When I reached the charming little Surrey village of Bishopstowe, I could see that it bore out Kitwater's description of it. A prettier little place could scarcely have been discovered, with its tree-shaded high-road, its cluster of thatched cottages, its blacksmith's shop, rustic inn with the signboard on a high post before the door, and last but not least, the quaint little church standing some hundred yards back from the main road, and approached from the lych-gate by an avenue of limes.
"Here," I said to myself, "is a place where a man might live to be a hundred, undisturbed by the rush and bustle of the Great World."
That was my feeling then, but since I have come to know it better, and have been permitted an opportunity of seeing for myself something of the inner life of the hamlet, I have discovered that it is only the life of a great city, on a small scale. There is the same keen competition in trade, with the same jealousies and bickerings. However, on this peaceful Sunday morning it struck me as being delightful. There was an old-world quiet about it that was vastly soothing. The rooks cawed lazily in the elms before the church as if they knew it were Sunday morning and a day of rest. A dog lay extended in the middle of the road, basking in the sunshine, a thing which he would not have dared to do on a weekday. Even the little stream that runs under the old stone bridge, which marks the centre of the village, and then winds its tortuous course round the churchyard, through the Squire's park, and then down the valley on its way to the sea, seemed to flow somewhat more slowly than was its wont.
Feeling just in the humour for a little moralizing, I opened the lych-gate and entered the churchyard. The congregation were singing the last hymn, the Old Hundredth, if I remember rightly, and the sound of their united voices fitted perfectly into the whole scheme, giving it the one touch that was lacking. As I strolled along I glanced at the inscriptions on the various tomb-stones, and endeavoured to derive from them some notion of the lives and characters of those whose memories they perpetuated.
"Sacred to the memory of Erasmus Gunning, twenty-seven years Schoolmaster of this Parish. Born 24th of March, 1806, and rested from his labours on September the 19th, 1876." Seating myself on the low wall that surrounded the churchyard, I looked down upon the river, and while so doing, reflected upon Erasmus Gunning. What had he been like, this knight of the ferrule, who for twenty-seven years acted as pedagogue to this tiny hamlet? What good had he done in his world? Had he realized his life's ambition? Into many of the congregation now worshipping yonder he must have driven the three R's, possibly with the assistance of the faithful ferrule aforesaid, yet how many of them gave a thought to his memory! In this case the assertion that he "rested from his labours" was a trifle ambiguous. Consigning poor Erasmus to oblivion, I continued my walk. Presently my eyes caught an inscription that made me halt again. It was dedicated to the "Loving Memory of William Kitwater, and Susan, his wife." I was still looking at it, when I heard a step on the gravel-path behind me, and turning round, I found myself standing face to face with Miss Kitwater. To use the conventional phrase, church had "come out," and the congregation was even now making its way down the broad avenue towards the high-road.
" 'HOW DO YOU DO, MR. FAIRFAX?' SAID MISS KITWATER."
" 'HOW DO YOU DO, MR. FAIRFAX?' SAID MISS KITWATER."
"How do you do, Mr. Fairfax?" said Miss Kitwater, giving me her hand as she spoke. "It is kind indeed of you to come down. I hope you have good news for us?"
"I am inclined to consider it good news myself," I said. "I hope you will think so too."
She did not question me further about it then, but asking me to excuse her for a moment, stepped over the little plot of ground where her dear ones lay, and plucked some of the dead leaves from the flowers that grew upon it. To my thinking she was just what an honest English girl should be; straight-forward and gentle, looking the whole world in the face with frank and honourable simplicity. When she had finished her labour of love, which only occupied her a few moments, she suggested that we should stroll on to her house.
"My uncle will be wondering what has become of me," she said, "and he will also be most anxious to see you."
"He does not accompany you to church then?"
"No," she answered. "He is so conscious of his affliction that he cannot bear it to be remarked. He usually stays at home and walks up and down a path in the garden, brooding, I am afraid, over his treatment by Mr. Hayle. It goes to my heart to see him."
"And Mr. Codd?"
"He, poor little man, spends most of his time reading such works on Archæology as he can obtain. It is his one great study, and I am thankful he has such a hobby to distract his mind from his own trouble."
"Their coming to England must have made a great change in your life," I remarked.
"Ithasmade a difference," she answered. "But one should not lead one's life exactly to please one's self. They were in sore distress, and I am thankful that they came to me, and that I had the power to help them."
This set me thinking. She spoke gravely, and I knew that she meant what she said. But underlying it there was a suggestion that, for some reason or another, she had not been altogether favourably impressed by her visitors. Whether I was right in my suppositions I could not tell then, but I knew that I should in all probability be permitted a better opportunity of judging later on. We crossed the little bridge, and passed along the high road for upwards of a mile, until we found ourselves standing at the entrance to one of the prettiest little country residences it has even been my lot to find. A drive, some thirty yards or so in length, led up to the house and was shaded by overhanging trees. The house itself was of two stories and was covered by creepers. The garden was scrupulously neat, and I fancied that I could detect its mistress's hand in it. Shady walks led from it in various directions, and at the end of one of these I could discern a tall, restless figure, pacing up and down.
"There is my uncle," said the girl, referring to the figure I have just described. "That is his sole occupation. He likes it because it is the only part of the garden in which he can move about without a guide. How empty and hard his life must seem to him, now, Mr. Fairfax?"
"It must indeed," I replied. "To my thinking blindness is one of the worst ills that can happen to a man. It must be particularly hard to one who has led such a vigorous life as your uncle has done."
I could almost have declared that she shuddered at my words. Did she know more about her uncle and his past life than she liked to think about? I remembered one or two expressions he had let fall in his excitement when he had been talking to me, and how I had commented upon them as being strange words to come from the lips of a missionary. I had often wondered whether the story he had told me about their life in China, and Hayle's connection with it, had been a true one. The tenaciousness with which a Chinaman clings to the religion of his forefathers is proverbial, and I could not remember having ever heard that a Mandarin, or an official of high rank, had been converted to the Christian Faith. Even if he had, it struck me as being highly improbable that he would have been the possessor of such princely treasure, and even supposing that to be true, that he would, at his death, leave it to such a man as Kitwater. No, I fancied if we could only get at the truth of the story, we should find that it was a good deal more picturesque, not to use a harsher term, than we imagined. For a moment I had almost been tempted to believe that the stones were Hayle's property, and that these two men were conducting their crusade with the intention of robbing him of them. Yet, on maturer reflection, this did not fit in. There was the fact that they had certainly been mutilated as they described, and also their hatred of Hayle to be weighed in one balance, while Hayle's manifest fear of them could be set in the other.
"If I am not mistaken that is your step, Mr. Fairfax," said the blind man, stopping suddenly in his walk, and turning his sightless face in my direction. "It's wonderful how the loss of one's sight sharpens one's ears. I suppose you met Margaret on the road."
"I met Miss Kitwater in the churchyard," I replied.
"A very good meeting-place," he chuckled sardonically. "It's where most of us meet each other sooner or later. Upon my word, I think the dead are luckier than the living. In any case they are more fortunate than poor devils like Codd and myself. But I am keeping you standing, won't you sit down somewhere and tell me your news? I have been almost counting the minutes for your arrival. I know you would not be here to-day unless you had something important to communicate to me. You have found Hayle?"
He asked the question with feverish eagerness, as if he hoped within a few hours to be clutching at the other's throat. I could see that his niece noticed it too, and that she recoiled a little from him in consequence. I thereupon set to work and told them of all that had happened since I had last seen them, described my lucky meeting with Hayle at Charing Cross, my chase after him across London, the trick he had played me at Foxwell's Hotel, and my consequent fruitless journey to Southampton.
"And he managed to escape you after all," said Kitwater. "That man would outwit the Master of all Liars Himself. He is out of England by this time, and we shall lose him."
"He has not escaped me," I replied quietly. "I know where he is, and I have got a man on his track."
"Then where is he?" asked Kitwater. "If you know where he is, you ought to be with him yourself instead of down here. You are paid to conduct the case. How do you know that your man may not bungle it, and that we may not lose him again?"
His tone was so rude and his manner so aggressive, that his niece was about to protest. I made a sign to her, however, not to do so.
"I don't think you need be afraid, Mr. Kitwater," I said more soothingly than I felt. "My man is a very clever and reliable fellow, and you may be sure that, having once set eyes on Mr. Hayle, he will not lose sight of him again. I shall leave for Paris to-morrow morning, and shall immediately let you know the result of my search. Will that suit you?"
"It will suit me when I get hold of Hayle," he replied. "Until then I shall know no peace. Surely you must understand that?"
Then, imagining perhaps, that he had gone too far, he began to fawn upon me, and what was worse praised my methods of elucidating a mystery. I cannot say which I disliked the more. Indeed, had it not been that I had promised Miss Kitwater to take up the case, and that I did not want to disappoint her, I believe I should have abandoned it there and then, out of sheer disgust. A little later our hostess proposed that we should adjourn to the house, as it was nearly lunch-time. We did so, and I was shown to a pretty bedroom to wash my hands. It was a charming apartment, redolent of the country, smelling of lavender, and after London, as fresh as a glimpse of a new life. I looked about me, took in the cleanliness of everything, and contrasted it with my own dingy apartments at Rickford's Hotel, where the view from the window was not of meadows and breezy uplands, but of red roofs, chimney-pots, and constantly revolving cowls. I could picture the view from this window in the early morning, with the dew upon the grass, and the blackbirds whistling in the shrubbery. I am not a vain man, I think, but at this juncture I stood before the looking-glass and surveyed myself. For the first time in my life I could have wished that I had been better-looking. At last I turned angrily away.
"What a duffer I am to be sure!" I said to myself. "If I begin to get notions like this in my head there is no knowing where I may end. As if any girl would ever think twice about me!"
Thereupon I descended to the drawing-room, which I found empty. It was a true woman's room, daintily furnished, with little knick-knacks here and there, a work-basket put neatly away for the Sabbath, and an open piano with one of Chopin's works upon the music-rest. Leading out of the drawing-room was a small conservatory, filled with plants. It was a pretty little place and I could not refrain from exploring it. I am passionately fond of flowers, but my life at that time was not one that permitted me much leisure to indulge in my liking. As I stood now, however, in the charming place, among the rows of neatly-arranged pots, I experienced a sort of waking dream. I seemed to see myself standing in this very conservatory, hard at work upon my flowers, a pipe in my mouth and my favourite old felt hat upon my head. Crime and criminals were alike forgotten; I no longer lived in a dingy part of the Town, and what was better than all I had----
"Do you know I feel almost inclined to offer you the proverbial penny," said Miss Kitwater's voice behind me, at the drawing-room door. "Is it permissible to ask what you were thinking about?"
I am not of course prepared to swear it, but I honestly believe for the first time for many years, I blushed.
"I was thinking how very pleasant a country life must be," I said, making the first excuse that came to me. "I almost wish that I could lead one."
"Then why don't you? Surely it would not be so very difficult?"
"I am rather afraid it would," I answered. "And yet I don't know why it should be."
"Perhaps Mrs. Fairfax would not care about it," she continued, as we returned to the drawing-room together.
"Good gracious!" I remarked. "There is no Mrs. Fairfax. I am the most confirmed of old bachelors. I wonder you could not see that. Is not the wordcrustinesswritten plainly upon my forehead?"
"I am afraid I cannot see it," she answered. "I am not quite certain who it was, but I fancy it was my uncle who informed me that you were married."
"It was very kind of him," I said. "But it certainly is not the case. I fear my wife would have rather a lonely time of it if it were. I am obliged to be away from home so much, you see, and for so long at a time."
"Yours must be indeed a strange profession, Mr. Fairfax, if I may say so," she continued. "Some time ago I came across an account, in a magazine, of your life, and the many famous cases in which you had taken part."
"Ah! I remember the wretched thing," I said. "I am sorry that you should ever have seen it."
"And why should you be sorry?"
"Because it is a silly thing, and I have always regretted allowing the man to publish it. He certainly called upon me and asked me a lot of questions, after which he went away and wrote that article. Ever since then I have felt like a conceited ass, who tried to make himself out more clever than he really was."
"I don't think you would do that," she said. "But, if you will let me say so, yours must be a very trying life, and also an extremely dangerous one. I am afraid you must look upon human nature from a very strange point of view!"
"Not more strange probably than you do," I answered.
"But you are continually seeing the saddest side of it. To you all the miseries that a life of crime entails, are visible. The greater part of your time is spent among desperate men who are without hope, and to whom even their own shadows are a constant menace. I wonder that you still manage to retain your kind heart."
"But how do you know that my heart is kind?" I inquired.
"If for no other reason, simply because you have taken up my uncle's case," she answered. "Do you think when he was so rude to you just now, that I could not see that you pitied him, and for that reason you forbore to take advantage of your power? I know you have a kind heart."
"And you find it difficult to assimilate that kind heart with the remorseless detective of Public Life?"
"I find it difficult to recognize in you the man who, on a certain notable occasion, went into a thieves' den in Chicago unaccompanied, and after a terrible struggle in which you nearly lost your life, succeeded in effecting the arrest of a notorious murderer."
At that moment the gong in the hall sounded for lunch, and I was by no means sorry for the interruption. We found Kitwater and Codd awaiting our coming in the dining-room, and we thereupon sat down to the meal. When we left the room again, we sat in the garden and smoked, and later in the afternoon, my hostess conducted me over her estate, showed me her vineries, introduced me to her two sleek Jerseys, who had their home in the meadow I had seen from the window; to her poultry, pigs, and the pigeons who came fluttering about her, confident that they would come to no harm. Meanwhile her uncle had resumed his restless pacing up and down the path on which I had first seen him, Codd had returned to his archaeological studies, and I was alone with Miss Kitwater. We were standing alone together, I remember, at the gate that separated the garden from the meadowland. I knew as well as possible, indeed I had known it since we had met in the churchyard that morning, that she had something to say to me, something concerning which she had not quite made up her mind. What it was, however, I fancied I could hazard a very good guess, but I was determined not to forestall her, but to wait and let her broach it to me in her own way. This, I fancied, she was now about to do.
"Mr. Fairfax," she began, resting her clasped hands upon the bar of the gate as she spoke, "I want, if you will allow me, to have a serious talk with you. I could not have a better opportunity than the present, and, such as it is, I want to make the best of it."
"I am quite at your service, Miss Kitwater," I replied, "and if I can be of any use to you I hope you will tell me. Pray let me know what I can do for you?"
"It is about my uncle and Mr. Codd that I want to speak to you," she said, sinking her voice a little, as if she were afraid they might hear.
"And what about them?"
"I want to be loyal to them, and yet I want to know what you think of the whole affair," she said, looking intently at me as she spoke. "Believe me, I have good and sufficient reasons for my request."
"I am to tell exactly what I think about their pursuit of this man Hayle? And what chances of success I think they possess?" I said.
"I am not thinking so much of their success," she returned, "as of the real nature of their case."
"I believe I understand what is passing in your mind," I said. "Indeed I should not be surprised if the suspicion you entertain is not the same as I have myself."
"You have been suspicious then?"
"I could scarcely fail to be," I replied.
"Perhaps you will tell me what you suspect?"
"Will you forgive me, in my turn, if I am abrupt, or if I speak my mind a little too plainly?"
"You could not do that," she answered with a sigh. "I want to know your exact thoughts, and then I shall be able to form my own conclusions."
"Well," I said, "before I begin, may I put one or two questions to you? You will, of course, remember that I had never seen or heard of your uncle and Mr. Codd until they stopped me on Ludgate Hill. They were and practically are strangers to me. I have heard their story of their treasure, but I have not heard what any one else has to say upon the subject."
"I think I understand. Now what are your questions?"
"In the first place, did your late father ever speak to you of his brother as being a missionary in China?"
She shook her head, and from the look upon her face I could see that I had touched upon something painful. This, at least, was one of the things that had struck her as suspicious.
"If he were a missionary, I am quite sure my father did not know it," she said. "In fact I always understood that he was somewhat of a scapegrace, and in consequence could never settle down to anything. That is your first, now what is your second question, Mr. Fairfax?"
I paused for a moment before I replied.
"My second partakes more of the nature of an assertion than a question," I answered. "As I read it, you are more afraid of what may happen should the two men meet than anything else."
"Yes, that is just what Iamafraid of," she replied. "My uncle's temper is so violent, and his desire for revenge so absorbing, that I dare not think what would happen if he came into actual contact with Hayle. Now that I have replied to your questions, will you give me the answer I want? That is to say will you tell me what you think of the whole affair?"
"If you wish it, I will," I said slowly. "You have promised to permit me to be candid, and I am going to take advantage of that permission. In my own mind I do not believe the story they tell. I do not believe that they were ever missionaries, though we have convincing proofs that they have been in the hands of the Chinese. That Hayle betrayed them I have not the least doubt, it seems consistent with his character, but where they obtained the jewels, that are practically the keystones to the whole affair, I have no more notion than you. They may have been honestly come by, or they may not. So far as the present case is concerned that fact is immaterial. There is still, however, one vital point we have to consider. If the gems in question belong equally to the three men, each is entitled to his proper share, either of the stones or of the amounts realized by the sale. That share, as you already know, would amount to a considerable sum of money. Your uncle, I take it, has not a penny-piece in the world, and his companion is in the same destitute condition. Now we will suppose that I find Hayle for them, and they meet. Does it not seem to you quite possible that your uncle's rage might lead him to do something desperate, in order to revenge himself upon the other? But if he could command himself he would probably get his money? If, on the other hand, they do not meet, then what is to be done? Forgive me, Miss Kitwater, for prying into your private affairs, but in my opinion it is manifestly unfair that you should have to support these two men for the rest of their existences."
"You surely must see that I would rather do that than let my father's brother commit a crime," she returned, more earnestly than she had yet spoken.
The position was decidedly an awkward one. It was some proof of the girl's sterling qualities that she should be prepared to make such a sacrifice for the sake of a man whom it was certainly impossible to love, and for that reason even to respect. I looked at her with an admiration in my face that I did not attempt to conceal. I said nothing by way of praise, however. It would have been an insult to her to have even hinted at such a thing.
"Pardon me," I said at last, "but there is one thing that must be taken into consideration. Some day, Miss Kitwater, you may marry, and in that case your husband might not care about the arrangement you have made. Such things have happened before now."
She blushed a rosy red and hesitated before she replied.
"I do not consider it very likely that I shall ever marry," she answered. "And even if I did I should certainly not marry a man who would object to my doing what I consider to be my duty. And now that we have discussed all this, Mr. Fairfax, what do you think we had better do? I understood you to say to my uncle that you intend leaving for Paris to-morrow morning, in order to continue your search for the man Hayle. Supposing you find him, what will you do then?"
"In such a case," I said slowly, looking at her all the time, "I should endeavour to get your uncle's and Codd's share of the treasure from him. If I am successful, then I shall let him go where he pleases."
"And supposing you are unsuccessful in obtaining the money or the gems?"
"Then I must endeavour to think of some other way," I replied, "but somehow I do not think I shall be unsuccessful."
"Nor do I," she answered, looking me full and fair in the face. "I fancy you know that I believe in you most implicitly, Mr. Fairfax."
"In that case, do you mind shaking hands upon it?" I said.
"I will do so with much pleasure," she answered. "You cannot imagine what a weight you have lifted off my mind. I have been so depressed about it lately that I have scarcely known what to do. I have lain awake at night, turning it over and over in my mind, and trying to convince myself as to what was best to be done. Then my uncle told me you were coming down here, and I resolved to put the case before you as I have done and to ask your opinion."
She gave me her little hand, and I took it and held it in my own. Then I released it and we strode back along the garden-path together without another word. The afternoon was well advanced by this time, and when we reached the summer-house, where Codd was still reading, we found that a little wicker tea-table had been brought out from the house and that chairs had been placed for us round it. To my thinking there is nothing that becomes a pretty woman more than the mere commonplace act of pouring out tea. It was certainly so in this case. When I looked at the white cloth upon the table, the heavy brass tray, and the silver jugs and teapot, and thought of my own cracked earthenware vessel, then reposing in a cupboard in my office, and in which I brewed my cup of tea every afternoon, I smiled to myself. I felt that I should never use it again without recalling this meal. After that I wondered whether it would ever be my good fortune to sit in this garden again, and to sip my Orange Pekoe from the same dainty service. The thought that I might not do so was, strangely enough, an unpleasant one, and I put it from me with all promptness. During the meal, Kitwater scarcely uttered a word. We had exhausted the probabilities of the case long since, and I soon found that he could think or talk of nothing else. At six o'clock I prepared to make my adieux. My train left Bishopstowe for London at the half-hour, and I should just have time to walk the distance comfortably. To my delight my hostess decided to go to church, and said she would walk with me as far as the lych-gate. She accordingly left us and went into the house to make her toilet. As soon as she had gone Kitwater fumbled his way across to where I was sitting, and having discovered a chair beside me, seated himself in it.
"Mr. Fairfax," said he, "I labour under the fear that you cannot understand my position. Can you realize what it is like to feel shut up in the dark, waiting and longing always for only one thing? Could you not let me come to Paris with you to-morrow?"
"Impossible," I said. "It is out of the question. It could not be thought of for a moment!"
"But why not? I can see no difficulty in it?"
"If for no other reason because it would destroy any chance of my even getting on the scent. I should be hampered at every turn."
He heaved a heavy sigh.
"Blind! blind!" he said with despair in his voice. "But I know that I shall meet him some day, and when I do----"
His ferocity was the more terrible by reason of his affliction.
"Only wait, Mr. Kitwater," I replied. "Wait, and if I can help you, you shall have your treasure back again. Will you then be satisfied?"
"Yes, I'll be satisfied," he answered, but with what struck me as almost reluctance. "Yes, when I have my treasure back again I'll be satisfied, and so will Codd. In the meantime I'll wait here in the dark, the dark in which the days and nights are the same. Yes, I'll wait and wait and wait."
At that moment Miss Kitwater made her reappearance in the garden, and I rose to bid my clients farewell.
"Good-bye, Mr. Kitwater," I said. "I'll write immediately I reach Paris, and let you know how I am getting on."
"You are very kind," Kitwater answered, and Codd nodded his head.
My hostess and I then set off down the drive to the righ road which we followed towards the village. It was a perfect evening, and the sun was setting in the west in a mass of crimson and gold. At first we talked of various commonplace subjects, but it was not very long before we came back, as I knew we should do, to the one absorbing topic.
"There is another thing I want to set right with you, Miss Kitwater," I said, as we paused upon the bridge to which I have elsewhere referred. "It is only a small matter. Somehow, however, I feel that I must settle it, before I can proceed further in the affair with any satisfaction to myself."
She looked at me in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked, "I thought we had settled everything."
"So far as I can see that is the only matter that remains," I answered. "Yet it is sufficiently important to warrant my speaking to you about it. What I want to know is, who I am serving?"
"I don't think I understand," she said, drawing lines with her umbrella upon the stone coping of the bridge as she spoke.
"And yet my meaning is clear," I returned. "What I want to be certain of is, whether I am serving you or your uncle?"
"I don't think you areservingeither of us," she answered. "You are helping us to right a great wrong."
"Forgive me, but that is merely trifling with words. I am going to be candid once more. You are paying the money, I believe?"
In some confusion she informed me that this certainly was the case.
"Very well, then, I am certainly your servant," I said. "It is your interests I shall have to study."
"I can trust them implicitly to you, I am sure, Mr. Fairfax," she replied. "And now here we are at the church. If you walk quickly you will be just in time to catch your train. Let me thank you again for coming down to-day."
"It has been a great pleasure to me," I replied. "Perhaps when I return from Paris you will permit me to come down again to report progress?"
"We shall be very pleased to see you," she answered. "Now, good-bye, and a pleasant journey to you!"
We shook hands and parted. As I passed along the road I watched her making her way along the avenue towards the church. There was need for me to shake my head.
"George Fairfax," said I, "it would require very little of that young lady's society to enable you to make a fool of yourself."
Unlike so many of my countrymen I am prepared to state that I detest the French capital. I always make my visits to it as brief as possible, then, my business completed, off I fly again, seeming to breathe more freely when I am outside its boundaries. I don't know why this should be so, for I have always been treated with the utmost courtesy and consideration by its inhabitants, particularly by those members of the French Detective Force with whom I have been brought in contact.
On this visit I crossed with one of the cleverest Parisian detectives, a man with whom I have had many dealings. He was most anxious to ascertain the reason of my visit to his country. My assurance that I was not in search of any one of his own criminals seemed to afford him no sort of satisfaction. He probably regarded it as an attempt to put him off the scent, and I fancy he resented it. We reached Paris at seven o'clock, whereupon I invited him to dine with me at eight o'clock, at a restaurant we had both patronized on many previous occasions. He accepted my invitation, and promised to meet me at the time and place I named. On the platform awaiting our arrival was my man Dickson, to whom I had telegraphed, ordering him to meet me.
"Well, Dickson," I said, when I had bade the detectiveau revoir, "what about our man?"
"I've had him under my eye, sir," he answered. "I know exactly what he's been doing, and where he's staying."
"That's good news indeed," I replied. "Have you discovered anything else about him?"
"Yes, sir," he returned. "I find that he's struck up a sudden acquaintance with a lady named Mademoiselle Beaumarais, and that they are to dine together at the Café des Ambassadeurs to-night. They have been in and out of half the jewellers' shops in the Rue de la Paix to-day, and he's spending a mint of money on her."
"They are dining at the Café des Ambassadeurs to-night, did you say? At what time?"
"I cannot tell you that, sir," Dickson replied. "I only know that they are to dine there together to-night."
"And pray how did you find that out?"
"I made inquiries as to who she was, where she lived, and then pumped her maid," he answered.
"You did not do anything that would excite his suspicions, I hope," I put in. "You ought to know by this time what women are."
"Oh, no, sir, you needn't be afraid," he said. "I was too careful for that. The maid and I are on very friendly terms. She believes me to be a Russian, and I've not denied it."
"It would be safest not to do so," I replied. "If she discovers that you are an Englishman, she might chance to mention the fact to her mistress. She would doubtless let it fall in conversation with him, and then all our trouble would be useless. You speak Russian, do you not?"
"Only pretty well, sir," he answered. "I should be soon bowled out if I came in contact with a real one."
"Well, I think I will be somewhere near the Café des Ambassadeurs to-night just to make sure of my man. After that I'll tell you what to do next."
"Very good, sir," he returned. "I suppose you will be staying at the same place?"
"Yes, the same place," I replied. "If you have anything to communicate, you can either call, or send word to me there."
I thereupon departed for the quiet house at which I usually take up my abode when in Paris. The big hotels are places I steer clear of, for the simple reason that I often have business in connection with them, and it does not pay me to become too well known. At this little house I can go out and come in just as I please, have my meals at any time of the day or night, and am as well cared for as at my own abode in London. On this occasion the old lady of the house greeted me with flattering enthusiasm. She had received my telegram, she said, and my usual room awaited me. I accordingly ascended to it in order to dress myself for the dinner of the evening, and as I did so, thought of the pretty bedroom I had seen on the previous day, which naturally led me to think of the owner of the house, at that moment my employer. In my mind's eye I could see her just as she had stood on that old stone bridge at Bishopstowe, with the sunset behind her and the church bells sounding across the meadows, calling the villagers to evensong. How much better it was, I argued, to be standing talking to her there in that old world peace, than to be dressing for a dinner at an up-to-date French restaurant. My toilet completed, I descended to the street, hired afiacre, and drove to the restaurant where I had arranged to meet my friend. The place in question is neither an expensive nor a fashionable one. It has no halls of mirrors, no dainty little cabinets, but, to my thinking, you can obtain the best dinner in all Paris there. On reaching it I found my guest had been the first to arrive. We accordingly ascended the stairs to the room above, where we selected our table and sat down. My companion was a witty little man with half the languages of Europe on his tongue, and a knowledge of all the tricks and dodges of all the criminal fraternity at his finger-ends. He has since written a book on his experiences, and a stranger volume, or one more replete with a knowledge of the darker side of human nature it would be difficult to find. He had commenced his professional career as a doctor, and like myself had gradually drifted into the detective profession. Among other things he was an inimitable hand at disguising himself, as many a wretched criminal now knows to his cost. Even I, who know him so well, have been taken in by him. I have given alms to a blind beggar in the streets, have encountered him as achiffonierprowling about the gutters, have sat next to him on an omnibus when he has been clothed as an artisan in a blue blouse, and on not one of those occasions have I ever recognized him until he made himself known to me. Among other things he was a decided epicure, and loved a good dinner as well as any of his compatriots. Could you but see him with his napkin tucked under his chin, his little twinkling eyes sparkling with mirth, and his face wreathed in smiles, you would declare him to be one of the jolliest-looking individuals you have ever encountered. See him, however, when he is on business and has a knotty problem to solve, and you will find a different man. The mouth has become one of iron, the eyes are as fierce as fierce can be. Some one, I remember, likened him to the great Napoleon, and the description is an exceedingly apt one.
"By the way," I said, as we took a peep into our second bottle of Perrier-Jouet, "there is a question I want to put to you. Do you happen to be acquainted with a certain Mademoiselle Beaumarais?"
"I have known her for more years than she or I would care to remember," he answered. "For a woman who has led the life she has, she wears uncommonly well. A beautiful creature! The very finest shoulders in all Paris, and that is saying something."
He blew a kiss off the tips of his fingers, and raised his glass in her honour.
"I drink to her in this noble wine, but I do not let her touch my money. Oh no,la belle Louiseis a clever woman, a very clever woman, but money trickles through her fingers like water through a sieve. Let me think for a moment. She ruined the Marquis D'Esmai, the Vicomte Cotforét, Monsieur D'Armier, and many others whose names I cannot now recall. The first is with our noble troops in Cochin China, the second is in Algeria, and the third I know not where, and now I have learnt since my arrival in Paris that she has got hold of a young Englishman, who is vastly wealthy. She will have all he has got very soon, and then he will begin the world anew. You are interested in that Englishman, of course?"
"How do you know that?"
"Because you question me about Mademoiselle Beaumarais," he answered. "A good many people have asked me about her at different times, but it is always the man they want to get hold of. You, my astute Fairfax, are interested in the man, not because you want to save him from her, but because he has done a little something which he should not have done elsewhere. The money he is lavishing on Mademoiselle Louise, whence does it come? Should I be very wrong if I suggested gems?"
I gave a start of surprise. How on earth did he guess this?
"Yes! I see I'm right," he answered with a little laugh. "Well, I knew it a long time ago. Ah, you are astonished! You should surely never allow yourself to be surprised by anything. Now I will tell you how I come to know about the gems. Some time ago a certain well-known lady of this city lost her jewel-case in a mysterious manner. The affair was placed in my hands, and when I had exhausted Paris, I went to Amsterdam,en routeif necessary for London. You know our old friends, Levenstein and Schartzer?"
I nodded. I had had dealings with that firm on many occasions.
"Well, as I went into their office, I saw the gentleman who has been paying his attentions to the lady we have been discussing, come out. I have an excellent memory for faces, and when I saw him to-night entering the Café des Ambassadeurs, I recognized him immediately. Thus the mystery is explained."
He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands apart, like a conjurer who has just vanished a rabbit or an orange.
"Has the man of whom we are speaking done very wrong?" he inquired.
"The stones he sold in London and Amsterdam belonged to himself and his two partners," I answered. "He has not given them their share of the transaction. That is all."
"They had better be quick about it then, or they are not likely to get anything. It would be a very big sum that would temptla belle Louiseto be faithful for a long period. If your employers really desire to punish him, and they are not in want of money, I should say do not let them interfere. She will thennibble-nibbleat what he has got like a mouse into a store of good things. Then presently that store will be all gone, and then she will give him up, and he, the man, will go out and shoot himself, and she will pick up somebody else, and will begin to nibble-nibble just as before. As I say, there will be somebody else, and somebody else, right up to the end of the chapter. And with every one she will grow just an imperceptible bit older. By and by the wrinkles will appear; I fancy there are just one or two already. Then she will not be so fastidious about her hundred of thousand francs, and will condescend to think of mere thousands. After that it will come to simple hundreds. Then there will be an interval—after which a garret, a charcoal brazier, and the Morgue. I have known so many, and it is always the same. First, the diamonds, the champagne, the exquisite little dinners at the best restaurants, and at last the brazier, the closed doors and windows, and the cold stone slab. There is a moral in it, my dear friend, but we will not look for it to-night. When do you intend to commence business with your man?"
"At once," I answered. "He knows that I am after him and my only fear is that he will make a bolt. I cannot understand why he is dallying in Paris so long?"
"For the simple reason that he is confident he has put you off the scent," was my companion's reply. "He is doing the one foolish thing the criminal always does sooner or later; that is to say, he is becoming over-confident of his own powers to elude us. You and I, my friend, should be able to remember several such instances. Now, strange to say, I came across a curious one the other day. Would you care to hear it?"
He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke while he waited for my answer.
"Very much," I said, being well aware that his stories were always worth hearing.
"This is a somewhat remarkable case," he said. "I will mention no names, but doubtless you can read between the lines. There was a man who murdered his wife in order that he might marry another woman. The thought which he gave to it, and the clever manner in which he laid his plans, not only for the murder, but also for the disposal of the body, marked him as a criminal in the possession of a singularly brilliant intellect. He gave no hint to anybody, but left the country without leaving the faintest clue concerning his destination behind him. I was called in to take over the case, but after some consideration could make nothing of it. I have no objection to admitting that I was completely baffled. Now it so happened that I discovered that the man's mother was of Irish extraction. He, believing that he would be safe on that island, engaged a passage on board a steamer from Havre to Belfast. She was to pick up at Southampton, Plymouth, and Bristol,en route. My man, who, by the way, was a very presentable person, and could be distinctly sociable when he pleased, endeavoured to make himself agreeable to the passengers on board. On the first evening out of port, the conversation turned upon the value of diamonds, and one of the ladies on board produced some costly stones she happened to have in her possession. The murderer, who, you must understand, was quite safe, was unhappily eaten up with vanity. He could not forego the boast that he was the possessor of a magnificent ring, which had been given him by the ex-Emperor Napoleon III. Needless to say this information excited considerable interest, and he was asked to produce it for the general edification.
"He declared that it was too late to do so that evening, but said that he would do so on the morrow, or, at any rate, before he left the vessel. In the excitement of reaching Southampton the matter was for the moment forgotten, but on the day that they arrived in Plymouth one of the lady passengers reminded him of his promise. This was followed by another application. Thus surrounded, the unhappy man found himself in the unpleasant position of being discovered in the perpetration of an untruth, or of being compelled to invent some feasible tale in order to account for his not being able to produce the ring. It was at this juncture that he made his great mistake. Anxious, doubtless, to attract attention, he returned from his cabin with the astounding declaration that the lock had been forced, and the famous ring stolen from his trunk in which it had lain concealed. He certainly acted his part well, but he did not realize to what consequences it would lead. The matter was reported to the police, and a search was made through the vessel. The passengers were naturally indignant at such treatment, and for the rest of the voyage the man found himself taking, what you English 'call the cold shoulder.' He reached Belfast, made his way into the country, and presently settled down. Later on, when the pursuit had died down, it was his intention to ship for America, where he was to be joined by the woman, to obtain whom he had in the first place committed the crime. Now observe the result. Photographs of the missing man and the murdered woman were circulated all through France, while not a few were sent to England. One of these pictures reached Plymouth, where it was shown to the officer who had investigated the case on the boat on its way to Ireland. He immediately recognized the man who had made the charge against his fellow-passengers. After that it was easy to trace him to Belfast and his hiding-place on land. Extradition was, of course, granted, and he left the place. Had he not imagined that in his safety he could indulge his vanities, I confidently believe I should never have found him. When you come to think of it, it is hard to come to the guillotine for a diamond that never existed, is it not?"
I agreed with him, and then suggested that we should amuse ourselves by endeavouring to find out how the dinner at the Café des Ambassadeurs was progressing.
"They will proceed to a theatre afterwards, you may be sure," my companion said. "In that case, if you like we could catch a glimpse of them as they come out. What do you say?"
I answered that I had not the least objection.
"One night does not make much difference. To-morrow morning I shall make a point of meeting him face to face."
"Should you require my assistance then, I shall be most pleased to give it to you?" my companion replied.
I thanked him for his offer, and then we left the restaurant together, hailed a cab, and drove to his flat. It consisted of four rooms situated at the top of a lofty block of buildings near the river. From his windows he could look out over Paris, and he was wont to declare that the view he received in exchange was the most beautiful in the world. Fine as it was, I was scarcely so enthusiastic in my praise.
Among other things they were remarkable for the simplicity of their furniture, and also for the fact that in the sitting-room there was nothing to reveal the occupation of their owner. His clever old servant, Susanne, of whom 'twas said she would, did she but choose, make as clever a detective as her master (she had served him for more than forty years), brought us coffee so quickly that it would almost seem as if she had been aware that we should reach the house at that particular moment.
"We have plenty of time to spare," said my host. "In the meantime it will be necessary for us to find out what they are doing. If you will wait I will despatch a messenger, who will procure us the information."
He wrote something on a half-sheet of note-paper, rang the bell, and handed it to Susanne.
"Give that to Leon," he said, "and tell him to be off with it at once."
The woman disappeared, and when she had gone we resumed our conversation. Had he not had the good fortune to be such a great success in his own profession, what an admirable actor the man would have made! His power of facial contortion was extraordinary, and I believe that on demand he could have imitated almost any face that struck his fancy.
"And now with regard to our little excursion," he said. "What would you like to be? As you are aware, I can offer you a varied selection. Will you be a workman, a pedlar, an elderly gentleman from the Provinces, or a street beggar?"
"I think the elderly gentleman from the Provinces would suit me best," I answered, "while it will not necessitate a change of dress."
"Very good then, so it shall be," he replied. "We'll be a couple of elderly gentlemen in Paris for the first time. Let me conduct you to my dressing-room, where you will find all that is necessary for your make-up."
He thereupon showed me to a room leading out of that in which we had hitherto been sitting. It was very small, and lighted by means of a skylight. Indeed, it was that very skylight, so he always declared, that induced him to take the flat.
"If this room looked out over the back, or front, it would have been necessary for me either to have curtains, which I abominate, or to run the risk of being observed, which would have been far worse," he had remarked to me once. "Needless to say there are times when I find it most necessary that my preparations should not be suspected."
Taken altogether, it was a room that had a strange fascination for me. I had been in it many times before, but was always able to discover something new in it. It was a conglomeration of cupboards and shelves. A large variety of costumes hung upon the pegs in the walls, ranging from soldier's uniforms to beggar's rags. There were wigs of all sorts and descriptions on blocks, pads of every possible order and for every part of the body, humps for hunchbacks, wooden legs, boots ranging from the patent leather of the dandy to the toeless foot-covering of the beggar. There were hats in abundance, from the spotless silk to the most miserable head coverings, some of which looked as if they had been picked up from the rubbish-heap. There were pedlars' trays fitted with all and every sort of ware, a faro-table, a placard setting forth the fact that the renowned Professor Somebody or Other was a most remarkable phrenologist and worthy of a visit. In fact there was no saying what there was not there. Everything that was calculated to be useful to him in his profession was to be found in the room.
For my own part I am not fond of disguises. Indeed on only two or three occasions, during the whole course of my professional career, have I found it necessary to conceal my identity. But to this wily little Frenchman disguise was, as often as not, a common occurrence.
Half-an-hour later, two respectable elderly gentlemen, looking more like professors from some eminentLycéethan detectives, left the house and proceeded in the direction of the Folly Theatre. The performance was almost at an end when we reached it, and we mingled with the crowd who had assembled to watch the audience come out. The inquiries we had made proved to be correct, and it was not very long before I saw the man I wanted emerge, accompanied by a female, who could be no other than Mademoiselle Beaumarais. Hayle was in immaculate evening dress, and as I could not but admit, presented a handsome figure to the world. A neat little brougham drew up beside the pavement in its turn, and into this they stepped. Then the door was closed upon them, and the carriage drove away.
"That's my man," I said to my companion, as we watched it pass out of sight. "To-morrow morning I shall pay him a little visit. I think you were quite right in what you said about the money. That woman must have made a fairly big hole in it already."
"You may be quite sure of that," he answered. "When she has finished with him there will not be much left for anybody else."
"And now to get these things off and then home to bed. To-morrow will in all probability prove an exciting day."
I accompanied him to his room and removed the disguise which had enabled me to see Hayle without his being aware of my identity, and then, bidding my friend good-night, returned to my abode. Before I went to bed, however, I sat down and wrote a report of my doings for Miss Kitwater. Little as I had to tell, the writing of this letter gave me considerable pleasure. I could imagine it coming like a breath from another world to that quiet house at Bishopstowe. I pictured the girl's face as she read it, and the strained attention of the two men, who, needless to say, would hang on every word. When I had finished it I went to bed, to dream that Gideon Hayle and I were swimming a race in the Seine for five gigantic rubies which were to be presented to the winner by Miss Kitwater.
Next morning I arose early, went for a stroll along the Boulevards, and returned to breakfast at eight o'clock. In the matter of my breakfasts in Paris, I am essentially English. I must begin the day with a good meal, or I am fit for nothing. On this particular occasion I sat down on the best of terms with myself and the world in general. I made an excellent meal, did the best I could with the morning paper, for my French is certainly not above reproach, and then wondered when I should set out to interview the man whose flight from England had proved the reason of my visiting Paris. Then the door opened and theconciergeentered with the words, "A gentleman to see Monsieur!" Next moment to my overwhelming surprise no less a person than Gideon Hayle entered the room.