Chapter Five.The Mystery of the White Room.The routine of a coroner’s inquest does not vary much. In this instance the victim of a very obvious murder being a man of great distinction, a man who had rendered his country high political service, aroused widespread interest. Tunbridge Wells, where it was decided to hold the inquiry, was crowded with visitors as it has never been since the days of Beau Brummell and Beau Nash, those gay leaders of old-time society which foregathered at Bath, Tunbridge Wells, and the other inland spas of our country, to drink the waters, intrigue, elope, fight duels, and make forla joie de vivreas it was then constituted.Every hotel was crowded, and even some of the old-world coaching inns revived the ancient glories that belonged to them in the days when society travelled by post-chaise and coach, and footpads and highwaymen were a terror on the King’s highway.A mixed throng promenaded the old Pantiles, discussing with breathless interest each item of fact or speculation that leaked out from the overcrowded and evil-smelling court-room. There were gaily dressed “society” women, newspaper men—descriptive writers—representing papers all over the country, the United States, Paris, and Rome. The tenants of the murdered baronet and farmers drove in from the countryside. A crowd of well-dressed idlers, those ghouls who appear to gloat over crime and its details wherever it may occur.The rumour that Sir Henry Remington was the victim of political assassination gained credence. The newsboys shouted the startling headlines and sold more evening newspapers than if it had been the result of a football cup-tie.Lady Remington, as became her position, the wife of an aristocrat, nerved herself for the occasion and gave her evidence calmly, and in a low, musical voice. The old butler, Edgson, an aristocrat of his craft, repeated the story we already know. The police had failed to identify the body of the dead assassin. Raife’s evidence threw no light on the subject. The verdict of murder by a person unknown was returned. The foreman asked permission, as representing the tenants, tradesmen and residents of the country around, to express their sympathy with the family of the late Sir Henry. With the indulgence of the coroner, he supplemented the testimony that Inspector Caldwell had given in the death chamber, when Raife met him there with the detectives from London.The court-house was soon cleared. The unwonted crowd of visitors scattered, returning to their destinations, and Tunbridge Wells resumed its normal state, leaving the tragic mystery still unsolved.Lady Remington, with Miss Hope and a maid, had returned in the car to Aldborough Park. When her ladyship reached her boudoir she collapsed, after the strain of the proceedings of the coroner’s court. The vulgar stare of the mixed crowd in the close room, the foetid atmosphere, the printed impertinences of some of the newspaper reporters, all had served to shatter her nerves, already tried by the tragic loss of the loved husband who had been her idol—her only love. The sweet-faced, grey-haired old lady reclined in a semi-conscious state, yet sobbing bitterly in the privacy of her boudoir. The rigid Miss Hope displayed a part of the anomalous dispositions of womenkind. Her austere features relaxed, and with tears, at first trickling, then flowing, she ministered to the stricken widow and gave what comfort she could.The superficial austerity of a mature spinster should be treated with indulgence. Blighted love leaves a blight on the temperament of some women, whom a malignant fate has doomed to a solitude for which, by nature, at the outset, they were not intended. The history or life-story of Miss Hope does not concern this narrative further than this—that all the pent-up and hidden charm of a once passionate nature extended itself to this lady in great distress. Although the privacy of the boudoir should screen from public ear and gaze much of the tragedy of bereavement, who shall say that the sympathetic record of such a beautiful scene of human emotion is not justified?Through her sobs Lady Remington spoke in a low, sweet voice. “Leave me, now, Miss Hope. You have been very kind. Thank you so much. You cannot do any more for me! I must fight this grief alone.”There was no angularity of movement, no austerity of countenance now in Miss Hope. Her very voice assumed a softness that would have seemed strange to those who were only familiar with the mental mask she had so long worn in public. She started towards the door, and held it half open. Then, closing it again with swift, graceful movements, she crossed the room and knelt at the lounge on which Lady Remington reclined amidst soft rich cushions of eiderdown. She wept no more; nor had tears left her face stained. Instead, a radiance suffused her cheeks, and her eyes glistened, betraying a beauty that had long been hidden by the set expression of that mask, assumed at first, habitual by long use.“Lady Remington! Oh, Lady Remington! let me speak—let me tell you! I, too, have suffered. Don’t stop me. Let me tell you a story to the end. It may help you.”Then commenced a life-story, told musically, almost rhythmically, of love, deceit, treachery, ending in a debacle that soured a beautiful disposition of a lovely girl. Miss Hope did not imply that she had been a lovely girl, but her radiant face, with the deep grey eyes, that for the first time during many years disclosed their full size and the limpid look of sincerity, made it evident to the stricken widow. Abruptly she finished the story, and, rising from her knees, she started across the room again. She had proceeded a bare pace or two when Lady Remington, with a vigour, surprising for her years, almost leapt from the lounge, and, throwing her arms around Miss Hope’s neck, exclaimed “Gladys! Gladys Hope! you have taught me a lesson in bravery that I will never forget. You are no longer Miss Hope. You are, if you will let me, Gladys, a dear, dear friend to me. As long as I am spared I will endeavour to be more than a friend to you!”They embraced again and again, until the arrival of the maid with tea afforded the opportunity of a closing scene that had been tense and affecting to both women.The new baronet left the coroner’s court, and, walking down a long stable-yard of one of the hotels, escaped from the inquisitive crowd that pursued him, by entering a coach-house with a side door that led to the scullery and kitchen of the hotel. Quickly he made for a door in the narrow passage that led to the coffee-room and main entrance. Unbolting the door, which was seldom used in these latex days, he slipped into a narrow alley way. With rapid strides he found himself, unobserved, in one of the old post-houses in a side street. Raife walked right through the low-ceilinged bar to the private parlour, with its oak beams, swinging lamp, and wide, open fireplace and chimney, from which were hanging a few hams and a side of bacon. In a wooden arm-chair with high back, without cushions, sat an elderly man, pink-cheeked and clean-shaven except for two tufts of close-cropped side whiskers. He was smoking a long churchwarden pipe, and the air was redolent with the perfume of a Virginian tobacco, which, if too pungent in excess, possessed an aroma which, by indulgence, is, by some at least, considered not nauseating. He was smoking shag tobacco. At his side, on a deal table which had been scrubbed once a day at least, for some seventy years, was an old brown toby of Kentish ale.Kent is the garden of England, and Kentish hops are responsible for much that has been good in English manhood. Mr Twisegood was born in Kent of a long line of Kentish ancestry, and Kentish hops had formed a substantial portion of his and their daily fare. Rising from his chair as Raife entered, he displayed a portly and robust frame.“Good afternoon, Master Raife,” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear all this ’ere bad news about your father, Master Raife. I beg your pardon, Master Raife, I suppose as ’ow as I ought to carl yer Sir Raife now, sir. Beg your pardon, Master Raife—I mean Sir Raife, sir!”In spite of the heavy load on his mind, Raife smiled, and, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulders, said cheerily, “No, Twisegood, I hope I shall always be Master Raife to you—and to some others. Yes! Twisegood, it’s a sad case and I’m much troubled. I’ve come to you to help me.”“Lud a mussy, sir, help ’ee! What can I do to help the likes o’ you? I’ll help, sure enough, if I can help. Now tell me, Master Raife, what can. I do for ’ee?”When Raife was a lad, and a mischievous lad, there were many scrapes out of which he had been lifted by old Twisegood. Before the old man inherited the public-house that had been a post-house, he had worked, as many of his ancestors had, on the Remington estates.There still remains, in spite of the spirit of unrest and agitation, which, rightly or wrongly, pervades the land, a strong sympathy between the old families and their tenants and retainers. Twisegood was of the type that made true knighthood, when knight-errantry was in a cause that they felt to be good. The Twisegoods had been retainers of the Reymingtounes since the Tudors, and the spirit of loyalty was strong within him when the young master had said, “I’ve come to you to help me.” Raife smiled again and said: “I don’t want much, Twisegood, I want you to let me have the long white room overlooking the stable-yard. I want you to see that the shutters will bolt firmly from within, and see to it that when the lamp is lit no light can be seen from without.”“Is that all you want. Master Raife? I’ll see to that sure enough. When do you want the room, sir?”Raife replied: “I want to go up there now, but you can see to the other things later.”“Yes, sir. I don’t know whether the room be tidy or no, but come along o’ me.”They went up a wide staircase with twisted solid oak balustrades, to a wide landing on the first floor. The old man produced a bunch of large keys which jingled until he found one to fit the rusty lock, which turned with difficulty. The door creaked when it reluctantly opened, and they entered together. A faded scent of lavender met them. A yellow film of warm sunlight filtered through the white blinds that hung from the bay window. A white drugget covered the faded carpet, which showed slightly at the edges a dull crushed pink. A huge four-post wooden bedstead hung with white dimity. A white ceiling surmounted, and a white wall paper, with pale pink roses confined within vertical stripes of dull yellow, surrounded the room. Two ancient high-backed chairs covered in holland, and a more modern deep-set, low-lying arm-chair, covered in the same material, faced a huge fireplace of shining black metal. Fire-dogs, fender and fire-irons hammered from steel. A vast copper coal-scuttle of simple, almost crude shape, well charged with coal, stood at the side of the white supports of a deep white mantel-shelf.There were no pictures on the walls. White candelabra and china vases of quaint shape stood before a small, and very imperfect, mirror on the mantel-shelf. Long white curtains hung in front of the bay window. The whole effect of this big white room, bathed in a warm glow of filtered sunlight, was startling. To Raife it was soothing. Twisegood crossed to pull up the blinds.“Don’t do that,” Raife said, as he walked to yet another white curtain which screened a small door. The key was in the door. He opened it. It led to a narrow winding stairway with a strong oak door at the bottom. He called to Twisegood for the key. The stairs creaked as the burly old man descended and placed the key in the lock and turned it. “That will do. Give me the key. Have the lock oiled, and buy some soft carpet and put it on this stairway. This leads into the loose box, doesn’t it? or have you altered the stalls lately?”“No, sir! They be just the same as when you stayed here last, sir.”They ascended the crooked stairway, returning to the white room. Raife stood in front of the fireplace gazing at a small miniature on the mantel-shelf. At a glance it appeared to be the only pictorial ornament in the room. Neatly framed in a thin ebony oval was the most beautiful enamel of a woman’s face in high, powdered head-dress, and an exquisitely-modelled bust. Raife picked it up and, looking at the back of the frame, read this inscription pasted on:To William Twisegood for a brave service rendered.“How did you get this, Twisegood?” asked Raife.“Why, sir! That be a long time ago, sir, when I wur not more’n a lad. I be older’n wot your father was, and there come along a day when he wor down along the copse by Tyser Wood, and the young master, he was then, and he was a good plucked ’un. He had his gun along o’ him and was out after rabbits just afore the first, when the partridges open the season. I be going along atop among the turmits, when I hears him a ordering some fellers off his ground. I listens, and presently there’s a scuffling. I slips down through all the bracken and bramble, and there I sees him a scrappin’ hard, with all the blood a streaming down his face. There was Nick Blacker and Bill Boneham, each a holdin’ a lurcher dog, whilst Nick’s three sons was a pasting the young master as hard as they could. But they wasn’t a getting all their own way, for he was mighty quick with his fists, was Master Harry. They didn’t see me a coming. I ups with a couple of bits o’ rock-stone and I aims at Dick. I hits him clean and down he goes. I ’as a stout ash stick in my ’and and I rushes up to Bill. Before he has time to know wot’s up, I lands him a good ’un. Then I shouts to make believe that there’s others a coming. Nick gets up and off they all start on a full run.“Well, Master Harry! he was young those days, and thought I was brave. So he gave me that miniature and told me as ’ow it was his grandmother. But bless yer, Master Raife, that wasn’t all he gave me.”The old man stopped for want of breath. He had lived his fight over again.“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” he asked.“Yes, Twisegood, have you got any of Mrs Twisegood’s home-made wines left?”“Why, yes, sir. ’Twouldn’t be the old ‘Blue Boar,’ if we hadn’t got some of that. Or would you rather have some of her sloe gin? That was a drink of the old coaching and posting days. Try some, sir.”“All right, thanks, bring me some of that.”Raife sat in the deep arm-chair and his mind was a whirlwind of mixed thought and emotion. On the one hand, the mystery of his father’s murder had not been revealed at the inquest. Nor had any light been thrown upon his father’s dying words—that cryptic utterance which rang in his ears with a dull insistence that maddened him.“Tell him to be careful—to be wary of the trap—every man has a skeleton in his cupboard—this is mine.” Then those last three fateful words: “her—that woman.” Who is that woman? If he only knew. His father fought three lads in the copse at Tyser Wood, as he had just learnt from Twisegood: that was easy. To fight an unknown woman, to be wary of a trap—that is hard.The full force of an August sun still bathed the world in its glorious light, and the warm glow came through those drawn white blinds of this mysterious white room. In spite of that, Raife shivered.Old Mr Twisegood returned with the sloe gin. Raife said: “Although it’s August and the sun is shining, I feel cold. Let us light that fire.” Soon the hearth roared with crackling flames, and Raife was left to himself and his troubled thoughts.The white room of the “Blue Boar” had been famous for many generations. The secret stairway leading into the loose box in the stable had formed the means of many an escapade, and young Sir Raife was very familiar with its possibilities.To-day he merely wanted to reflect, and the peaceful atmosphere and general air of quietude suited his mood.
The routine of a coroner’s inquest does not vary much. In this instance the victim of a very obvious murder being a man of great distinction, a man who had rendered his country high political service, aroused widespread interest. Tunbridge Wells, where it was decided to hold the inquiry, was crowded with visitors as it has never been since the days of Beau Brummell and Beau Nash, those gay leaders of old-time society which foregathered at Bath, Tunbridge Wells, and the other inland spas of our country, to drink the waters, intrigue, elope, fight duels, and make forla joie de vivreas it was then constituted.
Every hotel was crowded, and even some of the old-world coaching inns revived the ancient glories that belonged to them in the days when society travelled by post-chaise and coach, and footpads and highwaymen were a terror on the King’s highway.
A mixed throng promenaded the old Pantiles, discussing with breathless interest each item of fact or speculation that leaked out from the overcrowded and evil-smelling court-room. There were gaily dressed “society” women, newspaper men—descriptive writers—representing papers all over the country, the United States, Paris, and Rome. The tenants of the murdered baronet and farmers drove in from the countryside. A crowd of well-dressed idlers, those ghouls who appear to gloat over crime and its details wherever it may occur.
The rumour that Sir Henry Remington was the victim of political assassination gained credence. The newsboys shouted the startling headlines and sold more evening newspapers than if it had been the result of a football cup-tie.
Lady Remington, as became her position, the wife of an aristocrat, nerved herself for the occasion and gave her evidence calmly, and in a low, musical voice. The old butler, Edgson, an aristocrat of his craft, repeated the story we already know. The police had failed to identify the body of the dead assassin. Raife’s evidence threw no light on the subject. The verdict of murder by a person unknown was returned. The foreman asked permission, as representing the tenants, tradesmen and residents of the country around, to express their sympathy with the family of the late Sir Henry. With the indulgence of the coroner, he supplemented the testimony that Inspector Caldwell had given in the death chamber, when Raife met him there with the detectives from London.
The court-house was soon cleared. The unwonted crowd of visitors scattered, returning to their destinations, and Tunbridge Wells resumed its normal state, leaving the tragic mystery still unsolved.
Lady Remington, with Miss Hope and a maid, had returned in the car to Aldborough Park. When her ladyship reached her boudoir she collapsed, after the strain of the proceedings of the coroner’s court. The vulgar stare of the mixed crowd in the close room, the foetid atmosphere, the printed impertinences of some of the newspaper reporters, all had served to shatter her nerves, already tried by the tragic loss of the loved husband who had been her idol—her only love. The sweet-faced, grey-haired old lady reclined in a semi-conscious state, yet sobbing bitterly in the privacy of her boudoir. The rigid Miss Hope displayed a part of the anomalous dispositions of womenkind. Her austere features relaxed, and with tears, at first trickling, then flowing, she ministered to the stricken widow and gave what comfort she could.
The superficial austerity of a mature spinster should be treated with indulgence. Blighted love leaves a blight on the temperament of some women, whom a malignant fate has doomed to a solitude for which, by nature, at the outset, they were not intended. The history or life-story of Miss Hope does not concern this narrative further than this—that all the pent-up and hidden charm of a once passionate nature extended itself to this lady in great distress. Although the privacy of the boudoir should screen from public ear and gaze much of the tragedy of bereavement, who shall say that the sympathetic record of such a beautiful scene of human emotion is not justified?
Through her sobs Lady Remington spoke in a low, sweet voice. “Leave me, now, Miss Hope. You have been very kind. Thank you so much. You cannot do any more for me! I must fight this grief alone.”
There was no angularity of movement, no austerity of countenance now in Miss Hope. Her very voice assumed a softness that would have seemed strange to those who were only familiar with the mental mask she had so long worn in public. She started towards the door, and held it half open. Then, closing it again with swift, graceful movements, she crossed the room and knelt at the lounge on which Lady Remington reclined amidst soft rich cushions of eiderdown. She wept no more; nor had tears left her face stained. Instead, a radiance suffused her cheeks, and her eyes glistened, betraying a beauty that had long been hidden by the set expression of that mask, assumed at first, habitual by long use.
“Lady Remington! Oh, Lady Remington! let me speak—let me tell you! I, too, have suffered. Don’t stop me. Let me tell you a story to the end. It may help you.”
Then commenced a life-story, told musically, almost rhythmically, of love, deceit, treachery, ending in a debacle that soured a beautiful disposition of a lovely girl. Miss Hope did not imply that she had been a lovely girl, but her radiant face, with the deep grey eyes, that for the first time during many years disclosed their full size and the limpid look of sincerity, made it evident to the stricken widow. Abruptly she finished the story, and, rising from her knees, she started across the room again. She had proceeded a bare pace or two when Lady Remington, with a vigour, surprising for her years, almost leapt from the lounge, and, throwing her arms around Miss Hope’s neck, exclaimed “Gladys! Gladys Hope! you have taught me a lesson in bravery that I will never forget. You are no longer Miss Hope. You are, if you will let me, Gladys, a dear, dear friend to me. As long as I am spared I will endeavour to be more than a friend to you!”
They embraced again and again, until the arrival of the maid with tea afforded the opportunity of a closing scene that had been tense and affecting to both women.
The new baronet left the coroner’s court, and, walking down a long stable-yard of one of the hotels, escaped from the inquisitive crowd that pursued him, by entering a coach-house with a side door that led to the scullery and kitchen of the hotel. Quickly he made for a door in the narrow passage that led to the coffee-room and main entrance. Unbolting the door, which was seldom used in these latex days, he slipped into a narrow alley way. With rapid strides he found himself, unobserved, in one of the old post-houses in a side street. Raife walked right through the low-ceilinged bar to the private parlour, with its oak beams, swinging lamp, and wide, open fireplace and chimney, from which were hanging a few hams and a side of bacon. In a wooden arm-chair with high back, without cushions, sat an elderly man, pink-cheeked and clean-shaven except for two tufts of close-cropped side whiskers. He was smoking a long churchwarden pipe, and the air was redolent with the perfume of a Virginian tobacco, which, if too pungent in excess, possessed an aroma which, by indulgence, is, by some at least, considered not nauseating. He was smoking shag tobacco. At his side, on a deal table which had been scrubbed once a day at least, for some seventy years, was an old brown toby of Kentish ale.
Kent is the garden of England, and Kentish hops are responsible for much that has been good in English manhood. Mr Twisegood was born in Kent of a long line of Kentish ancestry, and Kentish hops had formed a substantial portion of his and their daily fare. Rising from his chair as Raife entered, he displayed a portly and robust frame.
“Good afternoon, Master Raife,” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear all this ’ere bad news about your father, Master Raife. I beg your pardon, Master Raife, I suppose as ’ow as I ought to carl yer Sir Raife now, sir. Beg your pardon, Master Raife—I mean Sir Raife, sir!”
In spite of the heavy load on his mind, Raife smiled, and, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulders, said cheerily, “No, Twisegood, I hope I shall always be Master Raife to you—and to some others. Yes! Twisegood, it’s a sad case and I’m much troubled. I’ve come to you to help me.”
“Lud a mussy, sir, help ’ee! What can I do to help the likes o’ you? I’ll help, sure enough, if I can help. Now tell me, Master Raife, what can. I do for ’ee?”
When Raife was a lad, and a mischievous lad, there were many scrapes out of which he had been lifted by old Twisegood. Before the old man inherited the public-house that had been a post-house, he had worked, as many of his ancestors had, on the Remington estates.
There still remains, in spite of the spirit of unrest and agitation, which, rightly or wrongly, pervades the land, a strong sympathy between the old families and their tenants and retainers. Twisegood was of the type that made true knighthood, when knight-errantry was in a cause that they felt to be good. The Twisegoods had been retainers of the Reymingtounes since the Tudors, and the spirit of loyalty was strong within him when the young master had said, “I’ve come to you to help me.” Raife smiled again and said: “I don’t want much, Twisegood, I want you to let me have the long white room overlooking the stable-yard. I want you to see that the shutters will bolt firmly from within, and see to it that when the lamp is lit no light can be seen from without.”
“Is that all you want. Master Raife? I’ll see to that sure enough. When do you want the room, sir?”
Raife replied: “I want to go up there now, but you can see to the other things later.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know whether the room be tidy or no, but come along o’ me.”
They went up a wide staircase with twisted solid oak balustrades, to a wide landing on the first floor. The old man produced a bunch of large keys which jingled until he found one to fit the rusty lock, which turned with difficulty. The door creaked when it reluctantly opened, and they entered together. A faded scent of lavender met them. A yellow film of warm sunlight filtered through the white blinds that hung from the bay window. A white drugget covered the faded carpet, which showed slightly at the edges a dull crushed pink. A huge four-post wooden bedstead hung with white dimity. A white ceiling surmounted, and a white wall paper, with pale pink roses confined within vertical stripes of dull yellow, surrounded the room. Two ancient high-backed chairs covered in holland, and a more modern deep-set, low-lying arm-chair, covered in the same material, faced a huge fireplace of shining black metal. Fire-dogs, fender and fire-irons hammered from steel. A vast copper coal-scuttle of simple, almost crude shape, well charged with coal, stood at the side of the white supports of a deep white mantel-shelf.
There were no pictures on the walls. White candelabra and china vases of quaint shape stood before a small, and very imperfect, mirror on the mantel-shelf. Long white curtains hung in front of the bay window. The whole effect of this big white room, bathed in a warm glow of filtered sunlight, was startling. To Raife it was soothing. Twisegood crossed to pull up the blinds.
“Don’t do that,” Raife said, as he walked to yet another white curtain which screened a small door. The key was in the door. He opened it. It led to a narrow winding stairway with a strong oak door at the bottom. He called to Twisegood for the key. The stairs creaked as the burly old man descended and placed the key in the lock and turned it. “That will do. Give me the key. Have the lock oiled, and buy some soft carpet and put it on this stairway. This leads into the loose box, doesn’t it? or have you altered the stalls lately?”
“No, sir! They be just the same as when you stayed here last, sir.”
They ascended the crooked stairway, returning to the white room. Raife stood in front of the fireplace gazing at a small miniature on the mantel-shelf. At a glance it appeared to be the only pictorial ornament in the room. Neatly framed in a thin ebony oval was the most beautiful enamel of a woman’s face in high, powdered head-dress, and an exquisitely-modelled bust. Raife picked it up and, looking at the back of the frame, read this inscription pasted on:
To William Twisegood for a brave service rendered.
“How did you get this, Twisegood?” asked Raife.
“Why, sir! That be a long time ago, sir, when I wur not more’n a lad. I be older’n wot your father was, and there come along a day when he wor down along the copse by Tyser Wood, and the young master, he was then, and he was a good plucked ’un. He had his gun along o’ him and was out after rabbits just afore the first, when the partridges open the season. I be going along atop among the turmits, when I hears him a ordering some fellers off his ground. I listens, and presently there’s a scuffling. I slips down through all the bracken and bramble, and there I sees him a scrappin’ hard, with all the blood a streaming down his face. There was Nick Blacker and Bill Boneham, each a holdin’ a lurcher dog, whilst Nick’s three sons was a pasting the young master as hard as they could. But they wasn’t a getting all their own way, for he was mighty quick with his fists, was Master Harry. They didn’t see me a coming. I ups with a couple of bits o’ rock-stone and I aims at Dick. I hits him clean and down he goes. I ’as a stout ash stick in my ’and and I rushes up to Bill. Before he has time to know wot’s up, I lands him a good ’un. Then I shouts to make believe that there’s others a coming. Nick gets up and off they all start on a full run.
“Well, Master Harry! he was young those days, and thought I was brave. So he gave me that miniature and told me as ’ow it was his grandmother. But bless yer, Master Raife, that wasn’t all he gave me.”
The old man stopped for want of breath. He had lived his fight over again.
“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, Twisegood, have you got any of Mrs Twisegood’s home-made wines left?”
“Why, yes, sir. ’Twouldn’t be the old ‘Blue Boar,’ if we hadn’t got some of that. Or would you rather have some of her sloe gin? That was a drink of the old coaching and posting days. Try some, sir.”
“All right, thanks, bring me some of that.”
Raife sat in the deep arm-chair and his mind was a whirlwind of mixed thought and emotion. On the one hand, the mystery of his father’s murder had not been revealed at the inquest. Nor had any light been thrown upon his father’s dying words—that cryptic utterance which rang in his ears with a dull insistence that maddened him.
“Tell him to be careful—to be wary of the trap—every man has a skeleton in his cupboard—this is mine.” Then those last three fateful words: “her—that woman.” Who is that woman? If he only knew. His father fought three lads in the copse at Tyser Wood, as he had just learnt from Twisegood: that was easy. To fight an unknown woman, to be wary of a trap—that is hard.
The full force of an August sun still bathed the world in its glorious light, and the warm glow came through those drawn white blinds of this mysterious white room. In spite of that, Raife shivered.
Old Mr Twisegood returned with the sloe gin. Raife said: “Although it’s August and the sun is shining, I feel cold. Let us light that fire.” Soon the hearth roared with crackling flames, and Raife was left to himself and his troubled thoughts.
The white room of the “Blue Boar” had been famous for many generations. The secret stairway leading into the loose box in the stable had formed the means of many an escapade, and young Sir Raife was very familiar with its possibilities.
To-day he merely wanted to reflect, and the peaceful atmosphere and general air of quietude suited his mood.
Chapter Six.In the Southern Land of Adventure.Raife’s passion for Gilda had been as sudden as it was fierce, and here, in the solitude of this strange white room, he allowed his pent-up feelings to obtain the mastery of him. Twisegood having closed the door, Raife paced up and down the long room with rapid strides, reiterating his admiration for her beauty. At length, he decided to return to Aldborough Park. On his way he sent a telegram and eagerly awaited a reply on the following morning, but no reply arrived.The thousand and one details that surround the funeral of the head of an old family are very trying to those who are responsible for the dignity of the function and its safe conduct. Raife had been sorely tried in his position as the new head of the family.At last the ceremony was completed and most of the mourners had returned to their homes. With a haste that attracted attention, at least, in some quarters, he went to Southport, and then called at the “Queen’s,” and, having asked for Miss Tempest, was rather surprised when the hall-porter handed him a note. He hastily tore it open and read:“Dear Mr Remington—Our friendship is forbidden. For your sake—and for mine—forget me.“Gilda Tempest.”The keenness of a young man’s passion is only enhanced by obstacles. Mystified and baffled, Raife yet repeated his resolve to find the girl who had enthralled him.Many weeks passed by at Aldborough Park, where the bailiffs and stewards of the estates foregathered with the solicitors of the family for the purpose of installing the new regime. Raife was somewhat impatient of the tedious nature of much of the work. To get away from the monotony, he hid himself several times in the long white room of the “Blue Boar.”He was sitting there, one afternoon, deeply abstracted and cursing the luck that had robbed him of that mysterious girl whom he loved, when he heard footsteps on the secret stairway that led to loose box in the stable. Hastily drawing the white curtain aside by opening the little door, he was confronted by his old college chum, Edward Mutimer, in whose company he had been when he met Gilda Tempest.“Why,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here, Mutimer?”Mutimer laughed, and said: “Well, I went up to the Park, and no one knew where to find you. I guessed you were a bit tired of parchments and documents, so I took my chance of finding you here. I asked old Twisegood, but he wouldn’t give you away. But, somehow, I thought his manner was a bit strange, so I thought of the loose box and the old stairway—and here I am!”“Good! I’m glad to see you, Mutimer. You were quite right, I’m tired to death of parchments, leases and settlements, and I’ve been coming here lately to get away from them. We’ve had some fun in this old room when we were kids, haven’t we? Twisegood’s a rare good sort, too. He never gave us away.”“Well, I say, Raife, I didn’t altogether come here to disturb you for nothing,” said Mutimer. “I think I’ve got some news for you. I couldn’t help noticing how keen you were on that girl we met one day at Southport.”“Yes! yes! Go on! Gilda Tempest is her name. Where is she?” almost shouted Raife, as he leapt from his chair, grasping Mutimer’s arms with a grip that made his friend wince.“Easy all, old chap, a little bit softer. I think I know where she is. You know she was staying with her uncle at the ‘Queen’s.’ Well, they left there quite suddenly, just after your governor died. I was at the railway station and saw her and her uncle. They had not much luggage. As I was at the booking-office window, I heard the old man whisper to her: ‘When we get to town we must wire for rooms. Nice is a busy place, and the Hôtel Royal is liable to be crowded.’”“Thanks for what you’ve told me. Mutimer, I’m just crazy over that girl. I’ll follow her to the ends of the earth, but she shall be mine. Yes, by jove! Gilda Tempest shall be mine. Mutimer! I’m not a murderer by nature, but I could slay the man who gets between me and that woman.”“By the by, Raife,” said his friend, apparently disregarding the confession of love, “did anything come to light over your governor’s dying words. It was something about a ‘trap,’ and there was a woman in it, wasn’t there?”“No! nothing came to light. It looks as though I’ve got a very first-class family skeleton in my cupboard.” Raife said this reflectively, rather sadly. Then, bracing himself up, he exclaimed: “It’ll take several skeletons to scare me, however. I don’t think I’m either timid or nervous.”“Ha! ha! Well, now for a trip to Nice,” he added, with a don’t-care-a-hang air, “and be bothered to the lawyers for a time. I’ll find Gilda Tempest. I swear I will, and her old uncle can be hanged for a meddlesome old ass.”It was in March when the young baronet, who in such tragic circumstances had just inherited large estates and twenty thousand pounds a year, arrived at the Hôtel Royal, on the Promenade des Anglais, at Nice.His mother, the widowed Lady Remington, accompanied him. Having disposed of her ladyship in a cosy corner among the palms, Raife started on his hot-headed search for Gilda. He was not long disappointed, for in the big lounge of the hotel, not crowded at this moment, he saw Gilda, exquisitely dressed, and accompanied by a distinguished-looking old man.The old gentleman was Doctor Danilo Malsano—the uncle of Gilda Tempest. Doctor Malsano was tall, and there was a certain air of distinction about him. A superficial graciousness of manner disguised from the casual observer the sinister cast of his countenance.He had long black hair, receding from a high forehead, leaving two circular, bald patches on either side. A powerful jaw, and somewhat hollow cheeks, with glittering white teeth and small ears, completed the clean-shaven appearance, with the exception of his eyes and bushy eyebrows.More has been written on the subject of eyes than of any other portion of human anatomy, but Doctor Malsano’s eyes were unique. At a glance they suggested a squint. Here was neither a squint nor an aggravated form of astigmatism. The right eye was of a steely blue, that pierced the observer with the sharpness of a gimlet. The left eye was a swivel eye, and served the purpose of preventing one from determining which eye was gazing at you. There is a certain type of Scotch sheep-dog which possesses eyes of the colour of the doctor’s left eye. It is almost colourless, and with a dark spot in the centre of the right iris.The doctor’s striking appearance contrasted strongly with the fragile beauty of the fair-haired young girl, with the eyes of deep-blue, who walked by his side: narrow-waisted, delicate and slim, with a well-poised head on a rounded neck of alabaster whiteness. Raife devoured this vision with his eyes before crossing the foyer to her. The whole charm of the striking personality of the young girl was enhanced by that distinguished grace of style that characterises the refined in temperament. Raife crossed over to her and, with a bow, claimed her acquaintance. Gilda politely but frigidly declined the acquaintance, informing Raife that he was mistaken.Raife was astounded—staggered. Accepting the situation that had just been dealt to him, and with flaming cheeks smarting from the blow, so sudden and unexpected, he left the hotel by the main entrance and joined the throng of promenaders.His thoughts lingered on the insult he had encountered. He fancied he had detected a sneer on Doctor Malsano’s countenance. Rage and wounded vanity possessed him. At the table d’hôte he was distrait, and sorely puzzled Lady Remington with his absent-minded attentions and disjointed conversation. Seeking the first opportunity of escaping his mother’s over-anxious regard for his health and spirits, he again found his way into the open air and avoided the crowd. Finding a secluded bench under a group of palms and surrounded by brilliant blossom, he sat down and sought repose in the solace of a choice Habana cigar. It was a secluded spot, and the depths of shadow from foliage were rendered more mysterious by the vivid yet luscious moonlight that flooded the countryside. Long he gazed in front of him, still smarting under that stinging snub that had, at the same time, wounded him sorely and enraged him. The latest heir of the Reymingtounes of Aldborough was not of the stuff to court a snub or endure it. Rage alternated with crumpled dignity, and he fumed, puffing his Habana viciously the while. He had sat there a long time, until the few strollers, who had found themselves near this secluded corner, seemed to have returned to the warmth of house or hotel.Raife threw the end of his cigar far in front of him, and, rising from the bench, crossed the promenade and leant against a railing. He shivered slightly, for a March night in Nice may be chilly, even treacherously so. Thus musing, he glanced at one of those daintily-illustrated little pamphlets that advertise the resorts of the Riviera. A thought flashed through his mind. His father’s last words, as he lay dying from the assassin’s revolver, came to him. “I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard. This is mine.” And the last haunting words of all came to him:“Beware of the trap—she—that woman.”Why had this beautiful young girl come into his life at such a tragic time? Could it be possible? No! Perish the thought. Nothing but good could come from that sweet countenance that had enthralled him from the first glance. But, then, who was this uncle, Doctor Malsano? The very name was evil-sounding, and, in spite of his distinguished air, that swivel eye, with much else of his striking countenance, was sinister.Raife now felt certain that he had recognised a sneer on the man’s face—a malicious sneer, when Gilda had snubbed him.These long minutes in that full flood of southern moonlight were fraught with much that might be good—or bad—for Sir Raife Remington, Bart. In spite of his passionate outburst in the long white room of the “Blue Boar,” at Tunbridge Wells; in spite of his vehemently-declared intention to win that beautiful girl for his wife—or die—he was possessed of a premonition of danger ahead. Again his father’s dying words rang in his ears, and the blood-stained chamber, the scene in his ancestral hall of his father’s cruel murder, came vividly before him, and he was tempted to “beware of the trap.”In such mood he turned on his heel and sauntered yet a little farther from the Hôtel Royal, where he was staying with his bereaved mother.The southern lands are the lands of intrigue and mystery. They are the lands of deepest nights and brightest days, and that alternating intensity enters into the characters of the peoples who inhabit them.As Raife was lighting a second cigar, he was vaguely conscious of a young boy or girl who dodged in the shadows behind him. The strongest man likes to meet his friends face to face, but a potential foe lurking in shadows on a moonlight night in a southern land, is disconcerting.Watching an opportunity, therefore, Raife wheeled suddenly around, and making a dash for the youngster, secured him. The young girl, who appeared to be about thirteen years of age, did not seem alarmed, but smiled seductively, saying: “Signor Raife! meet a preety signora. Meea take you there.”At the same time, the girl handed Raife a piece of paper on which was written:“Quite safe. Follow the girl.”Again those words of warning from his dying father.Was this the trap.In his present mood he did not care, and welcomed an adventure even if it should be dangerous.He followed the little girl.
Raife’s passion for Gilda had been as sudden as it was fierce, and here, in the solitude of this strange white room, he allowed his pent-up feelings to obtain the mastery of him. Twisegood having closed the door, Raife paced up and down the long room with rapid strides, reiterating his admiration for her beauty. At length, he decided to return to Aldborough Park. On his way he sent a telegram and eagerly awaited a reply on the following morning, but no reply arrived.
The thousand and one details that surround the funeral of the head of an old family are very trying to those who are responsible for the dignity of the function and its safe conduct. Raife had been sorely tried in his position as the new head of the family.
At last the ceremony was completed and most of the mourners had returned to their homes. With a haste that attracted attention, at least, in some quarters, he went to Southport, and then called at the “Queen’s,” and, having asked for Miss Tempest, was rather surprised when the hall-porter handed him a note. He hastily tore it open and read:
“Dear Mr Remington—Our friendship is forbidden. For your sake—and for mine—forget me.“Gilda Tempest.”
“Dear Mr Remington—Our friendship is forbidden. For your sake—and for mine—forget me.
“Gilda Tempest.”
The keenness of a young man’s passion is only enhanced by obstacles. Mystified and baffled, Raife yet repeated his resolve to find the girl who had enthralled him.
Many weeks passed by at Aldborough Park, where the bailiffs and stewards of the estates foregathered with the solicitors of the family for the purpose of installing the new regime. Raife was somewhat impatient of the tedious nature of much of the work. To get away from the monotony, he hid himself several times in the long white room of the “Blue Boar.”
He was sitting there, one afternoon, deeply abstracted and cursing the luck that had robbed him of that mysterious girl whom he loved, when he heard footsteps on the secret stairway that led to loose box in the stable. Hastily drawing the white curtain aside by opening the little door, he was confronted by his old college chum, Edward Mutimer, in whose company he had been when he met Gilda Tempest.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here, Mutimer?”
Mutimer laughed, and said: “Well, I went up to the Park, and no one knew where to find you. I guessed you were a bit tired of parchments and documents, so I took my chance of finding you here. I asked old Twisegood, but he wouldn’t give you away. But, somehow, I thought his manner was a bit strange, so I thought of the loose box and the old stairway—and here I am!”
“Good! I’m glad to see you, Mutimer. You were quite right, I’m tired to death of parchments, leases and settlements, and I’ve been coming here lately to get away from them. We’ve had some fun in this old room when we were kids, haven’t we? Twisegood’s a rare good sort, too. He never gave us away.”
“Well, I say, Raife, I didn’t altogether come here to disturb you for nothing,” said Mutimer. “I think I’ve got some news for you. I couldn’t help noticing how keen you were on that girl we met one day at Southport.”
“Yes! yes! Go on! Gilda Tempest is her name. Where is she?” almost shouted Raife, as he leapt from his chair, grasping Mutimer’s arms with a grip that made his friend wince.
“Easy all, old chap, a little bit softer. I think I know where she is. You know she was staying with her uncle at the ‘Queen’s.’ Well, they left there quite suddenly, just after your governor died. I was at the railway station and saw her and her uncle. They had not much luggage. As I was at the booking-office window, I heard the old man whisper to her: ‘When we get to town we must wire for rooms. Nice is a busy place, and the Hôtel Royal is liable to be crowded.’”
“Thanks for what you’ve told me. Mutimer, I’m just crazy over that girl. I’ll follow her to the ends of the earth, but she shall be mine. Yes, by jove! Gilda Tempest shall be mine. Mutimer! I’m not a murderer by nature, but I could slay the man who gets between me and that woman.”
“By the by, Raife,” said his friend, apparently disregarding the confession of love, “did anything come to light over your governor’s dying words. It was something about a ‘trap,’ and there was a woman in it, wasn’t there?”
“No! nothing came to light. It looks as though I’ve got a very first-class family skeleton in my cupboard.” Raife said this reflectively, rather sadly. Then, bracing himself up, he exclaimed: “It’ll take several skeletons to scare me, however. I don’t think I’m either timid or nervous.”
“Ha! ha! Well, now for a trip to Nice,” he added, with a don’t-care-a-hang air, “and be bothered to the lawyers for a time. I’ll find Gilda Tempest. I swear I will, and her old uncle can be hanged for a meddlesome old ass.”
It was in March when the young baronet, who in such tragic circumstances had just inherited large estates and twenty thousand pounds a year, arrived at the Hôtel Royal, on the Promenade des Anglais, at Nice.
His mother, the widowed Lady Remington, accompanied him. Having disposed of her ladyship in a cosy corner among the palms, Raife started on his hot-headed search for Gilda. He was not long disappointed, for in the big lounge of the hotel, not crowded at this moment, he saw Gilda, exquisitely dressed, and accompanied by a distinguished-looking old man.
The old gentleman was Doctor Danilo Malsano—the uncle of Gilda Tempest. Doctor Malsano was tall, and there was a certain air of distinction about him. A superficial graciousness of manner disguised from the casual observer the sinister cast of his countenance.
He had long black hair, receding from a high forehead, leaving two circular, bald patches on either side. A powerful jaw, and somewhat hollow cheeks, with glittering white teeth and small ears, completed the clean-shaven appearance, with the exception of his eyes and bushy eyebrows.
More has been written on the subject of eyes than of any other portion of human anatomy, but Doctor Malsano’s eyes were unique. At a glance they suggested a squint. Here was neither a squint nor an aggravated form of astigmatism. The right eye was of a steely blue, that pierced the observer with the sharpness of a gimlet. The left eye was a swivel eye, and served the purpose of preventing one from determining which eye was gazing at you. There is a certain type of Scotch sheep-dog which possesses eyes of the colour of the doctor’s left eye. It is almost colourless, and with a dark spot in the centre of the right iris.
The doctor’s striking appearance contrasted strongly with the fragile beauty of the fair-haired young girl, with the eyes of deep-blue, who walked by his side: narrow-waisted, delicate and slim, with a well-poised head on a rounded neck of alabaster whiteness. Raife devoured this vision with his eyes before crossing the foyer to her. The whole charm of the striking personality of the young girl was enhanced by that distinguished grace of style that characterises the refined in temperament. Raife crossed over to her and, with a bow, claimed her acquaintance. Gilda politely but frigidly declined the acquaintance, informing Raife that he was mistaken.
Raife was astounded—staggered. Accepting the situation that had just been dealt to him, and with flaming cheeks smarting from the blow, so sudden and unexpected, he left the hotel by the main entrance and joined the throng of promenaders.
His thoughts lingered on the insult he had encountered. He fancied he had detected a sneer on Doctor Malsano’s countenance. Rage and wounded vanity possessed him. At the table d’hôte he was distrait, and sorely puzzled Lady Remington with his absent-minded attentions and disjointed conversation. Seeking the first opportunity of escaping his mother’s over-anxious regard for his health and spirits, he again found his way into the open air and avoided the crowd. Finding a secluded bench under a group of palms and surrounded by brilliant blossom, he sat down and sought repose in the solace of a choice Habana cigar. It was a secluded spot, and the depths of shadow from foliage were rendered more mysterious by the vivid yet luscious moonlight that flooded the countryside. Long he gazed in front of him, still smarting under that stinging snub that had, at the same time, wounded him sorely and enraged him. The latest heir of the Reymingtounes of Aldborough was not of the stuff to court a snub or endure it. Rage alternated with crumpled dignity, and he fumed, puffing his Habana viciously the while. He had sat there a long time, until the few strollers, who had found themselves near this secluded corner, seemed to have returned to the warmth of house or hotel.
Raife threw the end of his cigar far in front of him, and, rising from the bench, crossed the promenade and leant against a railing. He shivered slightly, for a March night in Nice may be chilly, even treacherously so. Thus musing, he glanced at one of those daintily-illustrated little pamphlets that advertise the resorts of the Riviera. A thought flashed through his mind. His father’s last words, as he lay dying from the assassin’s revolver, came to him. “I was a fool, Edgson. I ought to have told my boy from the first. Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard. This is mine.” And the last haunting words of all came to him:
“Beware of the trap—she—that woman.”
Why had this beautiful young girl come into his life at such a tragic time? Could it be possible? No! Perish the thought. Nothing but good could come from that sweet countenance that had enthralled him from the first glance. But, then, who was this uncle, Doctor Malsano? The very name was evil-sounding, and, in spite of his distinguished air, that swivel eye, with much else of his striking countenance, was sinister.
Raife now felt certain that he had recognised a sneer on the man’s face—a malicious sneer, when Gilda had snubbed him.
These long minutes in that full flood of southern moonlight were fraught with much that might be good—or bad—for Sir Raife Remington, Bart. In spite of his passionate outburst in the long white room of the “Blue Boar,” at Tunbridge Wells; in spite of his vehemently-declared intention to win that beautiful girl for his wife—or die—he was possessed of a premonition of danger ahead. Again his father’s dying words rang in his ears, and the blood-stained chamber, the scene in his ancestral hall of his father’s cruel murder, came vividly before him, and he was tempted to “beware of the trap.”
In such mood he turned on his heel and sauntered yet a little farther from the Hôtel Royal, where he was staying with his bereaved mother.
The southern lands are the lands of intrigue and mystery. They are the lands of deepest nights and brightest days, and that alternating intensity enters into the characters of the peoples who inhabit them.
As Raife was lighting a second cigar, he was vaguely conscious of a young boy or girl who dodged in the shadows behind him. The strongest man likes to meet his friends face to face, but a potential foe lurking in shadows on a moonlight night in a southern land, is disconcerting.
Watching an opportunity, therefore, Raife wheeled suddenly around, and making a dash for the youngster, secured him. The young girl, who appeared to be about thirteen years of age, did not seem alarmed, but smiled seductively, saying: “Signor Raife! meet a preety signora. Meea take you there.”
At the same time, the girl handed Raife a piece of paper on which was written:
“Quite safe. Follow the girl.”
Again those words of warning from his dying father.
Was this the trap.
In his present mood he did not care, and welcomed an adventure even if it should be dangerous.
He followed the little girl.
Chapter Seven.Who was the Apache?Raife Remington followed the mysterious little girl, she dodging her way through the patches of silver light and gloomy shade. He strode in a gloomy, almost defiant manner, which implied that there was trouble ahead, and he was determined to meet it. As they approached the Hôtel Royal they passed a group of men who appeared to regard Raife with more than the ordinary interest that an obviously English, or perhaps American, visitor should attract. Now in the full light of the moon, enhanced by the brilliant street-lamps and the lights of the town glistening here and there, they dived into a side street. The little girl beckoned to Raife and he approached her. Then pointing to a café she said: “Signora meeta you there.”The child disappeared and Raife sauntered in the direction indicated. With an air of nonchalance he relit the cigar which had gone out. There seemed to be an air of mystery about the transaction. He waited for a minute or two but no one appeared, until he felt a sense of impatience mixed with irritation. The event of the afternoon still rankled within him, and he was simmering with a stifled rage and indignation. The suggestion of a “trap” appeared evident, and he determined to enter the rather dimly-lit café and call for a cognac. He approached the entrance, and his hand was upon the handle of the door, when, from apparently nowhere, the figure of a man appeared. He was dressed in a long coat, loose at the neck, displaying a flowing necktie or cravat of black. His wide-brimmed black hat covered his countenance, and his general appearance suggested a denizen of the Latin quarter of Paris. In a soft undertone he lisped: “Pardon, monsieur! mademoiselle,” or as he pronounced it, “mams’elle arrivera tout à l’heure. Vous voulez attendre, monsieur?”Raife’s knowledge of French was superior to his knowledge of Italian, and he turned to talk to this person who seemed to have sprung from nowhere. His movement must have been leisurely, for when he looked around the stranger had disappeared. The message was simple enough. “Mademoiselle will arrive presently. Will you wait, sir?” What did all this mystery mean? Why was a little Italian girl sent to lead him to a place of appointment with a lady who sent a cryptic message written without a signature. Who was the person, apparently an Apache, or from the Latin quarter of Paris, who sprang from nowhere and disappeared into space? As Raife contemplated these matters, the cloaked figure of a woman came round the corner of the street.“Ah! Sir Raife! I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I could not get here quicker.” She was out of breath, and her words came quickly.Raife at once recognised the voice and form of Gilda. Her form was disguised in the long rich cloak that she wore, and her face was hidden by a large hat, from which a deep veil was draped around her face, but her rich, low, contralto voice was evident—especially to Raife.All there was of mistrust, of suspicion, indignation or resentment disappeared, as she placed her hand upon his arm, looking up at him through the folds of her deep veil. Her eyes appealed to him.“I tried to get here before, but they wouldn’t let me get away. Of course, you got my message.”In spite of her extraordinary behaviour that afternoon, a few hours ago only, everything seemed quite right and natural to Raife now he heard her voice, and saw those eyes, and felt the soft touch upon his arm. In an absent-minded way he said: “Oh, yes! I got your message and I came at once. Where shall we go? I do want to talk to you.” Then collecting his scattered senses, he asked a dozen questions rapidly. “Who was the Apache fellow? Why did you snub me this afternoon? What was the meaning of the note you left for me at the ‘Queen’s,’ Southport? Oh, Gilda, tell me what is the meaning of all this mystery! If there is any trouble let me help you.”The girl, with a sob, replied: “Sir Raife, don’t ask me any questions. Trust me. It is very hard for me—but don’t ask questions. Let us walk back along the Promenade des Anglais.” Then, dreamily, as if to herself, she added: “Yes—the promenade of the English. We are English. At least, there is no doubt that you are. I sometimes wonder what I am.”They walked together until they reached the promenade again. There, under the light of a street-lamp, they renewed their talk. He, still interrogative, asked questions to which she would or could not reply. All she would say was, “Please! Please, don’t ask me questions. Just trust me,” and, with a soft tremor in her tones, she added: “Will you be my friend?”Raife’s conquest was complete. All sense of mistrust had disappeared with the first seductive notes of the voice he had longed to hear again, and, to-night, that voice was his.“I trust you. I trust you implicitly, and I will be your friend.”For good or evil his word was given, and the word of a Remington was never lightly given. Passion or love, call it what you will, has led men and women into strangely incongruous and many dangerous situations. This promise, given with the impetuosity of youth aglow and veins afire, might lead to tragic disaster or the consummation of a pure and natural union.The flow of lover’s conversation is frequently intermittent, and sometimes erratic, and now there was a lull in the talk. At length Gilda said: “I read in the newspapers that your father was killed—or murdered by an armed burglar.” Raife shuddered at the allusion. Continuing, she added: “Did you see the body of the murderer?”Raife said: “Oh, yes! I saw the body of the brute.”“What was he like?”“He didn’t look much like a burglar. At least, not like the burglars we’ve read about in books and that sort of thing.”“How sad it must have been for you all—for you—and your mother.”There was a ring of sympathy in her voice, and Raife felt grateful for the words of comfort.Then Gilda asked, “Was he well-dressed, then?”“Oh, yes! Quite well-dressed, and he had money in his pockets and wore jewellery.”“How strange,” she added, with a slight quiver. “What sort of jewellery?”“Oh, the usual sort of things, you know—a watch and chain and a plain signet ring! He also had a curious kind of charm hanging by a chain around his neck. I took possession of that, hoping some day it might serve as a clue. He was a strange-looking chap, and I would like to find out who he was. In fact the guv’nor, before he died, said something about a ‘trap,’ and other things of that sort, and I’d like to discover what it’s all about. There’s some deep mystery surrounding the whole affair.” Gilda shivered, and said: “Isn’t it terrible!” and, after a pause, added: “It’s getting cool to-night. Shall we walk towards the hotel?”As they walked towards the Hôtel Royal, Raife produced from his pocket the charm he had removed from the assassin’s neck, and, handing it to Gilda for her inspection, said: “Here’s the charm. It seems to be Egyptian, a figure of the goddess Isis, and there are all sorts of queer hieroglyphics on the back of it. Queer-looking thing for a burglar to wear, isn’t it?”Gilda took the charm and her eyes sparkled as she held it tenderly, and seemed almost to fondle it. Then, nervously, and sharply, she said: “Oh, how interesting! I love any thing Egyptian, and I have quite a lot of scarabs. Do give this to me as a token of your friendship. It will bring me luck. Fancy it having been worn by a murderer. I shall go to the tables at Monte Carlo, and if you give it to me, it will be my mascot.”Raife was very much in love with Gilda, and he would give his life, willingly, to serve her. The spirit of mystery seemed to enshroud this delicate, fragile girl. Why should she be fascinated by this gruesome relic of his father’s murder? He did not reply for a minute or so. Gilda handed back the charm, saying: “No, you don’t want to give it to me. And yet, how I feel I would like to own it. I don’t know why, but it fascinates me.”“Take it, Gilda,” he eventually said, fondly calling her by her Christian name, “and I hope it will bring you a lot of luck.”Gilda placed the quaint little charm with the thin gold chain in her reticule.They had now reached the entrance of the Hôtel Royal, and together they entered. Raife cast an eager glance around. To his great relief, Lady Remington, for it was late, had retired to rest.Gilda whispered: “Let’s go up the staircase. There’s a quiet alcove there, and my uncle has gone to his room.”In the brilliantly-lit foyer of the hotel an orchestra was discoursing music to a crowd of visitors, who lounged or promenaded at their sweet will. Many eyes were turned to the handsome couple as they ascended the richly-carpeted staircase in search of that quiet alcove which promised much to Raife, and perhaps some pleasure to the mysterious young girl who accompanied him.The south of Europe belongs, in a sense, to no country. It is cosmopolitan. There is a charm in the pleasure-land of Cosmopolis, for it discourages speculation as to the lineage of your neighbour. One handsome couple merges into another, and the shrewdest guesses as to nationality are liable to be miscalculated. Therefore the glances that were directed towards Raife and Gilda were less inquisitive than they were of admiration. At the top of the staircase Raife assisted in the removal of the long cloak which had effectively hidden the dainty figure underneath. Hat and veil being also laid aside, Gilda’s beauty revealed itself and dazzled the young man, further enmeshing him in the net of her mysterious charm.She had, to a large extent, prevented a flow of conversation by extracting his promise after those appealing requests: “Please don’t ask me questions. Just trust me. Will you be my friend?”The aromatic fumes of oriental tobaccos, blending with the scents of rare exotic blossoms, and the variety of perfumes, with which women associate themselves, rose in a seductive, almost vaporous column to the broad landing which overlooked the throng in the foyer below.Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest had risen from their seat in the alcove, and leant over the marble balustrade. Each gazed on this scene of artificial gaiety with mixed emotions. For some minutes, neither spoke. The languorous tones of violin and ’cello in subdued concert, died away. The orchestra rose from their seats, to rest after the ordeal of the prolonged musical medley of alternated rhapsody, tango, and serenade. The movement became general, and the hum of conversation in a babel of talk swelled upwards.At last Gilda spoke.“I must go now. Tell me again that you have forgiven me, and that you trust me.”“Gilda, I tell you again that I trust you. If you are in trouble, send for me, and I will endeavour to help you.”“Good-night, Raife!” and she started up the next flight of stairs. Half-way up she stopped, and looking round, beckoned him. When he approached she whispered: “What is the number of your room? One never knows in these foreign hotels. I might need you.”“My number is 26,” he said. Again they parted, he wondering what she meant by placing so sudden a confidence in him.As he descended to the foyer for a final smoke, and that refreshment we have christened a “nightcap,” he glanced upstairs again hoping to gain a final glimpse of his beloved. Instead, he saw—or was it fancy?—a tall figure looking down on him with a sardonic smile. For a moment only the sense of mistrust pervaded him. Then with an impatient gesture he muttered: “What’s the matter with you, Raife Remington? You’re all nerves to-night. It’s time you had that whisky and soda.”
Raife Remington followed the mysterious little girl, she dodging her way through the patches of silver light and gloomy shade. He strode in a gloomy, almost defiant manner, which implied that there was trouble ahead, and he was determined to meet it. As they approached the Hôtel Royal they passed a group of men who appeared to regard Raife with more than the ordinary interest that an obviously English, or perhaps American, visitor should attract. Now in the full light of the moon, enhanced by the brilliant street-lamps and the lights of the town glistening here and there, they dived into a side street. The little girl beckoned to Raife and he approached her. Then pointing to a café she said: “Signora meeta you there.”
The child disappeared and Raife sauntered in the direction indicated. With an air of nonchalance he relit the cigar which had gone out. There seemed to be an air of mystery about the transaction. He waited for a minute or two but no one appeared, until he felt a sense of impatience mixed with irritation. The event of the afternoon still rankled within him, and he was simmering with a stifled rage and indignation. The suggestion of a “trap” appeared evident, and he determined to enter the rather dimly-lit café and call for a cognac. He approached the entrance, and his hand was upon the handle of the door, when, from apparently nowhere, the figure of a man appeared. He was dressed in a long coat, loose at the neck, displaying a flowing necktie or cravat of black. His wide-brimmed black hat covered his countenance, and his general appearance suggested a denizen of the Latin quarter of Paris. In a soft undertone he lisped: “Pardon, monsieur! mademoiselle,” or as he pronounced it, “mams’elle arrivera tout à l’heure. Vous voulez attendre, monsieur?”
Raife’s knowledge of French was superior to his knowledge of Italian, and he turned to talk to this person who seemed to have sprung from nowhere. His movement must have been leisurely, for when he looked around the stranger had disappeared. The message was simple enough. “Mademoiselle will arrive presently. Will you wait, sir?” What did all this mystery mean? Why was a little Italian girl sent to lead him to a place of appointment with a lady who sent a cryptic message written without a signature. Who was the person, apparently an Apache, or from the Latin quarter of Paris, who sprang from nowhere and disappeared into space? As Raife contemplated these matters, the cloaked figure of a woman came round the corner of the street.
“Ah! Sir Raife! I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I could not get here quicker.” She was out of breath, and her words came quickly.
Raife at once recognised the voice and form of Gilda. Her form was disguised in the long rich cloak that she wore, and her face was hidden by a large hat, from which a deep veil was draped around her face, but her rich, low, contralto voice was evident—especially to Raife.
All there was of mistrust, of suspicion, indignation or resentment disappeared, as she placed her hand upon his arm, looking up at him through the folds of her deep veil. Her eyes appealed to him.
“I tried to get here before, but they wouldn’t let me get away. Of course, you got my message.”
In spite of her extraordinary behaviour that afternoon, a few hours ago only, everything seemed quite right and natural to Raife now he heard her voice, and saw those eyes, and felt the soft touch upon his arm. In an absent-minded way he said: “Oh, yes! I got your message and I came at once. Where shall we go? I do want to talk to you.” Then collecting his scattered senses, he asked a dozen questions rapidly. “Who was the Apache fellow? Why did you snub me this afternoon? What was the meaning of the note you left for me at the ‘Queen’s,’ Southport? Oh, Gilda, tell me what is the meaning of all this mystery! If there is any trouble let me help you.”
The girl, with a sob, replied: “Sir Raife, don’t ask me any questions. Trust me. It is very hard for me—but don’t ask questions. Let us walk back along the Promenade des Anglais.” Then, dreamily, as if to herself, she added: “Yes—the promenade of the English. We are English. At least, there is no doubt that you are. I sometimes wonder what I am.”
They walked together until they reached the promenade again. There, under the light of a street-lamp, they renewed their talk. He, still interrogative, asked questions to which she would or could not reply. All she would say was, “Please! Please, don’t ask me questions. Just trust me,” and, with a soft tremor in her tones, she added: “Will you be my friend?”
Raife’s conquest was complete. All sense of mistrust had disappeared with the first seductive notes of the voice he had longed to hear again, and, to-night, that voice was his.
“I trust you. I trust you implicitly, and I will be your friend.”
For good or evil his word was given, and the word of a Remington was never lightly given. Passion or love, call it what you will, has led men and women into strangely incongruous and many dangerous situations. This promise, given with the impetuosity of youth aglow and veins afire, might lead to tragic disaster or the consummation of a pure and natural union.
The flow of lover’s conversation is frequently intermittent, and sometimes erratic, and now there was a lull in the talk. At length Gilda said: “I read in the newspapers that your father was killed—or murdered by an armed burglar.” Raife shuddered at the allusion. Continuing, she added: “Did you see the body of the murderer?”
Raife said: “Oh, yes! I saw the body of the brute.”
“What was he like?”
“He didn’t look much like a burglar. At least, not like the burglars we’ve read about in books and that sort of thing.”
“How sad it must have been for you all—for you—and your mother.”
There was a ring of sympathy in her voice, and Raife felt grateful for the words of comfort.
Then Gilda asked, “Was he well-dressed, then?”
“Oh, yes! Quite well-dressed, and he had money in his pockets and wore jewellery.”
“How strange,” she added, with a slight quiver. “What sort of jewellery?”
“Oh, the usual sort of things, you know—a watch and chain and a plain signet ring! He also had a curious kind of charm hanging by a chain around his neck. I took possession of that, hoping some day it might serve as a clue. He was a strange-looking chap, and I would like to find out who he was. In fact the guv’nor, before he died, said something about a ‘trap,’ and other things of that sort, and I’d like to discover what it’s all about. There’s some deep mystery surrounding the whole affair.” Gilda shivered, and said: “Isn’t it terrible!” and, after a pause, added: “It’s getting cool to-night. Shall we walk towards the hotel?”
As they walked towards the Hôtel Royal, Raife produced from his pocket the charm he had removed from the assassin’s neck, and, handing it to Gilda for her inspection, said: “Here’s the charm. It seems to be Egyptian, a figure of the goddess Isis, and there are all sorts of queer hieroglyphics on the back of it. Queer-looking thing for a burglar to wear, isn’t it?”
Gilda took the charm and her eyes sparkled as she held it tenderly, and seemed almost to fondle it. Then, nervously, and sharply, she said: “Oh, how interesting! I love any thing Egyptian, and I have quite a lot of scarabs. Do give this to me as a token of your friendship. It will bring me luck. Fancy it having been worn by a murderer. I shall go to the tables at Monte Carlo, and if you give it to me, it will be my mascot.”
Raife was very much in love with Gilda, and he would give his life, willingly, to serve her. The spirit of mystery seemed to enshroud this delicate, fragile girl. Why should she be fascinated by this gruesome relic of his father’s murder? He did not reply for a minute or so. Gilda handed back the charm, saying: “No, you don’t want to give it to me. And yet, how I feel I would like to own it. I don’t know why, but it fascinates me.”
“Take it, Gilda,” he eventually said, fondly calling her by her Christian name, “and I hope it will bring you a lot of luck.”
Gilda placed the quaint little charm with the thin gold chain in her reticule.
They had now reached the entrance of the Hôtel Royal, and together they entered. Raife cast an eager glance around. To his great relief, Lady Remington, for it was late, had retired to rest.
Gilda whispered: “Let’s go up the staircase. There’s a quiet alcove there, and my uncle has gone to his room.”
In the brilliantly-lit foyer of the hotel an orchestra was discoursing music to a crowd of visitors, who lounged or promenaded at their sweet will. Many eyes were turned to the handsome couple as they ascended the richly-carpeted staircase in search of that quiet alcove which promised much to Raife, and perhaps some pleasure to the mysterious young girl who accompanied him.
The south of Europe belongs, in a sense, to no country. It is cosmopolitan. There is a charm in the pleasure-land of Cosmopolis, for it discourages speculation as to the lineage of your neighbour. One handsome couple merges into another, and the shrewdest guesses as to nationality are liable to be miscalculated. Therefore the glances that were directed towards Raife and Gilda were less inquisitive than they were of admiration. At the top of the staircase Raife assisted in the removal of the long cloak which had effectively hidden the dainty figure underneath. Hat and veil being also laid aside, Gilda’s beauty revealed itself and dazzled the young man, further enmeshing him in the net of her mysterious charm.
She had, to a large extent, prevented a flow of conversation by extracting his promise after those appealing requests: “Please don’t ask me questions. Just trust me. Will you be my friend?”
The aromatic fumes of oriental tobaccos, blending with the scents of rare exotic blossoms, and the variety of perfumes, with which women associate themselves, rose in a seductive, almost vaporous column to the broad landing which overlooked the throng in the foyer below.
Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest had risen from their seat in the alcove, and leant over the marble balustrade. Each gazed on this scene of artificial gaiety with mixed emotions. For some minutes, neither spoke. The languorous tones of violin and ’cello in subdued concert, died away. The orchestra rose from their seats, to rest after the ordeal of the prolonged musical medley of alternated rhapsody, tango, and serenade. The movement became general, and the hum of conversation in a babel of talk swelled upwards.
At last Gilda spoke.
“I must go now. Tell me again that you have forgiven me, and that you trust me.”
“Gilda, I tell you again that I trust you. If you are in trouble, send for me, and I will endeavour to help you.”
“Good-night, Raife!” and she started up the next flight of stairs. Half-way up she stopped, and looking round, beckoned him. When he approached she whispered: “What is the number of your room? One never knows in these foreign hotels. I might need you.”
“My number is 26,” he said. Again they parted, he wondering what she meant by placing so sudden a confidence in him.
As he descended to the foyer for a final smoke, and that refreshment we have christened a “nightcap,” he glanced upstairs again hoping to gain a final glimpse of his beloved. Instead, he saw—or was it fancy?—a tall figure looking down on him with a sardonic smile. For a moment only the sense of mistrust pervaded him. Then with an impatient gesture he muttered: “What’s the matter with you, Raife Remington? You’re all nerves to-night. It’s time you had that whisky and soda.”
Chapter Eight.The Doctor’s Double Personality.Raife Remington finished his cigar and returned rather lazily to his room, thinking all the while of the vision of loveliness that had so entranced him—his mind—his soul—his very being.The little Yale key opened his door, and the lock yielded gracefully to its turn.Even on the Riviera, the wide expanse of beautiful country which begins on the northern shore of the Mediterranean Sea and extends northwards somewhere towards the Alps—there are Yale keys.Yale keys may come from anywhere. They do not all arrive from the United States, the land of their invention. Wherever they are found, or wherever they may come from, they serve a useful purpose. They are small and flat, and it is possible to get more Yale keys into a given space on a ring, than any other keys with a reputation for security.The other keys that Raife Remington carried were not of this nature. The key of the white room at the old “Blue Boar,” in Tunbridge Wells was much more ponderous. Those of Aldborough Park were invented before the days of Yale and Harvard. The locksmiths who forged and hammered the keys of Aldborough preceded the foundation of American universities. They were cumbersome, and they lay heavily in the pockets of the light suit of clothes which is customary on a spring night at Nice. Raife also sat heavily in the chair, which faced the fire in his room in the Hôtel Royal, after his last cigar and “nightcap” below.He dreamt of the events which had crowded a long day. His mind was obsessed. A thousand recollections of mysterious occurrences attacked him from without and within. The sleep, which is a half-sleep, bordering on a doze, gave him no rest. He awoke from this state of semi-somnolence. There was a tap—a very distinct tap or rap at the door. Half-clad, and yawning, he rose from his chair and opened the door. A neatly-clad chambermaid stood without, and with an accent which is charming to us of the North, said: “Sir Raife, Miss Tempest send me to you. She say, she lose her keys. Perhaps, Sir Raife, your keys will open her valise. Will you, Sir Raife, lend your keys for the occasion?”Most young men are human, and the obvious is natural to humanity. Raife promptly replied to this neatly-clad, soft-voiced young woman: “Yes. To be sure. Tell Miss Tempest I am sorry if she has suffered any inconvenience from her loss. If any of my keys will open her valise, I am glad to have been of service.”The maid retired. Sir Raife lazily went to bed, now to sleep, for a short while, that tired sleep that comes to youth which is only in love, and has no greater anxiety than a torn heart recently healed.The maid returned to Gilda’s room and handed the bunch of keys to her, saying: “The Signor send you his keys with ze great pleasure—Signorina.”The Southern man and matron smile so often that one cannot always separate the smiles and decide which is cynical, and which is gracious or friendly. The maid retired, smiling.Gilda took the keys and gazed at them.Then, with a fondling grasp, she handled them—murmuring the while: “These are Raife’s keys—the keys of Aldborough Park.”Gazing into space, with a glazed expression, she sank upon the lounge at the foot of her bed and gasped: “Why must I do these hateful things!”A soft knock at the door awakened her from the lapse which had ended in this momentary display of despair. Gilda went to the door expecting that the maid had returned for some trivial purpose. Hastily placing the keys in one of those hidden places which women secrete among their clothing, she opened the door, saying, “Yes. What is it?” The maid was not there.At this hour, which was early, very early, for the Hôtel Royal at Nice, there stood a lugubrious figure. Tall, crumpled, yet retaining a somewhat dignified demeanour, Doctor Malsano stood there at his worst. In a stifled, sepulchral voice he demanded: “Have you got them—the keys?”The frightened girl, with a devilment which belongs to all who may hold a whip-hand for a moment, lost her temporary sense of dismay and answered boldly: “What do you want?”He hissed the words at her. “Have you got the keys? The keys, I tell you. Have you got them?”That moment of bravery left Gilda almost as quickly as she had become possessed of it. The swivel eye, and the rest of that remarkable countenance and personality, in spite of his dishevelled and distorted appearance, regained the mastery.Gilda collapsed and weakly replied: “The keys! Yes, I have the keys!”The doctor entered and Gilda handed them to him. Those keys of Aldborough Park, obtained by subterfuge from Raife—! With a snarl the doctor snatched them and left the room. When Gilda Tempest slept a calm sleep, without which beauty will not last, Raife Remington tossed and turned on his bed of unrest. The excitement of the renewed meeting with Gilda had, to an extent, subsided, and in the feverish hours that followed, his mind coursed through all the dramatic events of the last few months. His sense of reason strove hard to rescue him from a mad passion—a passion that every worldly instinct told him would lead to ruin—worse than ruin—death. Yes! death. An inglorious, profitless death.Doctor Danilo Malsano sat in his room at the Hôtel Royal. A small phial was on the table that faced him. He picked it up and swallowed the contents. His convulsed face presently resumed a more normal, a more peaceful expression. It was a soothing drug that he had taken—one to which he was well accustomed. The soft rays of the red-shaded electric lamp suffused the room, the oval mirror on the dressing-table reflected a saturnine, yet smiling countenance.The doctor spoke in a whisper to himself, each short sentence was succeeded by a chortle, a subdued chuckle. “The arm of coincidence is long! The cursed Anglo-Saxon is proud—very proud, but he is a very simple fool. One of them is dead. It may be this young fool’s turn next. Gilda loves him, too. That is a pity. Yet it must be.”These soft-spoken reflections, with the drug, seemed to pacify the perturbed mind of this extraordinary man, and he appeared to doze for a while. Presently he sprang to his feet and his frame displayed surprising activity. Taking Raife’s keys in one hand, he opened a valise, from which it was evident that he had travelled much. Yet the labels of hotels, cities, and townships had been so cleverly manipulated, that they were hard to decipher. Opening the valise, he produced some wax, on which, with the dexterity of a practised hand, he took the impressions of the keys of Aldborough Park.It was late when the doctor had completed his task. The first grey streaks of dawn crept through the long curtained windows, as he stealthily opened the door of his room. Surveying the silent corridor with care, he stole stealthily to Gilda’s room and tapped gently. The frightened girl, accustomed to the strange demands of her uncanny uncle, replied with surprising promptitude.He hastily thrust Raife’s keys into her hand, muttering: “Give these back to the young fool, and see to it you don’t lose your head. I will meet you in the coffee-room at ten o’clock, and you can introduce him to me.”At ten o’clock on the morning following these occurrences which appeared of such evil portent, Gilda Tempest, daintily clad in a light gown of soft material in which chiffon seemed to predominate, walked into the coffee-room of the hotel and took her seat at a table, laid for three, next to a window which commanded a view of the Promenade des Anglais. The doctor had planned the arrangement of this table with that prescience which characterised all his movements. She had not been seated many minutes, and was sipping some coffee—the coffee that, in spite of modern facilities, seems to be only obtainable on the continent of Europe, when Sir Raife Remington entered the room. He crossed to the table at which Gilda was seated and greeted her.To his pleasure and astonishment she said, heartily: “Good morning. Sir Raife. Won’t you take a seat at our table? I expect my uncle, presently, and he will be very pleased to see you. First of all, let me thank you for the loan of your keys. It was so distressing, I could not find my keys anywhere, and, in desperation, I thought of your kind offer to help me if I needed it.”Raife laughed heartily, and, taking a seat opposite to her, said: “Please don’t thank me for a small thing like that. I meant, more especially, I would like to help you in something big, as the Americans would say—something real large, should the occasion arise.”Gilda appeared positively radiant on this bright, sunny morning, and her soft, pleasing voice thrilled him as she said: “Did you get the keys back? I sent them to your room by the chambermaid, and, do you know, one of them just fitted the little trunk I wanted to open. It contained this gown I’m wearing, and I’ve put it on in recognition of your kindness to me in my distress.”Again he laughed, saying: “Oh, yes, I got the keys all right!”Then, with a strange, strained tone in her voice, she said: “Here comes my uncle.”Wherever Doctor Danilo Malsano entered people turned to look. His striking personality was of such a nature that it seemed more than ever strange that he could move about so easily, unobserved, when he was carrying out his nefarious schemes.Raife rose from his chair as the doctor approached the table, and, gracefully, Gilda introduced: “My uncle, Doctor Malsano—Sir Raife Remington.”With Saxon rigidity Raife bowed, but the older man with a warmth and graciousness extended his hand, compelling acceptance. Raife took the old man’s hand, and the contact caused him to shudder.They took their seats at the table and the incongruous trio indulged in the vague generalities that are frequently associated with a breakfast-table. This was not adéjeuner à la fourchette. By common consent, coffee and dainty Vienna bread, with perfect butter, constituted the meal.Raife could not fail to notice that Gilda’s radiance had subsided, and, in the presence of her uncle, a subdued conventionalism had superseded.Once more, in spite of his brief sense of complete trust in this girl, who had not only entered but monopolised the moments of his life, whether awake or asleep—once more the fateful words of his dying father rang in his ears.“Beware of the trap—she—that woman.”He was roused from this reverie by the doctor’s words, uttered with a cordiality and accompanied by a smile that ill accorded with the sinister chuckles of the previous night.Doctor Malsano, taking wax impressions in the dead of the night of the keys of his niece’s wooer, was a different person from the cheery old gentleman who said: “You are staying with your mother, who is a widow, I understand, Sir Raife?”“Yes,” responded Raife. “My mother is with me here. She takes breakfast in her room. Since my father’s death she is fragile and delicate.”“Ah, yes! I heard of your father’s death. Let me see. He was murdered, wasn’t he? Murdered by some blackguard of a burglar?”Gilda winced. The doctor’s face was earnestly sympathetic.Raife replied: “Yes, he was murdered by some blackguard of a burglar. Thank God, the burglar died too.”The doctor crooned rather than spoke. “We won’t talk of sad things on this bright, sunny morning. Nice is charming, isn’t it, and so full of smart people? The Baroness von Sassniltz is staying here—in this hotel, I’m told.”“Yes,” responded Raife, “she is a friend of my mother’s, and sometimes stays with us at Aldborough Park.”“Aldborough Park! Dear me, I’ve heard of that some time. It’s a fine old Tudor place near Tunbridge Wells, isn’t it?”Raife said: “Yes. It’s a fine old place. It belongs to me. There have been happy days at Aldborough, but yet I cannot help thinking that some people seem to thrive on the misery of others.”“That’s true,” the doctor crooned again, “It’s sad, but it’s true.”Then, cheerfully, Raife said; “I hope, doctor, that you and Miss Tempest will honour me with a visit there some day soon, and we’ll try and make merry again. If we can, we’ll forget that villainous assassin.”Again Gilda winced, and, dropping her serviette, stooped to pick it up, thus hiding a scarlet flush that suffused her cheeks.Without replying to the invitation and, with a suddenness that appeared to be anent nothing, Doctor Malsano said:“Oh, Sir Raife, I’ve forgotten to express my thanks to you for the charming talisman you have presented to my niece, which I see she is wearing around her neck!”Raife and Gilda both started at this extraordinary sally. Neither knew that the doctor was aware of the gift. The slight gold chain to which the talisman was attached was barely visible, whilst the figure of Isis was entirely screened from view. It heaved on Gilda’s palpitating breast, behind the bodice of her charming and dainty morning gown. Without apparently heeding the embarrassment of the young couple, he proceeded:“There is a delightful mysticism about Egyptian mythology that charms me. Let me see, Isis was a goddess, wasn’t she? To be sure she was a goddess, and the record of her does not always make pleasant reading.”Raife gazed steadfastly at this mysterious man, and marvelled at the meaning of his cryptic utterances, which came from him graciously, and with a smile that was bland, until the swivel eye destroyed the illusion.Gilda was trained to the startling nature of her uncle’s methods, and collected her senses rapidly, remarking: “Yes, wasn’t it kind of Raife—Sir Raife I mean, to give it to me. I told him you would be pleased.”Raife was more mystified than ever. She had not said anything of the kind to him. And what was the meaning of that lapse—the omission of the title in speaking before her uncle? Truly, the depths of these personalities were unfathomable. In spite of it all he had sworn to trust Gilda and remain her friend. He was a Reymingtoune and he would keep his word. Apart from that, he loved her, and love remains as blind to-day as when Cupid became fully fledged and wore wings.The revolutions of an excited mentality are rapid, and a thought flashed through Sir Raife Remington’s mind. Who was that mysterious-looking, slouch-hatted, and cloaked Apache type of person, who bade him wait for Gilda when she was late for her appointment? Was he a secret agent of Doctor Malsano? What would be the outcome of this hotbed of mystery? It mattered not. Only one thing mattered. He loved this frail, beautiful young girl. He had sworn to trust her and to be her friend.
Raife Remington finished his cigar and returned rather lazily to his room, thinking all the while of the vision of loveliness that had so entranced him—his mind—his soul—his very being.
The little Yale key opened his door, and the lock yielded gracefully to its turn.
Even on the Riviera, the wide expanse of beautiful country which begins on the northern shore of the Mediterranean Sea and extends northwards somewhere towards the Alps—there are Yale keys.
Yale keys may come from anywhere. They do not all arrive from the United States, the land of their invention. Wherever they are found, or wherever they may come from, they serve a useful purpose. They are small and flat, and it is possible to get more Yale keys into a given space on a ring, than any other keys with a reputation for security.
The other keys that Raife Remington carried were not of this nature. The key of the white room at the old “Blue Boar,” in Tunbridge Wells was much more ponderous. Those of Aldborough Park were invented before the days of Yale and Harvard. The locksmiths who forged and hammered the keys of Aldborough preceded the foundation of American universities. They were cumbersome, and they lay heavily in the pockets of the light suit of clothes which is customary on a spring night at Nice. Raife also sat heavily in the chair, which faced the fire in his room in the Hôtel Royal, after his last cigar and “nightcap” below.
He dreamt of the events which had crowded a long day. His mind was obsessed. A thousand recollections of mysterious occurrences attacked him from without and within. The sleep, which is a half-sleep, bordering on a doze, gave him no rest. He awoke from this state of semi-somnolence. There was a tap—a very distinct tap or rap at the door. Half-clad, and yawning, he rose from his chair and opened the door. A neatly-clad chambermaid stood without, and with an accent which is charming to us of the North, said: “Sir Raife, Miss Tempest send me to you. She say, she lose her keys. Perhaps, Sir Raife, your keys will open her valise. Will you, Sir Raife, lend your keys for the occasion?”
Most young men are human, and the obvious is natural to humanity. Raife promptly replied to this neatly-clad, soft-voiced young woman: “Yes. To be sure. Tell Miss Tempest I am sorry if she has suffered any inconvenience from her loss. If any of my keys will open her valise, I am glad to have been of service.”
The maid retired. Sir Raife lazily went to bed, now to sleep, for a short while, that tired sleep that comes to youth which is only in love, and has no greater anxiety than a torn heart recently healed.
The maid returned to Gilda’s room and handed the bunch of keys to her, saying: “The Signor send you his keys with ze great pleasure—Signorina.”
The Southern man and matron smile so often that one cannot always separate the smiles and decide which is cynical, and which is gracious or friendly. The maid retired, smiling.
Gilda took the keys and gazed at them.
Then, with a fondling grasp, she handled them—murmuring the while: “These are Raife’s keys—the keys of Aldborough Park.”
Gazing into space, with a glazed expression, she sank upon the lounge at the foot of her bed and gasped: “Why must I do these hateful things!”
A soft knock at the door awakened her from the lapse which had ended in this momentary display of despair. Gilda went to the door expecting that the maid had returned for some trivial purpose. Hastily placing the keys in one of those hidden places which women secrete among their clothing, she opened the door, saying, “Yes. What is it?” The maid was not there.
At this hour, which was early, very early, for the Hôtel Royal at Nice, there stood a lugubrious figure. Tall, crumpled, yet retaining a somewhat dignified demeanour, Doctor Malsano stood there at his worst. In a stifled, sepulchral voice he demanded: “Have you got them—the keys?”
The frightened girl, with a devilment which belongs to all who may hold a whip-hand for a moment, lost her temporary sense of dismay and answered boldly: “What do you want?”
He hissed the words at her. “Have you got the keys? The keys, I tell you. Have you got them?”
That moment of bravery left Gilda almost as quickly as she had become possessed of it. The swivel eye, and the rest of that remarkable countenance and personality, in spite of his dishevelled and distorted appearance, regained the mastery.
Gilda collapsed and weakly replied: “The keys! Yes, I have the keys!”
The doctor entered and Gilda handed them to him. Those keys of Aldborough Park, obtained by subterfuge from Raife—! With a snarl the doctor snatched them and left the room. When Gilda Tempest slept a calm sleep, without which beauty will not last, Raife Remington tossed and turned on his bed of unrest. The excitement of the renewed meeting with Gilda had, to an extent, subsided, and in the feverish hours that followed, his mind coursed through all the dramatic events of the last few months. His sense of reason strove hard to rescue him from a mad passion—a passion that every worldly instinct told him would lead to ruin—worse than ruin—death. Yes! death. An inglorious, profitless death.
Doctor Danilo Malsano sat in his room at the Hôtel Royal. A small phial was on the table that faced him. He picked it up and swallowed the contents. His convulsed face presently resumed a more normal, a more peaceful expression. It was a soothing drug that he had taken—one to which he was well accustomed. The soft rays of the red-shaded electric lamp suffused the room, the oval mirror on the dressing-table reflected a saturnine, yet smiling countenance.
The doctor spoke in a whisper to himself, each short sentence was succeeded by a chortle, a subdued chuckle. “The arm of coincidence is long! The cursed Anglo-Saxon is proud—very proud, but he is a very simple fool. One of them is dead. It may be this young fool’s turn next. Gilda loves him, too. That is a pity. Yet it must be.”
These soft-spoken reflections, with the drug, seemed to pacify the perturbed mind of this extraordinary man, and he appeared to doze for a while. Presently he sprang to his feet and his frame displayed surprising activity. Taking Raife’s keys in one hand, he opened a valise, from which it was evident that he had travelled much. Yet the labels of hotels, cities, and townships had been so cleverly manipulated, that they were hard to decipher. Opening the valise, he produced some wax, on which, with the dexterity of a practised hand, he took the impressions of the keys of Aldborough Park.
It was late when the doctor had completed his task. The first grey streaks of dawn crept through the long curtained windows, as he stealthily opened the door of his room. Surveying the silent corridor with care, he stole stealthily to Gilda’s room and tapped gently. The frightened girl, accustomed to the strange demands of her uncanny uncle, replied with surprising promptitude.
He hastily thrust Raife’s keys into her hand, muttering: “Give these back to the young fool, and see to it you don’t lose your head. I will meet you in the coffee-room at ten o’clock, and you can introduce him to me.”
At ten o’clock on the morning following these occurrences which appeared of such evil portent, Gilda Tempest, daintily clad in a light gown of soft material in which chiffon seemed to predominate, walked into the coffee-room of the hotel and took her seat at a table, laid for three, next to a window which commanded a view of the Promenade des Anglais. The doctor had planned the arrangement of this table with that prescience which characterised all his movements. She had not been seated many minutes, and was sipping some coffee—the coffee that, in spite of modern facilities, seems to be only obtainable on the continent of Europe, when Sir Raife Remington entered the room. He crossed to the table at which Gilda was seated and greeted her.
To his pleasure and astonishment she said, heartily: “Good morning. Sir Raife. Won’t you take a seat at our table? I expect my uncle, presently, and he will be very pleased to see you. First of all, let me thank you for the loan of your keys. It was so distressing, I could not find my keys anywhere, and, in desperation, I thought of your kind offer to help me if I needed it.”
Raife laughed heartily, and, taking a seat opposite to her, said: “Please don’t thank me for a small thing like that. I meant, more especially, I would like to help you in something big, as the Americans would say—something real large, should the occasion arise.”
Gilda appeared positively radiant on this bright, sunny morning, and her soft, pleasing voice thrilled him as she said: “Did you get the keys back? I sent them to your room by the chambermaid, and, do you know, one of them just fitted the little trunk I wanted to open. It contained this gown I’m wearing, and I’ve put it on in recognition of your kindness to me in my distress.”
Again he laughed, saying: “Oh, yes, I got the keys all right!”
Then, with a strange, strained tone in her voice, she said: “Here comes my uncle.”
Wherever Doctor Danilo Malsano entered people turned to look. His striking personality was of such a nature that it seemed more than ever strange that he could move about so easily, unobserved, when he was carrying out his nefarious schemes.
Raife rose from his chair as the doctor approached the table, and, gracefully, Gilda introduced: “My uncle, Doctor Malsano—Sir Raife Remington.”
With Saxon rigidity Raife bowed, but the older man with a warmth and graciousness extended his hand, compelling acceptance. Raife took the old man’s hand, and the contact caused him to shudder.
They took their seats at the table and the incongruous trio indulged in the vague generalities that are frequently associated with a breakfast-table. This was not adéjeuner à la fourchette. By common consent, coffee and dainty Vienna bread, with perfect butter, constituted the meal.
Raife could not fail to notice that Gilda’s radiance had subsided, and, in the presence of her uncle, a subdued conventionalism had superseded.
Once more, in spite of his brief sense of complete trust in this girl, who had not only entered but monopolised the moments of his life, whether awake or asleep—once more the fateful words of his dying father rang in his ears.
“Beware of the trap—she—that woman.”
He was roused from this reverie by the doctor’s words, uttered with a cordiality and accompanied by a smile that ill accorded with the sinister chuckles of the previous night.
Doctor Malsano, taking wax impressions in the dead of the night of the keys of his niece’s wooer, was a different person from the cheery old gentleman who said: “You are staying with your mother, who is a widow, I understand, Sir Raife?”
“Yes,” responded Raife. “My mother is with me here. She takes breakfast in her room. Since my father’s death she is fragile and delicate.”
“Ah, yes! I heard of your father’s death. Let me see. He was murdered, wasn’t he? Murdered by some blackguard of a burglar?”
Gilda winced. The doctor’s face was earnestly sympathetic.
Raife replied: “Yes, he was murdered by some blackguard of a burglar. Thank God, the burglar died too.”
The doctor crooned rather than spoke. “We won’t talk of sad things on this bright, sunny morning. Nice is charming, isn’t it, and so full of smart people? The Baroness von Sassniltz is staying here—in this hotel, I’m told.”
“Yes,” responded Raife, “she is a friend of my mother’s, and sometimes stays with us at Aldborough Park.”
“Aldborough Park! Dear me, I’ve heard of that some time. It’s a fine old Tudor place near Tunbridge Wells, isn’t it?”
Raife said: “Yes. It’s a fine old place. It belongs to me. There have been happy days at Aldborough, but yet I cannot help thinking that some people seem to thrive on the misery of others.”
“That’s true,” the doctor crooned again, “It’s sad, but it’s true.”
Then, cheerfully, Raife said; “I hope, doctor, that you and Miss Tempest will honour me with a visit there some day soon, and we’ll try and make merry again. If we can, we’ll forget that villainous assassin.”
Again Gilda winced, and, dropping her serviette, stooped to pick it up, thus hiding a scarlet flush that suffused her cheeks.
Without replying to the invitation and, with a suddenness that appeared to be anent nothing, Doctor Malsano said:
“Oh, Sir Raife, I’ve forgotten to express my thanks to you for the charming talisman you have presented to my niece, which I see she is wearing around her neck!”
Raife and Gilda both started at this extraordinary sally. Neither knew that the doctor was aware of the gift. The slight gold chain to which the talisman was attached was barely visible, whilst the figure of Isis was entirely screened from view. It heaved on Gilda’s palpitating breast, behind the bodice of her charming and dainty morning gown. Without apparently heeding the embarrassment of the young couple, he proceeded:
“There is a delightful mysticism about Egyptian mythology that charms me. Let me see, Isis was a goddess, wasn’t she? To be sure she was a goddess, and the record of her does not always make pleasant reading.”
Raife gazed steadfastly at this mysterious man, and marvelled at the meaning of his cryptic utterances, which came from him graciously, and with a smile that was bland, until the swivel eye destroyed the illusion.
Gilda was trained to the startling nature of her uncle’s methods, and collected her senses rapidly, remarking: “Yes, wasn’t it kind of Raife—Sir Raife I mean, to give it to me. I told him you would be pleased.”
Raife was more mystified than ever. She had not said anything of the kind to him. And what was the meaning of that lapse—the omission of the title in speaking before her uncle? Truly, the depths of these personalities were unfathomable. In spite of it all he had sworn to trust Gilda and remain her friend. He was a Reymingtoune and he would keep his word. Apart from that, he loved her, and love remains as blind to-day as when Cupid became fully fledged and wore wings.
The revolutions of an excited mentality are rapid, and a thought flashed through Sir Raife Remington’s mind. Who was that mysterious-looking, slouch-hatted, and cloaked Apache type of person, who bade him wait for Gilda when she was late for her appointment? Was he a secret agent of Doctor Malsano? What would be the outcome of this hotbed of mystery? It mattered not. Only one thing mattered. He loved this frail, beautiful young girl. He had sworn to trust her and to be her friend.