To Hamilton it was evident that the man Krail, now smartly dressed in country tweeds, was telling the girl something which surprised her. He was speaking quickly, making involuntary gestures which betrayed his foreign birth, while she stood pale, surprised, and yet defiant. The Baron's secretary was not near enough to overhear their words. Indeed, he remained there in concealment in order to watch.
Why had Gabrielle met Felix Krail—of all men? She was beautiful. Yes, there could be no two opinions upon that point, Edgar decided. And yet how strange it all was, how very remarkable, how romantic!
The man was evidently endeavouring to impress upon the girl some plain truths to which, at first, she refused to listen. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and swung her walking-stick before her in an attempt to remain unconcerned. But from where Hamilton was standing he could plainly detect her agitation. Whatever Krail had told her had caused her much nervous anxiety. What could it be?
Across the meadows, beyond the river, could be seen the lantern-tower of old Fotheringhay church, with the mound behind where once stood the castle where ill-fated Mary met her doom.
And as the Baron's secretary watched, he saw that the foreigner's attitude was gradually changing from persuasive to threatening. He was speaking quickly, probably in French, making wild gestures with his hands, while she had drawn back with an expression of alarm. She was now, it seemed, frightened at the man, and to Edgar Hamilton this increased the interest tenfold.
Through his mind there flashed the recollection of a previous occasion when he had seen the man now before him. He was in different garb, and acting a very different part. But his face was still the same—a countenance which it was impossible to forget. He was watching the changing expression upon the girl's face. Would that he could read the secret hidden behind those wonderful eyes! He had, quite unexpectedly, discovered a mysterious circumstance. Why should Krail meet her by accident at that lonely spot?
The pair moved very slowly together along the path which, having left the way to Southwick, ran along the very edge of the broad, winding river towards Fotheringhay. Until they had crossed the wide pasture-land and followed the bend of the stream Hamilton dare not emerge from his place of concealment. They might glance back and discover him. If so, then to watch Krail's movements further would be futile.
He saw that, by the exercise of caution, he might perhaps learn something of deeper interest than he imagined. So he watched until they disappeared, and then sped along the path they had taken until he came to a clump of bushes which afforded further cover. From where he stood, however, he could see nothing. He could hear voices—a man's voice raised in distinct threats, and a woman's quick, defiant response.
He walked round the bushes quickly, trying to get sight of the pair, but the river bent sharply at that point in such a manner that he could not get a glimpse of them.
Again he heard Krail speaking rapidly in French, and still again the girl's response. Then, next instant, there was a shrill scream and a loud splash.
Next moment, he had darted from his hiding-place to find the girl struggling in the water, while at the same time he caught sight of Krail disappearing quickly around the path. Had he glanced back he could not have seen the girl in the stream.
At that point the bank was steep, and the stillness of the river and absence of rushes told that it was deep.
The girl was throwing up her hand, shrieking for help; therefore, without a second's hesitation, Hamilton, who was a good swimmer, threw off his coat, and, diving in, was soon at her side.
By this time Krail had hurried on, and could obtain no glimpse of what was in progress owing to the sharp bend of the river.
After considerable splashing—Hamilton urging her to remain calm—he succeeded in bringing her to land, where they both struggled up the bank dripping wet and more or less exhausted. Some moments elapsed before either spoke; until, indeed, Hamilton, looking straight into the girl's face and bursting out laughing, exclaimed, "Well, I think I have the pleasure of being acquainted with you, but I must say that we both look like drowned rats!"
"I look horrid!" she declared, staring at him half-dazed, putting her hands to her dripping hair. "I know I must. But I have to thank you for pulling me out. Only fancy, Mr. Hamilton—you!"
"Oh, no thanks are required! What we must do is to get to some place and get our clothes dried," he said. "Do you know this neighbourhood?"
"Oh, yes. Straight over there, about a quarter of a mile away, is Wyatt's farm. Mrs. Wyatt will look after us, I'm sure." And as she rose to her feet, regarding her companion shyly, her skirts clung around her and the water squelched from her shoes.
"Very well," he answered cheerily. "Let's go and see what can be done towards getting some dry kit. I'm glad you're not too frightened. A good many girls would have fainted, and all that kind of thing."
"I certainly should have gone under if you hadn't so fortunately come along!" she exclaimed. "I really don't know how to thank you sufficiently. You've actually saved my life, you know! If it were not for you I'd have been dead by this time, for I can't swim a stroke."
"By Jove!" he laughed, treating the whole affair as a huge joke, "how romantic it sounds! Fancy meeting you again after all this time, and saving your life! I suppose the papers will be full of it if they get to know—gallant rescue, and all that kind of twaddle."
"Well, personally, I hope the papers won't get hold of this piece of intelligence," she said seriously, as they walked together, rather pitiable objects, across the wide grass-fields.
He glanced at her pale face, her hair hanging dank and wet about it, and saw that, even under these disadvantageous conditions, she had grown more beautiful than before. Of late he had heard of her—heard a good deal of her—but had never dreamed that they would meet again in that manner.
"How did it happen?" he asked in pretence of ignorance of her companion's presence.
She raised her fine eyes to his for a moment, and wavered beneath his inquiring gaze.
"I—I—well, I really don't know," was her rather lame answer. "The bank was very slippery, and—well, I suppose I walked too near."
Her reply struck him as curious. Why did she attempt to shield the man who, by his sudden flight, was self-convicted of an attempt upon her life?
Felix Krail was not a complete stranger to her. Why had their meeting been a clandestine one? This, and a thousand similar queries ran through his mind as they walked across the field in the direction of a long, low, thatched farmhouse which stood in the distance.
"I'm a complete stranger in these parts," Hamilton informed her. "I live nowadays mostly abroad, away above the Danube, and am only home for a holiday."
"And I'm afraid you've completely spoilt your clothes," she laughed, looking at his wet, muddy trousers and boots.
"Well, if I have, yours also are no further good."
"Oh, my blouse will wash, and I shall send my skirt to the cleaners, and it will come back like new," she answered. "Women's outdoor clothing never suffers by a wetting. We'll get Mrs. Wyatt to dry them, and then I'll get home again to my aunt in Woodnewton. Do you know the place?"
"I fancy I passed through it this morning. One of those long, lean villages, with a church at the end."
"That's it—the dullest little place in all England, I believe."
He was struck by her charm of manner. Though bedraggled and dishevelled, she was nevertheless delightful, and treated her sudden immersion with careless unconcern.
Why had Krail attempted to get rid of her in that manner? What motive had he?
They reached the farmhouse, where Mrs. Wyatt, a stout, ruddy-faced woman, detecting their approach, met them upon the threshold. "Lawks, Miss Heyburn! why, what's happened?" she asked in alarm.
"I fell into the river, and this gentleman fished me out. That's all," laughed the girl. "We want to dry our things, if we may."
In a few minutes, in bedrooms upstairs, they had exchanged their wet clothes for dry ones. Then Edgar in the farmer's Sunday suit of black, and Gabrielle in one of Mrs. Wyatt's stuff dresses, in the big folds of which her slim little figure was lost, met again in the spacious farmhouse-kitchen below.
They laughed heartily at the ridiculous figure which each presented, and drank the glasses of hot milk which the farmer's wife pressed upon them.
Old Miss Heyburn had been Mrs. Wyatt's mistress years ago, when she was in service, therefore she was most solicitous after the girl's welfare, and truth to tell looked askance at the good-looking stranger who had accompanied her.
Gabrielle, too, was puzzled to know why Mr. Hamilton should be there. That he now lived abroad "beside the Danube" was all the information he had vouchsafed regarding himself, yet from certain remarks he had dropped she was suspicious. She recollected only too vividly the occasion when they had met last, and what had occurred.
They sat together on the bench outside the house, enjoying the full sunshine, while the farmer's wife chattered on. A big fire had been made in the kitchen, and their clothes were rapidly drying.
Hamilton, by careful questions, endeavoured to obtain from the girl some information concerning her dealings with the man Krail. But she was too wary. It was evident that she had some distinct object in concealing the fact that he had deliberately flung her into the water after that heated altercation.
Felix Krail! The very name caused him to clench his hands. Fortunately, he knew the truth, therefore that dastardly attempt upon the girl's life should not go unpunished. As he sat there chatting with her, admiring her refinement and innate daintiness, he made a vow within himself to seek out that cowardly fugitive and meet him face to face.
Felix Krail! What could be his object in ridding the world of the daughter of Sir Henry Heyburn! What would the man gain thereby? He knew Krail too well to imagine that he ever did anything without a motive of gain. So well did he play his cards always that the police could never lay hands upon him. Yet his "friends," as he termed them, were among the most dangerous men in all Europe—men who were unscrupulous, and would hesitate at nothing in order to accomplish thecoupwhich they had devised.
What was thecoupin this particular instance? Ay, that was the question.
Late on the following afternoon Gabrielle was seated at the old-fashioned piano in her aunt's tiny drawing-room, her fingers running idly over the keys, her thoughts wandering back to the exciting adventure of the previous morning. Her aunt was out visiting some old people in connection with the village clothing club, therefore she sat gloomily amusing herself at the piano, and thinking—ever thinking.
She had been playing almost mechanically Berger's "Amoureuse" valse and some dreamy music fromThe Merry Widow, when she suddenly stopped and sat back with her eyes fixed out of the window upon the cottages opposite.
Why was Mr. Hamilton in that neighbourhood? He had given her no further information concerning himself. He seemed to be disinclined to talk about his recent movements. He had sprung from nowhere just at the critical moment when she was in such deadly peril. Then, after their clothes had been dried, they had walked together as far as the little bridge at the entrance to Fotheringhay.
There he had stopped, bent gallantly over her hand, congratulated her upon her escape, and as their ways lay in opposite directions—she back to Woodnewton and he on to Oundle—they had parted. "I hope, Miss Heyburn, that we may meet again one day," he had laughed cheerily as he raised his hat, "Good-bye." Then he had turned away, and had been lost to view round the bend of the road.
She was safe. That man whom she had known long ago under such strange circumstances, whom she would probably never see again, had been her rescuer. Of this curious and romantic fact she was now thinking.
But where was Walter? Why had he not replied to her letter? Ah! that was the one thought which oppressed her always, sleeping and waking, day and night. Why had he not written? Would he never write again?
She had at first consoled herself with the thought that he was probably on the Continent, and that her letter had not been forwarded. But as the days went on, and no reply came, the truth became more and more apparent that her lover—the man whom she adored and worshipped—had put her aside, had accepted her at her own estimate as worthless.
A thousand times she had regretted the step she had taken in writing that cruel letter before she left Glencardine. But it was all too late. She had tried to retract; but, alas! it was now impossible.
Tears welled in her splendid eyes at thought of the man whom she had loved so well. The world had, indeed, been cruel to her. Her enemies had profited by her inexperience, and she had fallen an unhappy victim of an unscrupulous blackguard. Yes, it was only too true. She did not try to conceal the ugly truth from herself. Yet she had been compelled to keep Walter in ignorance of the truth, for he loved her.
A hardness showed at the corners of her sweet lips, and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then, bestirring herself with an effort, her white fingers ran over the keys again, and in her sweet, musical voice she sang "L'Heure d'Aimer," that prettyvalse chantéeso popular in Paris:—
Voici l'heure d'aimer, l'heure des tendresses;Dis-moi les mots très doux qui vont me griser,Ah! prends-moi dans tes bras, fais-moi des caresses;Je veux mourir pour revivre sous ton baiser.Emporte-moi dans un rêve amoureux,Bien loin sur la terre inconnue,Pour que longtemps, même en rouvrant les yeux,Ce rêve continue.
Croyons, aimons, vivons un jour;C'est si bon, mais si court!Bonheur de vivre ici-bas diminueDans un moment d'amour.
The Hour of Love! How full of burning love and sentiment! She stopped, reflecting on the meaning of those words.
She was not like the average miss who, parrot-like, knows only a few French or Italian songs. Italian she loved even better than French, and could read Dante and Petrarch in the original, while she possessed an intimate knowledge of the poetry of Italy from the mediaeval writers down to Carducci and D'Annunzio.
With a sigh, she glanced around the small room, with its old-fashioned furniture, its antimacassars of the early Victorian era, its wax flowers under their glass dome, and its gipsy-table covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. It was all so very dispiriting. The primness of the whatnot decorated with pieces of treasured china, the big gilt-framed overmantel, and the old punch-bowl filled with pot-pourri, all spoke mutely of the thin-nosed old spinster to whom the veriest speck of dust was an abomination.
Sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashioned instrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and, playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade:
Di questo cor tu m'hai ferito il coreA cento colpi, piu non val mentire.Pensa che non sopporto piu il dolore,E se segu cosi, vado a morire.Ti tengo nella mente a tutte l'ore,Se lavoro, se velio, o sto a dormre …E mentre dormo ancora un sonno grato,Mi trovo tutto lacrime bagnato!
While she sang, there was a rap at the front-door, and, just as she concluded, the prim maid entered with a letter upon a salver.
In an instant her heart gave a bound. She recognised the handwriting. It was Walter's.
The moment the girl had left the room she tore open the envelope, and, holding her breath, read what was written within.
The words were:
"DEAREST HEART,—Your letter came to me after several wanderings. It has caused me to think and to wonder if, after all, I may be mistaken—if, after all, I have misjudged you, darling. I gave you my heart, it is true. But you spurned it—under compulsion, you say! Why under compulsion? Who is it who compels you to act against your will and against your better nature? I know that you love me as well and as truly as I love you yourself. I long to see you with just as great a longing. You are mine—mine, my own—and being mine, you must tell me the truth.
"I forgive you, forgive you everything. But I cannot understand what Flockart means by saying that I have spoken of you. I have not seen the man, nor do I wish to see him. Gabrielle, do not trust him. He is your enemy, as he is mine. He has lied to you. As grim circumstance has forced you to treat me cruelly, let us hope that smiling fortune will be ours at last. The world is very small. I have just met my old friend Edgar Hamilton, who was at college with me, and who, I find, is secretary to some wealthy foreigner, a certain Baron de Hetzendorf. I have not seen him for years, and yet he turns up here, merry and prosperous, after struggling for a long time with adverse circumstances.
"But, Gabrielle, your letter has puzzled and alarmed me. The more I think of it, the more mystifying it all becomes. I must see you, and you must tell me the truth—the whole truth. We love each other, dear heart, and no one shall force you to lie again to me as you did in that letter you wrote from Glencardine. You wish to see me, darling. You shall—and you shall tell me the truth. My dear love,au revoir—until we meet, which I hope may be almost as soon as you receive this letter.—My love, my sweetheart, I am your own WALTER."
She sat staring at the letter. He demanded an explanation. He intended to come there and demand it! And the explanation was one which she dared not give. Rather that she took her own life than tell him the ghastly circumstances.
He had met an old chum named Hamilton. Was this the Mr. Hamilton who had snatched her from that deadly peril? The name of Hetzendorf sounded to be Austrian or German. How strange if Mr. Hamilton her rescuer were the same man who had been years ago her lover's college friend!
She passed her white hand across her brow, trying to collect her senses.
She had longed—ah, with such an intense longing!—for a response to that letter of hers, and here at last it had come. But what a response! He intended her to make confession. He demanded to know the actual truth. What could she do? How should she act?
Holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room in utter despair.
He loved her. His words of reassurance brought her great comfort. But he wished to know the truth. He suspected something. By her own action in writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. She regretted, yet what was the use of regret? Her own passionate words had revealed to him something which he had not suspected. And he was coming down there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth! He might even then be on his way!
If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? She dare not tell him the truth. There were now but two roads open—either death by her own hand or to lie to him.
Could she tell him an untruth? No. She loved him, therefore she could not resort to false declarations and deceit. Better—far better—would it be that she took her own life. Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamilton had not plunged into the river after her. If her life had ended, Walter Murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a disgraceful truth. Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the thought.
She loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart. He was her hero, her idol. Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose, a sweet memory of what had been. Tender remembrances of his fond kisses still lingered with her. She recollected how around her waist his strong arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her in his arms in silent ecstasy.
Alas! that was all past and over. They loved each other, but she was now face to face with what she had so long dreaded—face to face with the inevitable. She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.
She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting inertly upon the keys. Then she lifted her pale face again to the window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent, so uninteresting. The thought of Mr. Hamilton—the man who held a secret of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril in which Felix Krail had placed her—again recurred to her. Was it not remarkable that he, Walter's old friend, should come down into that neighbourhood? There was some motive in his visit! What could it be? He had spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a strange fascination. Was it not quite likely that, being Walter's friend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the exciting incident of the river? Had he seen Krail? And, if so, did he know him?
Those two points caused her the greatest apprehension. Suppose he had recognised Krail! Suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and her defiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!
She bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves in desperation.
Why should all this misfortune fall upon her, to wreck her young life? Other girls were gay, careless, and happy. They visited and motored and flirted and danced, and went to theatres in town and to suppers afterwards at the Carlton or Savoy, and had what they termed "a ripping good time." But to her poor little self all pleasure was debarred. Only the grim shadows of life were hers.
Her mind had become filled with despair. Why had this great calamity befallen her? Why had she, by her own action in writing to her lover, placed herself in that terrible position from which there was no escape—save by death?
The recollection of the Whispers—those fatal Whispers of Glencardine—flashed through her distressed mind. Was it actually true, as the countryfolk declared, that death overtook all those who overheard the counsels of the Evil One? It really seemed as though there actually was more in the weird belief than she had acknowledged. Her father had scouted the idea, yet old Stewart, who had personally known instances, had declared that evil and disaster fell inevitably upon any one who chanced to hear those voices of the night.
The recollection of that moonlight hour among the ruins, and the distinct voices whispering, caused a shudder to run through her. She had heard them with her own ears, and ever since that moment nothing but catastrophe upon catastrophe had fallen upon her.
Yes, she had heard the Whispers, and she could not escape their evil influence any more than those other unfortunate persons to whom death had come so unexpectedly and swiftly.
A shadow passed the window, causing her to start. The figure was that of a man. She rose from the piano with a cry, and stood erect, motionless, statuesque.
The big, rather severely but well-furnished room overlooked the busy Boulevard des Capucines in Paris. In front lay the great white façade of the Grand Hotel; below was all the bustle, life, and movement of Paris on a bright sunny afternoon. Within the room, at a large mahogany table, sat four grave-faced men, while a fifth stood at one of the long windows, his back turned to his companions.
The short, broad-shouldered man looking forth into the street, in expectancy, was Monsieur Goslin. He had been speaking, and his words had evidently caused some surprise, even alarm, among his companions, for they now exchanged glances in silence.
Three of the men were well-dressed and prosperous-looking; while the fourth, a shrivelled old fellow, in faded clothes which seemed several sizes too large for him, looked needy and ill-fed as he nervously chafed his thin bony hands.
Next moment they all began chatting in French, though from their countenances it was plain that they were of various nationalities—one being German, the other Italian, and the third, a sallow-faced man, had the appearance of a Levantine.
Goslin alone remained silent and watchful. From where he stood he could see the people entering and leaving the Grand Hotel. He glanced impatiently at his watch, and then paced the room, his hand thoughtfully stroking his grey beard. Only half an hour before he had alighted at the Gare du Nord, coming direct from far-off Glencardine, and had driven there in an auto-cab to keep an appointment made by telegram. As he paced the big room, with its dark-green walls, its Turkey carpet, and sombre furniture, his companions regarded him in wonder. They instinctively knew that he had some news of importance to impart. There was one absentee. Until his arrival Goslin refused to say anything.
The youngest of the four assembled at the table was the Italian, a rather thin, keen-faced, dark-moustached man of refined appearance. "Madonna mia!" he cried, raising his face to the Frenchman, "why, what has happened? This is unusual. Besides, why should we wait? I've only just arrived from Turin, and haven't had time to go to the hotel. Let us get on.Avanti!"
"Not until he is present," answered Goslin, speaking earnestly in French. "I have a statement to make from Sir Henry. But I am not permitted to make it until all are here." Then, glancing at his watch, he added, "His train was due at Est Station at 4.58. He ought to be here at any moment."
The shabby old man, by birth a Pole, still sat chafing his chilly fingers. None who saw Antoine Volkonski, as he shuffled along the street, ever dreamed that he was head of the great financial house of Volkonski Frères of Petersburg, whose huge loans to the Russian Government during the war with Japan created a sensation throughout Europe, and surely no casual observer looking at that little assembly would ever entertain suspicion that, between them, they could practically dictate to the money-market of Europe.
The Italian seated next to him was the Commendatore Rudolphe Cusani, head of the wealthy banking firm of Montemartini of Rome, which ranked next to the Bank of Italy. Of the remaining two, one was a Greek from Smyrna, and the other, a rather well-dressed man with longish grey hair, Josef Frohnmeyer of Hamburg, a name also to conjure with in the financial world.
The impatient Italian was urging Goslin to explain why the meeting had been so hastily summoned when, without warning, the door opened and a tall, distinguished man, with carefully trained grey moustache, and wearing a heavy travelling ulster, entered.
"Ah, my dear Baron!" cried the Italian, jumping from his chair and taking the new-comer's hand, "we were waiting for you." And he drew a chair next to his.
The man addressed tossed his soft felt travelling hat aside, saying, "The 'wire' reached me at a country house outside Vienna, where I was visiting. But I came instantly." And he seated himself, while the chair at the head of the table was taken by the stout Frenchman.
"Messieurs," Goslin commenced, and—speaking in French—began apologising at being compelled to call them together so soon after their last meeting. "The matter, however, is of such urgency," he went on, "that this conference is absolutely necessary. I am here in Sir Henry's place, with a statement from him—an alarming statement. Our enemies have unfortunately triumphed."
"What do you mean?" cried the Italian, starting to his feet.
"Simply this. Poor Sir Henry has been the victim of treachery.—Those papers which you, my dear Volkonski, brought to me in secret at Glencardine a month ago have been stolen!"
"Stolen!" gasped the shabby old man, his grey eyes starting from his head; "stolen!Dieu!Think what that means to us—to me—to my house! They will be sold to the Ministry of Finance in Petersburg, and I shall be ruined—ruined!"
"Not only you will be ruined!" remarked the man from Hamburg, "but our control of the market will be at an end."
"And together we lose over three million roubles," said Goslin in as quiet a voice as he could assume.
The six men—those men who dealt in millions, men whose names, every one of them, were as household words on the various Bourses of Europe and in banking circles, men who lent money to reigning Sovereigns and to States, whose interests were world-wide and whose influences were greater than those of Kings and Ministers—looked at each other in blank despair.
"We have to face this fact, as Sir Henry points out to you, that at Petersburg the Department of Finance has no love for us. We put on the screw a little too heavily when we sold them secretly those three Argentine cruisers. We made a mistake in not being content with smaller profit."
"Yes, if it had been a genuinely honest deal on their side," remarked the Italian. "But it was not. In Russia the crowd made quite as great a profit as we did."
"And all three ships were sent to the bottom of the sea four months afterwards," added Frohnmeyer with a grim laugh.
"That isn't the question," Goslin said. "What we have now to face is the peril of exposure. No one can, of course, allege that we have ever resorted to any sharper practices than those of other financial groups; but the fact of our alliance and our impregnable strength will, when it is known, arouse the fiercest antagonism in certain circles."
"No one suspects the secret of our alliance," the Italian ejaculated."It must be kept—kept at all hazards."
Each man seated there knew that exposure of the tactics by which they were ruling the Bourse would mean the sudden end of their great prosperity.
"But this is not the first occasion that documents have been stolen from Sir Henry at Glencardine," remarked the Baron Conrad de Hetzendorf. "I remember the last time I went there to see him he explained how he had discovered his daughter with the safe open, and some of the papers actually in her hands."
"Unfortunately that is so," Goslin answered. "There is every evidence that we owe our present peril to her initiative. She and her father are on bad terms, and it seems more than probable that though she is no longer at Glencardine she has somehow contrived to get hold of the documents in question—at the instigation of her lover, we believe."
"How do you know that the documents are stolen?" the Baron asked.
"Because three days ago Sir Henry received an anonymous letter bearing the postmark of 'London, E.C.,' enclosing correct copies of the papers which our friend Volkonski brought from Petersburg, and asking what sum he was prepared to pay to obtain repossession of the originals. On receipt of the letter," continued Goslin, "I rushed to the safe, to find the papers gone. The door had been unlocked and relocked by an unknown hand."
"And how does suspicion attach to the girl's lover?" asked the man fromHamburg.
"Well, he was alone in the library for half an hour about five days before. He called to see Sir Henry while he and I were out walking together in the park. It is believed that the girl has a key to the safe, which she handed to her lover in order that he might secure the papers and sell them in Russia."
"But young Murie is the son of a wealthy man, I've heard," observed theBaron.
"Certainly. But at present his allowance is small," was Goslin's reply.
"Well, what's to be done?" inquired the Italian.
"Done?" echoed Goslin. "Nothing can be done."
"Why?" they all asked almost in one breath.
"Because Sir Henry has replied, refusing to treat for the return of the papers."
"Was that not injudicious? Why did he not allow us to discuss the affair first?" argued the Levantine.
"Because an immediate answer by telegraph to a post-office in Hampshire was demanded," Goslin replied. "Remember that to Sir Henry's remarkable foresight all our prosperity has been due. Surely we may trust in his judicious treatment of the thief!"
"That's all very well," protested Volkonski; "but my fortune is at stake. If the Ministry obtains those letters they will crush and ruin me."
"Sir Henry is no novice," remarked the Baron. "He fights an enemy with his own weapons. Remember that Greek deal of which the girl gained knowledge. He actually prepared bogus contracts and correspondence for the thief to steal. They were stolen, and, passing through a dozen hands, were at last offered in Athens. The Ministry there laughed at the thieves for their pains. Let us hope the same result will be now obtained."
"I fear not," Goslin said quietly. "The documents stolen on the former occasion were worthless. The ones now in the hands of our enemies are genuine."
"But," said the Baron, "you, Goslin, went to live at Glencardine on purpose to protect our poor blind friend from his enemies!"
"I know," said the man addressed. "I did my best—and failed. The footman Hill, knowing young Murie as a frequent guest at Glencardine, the other day showed him into the library and left him there alone. It was then, no doubt, that he opened the safe with a false key and secured the documents."
"Then why not apply for a warrant for his arrest?" suggested the Commendatore Cusani. "Surely your English laws do not allow thieves to go unpunished? In Italy we should quickly lay hands on them."
"But we have no evidence."
"You have no suspicion that any other man may have committed the theft—that fellow Flockart, for instance? I don't like him," added the Baron. "He is altogether too friendly with everybody at Glencardine."
"I have already made full inquiries. Flockart was in Rome. He only returned to London the day before yesterday. No. Everything points to the girl taking revenge upon her father, who, I am compelled to admit, has treated her with rather undue harshness. Personally, I consider mademoiselle very charming and intelligent."
They all admitted that her correspondence and replies to reports were marvels of clear, concise instruction. Every man among them knew well her neat round handwriting, yet only Goslin had ever seen her.
The Frenchman was asked to describe both the girl and her lover. This he did, declaring that Gabrielle and Walter were a very handsome pair.
"Whatever may be said," remarked old Volkonski, "the girl was a most excellent assistant to Sir Henry. But it is, of course, the old story—a young girl's head turned by a handsome lover. Yet surely the youth is not so poor that he became a thief of necessity. To me it seems rather as though he stole the documents at her instigation."
"That is exactly Sir Henry's belief," Goslin remarked with a sigh. "The poor old fellow is beside himself with grief and fear."
"No wonder!" remarked the Italian. "None of us would care to be betrayed by our own daughters."
"But cannot a trap be laid to secure the thief before he approaches the people in Russia?" suggested the crafty Levantine.
"Yes, yes!" cried Volkonski, his hands still clenched. "The Ministry would give a hundred thousand roubles for them, because by their aid they could crush me—crush you all. Remember, there are names there—names of some of the most prominent officials in the Empire. Think of the power of the Ministry if they held that list in their hands!"
"No," said the Baron in a clear, distinct voice, his grey eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the wall opposite. "Rather think of our positions, of the exultation of our enemies if this great combine of ours were exposed and broken! Myself, I consider it folly that we have met here openly to-day. This is the first time we have all met, save in secret, and how do we know but some spy may be on theboulevardoutside noting who has entered here?"
"Mille diavoli!" gasped Cusani, striking the table with his fist and sinking back into his chair. "I recollect I passed outside here a man I know—a man who knows me. He was standing on the kerb. He saw me. His name is Krail—Felix Krail!"
"Is he still there?" cried the men, as with one accord they left their chairs and dashed eagerly across to the window.
"Krail!" cried the Russian in alarm. "Where is he?"
"See!" the Italian pointed out, "see the man in black yonder, standing there near thekiosque, smoking a cigarette. He is still watching. He has seen us meet here!"
"Ah!" said the Baron in a hoarse voice, "I said so. To meet openly like this was far too great a risk. Nobody knew anything of Lénard et Morellet of the Boulevard des Capucines except that they were unimportant financiers. To-morrow the world will know who they really are. Messieurs, we are the victims of a very clever ruse. We have been so tricked that we have been actually summoned here and our identity disclosed!"
The five monarchs of finance stood staring at each other in absolute silence.
"Well, you and your friend Felix have placed me in a very pleasant position, haven't you?" asked Lady Heyburn of Flockart, who had just entered the green-and-white morning-room at Park Street. "I hope now that you're satisfied with your blunder!"
The man addressed, in a well-cut suit of grey, a fancy vest, and patent-leather boots, still carrying his hat and stick in his hand, turned to her in surprise.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "I arrived from Paris at five this morning, and I've brought you good news."
"Nonsense!" cried the woman, starting from her chair in anger. "You can't deceive me any longer."
"Krail has discovered the whole game. The syndicate held a meeting at the office in Paris. He and I watched the arrivals. We now know who they are, and exactly what they are doing. By Jove! we never dreamed that your husband, blind though he is, is head of such a smart and influential group. Why, they're the first in Europe."
"What does that matter? Krail wants money, so do we; but even with all your wonderful schemes we get none!"
"Wait, my dear Winnie, remain patient, and we shall obtain plenty."
It was indeed strange for a woman within that smart town-house, and with her electric brougham at the door, to complain of poverty. The house had been a centre of political activity in the days before Sir Henry met with that terrible affliction. The room in which the pair stood had been the scene of many a private and momentous conference, and in the big drawing-room upstairs many a Cabinet Minister had bent over the hand of the fair Lady Heyburn.
Into the newly decorated room, with its original Adams ceiling, its dead-white panelling and antique overmantel, shone the morning sun, weak and yellow as it always is in London in the spring-time.
Lady Heyburn, dressed in a smart walking-gown of grey, pushed her fluffy fair hair from her brow, while upon her face was an expression which told of combined fear and anger.
Her visitor was surprised. After that watchful afternoon in the Boulevard des Capucines, he had sat in a corner of the Café Terminus listening to Krail, who rubbed his hands with delight and declared that he now held the most powerful group in Europe in the hollow of his hand.
For the past six years or so giganticcoupshad been secured by that unassuming and apparently third-rate financial house of Lénard et Morellet. From a struggling firm they had within a year grown into one whose wealth seemed inexhaustible, and whose balances at the Credit Lyonnais, the Société Générale, and the Comptoir d'Escompte were possibly the largest of any of the customers of those great corporations. The financial world of Europe had wondered. It was a mystery who was behind Lénard et Morellet, the pair of steady-going, highly respectable business men who lived in unostentatious comfort, the former at Enghien, just outside Paris, and the latter out in the country at Melum. The mystery was so well and so carefully preserved that not even the bankers themselves could obtain knowledge of the truth.
Krail had, however, after nearly two years of clever watching and ingenious subterfuge, succeeded, by placing the group in a "hole" in calling them together. That they met, and often, was undoubted. But where they met, and how, was still a complete mystery.
As Flockart had sat that previous afternoon listening to Krail's unscrupulous and self-confident proposals, he had remained in silent wonder at the man's audacious attitude. Nothing deterred him, nothing daunted him.
Flockart had returned that night from Paris, gone to his chambers in Half-Moon Street, breakfasted, dressed, and had now called upon her ladyship in order to impart to her the good news. Yet, instead of welcoming him, she only treated him with resentment and scorn. He knew the quick flash of those eyes, he had seen it before on other occasions. This was not the first time they had quarrelled, yet he, keen-witted and cunning, had always held her powerless to elude him, had always compelled her to give him the sums he so constantly demanded. That morning, however, she was distinctly resentful, distinctly defiant.
For an instant he turned from her, biting his lip in annoyance. When facing her again, he smiled, asking, "Tell me, Winnie, what does all this mean?"
"Mean!" echoed the Baronet's wife. "Mean! How can you ask me that question? Look at me—a ruined woman! And you——"
"Speak out!" he cried. "What has happened?"
"You surely know what has happened. You have treated me like the cur you are—and that is speaking plainly. You've sacrificed me in order to save yourself."
"From what?"
"From exposure. To me, ruin is not a matter of days, but of hours."
"You're speaking in enigmas. I don't understand you," he cried impatiently. "Krail and I have at last been successful. We know now the true source of your husband's huge income, and in order to prevent exposure he must pay—and pay us well too."
"Yes," she laughed hysterically. "You tell me all this after you've blundered."
"Blundered! How?" he asked, surprised at her demeanour.
"What's the use of beating about the bush?" asked her ladyship. "The girl is back at Glencardine. She knows everything, thanks to your foolish self-confidence."
"Back at Glencardine!" gasped Flockart. "But she dare not speak. By heaven! if she does—then—then—"
"And what, pray, can you do?" inquired the woman harshly. "It is I who have to suffer, I who am crushed, humiliated, ruined, while you and your precious friend shield yourselves behind your cloaks of honesty. You are Sir Henry's friend. He believes you as such—you!" And she laughed the hollow laugh of a woman who was staring death in the face. She was haggard and drawn, and her hands trembled with nervousness which she strove in vain to repress. Lady Heyburn was desperate.
"He still believes in me, eh?" asked the man, thinking deeply, for his clever brain was already active to devise some means of escape from what appeared to be a distinctly awkward dilemma. He had never calculated the chances of Gabrielle's return to her father's side. He had believed that impossible.
"I understand that my husband will hear no word against you," replied the tall, fair-haired woman. "But when I speak he will listen, depend upon it."
"You dare!" he cried, turning upon her in threatening attitude. "You dare utter a single word against me, and, by Heaven! I'll tell what I know. The country shall ring with a scandal—the shame of your attitude towards the girl, and a crime for which you will be arraigned, with me, before an assize-court. Remember!"
The woman shrank from him. Her face had blanched. She saw that he was equally as determined as she was desperate. James Flockart always kept his threats. He was by no means a man to trifle with.
For a moment she was thoughtful, then she laughed defiantly in his face."Speak! Say what you will. But if you do, you suffer with me."
"You say that exposure is imminent," he remarked. "How did the girl manage to return to Glencardine?"
"With Walter's aid. He went down to Woodnewton. What passed between themI have no idea. I only returned the day before yesterday from the South.All I know is that the girl is back with her father, and that he knowsmuch more than he ought to know."
"Murie could not have assisted her," Flockart declared decisively. "The old man suspects him of taking those Russian papers from the safe."
"How do you know he hasn't cleared himself of the suspicion? He may have done. The old man dotes upon the girl."
"I know all that."
"And she may have turned upon you, and told the truth about the safe incident. That's more than likely."
"She dare not utter a word."
"You're far too self-confident. It is your failing."
"And when, pray, has it failed? Tell me."
"Never, until the present moment. Your bluff is perfect, yet there are moments when it cannot aid you, depend upon it. She told me one night long ago, in my own room, when she had disobeyed, defied, and annoyed me, that she would never rest until Sir Henry knew the truth, and that she would place before him proofs of the other affair. She has long intended to do this; and now, thanks to your attitude of passive inertness, she has accomplished her intentions."
"What!" he gasped in distinct alarm, "has she told her father the truth?"
"A telegram I received from Sir Henry late last night makes it only too plain that he knows something," responded the unhappy woman, staring straight before her. "It is your fault—your fault!" she went on, turning suddenly upon her companion again. "I warned you of the danger long ago."
Flockart stood motionless. The announcement which the woman had made staggered him.
Felix Krail had come to him in Paris, and after some hesitation, and with some reluctance, had described how he had followed the girl along the Nene bank and thrown her into the deepest part of the river, knowing that she would be hampered by her skirts and that she could not swim. "She will not trouble us further. Never fear!" he had said. "It will be thought a case of suicide through love. Her mental depression is the common talk of the neighbourhood."
And yet the girl was safe and now home again at Glencardine! He reflected upon the ugly facts of "the other affair" to which her ladyship sometimes referred, and his face went ashen pale.
Just at the moment when success had come to them after all their ingenuity and all their endeavours—just at a moment when they could demand and obtain what terms they liked from Sir Henry to preserve the secret of the financial combine—came this catastrophe.
"Felix was a fool to have left his work only half-done," he remarked aloud, as though speaking to himself.
"What work?" asked the hollow-eyed woman eagerly. But he did not satisfy her. To explain would only increase her alarm and render her even more desperate than she was.
"Did I not tell you often that, from her, we had all to fear?" cried the woman frantically. "But you would not listen. And now I am—I'm face to face with the inevitable. Disaster is before me. No power can avert it. The girl will have a bitter and terrible revenge."
"No," he cried quickly, with fierce determination. "No, I'll save you, Winnie. The girl shall not speak. I'll go up to Glencardine to-night and face it out. You will come with me."
"I!" gasped the shrinking woman. "Ah, no. I—I couldn't. I dare not face him. You know too well I dare not!"
The grey mists were still hanging upon the hills of Glencardine, although it was already midday, for it had rained all night, and everywhere was damp and chilly.
Gabrielle, in her short tweed skirt, golf-cape, and motor-cap, had strolled, with Walter Murie at her side, from the house along the winding path to the old castle. From the contented expression upon her pale, refined countenance, it was plain that happiness, to a great extent, had been restored to her.
When he had gone to Woodnewton it was to fetch her back to Glencardine. He had asked for an explanation, it was true; but when she had refused one he had not pressed it. That he was puzzled, sorely puzzled, was apparent.
At first, Sir Henry had point-blank refused to receive his daughter. But on hearing her appealing voice he had to some extent relented; and, though strained relations still existed between them, yet happiness had come to her in the knowledge that Walter's affection was still as strong as ever.
Young Murie had, of course, heard from his mother the story told by Lady Heyburn concerning the offence of her stepdaughter. But he would not believe a single word against her.
They had been strolling slowly, and she had been speaking expressing her heartfelt thanks for his action in taking her from that life of awful monotony at Woodnewton. Then he, on his part, had pressed her soft hand and repeated his promise of lifelong love.
They had entered the old grass-grown courtyard of the castle, when suddenly she exclaimed, "How I wish, Walter, that we might elucidate the secret of the Whispers!"
"It certainly would be intensely interesting if we could," he said, "The most curious thing is that my old friend Edgar Hamilton, who is secretary to the well-known Baron Conrad de Hetzendorf, tells me that a similar legend is current in connection with the old château in Hungary. He had heard the Whispers himself."
"Most remarkable!" she exclaimed, gazing blankly around at the ponderous walls about her.
"My idea always has been that beneath where we are standing there must be a chamber, for most mediaeval castles had a subterranean dungeon beneath the courtyard."
"Ah, if we could only find entrance to it!" cried the girl enthusiastically. "Shall we try?"
"Have you not often tried, and failed?" he asked laughingly.
"Yes, but let's search again," she urged. "My strong belief is that entrance is not to be obtained from this side, but from the glen down below."
"Yes, no doubt in the ages long ago the hill was much steeper than it now is, and there were no trees or undergrowth. On that side it was impregnable. The river, however, in receding, silted up much earth and boulders at the bend, and has made the ascent possible."
Together they went to a breach in the ponderous walls and peered down into the ancient river-bed, now but a rippling burn.
"Very well," replied Murie, "let us descend and explore."
So they retraced their steps until, when about half-way to the house, they left the path and went down to the bottom of the beautiful glen until they were immediately beneath the old castle.
The spot was remote and seldom visited. Few ever came there, for it was approached by no path on that side of the burn, so that the keepers always passed along the opposite bank. They had no necessity to penetrate there. Besides, it was too near the house.
Through the bracken and undergrowth, passing by big trees that in the ages had sprung up from seedlings dropped by the birds or sown by the winds, they slowly ascended to the frowning walls far above—the walls that had withstood so many sieges and the ravages of so many centuries.
Half a dozen times the girl's skirt became entangled in the briars, and once she tore her cape upon some thorns. But, enjoying the adventure, she went on, Walter going first and clearing a way for her as best he could.
"Nobody has ever been up here before, I'm quite certain," Gabrielle cried, halting, breathless, for a moment. "Old Stewart, who says he knows every inch of the estate, has never climbed here, I'm sure."
"I don't expect he has," declared her lover.
At last they found themselves beneath the foundations of one of the flanking-towers of the castle walls, whereupon he suggested that if they followed the wall right along and examined it closely they might discover some entrance.
"I somehow fear there will not be any door on the exposed side," he added.
The base of the walls was all along hidden by thick undergrowth, therefore the examination proved extremely difficult. Nevertheless, keenly interested in their exploration, the pair kept on struggling and climbing until the perspiration rolled off both their faces.
Suddenly, Walter uttered a cry of surprise. "Why, look here! This seems like a track. Peoplehavebeen up here after all!"
And his companion saw that from the burn below, up through the bushes, ran a narrow winding path, which showed little sign of frequent use.
Walter went on before her, quickly following the path until it turned at right-angles and ended before a low door of rough wood which filled a small breach in the wall—a breach made, in all probability, at the last siege in the early seventeenth century.
"This must lead somewhere!" cried Walter excitedly; and, lifting the roughly constructed wooden latch, he pushed the door open, disclosing a cavernous darkness.
A dank, earthy smell greeted their nostrils. It was certainly an uncanny place.
"By Jove!" cried Walter, "I wonder where this leads to?" And, taking out his vestas, he struck one, and, holding it before him, went forward, passing through the breach in the broken wall into a stone passage which led to the left for a few yards and gave entrance to exactly what Gabrielle had expected—a small, windowless stone chamber probably used in olden days as a dungeon.
Here they found, to their surprise, several old chairs, a rough table formed of two deal planks upon trestles, and a couple of half-burned candles in candlesticks which Gabrielle recognised as belonging to the house. These were lit, and by their aid the place was thoroughly examined.
Upon the floor was a heap of black tinder where some papers had been burnt weeks or perhaps months ago. There were cigar-ends lying about, showing that whoever had been there had taken his ease.
In a niche was a small tin box containing matches and fresh candles, while in a corner lay an old newspaper, limp and damp, bearing a date six months before. On the floor, too, were a number of pieces of paper—a letter torn to fragments.
They tried to piece it together, laying it upon the table carefully, but were unsuccessful in discovering its import, save that it was in Russian, from somebody in Odessa, and addressed to Sir Henry.
Carrying the candles in their hands, they went into the narrow passage to explore the subterranean regions of the old place. But neither way could they proceed far, for the passage had fallen in at both ends and was blocked by rubbish. The only exit or entrance was by that narrow breach in the walls so cunningly concealed by the undergrowth and closed by the rudely made door of planks nailed together. Above, in the stone roof of the chamber, there was a wide crack running obliquely, and through which any sound could be heard in the courtyard above.
They remained in the narrow, low-roofed little cell for a full half-hour, making careful examination of everything, and discussing the probability of the Whispers heard in the courtyard above emanating from that hidden chamber.
For what purpose was the place used, and by whom? In all probability it was the very chamber in which Cardinal Setoun had been treacherously done to death.
Though they made a most minute investigation they discovered nothing further. Up to a certain point their explorations had been crowned by success, yet the discovery rather tended to increase the mystery than diminish it.
That the Whispers were supernatural Gabrielle had all along refused to believe. The question was, to what use that secret chamber was put?
At last, more puzzled than ever, the pair, having extinguished the candles, emerged again into the light of day, closing and latching the little door after them.
Then, following the narrow secret path, they found that it wound through the bushes, and emerged by a circuitous way some distance along the glen, its entrance being carefully concealed by a big lichen-covered boulder which hid it from any one straying there by accident. So near was it to the house, and so well concealed, that no keeper had ever discovered it.
"Well," declared Gabrielle, "we've certainly made a most interesting discovery this morning. But I wonder if it really does solve the mystery of the Whispers?"
"Scarcely," Walter admitted. "We have yet to discover to whom the secret of the existence of that chamber is known. No doubt the Whispers are heard above through the crack in the roof. Therefore, at present, we had better keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves."
And to this the girl, of course, agreed.
They found Sir Henry seated alone in the sunshine in one of the big bay-windows of the drawing-room, a pathetic figure, with his blank, bespectacled countenance turned towards the light, and his fingers busily knitting to employ the time which, alas! hung so heavily upon his hands.
Truth to tell, with Flockart's influence upon him, he was not quite convinced of the sincerity of either Gabrielle or Walter Murie. Therefore, when they entered, and his daughter spoke to him; his greeting was not altogether cordial.
"Why, dear dad, how is it you're sitting here all alone? I would have gone for a walk with you had I known."
"I'm expecting Goslin," was the old man's snappy reply. "He left Paris yesterday, and should certainly have been here by this time. I can't make out why he hasn't sent me a 'wire' explaining the delay."
"He may have lost his connection in London," Murie suggested.
"Perhaps so," remarked the Baronet with a sigh, his fingers moving mechanically.
Murie could see that he was unnerved and unlike himself. He, of course, was unaware of the great interests depending upon the theft of those papers from his safe. But the old man was anxious to hear from Goslin what had occurred at the urgent meeting of the secret syndicate in Paris.
Gabrielle was chatting gaily with her father in an endeavour to cheer him up, when suddenly the door opened, and Flockart, still in his travelling ulster, entered, exclaiming, "Good-morning, Sir Henry."
"Why, my dear Flockart, this is really quite unexpected. I—I thought you were abroad," cried the Baronet, his face brightening as he stretched out his hand for his visitor to grasp.
"So I have been. I only got back to town yesterday morning, and leftEuston last night."
"Well," said Sir Henry, "I'm very glad you are here again. I've missed you very much—very much indeed. I hope you'll make another long stay with us at Glencardine."
The man addressed raised his eyes to Gabrielle's.
She looked him straight in the face, defiant and unflinching. The day of her self-sacrifice to protect her helpless father's honour and welfare had come. She had suffered much in silence—suffered as no other girl would suffer; but she had tried to conceal the bitter truth. Her spirit had been broken. She was obsessed by one fear, one idea.
For a moment the girl held her breath. Walter saw the sudden change in her countenance, and wondered.
Then, with a calmness that was surprising, she turned to her father, and in a clear, distinct voice said, "Dad, now that Mr. Flockart has returned, I wish to tell you the truth concerning him—to warn you that he is not your friend, but your very worst enemy!"
"What is that you say?" cried the man accused, glaring at her. "Repeat those words, and I will tell the whole truth about yourself—here, before your lover!"
The blind man frowned. He hated scenes. "Come, come," he urged, "please do not quarrel. Gabrielle, I think, dear, your words are scarcely fair to our friend."
"Father," she said firmly, her face pale as death, "I repeat them. That man standing there is as much your enemy as he is mine!"
Flockart laughed satirically. "Then I will tell my story, and let your father judge whether you are a worthy daughter," he said.