Westerham turned the note about and about in his fingers in the futile attempt to extract some further information from it.
He realised, of course, that the note boded a new move.
Had the crisis really crept so close? Or was the danger in which Lady Kathleen stood merely fictitious?
Possibly it was a trap; but that he had to risk. One thing was certain—he could not ignore the message.
On second thoughts, indeed, he was inclined to regard the summons as a real and urgent one. The murder at the hotel had shown him that Melun was not the man to stick at trifles.
Moreover, he recollected that Madame's concern at his becoming entangled in Melun's toils had without question been genuine. Madame, he almost persuaded himself, had been his friend from the beginning. He trusted that she might be now.
Without any further delay, therefore, he walked out into the quiet little street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square, where he knew he would be sure to find a cab.
But as he emerged from the door a hansom passed him, and without thinking, he accepted the invitation of the driver to enter it.
Through the trap-door he told the man to drive to the Laburnum Road; and then as the vehicle moved along at a smart pace he gave himself up again to speculating in what way Kathleen might be in peril and from what motive Mme. Estelle had warned him.
He had come to no conclusion on this point when the hansom swung sharply round from the Finchley Road into Laburnum Road, which at that hour of the day was more quiet and deserted than ever.
Then a strange thing happened so suddenly that he had no time to ward off the danger in which he found himself.
Two steel arms, which had been so secreted in the upholstery of the cab as to be invisible, suddenly closed round his arms and body with a snap, and as the hansom was pulled up with a jerk he found himself a prisoner, so tightly squeezed by the encircling steel arms that he was unable to do more than wriggle in his seat.
In a moment the driver was off the dicky and had come round to the front of the cab. With a fascinated gaze Westerham watched him take a little phial from his pocket and saturate a handkerchief.
He divined the man's intention in a moment, and cried out an inquiry as to what he was about to do.
But the man made no answer, except to grin and climb on to the step of the cab.
A moment later he had clapped the handkerchief over Westerham's mouth and nose and held it there tightly for a few seconds.
Westerham was alike unable to struggle or cry out. For a few moments he fought against theoverpowering odour of chloroform; then his vision grew dim, his ears began to sing, and he lapsed into complete unconsciousness.
When he awoke it was to find himself fully dressed and stretched upon a sofa. It was apparently morning-time, for the table close beside him was laid out as though for breakfast, and a flood of early sunshine was pouring in through the open French windows.
He was so astonished at his whereabouts that he closed his eyes again and endeavoured with a still half-numbed brain to call to mind the events which had brought him into such strange surroundings.
Slowly, stupidly, he began to remember Mme. Estelle's letter and his disastrous drive in the cab. But so dazed was he that he had for the purpose of fully arousing his faculties actually to repeat his name and address several times before his senses began to assume their normal condition of alertness.
When his brain was clearer he endeavoured to rise, but he immediately became dizzy again and sank back on the couch as though exhausted by a long illness.
So complete was the blank between the time he had been chloroformed and his awaking that he had not the faintest idea whether he had lain on the couch on which he found himself for hours or days, or even weeks.
Yesterday seemed to be a long time behind him.
So, finding exertion out of the question, he leant back with almost contentment among the pillows, and fell to wondering in whose house he might be.From the shape of the room and the aspect of the garden more than anything he came to the conclusion that the roof which sheltered him was that of Mme. Estelle. On this point, however, he could not quite make up his mind until the door opened softly and Mme. Estelle herself came into the room.
She walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him pleasantly and kindly.
Westerham was so astonished at her appearance that he could say nothing at all.
It was Madame who spoke first, but before doing so she drew a chair to his side and sat down. Then she said:
“Sir Paul, I owe you a deep apology.”
Westerham contented himself with a slight inclination of his weary head, and waited for Madame to explain.
“I can speak quite frankly now,” she said, “knowing that there is no one about to overhear, and I must begin by asking you to forgive me.”
Westerham nodded, but still said nothing, though now he saw plainly enough that the letter had merely been a blind.
“Yet,” Madame continued, turning her face away from him, “it was not so great a lie. Lady Kathleen was in peril, and is still in peril, but not in the peril which I really imagined at the time.”
“What do you mean?” asked Westerham.
Madame glanced uneasily about her, and then shrugged her shoulders.
“I cannot tell you, my friend. I wish I could.”
“She was in peril, is still in peril, but not in the peril in which she was,” Westerham repeated tohimself. He removed his puzzled gaze from the woman's face and glanced at his feet.
Then he started violently, for the boots which he wore, comfortable though they were, were not his boots.
Struggling into a half-sitting posture, he looked hastily over his clothes. They were not his clothes.
He endeavoured to rise and Madame helped him to his feet. On one side he supported himself by the table, and on the other by Madame's arm.
Then he took a step forward and deliberately surveyed himself in the glass. And his look of inspection filled him with intense surprise, though he did not allow himself to so much as utter an exclamation.
Mechanically he began to employ those little tricks of gesture which a man indulges in when he is anxious to ascertain if his clothes sit well on him.
To his amazement not one article of attire was his own; yet the blue serge suit in which he was clad was of such a perfect fit that he might have been moulded into it. He moved his toes inside his boot and found that of all the boots he had ever worn these were the most comfortable.
He put his hand to his tie and found that his collar was the exact size. Quickly and methodically he searched through his pockets; his handkerchief was where he always carried it; his keys were in his left trouser pocket; his money and knife in his right. Each in its own correct waistcoat pocket he found his nail clippers, his sovereign purse and tiny card-case. His cards were intact.
Plunging his hand into the inner pocket of his coat he discovered that his notebook was in its place.Almost instinctively he opened it and turned over the contents; nothing whatsoever had been disturbed.
So utterly dumfounded was he that he sat down heavily again upon the couch and stared at Mme. Estelle.
Madame laughed, showing her fine teeth.
“You are a little puzzled,” she suggested.
“Truly,” said Westerham, “I was never so puzzled in my life. Can you tell me what it all means?”
“I would that I were able,” said Madame, earnestly, “but it is quite impossible.”
“These things,” urged Westerham, stretching out his limbs, “what is the meaning of it? I can quite understand,” he added bitterly, “that it might be necessary for Melun to chloroform me for various reasons, but one of those reasons was apparently not theft.
“Indeed,” he added, with a wry smile, “the captain seems to have been spending money on me.
“Tell me,” he cried, starting up and then falling back weakly, “tell me what all this means. I have had my fill of mystery during the last week.”
“Don't you think,” suggested Madame, quietly, “that it would be best to begin at the beginning? Surely it would be more reasonable for you to ask why you were chloroformed and brought here.”
“Well,” said Westerham, “why was it?”
“It was done,” said Mme. Estelle, “because it was necessary to make you a prisoner for nearly thirty hours—and it was the only way to do it. You see,” she added lightly,“you are a strong man, and I don't blame Melun for declining to risk a struggle with you.”
“But I don't understand any better now,” Westerham complained, passing his hand across his forehead. “Why should I be made a prisoner?”
Mme. Estelle touched his arm and looked earnestly into his face.
“Because,” she said slowly, “it was necessary to ensure that you should see Lady Kathleen to-night.”
“To see Lady Kathleen to-night,” cried Westerham. “When and where? Not here, surely?”
“No,” answered Madame, with a little smile, “not here, indeed.
“Events,” she went on, “have taken a very sudden and curious turn. Yesterday, I tell you frankly, your own life was in considerable danger. You may think it very cold-blooded and horrible of me to say such a thing, but I know that Melun had practically come to the conclusion that you must be put out of the way in order to save trouble.
“But I was averse to that, and, thanks to the plan I suggested, it was found unnecessary to do you any harm.”
“But why,” urged Westerham, “was it found necessary to play all these tricks with my clothes? Why, they must have been made from extremely careful measurements. I should say they had been modelled on one of my own suits. And the boots are the strangest part of all—they fit me like gloves.”
“It was intended they should,” said Mme. Estelle.“And be thankful that they do, for though it is impossible for me to explain, they have actually saved you from death. I assure you that there is no man this afternoon more jealous of your safety than Melun.”
“And Lady Kathleen?”
“Lady Kathleen,” said Mme. Estelle, gravely, “is still in great danger—but it is a danger of a different kind.”
“You don't mean to tell me,” cried Westerham, “that whereas my life has been spared hers is not safe.”
Mme. Estelle nodded.
“Good Heavens!” cried Westerham. “But this is monstrous—perfectly monstrous! What does all this juggling mean?”
“Please don't excite yourself, Sir Paul!” said Mme. Estelle. “It can do no good. Believe me that I bear Lady Kathleen no ill-will, and that if I can save her I will do so, even at the cost of being a little disloyal to Melun.”
“But why all this trickery and mystery?” demanded Westerham again. “It almost amounts to tomfoolery. One would think that Melun had gone crazy and was indulging in some mad whim.”
“Perhaps it is a whim, but it is a whim with a very serious motive.”
“Come,” she added, “let's try to get some breakfast. I promise you that if you will only endeavour to get strong during the day you shall certainly see Lady Kathleen to-night.”
“Where?”
“Where,” said Mme. Estelle,“I don't know. I can only guess. It was not my business to ask questions on that point. The cab will call for you to-night at nine.”
“The cab!” exclaimed Westerham. “Do you mean the same vehicle which brought me here? For if you mean that then I decline to travel in it.”
“Then I fear,” said Mme. Estelle, sharply, “you will have to forego the satisfaction of seeing Lady Kathleen. The cab will be your only means of reaching her.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Westerham, who had been so unnerved by the chloroform as to become a little excited, “do you mean that I am a prisoner in this house?”
“Only so far as your feelings keep you captive,” was the answer.
“And I know what your feelings will say. They will decide that you must wait here in patience until the hour comes for you to go to Lady Kathleen.”
Westerham said no more; it was idle to argue with this woman. Circumstances were too strong and strange for him.
After breakfast he revived considerably, and Madame left him on the couch with a pile of magazines to amuse him.
Lunch was served at one, and the afternoon dragged slowly and painfully away. It was with great impatience that Westerham watched the table being leisurely and neatly laid for dinner. His irritation grew with every passing minute.
At dinner he ate but little and drank less, though Madame pleaded that a second glass of champagne would go far to steady his considerably shaken nerves.
Westerham, however, declined. He had become so suspicious of everybody and everything he halfimagined that, not content with chloroforming him, his captors might attempt to drug him also.
At the stroke of nine Westerham heard the rumble of wheels in the street, and, rising from the table, Mme. Estelle informed him that the cab had arrived.
As they stood in the hall the woman held out her hand and Westerham put out his half-way to meet it.
“Some day,” he said, “I shall certainly require an explanation of all these strange doings. In the meantime, I don't think you should take my hand unless you are sincere in your determination to reduce Lady Kathleen's danger in every way you can.”
“Believe me,” declared Madame, most earnestly, “that I am quite sincere.”
Westerham shook her by the hand.
It was not until the cab was bowling along Oxford Street that Westerham began to look about him. He had no idea of his destination, and he considered that it would be just as well to take careful note of the journey.
Half-way between Oxford Circus and the Tottenham Court Road the cab turned up to the left. Peering through the glass, Westerham could just make out Newman Street. At the bottom of the street the cab turned to the left, then to the right again, then to the left, and once more to the right. So far as he could tell, Westerham gathered that he must now be parallel to the top of Tottenham Court Road, and be a good deal nearer to Portman Street than Oxford Street.
Suddenly the cab drew up with a jingle and aclatter, and the driver, lifting the trap-door, informed Westerham that he had reached his destination.
Upon this Westerham stepped out to find himself in a narrow, shabby, and almost deserted thoroughfare of mean and hang-dog appearance.
In spite of this he recognised that the houses must once have been the dwellings of well-to-do people, for the railings about the areas were of finely-wrought iron and the doors were high and massive.
“Knock three single knocks,” said the cab-driver into his ear, and then jumping on to the dicky the man drove away.
Suddenly Westerham remembered that there was one pocket of his new clothes which he had not searched. His hand went towards his hip, and he was surprised to find that his revolver was without question there.
Glancing about to make sure that he was not observed, Westerham drew it out and felt with his thumb along the back barrels. It was still loaded. For a second Westerham wondered whether the bullets had been drawn, but, opening the six-shooter, he satisfied himself that the cartridges had not been tampered with.
This amazed him not a little, although the discovery considerably restored his confidence. At least he had to anticipate no further attack on that night.
And then he remembered the mysterious words of Mme. Estelle: “No man now is more jealous of your safety than Captain Melun.”
He could not help pondering on this point as hegave three taps with the heavy old-fashioned knocker.
The door was opened by a man, apparently a German, dressed in the black coat and white shirt of the traditional English butler.
He said something to him in a foreign tongue which Westerham could not understand. His gesture, however, was clear enough, and he walked straight ahead down a dimly-lighted passage till he came to a baize door. This the man pushed open for him, and he passed on alone, and heard a bolt drawn behind him.
There was not the slightest doubt as to the way he had to go. There was no other exit from the place except a flight of stone steps, which led downwards. At the bottom of the flight of steps there was a second baize door, and through this Westerham passed along a well-carpeted corridor faintly lit by electric light. The passage had no windows, and it suddenly struck Westerham that he was underground.
At the end of the corridor Westerham encountered another baize door, but as he stepped on the mat which was laid before it he heard an electric bell ring sharply, and the door opened itself.
As it did so Westerham was almost blinded by a flood of white light.
For a moment he stood quite still, blinking and endeavouring to take in the scene. But it was the sound of it rather than the sight of it which instantly told him of the manner of the place in which he stood. He heard the monotonous cry of croupiers and the sharp click of a ricochetting roulette ball.
He was most unquestionably in a gambling-hell.
That in itself did not disturb him in the least, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the room, only to stand still again and remain motionless, as though turned to stone.
For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of gold and notes before her, sat Lady Kathleen.
A little cry which Westerham could not prevent breaking from his lips drew the eyes of all upon him. Lady Kathleen glanced up, and catching his gaze upon her turned as pale as death.
In spite of Mme. Estelle's declaration that he should see Lady Kathleen that night, and in spite of the conviction that Madame spoke the truth, Westerham, strange to say, had not expected to find her in the gaming-house.
As he entered the room of lights he had for a moment wondered for what reason he had been brought into such a place, but at the same time, by some swift mental process, he had decided that the mysterious gaming-house was but a step towards Lady Kathleen, and not the actual place in which he was to meet her.
For once his intuition had played him false and he was correspondingly taken aback. The deathly pallor, however, which had spread across Kathleen's face served to bring him to a swift realisation of the situation. It was imperative that there should be no scene; matters then would be doubly painful.
Westerham, therefore, instantly turned away and endeavoured to hide himself amid the odd jumble of men who stood round the table watching the play.
The chloroform still hung heavy in Westerham's brain, and at first he was quite unable to get any connected trend of thought. But presently his mental vision became clearer, and he was able to appreciatethe extraordinary succession of events which had led up to this climax.
Melun he had not seen since the night of the atrocious murder at Walter's Hotel—and therefore he had been unable to extract from him any information of that villainous and apparently purposeless deed.
For what motive Melun might have in instigating such a crime, except it were to frighten him from his championship of Lady Kathleen, Westerham could not say. Then had followed his extraordinary adventure in the hansom cab and Madame's enigmatic utterances when he recovered his senses in the morning.
And if the motive of the murder were obscure, the motive which induced Melun and his accomplices to change his clothes while drugged was doubly hidden.
What, moreover, could be the motive in bringing him to behold Lady Kathleen in this gaming-house?
This last problem troubled him more than the others, and he gave himself up to considering it as he crouched down seeking to hide himself in the midst of the motley crowd which swayed and jostled round the tables.
Even as he debated this question with himself he took note of the men who hemmed the table in. Every type of face presented itself—the fleshy cheeks of middle-aged Jews, of pale clerks and salesmen, prosperous-looking men who might have been commercial travellers, and here and there a more refined-looking man in evening-dress.
A few were still playing, but the majority were watching the play of Lady Kathleen, and it dawnedon Westerham that she was waging a losing fight with the bank.
Her face and figure were in extraordinary contrast to her surroundings. She was, besides, the only woman in the room.
Draped in a long opera cloak from which her bare arms were thrust, she sat forward eagerly in her chair, her lips trembling, her eyes bright as stars.
On either side of her sat a sturdy and rather roughly-dressed man, who took no part in the play. Westerham imagined that they were employees of Melun, stationed there for the purpose of ensuring Lady Kathleen against any molestation or insult.
Such a protection was entirely unnecessary, for every man in the room appeared to feel that he was in the presence of one who not only had the right, but the power, to command respect. In spite of her incongruous surroundings, and in spite of her extraordinary occupation of the moment, the coarse faces by which she was surrounded surveyed her with a certain marked and almost sheepish deference.
As the game went on and the croupier monotonously raked in the winnings of the bank, Westerham suddenly divined the motive which had induced Melun to send him there to watch Lady Kathleen play.
He did not know why she played, nor what the real stake might be, but one thing was obvious—that after he entered the room and she had caught sight of his face her luck suddenly changed. She had been greatly alarmed and distressed; so disconcerted, indeed, that for a few minutes she apparently lost all track of the successful theory whichshe had been following. And Westerham knew well enough that if a good player once becomes unnerved, his luck, for some strange reason, will change with his mood, and no efforts, however bold or desperate, will avail him anything.
It amazed Westerham beyond measure that Lady Kathleen could play such a game with so consummate a skill and so much evidence of experience. He judged that her father at some time or other had let her have a little fling at Monte Carlo, and that profiting by such knowledge as she had acquired there she had now been playing an inspired game for some incalculable stake.
Westerham imagined, too, that it had probably been Melun's brutal fancy to drag the girl there on the promise that if she won against the bank he would release her father from his torment; no other theory was possible.
And it made his heart grow cold with rage as he appreciated the fiendish cleverness with which Melun had engineered his entrance at a critical moment. Westerham had been made the innocent instrument of utter disaster to Kathleen.
So convinced did he become of this fact that he shouldered his way through the crowd, and leaning over Lady Kathleen's chair, whispered into her ear: “Don't be alarmed. I see you have been greatly upset. Please allow me to assist you.”
The man at her right hand scowled angrily, but Westerham turned to him with an urbane smile. “As you do not seem to be playing,” he said, “perhaps you will allow me to have your chair?”
Nor had the man any option but to vacate his seat.
Westerham's spirits rose as for the first time in his life he found himself seated by Kathleen's side, playing on her behalf, to win a desperate game.
But the girl's inspiration was gone, and even his skill at this form of gambling availed him nothing. Time after time they lost until practically nothing remained of the great pile of money which had been stacked on the table before Lady Kathleen when he had entered the room.
The girl watched the money dwindle with terrified eyes, her face growing paler and paler until it was ashy white.
Westerham sought to console her. “Don't despair,” he whispered. “I think I have enough with me to see us through.”
When he had at first sat down to assist her she had stared at him with considerable astonishment. Now she appeared utterly confused.
“I don't understand,” she said in a low voice. “You have certainly done your best to help me, but I cannot see why you wish me to win.”
Westerham turned and looked her full in the eyes. “How long will it be?” he asked in a low voice, “before you come to trust me?”
He put his hand into his breast-pocket to take out the notes which he had assured himself had not been removed while he lay insensible at Mme. Estelle's.
The notes were gone.
It was impossible for him to help uttering an exclamation which drew Kathleen's attention to him.
“I have been robbed,” he said.
With a little sob Lady Kathleen rose from the table and steadied herself with her hands on the back of her chair.
At the same moment the door by which Westerham had entered opened again, and there came in two gentlemen in evening-dress. A third man followed close behind them, and a rush of angry blood crept up the back of Westerham's neck as he recognised Melun.
The room was quite hushed. The men about the table had been awed by the vast sum of money which the mysterious lady had staked and lost.
As she moved a step forward as though to go they drew aside to give her free passage, so that now she found herself face to face with the men who had just entered.
Looking over Lady Kathleen's head, Westerham saw the two men glance quickly at each other, their faces a complete study in well-bred astonishment. They bowed to Lady Kathleen, but said nothing. It was Melun who brushed by them and spoke first.
“This is a most unfortunate meeting,” he said to Lady Kathleen, “and as a friend of your father I would suggest that nothing should be discussed here.”
“What do you mean?” stammered Kathleen.
“Nothing, nothing!” said Melun, hastily, “except that this is no fit place for you to remain in. Allow me to show you the way out at once.”
Westerham thrust himself between Kathleen and the two men who had entered with Melun, and spoke to him in a low, fierce voice that could not be heard by the girl, but was perfectly audible to the others.
“I agree with you, you miserable hypocrite,” he said, “she will leave this place at once.”
Melun waved his hand at him blandly. “Quite so,” he said, “quite so. We will have a little talk outside, but there is no reason why we should distress these gentlemen.”
“On the contrary,” returned Westerham, “there is every reason. Gentlemen,” he said, stepping up to the strangers, “I can see that you are well acquainted with this lady, who unfortunately came here without my knowledge, but whom I now regard as under my protection. The situation is, of course, extraordinary, and requires some explanation. If you will be so good, I shall be glad of your company for a few moments.”
Without more ado he pushed the baize-covered door open and first bowed Lady Kathleen out. Melun followed, nervous and ill at ease. He had not looked for so much determination on the part of Westerham.
The two men in evening-dress glanced at each other again, and then passed out before Westerham as he held the door open for them.
When the little party was grouped in the dimly-lit passage Westerham went over to Kathleen and touched her lightly on the arm.
“Lady Kathleen,” he said, in a formal voice, “you will greatly oblige me by stepping to the other end of the passage. I have something to say to these gentlemen.”
Making a little inclination with her head, Lady Kathleen walked slowly away from them, leaving Westerham to confront Melun. And Westerham by no means minced matters.
“Of you,” he said in a voice full of scorn, “I will demand an explanation by-and-by. Your motive in dragging Lady Kathleen here is sufficiently obvious to me, but is probably not understood by these gentlemen, whom you have carefully brought to witness her humiliation.”
Melun would have protested but Westerham cut him short.
Westerham took out his card-case and offered a card to one of the men in evening-dress.
“My name,” he said, with a rather bitter little smile, “will probably convey nothing to you. If, however, you wish to know on what authority I speak, kindly communicate with Lord Dunton, whom you doubtless know. He will assure you that I am entirely to be trusted, and that the favour I am about to ask of you is fully justified.
“For purposes of his own, this individual”—he indicated Melun—“has brought Lady Kathleen here for apparently no other reason in the world than that her good name may be connected with a most unpleasant scandal. Believe me or not as you please, I can only assure you that Lady Kathleen was brought here against her will. Unpleasant though these surroundings may be, they are unfortunately connected—intimately connected—with Lord Penshurst's affairs. I ask you on his behalf, and on that of his daughter, to give me your word that what you have seen shall go no further.”
The elder man looked at Westerham shrewdly and made a little bow. He liked the honesty of his face and the complete contempt with which he treated Melun.
“I give you my word of honour,” he said,“and I make myself chargeable for my friend as well, that until we hear from you further on this matter we will make no mention of it at all.”
Having said this, he made a little bow and drew away, as though to end an awkward situation. The younger man bowed and did the same.
Westerham thereupon walked to the end of the passage, where Lady Kathleen waited for him, Melun following hard upon his footsteps.
“Pardon me,” said Westerham, facing about once more, “but your assistance is not required. You will be kind enough to call on me at Walter's to-morrow morning, when I shall ask you for an explanation of many things. Till then I have no further need of you.”
Lady Kathleen listened to this curt speech of Westerham's in an indifferent way, as though all her senses were partially numbed. Still she gave him a quick little look that was not only a glance of gratitude, but a look of inquiry. Plainly she herself was puzzled by the attitude Westerham adopted towards the captain.
However, she said nothing at all, nor did she attempt to break the silence till the cab in which Westerham drove her back to Downing Street was drawing close to Whitehall.
Then, as she appeared to speak with a great effort, turning her face towards Westerham and peering at him as though endeavouring to read his thoughts, she thanked him for his intervention.
“Mr. Robinson,” she said,“I am profoundly grateful for all that you have done, though I confess I cannot understand it at all. If you speak to Melun in that way you must be his master, and if you are his master it may in reality have been you who dragged me to that place to-night to pit my poor little skill against Melun's bank for the sake of my father's honour.”
“Heaven forbid that I should do such a thing,” cried Westerham, fervently, “and Heaven forbid that you should believe me capable of any such villainy! I suspected that you had been drawn there on some such pretext, but I assure you that I knew nothing of it. It is impossible for me to explain now what has happened since I saw you last. I can only tell you that I have been almost as badly treated as yourself.”
As he spoke Lady Kathleen drew away from him with a slight shudder, as though some recollection had suddenly come back to her.
“The murder,” she asked, “what of that? I am told that it happened in your room?”
“I am innocent of it in every way,” said Westerham, earnestly. “Indeed, I have not yet discovered the motive of such a dastardly act. I can, however, make a guess, and the guess fills me with apprehension just as much for my safety as for yours.
“Why will you not relent,” he cried, “and make a confidant of me? Believe me that it is within my power to help you, and that I will gladly serve you in any way that you choose to dictate.”
Kathleen gave a little sob. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “don't distress me any further. It is not my secret but my father's—besides, I am not sure that you do not know.”
Westerham thrust up the trap and ordered the cabman to stop.
When he had stepped out he turned back andleant towards Kathleen. “You do me a great wrong,” he said. “But believe me, you cannot possibly fight for ever against my determination to serve you. I am told that the crisis is approaching.”
He had no notion what the words meant, but he desired to watch their effect, and again he saw Lady Kathleen's face blanch.
She stretched out both her hands as though to ward off a blow.
“How near is it?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Heaven knows,” answered Westerham, “and it is quite impossible for me to help you unless you will tell me everything. When you need me, send for me at Walter's Hotel.”
Again Kathleen shuddered, and the cab drove on, leaving Westerham standing alone on the pavement lost in sorrowful thought.
At Walter's he was received most ungraciously. He had not been back there since the night of the murder, and his absence had caused great distrust. Though Inspector Rookley had informed the manager that no suspicion attached to his guest, Mr. Robinson, his words hardly coincided with the presence of the younger detective, who, having taken a room there, never left the premises.
Immediately on Westerham's return he communicated with his chief, and in half an hour Rookley came round from Scotland Yard.
He sent his name up to Westerham and Westerham judged it as well to see the man at once. The inspector came up to the little sitting-room looking grave and anxious. He also seemed a trifle nervous at broaching the subject of Westerham's absence.
“Really, you know, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you are hardly going the way to give us any confidence in you. Of course, I know that you have great influence at your back, but what the Prime Minister may care to do does not altogether affect us. It is quite possible that some of those who occupy high places may be mistaken, and it is as much for Lord Penshurst's protection as for our own that we are compelled to keep you ‘under observation.’
“You have escaped once, but you may not escape so easily a second time, and I must warn you that these disappearances of yours have to be notified to the Commissioner himself. He is very much alarmed at the whole course of events, and is determined to take action in spite of Lord Penshurst's protestations.”
“That seems to me,” said Westerham, “an unwise thing to do.”
The detective grew a trifle alarmed. What he had said was only partially true, and he felt that he had gone too far.
“Don't misunderstand me,” he said. “Of course, within reason, we are bound to respect Lord Penshurst's wishes, but Scotland Yard is not a political association; it is a police force, and if we find crime being introduced into politics it is certainly our business to inquire into the matter.”
“Do I understand you to suggest that Lord Penshurst would dabble in crime?” asked Westerham.
The detective threw up his hands in horror.
“Certainly not!” he said vehemently.“Certainly not! It is you we still suspect, not Lord Penshurst. Good gracious! Certainly not!”
“You suspect me, I presume, to such an extent,” replied Westerham, “that if I left this hotel I am pretty sure to be followed. Well, follow me,” he added with a laugh, “and catch me if you can.”
And taking up his hat he walked out.
He was perfectly right in his suspicions, and as he moved down the Strand and looked into the shop windows he was conscious that a bulky man dogged his footsteps. The pursuit, however, rather sharpened Westerham's wits than otherwise, and raised his spirits rather than depressed them. It served to take his thoughts from the grim business which was beginning to weigh him down.
Westerham's notions of evading capture were somewhat immature, as it was a new experience for him to find the police constantly upon his track. Very little ingenuity, however, sufficed to rid him, at least for a time, of his pursuers.
He strolled along Piccadilly and up the Burlington Arcade.
He entered Truefit's, where he made a small and totally unnecessary purchase.
By this move he knew that he placed the detective who followed him in an awkward position.
He was conscious that the man's face was pressed against the glass in an endeavour to keep him in sight. He did not enter the shop from the very obvious fear of becoming too obtrusive.
Westerham sauntered down the shop, and then, before the detective had any chance of making even an attempt at pursuit, he slipped out into Bond Street and clambered on to a passing omnibus.
As the heavy vehicle lumbered past the clubs in Piccadilly, Westerham took a long breath of relief,and startled the other passengers by laughing aloud. He went on to Victoria, where he made several purchases, including a second-hand kit-bag.
Armed with this, he walked boldly into the Buckingham Palace Hotel and there booked a room.
Immediately after this he wrote a note to Lord Dunton, asking him to call at once, for he was anxious that he should be warned in time of the visit the two men he had met at the gaming-house the night before would surely pay him.
Little by little Westerham had begun to confide in Dunton. For in spite of that youthful nobleman's apparent flightiness he was, as a matter of fact, discretion itself and a very tomb for secrets.
To his dismay, however, the messenger-boy whom he had dispatched with the note returned with word that Lord Dunton had a couple of days before run over to Paris, and that he was not expected back till the following afternoon.
This landed Westerham in a particularly awkward predicament. It was imperative that he should see Melun as soon as possible, if only for the purpose of threatening to give him into charge for murder. It was only, too, from Melun that he was likely to hear any news of Lady Kathleen until Dunton returned to help him out of his difficulty.
On the other hand, should he send for Melun, Melun was shrewd enough to warn the police at once of Westerham's whereabouts. And this, as his complete freedom of movement might become absolutely necessary, Westerham could not afford to risk.
Twenty-four hours, then, he remained in the hotel, chafing against the delay, and pacing the floor of his room hour by hour in a vain endeavour to unravel the tangled skein of mystery in which he was enmeshed.
On the following day, as Dunton had not arrived by four o'clock, Westerham sent round to his rooms again, only to receive the heart-breaking news that Dunton was still absent. He despatched a further and yet more urgent message to Dunton's rooms, and sat down to wait again.
It was half-past seven when Dunton leisurely descended from a hansom and strolled up the steps of the hotel.
Westerham almost rushed forward to meet him, and grasping him by the arm dragged him into the smoking-room.
There he made as complete a statement as he dared of all that had happened in the past two days; and Lord Dunton opened his innocent-looking blue eyes very wide indeed.
“By Jove,” he said from time to time.
“I should not tell you all this,” Westerham concluded, “unless I were absolutely certain that I could trust you.
“I have no idea who the men were that I saw at the Faro Club, but I don't suppose that it will be long before they call.”
“I fancy that they have called already,” said Dunton.“When I got back this afternoon I found that cards had been left by Lord Cuckfield and a chap by the name of Mendip. My man said that they came together, so I presume they are the Johnnies you mean. And I won't let the grass grow under my feet. I'll look them up to-night and tell them that they have got to keep their mouths shut and to take you on trust.
“By the way,” added Dunton, “this business seems to grow ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice would say. I should have been back before but some unaccountable inclination made me break my journey at Rouen. I was there this afternoon, and who should I see but the heroine of all this mystery.”
“What!” shouted Westerham, utterly shaken out of himself, “not Lady Kathleen?”
“Lady Kathleen herself,” answered Dunton.
“Good God!” cried Westerham. “The crisis must be at hand indeed. She has been lured over there to her death.”
Dunton dropped his eyeglass and stared at his friend in amazement. Westerham was almost beside himself with anxiety and rage.
“Don't sit staring there like a gibbering idiot,” he almost yelled, “but give me some money. Quick! They have taken my notes, and I have practically spent all my loose cash on the things I need here.”
Dunton began to fumble in his pockets. “You cannot expect a fellow to have much about him when he has just come back from Paris,” he grumbled. “Still, I think I can dig up twenty pounds or so.”
Westerham stood over him. “Come along! Come along!” he urged. “Every penny you have got.”
With a queer smile Dunton emptied his pockets and poured the contents into Westerham's palms.
“All right! All right!” he said. “Don't be in such a hurry. It's most disturbing.”
“You fool!” cried Westerham again. “Don't you understand that I have only ten minutes in which to catch the boat-train?”
And without another word he bolted out of the room.
Swift as the cab was, Westerham only caught the boat-train by a minute, and at that without a ticket.
He had then two hours for calm reflection, and to some extent self-reproach. Never in his life before had he been so unnerved, and the expressions of irritation which he had made at the Buckingham Palace Hotel before Dunton did not seem to him good.
He saw that his was not a fit state of mind to be in if he intended to steer safely through the troubled waters ahead of him.
Some things were growing clearer to his mind. More and more he was coming to realise the clever, if circuitous, means by which Melun was seeking to break down Lady Kathleen's resistance and render his own task harder.
But this new move disturbed him more than any which had yet been made. He could find no reason for the scene of the conflict being suddenly transferred from England to France, unless, indeed, Melun had at last come to the conclusion that Westerham was too dangerous a man to play with.
Soon he saw, however, that speculation was utterly useless. All his efforts must be concentrated upon his finding Lady Kathleen, and if necessary compelling her by sheer force to capitulate and take him into her confidence.
He set his heart upon this so strongly that he persuadedhimself that there were no difficulties in his way. It would be strange indeed if, when the moment came, he would not be able to induce Lady Kathleen to reveal those things which up to then she had so obstinately and persistently hid.
The night was calm, and the passage to Dieppe a smooth one, but on the quay Westerham received a sharp demonstration that the difficulties which he had mentally brushed aside nevertheless remained to be grappled with in actual fact.
To begin with, he had no luggage. He did not even possess an overcoat, and as it had come on to rain, and for the sake of greater freedom of thought he had remained on deck, his appearance was already travel-worn and bedraggled.
Small wonder, therefore, that as he presented the ticket with which he had been provided at Newhaven the officials of thedouaneregarded him with keen suspicion.
“Monsieur has nothing to declare?” they asked.
He could only shrug his shoulders and say:
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
To avoid further questionings he added: “I have not even an overcoat.”
They looked him up and down, and his appearance inspired a certain amount of respect. None the less, they took counsel together, and with an ever-watchful eye Westerham saw them approach a portly person of an intensely British aspect.
Presently this individual came up to him and asked in most unmistakably English terms what Westerham's destination might be.
Westerham told the man shortly that his destination was Rouen.
“You must excuse me, sir,” said the man, whom Westerham guessed to be a Scotland Yard representative at the port of Dieppe, “but it is rather unusual for gentlemen to travel without luggage and without even so much as an overcoat. It is even more curious,” he added, “when they start on a journey without first taking a ticket.”
Westerham surveyed the man coolly with a faintly insolent air. He was coming to realise that whereas in ordinary times the consciousness of his own good faith enabled him to pass every barrier with the superiority born of an easy conscience, it required some brazenness to face obstructions of this sort when he had a desire for secrecy.
And the fat man was evidently shrewd. He might take life easily on the quay, and watch with thoughtful and even drowsy eyes the coming and going of innumerable English voyagers, but for all that his alertness only slept, and though he had an instinctive trust of Westerham's face and manner, still he could not deny that appearances were against the Englishman who travelled so unprovided for a journey and with such evident haste.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “you will excuse my being persistent in making inquiries, for, after all, that is only my duty.”
“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a genial smile, “and how can I help you to do it?”
With some pomposity of manner the English detective produced a fat note-book.
“I'm afraid,” he said, “that I must ask you to give me your name.”
Westerham smiled a little to himself to think how futile was such a precaution on the man'spart. He was at liberty to give him what name he chose; he could give him the first name that came into his head.
“I think,” he laughed, “that for safety's sake you had better call me Charles Grey, though how on earth you are to ascertain whether that is my real name or not I confess I cannot see.”
The fat detective sucked in his lips and wrote the name laboriously in his book.
“After all,” he said, with some asperity, “people who give wrong names and addresses seldom come to any good.”
“I suppose not,” said Westerham, and walked a little moodily towards the train. He paid the guard handsomely enough to warrant the man's not forgetting to call him at Rouen. But still Westerham felt that he had so much at stake that he could leave nothing to chance, and so he sat upright, wakeful and watchful, while the train rushed through the apple trees of Normandy to the old cathedral city.
When he arrived there it was raining hard, and he was conscious that he was again an object of suspicion as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in search of afiacre.
No vehicle was in sight, and Westerham set himself to tramp up the hill to the Hôtel de la Cloche, at which he had stayed long years before, and of which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and its quaintness.
The hotel slept, and Westerham heard the bell pealing through the silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.
Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawnand a shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp morning air.
The sight of Westerham's tall figure drew his immediate attention.
“What does Monsieur require?” he asked in accents which were at once civil and surprised.
“Let me in,” said Westerham, “and I will do my best to explain.”
The man switched on the electric light, and Westerham, treading warily on the polished parquet floor, made his way to a seat. He was feeling fatigued and not a little miserable.
First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from his pocket and slipping them into the man's hand.
“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” he said. “I am not a fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost his friends and who is in search of them.
“Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a very tall young English lady with dark hair and dark eyes? It is possible that she is travellingincognito, but if she has given her right name it will be the Lady Kathleen Carfax.”
The man scratched his head and looked worried.
“I would help Monsieur if I could,” he said, “but I can only assure him that there is no English lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the season is very bad, and we have few English visitors.”
That Lady Kathleen was not at the Hôtel de la Cloche did not disconcert Westerham very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly likely to stay in the most prominent hotel in the town. He had merely called there because he knew that if onewishes to make one's path smooth in a foreign city it is just as well first to win the confidence of some hotel porter.
“It is many years,” he said to the man, “since I stayed here. In fact, I have practically no recollection of Rouen except of this hotel and the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could furnish me with a complete list of all the hotels where English people are likely to be found.”
“Why now,” said the man, “that is an exceedingly simple affair.” And he rattled off a list of hotels.
Westerham repeated them after him, but found he could not remember so many. Therefore he wrote them down.
“And you think,” he asked, “that this is a complete list?”
“Quite complete, I should say,” said the man, “for Monsieur's purpose.”
With a weary air Westerham rose from the cane-backed chair on which he was seated.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said to the porter, “but I must go in search of this lady at once.”
The man spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture. “It is still very dark,” he said, “and Monsieur will find the hotels closed. Moreover, I do not wish to be rude to Monsieur, all the night porters may not be so accommodating as myself.
“Permit me to help Monsieur,” he went on. “Monsieur will pardon me, but possibly this may be some romance.”
He shrugged his shoulders again, but with suchan air of civility and respect that Westerham could not quarrel with him.
“At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a little while I make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur against the damp air.”
Laughing a little, Westerham sat down again, and suffered the man to bustle about. The fellow was deft indeed, and soon Westerham was glad that he had listened to his counsel.
The dawn came up, and the porter turned the lights out, and Westerham sat in the twilight of the early morning smoking more or less contentedly cigarettes of the Caporal brand.
Shortly after six the man, who had been busy cleaning boots, returned and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming into the room.
“If Monsieur is in haste,” he said, “I will not seek to detain him. By this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur's mission is urgent he should continue his search.”
His air was so friendly and so charming that Westerham resorted to the only expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave the man another five shillings, and pledged him to silence. None the less, he had little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. The Frenchman must talk.
Thereafter Westerham went out into the fresh morning air and began his search. In turn he visited the Hôtel de la Poste, the Grand, the Europe, and the rest of them.
It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious and still sleepy porters, but by the time he had worked through the list of hotels with which the man at the Hôtel de la Cloche had provided him he had come to the conclusion that Lady Kathleen was of a certainty not in one of these hostelries.
Was she still in Rouen? The doubt troubled Westerham greatly, but he reflected that she might have elected to put up at a more humble hotel than any of those at which he had called. So with the assistance of a fairly friendly policeman he secured a second and much longer list of minor inns.
The search, too, was successful. In a small and narrow street he discovered a small hotel which went by the name of the République. Here his question put to the plump Madame who opened the door at once kindled interest.
“Yes, there was most decidedly an English lady staying there—a young English lady of most distinguished appearance. She had arrived about noon on the day before, and said she intended to stay there for a couple of days, as she expected friends.”
“Had the friends arrived?”
“No, not as yet. Perhaps Monsieur was the friend for whom she waited?”
Westerham doubted that, and found the situation a trifle awkward to explain.
“No,” he said to the fat Madame, he was not the friend whom Mademoiselle had come to meet. He was, however, an acquaintance, and would call later in the day.
Contenting himself with this, he lifted his hatand strolled down the street, followed by the shrewd eyes of the landlady.
He walked on until he felt sure he was no longer observed; then he walked back again.
On the opposite side of the street to the République, a few doors up, he discovered acaféof humble aspect, provided with tables beneath an awning at which the thirsty could sit and refresh themselves.
At one of these tables Westerham took a chair, and at the risk of violent indigestion called for more coffee. He sat and sipped the sweet and chicory-flavoured liquid and turned about in his mind the best means of discovering the reason of Lady Kathleen's visit to Rouen.
He debated with himself whether it would not be better to go boldly over to the hotel and make his presence known; but he reflected that such a course might be unwise, more especially as Kathleen might still elect to remain silent on the mystery which still so much perplexed him. Indeed, his presence might result in her abandoning the business which had called her so suddenly from London.
As time went on he glanced up and down the street, watching everyone's approach with interest. Westerham half expected to see the face of Melun. Instead, however, towards half-past eight his attention was aroused by the appearance of a man whose aspect was out of keeping with the little street.
The stranger was above middle height, and bore himself with a certain air of quiet dignity. He was dressed in black, his clothes being well cut, though of obviously foreign tailoring.
It was the man's face, however, which riveted Westerham's attention. It was very dark, and the nose was somewhat flat. Yet it was a face of great refinement and a distinction accentuated in a strange way by a long, black, and well-trimmed beard.
The man was not a Frenchman, nor, Westerham decided, was he a German; certainly he was not an Italian nor an Austrian. A subtle something about the man's whole appearance, indeed, brought Westerham to the conclusion that he was a Russian.
Yet why he fixed his nationality this way he could not tell, and then that intuition which was Westerham's great aid in times of trouble told him that this dignified and daintily-walking stranger was in some manner connected with Lady Kathleen's presence at the Hôtel de la République.
So certain of this did he become that he took the precaution of drawing further back into thecafé, where he could sit in the shadows and watch the passage of the stranger without arousing any interest himself.
Twice the black-bearded man walked up the street, glancing sharply at the République, and twice he walked back with the same meditative and dilatory air. Then he turned the corner and disappeared.
The patron of the inn busied himself about thecafé, and, seemingly curious about the visitor's long sojourn, Westerham ordered a further supply of the chicory-like coffee.
As the morning wore on so the sunshine became stronger, till the cobbles in the little streets shone hard and bright in the glare.
At ten Westerham's glance was attracted by some bustle about the door of the inn, and he saw the fat landlady bowing and scraping on the white doorstep, and then out of the shadows into the sunshine came the girl he had come to find.
Dressed all in black and thickly veiled, Lady Kathleen came quickly out of the doorway and walked down the street.
Westerham, who had taken the precaution to previously settle his score, immediately rose and walked after her.
The street was so narrow and there were so many people about that he had to follow Kathleen pretty closely in order to avoid losing her. He noted with some surprise that she walked straight ahead, as though of prearranged purpose, never faltering and never so much as glancing to the right or to the left.
He followed her down the hill, and so into the space about the cathedral, where busy women were setting out their wares—poultry, pottery, vegetables and the like.
More than one head was turned to note the quick, silent passage of Lady Kathleen. Hers, indeed, was a physique which could not have escaped notice, no matter what its surroundings.
On the market-square, having a clearer view before him, Westerham slackened his pace and allowed Lady Kathleen to increase the distance between them.
Still she walked straight ahead, as one who follows an oft-trodden path and knows full well whither that path leads.
She moved up the cathedral steps, and as shedid so Westerham saw approaching the sombre figure of the black-bearded man whose presence in the little street by the Hôtel de la République had aroused his interest earlier in the morning.
But though their steps were evidently leading them to the same spot, neither the black-bearded man nor Lady Kathleen made the least sign. The girl passed into the cathedral, the man following closely on her heels.
In fear of losing sight of them Westerham almost ran across the square and darted up the cathedral steps. But for all his speed his feet fell silently, so that neither the girl nor the man, who now walked by her side, heard his quick pursuit.
Once in the cathedral, Westerham paused to accustom his eyes to the dimness of the light.
Far up the nave he could see the man and the girl walking side by side.
Then they turned from the nave into the north aisle and made their way thence into one of the dark recesses of a side chapel.
As he watched them vanish into the shadows Westerham paused.
He felt that he was spying, and the task was an uncongenial one, but he comforted himself with the reflection that, after all, he played the spy out of a desire to serve Lady Kathleen, and he walked on.
He saw that it would be impossible for him to approach the side chapel by the same way as Lady Kathleen had if he wished to remain unobserved. So he turned aside and drew near to the chapel by another way, sheltering himself behind the pillars, which cast black shadows on the floor.
Westerham was following his old stalking habit, which he had acquired when in pursuit of big game among the giant pines of the Rockies. Yet with all his care he almost blundered into his quarry. For, as he moved silently round a pillar, he became conscious that he was so near to Lady Kathleen that he could have stretched out his hand and touched her.
In an instant he drew back and stood still behind a massive column. He could see nothing, but he could hear the voices of the girl and her companion in low and earnest conversation.
At first it was the man who did most of the talking, and from what scraps of his words he could catch Westerham judged him to be speaking in French. He droned on for some minutes, and then his voice died away.
Lady Kathleen now asked several questions in quiet, low tones. The man answered sharply and incisively, and it seemed to Westerham that there was command in his voice.
For a while there was a complete silence, which at last was broken by long, choking sobs. Edging a little nearer round the pillar, Westerham saw Kathleen kneeling upon aprie-dieuas though in an abandonment of grief. She was crying as though her heart would break, her face buried in her hands.
The sombre man stood by like some tall shadow, silent and unmoving.
A quick and great desire to go to Kathleen's aid, to gather her into his arms and comfort her, took possession of Westerham. But great as his desire was, he forced it down, recognising that the moment had not come for him to intervene.