But patience is generally rewarded. Here was a hiatus after a series of regular dates. The writer had been drinking heavily, somebody had got hold of him, and was detaining him somewhere against his will. He was not allowed to say where he was. His last letter of the series hinted at a possibility of large sums of money.
"I'm afraid it's no good, sir," said Prout when Lawrence had finished.
"I don't quite agree with you," Lawrence said. "The man was detained again his will. Where was he detained? In the Corner House? Because his gaoler was afraid of his discretion. Now go a step further and ask who detained him yonder. You can answer that question for yourself."
"Countess Lalage," Prout muttered. "But why?"
"Ah, that is the point. Get to that, and the problem is solved. Now listen to me, Prout. The rascal who wrote those letters and the rascal who received them were brothers. They were fond of each other, which you will admit is possible. I see that for some reason of your own you have concealed the fact from the prisoner that his brother is no more. If you tell him the truth he will probably make some startling admission."
Prout nodded admiringly. Lawrence took a photograph from his pocket.
"Tell him the news abruptly," he said. "And when the man has digested that, show him the photograph. It is a recent one of Countess Lalage. I want to know if he recognises her."
Prout departed on his errand. It was easy enough for him to obtain a private interview with the prisoner, who received him with polite mockery. His instinct told him that Prout wished to learn something.
"You are welcome;" he said; "it is so dull here that even the conversation of a mere detective is pleasing."
"The detective was sharp enough to get you here," Prout said.
"Ah, well, even the great Napoleon made a mistake or two."
"Which you are likely to do yourself," said Prout, "if you try to be too smart. I want you to answer me a few questions, which don't affect your case at all. Give me the desired information, and I'll make matters as easy as I can for you on your trial. I can't get you off, but I can lighten the case."
The other man nodded. Prout was talking sense now.
"Go on, mon brave," he said. "I will do what I can for you--and myself."
"It's about those letters I found in your possession," Prout said, "the letters to you from your brother. I know they are from your brother, because I have seen him, and also his handwriting. You need not be afraid of him, because he is far beyond being injured by any one in the world."
"Say," the other whispered fiercely. "Poor Leon--is he dead?"
Prout nodded. It was some little time before the other spoke. His next question startled the detective.
"Was he murdered?" came the hoarse whisper.
"He was. You didn't know he was dead, yet you guessed how he died. He was the victim of what you call the Corner House----"
"Ah, I remember now. I was too busy to read, but I heard people speaking about it. My poor brother, my poor Leon."
"Leon--?"
"Leon Lalage."
"Your brother's name was Leon Lalage?" Prout asked.
"That is so, and my name is René. To think we were once happy boys together on my mother's flower farm in Corsica!"
René Lalage bowed his head and wept after the manner of his nation. He had offered Prout a far more valuable clue than he had expected. All sorts of possibilities were opening out before the eyes of the detective.
"I am interested in getting at the truth about your brother's death," he said. "That is why I am here today. Before you knew how he came by his death you asked me if your brother had been murdered. Why?"
"Because there was one who hated him. I cannot and will not say any more than that. He stood in the way of somebody. So long as he kept away it was all right. But Leon was not one of that sort. He was as brave as a lion. Had he not been so fond of the drink he might have done anything. But there was something in the blood of both of us that took us into evil ways. Thank God our mother is dead, the flower farm gone, and the secret of the wonderful perfume that made the name of Lalage famous for two centuries is buried in my mother's grave."
"One more question and I have done," said Prout. "Your brother had some one to fear. Now was that some one a man or a woman?"
"A woman. I can't say more than that."
Prout was fairly satisfied. He produced a photo that Lawrence had given him.
"Is that the woman by any chance?" he asked.
René Lalage thought not. All the same, he seemed puzzled. But he could not be definite, and Prout was fain to be content.
"This seems to be a great lady," the prisoner said. "She conveys nothing to me except as to her eyes. No, it is not possible. And she would not be in English costume. Some years ago she was in England playing at one of the theatres or music halls. There was a fine picture of her in one of the papers--Lalage, the dancer."
Prout felt that he was getting on.
"Can you tell me the name of the paper?" he asked.
René Lalage confessed himself puzzled. Compatriots had shown him the paper, but he had forgotten. There was a headpiece to the paper with a woman on it blowing a trumpet. It seemed to be all actors and the like.
"It has gone from my mind," he said. "It is so long ago. Even then my brother and this woman had drifted apart. I am not happy in my mind today, for your news has disturbed me more than I can tell. Even a rascal like myself can be possessed of a heart, eh?"
"If I come again can you refresh your memory?"
"It is possible. It is not for me to say. Only poor Leon must be avenged!"
The speaker clutched Prout passionately by the arm. His whole frame was quivering with passion.
"The vengeance comes closer," said Prout; "it is closer than you imagine. And I fancy that your evidence will hang the murderer."
Lawrence was profoundly interested in what Prout had to say. The latter had given far more information than he had imagined.
"You have given me some valuable clues," he said. "In the first place we now know the real name of the murdered man. Strange that it should be the same as the fascinating Countess! And stranger still that our brilliant adventuress did not call herself something else when she engineered herself into society. But probably that is part of the reckless audacity of her nature. It was very foolish, because it clogs up the brains of a man like myself who has knocked about artistic and theatrical London for so long. And I distinctly recollect a Lalage, a dancer, who made a hit at the halls some seven or eight years ago."
"And whose portrait appeared in one of the smart papers," said Prout. "I wonder if you can remember the name of the paper. It may be alive or it may be dead, but the ornamental heading had a woman playing a trumpet on it. This is in your line, sir, far more than in mine."
Lawrence cogitated over the matter. Eight years ago his position had been very different to what it was now. Then he had to be eager and alert, to study every journal that published fiction. In those days he had had the whole list at his finger ends. His face suddenly lightened.
"I've got it," he cried. "The paper was called theTalk of the Town. It was a sort of pioneer to theSketch, but of a lower type. For a time it had a great vogue, but a prosecution for libel killed it. If it is possible to see a file----"
"That's easy," Prout put in. "You'll get a file right enough, and in all probability be in a position to purchase the copy you want. Frampton's in Holborn make it a business to stock all papers and back numbers, charging a shilling for a penny paper and so on. They've got millions of moribund journals."
Lawrence remarked that he would make it his business to step round to Frampton's without delay. It was just possible that he had not squeezed all the information that he wanted out of Prout.
"Did you find out anything about the past of those fellows?" he asked.
"Well, I didn't, sir," Prout replied. "The poor fellow seemed so cut up over the death of his brother. Very sentimental, those foreigners. He kept talking of the days when they were together on the flower farm in Corsica. They come of a pretty good stock, for my man spoke of a scent that their family had made for two centuries, the secret of which was buried with----"
"What!" Lawrence shouted. "What! Say that again."
"I hope there is nothing wrong, sir," asked Prout.
"Wrong?" Lawrence cried as he paced the room. "Not much. Why, you are giving me the master key to the situation. Look me up again this evening. I guess I shall be able to astonish you. I'm off to Frampton's now. I must have a copy of that paper if it costs me a hundred pounds."
Frampton's establishment consisted merely of cellars where grimy men seemed to be busy with piles of journals. After a little trouble and a reference or two to a ponderous ledger a pile of the Talk of the Town was produced. There were not more than two hundred altogether, but Lawrence had the satisfaction of knowing that they were complete. Some of them were duplicated many times.
At the end of an hour Lawrence found what he wanted. Here was the portrait of a striking woman in Spanish costume, her eyes were dark, her hair wonderfully fair. Lawrence's hands trembled a little as he folded up the paper.
"And what do you want for this?" he asked.
Frampton incidentally replied that half a crown was the price. It would have been cheap to the purchaser at a thousand times the money. It was a little later that Bruce came round to the novelist's rooms in response to an urgent telephone message. He looked pale and anxious; he was fighting hard, but he found that the odds were terribly against him.
"Have you made any new discoveries?" he asked.
"I flatter myself I have," said Lawrence. "Here is a copy of a paper now extinct called theTalk of the Town. On the front page is a photo of a Spanish dancer. Behold she is called Lalage, the Spanish premiere. Look and see if you have ever seen her before."
"Lalage," Bruce cried. "The Spanish--and the same name! Why, that is the same woman who received me on that fatal night at the corner house!"
Meanwhile the brilliant society season was drawing to a close. Few smart functions remained, but there would be no more dashing affair than the forthcoming ball at Lytton Avenue. The supper was coming from Paris, the decorations were unique, the flowers were to cost upwards of a thousand pounds. The society papers had more or less veracious paragraphs, a score of lady journalists were making copy of the affair.
Thus Maitrank chuckled over his invitation. He was going to take his vengeance for the trick played on him in his own good time. He had purposely kept out of the way of the Countess. He set the cables in motion, and after a due response or two he was closeted with the head of a smart firm of lawyers in Ely Place.
"You are quite sure of my position?" he croaked.
"Quite, sir," the lawyer responded. "According to the papers drawn up at the time, you can take possession and demand your money at any moment. You are in the same position as a landlord distraining for rent. If you want us to act----"
"I do," Maitrank snapped. "I wish you to act at eleven o'clock tomorrow night. No need to stare at me like that, sir. I know what I am doing. And I am prepared to pay you handsomely for your services."
The lawyer bowed his strange client out. He had only to obey instructions. He went back to his desk pondering on the sensation that society was going to get shortly. Maitrank went straight away to Lawrence.
"I have done what you asked," he said curtly. "You are a wonderful man, you novelist; see you at our dear friend the Countess's tomorrow. Good night."
By the time that Maitrank had bowed with humility over the hand of his hostess the following evening nearly all fashionable London had gathered in those spacious suites of rooms. The decorations were superb, unique; there was no better music to be obtained in Europe. Folk were talking with bated breath of the great chef who had come from Paris to superintend his supper.
It was the crowning glory of a wonderful woman's career. She stood smiling before her guests in a dress that had cost Worth a sleepless night. A duke was just congratulating her upon her good taste. A couple of gorgeous footmen were casting back the curtains of the supper room. Down below in the hall something like an altercation seemed to be going on.
"It's a man, my lady," a blushing footman stammered. "He declines to go away. I called in a policeman, and he showed him a paper, after which the police went, saying it seemed all right and legal or something like that. The fellow says he must see you."
Perhaps a creditor beyond all patience and in desperate need of money. Leona Lalage sailed out of the room into the hall, where two seedy-looking men awaited her.
"Well, what is it you want tonight?" she demanded, haughtily.
A long slip of paper was thrust into her hand. Her quick brain grasped the significance. Maitrank had struck, and struck hard. These men were in possession for nearly £100,000--vulgar bailiffs such as come and sell the goods of poor people who cannot pay their rent. Leona Lalage remembered now the conditions under which she had borrowed money from Maitrank. He had her in his power. It seemed a vile thing to do when she had put him off with the very jewels from about her neck. And she was powerless--she could not have these men turned into the street. Most of her guests would understand sooner or later. Tomorrow this would be public property. Once the tongue of rumour started the crash was bound to follow.
Leona Lalage looked round her helplessly for the first time in her life. Maitrank stood there grinning like a hideous mask enjoying her confusion. He had come to enjoy this where a more sensitive man would have stayed away. Revenge to him was nothing unless he could feast his eyes upon it.
"You scoundrel, you cur!" she hissed. "If I had a weapon in my hand, I would kill you and die happy. Why have you done this thing?"
"Why do you foist me off with paste jewels?" Maitrank asked, coolly. "Ah you may stare with amazement! You are a very clever actress, madam."
"Paste?" Lalage gasped. "Paste! Why for their sake--impossible!"
"I will sell them to you for the price of your bouquet," said Maitrank. "It is my turn now. Won't you have your guests in to supper?"
The Countess looked round her helplessly. The sound of the music, the ripple of laughter, the murmur of voices maddened her. She knew that the crash must come some time, but she had not dreamt of a humiliation like this. Lawrence came sauntering down the steps. She flew to him.
Could he help her. She was in great trouble, and she knew that she could trust him. She owed Maitrank a lot of money; he had chosen to humiliate her by actually putting these vulgar bailiffs in tonight, of all times. Those pleading eyes would have melted a heart of stone. Lawrence seemed to be greatly distressed.
"I fancy I can see a way out of the difficulty," he said. "I do not wish to pry into your affairs, but in a novelist's business one gets to know things. And I, too, am in a great quandary. Do you recollect the flower farm near Ajaccio?"
"I am going mad," Leona whispered. "To allude to that tonight! Well, I have got on in the world like other people. No need to allude to that. What can it possibly have to do with the matter?"
"One never knows," said Lawrence. "But I see you remember. You also remember the marvellous secret of the tuberose scent. For my own purposes I require a little of it, my story demands it. I am talking business now. Give me the little bottle from the Antoinette cabinet in your boudoir, and I will get rid of those men for you."
Slowly Leona Lalage took the speaker in from head to foot. Her face had grown deadly pale. But she could make nothing of Lawrence's face. All the same, it was quite evident that he meant every word that he said.
"You shall have it," she said suddenly. "How you got to know so much of my history you shall tell me presently. But the tuberose is yours."
She flashed along the hall. Directly she was gone Lawrence signalled to Maitrank, who stood in the background. The latter produced a letter which he handed to the foremost of the two intruders.
"As you see, this is from the solicitor who employs you," he said. "If I like to change my mind, and ask you to go you are to obey. I ask you to go. Say nothing of this, and I will see you are suitably rewarded in the morning."
The man looked and nodded. He winked at his companion, and together they strode out of the house. With a silent laugh Maitrank crept up the stairs.
"I trust you," he croaked. "You promised me a better vengeance than I could get for myself. See that I get it."
"More for the sake of others you shall get it," Lawrence cried. "It's flattering to the vanity of a novelist to have a millionaire for one of his puppets."
The Countess came sweeping back again with one tiny phial in her hand. Lawrence did not need to look to see that it was the right one. Unknown to the Countess, he had had it in his possession before.
"There!" she cried. "And now to keep your part of the compact. If you have got round Maitrank you are a genius. Where are the men?"
"Gone!" said Lawrence. "I waved my hand and they have departed. Nobody but us three has any knowledge of the truth."
A quiet sigh escaped from the listener. She smiled again.
"It is a debt I can never repay," she said. "Will you stay after the others have gone and tell me how you learnt my early history?"
"That is just what I should like to do," Lawrence said coolly.
The last guest had departed, the strains of music had died away. The lights were out, and the flowers were wilting on the walls. Leona Lalage had discarded her dress for a fascinating wrap, and was seated in her boudoir making a cigarette and trying to read something from the expression of Lawrence's face.
"And now what does it all mean?" she asked gaily. "In the first place, tell me how you got your influence over Maitrank."
"Knowledge is power," said Lawrence, "so long as you keep it to yourself. Why did you tell me that you had never heard of the tuberose perfume?"
"That is easy. I had no desire to speak of my humble past. I was brought up near that flower farm where Mme. Lalage made that marvellous perfume. I am passionately fond of it, the more so that you cannot get it now. I use it sometimes in the evening after the others have gone to bed. But how did you know----"
"Never mind that. Years ago I got a whiff of it in Vienna, and it appealed to my imagination. I saw a way of bringing it into fiction, much as it was done in the case of the play called 'Dora.' I am going to do so."
"But how did you know that I had it?"
"I noticed it one night, very faintly I admit, but there it was. You denied the fact to me, and I had to force your hand. It sounds very clever, but commonplace enough when you once see how the trick is done."
The Countess stirred uneasily in her chair. She felt there was more to follow.
"I have to my hand," Lawrence went on, "the materials for a magnificent romance. Let us go back a little while. Some week or two ago here we discussed the Corner House. I said it would make the scene of a capital romance. I went further and said I had already sketched the story out. You recollect that?"
The Countess nodded. Her lips were narrow and drawn in tightly.
"Strange to say," Lawrence proceeded, "almost immediately there was a tragedy at the Corner House, just on the lines of my story--the story that I said I should probably never write. Now that was very strange."
"Very strange indeed," the Countess said hoarsely.
"The more I thought it over the more certain I became that my brain had been picked, and that my plot was being used by some designing person to bring trouble and disgrace upon a man who is destined to be related to me. I waited for a little time to see how matters were developing, and then decided to refresh my memory from the skeleton plot of that unwritten story. When I looked in my desk I could not find the plot. Why? Because it had been stolen.
"I was quite certain of the fact when I looked for it. And all the time this Corner House tragedy was being enacted exactly as I should have written it. There were other complications, of course, but the plot was the same."
"It sounds incredible," the Countess said.
"Not to me," Lawrence replied meaningly. "The person who stole my plot did not know that I had it thoroughly by heart. And when my young friend Bruce went to the Corner House and got into all that trouble, I was in a position beforehand to tell him all that had happened. The scheme over those notes was also mine. I know perfectly well how the whole thing was worked so as to make an innocent man appear guilty. I knew before I heard Bruce's story all about the old German and the picture.
"Perhaps you knew also the culprit," the Countess suggested.
Lawrence did not appear to hear the question, so he proceeded.
"There were other notes as well mentioned in that fateful letter. But what had become of the other notes? Nobody seemed to know or care about that. But the numbers were known, and strangely enough, eventually they turned up in this very house. They were paid over the gambling table that night that Isidore gave a cheque to the Marchioness. The question is, who paid those notes over, who was it who first brought them into the room that night?"
"A question that can never be solved," the Countess gasped.
"You are mistaken," Lawrence said quietly, "I have handled those notes, and I have solved the problem. They were produced in the first instance by you."
Leona Lalage was on her feet in a moment. Her face was pale as ashes.
"You are wrong," she cried. "It could not have been so."
"It was so, because of the scent of them. Every one of these notes was--and is--very slightly impregnated with the smell of tuberose."
There was a long, long silence, a silence that could be felt.
Lawrence stretched out his hand for a cigarette as if he had said the most natural thing in the world. A less clever man would have shown something like triumph. But Lawrence had thought this all out as carefully as if it were really a new melodrama he was writing. The time had come when matters must be forced into the channel to suit himself. Already he had laid the lines carefully.
This woman must be made to own that the missing notes had really come from her, or at least part of them. Once this was done, the novelist felt pretty sure of his game. But though he wanted to startle and alarm his companion, he didn't desire to expose his suspicions too far.
"A very singular circumstance, is it not?" he asked, quietly.
Leona Lalage had recovered herself; she did not know that Lawrence had been purposely busy over his cigarette to give her an opportunity of so doing.
"Really, I ought to be indignant," she cried.
"Surely not," Lawrence murmured quietly. "I have made no accusations. In taking up the matter on behalf of Gordon Bruce, I have to make searching inquiries. I naturally ask myself where are the rest of those notes. By a strange fate they turn up here. Isidore identifies the numbers and I identify the scent. I am more or less able to prove that it was you who produced those notes the night of the card party. You went to your room to get some cash which you changed into gold. Therefore the notes were in your possession."
"But I'll swear to you," the Countess broke in vehemently. "I'll swear----"
"My dear friend, there is no occasion to do anything of the kind. Am I making any kind of accusation against you? Ridiculous! Why, black as things look against my friend Bruce, I don't suspect him. All I want you to do is to try and recollect whence you got those notes."
Leona Lalage kept her face half hidden behind her fan. For the life of her she could not tell whether this man was playing with her or not. Hitherto men had been her puppets, hitherto she had regarded all of them as fools. Lawrence smoked calmly on, as if he were discussing the weather or something equally exciting.
"I'll try," she said, "but then I handle so much money. I play cards, I bet on horses. There are scores of ways. But I'll try."
Lawrence rose and took his leave. He dropped in at the nearest telephone call office and late as it was rang up Isidore. The latter was waiting.
"It's all right," he said. "I have had Balmayne here as you suggested. And I have told him exactly as much as you desired him to know. He's just gone off in a great hurry, for any money to Lytton Avenue."
As a matter of fact, Balmayne's cab passed Lawrence a minute or two later. The latter smiled as if well pleased with himself.
"Splendid so far," he murmured. "She'll walk into the trap, in fact they both will. And now I think I have really earned a good night's rest."
Leona Lalage was raging up and down the room as Balmayne entered. The first saffron streaks of dawn were making the electrics thin and yellow. Evidently something had gone wrong. Balmayne waited for his companion to speak.
"I came here with pretty bad news," he said, after a pause. "I went off with Isidore to talk business, and he let out something that absolutely startled me."
"It can't be as bad as my news," Leona said, gloomily. "They have traced the rest of the missing notes directly to my possession."
"What!" Balmayne cried, "were you mad enough to----."
"I am afraid so. It is no time for idle recrimination. The gambling fever was on me the other night and I felt that I must play. I tried to borrow money that evening, but not one of the wretches would trust me with a shilling. I had those notes upstairs; they formed my rescue in case of a collapse. It seemed to me that nobody would be any the wiser. I brought them down, and gambled with them. And beyond all doubt, Gilbert Lawrence has traced them to me."
"Will you be so good as to tell me how?" Balmayne said.
In a few words the story was told. Balmayne listened moodily. With his further knowledge of facts he saw the danger.
"This is dreadful," he said. "The man who died in the Corner House changed four hundred sovereigns into notes. Part of them he put into a letter to send to a certain person who appears to have been nameless. We know that he was going to send that money to his brother."
"Of course. But, thank goodness, we are the only people who know that."
"Exactly where you are mistaken," said Balmayne, bitterly. "They all know it. Isidore let it out tonight. The fellow Prout, who has the Corner House case in hand, by a piece of amazing luck has arrested a criminal on another charge. In that criminal's possession were certain letters addressed to him by the--by Leona Lalage, in fact. In other words the police have discovered the dead man's brother René!"
The Countess paused in her agitated walk. She had been striding up and down the room impatiently. She paused now with her hand to her head as if somebody had shot her in her stride, and collapsed into a chair.
"Say that again," she groaned, "say that again."
"My words were perfectly plain," Balmayne said, impatiently. "René Lalage is in the hands of the police; they know he is brother to the murdered man by certain letters found in his possession. Also we know that in their queer way those two rascals were very fond of one another. There is not much suspicion yet, or Isidore would not have told me so much tonight. But when ill-luck begins to dog one, it is amazing how far that ill-luck goes. For instance----"
"Well? Go on, nothing could be worse than what has happened."
"Oh, can't it? It only wants Garrett Charlton to turn up now. We must get those notes from Isidore at any hazard. They will remain in his possession--in fact, he told me tonight that he had them. He said----"
But the Countess did not heed. Absolutely worn out in mind and body she had fainted.
Heavy as were these blows, a few hours' sleep braced Leona Lalage for what she knew to be a trying ordeal. By the time that breakfast was a thing of the past she had sketched out a new plan of campaign. The terrible unseen force from behind had driven her from her strong position. In future she would have to recognize the fact that she was hopelessly beaten, and all that she could expect now was to cover up her tracks and prevent the final solution of the mystery.
On the whole, an appearance of candour would be best. She would go straight to Prout, who had the Corner House tragedy in hand, and tell him everything, at least everything that Lawrence had found out. She never guessed for a moment that this was exactly what the novelist expected her to do, in fact, he had apparently told all he knew to gain this end. Also, at his suggestion, Isidore had blurted out the fact that Prout had succeeded in laying Leon Lalage's brother by the heels.
On the whole, this would be by far the best thing to do. It was just possible that her fascinations might elicit something further from Prout. Leona Lalage might not have felt quite so easy in her mind had she known that the little snake-headed detective was fresh from a long interview with Lawrence.
He was profoundly impressed by the graciousness of his visitor. He even dusted an office chair for her with a clean handkerchief. He seemed a simple sort of man. Leona Lalage had not a high opinion of the police.
"I have come to have a chat with you," she said with her most brilliant smile, "on the subject of the Corner House. They tell me you have made an arrest that by a wonderful chance will have an important bearing on the case."
Prout grew wooden. His official manner caused Leona to hide a smile. Really, it would be child's play to get the better of this man.
"I am afraid you are mistaken, madame," he said.
"Indeed, no. Mr. Isidore spoke of it quite freely. It appears that a brother of the dead man has come into your hands. Is not that so?"
Prout grudgingly admitted that it was. He was also severe on the indiscretion of certain people. Mr. Isidore ought to know better. The Countess was charmed. Evidently she was going to do exactly as she pleased with this man. Every question that she asked him he contrived to answer in some way that betrayed his knowledge.
"Not that I am asking for sheer curiosity," she said gaily. "You see I am also in a position to throw a little light in a dark place. Do you know that the rest of the missing notes have been in my possession?"
Prout was surprised. Not that he ought to have been surprised after the strange things that had come in his way professionally. The way he conveyed the impression that all this was news to him was artistic. He asked a score of questions, he made voluminous notes solemnly in a large book.
"You have really been of great service to me, madame," he said. "It was very good of you to come and tell me straightforwardly. Now, let us see if we can trace these notes to the possession of the previous holder."
Leona Lalage intimated that was the only thing she desired for the moment. But at the same time she made it pretty clear to Prout that the thing was impossible. Her keen desire was to show him the impossibility of the proceeding, and induce him to give up any further investigations in that direction.
"You see, I have the good fortune to be exceedingly rich," she said, with her most fascinating smile. "I don't value money as much as I should. To me it is a mere medium for enjoyment. I gamble, and bet, and all that kind of thing, in fact I generally have a large sum of money in paper in the house. I might have got those notes from a betting man at Ascot, or at Goodwood, or even the card table. But at the same time I'll try my best to assist you."
Prout was profuse. He was very anxious over those notes. He had certainly had the good fortune to take into custody one René Lalage, the brother to Leon Lalage, who had been murdered in the Corner House.
"Strange they should be the same name as myself," the Countess said.
"Not in the least," Prout hastened to reply. "I find the name is a very common one at Marseilles, and along the Mediterranean generally."
The Countess smiled. She had risen prepared to take her departure. If she had any knowledge of faces she had made a good impression.
"It seems hardly credible," she said. "I mean the story of the Corner House as told by Dr. Bruce. That Spanish woman, for instance."
Prout shook his head in a non-committal fashion. He had heard some amazing statements made by suspects in his time, statements so wild that they carried guilt on the face of them. And yet he had personally proved many of these statements to be true. The Countess smiled as she turned to the door.
"I am not very easily impressed," she said, "and as to that Spanish woman--eh, Dr. Bruce must have been taking lessons from Mr. Lawrence."
"The woman did exist all the same," Prout said innocently. "In fact, I don't mind admitting that I've got a portrait----"
He paused and looked down. The smile faded from Leona's face.
"Who told you that it was a portrait of--I mean where did you----"
"René Lalage. As you are interested, and as you came here to assist me, madame, I don't mind going so far as to show you the picture. It came from a weekly paper----"
"I know--I mean, what do I mean?" the Countess said hoarsely. "Really I don't know why I should be so interested."
Prout took a sheet of paper from his desk and held it up. It was a portrait of a fair Spanish gipsy. The letterpress and border had been cut away.
"What do you think of that?" Prout asked.
Leona Lalage said nothing. She could only look and look in a fascinated way.
"It--it proves nothing," she said with an effort, presently. "A pleasant face. Don't you think that she is a little like me?"
Leona Lalage held herself up talking bravely about the weather, whilst Prout was dumb with admiration of her audacity. Her very recklessness inspired his respect. He little knew of the deadly fear and suffering concealed behind that smiling mask. The last thing he saw as he closed the door of the brougham was an averted face and a small hand.
The blood horses dashed on, whilst Leona Lalage lay back against the cushions and fainted for the third time in her life. It had been a wonderful effort to put the deadly feeling off so long, but her iron will had conquered.
She came to herself again with a shudder and a feeling of anguish in every limb. She was not suspected yet, or even a fool of an English detective would not have shown her that picture. Broken and agitated as she was, her quick brain began to work again.
In the first place she must get those notes back from Isidore. Even if they had to be obtained by force it must be done. She took a visiting card from her case, and in as steady a hand as possible penciled a line or two on the back asking Isidore to come round and dine with her that evening. Once this was done and left at the capitalist's rooms she felt a little easier in her mind. She was doing something.
Hence she drove on to the Metropole with the hope of seeing Maitrank. She had to wait there till she was angry and impatient. Hitherto she had not had to wait. She was going to get to the bottom of that diamond business if she had to stay all day. A stolid clerk came out and said Herr Maitrank was disengaged.
Maitrank, in his shirtsleeves, was smoking one of his black cigars. He made no apology for his attire nor for the rank tobacco between his yellow teeth. How different the last time when they had met in the millionaire's office.
"Why did you keep me waiting so long?" the Countess demanded.
Maitrank chuckled. He admired a fighter, and here was one to his hand. It was pretty audacious in a woman who had swindled him out of a fortune.
"I was merely deferring the pleasure, my dear," he said. "What can I do for you? Any fresh loan on the banks of the clouds or castles in the air or anything of that kind? Or do you wish to sell me any diamonds?"
"I swear to you," the Countess said, "that I was innocent over those diamonds. I honestly believed them to be genuine, and worth far more money than the sum for which I parted with them. I feel now that I have been tricked. You old wolf, you had the real stones taken away for some purpose of your own."
She bent over the table and shook her clenched hand angrily in the old man's face. He showed his teeth in a snarl.
"Gently, gently," he growled. "Let us look at those gems. I have them here. See, are those the ones you passed over to me?"
He pitched the glittering gauds contemptuously on the desk. Leona examined them carefully So far as she could see no change had been made. And where the stones had been filed she could see the dull scratched edges. Was this the work of the hidden enemy or another cruel stroke of ill fortune?
"They look like the same," she admitted grudgingly. "I'm afraid you're right there."
"Take them back to the place where you purloined them," Maitrank grinned.
Leona was silent. Whence the gems came was no business of her opponent. He seemed to be pleased about something. And he made no allusion to his money, which was a very bad sign. The Countess brought up the subject.
"What are you going to do?" she asked meaningly.
"I am going to do nothing--for the present." Maitrank replied. "I am going to pursue what that admirable diplomatist Beaconsfield called a policy of masterly inactivity. If I do not get my money in cash I shall in another way."
"But you are going to get it?" Leona said eagerly. "I have practically effected a loan with the firm of Bernstein of New York--why do you laugh?"
"Because I am amused, because I am greatly amused. You are wasting your time and all your pretty schemes there. The name of a firm means nothing in business nowadays. I have a different name in every capital in Europe. Also I have another different name in New York. For instance, my firm is called Ernstein and Co., of 149, Broadway. Ah, ah!"
"So I have been corresponding with you all the time?"
"Yes. As the English say, that is about the size of it. Those letters of yours! Oh, oh! The fun I have had out of this. And the magnificent lies!"
But Maitrank was alone. The Countess had bounced in a fury out of the room. At every turn fate seemed to be against her now.
That deadly fear was coming on her again. It was hard to be baffled and beaten at every turn like this, and yet not be able to strike a single blow in return. There was the haunting terror that her enemies knew too much, and that the sword would fall when they pleased. Otherwise the cruel, greedy nature of Maitrank would never have held her off like this. He seemed to be resigned to the loss of the money, but he was evidently going to take it out in another way. Leona would have given years of her life to know which way.
There was nobody to turn to, nobody to advise her now, but Balmayne. He had done pretty well on the whole; he had contrived to keep himself out of danger, and at the first sign of the collapse he would fly.
But anybody was better than the sapping away of mind and body brooding alone. Balmayne listened to everything with a grave face.
"I quite agree with you over those notes," he said. "They must be recovered at any cost from Isidore."
"Think," Leona whispered, "set your wits to work. Meanwhile I have asked him to come here tonight to dine. Between now and then we shall surely find some way. At present I can only think of drugging and stealing his keys. But with our experience we can surely find better methods than that."
"Isidore won't come," Balmayne said, curtly.
The prophecy proved to be correct. Isidore regretted that he had another engagement to dine out this evening. Perhaps it was only a pleasure deferred to the end of the week. Leona tore the paper up passionately.
Lytton Avenue was quiet for once, and Leona Lalage was glad of it. She said truthfully that she had a splitting headache, so that she was thankful to be alone and lie down on a couch in the drawing-room with the lights lowered and eau de Cologne on her temples. Hetty sat a little way off engaged on some fancywork. It seemed hard to imagine that all this refinement and enviable luxury covered crime and mystery.
It was a little before eleven that Balmayne came in. He was very quiet and subdued; he sat and unfolded an evening paper. He shot a sign across to the Countess from a pair of eyes that gleamed like flames.
"I should like a fresh handkerchief, Hetty," she said. "Would you mind?"
Hetty was off at once. Balmayne jumped to his feet.
"You must try and pull yourself together," he said. "There has been an amazing piece of luck. Isidore was dining at the Lotus with Lawrence. We came down the steps together. There was a fire close by, and a hansom backed on to the pavement. To make a long story short, Isidore fainted with the pain of a broken collarbone, and they took him to Charing Cross Hospital."
"You took him. In that case I need not ask----"
"You need not. I didn't take him personally. I took his keys."
Leona Lalage was off the sofa directly. She motioned to the door. As Hetty came back the sufferer crossed the room languidly, saying she was going to lie down on her bed. She required no attention, she only wanted to be absolutely quiet.
Once upstairs Balmayne followed. There was nobody on the landing.
"Now is your chance," he said. "It is a pretty neat turn of fortune for us. I've got the motor round and will meet you at the corner of the street. You had better be disguised."
"But I have only one disguise in the house--the old one."
"All the better. You are used to that, and carry it off naturally. I have the key not only of the safe but of the street door as well. All you have to do is to proceed to the sitting-room where you have been before and help yourself. Then you can slip into Isidore's bedroom and lay the keys on the dressing-table. He will imagine that he left them behind when he changed his evening clothes. Are you up to it or not? Really, you look fearfully ill tonight."
The dark eyes were gleaming in the white face. Despite her racking head and her tired limbs, Leona was gradually summoning back her latent forces. Her hand no longer trembled, the wild beating of her heart was stilled.
"You can rely upon me," she whispered. "I shall not fail you. Too much depends upon my success or failure tonight. Go round and get the motor whilst I slip into my old disguise. The thing can be done swiftly; I can be back here again before anybody knows that I have gone."
"Lock your door as a precaution," Balmayne whispered. "I'm going now."
In the shadows Hetty listened to as much of the talk as she could hear. But nobody was going to leave the house without her knowledge. Behind the hangings in the hall she waited. Her patience was not unduly tried. There was a light footstep presently, a pause as if of precaution, and the Countess came downstairs. Her hair had become blonde, there was a lace shawl over her head, her skirts were short and trim.
She flashed across the hall without the slightest sound, and had passed into the street before Hetty deemed it prudent to follow. The girl was taking a terrible risk for the sake of her lover, and she knew it. But she must follow.
She did presently, keeping the Spanish figure in sight till the corner of the road was reached. There stood the black motor with its dull sides. The figure of the Countess sprang into it lightly. There was a touch of the lever, a click of metal, and then the swift machine was out of sight like a flash.
"Well, I can do no more at present," Hetty told herself. "I had better go to my room and wait for her return. What a wonderful woman! Half-dead a few minutes ago, and now ready for a desperate errand like this!"
The motor sped on until it came at length to the corner of the street where Isidore's chambers were situated. It was a very quiet road, and few people were about. Quite calmly and collectedly Leona alighted.
"It's the fifth house," she said. "I shall trust to chance that the people are in bed. If not, I dare say I shall have a good tale to tell."
"Go in and win," Balmayne whispered. "Always back your luck."
Leona Lalage came to the house at length. So far as she could see no lights were anywhere except in the hall, where there was a faint spot of gas. Everything was going to turn out favourably. Evidently the landlady had gone to bed, or the gas would not be so low. It was easy to pick the latchkey out of the bunch that she held in her hand. The lock turned easily and smoothly, and she was in the hall.
Silence everywhere. Evidently the whole household was in bed. There was another tiny crumb of gas burning on the landing, just outside Isidore's sitting-room door. The door of the room was closed. Leona opened it quietly and boldly and entered. The place was in absolute darkness.
Where was she to find the matches, for she had none of her own? She fumbled her way to the fireplace, but could find nothing she required. It seemed to her that she could hear somebody breathing in the room besides herself. But this she put down to the worn and disordered state of her nerves.
Ah, there were the matches at last. She could hear them rattling as they fell to the floor. She struck one, and the sudden flare half blinded her. Then she turned all the burners on, and the sudden glitter of it made her start. Really she was a good deal more ill and shaky than she had imagined.
Light at last. The blinds were up, but that did not matter. Leona turned and looked round the room. A man, seated in a chair, a dark and gloomy man with brooding eyes, rose and confronted her.
"A strange place to meet," he said, "but we have met at last."
Leona Lalage strove to speak, but the words froze on her lips. She was face to face with Garrett Charlton!
For the first time in her life Leona Lalage felt inclined to give up the struggle. Turn whichever way she would fate was ever against her. The shock of these constant surprises was fast breaking down her iron nerves.
She stood there face to face with the last man in the world she desired to see. Her breath came fast as if she had been running far, there was not a trace of colour on her cheeks. Charlton could see the black pupils dilating like those of a cat. The woman had been brought to bay.
If she could only get away! But Charlton stood between her and the door. He would recognize her now as his late wife's companion, but once her disguise was put aside would he recognize the Countess Lalage?
The shock was dying away. After all, what was the accusation? And yet Charlton was looking at her with the eyes of a man who has found out everything. They stood confronting one another for some time in silence. It was Charlton who first spoke. He came a step or two nearer.
"So we have met at last," he said. "Well, murderess?"
"That is a word that does no harm," Leona said. "What have I done?"
"What I have said. You murdered my wife as surely as if you had driven a knife into her breast. She found you out in my absence. And to shield yourself and come between husband and wife you forged an infamous letter. Oh, you well knew the emotional nature you had to deal with, you counted on it. That forgery had the desired effect, and my wife poisoned herself. You would have got that letter back, but I returned unexpectedly. I kept that letter which would have saved my good name, but I preferred to remain silent so that it might go to the world that my wife had found no suicide's grave. I have that letter."
"I don't doubt it," Leona said coolly. Her restless eyes were seeking a way of escape. "But many would say it was no forgery at all. You cannot prove that I had anything to do with it. There, let me pass." She advanced, but Charlton waved her back.
"Not yet," he said. "I am not going to throw this chance away. I came here to see Mr. Isidore, and I elected to wait. It was one of the best hour's work I ever did. When you leave here it will be for a gaol."
Leona smiled scornfully. She had no fear of that.
"On what charge, may I ask?" she demanded.
"On a charge of theft. You robbed my wife and she found you out. One of the servants found you out as well. You had barely time to conceal those jewels and get away. After a time you came back for them. You stole them from their hiding-place."
"Ah, this is serious. How did you know that?"
"Because I saw you--you and your infamous accomplice, Balmayne."
"Then it really was your face in the window!" Leona cried. "There, I have admitted it, though I had not meant to do so. Not that it matters. I could swear that I had denied it all along. If you have witnesses----"
"I had witnesses; I was not in the house alone. There are other people interested in the Spanish woman with the fair hair and mantilla--the woman who was in the Corner House at the time of the murder!"
The scornful smile froze on Leona's face. She had utterly forgotten for the moment that she stood face to face now with two grave perils.
"The name of your witness?" she demanded, hoarsely.
"All in good time," Charlton replied. "Now I have found you once again I can punish you and clear my wife's good name at the same time. I have only to lock the door and summon the police by way of the window. If everything else fails I can have you punished for the theft of those jewels."
"That is if you can find any trace of them."
"I have seen them; I have had them in my hands." Charlton was about to say more, but he checked himself in time. After all, the woman and her accomplice had not stolen the real gems, but the paste imitations. But Lawrence would be in a position to clear that point.
"If I confess," Leona suggested--"if I confess, will you promise----."
"I promise nothing. You are in no position to dictate terms. Sit down and tell me the history of the forgery."
The woman's eyes flashed again. All this was taking time. Balmayne would wonder what had happened to her. From the bottom of her heart she was praying that he might come up and see. Not that there was much real hope of that--physical courage was not one of Louis Balmayne's strong points.
No, if there was a way to safety she would have to find it herself. And there was a long knife under the folds of her dress. If she could only get a chance to use it! After that the fair Spaniard would disappear, never to be seen again. Of her real identity this man could not possibly know.
"I'll tell you," she said. "I procured a letter of yours. I cut out words here and there, and made a long letter of them. Then I had the whole thing photographed. After that my task was easy, it was only a matter of time. Even from a child I always had a gift that way. If you will give me paper and pen I will show you."
Charlton complied. Leona Lalage used the pen, which she expressed herself as very dissatisfied with. She called for another.
Charlton rummaged on a table with his head down. Like a cat Leona sprang forward. Something bright glittered in the air. The man turned just in time to save the steel crashing between his ribs, it glanced off between his shoulders, there was a sharp spasm of pain as he fell. Just for an instant he was unconscious. Then, as suddenly as it had gone, reason came back to him. He heard the trip of feet down the stairs, he heard the rattle and banging of a door. He was bleeding freely, but he managed to drag himself to the window.
"Murder!" he yelled. "Police, arrest that woman; she has tried to kill me!"
Meanwhile, Balmayne had been waiting impatiently for the return of his companion. Half an hour passed, and there was no sign of her return. There had been so many accidents and strokes of ill-luck lately that even Balmayne was nervous. He had half a mind to go and see what was wrong, but he changed his mind and lighted a cigarette instead.
He was angry and afraid at the same time. Twice already the same policeman had passed the black motor, and had examined it critically. The third time he came round he would be pretty sure to want to know why it was still there. If----
A sudden cry smote the air, a yell of murder followed by the quick rush of footsteps. A police-whistle screamed hoarsely, there were answering whistles out of the darkness. The rush of footsteps drew nearer. The next instant, sobbing breathlessly, Leona Lalage flung herself headlong into the car.
"What on earth," Balmayne began, "what on earth----"
"Don't stop to ask questions," Leona panted. "Get along quickly. Go home by as long a route as you can. Ah, they are coming."
A policeman was coming. He hailed the car. He could have no suspicion of its occupants as yet, he only sought information. Balmayne pulled the lever and the car started. The officer yelled instructions to somebody in the darkness; from point to point the message went along. There was no escape unless good luck stood on their side. And the motor was terribly swift.
"And now perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what it's all about," Balmayne growled as the motor sped along. "What was the fuss about?"
"I found Charlton there," Leona panted. "Above all persons in the world, I found Charlton there. He was sitting in the darkness waiting for Isidore----"
"Then you haven't even got the notes?"
"The notes! I had more important matters to think of. I found matches and lighted the gas. And there sitting opposite me was Charlton. It was part of my wretched luck that I should have stumbled on him in this disguise. Had I been differently dressed he would never have recognized me. I----. Faster, faster."
A policeman stepped out of the gloom and tried to pull up the car. It flashed by him at the rate of 70 miles an hour.
"I would have made some excuse and got away," Leona went on. "But he had me fast. He was going to send me to gaol. That would have been a pretty thing for Countess Lalage! But he only knew me for what I used to be. If I could only get away and destroy the disguise he would never get on my track again. I pretended that I could not fight him any more; I lulled his suspicions to sleep. I was going to show him how the forgery was done. He stooped to get me a pen and the knife went into his shoulder. Had he not moved I should have killed him. He managed to creep to the window and give the alarm."
Leona stopped for want of breath. Her face was streaming with moisture. The fierce rush of cold air cooled her heated temples.
"There was nothing else for it," she said. "I wish I had killed him, then I should have got the notes and returned home comfortably. As it is half the officers in London are looking for the car at the present moment. See that!"
She tugged at Balmayne's arm. A cordon of men were drawn up across the road. With marvellous dexterity Balmayne whipped the car round almost into a set of men who scattered right and left. One clung to the back of the car for a moment, but Balmayne beat him off at length.
"Turn down Churton Street," Leona whispered. "There seems to be nobody at that corner. If we can only get round by way of Hill Crescent we may manage to escape yet. Once in the square we can baffle them."
It was quiet enough in Churton Street. And again in Collin's Crescent, which was so near home that the long line of Lytton Avenue could be seen. But there again standing figures came out of the gloom and the car sped on.
"So near and yet so far," said Balmayne between his teeth. "The best thing would be to climb the railings and hide in one of the gardens, only it would mean abandoning the car. And we might just as well give ourselves up as that."
Leona nodded, the spirit of adventure was upon her now, it fired her blood. And there was something intoxicating about that maddening pace. Still, they could not go on at that speed for ever. Another half an hour at that speed and the petrol must give out. Balmayne was growing anxious.
"Another dash round, then I must try the lane at the back of the house," he said. "The car can't go on like this for ever."
They sped on again, finding the avenues of escape gradually closing in. Day and night there are always people in the London streets, and the news was flying far that murder had been committed, and that the culprits were escaping in a fast motor. By an extra spurt of speed a rope drawn across the roadway near the avenue was just escaped. A yell of execration followed from the crowd.
The car flashed round the corner of Lytton Avenue on two wheels. There was a jolt and a crash as the flying machine went over a balk of wood laid across the road, and the next instant the occupants were rolling across the path. Just for the moment there was nobody in sight.
"Quick," cried Balmayne, as he pulled his companion to her feet. "You don't seem to be hurt, It's a mystery we were not killed. There's a rail out of the long line of rails in the square yonder, close here. Ah! Now you squeeze through and I'll follow. We shall save our skins yet."
They crawled through and hid themselves in the black shrubs. A policeman came running up and surveyed the wreck thoughtfully. His lantern played all over it, he stooped down and rubbed at the dull frame-work vigorously.
"Why, what's this?" he exclaimed. "What does the game mean?"
"Found anything out, mate?" another officer asked.
"Found out a lot," said the first policeman. "This motor's as bright as your lantern really, It's all covered over with blacklead."