, is more than half a foreigner. His mother was an Austrian lady, and I myself am of French extraction. By the by, Mr. Morton, may I ask you a question—in confidence?” he added slowly.
“Certainly.”
“It is about Leonard. I don’t think that you need have any scruples about telling me, for I am his father, you know, and have a certain right to know everything about him.”
He looked at me gravely, as though for confirmation of his words, and I silently expressed my assent. Leonard de Cartienne was nothing to me; and if his father was going to ask me the question which I hoped he was, he should have a straightforward answer.
“I sent my son to Dr. Randall’s,” he began, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “not because he was backward in his studies—for such is not, I believe, the case—but because he has unfortunately inherited a very deplorable taste. I found it out only by accident, and it was a very great shock to me. Leonard is fond—too fond—of playing cards for money. I thought that at Borden Tower he would have no opportunity for indulging this lamentable weakness; but from what I have recently heard about Dr. Randall, it has occurred to me that he is perhaps a little too much of the student and too little of the schoolmaster. You understand me? I mean that he is perhaps so closely wrapped up in his private work, that after the hours which he gives to his pupils for instruction they may secure almost as much liberty as though they were at college.”
“That’s just it,” I answered: “and, M. de Cartienne, now that you have spoken to me of it, I will tell you something. Your son does play a good deal with Lord Silchester. I know that this is so, for I have played myself occasionally.”
“And Lord Silchester wins, I presume?”
Something in the Count’s tone as he asked the question, and something in his face as I glanced up, did not please me. Both seemed to tell the same tale, both somehow seemed to imply that his question to me was altogether sarcastic, and that he knew the contrary to be the case.
It was the first gleam of mistrust which I had felt towards my new acquaintance, and it did not last, for the expression of deep concern and annoyance with which he heard my answer seemed too natural to be assumed.
“On the contrary, your son always wins,” I told him drily.
His finely-pencilled dark eyebrows almost met in a heavy frown, and he threw his cigarette away impatiently.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Morton, for answering my question,” he said; “but I needn’t tell you that I’m very sorry to hear what you say. Something must be done with Mr. Leonard at once.”
He lit another cigarette and threw himself back in a corner of the divan. Then I made up my mind to speak to him on the subject which was uppermost in my mind.
“You know a Mr. Marx, I believe? I was inquiring for him at the hotel office this afternoon, and they told me that you were forwarding his letters. Could you give me his address?”
M. de Cartienne removed his cigarette from his teeth, and looked dubious.
“Yes, I know Marx; know him well,” he admitted; “but your request puts me in rather an awkward position. You see, this is how the matter lies,” he added, leaning forward confidentially. “Marx and I are old friends, and he’s been of great service to me more than once, and never asked for any return. Well, I met him—I won’t say when, but it wasn’t long ago—in Pall Mall, and he hailed me as the very man he was most anxious to meet. We lunched together, and then he told me what he wanted. He was in London for a short while, he said, and wished to remain perfectly incognito. There would be letters for him, he said, at the Metropole. Would I fetch them, and forward them to him at an address which he would give me, on condition that I gave him my word of honour to keep it secret? I asked, naturally, what reason he had for going into hiding; for virtually that is what it seemed to me to be; but he would give me no definite answer. Would I do him this favour or not? he asked. And, remembering the many services which he had rendered me, I found it quite impossible to refuse. That is my position. I’m really extremely sorry not to be able to help you, but you see for yourself that I cannot.”
His tone was perfectly serious and his manner earnest. I had not the faintest shadow of doubt as to his sincerity.
“You can’t help me at all then?” I said, no doubt with some of the disappointment which I felt in my tone.
He looked doubtful.
“Well, I don’t quite know about that,” he said slowly, as though weighing something over in his mind. “Look here, Mr. Morton,” he added, frankly enough, “what do you want with the man? Is it anything unpleasant?”
“Not at all,” I answered. “I do not wish any harm to Mr. Marx unless he deserves it. I want to ask him a few questions, that’s all. Unless the man’s a perfect scoundrel he will be able to answer them satisfactorily, and my having discovered his whereabouts will not harm him. If, on the other hand, he cannot answer those questions, why, then, you may take my word for it, M. de Cartienne, that he’s an unmitigated blackguard, perfectly unworthy of your friendship, and undeserving of the slightest consideration from you.”
M. de Cartienne nodded and leaned forward, with his arm across the divan.
“You put the matter very plainly,” he said, “and what you say is fair enough. I’ll tell you how far I am prepared to help you. I won’t tell you Mr. Marx’s address, because I have pledged my word not to divulge it; but, if you like, I’ll take you where there will be a very fair chance of your seeing him.”
“He is in London, then?”
The Count shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly.
“Permit me to keep my word in the letter, if not in the spirit,” he answered. “I am going to spend my evening in this way; I am going, first of all, to a theatre for an hour or so; then I am going to call at a couple of clubs, and afterwards I am going to a club of a somewhat different sort. If you like to be my companion for the evening I shall be charmed; and if it should happen that we run up against any friend of yours—well, the world is not so very large, after all.”
“Thanks. I’ll come with you with pleasure!” I answered without hesitation.
He stood up underneath the soft glare of the electric light, and as I turned towards him something in his face puzzled me. It was gone directly my eyes met his—gone, but not before it had left a curious impression. It seemed almost as though a triumphant light had flashed for an instant in his bright, steel-coloured eyes.
We passed up the heavily-carpeted steps into the central hall of the hotel. The Count stopped for a moment to inquire for letters at the chief porter’s bureau, and as we turned away we came face to face with Lord Langerdale.
He hesitated when he saw us together, but only for a moment. Then he advanced with a genial smile upon his well-cut, handsome face.
“You’re the very man I wanted to see, de Cartienne,” he said. “I suppose you know your young friend’s name by this time? Will you introduce us?”
The Count looked distinctly annoyed, but he complied at once.
“Lord Langerdale,” he said coldly, “this is Mr. Morton. Mr. Morton—Lord Langerdale.”
Lord Langerdale held out his hand frankly and drew me a little on one side, although not out of the Count’s hearing.
“Mr. Morton,” he said pleasantly, “I am going to make a somewhat extraordinary request. My only excuse for it is a lady’s will, and when you reach my age you will know that it is a thing by no means to be lightly regarded. My wife has been very much impressed by what she terms a marvellous likeness between you and—and a very near relative of hers whom she had lost sight of for a long while. She is most anxious to make your acquaintance. May I have the honour of presenting you to her?”
For a moment my head swam. The likeness of Lady Langerdale to my mother, and then this strange fancy on her part! What if they should be something more than coincidences? The very thought was bewildering. But how could it be? No; the thing was impossible. Still, the request was couched in such terms that there could be but one answer.
“I shall be extremely pleased!” I declared readily.
“Then come into the drawing-room for a few minutes, will you?” Lord Langerdale said. “Good-night, Eugène! No use asking you to join us, I know.”
Count de Cartienne turned on his heel with brow as black as thunder.
“Good-night, Lord Langerdale!” he said stiffly; “Good-night, Mr. Morton!”
“But I am coming with you, you know!” I exclaimed, surprised at his manner. “Couldn’t you wait for me five minutes?”
“It is impossible!” he answered shortly; “we are late already! My carriage must have been waiting half an hour. I had no idea of the time.”
It was rather an embarrassing moment for me. The Count evidently expected me to keep my engagement with him, and would be offended if I did not do so. On the other hand, Lord Langerdale was waiting to take me to his wife, and, from the slight frown with which he was regarding de Cartienne, I judged that he did not approve of his interference.
Inclination prompted me strongly to throw my engagement with the Count to the winds and to place myself under Lord Langerdale’s guidance. But, after all, the sole purpose of my journey to London was to discover Mr. Marx, and if I neglected this opportunity I might lose sight of the only man who could help me in my search. Clearly, therefore, my duty was to fulfil my prior engagement.
“If M. de Cartienne cannot wait,” I said regretfully, “I am afraid, Lord Langerdale, that the pleasure you offer me must be deferred. Would Lady Langerdale allow me to call at your rooms to-morrow?”
Evidently he was displeased, for his manner changed at once.
“I will leave a note for you with the hall porter,” he said. “Good-night.”
I turned away with the Count, who preserved a perfectly unmoved countenance. Before we had taken half a dozen steps, however, he was accosted by a gentleman entering the hotel, and, turning round, he begged me to excuse him for a moment.
I strolled away by myself, waiting. Suddenly, I felt a light touch on my arm, and, looking round, I found Lord Langerdale by my side.
“I just want to ask you a question, Mr. Morton, if you’ll allow me,” he said kindly. “Remember that I’m an old man—old enough to be your father—and a man of the world, and you are a very young one. You won’t mind a word of advice?”
“Most certainly not!” I assured him heartily.
“Well, then, Count de Cartienne is quite a new acquaintance of yours, is he not?”
“I never saw him before this evening,” I admitted.
“And you—pardon me, but you look very young, and a great deal too fresh and healthy for a town man—you don’t know much of London life, do you?”
“Nothing at all,” I answered. “This is my first visit to London, and I only arrived this afternoon.”
Lord Langerdale looked very serious.
“Look here, Mr. Morton,” he said earnestly, “I feel sure from your face that I can trust you, and that what I am going to say you will consider in confidence. I should be the last one to say anything against Eugène de Cartienne, for he received a terrible injury from one of my family, or, rather, my wife’s family, and I fear that has exercised an evil influence over his life. But, all the same, I cannot see you, a youngster, perfectly inexperienced, starting out to spend your first night in town with him without feeling it my duty to tell you that I consider him one of the most unfortunate and most dangerous companions whom you could have chosen. There! I hope you’re not offended?”
“How could I be?” I answered gratefully. “But I am not going out with him from choice, or for the sake of amusement. We are together simply because, as far as I know, he is the only man who can solve a mystery which I have come up to London to try to clear up.”
Lord Langerdale started, and his manner became almost agitated.
“This is most extraordinary!” he declared. “Mr. Morton, you must—ah, here comes de Cartienne!” he broke off in a tone of deep annoyance. “Breakfast with me to-morrow morning at ten—no, nine o’clock!” he added, in a lower key. “I have something most important to say to you.”
I nodded assent and the Count joined us.
There was a faint flush on his pale cheeks and his eyes were flashing brightly, as he looked at us standing close together. It might have been the result of his recent conversation, of course; but, coupled with his frowning brow and quick, suspicious glance, it looked a great deal more like a sudden fit of anger at seeing us engaged in what appeared like a confidential talk. But there was no trace of it in his tone when he addressed us.
“Really, you two might be conspirators,” he said lightly. “Well, Mr. Morton, have you changed your mind, or am I to have the honour of your company this evening?”
“I am ready to start when you are,” I answered. “Good-night once more, Lord Langerdale.”
He shook my hand warmly, nodded to the Count, who returned the salute with a stiff bow, and left us. We descended into the street, and a very small, neat brougham, drawn by a pair of dark, handsome bays, drew up at the entrance. The coachman’s livery was perfectly plain, save that he wore a cockade in his hat, and there was neither coat-of-arms nor crest upon the panel of the door. We stepped inside, and the Count held a speaking-tube for a moment to his mouth while he consulted his watch. There was no footman.
“Frivolity Theatre,” he directed. And we drove off at a smart pace into the Strand.
We reached our destination in a few moments and had no difficulty in obtaining seats. It was all new to me, and I felt a little bewildered as I endeavoured to follow the performance. I soon had enough of that. The piece was a screaming farce, vulgar and stupid.
“I don’t think Mr. Marx is here,” I whispered to de Cartienne.
“I don’t think he is,” was the rejoinder. “I had a good look round for him when we came in. Have you had enough of this performance? If so, we’ll go. I think I know where we shall find Marx.”
“Then let us go at once,” I urged.
We passed out of the theatre into the street, The brougham was there waiting for us.
“Jump in!” said the Count, opening the door. “I’m going to tell the fellow where to drive to.”
I obeyed him, and waited for nearly a minute before he had given his directions and joined me. Then he took his seat by my side and we drove quickly off.
“Why did you not use the speaking-tube?” I asked idly.
He answered without looking at me.
“It is rather an out-of-the-way place,” he said slowly, “and I did not wish the man to make a mistake.”
During the earlier part of the evening, since we had left the hotel, my companion had shown no disposition to talk. On the contrary, his silence amounted almost to moroseness, and he had not always answered my questions. But immediately we had started on this new expedition his manner underwent a complete change. He seemed to lay himself out with feverish eagerness to entertain me and to absorb my attention.
“I hope you’re not tired,” he said suddenly, at the end of one of his anecdotes. “We have rather a long drive before us.”
“Not in the least,” I assured him. “What is the place we are going to?”
“A sort of private club. In confidence, I’ll tell you why it is so far out of the way. Some of the members are fond of playing a little high, and have started a roulette board. That sort of thing is best kept quiet, you know.”
“The place is a gambling-club, then?”
“Something of that sort,” he acknowledged. “I shouldn’t dream of taking you there if it wasn’t for the sake of meeting Marx. You understand?”
“Perfectly, thanks. Save for that reason I shouldn’t think of going.”
“What an infernal night!” he exclaimed, looking out of the carriage for a moment; “almost enough to give one the miserables. Come, we’ll shut it out.” He struck a match and, turning round, lit a lamp which was fixed at the back of the carriage. Then he quietly pulled down the blinds and began to tell me a story, of which I heard not a word. My thoughts were engrossed by another matter. M. de Cartienne’s action, coupled with the strangeness of his manner, could bear but one interpretation.
He had some reason for keeping me as much as possible in the dark as to the route we were taking.
For a few moments I felt, to put it mildly, uneasy. Then several possible explanations of such conduct occurred to me, and my apprehensions grew weaker. What more natural, after all, than that M. de Cartienne should desire to keep secret from me the exact whereabouts of an establishment which, by his own admission, was maintained contrary to the law? The more I considered it, the more reasonable such an explanation appeared to me. I began to wonder, even, that he had not asked me for some pledge of secrecy. But there was time enough for that.
By degrees the rattling of vehicles around us grew less and less, until at last all traffic seemed to have died away. Once, during a pause in the conversation, I raised the blind a little way and looked out. We had left even the region of suburban semi-detached villas; and, blurred though the prospect was by the mud which the fast-rolling wheels drew incessantly into the air and on to the window-panes, I could just distinguish the dim outline of hedges and fields beyond.
I looked at the carriage-clock and found that we had been already an hour and a quarter on our journey. From the furious pace at which we were travelling we must have come nearly fifteen miles.
“This place is a long way out,” I remarked.
The Count laughed and lit a cigarette. “Oh, there’s a good reason for that. But the men don’t drive here from town—at least, not in the winter. There’s a railway-station only a mile away.”
“We’re almost there now, then, I suppose?”
He let the blind up with a spring and looked out.
“Nearer than I imagined,” he remarked. “We shall be there in three minutes.”
He was just drawing in his head when he gave a visible start and leaned right out of the window, with his face upturned to the beating rain, listening intently.
Suddenly he withdrew it, and, snatching at the check-string, pulled it violently. I looked at him in amazement. His face was ghastly pale, but his thin lips were set firmly together and his features rigid with determination. It was the face of a brave, desperate man preparing to meet some terrible danger.
The carriage pulled up with a jerk and he leaped down into the road. He did not speak to me, so, after a second’s hesitation, I followed him and stood by his side. There was no mistaking the sound which had alarmed him. Behind, at no very great distance, was the sound of galloping horses and the rumble of smoothly-turning wheels.
Round the corner it came, a small brougham drawn by a pair of great thoroughbred horses, whose heavy gallop, even at fifty yards’ distance, seemed to shake the ground beneath us. M. de Cartienne snatched one of the carriage-lamps from the bracket and, stepping into the middle of the road, waved it backwards and forwards over his head. His action had the desired effect.
Quivering and plunging with fear, the horses, bathed in foam and mud, came to a standstill before us, and a tall, fair man, with a long fur coat thrown hurriedly over his evening-clothes, leaped out into the road. The Count was by his side in a moment.
I remained a little apart, of course, out of earshot, but with my eyes fixed upon the two men.
They could scarcely have spoken a hundred words before their colloquy was at an end. The new-comer returned to his carriage and M. de Cartienne followed his example. I looked at him as he stepped in, anxious to see what effect the other’s news had had upon him. Apparently it was not so bad as he had feared, for, although he still looked anxious and pale, his face had lost its ghastly hue.
We drove on in the same direction as before. When we had started he turned to me.
“Do you know what a police raid is?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Well, I can’t stop to explain,” he went on rapidly. “Sir Fred—my friend there, has just brought down word of some strange rumours about the clubs to-night. It seems the police have got to hear of this place and are going to pay it an uninvited visit. They won’t be here for an hour, though, so if you like just to come inside and see whether Marx is there or not, you will have time.”
We had turned off the road into a bare, grass-grown avenue, leading up to a red-brick house, unilluminated by a single light.
We were barely a minute driving up this uninviting approach and pulling up at the grim, closed door. The carriage had scarcely come to a standstill before the Count was on the doorstep, fitting a curiously-shaped key into the lock. It yielded at once and we both stepped inside, followed by the man in the fur overcoat, whose carriage had pulled up close behind ours.