Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.The Beginning of the Revenge.Raife’s mind was already perturbed by the reflections it had undergone. The thought of Herrion searching for Lesigne outside his flat was more than he could tolerate. Hastily dressing, he let himself out of the door of the second flat, and, calling a taxi, drove to Doctor Malsano’s rooms.No one can, for long, be the associate of thieves without acquiring their cunning. To play eavesdropper is a common precaution on the part of thieves. Raife overheard the doctor talking to Denoir, and the words had a sinister sound in his ears. It was the doctor speaking. “You shall have your revenge all right. I will see to that.”Denoir’s high-pitched voice responded. “Yes, doctor, that big brute of an Englishman hit me. Hit me with his fists. I would like to shoot him.” Raife rang a bell, and the doctor opened the door. There was surprise on the face of the ex-officer when Raife confronted them. To show surprise was not part of the doctor’s stock-in-trade. So, with urbanity, he greeted his guest. “Ah, Mr Vachelle! You are a late visitor. Come in. To what do I owe the honour?”Rather curtly, Raife replied: “I must talk to you to-night, doctor. Something has occurred.”“Does it concern Mr Denoir?”“No. It does not concern him.”“Very well, I bid you good-night, Mr Denoir,” said the doctor, turning to that gentleman.Mr Denoir retired, bowing low to both the other men.“Come in, Mr Vachelle, or, as I may call you in here, Sir Raife,” added the doctor.Raife was not in the mood to be trifled with and snapped out: “I’m not so sure of that. I heard what you said to that fellow Denoir just now.”“Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re” was the doctor’s motto in business, and unctuously he replied: “Ah! that was nothing. The fellow was in a rage. You thrashed him and, naturally, he doesn’t like it. I only said that to soothe him. He knows a good deal, and can be dangerous, you know. So I thought it best to soothe him. You quite understand, don’t you, Sir Raife?”Somehow, when the doctor undertook to explain a thing away, it all seemed so reasonable. Raife’s anger vanished in a smile. When they were seated and some of the doctor’s best cognac had been produced, Raife told how he had heard and seen the detective, Herrion, outside his door, and overheard him ask for Lesigne.The doctor raised his eyebrows and smiled.Raife continued: “I must give it up. I can’t have that clever little fellow hounding me down. It will never do. You can bet he’s been hunting for me all over Europe. He’ll find me, too.”The doctor soothed the young man, as he would soothe a child. “Now, Sir Raife, don’t you fear. They call him a Scarlet Pimpernel, don’t they? He’s been trying to catch me for a dozen years. He hasn’t succeeded, and he won’t. Ha! ha!” Raife left late and returned in a taxi to his flat. Once he was in his room his spirit returned to him, and he determined, at all costs, to abandon his hateful life and return to his own form of civilisation.In the morning he was busy packing a bag, and the floor was strewn with articles of clothing, when Gilda entered, exclaiming: “Hullo, Raife! Packing up? Where are you going?”His mood remained determined, and he almost snarled: “Going? I’ve gone, it seems to me. Gone clean to the devil! I’m going away.”Then came the appeal from Gilda. The appeal that he never could resist, and to which he had fallen so many times. She did not use many words. Her utter helplessness was the strong point of it all, and her complete love and trust in him. He sat in a huge chair with his head between his hands gazing vacantly in front of him. She knelt and looked up into those eyes that could glare with the fierce hate of passion, or shed the soft lovelight. She looked for the lovelight she had met there before, and she did not look in vain.What Doctor Malsano had, for once, failed to accomplish, Gilda had again achieved. Raife was again conquered by the mysterious influence of this beautiful girl. He sprang to his feet and caught her in his arms, showering kisses on her forehead. “Gilda! Gilda! It’s got to be. Whilst you live I am yours. Yours to live and die for—to sink or swim for you.”Then, hysterically, he almost shouted: “To hell with Herrion! I have started, and I will finish.” He slung each article of clothing back in its receptacle, and, turning to Gilda, said more restrainedly, “We will go into the country to-day, and revel in our flowers and trees, our sky and clouds. I am giving you my life. It is yours. My reason tells me that it can only end in trouble. I don’t care. Life is only possible to me when you are around. Now let us hie into the country and ‘make the most of what we yet may have to spend, before we, too’—”Gilda threw herself into his arms and closed his lips with her hands—those clever, skilful hands, clever in crime, yet dainty as the hands of a queen of beauty. “Don’t quote those lines. They make me sad, and I want to be so happy with you to-day, Raife. Where shall we go?”Raife considered for a moment and then said: “It will be running a risk, but I feel like running risks to-day. Let us go to Versailles. Let us watch all the splendour of those glorious days when men and women were brave in love and war, and dared to fight for honour.”A pang went through him as he made this last allusion to “honour.” What was honour to him now? He had surrendered to a code, that did not count for honour among his equals, or those even who once might have been his inferiors. Quick disguise was a part of the craft of the career he had entered upon. He felt that he was less a buccaneer than a privateer. He was plundering the enemy, less for his personal profit than from the spirit of sheer devilment and adventure. There was no profit to him outside Gilda’s companionship.On the brightest day of early summer they walked in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The most perfect palace of the days when regal prodigality made France at the same time the most luxurious and the most poverty-stricken country in Europe, displayed its splendour in the full flood of warm sunshine. The fountains played and sparkled in a torrent of spray that suggested myriads of tiny precious stones. The air was perfumed with thousands of blossoms from the ornamental flower beds. The groups of statuary stood in bold relief, here against the warm blue sky or silver cloud, there against a bank of stately trees, rich in luxuriant foliage. Gay throngs of smartly-dressed women and children, mingled with the more sombre-clad men, who promenaded with all “la joie de vivre” that belongs to the Parisian on his own happy hunting ground.Raife and Gilda, safe in their skilled disguises, mixed with the crowd, and revelled in the beauty and movement around them.The day of the grand coup was approaching, when the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was to be plundered. This was to be the day when Raife was to exhibit those qualities of “agility, courage and daring” for which, in the language of Malsano’s insidious flattery, his countrymen were famous. Both Raife and Gilda felt that their next adventure was fraught with danger, and Raife had consented that Gilda on this occasion should assist in the operations. They therefore made the most of this joyous day at Versailles. It was evening when they decided to seek one of the more obscure little cabarets for their dinner. They were sauntering down an avenue with the long line of trees throwing shadows across the close-cropped grass, when a motor-car passed slowly by in the heavy rows of traffic. Raife looked at the occupant and recognised the Baroness von Sassniltz, his mother’s friend, whose jewels Gilda almost succeeded in stealing from the safe in the library at Aldborough Park. The baroness looked hard at Raife, but apparently did not see through his disguise.The conflict of emotions which had disturbed him during the night and morning were now renewed. Gilda did not notice the car which carried the Baroness von Sassniltz, but, with the intuition of a lover, she did notice that Raife’s manner had drifted into an abstracted mood. He was thinking of his own anomalous position. He was worshipping at the shrine of a woman, whom he had detected in the act of “burgling” the jewels of his mother’s friend. This took place in his own house, and not only had he allowed her to escape, but he was here to-day with her expecting to participate with her in a crime of a similar nature. The situation was hideous, and all the glory of the day in Versailles had departed.They walked along in silence for a while, until a passing taxicab arrested his attention, and he responded to the interrogative look of the driver by hailing it. They entered the taxi, and in response to the driver’s query, “Where shall I drive, monsieur?” he said: “Drive to the cabaret of ‘Le Sans Souci,’ at the end of the avenue, then to the left and about three miles along the main road. You will see it by a group of poplars, with a garden and a small lake in front.”They had been to this little inn before, many times, and the blue-skirted and white-aproned old landlady was accustomed to their visits, and understood not only their simple requirements, but their desire for quietude. They sat in the simple, clean little room, with its dainty curtains, white napery and shining cutlery. The old lady fussed around for a while, chatting gaily, as is the wont of French landladies, whilst the bouillabaisse, cutlets, and superlative omelette were being prepared.An old punt lay moored at the foot of some moss-covered steps leading to the lake. Pond lilies and chickweed covered the surface of the shallows that led from the steps to the deeper waters, which flickered in the moonlight. Clumps of willows and ash threw their shadows and reflected in the silent pool. Raife took the pole of this ancient, dilapidated punt and steered Gilda, who sat on a narrow seat of rough wood that constituted the only seat. Her neat, grey costume, rich in material but unobtrusive, contrasted with the ashen grey-greens of the old roughly-hewn punt. Thus, he standing up piloting the strange craft, took her over the warm waters, until reaching a deep pool which his pole failed to fathom they came to a rest. Here and there a ghostly bat, after the manner of a miniature vampire, flickered through the air, chasing the lesser night insects whose hum harmonised with the rest of that which was silence.It was sylvan and, to an extent, idyllic, but it is dangerous to be associated with crime. The convert to crime, religion or politics, is ever the more impressionable, and his actions are liable to outstrip the prudence of those who have inherited the traditions of their creed. The gloom of the situation and the memory of his lost hopes and ambitions attacked Raife, and, in a despairing mood, he perceived the ease with which all could be ended by a quick death in this silent pool. He and Gilda together could complete the tragedy of their lives. He had no doubt that she would consent to suicide, but why should he consult her in the matter? To overturn the punt would be easy, for it was a crazy old craft, and thus, entwined, they would sink to the depths, to oblivion.A voice came across the water. It travelled clearly, as sound will travel across still water on a quiet night. “Monsieur, votre dîner! C’est servi!” It was a cheery, pleasant voice, and it announced that dinner was served.Neither seemed to hear the call. Gilda was in one off her trance moods, and Raife was contemplating his last crime. Again the voice floated over the lake. “Sir, your dinner is served.” Raife awakened from his own trance and leisurely paddled the punt from the deep pool to shallow water. From the depths of his determination to the shallows of the commonplace he was aroused by the old landlady of the cabaret, who was calling him back to life. His resonant voice responded, as he poled the punt vigorously to the moss and lichen-covered steps. “Eh bien, madame, nous arriverons au moment.” His voice was quite cheery now, and he hailed her again. “All right, we shall be there in a moment.” He moored the punt to the rusty iron ring attached to the steps. Gilda seemed to be still in a trance mood. Raife answered the old lady’s pleasant railleries. The taxi-driver, who had been ordered to wait, peeped into the room unobserved from the kitchen. His wants had been served. To himself he reflected: “Queer couple. They’re handsome enough, but there’s some trouble, I wager.”Dinner was served, and death was forgotten.

Raife’s mind was already perturbed by the reflections it had undergone. The thought of Herrion searching for Lesigne outside his flat was more than he could tolerate. Hastily dressing, he let himself out of the door of the second flat, and, calling a taxi, drove to Doctor Malsano’s rooms.

No one can, for long, be the associate of thieves without acquiring their cunning. To play eavesdropper is a common precaution on the part of thieves. Raife overheard the doctor talking to Denoir, and the words had a sinister sound in his ears. It was the doctor speaking. “You shall have your revenge all right. I will see to that.”

Denoir’s high-pitched voice responded. “Yes, doctor, that big brute of an Englishman hit me. Hit me with his fists. I would like to shoot him.” Raife rang a bell, and the doctor opened the door. There was surprise on the face of the ex-officer when Raife confronted them. To show surprise was not part of the doctor’s stock-in-trade. So, with urbanity, he greeted his guest. “Ah, Mr Vachelle! You are a late visitor. Come in. To what do I owe the honour?”

Rather curtly, Raife replied: “I must talk to you to-night, doctor. Something has occurred.”

“Does it concern Mr Denoir?”

“No. It does not concern him.”

“Very well, I bid you good-night, Mr Denoir,” said the doctor, turning to that gentleman.

Mr Denoir retired, bowing low to both the other men.

“Come in, Mr Vachelle, or, as I may call you in here, Sir Raife,” added the doctor.

Raife was not in the mood to be trifled with and snapped out: “I’m not so sure of that. I heard what you said to that fellow Denoir just now.”

“Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re” was the doctor’s motto in business, and unctuously he replied: “Ah! that was nothing. The fellow was in a rage. You thrashed him and, naturally, he doesn’t like it. I only said that to soothe him. He knows a good deal, and can be dangerous, you know. So I thought it best to soothe him. You quite understand, don’t you, Sir Raife?”

Somehow, when the doctor undertook to explain a thing away, it all seemed so reasonable. Raife’s anger vanished in a smile. When they were seated and some of the doctor’s best cognac had been produced, Raife told how he had heard and seen the detective, Herrion, outside his door, and overheard him ask for Lesigne.

The doctor raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Raife continued: “I must give it up. I can’t have that clever little fellow hounding me down. It will never do. You can bet he’s been hunting for me all over Europe. He’ll find me, too.”

The doctor soothed the young man, as he would soothe a child. “Now, Sir Raife, don’t you fear. They call him a Scarlet Pimpernel, don’t they? He’s been trying to catch me for a dozen years. He hasn’t succeeded, and he won’t. Ha! ha!” Raife left late and returned in a taxi to his flat. Once he was in his room his spirit returned to him, and he determined, at all costs, to abandon his hateful life and return to his own form of civilisation.

In the morning he was busy packing a bag, and the floor was strewn with articles of clothing, when Gilda entered, exclaiming: “Hullo, Raife! Packing up? Where are you going?”

His mood remained determined, and he almost snarled: “Going? I’ve gone, it seems to me. Gone clean to the devil! I’m going away.”

Then came the appeal from Gilda. The appeal that he never could resist, and to which he had fallen so many times. She did not use many words. Her utter helplessness was the strong point of it all, and her complete love and trust in him. He sat in a huge chair with his head between his hands gazing vacantly in front of him. She knelt and looked up into those eyes that could glare with the fierce hate of passion, or shed the soft lovelight. She looked for the lovelight she had met there before, and she did not look in vain.

What Doctor Malsano had, for once, failed to accomplish, Gilda had again achieved. Raife was again conquered by the mysterious influence of this beautiful girl. He sprang to his feet and caught her in his arms, showering kisses on her forehead. “Gilda! Gilda! It’s got to be. Whilst you live I am yours. Yours to live and die for—to sink or swim for you.”

Then, hysterically, he almost shouted: “To hell with Herrion! I have started, and I will finish.” He slung each article of clothing back in its receptacle, and, turning to Gilda, said more restrainedly, “We will go into the country to-day, and revel in our flowers and trees, our sky and clouds. I am giving you my life. It is yours. My reason tells me that it can only end in trouble. I don’t care. Life is only possible to me when you are around. Now let us hie into the country and ‘make the most of what we yet may have to spend, before we, too’—”

Gilda threw herself into his arms and closed his lips with her hands—those clever, skilful hands, clever in crime, yet dainty as the hands of a queen of beauty. “Don’t quote those lines. They make me sad, and I want to be so happy with you to-day, Raife. Where shall we go?”

Raife considered for a moment and then said: “It will be running a risk, but I feel like running risks to-day. Let us go to Versailles. Let us watch all the splendour of those glorious days when men and women were brave in love and war, and dared to fight for honour.”

A pang went through him as he made this last allusion to “honour.” What was honour to him now? He had surrendered to a code, that did not count for honour among his equals, or those even who once might have been his inferiors. Quick disguise was a part of the craft of the career he had entered upon. He felt that he was less a buccaneer than a privateer. He was plundering the enemy, less for his personal profit than from the spirit of sheer devilment and adventure. There was no profit to him outside Gilda’s companionship.

On the brightest day of early summer they walked in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The most perfect palace of the days when regal prodigality made France at the same time the most luxurious and the most poverty-stricken country in Europe, displayed its splendour in the full flood of warm sunshine. The fountains played and sparkled in a torrent of spray that suggested myriads of tiny precious stones. The air was perfumed with thousands of blossoms from the ornamental flower beds. The groups of statuary stood in bold relief, here against the warm blue sky or silver cloud, there against a bank of stately trees, rich in luxuriant foliage. Gay throngs of smartly-dressed women and children, mingled with the more sombre-clad men, who promenaded with all “la joie de vivre” that belongs to the Parisian on his own happy hunting ground.

Raife and Gilda, safe in their skilled disguises, mixed with the crowd, and revelled in the beauty and movement around them.

The day of the grand coup was approaching, when the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was to be plundered. This was to be the day when Raife was to exhibit those qualities of “agility, courage and daring” for which, in the language of Malsano’s insidious flattery, his countrymen were famous. Both Raife and Gilda felt that their next adventure was fraught with danger, and Raife had consented that Gilda on this occasion should assist in the operations. They therefore made the most of this joyous day at Versailles. It was evening when they decided to seek one of the more obscure little cabarets for their dinner. They were sauntering down an avenue with the long line of trees throwing shadows across the close-cropped grass, when a motor-car passed slowly by in the heavy rows of traffic. Raife looked at the occupant and recognised the Baroness von Sassniltz, his mother’s friend, whose jewels Gilda almost succeeded in stealing from the safe in the library at Aldborough Park. The baroness looked hard at Raife, but apparently did not see through his disguise.

The conflict of emotions which had disturbed him during the night and morning were now renewed. Gilda did not notice the car which carried the Baroness von Sassniltz, but, with the intuition of a lover, she did notice that Raife’s manner had drifted into an abstracted mood. He was thinking of his own anomalous position. He was worshipping at the shrine of a woman, whom he had detected in the act of “burgling” the jewels of his mother’s friend. This took place in his own house, and not only had he allowed her to escape, but he was here to-day with her expecting to participate with her in a crime of a similar nature. The situation was hideous, and all the glory of the day in Versailles had departed.

They walked along in silence for a while, until a passing taxicab arrested his attention, and he responded to the interrogative look of the driver by hailing it. They entered the taxi, and in response to the driver’s query, “Where shall I drive, monsieur?” he said: “Drive to the cabaret of ‘Le Sans Souci,’ at the end of the avenue, then to the left and about three miles along the main road. You will see it by a group of poplars, with a garden and a small lake in front.”

They had been to this little inn before, many times, and the blue-skirted and white-aproned old landlady was accustomed to their visits, and understood not only their simple requirements, but their desire for quietude. They sat in the simple, clean little room, with its dainty curtains, white napery and shining cutlery. The old lady fussed around for a while, chatting gaily, as is the wont of French landladies, whilst the bouillabaisse, cutlets, and superlative omelette were being prepared.

An old punt lay moored at the foot of some moss-covered steps leading to the lake. Pond lilies and chickweed covered the surface of the shallows that led from the steps to the deeper waters, which flickered in the moonlight. Clumps of willows and ash threw their shadows and reflected in the silent pool. Raife took the pole of this ancient, dilapidated punt and steered Gilda, who sat on a narrow seat of rough wood that constituted the only seat. Her neat, grey costume, rich in material but unobtrusive, contrasted with the ashen grey-greens of the old roughly-hewn punt. Thus, he standing up piloting the strange craft, took her over the warm waters, until reaching a deep pool which his pole failed to fathom they came to a rest. Here and there a ghostly bat, after the manner of a miniature vampire, flickered through the air, chasing the lesser night insects whose hum harmonised with the rest of that which was silence.

It was sylvan and, to an extent, idyllic, but it is dangerous to be associated with crime. The convert to crime, religion or politics, is ever the more impressionable, and his actions are liable to outstrip the prudence of those who have inherited the traditions of their creed. The gloom of the situation and the memory of his lost hopes and ambitions attacked Raife, and, in a despairing mood, he perceived the ease with which all could be ended by a quick death in this silent pool. He and Gilda together could complete the tragedy of their lives. He had no doubt that she would consent to suicide, but why should he consult her in the matter? To overturn the punt would be easy, for it was a crazy old craft, and thus, entwined, they would sink to the depths, to oblivion.

A voice came across the water. It travelled clearly, as sound will travel across still water on a quiet night. “Monsieur, votre dîner! C’est servi!” It was a cheery, pleasant voice, and it announced that dinner was served.

Neither seemed to hear the call. Gilda was in one off her trance moods, and Raife was contemplating his last crime. Again the voice floated over the lake. “Sir, your dinner is served.” Raife awakened from his own trance and leisurely paddled the punt from the deep pool to shallow water. From the depths of his determination to the shallows of the commonplace he was aroused by the old landlady of the cabaret, who was calling him back to life. His resonant voice responded, as he poled the punt vigorously to the moss and lichen-covered steps. “Eh bien, madame, nous arriverons au moment.” His voice was quite cheery now, and he hailed her again. “All right, we shall be there in a moment.” He moored the punt to the rusty iron ring attached to the steps. Gilda seemed to be still in a trance mood. Raife answered the old lady’s pleasant railleries. The taxi-driver, who had been ordered to wait, peeped into the room unobserved from the kitchen. His wants had been served. To himself he reflected: “Queer couple. They’re handsome enough, but there’s some trouble, I wager.”

Dinner was served, and death was forgotten.

Chapter Twenty Six.Sir Raife Remington, Baronet and Burglar.The joy day of Versailles and all the phantom pleasures had passed. There was only one thing which confronted the gang. It was a momentous occasion. Raife had sold his soul, his very being, and a crime was to be committed. He was to take the leading part—although he did not really realise it—in the burglary in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. They were sitting in the flat in the Rue Lafayette. Gilda was at the piano. Raife was reading some English newspapers. Malsano was present, and Denoir occupied a chair. To-morrow was the day, or rather the night, that had been decided upon for the great event. To-morrow Raife was to descend to the depths of complete crime. It was idiotic. There was no reason for this thing; but he was impelled by a super-dominant fate, which led him to a doom that he could not avoid. They talked together and discussed all the details of the affair.Gilda left the piano and sat silently in a chair. Her mind was not her own. Simply obedient to the will of Malsano, she sat there and looked at Raife, the one person who could carry her from the throes of her present situation. Raife was inert. He, in turn, was influenced by the environment that had dragged him down from a high position to that of a common criminal. Malsano smiled with the confidence of a practised criminal. He and Denoir had made their compact, which Raife had overheard at the doctor’s rooms in the Rue Malmaison. With the completeness that accompanied all his plans, Raife Remington’s sacrifice was assured. A paragraph in the newspaper arrested his attention. It read: “The mysterious disappearance of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., about a year ago has led to curious complications. It will be remembered that his hat and coat were found on the cliffs at Cromer. In a pocket was a letter apparently written by the demented man, from which it was inferred that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide. A paragraph appeared in the Paris edition of theNew York Heraldsome time ago to the effect that Sir Raife had left Marseilles for the United States. Detective-Inspector Herrion ascertained that this paragraph had been inserted by a member of a gang of continental thieves, and there seems little doubt that either the baronet has committed suicide or had been made away with. His estates are extensive, and there are complications as to the disposition of affairs. It is rumoured that Aldborough Park, which has been the residence of the Remingtons—or Reymingtounes—since the days of the Tudors, will be placed on the market for sale, as the ancient baronetage becomes extinct with the death of Sir Raife Remington.”This paragraph brought consternation to, his mind, and he realised, for a while, the madness of his present actions. Malsano’s presence was sufficient to alter the trend of his mind, and the result was a volte-face. He crossed the room, and, taking a number of liqueur glasses and a decanter from a sideboard, he filled the glasses. Having handed one to each person, he drank in a debonair manner, “Success to the crime to be committed.”Malsano smiled, Denoir sneered, and Gilda winced. There were four rings of an electric bell in the room in which they sat. They were sudden, sharp, and in rapid succession. The three men leapt to their feet and made for the extra exit of the flat, which gave no indication from the outside as to the nature of the door. This danger signal had been well-planned by Malsano for emergencies, and all details of their actions had been rehearsed.Gilda was left alone, and in the briefest while was transformed from a beautiful, smartly-clad girl into an aged old crony, wearing the blue cotton frock and white apron of female servitude. She had barely completed the transformation when the outside bell rang three times. Snatching up a broom she went to the door. Lesigne was there, breathless. In hurried accents he gasped: “Are they here, or have they gone? That fellow, Herrion, the English detective, has chased me. Let me get through and away quickly, Mams’elle. I hope I have not frightened you, but it is serious.”Gilda had closed the door quickly and accompanied Lesigne to the second exit. As he went out, leaving Gilda alone again “to face the music,” he bowed gracefully, and, with his hand on his heart, whispered: “Mams’elle, your disguise is perfect. Even so you still look beautiful—charmante!”’Twas thus that Gilda fascinated all whom she met. Alone in the flat, and with danger threatened and imminent, she remained cool. Quickly she disturbed the furniture and made it evident that she was sweeping and dusting the room. Within a minute there was a ring of the bell. It was the ring she had expected and prepared for. The “old crony” opened the door and was confronted by Detective-Inspector Herrion and another man.The other man announced brusquely: “I am an agent of the police. You have a man here—a man named Lesigne. Never mind what his other names are. I must enter. Where is he? Tell me at once, or it will be the worse for you. Yes, understand me, for you!”Gilda trembled with well-simulated apprehension, stammering: “Mais non, monsieur. There is no one here, sir. This is the flat, the apartment of Monsieur Vachelle. I am alone cleaning things up. But enter, sir, and you shall see.”The two police officers entered, and searched each room. In the front room Herrion noticed the four liqueur glasses and the decanter of cognac. Approaching the table on which they stood, he held one of the glasses in his hand and remarked: “So, so! Monsieur Vachelle has had company. Who has been visiting Monsieur Vachelle? Tell me.”Gilda protested. “Indeed, sir, I do not know. Monsieur Vachelle left early this morning. I think he has gone to the country, but I do not know for certain. Why should he tell me? I am only here to clean and tidy his rooms. Monsieur is a gentleman. I am only a servant.”Herrion stared hard at her, saying: “So, Monsieur Vachelle is a gentleman, is he, and you are only a servant?”Gilda felt the force of that penetrating glance and stooped to dust a chair. The two police officers were eventually satisfied that Lesigne was not there, and as for Monsieur Vachelle, they knew nothing of him, good or evil. So they departed. When they were gone, Gilda collapsed and wept bitterly.The pleasures of Paris continue through the day and night. London is almost a silent city at night, except for the traffic of Fleet Street, the Post Office, and the Markets. Paris is the pleasure city of the world, and it does not attract notice that people should be wandering about in the small hours of the morning. There are not many dark hours in a June night in Paris. The Avenue of the Champs Elysées is wide, and well lit. On the night of the contemplated burglary there seemed to be more than the usual number of people about, and the four persons who sauntered up and down, awaiting opportunity, were kept on the tenterhooks of expectancy rather longer than they had expected. At length there was a lull in the traffic, and Raife entered the basement and prepared a scaling ladder that was to take him to the window immediately over the great front door of the mansion. It was a corner house, and Raife’s objective point could only be reached by means of a gutter-pipe which would lead him to a second window around the corner. It was a dangerous undertaking and called for all those qualities that Doctor Malsano had flatteringly endowed Raife with. Hand over hand he crept, swaying to and fro from the insecure and creaking pipe, which threatened to give way under the weight of twelve stone of lithe and living humanity. As he progressed bit by bit, foot by foot, his mind reverted to Gilda’s dexterous descent by the silk rope from the library at Aldborough Park into the shadow of the rhododendron bushes. Beneath him were spiked railings and stone pavement. The thought of Gilda, at that moment, unsteadied his nerve, and his grip of the pipe, loosened. He glanced round, and, across the road, he descried Gilda, with hands clasped and a look of terror which was plain to him under the flickering light, in spite of the disguise she wore. Almost at his feet were Malsano and Denoir, and the expression on their upturned faces was even more manifest. It was malevolent, a cynical sneer. With a final effort Raife reached the window and lowered himself to the balcony outside. By a well considered arrangement the window yielded easily. The bolt slid aside and he entered.This, then, was the situation. The owner of Aldborough Park and 20,000 pounds a year, had entered the mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, in the dead of night as a common burglar, impelled by the fascination of a woman who exercised a mysterious: and baneful influence over his career.Always in the background was the malevolent figure of Doctor Malsano, that evil-omened person, who thrived on villainy and lived on crime.

The joy day of Versailles and all the phantom pleasures had passed. There was only one thing which confronted the gang. It was a momentous occasion. Raife had sold his soul, his very being, and a crime was to be committed. He was to take the leading part—although he did not really realise it—in the burglary in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. They were sitting in the flat in the Rue Lafayette. Gilda was at the piano. Raife was reading some English newspapers. Malsano was present, and Denoir occupied a chair. To-morrow was the day, or rather the night, that had been decided upon for the great event. To-morrow Raife was to descend to the depths of complete crime. It was idiotic. There was no reason for this thing; but he was impelled by a super-dominant fate, which led him to a doom that he could not avoid. They talked together and discussed all the details of the affair.

Gilda left the piano and sat silently in a chair. Her mind was not her own. Simply obedient to the will of Malsano, she sat there and looked at Raife, the one person who could carry her from the throes of her present situation. Raife was inert. He, in turn, was influenced by the environment that had dragged him down from a high position to that of a common criminal. Malsano smiled with the confidence of a practised criminal. He and Denoir had made their compact, which Raife had overheard at the doctor’s rooms in the Rue Malmaison. With the completeness that accompanied all his plans, Raife Remington’s sacrifice was assured. A paragraph in the newspaper arrested his attention. It read: “The mysterious disappearance of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., about a year ago has led to curious complications. It will be remembered that his hat and coat were found on the cliffs at Cromer. In a pocket was a letter apparently written by the demented man, from which it was inferred that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide. A paragraph appeared in the Paris edition of theNew York Heraldsome time ago to the effect that Sir Raife had left Marseilles for the United States. Detective-Inspector Herrion ascertained that this paragraph had been inserted by a member of a gang of continental thieves, and there seems little doubt that either the baronet has committed suicide or had been made away with. His estates are extensive, and there are complications as to the disposition of affairs. It is rumoured that Aldborough Park, which has been the residence of the Remingtons—or Reymingtounes—since the days of the Tudors, will be placed on the market for sale, as the ancient baronetage becomes extinct with the death of Sir Raife Remington.”

This paragraph brought consternation to, his mind, and he realised, for a while, the madness of his present actions. Malsano’s presence was sufficient to alter the trend of his mind, and the result was a volte-face. He crossed the room, and, taking a number of liqueur glasses and a decanter from a sideboard, he filled the glasses. Having handed one to each person, he drank in a debonair manner, “Success to the crime to be committed.”

Malsano smiled, Denoir sneered, and Gilda winced. There were four rings of an electric bell in the room in which they sat. They were sudden, sharp, and in rapid succession. The three men leapt to their feet and made for the extra exit of the flat, which gave no indication from the outside as to the nature of the door. This danger signal had been well-planned by Malsano for emergencies, and all details of their actions had been rehearsed.

Gilda was left alone, and in the briefest while was transformed from a beautiful, smartly-clad girl into an aged old crony, wearing the blue cotton frock and white apron of female servitude. She had barely completed the transformation when the outside bell rang three times. Snatching up a broom she went to the door. Lesigne was there, breathless. In hurried accents he gasped: “Are they here, or have they gone? That fellow, Herrion, the English detective, has chased me. Let me get through and away quickly, Mams’elle. I hope I have not frightened you, but it is serious.”

Gilda had closed the door quickly and accompanied Lesigne to the second exit. As he went out, leaving Gilda alone again “to face the music,” he bowed gracefully, and, with his hand on his heart, whispered: “Mams’elle, your disguise is perfect. Even so you still look beautiful—charmante!”

’Twas thus that Gilda fascinated all whom she met. Alone in the flat, and with danger threatened and imminent, she remained cool. Quickly she disturbed the furniture and made it evident that she was sweeping and dusting the room. Within a minute there was a ring of the bell. It was the ring she had expected and prepared for. The “old crony” opened the door and was confronted by Detective-Inspector Herrion and another man.

The other man announced brusquely: “I am an agent of the police. You have a man here—a man named Lesigne. Never mind what his other names are. I must enter. Where is he? Tell me at once, or it will be the worse for you. Yes, understand me, for you!”

Gilda trembled with well-simulated apprehension, stammering: “Mais non, monsieur. There is no one here, sir. This is the flat, the apartment of Monsieur Vachelle. I am alone cleaning things up. But enter, sir, and you shall see.”

The two police officers entered, and searched each room. In the front room Herrion noticed the four liqueur glasses and the decanter of cognac. Approaching the table on which they stood, he held one of the glasses in his hand and remarked: “So, so! Monsieur Vachelle has had company. Who has been visiting Monsieur Vachelle? Tell me.”

Gilda protested. “Indeed, sir, I do not know. Monsieur Vachelle left early this morning. I think he has gone to the country, but I do not know for certain. Why should he tell me? I am only here to clean and tidy his rooms. Monsieur is a gentleman. I am only a servant.”

Herrion stared hard at her, saying: “So, Monsieur Vachelle is a gentleman, is he, and you are only a servant?”

Gilda felt the force of that penetrating glance and stooped to dust a chair. The two police officers were eventually satisfied that Lesigne was not there, and as for Monsieur Vachelle, they knew nothing of him, good or evil. So they departed. When they were gone, Gilda collapsed and wept bitterly.

The pleasures of Paris continue through the day and night. London is almost a silent city at night, except for the traffic of Fleet Street, the Post Office, and the Markets. Paris is the pleasure city of the world, and it does not attract notice that people should be wandering about in the small hours of the morning. There are not many dark hours in a June night in Paris. The Avenue of the Champs Elysées is wide, and well lit. On the night of the contemplated burglary there seemed to be more than the usual number of people about, and the four persons who sauntered up and down, awaiting opportunity, were kept on the tenterhooks of expectancy rather longer than they had expected. At length there was a lull in the traffic, and Raife entered the basement and prepared a scaling ladder that was to take him to the window immediately over the great front door of the mansion. It was a corner house, and Raife’s objective point could only be reached by means of a gutter-pipe which would lead him to a second window around the corner. It was a dangerous undertaking and called for all those qualities that Doctor Malsano had flatteringly endowed Raife with. Hand over hand he crept, swaying to and fro from the insecure and creaking pipe, which threatened to give way under the weight of twelve stone of lithe and living humanity. As he progressed bit by bit, foot by foot, his mind reverted to Gilda’s dexterous descent by the silk rope from the library at Aldborough Park into the shadow of the rhododendron bushes. Beneath him were spiked railings and stone pavement. The thought of Gilda, at that moment, unsteadied his nerve, and his grip of the pipe, loosened. He glanced round, and, across the road, he descried Gilda, with hands clasped and a look of terror which was plain to him under the flickering light, in spite of the disguise she wore. Almost at his feet were Malsano and Denoir, and the expression on their upturned faces was even more manifest. It was malevolent, a cynical sneer. With a final effort Raife reached the window and lowered himself to the balcony outside. By a well considered arrangement the window yielded easily. The bolt slid aside and he entered.

This, then, was the situation. The owner of Aldborough Park and 20,000 pounds a year, had entered the mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, in the dead of night as a common burglar, impelled by the fascination of a woman who exercised a mysterious: and baneful influence over his career.

Always in the background was the malevolent figure of Doctor Malsano, that evil-omened person, who thrived on villainy and lived on crime.

Chapter Twenty Seven.The Origin of the Vendetta.There are few institutions or customs more difficult for the Anglo-Saxon to understand than the vendetta, or blood feud. Southern blood and gipsy blood are hot, fierce, and passionate to an extent inconceivable to those of the north. The “dour” Scotchman may be vindictive, but he is not guilty of the vendetta, which pursues its revenge for an injury or insult through the generations, until one or other of the parties has completed the vengeance. The cause of the vendetta is frequently slight, and it is safe to assert that women are frequently the prime cause of the “blood feud.”That Raife Remington should have been pursued by the malevolent Malsano on account of an indiscretion of his father in his youthful days, would seem incredible to the northerner living in these enlightened days.By an extraordinary coincidence, the causes that led to the series of calamities that destroyed the career of the handsome and otherwise brilliant young baronet, dated from a visit paid by his father to Egypt, the land of antiquity and mystery.Raife’s father, Sir Henry Remington, in the days of his youth, paid a visit, with his college friend, Mr Mountjoy, to Egypt. They were the wild, joyous days of youth, and adventure took them at night to a section of Alexandria, which, at that time, was dangerous to strangers. There remain to-day in most southern and eastern towns and cities, certain quarters where the hated “feringhee” or foreigner, can only intrude with grave risk to himself.In a house of questionable repute, Sir Henry and Mr Mountjoy encountered an Oriental girl. With the impetuosity of youth, Sir Henry was immediately enamoured of this beautiful gipsy, with the large, oval, lustrous eyes, the olive skin tinged with a colour that alternated between a rosy pink, and a flush of scarlet.Seated apart in the reeking apartment, lit by oil lamps, where a midnight entertainment was in full swing, this lovely gipsy and young Sir Henry courted one another with the play of eyes instead of words, for neither could understand the language of the other. The sensuous beauty of the girl enthralled the young English aristocrat, and the blood in his veins, already heated by the unwonted liquors that he had consumed, coursed rapidly. The girl’s responsive glances told him plainly that his advances were not unwelcome. Around the girl’s neck was a silver chain of fine and delicate workmanship. Attached to the chain was a small Egyptian charm, in the form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head the royal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side. On the back, from head to foot, were inscribed the tiny hieroglyphics, which recorded certain cryptic words associated with the worship of that mythical deity of thousands of years ago. Sir Henry noticed the trinket, and, raising it in his hands, examined it. The gipsy snatched it away with angry gesture, a fierce light entering her large oval eyes, whilst the rosy pink that had suffused her olive cheeks swelled to the flush of scarlet that betrayed her savage nature.The azure blue of a young, handsome Anglo-Saxon’s eyes, that look steadfastly, fearlessly, yet passionately, into the dark and sparkling depths of an untutored gipsy girl, are a proper antidote to that girl’s flash of anger. Sir Henry gazed at her, and the girl’s eyes fell beneath his searching, passionate gaze.With an impulse, as rapid as was her sudden rage, she took the chain and charm from her neck, and, with a motion signifying secrecy, handed it to him. Sir Henry kissed it, and, in doing so, kissed her hand.At intervals around this central, circular apartment, were several doorways, covered by rich and heavy curtains, of that rare oriental colour, which our manufacturers strive, with mixed success, to imitate, at prices that suit the varying purses of a bank clerk or a greengrocer, a stockbroker or an art student.Before each doorway stood two huge Nubian Arabs, robed in kaftans of yellow ochre-coloured silk, and wearing fezes of that deep, luscious red, the colour of which does not find a name in the student’s paint box. The dark skins of their countenances were marked by the long slashes, which formed the cicatrices on each left cheek, and denoted their tribal marks. Scarlet slippers contrasted vividly with the dark brown of their huge sinewy legs. Stolidly and impassively they stood sentinels at these doorways, which led to passages, open to the sky between high walls of mud and plaster, above which the stars twinkled brilliantly in the deep-blue unfathomable vault above. The illimitable space, and all that is unknown of eternity, suggested that these stars were a countless myriad of eyes, looking down on this weird collection of humanity.Gambling in various forms was one of the allurements of the place, whilst music, more or less barbaric, and Oriental dancing added to the supposed attractions. The whole scene would appear as a page from the Arabian Nights, with the added incongruity of a few people in European costume.At one of these doorways appeared a tall, swarthy woman, of lighter colour than any of these Arabs, yet betraying her southern blood. She was accompanied by a weak but good-looking young man, and a tall, dark man, with extraordinary eyes and a sinister appearance. The woman nudged the sinister man, and both saw Sir Henry kiss the girl’s hand. The trio crossed the apartment, and the woman seized the gipsy girl roughly by the hair, and hauled her through one of the doorways, whilst the two dusky Nubians held the curtains aside. The hitherto impassive blacks momentarily relapsed, and their stolid faces were lightened by a broad smile, revealing glittering white teeth, and their yellowish white eyeballs rolled in a fiendish manner.Who shall say what was the fate of the beautiful gipsy girl, who had lightly parted with the treasured talisman of the goddess Isis to the blue-eyed and fair-haired English aristocrat? The English were at that time, in Egypt, the most hated of allferinghees.Thus, in a gay and innocent spirit of youthful courtship, commenced the feud, the vendetta, that was to lead to such a tragic influence on two generations of the “Reymingtounes.”From this apparently trivial incident there followed the events that led to the murder of Sir Henry, and the degradation of his son, pursued and attacked by the unrelenting hatred of the denizens of this Oriental inferno.In harsh but cultured tones, with a slight foreign accent, the sinister man said to Sir Henry:“Return to me, at once, the charm that young woman handed to you.”Sir Henry reclined on the richly-covered divan among the silken cushions, and leisurely surveyed the two men who confronted him. Slowly, and with the aggravated drawl of the period, he said: “By what right do you make that request?”The retort came fiercely.“Give me the charm at once, or it will be the worse for you, sir.”“I shall do nothing of the kind,” and, rising from the divan, Sir Henry displayed the full six feet of his athletic frame, asking: “What do you propose to do?”With an oath, the sinister man with the weird eyes, muttered: “Sacré! These Englishmen, with all their arrogant pride, are curs!”He said no more for a while, for Sir Henry’s straight left shot between those mysterious eyes and the sinister man fell back on the floor senseless. The debauched but still good-looking Englishman exclaimed weakly: “Oh, I say! That won’t do, you know.”Two of the Nubians rushed from their sentinel posts, and a white-bearded old Arab, who appeared to spring from nowhere, gesticulated wildly. Sir Henry was seized from behind—but for the briefest while.The art of boxing may be world-wide in its present application, but the English taught the world this and many other sports. At the period under consideration offence and defence were mostly conducted with lethal weapons. The rapidity of a straight left, followed by a swift upper cut, therefore had its advantage at the outset of a contest. Two burly Nubians lay sprawling, from the process, over the body of the sinister white man. The debauched Englishman, knowing more of the game, and realising his own incapacity against this young giant, skirmished at a safe distance in the rear.The game was too hot to last long, for “the English arrogant pride” to which the sinister white man had alluded, would not allow Sir Henry to run away. Instead, he drawled: “Are there any more?”Yes, indeed, there were many more, and this time he was more securely seized, and the struggle appeared hopeless. These Orientals and debauched Europeans hunted in packs. An Englishman on a spree needs only a companion to join in the fun, and does not want a bodyguard.Sir Henry was tiring, and almost overpowered, when the thought of his chum, Mountjoy, flashed through the brain that lay behind his bruised and half-battered head. For the first time in that inferno, there rose from lusty lungs, a hearty “Yoicks! Tally ho?” the musical call of the English hunting field.The effect was immediate. Through one of those curtained doorways, past a Nubian who had been left in charge by those more actively engaged in the fray, there rushed a whirling ball of lithe humanity, charging for his goal as he had never charged before on the Rugby football field.It was Mountjoy, late half-back of his school—Marlborough.Staggered by the impetus of this fierce and sudden onslaught, the Nubians relaxed their hold on Sir Henry for a moment. “Back to back, Harry,” called Mountjoy. “Now, then, both together! There may be some more of our fellows here!”Then their two voices rose in approximate unison, “Yoicks! Tally ho!” and the unequal fight began again.At this period the tactics of boxing were unfamiliar and quite disconcerting for a while.“Make for the door, Harry,” shouted Mountjoy, and bit by bit they reached the exit, as, in response to a “view hallo” two more Englishmen rushed through to the rescue.The mixed gang of Arabs, Nubians, and European scallawags did not want to kill at first, but these reinforcements of hated “Ingleesi” struck panic into them, and, in a flash, four or five knives were buried into these last two men, who had so bravely responded to the call of their countrymen in these hideous surroundings.During the lull, Sir Henry and Mountjoy staggered through the exit, and fell to the ground unconscious, some distance away from the scene, to which they had been lured from their hotel by a wily denizen of the quarter—“to see some fun.” As they lay there, safe from further molestation from the satellites of the “casino,” for these people did not pursue their victims beyond their own portals, a lithe figure crept stealthily up to them. It was Thomas Tempest, the father of Gilda, the man who had skirmished safely in the rear during the fierce fight. Bending over Sir Henry, he felt in his pockets and extracted the talisman of the goddess Isis. He would have taken more, but footsteps on the plank walk scared him, and he faded away into the darkness.The man with the weird eyes, whom Sir Henry had knocked senseless, was Doctor Malsano, then in early middle age. The gipsy girl was his daughter, and the gipsy woman was his wife. Gilda Tempest had no relationship to him. Her father, Thomas Tempest, had fallen low in the social scale, and was entirely under the influence and control of Malsano, who utilised his services for his own ends and profit. He proved to be the means of carrying out the first portion of the vendetta, by shooting Sir Henry at the time of the burglary at Aldborough Park. The bitterness of the feud was increased by the youthful folly of Sir Henry, who, in a spirit of devilment, and with the aid of a native, succeeded in meeting the gipsy girl again. The gipsy mother discovered them, and there was a frenzied scene of rage, the woman cursing the young man with all the fierceness of her race.Sir Henry treated the matter lightly, until, years afterwards, he was made aware of the fact that the incident had not closed, and that vengeance was on his track. The woman, on her death-bed, had extracted a willing vow from her husband, Malsano, that he would continue the vendetta to the bitter end.The tortuous workings of the mind of this abnormal man led him to carry out his purpose in his own strange way. In his fiendish efforts, he had dragged down a girl, Gilda Tempest, the daughter of another victim of his criminal nature. Noble by nature, and beautiful by disposition, this handsome young woman was doomed to a life of degradation and crime. Her last act was to sacrifice her life for the man she loved with the strange passion of a warm nature.

There are few institutions or customs more difficult for the Anglo-Saxon to understand than the vendetta, or blood feud. Southern blood and gipsy blood are hot, fierce, and passionate to an extent inconceivable to those of the north. The “dour” Scotchman may be vindictive, but he is not guilty of the vendetta, which pursues its revenge for an injury or insult through the generations, until one or other of the parties has completed the vengeance. The cause of the vendetta is frequently slight, and it is safe to assert that women are frequently the prime cause of the “blood feud.”

That Raife Remington should have been pursued by the malevolent Malsano on account of an indiscretion of his father in his youthful days, would seem incredible to the northerner living in these enlightened days.

By an extraordinary coincidence, the causes that led to the series of calamities that destroyed the career of the handsome and otherwise brilliant young baronet, dated from a visit paid by his father to Egypt, the land of antiquity and mystery.

Raife’s father, Sir Henry Remington, in the days of his youth, paid a visit, with his college friend, Mr Mountjoy, to Egypt. They were the wild, joyous days of youth, and adventure took them at night to a section of Alexandria, which, at that time, was dangerous to strangers. There remain to-day in most southern and eastern towns and cities, certain quarters where the hated “feringhee” or foreigner, can only intrude with grave risk to himself.

In a house of questionable repute, Sir Henry and Mr Mountjoy encountered an Oriental girl. With the impetuosity of youth, Sir Henry was immediately enamoured of this beautiful gipsy, with the large, oval, lustrous eyes, the olive skin tinged with a colour that alternated between a rosy pink, and a flush of scarlet.

Seated apart in the reeking apartment, lit by oil lamps, where a midnight entertainment was in full swing, this lovely gipsy and young Sir Henry courted one another with the play of eyes instead of words, for neither could understand the language of the other. The sensuous beauty of the girl enthralled the young English aristocrat, and the blood in his veins, already heated by the unwonted liquors that he had consumed, coursed rapidly. The girl’s responsive glances told him plainly that his advances were not unwelcome. Around the girl’s neck was a silver chain of fine and delicate workmanship. Attached to the chain was a small Egyptian charm, in the form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head the royal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side. On the back, from head to foot, were inscribed the tiny hieroglyphics, which recorded certain cryptic words associated with the worship of that mythical deity of thousands of years ago. Sir Henry noticed the trinket, and, raising it in his hands, examined it. The gipsy snatched it away with angry gesture, a fierce light entering her large oval eyes, whilst the rosy pink that had suffused her olive cheeks swelled to the flush of scarlet that betrayed her savage nature.

The azure blue of a young, handsome Anglo-Saxon’s eyes, that look steadfastly, fearlessly, yet passionately, into the dark and sparkling depths of an untutored gipsy girl, are a proper antidote to that girl’s flash of anger. Sir Henry gazed at her, and the girl’s eyes fell beneath his searching, passionate gaze.

With an impulse, as rapid as was her sudden rage, she took the chain and charm from her neck, and, with a motion signifying secrecy, handed it to him. Sir Henry kissed it, and, in doing so, kissed her hand.

At intervals around this central, circular apartment, were several doorways, covered by rich and heavy curtains, of that rare oriental colour, which our manufacturers strive, with mixed success, to imitate, at prices that suit the varying purses of a bank clerk or a greengrocer, a stockbroker or an art student.

Before each doorway stood two huge Nubian Arabs, robed in kaftans of yellow ochre-coloured silk, and wearing fezes of that deep, luscious red, the colour of which does not find a name in the student’s paint box. The dark skins of their countenances were marked by the long slashes, which formed the cicatrices on each left cheek, and denoted their tribal marks. Scarlet slippers contrasted vividly with the dark brown of their huge sinewy legs. Stolidly and impassively they stood sentinels at these doorways, which led to passages, open to the sky between high walls of mud and plaster, above which the stars twinkled brilliantly in the deep-blue unfathomable vault above. The illimitable space, and all that is unknown of eternity, suggested that these stars were a countless myriad of eyes, looking down on this weird collection of humanity.

Gambling in various forms was one of the allurements of the place, whilst music, more or less barbaric, and Oriental dancing added to the supposed attractions. The whole scene would appear as a page from the Arabian Nights, with the added incongruity of a few people in European costume.

At one of these doorways appeared a tall, swarthy woman, of lighter colour than any of these Arabs, yet betraying her southern blood. She was accompanied by a weak but good-looking young man, and a tall, dark man, with extraordinary eyes and a sinister appearance. The woman nudged the sinister man, and both saw Sir Henry kiss the girl’s hand. The trio crossed the apartment, and the woman seized the gipsy girl roughly by the hair, and hauled her through one of the doorways, whilst the two dusky Nubians held the curtains aside. The hitherto impassive blacks momentarily relapsed, and their stolid faces were lightened by a broad smile, revealing glittering white teeth, and their yellowish white eyeballs rolled in a fiendish manner.

Who shall say what was the fate of the beautiful gipsy girl, who had lightly parted with the treasured talisman of the goddess Isis to the blue-eyed and fair-haired English aristocrat? The English were at that time, in Egypt, the most hated of allferinghees.

Thus, in a gay and innocent spirit of youthful courtship, commenced the feud, the vendetta, that was to lead to such a tragic influence on two generations of the “Reymingtounes.”

From this apparently trivial incident there followed the events that led to the murder of Sir Henry, and the degradation of his son, pursued and attacked by the unrelenting hatred of the denizens of this Oriental inferno.

In harsh but cultured tones, with a slight foreign accent, the sinister man said to Sir Henry:

“Return to me, at once, the charm that young woman handed to you.”

Sir Henry reclined on the richly-covered divan among the silken cushions, and leisurely surveyed the two men who confronted him. Slowly, and with the aggravated drawl of the period, he said: “By what right do you make that request?”

The retort came fiercely.

“Give me the charm at once, or it will be the worse for you, sir.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” and, rising from the divan, Sir Henry displayed the full six feet of his athletic frame, asking: “What do you propose to do?”

With an oath, the sinister man with the weird eyes, muttered: “Sacré! These Englishmen, with all their arrogant pride, are curs!”

He said no more for a while, for Sir Henry’s straight left shot between those mysterious eyes and the sinister man fell back on the floor senseless. The debauched but still good-looking Englishman exclaimed weakly: “Oh, I say! That won’t do, you know.”

Two of the Nubians rushed from their sentinel posts, and a white-bearded old Arab, who appeared to spring from nowhere, gesticulated wildly. Sir Henry was seized from behind—but for the briefest while.

The art of boxing may be world-wide in its present application, but the English taught the world this and many other sports. At the period under consideration offence and defence were mostly conducted with lethal weapons. The rapidity of a straight left, followed by a swift upper cut, therefore had its advantage at the outset of a contest. Two burly Nubians lay sprawling, from the process, over the body of the sinister white man. The debauched Englishman, knowing more of the game, and realising his own incapacity against this young giant, skirmished at a safe distance in the rear.

The game was too hot to last long, for “the English arrogant pride” to which the sinister white man had alluded, would not allow Sir Henry to run away. Instead, he drawled: “Are there any more?”

Yes, indeed, there were many more, and this time he was more securely seized, and the struggle appeared hopeless. These Orientals and debauched Europeans hunted in packs. An Englishman on a spree needs only a companion to join in the fun, and does not want a bodyguard.

Sir Henry was tiring, and almost overpowered, when the thought of his chum, Mountjoy, flashed through the brain that lay behind his bruised and half-battered head. For the first time in that inferno, there rose from lusty lungs, a hearty “Yoicks! Tally ho?” the musical call of the English hunting field.

The effect was immediate. Through one of those curtained doorways, past a Nubian who had been left in charge by those more actively engaged in the fray, there rushed a whirling ball of lithe humanity, charging for his goal as he had never charged before on the Rugby football field.

It was Mountjoy, late half-back of his school—Marlborough.

Staggered by the impetus of this fierce and sudden onslaught, the Nubians relaxed their hold on Sir Henry for a moment. “Back to back, Harry,” called Mountjoy. “Now, then, both together! There may be some more of our fellows here!”

Then their two voices rose in approximate unison, “Yoicks! Tally ho!” and the unequal fight began again.

At this period the tactics of boxing were unfamiliar and quite disconcerting for a while.

“Make for the door, Harry,” shouted Mountjoy, and bit by bit they reached the exit, as, in response to a “view hallo” two more Englishmen rushed through to the rescue.

The mixed gang of Arabs, Nubians, and European scallawags did not want to kill at first, but these reinforcements of hated “Ingleesi” struck panic into them, and, in a flash, four or five knives were buried into these last two men, who had so bravely responded to the call of their countrymen in these hideous surroundings.

During the lull, Sir Henry and Mountjoy staggered through the exit, and fell to the ground unconscious, some distance away from the scene, to which they had been lured from their hotel by a wily denizen of the quarter—“to see some fun.” As they lay there, safe from further molestation from the satellites of the “casino,” for these people did not pursue their victims beyond their own portals, a lithe figure crept stealthily up to them. It was Thomas Tempest, the father of Gilda, the man who had skirmished safely in the rear during the fierce fight. Bending over Sir Henry, he felt in his pockets and extracted the talisman of the goddess Isis. He would have taken more, but footsteps on the plank walk scared him, and he faded away into the darkness.

The man with the weird eyes, whom Sir Henry had knocked senseless, was Doctor Malsano, then in early middle age. The gipsy girl was his daughter, and the gipsy woman was his wife. Gilda Tempest had no relationship to him. Her father, Thomas Tempest, had fallen low in the social scale, and was entirely under the influence and control of Malsano, who utilised his services for his own ends and profit. He proved to be the means of carrying out the first portion of the vendetta, by shooting Sir Henry at the time of the burglary at Aldborough Park. The bitterness of the feud was increased by the youthful folly of Sir Henry, who, in a spirit of devilment, and with the aid of a native, succeeded in meeting the gipsy girl again. The gipsy mother discovered them, and there was a frenzied scene of rage, the woman cursing the young man with all the fierceness of her race.

Sir Henry treated the matter lightly, until, years afterwards, he was made aware of the fact that the incident had not closed, and that vengeance was on his track. The woman, on her death-bed, had extracted a willing vow from her husband, Malsano, that he would continue the vendetta to the bitter end.

The tortuous workings of the mind of this abnormal man led him to carry out his purpose in his own strange way. In his fiendish efforts, he had dragged down a girl, Gilda Tempest, the daughter of another victim of his criminal nature. Noble by nature, and beautiful by disposition, this handsome young woman was doomed to a life of degradation and crime. Her last act was to sacrifice her life for the man she loved with the strange passion of a warm nature.

Chapter Twenty Eight.Conclusion.Malsano’s revenge was nearly complete. Raife was now hopelessly compromised. Creeping stealthily along a wide corridor, he entered the library, and, with all the skill of a practised hand, proceeded to rifle a bureau, from which he extracted notes and gold. Revelling in the weird excitement of the debasing act, he ascended the staircase and opened the door of a bedroom. It was a large room, and he was confronted by a subtle perfume which was familiar to him. Where had he met that perfume before? He stood on the threshold and hesitated to perpetrate a further dastardly deed by entering the room. It was evidently a woman’s room. Raife was not acting of his own volition. A strange impulse controlled him, and he was not master of his actions. There was a soft light diffused, revealing a large, four-poster bed, curtained in pale-tinted dimity. He would have thrashed another man to the point of death for such an action as he was now guilty of. He approached the bed, and pulling aside the curtain, was stricken with horror to behold his wife—Hilda—sleeping peacefully. He stood spellbound, unable to move. A ghastly look of terror and remorse spread over his face. His handsome features were distorted, and his athletic frame convulsed with emotion. The events of the last year crowded his mind in a tornado of shame. Each second was an eternity of mental suffering. Hilda lay there sleeping, her beautiful cheeks suffused with a delicate glow. Her soft brown hair fell in clusters, enhancing the charm of this picture of exquisite innocence. Raife’s mind was in a state of hideous torture. Slowly and softly he withdrew from the room, and descended the staircase to the library. He approached the bureau—his wife’s bureau—that he had ransacked and restored the stolen money. With bowed head he crossed the big hall, dazed and scarcely realising his actions. Softly he opened the front door and passed out into the night.Before Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead returned to the United States he fulfilled his compact, and Hilda was endowed with a substantial fortune. The stress of events had told heavily on her and Raife’s mother, and, yielding to Hilda’s persuasion, she had rented the furnished mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. She had hoped by means of such a distraction to take their minds off the great trouble.Detective-Inspector Herrion was a forceful man, and he had set himself the task of finding Sir Raife, the missing baronet, and he had determined to run Malsano to earth. On the day when he had let Lesigne slip through his fingers at Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Herrion had a suspicion that he had been tricked by the innocent-looking old lady, who appeared to be so busy dusting out the apartment. The flat of Monsieur Henri Vachelle was, therefore, kept under observation, but Malsano was far too wily a criminal to be trapped easily, and the flat was deserted, and the gang found fresh quarters. Herrion was sitting in his room at the obscure little hotel that he affected, when the telephone bell rang, and, removing the receiver, he took a message to the effect that, if he would call at the prefecture, there was important news awaiting him.Hastily seizing his cap he started off. He was met at the entrance by a sergeant, who said: “Quick, Mr Herrion, I think we have found your missing ‘Baron.’ Will you come with me to the Avenue des Champs Elysées?”A taxi was in waiting, and they entered together. As the car sped towards the famous avenue, the sergeant told Herrion: “We have received a letter, an anonymous letter, saying that a burglary will be committed to-night. The house is surrounded, and it is believed that it is the gang of that old scoundrel, Malsano. The gang is in force, and the cunning old reprobate has chosen the house of the Lady Remington, who is the wife of your missing ‘Baron.’”Herrion was agitated, a weakness the astute detective-inspector seldom allowed himself to indulge in. With a smile of satisfaction the little man remarked: “If that man Malsano is in this affair, for heaven’s sake don’t let him escape. It looks as if we are in for a breezy time. I have no power here, and I can only look on. Mind, the men of Malsano’s gang do not hesitate to shoot. Shoot on the least suspicion. Shoot first, not to kill, only to maim.”The gendarme looked at Herrion, raising his eyebrows as he said: “Monsieur Herrion, we shall not be unprepared, and we are not so tender with our criminals as you gentlemen across the Channel. We, too, have a score to settle with this Malsano. And there is that mysterious woman, who seems to be all over Europe at the same time. I have seen her. Ma foi! She is clever and beautiful, too.”Herrion replied: “Yes, that is the woman who is responsible for Sir Raife Remington’s downfall. She is dangerous, but she is the decoy and the tool of that doctor fellow Malsano.”The taxi stopped at a corner of a street, and they alighted. Seven or eight men were secreted in doorways, and the sergeant approached each one separately and gave them whispered instructions. Herrion’s position was quite unofficial, but his popularity with the police of Paris had made it possible for him to be present and to participate in the “round-up,” or coup.The author of the anonymous letter to the Paris police was Doctor Malsano. Raife had ceased to be useful, and his influence over Gilda was conflicting with the doctor’s plans, and he must be sacrificed. Murder was only resorted to by this criminal scoundrel when all else failed. It would be a triumph to secure Raife’s conviction and sentence to a long term of imprisonment. The terms of the vendetta would be carried out when this hated British aristocrat was a convicted felon.In a dazed state Raife left the mansion and walked into the night. Gilda, from her point of vantage, had watched and waited in a state of anxiety from the time when her lover had made his perilous climb along the gutter-pipe to the window through which he had effected his entry. She had felt, during the long wait until he reappeared, that she would willingly have changed places. She was accustomed to these hazardous undertakings, and was inured to the disgrace of it.Malsano and Denoir watched at a distance, each malignantly confident of their revenge.A green light flickered in the Avenue, and two cars from opposite directions dashed up to the house that Raife had just left. Four gendarmes alighted from each car. At the same time the front door of the mansion was opened, and two men-servantsen deshabilleappeared. Raife was called to his senses, alert after the dazed condition which followed the sight of his wife, lying asleep on the bed in the room which he had entered as a common burglar. Two gendarmes made a dash at him. He drew his revolver, but hesitated to fire. He was a burglar, but some sense that remained in him prevented him from shooting a gendarme who was only doing his duty. A piercing shriek rang through the night. The gendarme, who felt he was threatened and in danger, fired at Raife. From a doorway where Gilda had watched the commotion, she rushed with an astounding swiftness, and was in front of Raife before that shot was fired. Two gendarmes had thrown themselves upon Raife, but, with a violent effort, he threw them off and flung his revolver far into the roadway. He dashed to Gilda and caught her in his arms, kissing her with a fierce passion. “Gilda! Speak to me, Gilda! Why did you try to save me? My life is of no account and yours is so precious.”The police stood around, inert, as the dying girl, in short sentences, gasped her last message. She told him of the doctor’s treachery. How he had betrayed Raife to the police, and that she had only learnt of the plot when it was too late to stave off the disaster. “They did not tell me until you had entered the house. It was then too late.”Gilda’s last words were: “Raife, I—I was not altogether bad. I loved you dearly, Raife. Your father killed my father. There was the feud—the vendetta, and we were made to suffer. I should have made you a good and honest wife if we could have escaped the evil influence. God has willed it otherwise. Good-bye, dearest. Kiss me. Then, then—go to Hilda. Forget me. Go—go to Hilda and be happy. If you think of me, Raife—pity me!” Gilda Tempest, the mysterious, beautiful girl, trained to crime, with the nature of an angel, collapsed and died in the arms of the man into whose life she had entered with such disastrous effect.In the presence of this pathetic scene the agents of police stood in silence, and with what appeared to be respect. At length the sergeant approached Raife, saying: “This is indeed a tragedy, monsieur, but it remains my duty to arrest you. Monsieur Vachelle, you are under arrest.”Three gendarmes approached. Raife bowed. A silent figure had been an onlooker at this scene until now. Detective-Inspector Herrion approached the group and, speaking to the sergeant, said: “This gentleman is Sir Raife Remington, the missing baronet of whom I have spoken to you. This is the house of his wife, Lady Remington. I don’t think there can be any charge. A man is not a burglar in his own house. With deference may I suggest that we enter the house. Lady Remington will make the necessary explanations.”The scared men-servants were still there and, acting on Herrion’s instructions, they carried the lifeless form of Gilda Tempest into the hall that was now brilliantly-lit. Raife re-entered the house where, a short while before, he had stealthily entered as a burglar. The crowd of people which had collected outside in answer to the revolver shot and general commotion, were dispersed, and the Avenue des Champs Elysées resumed a more normal aspect.Detective-inspector Herrion approached the sergeant and whispered: “I will be responsible for Sir Raife Remington. You may trust me. Don’t let that fellow Malsano escape you. He is not far away you may be sure.”The sergeant smote his chest, exclaiming: “That will be all right, Mr Herrion. I have arranged for that. You may be sure he is safely with us by now.”The arrest of Doctor Malsano was not effected without trouble. He and Denoir, when they heard the revolver shot and Gilda’s piercing shriek, made their way down the side street to the motor-car that was waiting for them. They were too late, however, for the doctor was, in a sense, hoist with his own petard. In his anxiety to complete the downfall of Raife and secure his arrest, he had given the police such warning that their plans had been skilfully laid with a view to capturing a gang, not an individual. There was a fight before the two desperadoes were secured, and the old man fought with the fury of a wild cat. Denoir was more easily overcome. Malsano was at last secured, but his resource almost served him to the end. Producing a phial he nearly succeeded in swallowing its contents of poison. A quick upward blow sent it flying in the air. It fell to the pavement and broke in a hundred pieces. The long life of crime had told on the man. Wanted in half the cities of Europe, his conviction was assured. He did not long survive. The life of a gaol broke his nerve, and within a few months he was dead, but before he breathed his last he confessed the story of the vendetta. Soon after the tragic events that led to his return to normal life, for which his distinguished lineage had intended him, Sir Raife heard in silence the account of Malsano’s extraordinary villainy. By instinct a criminal, Malsano had exerted all his talents in the direction of grievous harm to every one with whom he came in contact.Unforgivable, unforgettable, was the crime of sacrificing the life of a beautiful, sweet-dispositioned girl to his cruel desire for ill-gotten gain. Equally cruel was the malignant spirit in which he carried on the brutal vendetta against a man who had not harmed anybody, and was not born at the time when the crazy curse was made.Hilda had been disturbed by the commotion in the house. She donned a dressing-gown and descended the staircase with all the courage of her highly-strung, self-reliant nature. The scene that confronted her was calculated to try the nerves of the strongest. The dead girl, Gilda Tempest, was lying on a lounge in the centre of the brilliantly-lit hall. Her upturned face was of marble whiteness, and its beauty was intensified by an expression of perfect peace. Raife, Hilda’s husband, knelt before the lifeless figure. Two gendarmes stood silently by. Herrion crossed the hall and advanced to receive Lady Remington and addressed her.“Lady Remington, there has been a terrible tragedy. Will you allow me to talk to you somewhere, and explain matters to you? I think I can make a difficult situation more easy.”Hilda was quite calm and, addressing one of the men-servants, said: “Turn on the lights in this room. Come in, Mr Herrion, and tell me.”With all the grace of manner that belonged to this wonderful detective, Herrion told the story, as he had unearthed it. He pleaded for Raife, and told of the extraordinary influence of the man Malsano. He explained that Raife had not been responsible for his actions, and that a mad, uncontrollable passion had led him into the most dangerous situations. He added: “Lady Remington, in the interests of all, let me most earnestly beg of you to try and overlook these distressing occurrences. Sir Raife has not been conscious of the happenings of the past year. He will be very ill. Slowly he will recover, and let me hope that the sadness of these events will be forgotten. If you will leave it to me I think I can hush matters, and smooth things over. The woman, Gilda Tempest, gave her life for Sir Raife. I hope, Lady Remington, you will not think I exceed my privilege, when I beg of you to forget the past.”Lady Remington looked at this extraordinary little man. Then she held out her hand to him, saying: “Yes, Mr Herrion, I will do as you suggest. You have done me a great service, and I will never forget.”Seated on the terrace at Aldborough Park were two people, Raife’s mother and Hilda. Playing on the lawn was a flaxen-haired little boy, with three puppy dogs. They were rolling over one another after the manner of puppy dogs and children, with that completeabandonand understanding that belong to them. A tall, handsome man, with white hair and slightly bent shoulders, surveyed the scene with a satisfied smile, smoking a pipe the while. The events of that terrible year when Raife Remington was dragged from his high estate to that of a common criminal were forgotten. The fever that followed the last scene of the tragedy had left him white-haired and slightly bent, but he was still a fine and aristocratic figure. The child who played with the puppies on the lawn was the heir to the baronetcy and Aldborough Park.Detective-inspector Herrion had displayed all his tact and cleverness in preventing a renewal of the scandal that followed Raife’s disappearance and, in the moments of his leisure, he was a welcome guest at Aldborough Park.Raife’s mother, the Dowager Lady Remington, had recovered much of health with the return of the normal conditions of life.The brave American girl, Hilda, who had borne her troubles with courage and resource, was happy.When she knew the terrible conditions of Gilda Tempest’s life, she felt sorry for her dead rival, but, she would have been more than human if she had not a sense of relief that the shadow of “the other woman” no longer cast a gloom on her husband’s life.The End.

Malsano’s revenge was nearly complete. Raife was now hopelessly compromised. Creeping stealthily along a wide corridor, he entered the library, and, with all the skill of a practised hand, proceeded to rifle a bureau, from which he extracted notes and gold. Revelling in the weird excitement of the debasing act, he ascended the staircase and opened the door of a bedroom. It was a large room, and he was confronted by a subtle perfume which was familiar to him. Where had he met that perfume before? He stood on the threshold and hesitated to perpetrate a further dastardly deed by entering the room. It was evidently a woman’s room. Raife was not acting of his own volition. A strange impulse controlled him, and he was not master of his actions. There was a soft light diffused, revealing a large, four-poster bed, curtained in pale-tinted dimity. He would have thrashed another man to the point of death for such an action as he was now guilty of. He approached the bed, and pulling aside the curtain, was stricken with horror to behold his wife—Hilda—sleeping peacefully. He stood spellbound, unable to move. A ghastly look of terror and remorse spread over his face. His handsome features were distorted, and his athletic frame convulsed with emotion. The events of the last year crowded his mind in a tornado of shame. Each second was an eternity of mental suffering. Hilda lay there sleeping, her beautiful cheeks suffused with a delicate glow. Her soft brown hair fell in clusters, enhancing the charm of this picture of exquisite innocence. Raife’s mind was in a state of hideous torture. Slowly and softly he withdrew from the room, and descended the staircase to the library. He approached the bureau—his wife’s bureau—that he had ransacked and restored the stolen money. With bowed head he crossed the big hall, dazed and scarcely realising his actions. Softly he opened the front door and passed out into the night.

Before Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead returned to the United States he fulfilled his compact, and Hilda was endowed with a substantial fortune. The stress of events had told heavily on her and Raife’s mother, and, yielding to Hilda’s persuasion, she had rented the furnished mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. She had hoped by means of such a distraction to take their minds off the great trouble.

Detective-Inspector Herrion was a forceful man, and he had set himself the task of finding Sir Raife, the missing baronet, and he had determined to run Malsano to earth. On the day when he had let Lesigne slip through his fingers at Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Herrion had a suspicion that he had been tricked by the innocent-looking old lady, who appeared to be so busy dusting out the apartment. The flat of Monsieur Henri Vachelle was, therefore, kept under observation, but Malsano was far too wily a criminal to be trapped easily, and the flat was deserted, and the gang found fresh quarters. Herrion was sitting in his room at the obscure little hotel that he affected, when the telephone bell rang, and, removing the receiver, he took a message to the effect that, if he would call at the prefecture, there was important news awaiting him.

Hastily seizing his cap he started off. He was met at the entrance by a sergeant, who said: “Quick, Mr Herrion, I think we have found your missing ‘Baron.’ Will you come with me to the Avenue des Champs Elysées?”

A taxi was in waiting, and they entered together. As the car sped towards the famous avenue, the sergeant told Herrion: “We have received a letter, an anonymous letter, saying that a burglary will be committed to-night. The house is surrounded, and it is believed that it is the gang of that old scoundrel, Malsano. The gang is in force, and the cunning old reprobate has chosen the house of the Lady Remington, who is the wife of your missing ‘Baron.’”

Herrion was agitated, a weakness the astute detective-inspector seldom allowed himself to indulge in. With a smile of satisfaction the little man remarked: “If that man Malsano is in this affair, for heaven’s sake don’t let him escape. It looks as if we are in for a breezy time. I have no power here, and I can only look on. Mind, the men of Malsano’s gang do not hesitate to shoot. Shoot on the least suspicion. Shoot first, not to kill, only to maim.”

The gendarme looked at Herrion, raising his eyebrows as he said: “Monsieur Herrion, we shall not be unprepared, and we are not so tender with our criminals as you gentlemen across the Channel. We, too, have a score to settle with this Malsano. And there is that mysterious woman, who seems to be all over Europe at the same time. I have seen her. Ma foi! She is clever and beautiful, too.”

Herrion replied: “Yes, that is the woman who is responsible for Sir Raife Remington’s downfall. She is dangerous, but she is the decoy and the tool of that doctor fellow Malsano.”

The taxi stopped at a corner of a street, and they alighted. Seven or eight men were secreted in doorways, and the sergeant approached each one separately and gave them whispered instructions. Herrion’s position was quite unofficial, but his popularity with the police of Paris had made it possible for him to be present and to participate in the “round-up,” or coup.

The author of the anonymous letter to the Paris police was Doctor Malsano. Raife had ceased to be useful, and his influence over Gilda was conflicting with the doctor’s plans, and he must be sacrificed. Murder was only resorted to by this criminal scoundrel when all else failed. It would be a triumph to secure Raife’s conviction and sentence to a long term of imprisonment. The terms of the vendetta would be carried out when this hated British aristocrat was a convicted felon.

In a dazed state Raife left the mansion and walked into the night. Gilda, from her point of vantage, had watched and waited in a state of anxiety from the time when her lover had made his perilous climb along the gutter-pipe to the window through which he had effected his entry. She had felt, during the long wait until he reappeared, that she would willingly have changed places. She was accustomed to these hazardous undertakings, and was inured to the disgrace of it.

Malsano and Denoir watched at a distance, each malignantly confident of their revenge.

A green light flickered in the Avenue, and two cars from opposite directions dashed up to the house that Raife had just left. Four gendarmes alighted from each car. At the same time the front door of the mansion was opened, and two men-servantsen deshabilleappeared. Raife was called to his senses, alert after the dazed condition which followed the sight of his wife, lying asleep on the bed in the room which he had entered as a common burglar. Two gendarmes made a dash at him. He drew his revolver, but hesitated to fire. He was a burglar, but some sense that remained in him prevented him from shooting a gendarme who was only doing his duty. A piercing shriek rang through the night. The gendarme, who felt he was threatened and in danger, fired at Raife. From a doorway where Gilda had watched the commotion, she rushed with an astounding swiftness, and was in front of Raife before that shot was fired. Two gendarmes had thrown themselves upon Raife, but, with a violent effort, he threw them off and flung his revolver far into the roadway. He dashed to Gilda and caught her in his arms, kissing her with a fierce passion. “Gilda! Speak to me, Gilda! Why did you try to save me? My life is of no account and yours is so precious.”

The police stood around, inert, as the dying girl, in short sentences, gasped her last message. She told him of the doctor’s treachery. How he had betrayed Raife to the police, and that she had only learnt of the plot when it was too late to stave off the disaster. “They did not tell me until you had entered the house. It was then too late.”

Gilda’s last words were: “Raife, I—I was not altogether bad. I loved you dearly, Raife. Your father killed my father. There was the feud—the vendetta, and we were made to suffer. I should have made you a good and honest wife if we could have escaped the evil influence. God has willed it otherwise. Good-bye, dearest. Kiss me. Then, then—go to Hilda. Forget me. Go—go to Hilda and be happy. If you think of me, Raife—pity me!” Gilda Tempest, the mysterious, beautiful girl, trained to crime, with the nature of an angel, collapsed and died in the arms of the man into whose life she had entered with such disastrous effect.

In the presence of this pathetic scene the agents of police stood in silence, and with what appeared to be respect. At length the sergeant approached Raife, saying: “This is indeed a tragedy, monsieur, but it remains my duty to arrest you. Monsieur Vachelle, you are under arrest.”

Three gendarmes approached. Raife bowed. A silent figure had been an onlooker at this scene until now. Detective-Inspector Herrion approached the group and, speaking to the sergeant, said: “This gentleman is Sir Raife Remington, the missing baronet of whom I have spoken to you. This is the house of his wife, Lady Remington. I don’t think there can be any charge. A man is not a burglar in his own house. With deference may I suggest that we enter the house. Lady Remington will make the necessary explanations.”

The scared men-servants were still there and, acting on Herrion’s instructions, they carried the lifeless form of Gilda Tempest into the hall that was now brilliantly-lit. Raife re-entered the house where, a short while before, he had stealthily entered as a burglar. The crowd of people which had collected outside in answer to the revolver shot and general commotion, were dispersed, and the Avenue des Champs Elysées resumed a more normal aspect.

Detective-inspector Herrion approached the sergeant and whispered: “I will be responsible for Sir Raife Remington. You may trust me. Don’t let that fellow Malsano escape you. He is not far away you may be sure.”

The sergeant smote his chest, exclaiming: “That will be all right, Mr Herrion. I have arranged for that. You may be sure he is safely with us by now.”

The arrest of Doctor Malsano was not effected without trouble. He and Denoir, when they heard the revolver shot and Gilda’s piercing shriek, made their way down the side street to the motor-car that was waiting for them. They were too late, however, for the doctor was, in a sense, hoist with his own petard. In his anxiety to complete the downfall of Raife and secure his arrest, he had given the police such warning that their plans had been skilfully laid with a view to capturing a gang, not an individual. There was a fight before the two desperadoes were secured, and the old man fought with the fury of a wild cat. Denoir was more easily overcome. Malsano was at last secured, but his resource almost served him to the end. Producing a phial he nearly succeeded in swallowing its contents of poison. A quick upward blow sent it flying in the air. It fell to the pavement and broke in a hundred pieces. The long life of crime had told on the man. Wanted in half the cities of Europe, his conviction was assured. He did not long survive. The life of a gaol broke his nerve, and within a few months he was dead, but before he breathed his last he confessed the story of the vendetta. Soon after the tragic events that led to his return to normal life, for which his distinguished lineage had intended him, Sir Raife heard in silence the account of Malsano’s extraordinary villainy. By instinct a criminal, Malsano had exerted all his talents in the direction of grievous harm to every one with whom he came in contact.

Unforgivable, unforgettable, was the crime of sacrificing the life of a beautiful, sweet-dispositioned girl to his cruel desire for ill-gotten gain. Equally cruel was the malignant spirit in which he carried on the brutal vendetta against a man who had not harmed anybody, and was not born at the time when the crazy curse was made.

Hilda had been disturbed by the commotion in the house. She donned a dressing-gown and descended the staircase with all the courage of her highly-strung, self-reliant nature. The scene that confronted her was calculated to try the nerves of the strongest. The dead girl, Gilda Tempest, was lying on a lounge in the centre of the brilliantly-lit hall. Her upturned face was of marble whiteness, and its beauty was intensified by an expression of perfect peace. Raife, Hilda’s husband, knelt before the lifeless figure. Two gendarmes stood silently by. Herrion crossed the hall and advanced to receive Lady Remington and addressed her.

“Lady Remington, there has been a terrible tragedy. Will you allow me to talk to you somewhere, and explain matters to you? I think I can make a difficult situation more easy.”

Hilda was quite calm and, addressing one of the men-servants, said: “Turn on the lights in this room. Come in, Mr Herrion, and tell me.”

With all the grace of manner that belonged to this wonderful detective, Herrion told the story, as he had unearthed it. He pleaded for Raife, and told of the extraordinary influence of the man Malsano. He explained that Raife had not been responsible for his actions, and that a mad, uncontrollable passion had led him into the most dangerous situations. He added: “Lady Remington, in the interests of all, let me most earnestly beg of you to try and overlook these distressing occurrences. Sir Raife has not been conscious of the happenings of the past year. He will be very ill. Slowly he will recover, and let me hope that the sadness of these events will be forgotten. If you will leave it to me I think I can hush matters, and smooth things over. The woman, Gilda Tempest, gave her life for Sir Raife. I hope, Lady Remington, you will not think I exceed my privilege, when I beg of you to forget the past.”

Lady Remington looked at this extraordinary little man. Then she held out her hand to him, saying: “Yes, Mr Herrion, I will do as you suggest. You have done me a great service, and I will never forget.”

Seated on the terrace at Aldborough Park were two people, Raife’s mother and Hilda. Playing on the lawn was a flaxen-haired little boy, with three puppy dogs. They were rolling over one another after the manner of puppy dogs and children, with that completeabandonand understanding that belong to them. A tall, handsome man, with white hair and slightly bent shoulders, surveyed the scene with a satisfied smile, smoking a pipe the while. The events of that terrible year when Raife Remington was dragged from his high estate to that of a common criminal were forgotten. The fever that followed the last scene of the tragedy had left him white-haired and slightly bent, but he was still a fine and aristocratic figure. The child who played with the puppies on the lawn was the heir to the baronetcy and Aldborough Park.

Detective-inspector Herrion had displayed all his tact and cleverness in preventing a renewal of the scandal that followed Raife’s disappearance and, in the moments of his leisure, he was a welcome guest at Aldborough Park.

Raife’s mother, the Dowager Lady Remington, had recovered much of health with the return of the normal conditions of life.

The brave American girl, Hilda, who had borne her troubles with courage and resource, was happy.

When she knew the terrible conditions of Gilda Tempest’s life, she felt sorry for her dead rival, but, she would have been more than human if she had not a sense of relief that the shadow of “the other woman” no longer cast a gloom on her husband’s life.

The End.

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