“Ah!” he murmured aloud, drawing a deep sigh. “Ah! If she only knew!—if she only knew!”
He strode along the boulevard caring nothing where his footsteps led him. The gay, elegant, careless crowd of Paris passed, but he had no eyes for it all.
“Shall I tell her?” he went on aloud to himself. “Or shall I fade out, and let her learn the worst after I’m gone? Yet would not that be a coward’s action? And I’m no coward. I went through the war—that hell at Vimy, and I did my best for King and Country. Now, when love happens and all that life means to a man is just within my grasp, I have to retire to ignominy or death. I prefer the latter.”
Next morning he stepped from the train at Victoria and drove to his rooms in Bennett Street, St. James’s. He was still obsessed by those same thoughts which had prevented him from sleeping for the past week. His man, Sanford, who had been his batman in France, met him with a cheery smile, and after a bath and a shave he went round to his business in Bond Street.
He was of good birth and had graduated at Brasenose. His father had been a well-known official at the Foreign Office in the days of King Edward and had died after a short retirement. In his life Charlie had done his best, and had distinguished himself not only in his Army career, but in that of the world of motoring, where his name was as well known as any of the fearless drivers at Brooklands.
Otley was, indeed, a real good fellow, whose personality dominated those with whom he did business, and the many cars, from Fords to Rolls, which he sold for the profit of his directors paid tribute to hiseasy-going merriment and his slim, well-set-up appearance. Those who met him in that showroom in Bond Street never dreamed of the alert leather-coated and helmeted figure who tore round the rough track at Brooklands testing cars, and so often rising up that steep cemented slope, the test of great speed.
At six o’clock on the Wednesday evening he stood in his cosy room in Bennett Street awaiting Peggy. At last there was a ring at the outer door, and Sanford showed her in.
She entered merrily, bringing with her a whiff of the latest Paris perfume, and grasping his hand, cried:
“Well, are you feeling any happier?”
“Happier!” he echoed. “Why, of course!”
“And have you had Lady Teesdale’s letter?”
“Yes. And I’ve accepted.”
“Good. We’ll have a real good time. But the worst of it is Cis has been asked too!”
“I suppose your mother engineered that?”
“I don’t think so. You see, he’s Lady Teesdale’s nephew. And it’s a big family party. Old Mr. Bainbridge, the steel king of Sheffield, and his wife are to be there. She is a fat, rather coarse woman who has wonderful jewels. They say that old Bainbridge gave eighty thousand pounds for a unique string of stones, emeralds, diamonds, rubies and sapphires which belonged to the old Sultan of Turkey, Abdul Hamid, and which were sold in Paris six months ago.”
“Yes. I’ve always heard that the old fellow has money to burn. Wish I had!”
“So do I, Charlie. But, after all, money isn’t everything. What shall we do to-night?”
“Let’s dance later on—shall we?” he suggested, and she consented readily.
They sat by the fire together for half an hour chatting, while she told him of her doings in Paris after he had left. Then she rose and made an inspection of his bachelor room, examining his photographs, as was her habit. Ten years ago a girl would hesitate to go to a bachelor’s room, but not so to-day when women can venture wherever men can go.
On that same afternoon Sir Polworth Urquhart, returning home to Mount Street at six o’clock, found among his letters on the study table a thin one which bore a Hong Kong stamp. The superscription was, he saw, in a native hand. He hated the sly Chinese and all their ways.
On tearing it open he found within a slip of rice-paper on which some Chinese characters had been traced. He looked at them for a few seconds and then translated them aloud to himself:
“Tai-K’an has not forgotten the great English mandarin!”
“Curse Tai-K’an!” growled Sir Polworth under his breath. “After ten years I thought he had forgotten. But those Orientals are slim folk. I hope his memory is a pleasant one,” he added grimly as herose and placed the envelope and the paper in the fire.
“A very curious message,” he reflected as he passed back to his writing-table. “It’s a threat—because of that last sign. I remember seeing that sign before and being told that it was the sign of vengeance of the Tchan-Yan, the secret society of the Yellow Riband. But, bah! what need I care? I’m not in China now—thank Heaven!”
As he seated himself to answer his correspondence, however, a curious drama rose before his eyes. One day, ten years ago, while acting as Deputy-Governor, he had had before him a criminal case in which a young Chinese girl was alleged to have caused her lover’s death by poison. The girl was the daughter of a small merchant named Tai-K’an, who sold all his possessions in order to pay for the girl’s defense.
The case was a flimsy one from the start, but in the native court where it was heard there was much bribery by the friends of the dead lover. Notwithstanding the fact that Tai-K’an devoted the whole of his possessions to his daughter’s defense, and that strong proof of guilt fell upon a young Chinaman who was jealous of the dead man, the poor girl was convicted of murder.
Sir Polworth remembered all the circumstances well. At the time he did not believe in the girl’s guilt, but the court had decided it so, therefore why should he worry his official mind over the affairs ofmere natives? The day came—he recollected it well—when the sentence of death was put before him for confirmation. Tai-K’an himself, a youngish man, came to his house to beg the clemency of the great British mandarin. With him was his wife and the brother of the murdered man. All three begged upon their knees that the girl should be released because she was innocent. But he only shook his head, and with callous heartlessness signed the death-sentence and ordered them to be shown out.
The girl’s father then drew himself up and, with the fire of hatred in his slant black eyes, exclaimed in very good English:
“You have sent my daughter to her death though she is innocent! You have a daughter, Sir Polworth Urquhart. The vengeance of Tai-K’an will fall upon her. Remember my words! May the Great Mêng place his curse upon you and yours for ever!” And the trio left the Deputy-Governor’s room.
That was nearly ten years ago.
He paced the room, for his reflections even now were uneasy ones. He remembered how the facts were placed before the Colonial Office and how the sentence of death was commuted to one of imprisonment. For five years she remained in jail, until the real assassin committed suicide after writing a confession.
Yet like all Chinese, Tai-K’an evidently nursed his grievance, and time had not dulled the bitterness of his hatred.
But the offensive Chinaman was in Hong Kong—therefore what mattered, Sir Polworth thought. So he seated himself and wrote his letters.
Atthat moment Lola, who was shopping in London, entered and her father cut off quickly.
The girl glanced at me and smiled. Then she asked some question regarding the purchase of some cutlery, and on her father replying she left the flat.
After she had gone, he resumed the narrative, which was certainly of deep interest, as you will see.
He went on:
In the first week in January, a gay house-party assembled at Hawstead Park, Lord Teesdale’s fine old Elizabethan seat a few miles from Malton, not very far from Overstow. The shooting-parties at Hawstead were well known for their happy enjoyment. They were talked about in the drawing-rooms of Yorkshire and clubs in town each year, for Lady Teesdale was one of the most popular of hostesses and delighted in surrounding herself with young people.
So it was that Charlie Otley, on his arrival, met Peggy in the big paneled hall, and by her side stood young Eastwood, the fair-haired effeminate son of Lord Drumone. The party assembled at tea consisted of some twenty guests, most of them young. Afterdinner that night there was, of course, dancing upon the fine polished floor.
Before Lady Urquhart, Otley was compelled to exercise a good deal of caution, allowing young Eastwood to dance attendance upon Peggy while he, in turn, spent a good deal of time with Maud Bainbridge, the rather angular daughter of the steel magnate. Towards Mrs. Bainbridge and his hostess Charlie was most attentive, but all the time he was watching Peggy with the elegant young idler to whom Lady Urquhart hoped to marry her.
Now and then Peggy would glance across the room meaningly, but he never once asked her to dance, so determined was he that her mother should not suspect the true state of affairs. His position, however, was not a very pleasant one, therefore part of the time he spent in the great old smoking-room with his host, Sir Polworth, and several other guests, some of them being women, for nowadays the ladies of a country house-party invariably invade the room which formerly was sacred to the men.
When the dance had ended and the guests were about to retire, Otley managed to whisper a word to the girl he loved. He made an appointment to meet her at a secluded spot in the park near the lodge on the following morning at eleven.
She kept the appointment, and when they met she stood for a few moments clasped in her lover’s arms.
“I had such awful difficulty to get away fromCecil,” she said, laughing. She looked a sweet attractive figure in her short tweed skirt, strong country shoes and furs. “He wanted to go for a walk with me. So I slipped out and left him guessing.”
Her companion remained silent.
A few moments later they turned along a path which led to a stile, and thence through a thick wood of leafless oaks and beeches. Along the winding path carpeted with dead leaves they strolled hand-in-hand, until suddenly Otley halted, and in a thick hoarse voice quite unusual to him, said:
“Peggy. I—I have something to say to you. I—I have to go back to London.”
“To London—why?” gasped the girl in dismay.
“Because—well, because I can’t bear to be here with the glaring truth ever before me—that I——”
“What do you mean?” she asked, laying her hand upon his arm.
“I mean, dearest,” he said in a low, hard voice, “I mean that we can never marry. There is a barrier between us—a barrier of disgrace!”
“Of disgrace!” she gasped. “Oh! do explain, dear.”
“The explanation is quite simple,” he replied in a tone of despair. “You asked me in Paris what worried me. Well, Peggy, I’ll confess to you,” he went on, lowering his voice, his eyes downcast. “I am not worthy your love, and I here renounce it, for—for I am a thief!”
“A thief!” she echoed. “How?”
“I’ve been hard up of late, and at the motor show I sold three cars, for which I have not accounted to the firm. The books will be audited next week and my defalcations discovered. I have no means of repaying the four thousand five hundred pounds, and therefore I shall be arrested and sent to prison as a common thief. That’s briefly the position!”
The girl was speechless at such staggering revelations. Charlie—a thief! It seemed incredible.
“But have you no means whatever of raising the money?” she asked at last, her face pale, while the gloved hand that lay upon his arm trembled.
“None. I’ve tried all my friends, but money is so difficult to raise nowadays. No, Peggy,” he added with suppressed emotion, “let me go my own way—and try to forget me. Now that I am in disgrace it is only right that I should make a clean breast of it to you, and then you alone will understand why I have made excuse to Lady Teesdale and left.”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that, dear,” she urged. “Stay over the week-end! Something will turn up. Do please me by staying.”
“I feel that I really can’t,” he answered. “I’m an outsider to have thus brought unhappiness on you, but it is my fault. I am alone to blame. You must have your freedom and forget me. I took the money to pay a debt of honor, thinking that I could repay it by borrowing elsewhere. But I find I can’t, therefore I must face the music next week. Even if I ran away I should soon be found and arrested.”
“Poor boy!” sighed the girl, stroking his cheek tenderly, while in her eyes showed the light of unshed tears. “Don’t worry. Stay here with me—at least till Monday.”
But he shook his head sadly.
“I couldn’t bear it, my darling,” he answered in a low voice. “How can I possibly enjoy dancing and fun when I know that in a few days I shall go to prison in disgrace. My firm are not the kind of people to let me off.”
“Four thousand five hundred!” the girl repeated as though to herself.
“Yes. And I haven’t the slightest prospect of getting it anywhere. If I could only borrow it I could sail along into smooth waters again. But that is quite out of the question.”
Peggy remained silent for a few moments. Then, of a sudden, she looked straight into her lover’s eyes, and taking his hand in hers said:
“Poor dear! What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing,” was his low reply. “Only—only forget me. That’s all. You can’t marry a man who’s been to prison.”
Again a silence fell between them, while the dead leaves whirled along the path.
“But you will stay here over the week-end, won’t you, dear?” she urged. “I ask you to do so. Do not refuse me—will you?”
He tried to excuse himself. But she clung to him and kissed him, declaring that at least they mightspend the week-end together before he left to face the worst.
Her lover endeavored to point out the impossibility of their marriage, but she remained inexorable.
“I still love you, Charlie—even though you are in such dire straits. And I do not intend that you shall go back to London to brood over your misfortune. Keep a stout heart, dear, and something may turn up after all,” she added, as they turned and went slowly back over the rustling leaves towards the park.
He now realized that she loved him with a strong and fervent affection, even though he had confessed to her his offense. And that knowledge caused his burden of apprehension the harder to bear.
That night there were, after the day’s shooting, merry junketings at Hawstead, and Charles Otley bore himself bravely though his heart was heavy. Ever and anon when Peggy had opportunity she whispered cheering words to him, words that encouraged him, though none of the gay party dreamed that they were chatting and dancing with a man who would in a few days stand in a criminal dock.
Next day was Sunday. The whole house-party attended the village church in the morning, and in the afternoon the guests split up and went for walks.
Soon after dinner Otley, whose seat had been between the steel magnate’s wife and her daughter, went outside on the veranda alone. He was in no mood for bridge and preferred a breath of air outside. Ashe let himself out by one of the French windows of the small drawing-room in the farther wing of the house, a dark figure brushed past him swiftly, and next second had vaulted over the ironwork of the veranda and was lost in the dark bushes beyond.
As the stranger had paused to leap from the veranda, a ray of light from the window had caught his countenance. It was only for one brief second, yet Charlie had felt convinced that the countenance was that of a Chinaman. Besides the stealthy cat-like movement of the man was that of an Oriental. Yet what could a Chinaman be doing about that house?
He was half inclined to tell his host, yet on reflecting, he thought the probability was that it was some stranger who, attracted by the music and laughter within, had been trying to get a glimpse of the gay party.
That night, as the auction bridge proceeded, Otley withdrew from it and went to his room, where he sat down and wrote two notes—one to Peggy and the other to his hostess. In the latter he apologized that he had been suddenly recalled to London on some very urgent business, and that he would leave Malton by the first train in the morning.
The note to Peggy he placed in his pocket, and returning to the room where they were now dancing, found her in a flimsy cream gown, sleeveless and cut low—a dress that suited her to perfection—dancing with apparent merriment with young Eastwood,though he knew that her heart was sad. But her face was flushed by excitement, and she was entering thoroughly into the country-house gayety. Presently, however, he was able to slip the note into her hand and whisper a good-by.
“I shall be in London on Tuesday and will call at Bennett Street in the evening. We will then talk it all over, dear. Don’t despair—for my sake—don’t despair!” she said.
And compelled to slip back to the ballroom, she crushed the note into her corsage.
Early next morning a car took Charlie to the station, and soon after luncheon he reëntered his rooms. The day was Monday, wet and dreary. All hope had left him, for his defalcations must be discovered and the directors would, without a doubt, prosecute him. Hence he went about London interested in nothing and obsessed by the terrible disgrace which must inevitably befall him.
On the evening of his sudden departure from Hawstead, at about half-past six, the house-party was thrown into a state of great concern by the amazing announcement that Mrs. Bainbridge had lost her jewels—the unique string of precious stones which had once belonged to the late Sultan Abdul Hamid! Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid discovered the loss when her mistress went to dress for dinner.
She declared that on the previous evening she had placed them out upon a little polished table set against the heavy red-plush curtains and close to the dressing-table.She believed that her mistress had worn them upon her corsage on the Sunday night, and that on retiring she had locked them in her jewel-box. On the contrary, Mrs. Bainbridge did not wear them, a fact to which everyone testified. The millionaire’s wife had left the Sultan’s famous jewels upon the little polished table when she descended for dinner on Sunday night, and naturally concluded that her maid—who had been with her over twelve years—would see them and place them in safety.
Suspicion instantly fell upon Charles Otley. Old Mr. Bainbridge was, of course, furious, whereupon Lord Teesdale took it upon himself to go at once to London to see Otley.
This he did, and when that afternoon Sanford showed his lordship unexpectedly into the room, the young man stood aghast at the news.
“Tell me, Otley—if you know nothing of this affair—why, then, did you leave Hawstead so suddenly?” he demanded.
“Because I had business here in town,” was his reply. Instantly across his mind flashed the recollection of the incident of the fleeting figure which he believed to be that of an Oriental. He related to his late host the exact facts. But Lord Teesdale listened quite unimpressed. As a matter of fact, he felt, in his own mind, that the young fellow was the thief.
The story of the Chinaman was far too fantastic for his old-fashioned mind. He had heard of the Chinese, the opium traffic and suchlike things, andhe saw in Otley’s statement a distinct attempt to mislead him.
The police were not called in because Mr. Bainbridge did not desire to bring the Teesdales’ house-party into the newspapers, and, moreover, both he and his wife were confident that young Otley was the thief.
Peggy hearing her lover denounced so openly, was naturally full of indignation, though she hardly dared show it.
Sir Polworth and his wife and daughter returned to London as early as possible, for the spirits of all the guests had fallen in consequence of Mrs. Bainbridge’s loss.
And now a curious thing happened.
That evening Charlie, knowing himself under suspicion of stealing the jewels, had an intuition that it would be better if Peggy did not visit him at Bennett Street. Therefore at about half-past five, when darkness had fallen, he went along to Mount Street, and there watched outside Sir Polworth’s house.
After a little while an empty taxi which had evidently been summoned by telephone, stopped at the door, and Peggy, very plainly dressed, got into it and drove away. Another taxi happened to be near, therefore her lover, unable to shout and stop her, got into it and followed her.
They went along Piccadilly, and passing Arlington Street, which led into Bennett Street, continued away to the Strand and across the City eastward, untilOtley was seized with curiosity as to the girl’s destination.
Past Aldgate went the taxi and down Commercial Road East, that broad long thoroughfare that leads to the East India Docks. At Limehouse Church the taxi stopped, and Peggy alighted and paid the man.
Almost immediately a young man, the cut of whose overcoat and the angle of whose hat at once marked him as a Spaniard, approached her. Otley, full of wonder, had alighted from his taxi at some distance away and was eagerly watching.
Peggy and the stranger exchanged a few words, whereupon he started off along a narrow and rather ill-lit road called Three Colt Street, past Limehouse Causeway. Suddenly it occurred to the young man that they were in the center of London’s Chinatown! He recollected the escaping Chinaman from Lord Teesdale’s house! But why was Peggy there? Surely she was not a drug-taker! The very thought caused him to shudder.
Silently he followed the pair before him, and saw them turn into a narrow by-street and halt at a small house. Her conductor knocked on the door four times. And then repeated the summons.
The door opened slowly and they entered. Then, when the door was closed again, Peggy’s lover crept along and listened at the shutter outside.
Why was she there? He stood bewildered. She had promised to call upon him at his rooms, and yetshe was there in that low-class house—a veritable den it seemed!
The window was closely shuttered, as were all in that mysterious silent thoroughfare—one into which the police would hardly venture to penetrate alone.
The young man listened, his ears strained to catch any sound.
Suddenly he heard Peggy shriek. He listened breathlessly. Yes, it was her voice raised distinctly.
“You!” he heard her cry. “You! You are Tai-K’an! My father has told me of you!”
“Ye-es, my lil ladee—you are lil ladee of the Engleesh mandarin!” he heard the reply—the reply of a Chinaman. “I now take my vengeance for my own child as I have each year promised. Give me the pretty jewels. You wanted to sell them, eh? But you will give them to me! I watched you take them from the table while they were all at the party. Your father never thought that Tai-K’an followed you on your country journey, eh?”
Otley heard the words faintly through the shutters and stood rooted to the spot.
Peggy was the thief? She had wanted to sell them and had been entrapped. In an instant he realized her position.
He heard her voice raised first in faint protest, and then she implored the Chinaman to release her.
“Ah, no!” cried the cruel triumphant Oriental. “Tai-K’an warned your father that he would have his revenge. His daughter was to him as much as youare to your own father the mandarin,” and he laughed that short, grating laugh of the Chinaman, which caused Otley to clench his fists.
For a few seconds he hesitated as to how he should act. Then, quick as his feet could carry him, he dashed back into the Commercial Road, where he enlisted the aid of a constable.
Together they hurried back to the house after the young man had made a brief statement that a white girl had been entrapped.
At first they were denied admittance, but when the constable demanded that the door should be opened, the bars were drawn and they entered the wretched den.
Peggy was naturally terrified until she heard her lover’s voice, and a few seconds later the pair were locked once more in each other’s arms, but the gems of Abdul Hamid were nowhere to be found. Indeed, neither Peggy nor Charlie dared mention the stolen jewels, so the Chinaman kept them.
“Do you wish to charge this Chink?” asked the constable of the girl. “If so, I’ll take him along to the station at once.”
But at Charlie’s suggestion she would prefer no charge, and after profuse thanks to the policeman, they found a taxi and drove back at once to Bennett Street.
On the way Peggy sobbed as she confessed to the theft; how, in desperation, she had stolen those wonderfuljewels from Mrs. Bainbridge’s room in the hope of raising sufficient money to pay Charlie’s defalcations, and how she had two days later received a mysterious letter asking her if she happened to have any discarded jewelry that she wished to dispose of secretly. If she had, an appointment could be made at Limehouse Church. It was, she thought, an opportunity. So she took the jewels to sell to them. But to her amazement and horror she had found herself in the hands of the revengeful Chinaman who had a, possibly just, grievance against her father.
Rayne, taking the magnificent jewels and running them through his hands, said:
“The Chink is a friend of ours, and we’ve had our eye upon these stones for a very long time, but rather than the young fellow and the girl shall be ruined I am sending them back to Mrs. Bainbridge’s anonymously by to-night’s post. Sir Polworth Urquhart will think they have come from Tai-K’an. See, Hargreave? I’ve typed out a letter. Just pack them up and address them to her. I can’t bear to take them now I know the truth—poor girl!”
And he handed the gems over to me, together with a small wooden box.
That evening I registered the box from the post office at Darlington, and three days later Charles Otley, who had managed to clear himself of all suspicion, received an anonymous gift of four thousandfive hundred pounds which had been placed to his credit at the bank.
And none of the actors in that strange drama suspect the hand of the clever, unscrupulous, but sometimes generous, Squire of Overstow.
“
Mr. Hargreave, father is sending you upon a very strange mission,” Lola told me in confidence one dull morning, after we had had breakfast at the Midland Hotel, in Manchester, where we three were staying about a fortnight after Rayne’s generosity in returning the famous jewels of the dead Sultan.
“What kind of mission?” I inquired with curiosity, as we sat together in the lounge prior to going out to idle at the shop windows.
“I don’t know its object at all,” was her reply. “But from what I’ve gathered it is something most important. I—I do hope you will take care of yourself—won’t you?” she asked appealingly.
“Why, of course,” I laughed. “I generally manage to take care of myself. I’d do better, however, if—well, if I were not associated with Duperré and the rest,” I added bitterly.
The pretty girl was silent for a few moments. Then she said:
“Of course you won’t breathe a word of what I’ve said, will you?”
“Certainly not, Lola,” was my reply. “Whatever you tell me never passes my lips.”
“I know—I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave,” she exclaimed. “Well, in this matter there are several mysterious circumstances. I believe it is something political my father wants to work—some business which concerns something in the Near East. That’s all I know. You will, in due course, hear all about it. And now let’s go along to Deansgate. I want to buy something.”
In consequence we strolled along together, Rayne having gone out an hour before to keep an appointment—with whom he carefully concealed from me.
That same night Rayne disclosed to me the mission which he desired me to carry out. He was a man of a hundred moods and as many schemes.
One fact which delighted me was that in the present suggestion there seemed no criminal intent. And for that reason I quite willingly left London for the Near East three days later.
My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.
I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out in Sofia. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task—one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, Rayne had said, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that Britishinfluence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which ere long must be the power of the Balkans.
The tentacles of the great criminal octopus which Rayne controlled were indeed far-spread. In this he was making a bid for fortune, without a doubt.
To the majority of people, the Balkan States are, even to-day,terra incognita. The popular idea is that they are wild, inaccessible countries, inhabited by brigands. That is not so. True, there are brigands, even now after the war, in the Balkans, but Belgrade, the Serbian capital, is as civilized as Berlin, and the main boulevard of Sofia, whither I was bound, is at night almost a replica of the Boulevard des Italiens.
I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other Governments and other financial houses. Therefore in those three long, never-ending days and nights which the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with the thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.
The run East was uneventful, save for one fact—at the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered and was given the compartment next to mine.
His nationality I could not determine. He spoke in a deep guttural voice with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes—which wererather dandified for so old a man—I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.
I heard him rumbling about with his bags in the next compartment, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden, my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.
A few hours later, at dinner in thewagon-restaurant, I found him placed at the same little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French, perfect French it was, but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.
“Ah!non,” he laughed. “I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult!”
And so we talked in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black, piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow; and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.
His complaints were amusing. At first themaître d’hôtelbustled about to do the bidding of the newcomer, but very quickly summed him up, and onlygrinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting sarcasm of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lit and all its works.
Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport officer took off his hat to him, bowed low andvisédhis passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner:
“Bon voyage, Highness.”
I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke!
As I sat opposite him at dinner that night, he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered Swiss author who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his fingers, displaying to me—most certainly by accident—the palm of his thin right hand.
What I discovered there caused me a great deal of surprise. In its center was a dark, livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a pet dog’s pad!
It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a small dog had stepped in blood with one of its forepaws and trodden upon his hand.
Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.
His name, he told me, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that informationcum grano, for I instinctively knew him to be a prince traveling incognito. Before the passport officer at Semlin, every one must pass before entering Serbia.
But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?
There is no good hotel at Sofia. The best is called the Grand Hôtel de Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He, of course, gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in the Bulgarian capital than I myself was, for I had been there previously once just before the war.
Now Rayne had given me a letter of introduction to a certain Nicolas Titeroff, who contrived rather mysteriously to get me elected to the smart diplomats’ club—the Union—during my stay.
The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself at once in the vortex of gayety; invitations poured in upon me—thanks to the black-bearded Titeroff—cards for dances here and there and receptions and dinners, while I spent each afternoon with Titeroff and a wandering Englishman named Mayhew, who told me he was an ex-colonel in the British Army.
All the while, I must confess, I was working my cards carefully. Thanks to the mysterious Titeroff I had received an introduction to Nicholas Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Minister of Finance, who hadearly in life lost his right arm at the battle of the Shipka Pass—and he was inclined to admit my proposals. A French syndicate had approached him, but Petkoff would have none of them.
The mission entrusted to me by Rayne was one which, if I could obtain the Government Concession which I asked, would mean the formation of a great company and a matter of millions. And it seemed to me that my black-bearded friend Titeroff, and Mayhew, were both pulling the strings cleverly for me in the right direction. Often I considered whether they were both crooks and members of the gang organized by Rayne. I could not determine.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club—a function at which the smart set of Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves with their women-folk put in an appearance—I had been waltzing with the Minister Petkoff’s daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met at Titeroff’s house—when presently the Turkish attaché, a pale-faced young man in a fez, introduced me to a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening gown.
Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said—at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania.
We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of fox-trots,and I conducted her out to the car that was awaiting her and bowing, watched her drive off, alone.
But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short, ugly figure of the old Greek, Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.
A few days later when in the evening I was chatting with Mayhew at the hotel, he said:
“What have you been up to, Hargreave? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note, asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman’s hand! Mind what you’re about in this place, old chap. There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!”
With a bachelor’s curiosity he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met, at her urgent request, Marie Balesco. After apologizing for thus approaching me and throwing all theconvenancesto the wind, she seemed to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons that had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of to-day, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it, the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed, I knew no more until, on awakening,I found myself back in my bed at the Hôtel de Bulgarie.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what had occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.
Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the sign of the dog’s pad!
Horrified, I stared at it! It was the same mark I had seen upon the hand of old Vassos! What could be its significance?
In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of a dog’s foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a trick upon me. But he only knew her slightly. He amazed me by saying that she had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.
Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon my movements.
I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the reason of the ugly Greek’s presence in Bulgaria met with a negative result. One thing seemed certain, he was not, as I believed, a prince incognito.
How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an explanation. But my curiosity was aroused, therefore I patiently awaiteddevelopments, my revolver always ready in my pocket in case of foul play.
The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.
At last the Cabinet, after much political jugglery, being deposed, the Council were in complete accord with Petkoff regarding my proposals. All had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched with His Excellency the Minister of Finance at his house in the suburbs of the city.
Nevertheless, I was obsessed by the strange mark which had been so mysteriously placed upon my hand—the same mark as that borne by the mysterious Vassos.
“You may send a cipher dispatch to London if you like, Mr. Hargreave,” said the Minister Petkoff, as we sat over our cigars. “The documents will be all signed at the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In exchange for this loan raised in London, all the contracts for the new quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of London financiers.”
Such was the welcome news His Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no time in writing out a well-concealed message to Rayne, and sending it by the manservant to the telegraph office.
For a long time I sat with His Excellency, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon,before going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.
On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.
“Who’s that man?” inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I knew concerning the old fellow.
He grunted.
In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the European unrest after the war, the new loan, and other matters, when, of a sudden, a black-mustached man in a dark grey overcoat and a round fur cap sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and, raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at His Excellency.
I felt for my own weapon. Alas! it was not there!I had forgotten it!
The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. Thereupon in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was unarmed, and an Englishman.
As I did so, he started back as though terrified, and with a spring he disappeared again into the bushes.
All had happened in a few brief instants, for ere I could realize that a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Minister lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart! It was a repetition of the assassination of the Minister Stambuloff.
Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragicaffair which is, no doubt, still fresh in their minds.
I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and showed him the mark upon my palm. Though detectives searched high and low for the Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating mademoiselle, none of them was ever found.
The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to cross the frontier into Serbia. I, of course, lost by an ace Rayne’s great financialcoup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy, fostered by Turkey, to remove certain members of the Cabinet who were in favor of British protection and assistance.
Quite unconsciously I had, it seemed, become an especial favorite of the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos. Fearing lest I, in my innocence, should fall a victim with His Excellency—being so often his companion—he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie Balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators.
To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin—a stranger to Sofia, who had been drawn by lot—would, no doubt, have shot me dead, had he not seen the secret sign upon my raised hand.
When I returned to Overstow and related my strange adventure, Rayne was furious that just at the very moment when the deal by which he was to reap such a huge profit was complete, our friend the Minister should have been assassinated.
Lola was in the room when I described all that had occurred, listening breathlessly to my narrative.
I showed them both the strange mark upon my palm, a brand which I suppose I shall bear to my dying day.
“Then you really owe your life to that girl Balesco, Mr. Hargreave?” she said, raising her fine dark eyes to mine.
“I certainly do,” I replied.
Her father grunted, and after congratulating me upon my escape, said:
“You had nothing to complain about regarding Titeroff, and the assistance he and Mayhew gave you—eh?”
“Nothing. Without them I could never have acted. Indeed, I could never have approached the Minister Petkoff.”
“Yes,” he remarked reflectively. “They’re both wily birds. Titeroff feathered his nest well when he was in Constantinople, and Mayhew is there because of a little bit of serious trouble in Genoa a couple of years ago. Of course you never mentioned my name—eh?”
“I only mentioned you as Mr. Goodwin—as you told me,” I replied.
He smiled.
“They remembered me, of course?”
“Yes, when I delivered your note of introduction to Titeroff, he at once made me welcome, and seemedmuch surprised that I was acquainted with his friend, Mr. Goodwin.”
It was now evident, as I had suspected, that the two men who were so eager to serve me were international crooks, and members of the great gang which Rayne controlled.
“Just describe the man Vassos as fully as you can,” urged Rayne.
In consequence I went into a minute description of the fussy old Greek, to which Rayne listened most interestedly.
“Yes,” he said at last. “But tell me one thing. Did you notice if he had any deformity?”
“Well—he walked with a distinct limp.”
“And his hand?”
“The little finger on his left hand was deformed,” I replied. “I now remember it.”
“Ah!” he cried in instant anger. “As I thought! It was old Boukaris—the sly old devil. How, I wonder, did he know that I had sent you to Sofia? He, no doubt, saved you by putting that mark on your hand, Hargreave; but the brutes have been one too many for me, and have done me down!”
Sometwo months after that curious experience in Sofia, we were guests of some friends of Rayne’s called Baynes, who lived at Enderby Manor, a few miles out of Winchester.
The reason of our visit was somewhat obscure, yet as far as I could gather it had no connection with “business.” So Rayne, Lola, and myself spent a very pleasant four days with one of the most charming families I think I have ever met.
Enderby was a beautiful old place lying back in a great park and surrounded by woods, half-way between Winchester and Romsey, and George Baynes, who had made a fortune in South America, and whose wife was a Brazilian lady, was a splendid host.
One bright afternoon Rayne had gone off somewhere with Mr. Baynes, so I found Lola and we both went for a stroll in the beautiful woods.
For a long time we chatted merrily, when, of a sudden—I don’t exactly know how it happened—but I took her hand, and, looking straight into her eyes, I declared my passion for her.
I must have taken her unawares, for she drewback with a strange, half-frightened expression. Her breath came and went in quick gasps, and when she found her tongue, she replied:
“No, George. It is impossible—quite impossible!”
“Why?” I demanded quickly. “I love you, Lola. Can you never reciprocate my affection?”
She shook her head sadly, but still allowing me to hold her soft little hand.
“You must not speak of love,” she whispered. “You are an honest man who has been entrapped and compelled to act dishonestly as you do. I know it all, alas! I—I know——” and she burst into tears. “I have discovered,” she sobbed, “that my father is a thief!”
“We cannot help that, Lola,” I said, in deep sympathy at her distress.
“No. Unfortunately we can’t,” she replied faintly, in a voice full of emotion. “But it would be fatal to us both if we loved each other. Surely, George, you can see that!”
“I don’t see it, dearest,” I exclaimed, bending and kissing her fondly on the cheek for the first time. We had halted in the forest path, and now I held her in my arms, though she resisted slightly. “I love you, darling!” I cried. “I love you!”
“No! No!” she protested. “You must not—you cannot love me. I am only the daughter of a man who, at any moment, might be arrested—a man for whom the police are ever in search, but cannot find.”
“I know all that; but you, dearest, are not athief!” I urged, for I loved her with all the strength of my being—with all my soul.
She trembled and sobbed, but did not reply. Her tearful face was hidden upon my shoulder.
“Do you care for me in the least?” I whispered to her. “Tell me, dear, do.”
She was silent.
I repeated my question, until at last she raised her face to mine, and, though she did not speak, I knew with joy that her answer was in the affirmative. And then I poured out my secret to her, how ever since I had first seen her I had loved her to distraction; and how the knowledge that she reciprocated my affection had rendered me the happiest man in the world.
For a long time we remained locked in each other’s arms. How long I cannot tell.
Suddenly, when she had dried her tears, she seemed full of apprehension concerning my welfare.
“Oh! do be careful of yourself, George!” she cried. “I am always so anxious about you when you are away. Father sends you on those strange and highly dangerous missions because he trusts you, and you, alas! are compelled to do his bidding. But do take care. You know well what the slightest blunder would mean—and you would never clear yourself, you know!”
I promised I would take great care always, and again we moved along. It was not, however, until dusk that we returned to the Manor.
I could not help wondering how Lola had discovered her father’s true character and the nature of his secret “business,” but on the whole I felt it was just as well that she knew, for she herself would exercise great care. And then I thought in ecstasy, “She is mine—mine!”
Just before midnight, soon after I had retired, the door of my room opened, and I found Rayne in his pajamas.
He placed his finger upon his lips with a gesture of silence. Then, closing the door noiselessly, he drew me to the opposite side of the room, and, showing me a photograph, said:
“Look at this well, George. You’d recognize him, wouldn’t you?”
It was a cabinet photograph of a good-looking gentlemanly, clean-shaven man of about twenty-five.
“Note his tiepin—a single moonstone!” added Rayne.
“Yes,” I said, as I gazed at the photograph.
“Well, to-day is Monday,” he said. “Next Thursday night I want you to take Madame from London in the Rolls. Go out on the Portsmouth Road by way of Kingston and Ditton, through Cobham, and on to Ripley. There, about twenty miles from London, you will find on the left-hand side an old-fashioned hotel called the Talbot. Stop there at half-past nine, and, leaving Madame in the car, go in and have a drink. Edward Houston will be awaitingyou. Madame is just now at the Carlton. You will pick her up at half-past eight.”
“And Lola?” I asked, wondering if his daughter was to play any part in this new piece of trickery, whatever it might be.
“She is going to Scarborough on Thursday afternoon,” was her father’s reply.
“And when I meet this Mr. Houston,” I asked, “what then?”
“You will not meet openly. When you’ve had your drink and he has seen you, you will drive a little way along the road and there await him. He does not wish to be seen with you. He’s rather shy, you see!” and the pleasant-faced man who controlled the most dangerous criminal gang in Europe smiled sardonically. “He has his instructions, and you will follow them. Take a suit-case with you, for you may be away a few days, or longer.”
I wondered what devilry he had now planned. I tried to obtain from him some further details, but his replies were sharp and firm.
“Act just as I’ve told you, Hargreave. And please don’t be so infernally inquisitive.” Then, wishing me good night, he turned and left my room.
I longed there and then to defy him and refuse to obey, yet I dared not, knowing full well the fate that would await me if I resisted. Moreover, I had Lola to consider, and if I defied her father he most certainly would not allow his daughter to marry me.
Next morning we left Enderby by train and returned to Overstow in the late afternoon.
Duperré had gone up to Glasgow upon some mysterious business—crooked without a doubt—so that night, after dining together, Rayne and I played a game of billiards. While we were smoking in the library prior to turning in, the footman tapped at the door and entered with a note.
Rayne tore it open, and as he read it, I noticed that his countenance fell. A second later I saw that he was extremely annoyed.
He rose from his chair and for a few moments hesitated. Then, in a rather thick voice, said:
“Show him in.” After the servant had gone he turned to me, and in a changed voice said: “Remain here, George. But never breathe a word of what you hear to a living soul! Remember that!”
In a few moment a well-dressed, narrow-faced, bald-headed, rather cadaverous man was shown in. He clicked his heels together and bowed with foreign politeness and with a smile upon his sinister countenance.
“I have the honor to meet Signor Rayne?” he asked, with a distinctly Italian accent.
“That is my name,” replied Rudolph inquiringly.
“Good! Then you will recognize me, and my name upon my letter in which I have asked for this private interview.”
“No. I certainly do not,” he said. “I have no knowledge of ever meeting you before!”
“Ah!” laughed the stranger. “The signore’s memory is evidently at fault. I—I hesitate to refresh it—before this gentleman,” and he glanced at me.
“Oh! you need not mind. Mr. Hargreave is my secretary, and knows all my confidential affairs,” said Rayne, assuming an air ofbonhomie, though I knew he was greatly perturbed by his visitor.
“Then may I be permitted to remind you of our meeting at the Bristol Café, in Copenhagen, on that July night two years ago, and what happened to Henri Gérard, the Marseilles shipowner, later that same night? True, we never spoke together, for you posed as a stranger to my friends. But you were pointed out to me. You surely cannot ignore it?”
“I have never been to Copenhagen in my life,” protested Rayne. “What do you suggest?”
“The truth; one that you know well, signore, notwithstanding your denials. You are the man known as ‘The Golden Face,’” declared the stranger bitterly, pointing his finger at him. “You neither forget me nor my name, Luigi Gori, for you have much cause to remember it—you and your friend Stevenson, otherwise Duperré.”
Rayne turned furiously upon his visitor, and said:
“I am in no mood to discuss anything with you. So get out! You wished to see me privately, and I have granted you this interview. I don’t know your name or your business, nor do I want to know them! You seem to be trying to claim acquaintance with me, and——”
“Pardon me, but I do so, Signor Rayne,” laughed the dark-eyed man. “It has taken me two years to trace you, and at last I find you here! I came at this hour because I thought I would find you apart from your honorable family.”
“What rubbish are you talking?” demanded Rayne.
“Rubbish!” echoed the stranger. “I am talking no rubbish. I am simply reminding you of a very serious and secret matter, namely, the mysterious end of Monsieur Gérard, of the Château du Sierroz in the Jura, and of the Avenue des Champs Elysées. The Sûreté, in combination with the Danish detective service, are still trying to clear up the affair. You and I can do it,” he said; and, after a pause, he looked Rayne straight in the face, and asked: “Shall we? It rests with you!”
Rayne frowned darkly. Never before had I witnessed such an evil look upon the face of any man. I knew that his brain was working swiftly, and I also saw that our visitor was most unwelcome—evidently an accomplice who had managed by some unaccountable means to penetrate the veil of secrecy in which the super-crook had always so successfully enveloped his identity.
“Well,” he laughed. “You really are a most dramatic person, Signor Gori, or whatever your name may be. I really don’t understand you, unless you are attempting to blackmail me. And if you are, then I’ll get my servant to show you the door.”
The stranger smiled meaningly, and asked quite quietly:
“Is it not to your advantage, Signor Rayne, to talk this little matter over in a friendly spirit? I offer you the opportunity. If you refuse it——” And he shrugged his shoulders meaningly, without concluding his sentence.
Rayne was silent for a few seconds. Then he said in quite a changed and genial tone:
“I am much mystified at your visit, Signor Gori, for I certainly have no knowledge of you. But the hour is late. If you are staying in the neighborhood could you call again at noon to-morrow, when we will go further into this tangled affair? We seem to be at cross-purposes to-night.”
“As you wish,” replied the visitor, bowing with exquisite politeness. “I am staying at the Fleece Hotel, at Thirsk, and I have motored out here. To-morrow at noon I will call upon you.” And then he added in a hard, relentless tone: “And then I trust your memory will be refreshed. Signori, I wish you bothbuona sera.”
“Stay! I quite forgot! I shall not be here to-morrow,” Rayne replied quickly. “I have to be out some part of the day, and also I expect visitors.”
“Then the day after?” suggested the visitor politely, to which Rayne sullenly replied:
“Yes. The day after to-morrow, at six o’clock in the evening. I will be here to see you, if you stillpersist in pestering me. But I warn you, Signor Gori, that it is quite useless.”
The Italian smiled, bowed, and again wishing us good night, crossed the room as Rayne pressed the electric button for the servant.
I realized that a big cloud of trouble had unexpectedly descended upon Overstow. When he had gone Rayne broke out into a furious series of imprecations and vows of vengeance upon some person whom he did not name, but whom he suspected of having made afaux pas.
Suddenly, however, he bade me good night in his usual manner, as though nothing had occurred to disturb him. He was a man of abnormal intellect, defiant, fearless, and with a brain which, had it been put to proper usage, would undoubtedly have made him a world-famous Englishman. After all, the brains of great criminals, properly cultivated and directed, are the same brains as those possessed by our great leaders, whether political, commercial, or social.
That night I scarcely closed my eyes in sleep. The Damoclean sword had apparently fallen upon the Squire of Overstow. And I recollected his daughter’s warning.
Next morning, directly after breakfast, which he ate with relish, and seemed quite his normal self, I drove with him at his orders over to Heathcote Hall, about five miles away, where lived Sir Johnson Burnham,one of the old Yorkshire aristocracy, who was also chairman of quarter sessions.
I waited at the wheel while he called. I knew that the baronet was not at home, as a week before Lola had told me that he had gone to San Remo. Nevertheless, Rayne went inside, and was there quite half an hour. I was puzzled at his absence, but the reason seemed plain when the butler, bowing him out, exclaimed:
“I am so sorry, Mr. Rayne, but the telephone people are, I fear, very slack in these days. It takes so long to get a number.”
So Rayne had gone to Heathcote in order to telephone to somebody in great urgency—somebody he dare not speak with from Overstow.
As we drove back again, Rayne said:
“Of course, George, you will never breathe a word of this—well, this littlecontretemps—or of its result. When I’m up against the wall I always hit hard. That’s the only way. I’m not going to be blackmailed!”
“The affair does not concern me,” I replied. “What I hear in your presence I never repeat.”
“I’m glad you appreciate your position,” he answered. “I’m a good employer to those who trust me, but an infernally bad one to those who doubt, who blunder, or who betray me, as you have probably learned,” he said in a hard voice, as we swung into the handsome lodge gates of Overstow.
Just before luncheon Rayne was called to thetelephone. I was in the room at the time. He apparently recognized the voice, and scribbled something upon the pad before him.
“Will you repeat that?” he asked. “I want to be quite clear.”
Then he listened again very intently.
“Right! I’ll be with you at ten to-night,” he replied, and then hung up the receiver.
“I must go to London,” he said, turning to me. “You’ll drive me into York, and I can catch the four-thirty up. You stay here and meet that Italian chap to-morrow at six, and tell him that I’m up at Half Moon Street. Give him my address, and ask him to see me there. After you’ve seen him, start in the car for London and carry out the instructions I gave you on Monday.”
Then he went to his room, changed his clothes, and came down to lunch in very bright spirits. It seemed that by the Italian’s visit he was now not in the least perturbed.
I drove him with Lola to York, where he went to London and Lola to Scarborough. Afterwards I dined at the Station Hotel alone, and returned to Overstow, which seemed chill and lonely. The local doctor happily looked in during the evening, and I played him a game at billiards.
In impatient curiosity I waited until next day, when, punctually at six o’clock, Signor Gori was shown into a little room adjoining the great hall, andthere I joined him in the capacity of a busy man’s secretary.