The efforts of some people to convert what is purely a business errand into one of pleasure are rarely crowned with success, though there are times when the process can be inversed with some degree of profit. "An extreme busyness is an invariable sign of a deficient vitality." There never was a greater truth than that. Complete enjoyment of the picturesque argues the possession of a large capacity for dreaming and dawdling. One must, so to speak, supply one's own atmosphere, steep one's self in romance, acquaint one's self with the mystery of the past for the toning down of an all-too-obvious present. The successful pursuit of pleasure is every whit as arduous as the compilation of pounds, shillings, and pence. Nay, more so, because for every man who achieves the one, there are a thousand who achieve the other. True enjoyment is, of all prey, the most elusive--the most horribly tantalizing. You think you have it, and "heigh, presto!" the wily thing is "right about face," and grinning at you half a mile away! Call art a jealous mistress if you will. Pleasure is twin sister to her. She demands and will have, the absolute abandonment of you--all or nothing.
And so it was that neither Aldean nor Olive succeeded in extracting any pleasure out of their well-nigh meteoric flight to Florence. They could not give themselves up to the thing. Their object was ever before them, and they were conscious only of it and the hundred-and-one petty annoyances of a continental railway transit. They ate, they slept, they talked, they read--not for the sake of eating, talking, or reading, but merely to pass the time. They were acutely aware of an all-pervading mustiness, of the rumble of wheels, and of the fussy interference of various individuals terming themselves officers--customs and otherwise.
Each station seemed more draughty than the last, and with each mile it seemed to grow more cold. At last--in the early morning of the second day--they found themselves at the Florence Centrale, in a temperature and fog which would have done credit to the estuary of the Thames.
From Milan Aldean, ever practical, had telegraphed for rooms to the Hotel Magenta; and thither they proceeded in course of time, in what is known as an omnibus. A good breakfast, and both of them felt more at peace with themselves, though Olive had to give in and lie down for an hour or so. Aldean, whom nothing seemed to tire, shaved and bathed. He dressed himself in fresh clothes and felt as fresh as paint. (The simile was his own). Then, lighting a strong cigar--former experience had proved to him the luxury of tobacco in these parts--he took a brisk walk for the consideration of campaign details.
In a city of the size of Florence you have the disadvantage of being able to run up against your next-door neighbour half-a-dozen times a day. From the Via Tornabouni--haunted byforestieri--to the end of the Lung 'Arno or Cascine Gardens is no very great stretch, and here, in the Hyde Park of Florence, Aldean had a notion that his stroll might prove most profitable. Failing that--the gentleman of whom he was in search having no very pronounced artistic cravings--he argued that Giacoso's rather than the Duomo, the Gambrinus Bier Halle rather than the Uffizi should prove remunerative as a hunting ground. But nowhere had he any luck. Perchance it was that Messieurs Semberry and friend were resting for the moment. At all events, they showed no signs of life, and Aldean, having drawn blank, returned to the hotel.
Olive was up and waiting for him--sufficiently refreshed, she said, to get to business straight away. That their conversation might be unfettered--it was certain to revolve round the one topic--they lunched in a private room.
Aldean deplored his bad luck. "It's worse than looking for a needle in a haystack," he declared.
"Have you examined the visitors' list?" asked Olive.
"No--no use. Semberry only arrived yesterday. They require somewhat longer notice for these things in this part of the world. As to Carson--well, of course, he will not be known as Carson here, and for his other name we can hardly look, seeing we don't know it."
"What do you think is best to be done, then?"
"Well, Mrs. Carson," said Aldean, reflectively, "I think perhaps you had better stay in this afternoon. It might frighten these young birds did they happen to see you. They won't take so much notice of me; at all events, they would not be likely to connect me with the business. I'll walk round the town and keep my eyes open! Somewhere about five I'll drive in the Cascine. If they show anywhere it will probably be in the gardens."
"And if you do see them?"
"Oh, I'll keep them in sight, be sure. My next step then will depend upon what they say or do. Semberry I can manage by threatening to report his conduct at the War Office; but it will not be so easy to deal with Carson."
"I think it will," said Olive, scornfully. "The man is a poor, cowardly creature. You can terrorize him into obedience."
"In that case, I'll bring him here and let you deal with him. When we get the truth out of him I shall--let me see," mused Aldean, "did I promise Tui to kick him or drown him? One of the two, I'm sure."
"I almost despair of ever getting the money back," said Olive.
"Depends upon what he has done with it. I expect we shall have to get him arrested, after all, and prove that he has annexed that fifty thousand pounds under false pretences. The British Consul will help me in all that. In the mean time I'll bring him here if I can."
Olive agreed that this seemed about the most feasible line of action. She remained at home--glad indeed of the opportunity for rest--while her coadjutor cast around for the trail. But in all his peregrinations Jim caught no glimpse of those he was in search of. In no very good temper he hailed a carriage and drove to the Cascine Gardens. His last hope lay in that direction.
"If I don't see them here," he grumbled, "there's no chance of coming across them to-night. I dare say I shall have to persuade the Consul to take up the matter, after all."
As the wretched vettura bumped over the pavement of the Lung 'Arno, Aldean scanned the faces of the chattering and gesticulating crowd. The sun was dying in splendour over Bello Sguardo Hill. The river--yet to be swollen by its winter rains--caught up the golden light, and spread it over its vast gravel bed. To the green avenue of the Cascine a variety of carriages, from the springless conveyance of the streets to the imposing equipage emblazoned with armorial bearings commensurate in size only with the age of the families they represented, were hurrying there to parade between the mounted gendarmes at either end. These latter were quite admirable in their capacity of ornate signposts. Aldean found plenty to amuse him, but still there was no sign of either fugitive. His patience was beginning to show signs of wear, though there was no one to observe them but the cocchiere, and he was impervious to everything of that nature. Just then he became conscious of a man and a woman talking and laughing together in a smart green victoria. They were travelling in the same direction as himself, and, as they passed him, he noticed the coachman was in livery. With something like a sigh of relief Aldean leaned forward to instruct his man to follow--a somewhat difficult task to him, for his Italian was none of the best in his calmest of moments.
"Cocchiere! Carozza! la carozza verdi, subito, presto." The Italian jehu nodded and cracked his whip. At the same moment the green victoria was stopped in the crowd. In another moment he would have been alongside. "No, no!" shouted Aldean, laying his hand on the man's arm. The bewildered cocchiere pulled up. Then Carson's carriage began to move out of the throng. "Si! Si!" cried Aldean, in answer to the interrogative aspect of his coachman. "Adagio! piano! slow, you fool!"
Jim's driver became suddenly inspired. He caught sight of a lady in the green carriage. He was evidently driving a jealous husband bent upon the spoliation of an intrigue. This appealed to him in every way. With the greatest skill he kept in the rear of Carson's vehicle, and turned only to hold up his five fingers twice. "Dieci lire!" he said, as his inspirations--now aspirations--took definite shape.
"Si! si! venti lire si vi piace! adagio! comprenez? Parlezvous Francais? non! ah quelle dommage. Allez! piano! Go slow, you ass!" Thus did Aldean frantically endeavour to make himself clear. But those two words, "venti lire," had done their work, and Jim congratulated himself on his linguistic attainments. "Easier job than I thought," he said to himself. "I'll stick to Carson till I catch him. The brute! he doesn't know I am at his tail. Gigglin' and laughin' with that girl--hang him! hang her! hang 'em both!"
By this time it was getting dark, and people were beginning to leave the Cascine for dinner. Quite ignorant that he was being followed, Carson, in the highest spirits, drove along the Lung 'Arno, and in a short time his carriage turned into the Piazza Santa Trinita, where it stopped before the door of the Hotel du Sud, opposite to the column. Clara and her friend alighted and disappeared into the hotel. Aldean jumped down, and, bidding the coachman to wait, ran up the steps in mortal terror lest he should miss them. Theconcierge--a vision of gold lace and moustache--advanced with a smile, and in French begged to know what Monsieur might require.
"I want to see the lady and gentleman who have just come in," replied Aldean, in the same language.
"Signor and Signora Boldini," said the man. "Assuredly, Monsieur; they are on the first floor. Shall I present the card of Monsieur?"
"There is no necessity. Take me upstairs and show me the room; Signor Boldini expects me," said Aldean, making the best excuse he could think of at the moment.
"In that case, I shall conduct Monsieur with pleasure," replied the gold-laced personage, in his magnificent way. "Will Monsieur give himself the trouble to ascend?"
Monsieur did, and was speedily ushered into a gilded and ornate salon. In Italian the man announced that a gentleman desired to see Signor Boldini. He closed the door, leaving Aldean face to face with Carson.
Clara paled somewhat as she recognized the visitor, but she kept her head. She evidently meant to see things through. Carson shrank back at the sight of Aldean as though expectant of a blow, and collapsed into a chair nerveless and terrified. Jim looked on grimly.
"Well, Mr. Carson," he said, in no very amiable tone, "you have given me a considerable amount of trouble. What have you to say for yourself?"
"What need he say?" cried Clara, seeing that her accomplice was incapable of speech. "How dare you come in here uninvited, Lord Aldean?"
"Dare is not a word, young woman, that I am accustomed to hear from domestic servants."
"I am no servant," replied Clara, with a flash of anger.
"Thought not," said Jim, coolly. "I never believed you were, but I hardly expected to find that your real profession was that of spy."
"A spy, a spy! What do you mean?"
"Oh, I think you know pretty well. The report you made to your uncle Jeremiah was the work of a spy."
"My uncle!" gasped Clara, steadying herself by the table. "Yes; your uncle. I know all about him, so does Mr. Mallow, so does Miss Bellairs."
"My wife?" murmured Carson, speaking for the first time.
"Oh, you have found your tongue at last, have you?" cried Jim, striding over to the trembling coward. "I wonder why I don't throw you out of the window."
"This violence--this insult----" panted the man.
"Oh, don't be afraid; I'm not going to make a mess of you just yet. How dare you call Miss Bellairs your wife?"
"I--I was married to her."
"You were--under a false name, to rob her of her money. Perhaps you are not aware that such a marriage is void. Miss Bellairs is not your wife; her money is not yours. I am going to give you the chance of handing it over. Take it, or go to gaol like the swindler you are."
"How dare you call him a swindler?" said Clara, savagely.
"Because I like to call things by their right names. It's a case of speaking by the book. I know all about your Anarchist schemes, and Madame Death-in-Life, Drabble, Rouge, and all the rest of the gang. However, I didn't come here to waste breath on either of you. You come along with me, Carson, or Boldini, or whatever else you choose to call yourself."
"Where do you want me to go?" whimpered the wretched creature, looking up at the towering figure of Aldean.
"To my hotel. Come along, up with you!"
Clara dashed to the bell. "I'll call the landlord and have you turned out!" she said viciously. "You can't bully us!"
"Don't want to. Sorry if I'm not conducting the business according to etiquette. You know more about this sort of thing than I do. Ring the bell by all means, and I'll have up the police. Ring; go on."
"No, no, Clara, don't!" shrieked Boldini, leaping out of his chair at the mention of the police. "He knows too much."
"Hold your tongue," said the woman, between her teeth. "He can prove nothing, you fool."
"The police can judge of that," replied Aldean, quietly. "Ring."
But Miss Trall did not ring. She knew better. She recognized that whatever he might know, Lord Aldean knew quite enough to make the intervention of the police unpleasant. The game was up, she saw plainly. So reluctantly she yielded.
"We can do all that is to be done here," said she, sullenly, fighting every inch.
"I'm afraid not," answered Jim, suavely. "My hotel is the best place. There's a cab waiting." Then, seeing that Clara was still irresolute, he took out his watch. "I'll give you just two minutes."
Clara moved slowly across the room to where Boldini sat in sheer terror. "What shall we do?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Go, go," moaned the man. "We must go; perhaps we can make terms."
Aldean overheard the remark. "It is my right to make terms," he said, "and I make these. Give back the money; confess the whole conspiracy, and you can go where you will."
For a moment or two the pair looked at one another. Clara bent forward and whispered something in Boldini's ear. He nodded, and a gleam of hope passed across his face as he rose, holding a handkerchief to his mouth.
"We are ready to go with you," said Clara, turning towards Aldean.
"Very good. Come on."
Certain features of the present position appealed to Lord Aldean. It was his first experience of the kind, and perhaps what gratified him most was the consciousness of the power which so suddenly had become vested in him. The knowledge that in this human rubber he held all the trumps in no wise lessened his enjoyment of the situation. There still remained to play them, and he felt pretty confident that in the end he and his partner would not have many tricks to deplore. For the moment his antagonists were absolutely in his hands--the man frightened to death of his skin; the woman believing that for the time being, at least, discretion was surely the better part of valour.
He hurried them off to the Hotel Magenta, there to be dealt with by the woman they had deceived and plundered.
As he fully expected, Olive was greatly agitated. He supposed it was womanlike for her to show most anger at the sight of her whilom maid. Her husband, after all, had at no time been anything to her--for him she had nothing more than the contempt she had always felt. She ignored him completely.
"How dare you come into my presence?" she said to the woman. "How can you have the face to look at me, after the shameful way in which you have behaved?"
"Blame your friend for that," answered Clara, doggedly. "I would not have come at all had I known you were here."
"Exactly. That is why I did not think it necessary you should know of Mrs. Carson's presence here," exclaimed Aldean, smoothly.
"Mrs. Carson!" sneered Clara, with a contemptuous laugh. "Oh yes; Mrs. Carson, of course."
Olive looked at the woman with a flush of anger. "No insolence, if you please," she said. "And you!" turning on her shrinking husband--"who and what are you, pray?"
"Carlo Boldini," he replied almost inaudibly.
"Are you an Italian?"
"My father was. He married an Englishwoman."
"So I am Signora Boldini?" said Olive, bitterly.
Clara laughed again. "Oh yes! Signora Boldini," she repeated, seating herself complacently beside her companion.
The two sat there like prisoners in the dock. Aldean began to feel positively judicial. The woman was horribly insolent.
"I would suggest, for your own sake, that you endeavour to restrain yourself," he said, moving to the end of the room in search of pen and ink. "You are in quite enough trouble as it is."
"Oh, I don't mind her insolence, Lord Aldean," said Olive, quietly; "she can do me no harm."
"Don't be too sure of that!" flashed out Miss Trall, vindictively.
"Clara, Clara!" implored Boldini, "it's best to say nothing--least said, soonest mended."
Aldean, arranging his writing materials on a table at Olive's elbow, looked up. "I fear you will find that proverb doesn't apply to what is to come," said he cheerfully. "Mrs. Carson, as this lady may be called for the present, will question you sufficiently closely as to the various details of the conspiracy. You will answer her questions categorically while I write them down. The little précis will then be signed by you both and witnessed by myself."
"And if we refuse this confession, as you call it," questioned Clara, who withal was obviously uneasy.
"Oh, in that case, as I have told you before, I hand you over to the police. Now, then, come along; we have no time to waste on you. Begin."
Jim dipped his pen into the ink and waited; while Olive, after a sharp glance at the two before her, launched into the examination. Reversing her previous attitude, she addressed herself exclusively to Boldini. She judged a studied indifference to be more effectual from woman to woman.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I have told you that my father was an Italian named Boldini. My mother was an Englishwoman. I was brought up and educated in London."
"Are you an Anarchist?"
"Yes. I was affianced to the cause by my aunt, Mrs. Arne."
"Oh, so Mrs. Arne is your aunt?"
"My father's sister," explained Boldini, who was recovering his self-possession somewhat. "He was an Anarchist, but he is dead. My mother also is dead."
"Is Major Semberry in Florence?"
"No!" said Clara, loudly, before her accomplice could speak.
"Useless to lie," said Aldean, looking up; "we followed him here from Victoria Station. Suppose you put your question in another form, Mrs. Carson?"
"Where is Major Semberry staying?" amended Olive.
"At the Albergo della Pace, on the Lung 'Arno," replied Boldini, seeing it was hopeless.
"Have you seen him?"
"Yes, once--this morning."
"Have you known Major Semberry long?"
"Since he came to England in thePharaoh. I never met him before. But I had heard of him."
"From whom?"
"From Dr. Drabble and my aunt."
"Is he an Anarchist?"
"No; his connection with us has to do merely with this money."
"You have the fifty thousand pounds in your possession?"
"Yes; part of it is in Paris."
"And where is the remainder?"
Boldini wriggled uneasily and looked at Clara. She gave him no assistance, but kept her eyes fixedly on the floor. "I have the other part of it at my hotel in circular notes on the Crédit Lyonnais."
"How many have you, and what is the value of each?"
"I have twenty of one thousand pounds."
"Twenty thousand," reckoned Olive. "Major Semberry's share, I presume?" she added, with unconcealed scorn.
"Y-e-s," said Boldini, reluctantly, with another wriggle. "And the remaining thirty thousand is at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris, you say?"
"Yes. That is my share."
"We will talk of the money later," she said. "By the way," with a glance at Boldini's hands, "I observe you have recovered the use of your hand."
"It was never in need of recovery," snapped Clara.
"I guessed as much--one of the smaller embellishments of your very ornate conspiracy. Boldini, since you confess that you are not Mr. Carson, please to hand over that bangle."
Boldini shook it down on to his wrist. "You can have it with pleasure," said he, sullenly, "but I can't get it off."
"How was it got on?" asked Aldean.
"It was filed through and joined on my wrist."
"Ah, well! I am afraid that process will have to be reversed to-morrow. It can't be done here to-night. Who gave you that bangle?"
"Dr. Drabble.'
"Was it he who killed Angus Carson?" asked Olive, with embarrassing suddenness.
"I don't know."
"Come, come!" cried Jim, sharply, "the truth, please."
"I am telling you the truth," retorted Boldini "I do not know who killed Carson. I did not even know that he was killed until Miss Bellairs there asked me about the smell of sandal-wood. Then, as I read the account of the murder in theMorning Planet, it occurred to me that the dead man might be the person I was representing. I asked Semberry about it, and he admitted I was right; but he refused me all details."
"Then Angus Carson was really murdered in Athelstane Place?"
"According to Semberry, yes."
"Did Semberry say that he had killed him?" asked Aldean.
"No. He swore he did not kill him; and that he did not know who did. Drabble also declares himself innocent."
"You are all innocent, according to your own showing," said Olive, ironically; "but I can hardly believe, Signor Boldini, that you were so simple as to assume the impersonation of an original of whom you know nothing."
Clara looked up with a strange smile on her sallow face. "You evidently know nothing of the Anarchists," she said coldly. "Implicit obedience is the first law with them. Carlo was told to represent a man called Angus Carson. He did so without asking questions. How much longer is this to go on?" she cried furiously; "it is now seven o'clock. I am tired of it."
"I don't care for the Socratian method myself," observed Aldean, blandly. "On the whole, I think it would be best, perhaps, for Boldini here to acquaint us with the particulars of his share in the conspiracy straight away."
"Tell them, Carlo!" commanded Miss Trall.
"Shall I tell them everything?" whimpered Boldini.
"Everything," she repeated emphatically. "We have cut ourselves off from the brotherhood--so it really does not matter. Lord Aldean has promised to let us go if we tell the truth. You had better tell him."
"Tell the truth and restore the money," murmured Jim, politely.
Boldini winced at the last remark, but nevertheless applied himself to his most unpalatable task. He evidently intended cutting it as short as possible. He started off at top speed. Aldean wrote down the gist of what he said.
"As I told you, I am an Anarchist," he explained shortly, "and by the oath I took to the cause I was bound to render obedience. In June last Drabble came to me and stated that the brotherhood could obtain a sum of fifty thousand pounds; and that I was to help. He introduced me to Major Semberry, and told me that I was to assume the character of a man called Angus Carson, from India. Semberry had a portrait of this man, and I altered my appearance in some degree so as to more clearly resemble it. This was not difficult, as I was very like the portrait. I cut my hair short and parted it at the side instead of in the centre; I let the ends of my moustache droop instead of twisting them up. Then Drabble told me that I must pretend that my right hand was injured, and wear it in a sling, which I did. The bracelet was produced by Drabble and placed on my wrist. Major Semberry then told me all about Carson's life in India, and took some trouble in seeing that I acquired a sufficient knowledge of the country. He took me to his rooms in Marquis Street, St. James's, and made me dress in Carson's clothes, which he showed me in a sandal-wood chest. Afterwards I think that he and Drabble must have seen the leader in theMorning Planetabout the sandal-wood scent, for they took Carson's Indian clothes from me and supplied me with new ones in place of them."
"But how was it that Mr. Mallow smelt sandal-wood on your clothes, if this was so?"
Boldini explained. "There was a smart coloured waistcoat," he said, "which belonged to Carson, which I admired very much. When Drabble took the clothes from me I kept that back without his knowledge. When I met Mr. Mallow I was wearing it, and, of course, it was scented by the box. That was how he noticed the perfume."
"Did you never suspect that this smell was in some way connected with the murder?"
"No; how should I? I did not know that the real Carson had been killed; and, although I myself read the leader in theMorning Planet--which was the only report of the case I did read--I never thought for a moment that the dead man was the one I was representing. When you, Miss Bellairs, spoke to me of this sandal-wood odour and Athelstane Place, I was really and truly ignorant of the murder. It was only on reflection I put two and two together. I remembered the severed hand and the sandal-wood perfume referred to in the paper; I knew also that the Carson I represented came from India. Then it was that I made Semberry tell me the truth. He admitted the murder, but swore he was ignorant as to who committed it. Then I married you, Miss Bellairs, and got the money."
"For the Anarchists or for yourself?"
"For myself and Clara," admitted Boldini, shamelessly. "I hated the Anarchists, and grasped the opportunity to be free from them. I sold out the stocks and shares, and transferred the proceeds to my real name at the Crédit Lyonnais. I have the twenty thousand pounds here in circular notes, because I have to give them to Semberry to-morrow."
"Why did you not give them to-day?"
"Because I would only give them to him in return for the sandal-wood box and the clothes of Carson--which it contains."
"Why do you want that chest?"
Boldini showed himself in his true colours. "I like Carson's clothes," said he, with the simplicity of a child. "He had nice clothes. I am to have them to-morrow, and then I will pay him the twenty thousand pounds."
"I am afraid you will have to forego both those pleasures," said Aldean, grimly. "Your vanity must, in this instance, be sacrificed to your safety. I will trouble you to hand over those circular notes."
"They are at my hotel," said Boldini, rising with alacrity. "Shall I go for them?"
"Oh, pray don't trouble. Miss Trall can go for the notes."
Clara looked at Boldini, and Boldini looked at Clara.
Aldean made a shrewd guess that the man was attempting a trick to gain time, for every now and then his hand wandered mechanically to his breast pocket. It was probable that the notes were there. Jim expected a fight for the spoil; but Clara laid down her arms without a murmur, and instructed Boldini to do the same.
"Give him the notes," said she, curtly.
One by one they were counted and laid on the table before Aldean. Boldini winced as if he were having a tooth drawn. Olive counted them and found them correct. There were twenty notes of the value of one thousand pounds each--printed in francs on the Crédit Lyonnais paper.
"Good," said Aldean, with a nod. "Now for your cheque-book."
"I won't! I won't!" cried Boldini, childishly. "The rest of the money is mine."
"We need not argue that question over again," said Olive, coldly. "Write a cheque in my name for thirty thousand pounds--that is, seven hundred and fifty thousand francs. If not, Lord Aldean shall call up the police."
"Oh, Clara! what shall I----"
"Give it to them," she interrupted fiercely. "What is the use of fighting?"
With tears of rage in his eyes Boldini wrote the cheque and gave it to Olive. She looked at it with a nod, and passed it on to Aldean.
"So far so good," said the latter, cheerfully. "Now, Signor Boldini, sign this confession."
Without a word the man took pen and signed it, Jim attesting it with a flourish. "I think that is all," he remarked, rising. "You can go now."
"Am I not to sign it?" asked Clara, scowling.
"There is no necessity. Beyond that you are a spy, you are of small account."
"I am of this account," said Clara, furiously, "that Carlo is my husband."
"Your husband!" exclaimed Olive.
"Yes; we were married a year ago in St. Chad's Church, Marylebone. Carlo Boldini to Clara Trall. I am his wife--not you."
"Thank God!" said Olive. "Oh, thank God!"
"You are an infernal scoundrel," cried Jim, advancing on Boldini. "I have a good mind to wring your neck."
Clara threw her arm round the man. "Let us go, Lord Aldean. No words can alter things now. I am Clara Boldini, and she"--pointing to Olive--"is nothing."
"I am a free woman, at least. Heaven be praised, I never was that man's wife. I know now why you agreed so readily to our bargain," she said, turning on Boldini. "Go, you miserable creature, and lead a better life if you can."
"I have no money," said Boldini. "Will you give me some?"
"We will arrange that to-morrow," struck in Aldean, sharply. "You don't deserve any help; but as the Anarchists are after you, Miss Bellairs and I will give you some help."
"The Anarchists!" repeated Clara and Boldini. Both paled to the lips.
Without another word, they left the room. At last Aldean saw how it was. Throughout he had been a trifle uneasy at the extreme and unexpected smoothness with which things were progressing. He had not looked for the process of disgorgement to be accomplished with so little difficulty. Boldini's attitude had been subservient; Clara's altogether too unreal to convince him. In the most abject coward there is at least a modicum of obstinacy when at bay; and he could not understand how a plunder thus arduously come by should be disgorged with so little resistance. The mention of the word Anarchist explained everything to him. The effect of it upon both miscreants left nothing to the imagination. They were thoroughly scared. This, then, was what they had dreaded; for this it was they had been ready to throw everything by the board--for silence. Exposure to the police would have revealed their immediate whereabouts to their fellows. That meant pursuit speedy and relentless; and that, in its turn, meant death to them both.
For some minutes after they had left neither Jim nor Olive spoke--he, occupied with his ruminations; she, with her own innermost thoughts. Jim broke the silence.
"Poor devils," he said, closing the door, "they have worse before them than what they have just been through. And I think they know it. At the hands of their brethren they are likely to meet with treatment a good deal less clement. But what, may I ask, are you thinking of, Mrs.--I mean, Miss Bellairs? You look most supremely happy."
"I am thinking of your friend and mine," said Olive.
"Well, Lord Aldean," asked Olive, when she met her companion, hatted and gloved, in the saloon next morning, "what next?"
"The next item on our programme is an official visit to Semberry," answered the young man, promptly. "A bit early for a call, perhaps; but I'm the bird, you know, after the worm--the Major's the worm. Won't do, you know, to let him and the Boldinis come together and arrange their little plans. Union's always strength, isn't it, Miss Bellairs?"
"Miss Bellairs!" repeated Olive, after him, with a long breath of satisfaction; "how good that sounds! But about Major Semberry. For all we know he may have seen the Boldinis last night."
Aldean wagged his head judiciously. "Not likely; they'd not seek him, believe me. Now that we have Semberry's share of the loot, both Boldini and his wife would rather be excused that interview. They are too anxious about their little selves to bother him."
"Perhaps; at all events, let us hope so. Shall I come with you?"
"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind. Better let me tackle Semberry in my own way. He won't climb down like Boldini, you know; in fact, I don't anticipate he will be an easy customer to deal with at all. He'll fight," said Aldean; "so shall I."
"I can't understand now why the Boldinis gave in so utterly."
"Had to--no choice for them," replied Jim promptly. "Case of devil and the deep sea, you know. Let's assume we are the deep sea, and the Anarchists and police and all of that ilk are the--well, the other thing. You see, police would have meant publicity, and publicity would have meant extinction for them, so far as this world is concerned; and that, though probably a relief to them in the future state, was not exactly what they sought at present."
"Could we have them arrested even now?" asked Olive.
"Well, perhaps, with an infinite amount of trouble and red-tapeism, we might get the British Consul to help us so far; but that sort of thing takes time, and they might bolt at any moment. I'm glad they had the sense to climb down. It's all right now. We have the money and the confession. They are no use to us any longer."
"Yes, we have the circular notes; and they, I suppose, are safe," said Miss Bellairs, reflecting. "But that cheque, Lord Aldean--Boldini might stop it by telegram."
"He'll only tumble back into the pit if he does," said Aldean, decisively; "but I won't trust him any more than you do. Before I see Semberry, I'll drop in at a bank I know here, and ask them to cash the cheque."
"They won't cash so large a cheque without inquiry, surely?"
"That's just the point; if not, the banker'll have to wire to the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris, and we'll soon know if Boldini's been up to hanky-panky. That's the worst of playing a game like this with a rascal," added Aldean, musingly; "he's always got an ace somewhere."
"We must watch his sleeve," laughed Olive. "Well, Lord Aldean, off you go to Major Semberry, and I'll wait here till you return."
"Bringing my sheaves with me," said Jim, with a grin, and forthwith departed.
Left alone, Olive sat down and wrote a long letter to Tui, in which she praised Lord Aldean's common sense and willing help in the most glowing terms. With joy she told Tui of her freedom; how Clara was Boldini's,aliasCarson's, true wife; and how everything had gone off so much more quietly than either of them had dared to hope.
Her letter ended with a casual inquiry after Mallow, and expressed a hope that Tui had seen him. As the strength of a chain lies in its weakest link, so the strength of Olive's letter lay in the pointedly trifling allusion to Mallow. Small wonder if Tui smiled to herself at the studied indifference of those few lines. Women understand those things.
As Olive directed and stamped the envelope a knock came to the door, and a smiling waiter entered with a letter addressed in lead pencil to Miss Bellairs. She did not know the writing, but, when the man had gone, she soon discovered that the letter was from Clara. There were two hurriedly pencilled pages commencing abruptly, without date or address, as follows:--
"I don't want you to think worse of me than you do, for the trouble I brought on you was not of my making. I am--or, rather, I was--a tool in the hands of the Anarchists, and against my will I was forced to play what I know was a mean part. My father, Michael Trall, was a gentleman, and at one time very rich. But he gambled away all his money, and left my mother and myself to starve in London. I am now thirty years of age, but never since an infant have I seen my father. Neither have I heard of him; nor do I even know what he is like in appearance. But I do know that he was a bad father and a bad husband, who broke his wife's heart. My poor mother died when I was only two years of age; and I might have been an outcast in the streets but that my good uncle Jeremiah took charge of me. He had a little money, and until I was twenty we lived on that. He was kind to me; but, alas! he was the slave of drink--and, by indulgence in it, so weakened his will and self-respect that he was the prey of any scoundrel who cared to meddle with him. Dr. Drabble met him ten years ago or more, and, seeing in him a useful tool, inveigled him into the toils of the Anarchists. I tried to rescue my uncle as he had rescued me, but in vain; so, to protect him, I also took the oath to the brotherhood. I was forced to implicit obedience--I was ordered to Casterwell as your servant, in order to spy upon you. I confess that, in one sense, I went willingly--for I am Carlo's wife; and, as Dr. Drabble had arranged that he was to marry you for the sake of the money, I was jealous. I consented to keep quiet, only because I wanted the fifty thousand pounds. I had made up my mind that Carlo and I should use it, and once and for ever free ourselves from the brotherhood. You have taken that hope from us; but I don't blame you even now. The money was yours, and we swindled you. Carlo and I are going away, and you will never see us or hear from us again. He is a poor, weak creature in your eyes; but in mine he is the man I love, and I hope to be happy with him in the future--if only we can escape the relentless hand of the brotherhood. If I knew who killed Carson, I would tell you; but I do not. I suspect Drabble, since he brought the bangle to Carlo; but this is mere suspicion. Did you know the miserable life I have had, you would pity me. I am sorry if I was rude last night. I do not wish to be rude; but I am surrounded on all sides by terror and death, and care not sometimes what I say or do. You have been very good to me; and I thank you. Marry Mr. Mallow--I know he loves you--and forget Carlo and the miserable woman, Clara Boldini.
"P.S.--When Carlo and I are safe and settled we intend to send for my uncle to live with us. We will rescue him from the brotherhood. Carlo is not a bad man--indeed, he is not. Weakness is his only fault. With me he begs your pardon for his wickedness; but remember his character, his oath, his helplessness, and forgive him.--C.B."
It was a sad letter, written by a woman who, surrounded by better people and under good influence, might have remained true to the better part of her nature. By the tides of life she had been swept to the lee shore of disaster. Olive felt that in no small degree fate had been against her, and in her generosity she was unwilling to be the one to cast a stone at the unfortunate woman. On the contrary, her impulse prompted her to help Clara with money and advice--to rescue her and her weak husband from their danger, and to help them to their first step on the way to a new life.
With such philanthropic intentions she started off to the Hotel du Sud.
An hour later Aldean returned, followed by a man with a hand-barrow. It was laden with a curious-looking chest of yellowish wood, bound with brass. Dismissing his porter, Aldean had the box taken upstairs and placed in a corner of the salon. He was disappointed that Olive should be absent when he returned with this trophy of his victory over Semberry, but, to pass the time, he set to work to examine the chest's contents. A thin brass key unlocked it, and Aldean was soon so deeply interested in his search that he almost forgot the absence of his fellow-worker. By the time he had reached the bottom of the trunk, the floor of the room was strewn with wearing apparel of all kinds. The chest was literally packed with garments of every colour and pattern imaginable. Shooting-suits of rough home-spun; tropical garbs of white boots, riding-breeches, high brown boots, shirts, scarves, collars, under-wear--all more or less impregnated with the scent of the wood. But amongst all these now useless articles not a scrap of writing. Aldean was disappointed. He had fancied that a stray letter or a journal, or even a card, might have been forthcoming to throw some light on the owner's past. Yet he might have guessed that all evidence likely to inculpate Semberry, or Drabble, or Mrs. Arne would have been removed by one of them before the chest left London. Two out of the three, at least, were old hands at obliterating tracks.
With an observant eye and a careful ear Aldean overhauled the box outside and in. He rapped at the sides, pushing here and tugging there; but, so far as he could see, there was no hollow space either at the sides or below. The chest was plainly made of five thick slabs, which sounded dead and dull when he tapped them. Then Aldean turned his attention to the lid, which was clasped with two broad brass bands dividing it into three equal spaces. These were carved in the laborious Chinese way with impossible flowers and stiffly flying birds.
"Rum thing," muttered Jim, shaking the lid. "Looks like an overgrown glove-box." Round the lid ran a deep rim, fitting down on to the lower portion of the box when locked; and, on examination of the inner side of this, Aldean found a row of brass nails--ostensibly mere ornaments. With infinite patience he pressed every one of the decorations hard. He found that one behind the hasp yielded with difficulty to pressure. Two other nails, one near each end of the lid, proved equally loose. Jim pressed and pressed all three, until suddenly with a click the whole inner skin of the lid fell down, and between this and the top there proved to be a narrow space extending to all four sides. With the lid fell a long blue envelope, sealed with a coat-of-arms in red wax. "Clever dodge," said Jim, picking up the envelope and admiring the workmanship which so skilfully concealed the space in the lid. "But a chap could hide only thin things in it; there's no room for anything else." He looked at the envelope. "The Rev. Manners Brock, Casterwell," he read. "Jupiter! that's queer. Wonder what's inside? feels like dozens of pages. 'Spose this is a letter from Carson, senior, to his old friend. Wonder why Carson, junior, hid it so carefully?"
While he was turning it over, his fingers itching to break the seal, and see if the contents could in any way explain the mystery of Carson's death, Olive came hurriedly into the room. Without stopping to comment on the disordered floor, or the extraordinary figure of Lord Aldean grovelling before the chest with the blue envelope in his hand, she burst out into excited speech the moment she saw him.
"Lord Aldean, they have gone away--Clara and Boldini. They left the hotel last night about nine o'clock!"
"I'm not astonished," replied Jim, getting on to his legs. "Where have they gone to?"
"The people at the hotel couldn't tell me," said Olive, exasperated somewhat at his calm reception of the news. "They paid their bill, packed their things, and went off in a cab to the Central Station. A porter wanted to go with them and look after their luggage, but Clara would not allow him. They have gone!'
"Best thing they could do, Miss Bellairs. Dare say they are afraid of the Anarchists tracking them here. Wonder where they have cleared to?"
"I went to the station to try and find out," said Olive, disconsolately; "but, although I saw the stationmaster and described the appearance, he could give no information. I believe they disguised themselves."
"Well, it doesn't matter much," said Aldean, soothingly; "we have the money and their confession. Let 'em go, if they want to."
"How did they get away without money? They said they had none."
"Another lie, I suppose," said Aldean, sagaciously; "must have had some coin somewhere. Don't you bother, Miss Bellairs; we're done with them--yes! and with Semberry too. Look here," and Aldean produced a packet of papers from his inside pocket. "Here's the Major's confession."
"Did he confess?" gasped Olive, taking the papers.
"Rather. What's more, he wrote out his confession, and I stood over him until he did. There it is, signed by him, witnessed by me, and giving a full account of the conspiracy from first to last."
"Wonderful! However did you manage it?"
"I threatened him with the War Office," replied Aldean, complacently; "told him that Boldini had owned up; and let him see that I knew quite enough to have him cashiered, if nothing else."
"Then he didn't show fight, as you expected?"
"Oh yes, he did. He blustered about his name and position. But I told him I'd take 'em both from him if he didn't own up. In the end he did. You have the gist of it in your hand. He'd have wrung my neck if I hadn't told him I'd wring his if he tried that game. First-class fighting man the Major."
"And what is all this?" asked Olive, with a glance at the sartorial chaos.
"Oh, this is Carson's chest, which Semberry was bringing over to Boldini. I made him give it to me; and for the last half hour I have been hunting for papers and things to see if I could find out anything of importance."
"And you have found nothing?"
"Yes; a secret hiding-place. Look at it, Miss Bellairs. Clever thing, isn't it? Found it by chance. Only a letter in it addressed to Mr. Brock."
Olive took the letter and read the inscription. "It's from Dr. Carson, I suppose," she said, turning it over. "I wonder what's in it?"
"Don't know! Can't be anything about the murder if Carson, senior, wrote it. If we are to believe Boldini and Semberry, the whole scheme was invented by Drabble and this Madame Death-in-Life."
"And which of them killed poor Carson?"
"Ah!" Jim shook his head gravely. "That is just the one thing Semberry could not tell me. He doesn't know."