"There is something else which I must tell you before I leave England. Come to me at once. The bearer will bring you. Come alone."Henri Feurgéres."P.S.—You will be back in an hour. Disturb no one. It is possible that I may ask you to keep secret what I have to say."
"There is something else which I must tell you before I leave England. Come to me at once. The bearer will bring you. Come alone.
"Henri Feurgéres.
"P.S.—You will be back in an hour. Disturb no one. It is possible that I may ask you to keep secret what I have to say."
"This note," I remarked, tapping it with my forefinger, "was taken in to Isobel by Mrs. Burdett at a quarter to eight. It was brought, she said, by a respectable middle-aged woman, with whom Isobel left the place soon after eight. We heard of this an hour later. At eleven o'clock we began the search for Monsieur Feurgéres. At three, Allan discovered that he had left theSavoy Hotelat ten for St. Petersburg. Since then we have sent seven telegrams, the delivery of which is very problematical—and we have heard—nothing!"
Allan laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.
"We may get a reply from Feurgéres at any moment," he said, "but there will be no news of Isobel. That note is a forgery, Arnold."
"I am afraid it is," I admitted. "Feurgéres was a man of his word. He would never have sent for Isobel."
"Then she is lost to us," Arthur groaned.
I caught up my hat and coat.
"Not yet," I said. "I will go and see what Lady Delahaye has to say about this. It can do no harm, at any rate."
"Shall I come?" Arthur asked, half rising from his chair.
"I would rather go alone," I answered.
The butler, who knew me by sight, was courteous but doubtful.
"Her ladyship has been receiving all the afternoon," he told me, "but I believe that she has gone to her rooms now. Her ladyship dines early to-night because of the opera. I will send your name up if you like, sir."
I walked restlessly up and down the hall for ten minutes. Then a lady's maid suddenly appeared through a green baize door and beckoned me to follow her.
"Her ladyship will see you upstairs, sir, if you will come this way," she announced.
I followed her into a little boudoir. Lady Delahaye, in a blue dressing-gown, was lying upon a sofa. She eyed me as I entered with a curious smile.
"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure," she murmured. "Do sit down somewhere. It is long past my hour of receiving, and I am just getting ready for dinner, but I positively could not send you away. Now, please, tell me all about it."
"You know why I have come, then?" I remarked.
"My dear man, I haven't the least idea," she protested. "It is sheer unadulterated curiosity which made me send Perkins for you up here. We're not at all upon the sort of terms, you know," she added, looking up at me with her big blue eyes, "for this sort of thing."
"Isobel left us this morning!" I said bluntly. "She received a note signed Feurgéres, which I am sure was a forgery. She left us at eight o'clock, and she has not returned."
Lady Delahaye looked at me with a faint smile. Her expression puzzled me. I was not even able to guess at the thoughts which lay underneath her words.
"How anxious you must be," she murmured. "Do you know, I always wondered whether Isobel would not some day weary of your milk-and-water Bohemianism. Your Scotch friend is worthy, no doubt, but dull, and the boy was too hopelessly in love to be amusing. And as for you—well—you would do very nicely, no doubt, my dear Arnold, but you are too stuffed up with principles for a girl of Isobel's antecedents. So she has cut the Gordian knot herself! Well, I am sorry!"
"You are sorry!" I repeated. "Why?"
She smiled sweetly at me.
"Because my dear friend has promised me that wonderful emerald necklace if I could get the child away from you, and I think that very soon, with the help of that stupid boy, I should have succeeded," she said regretfully. "Such emeralds, Arnold! and you know how anything green suits me."
"You do not doubt, then, but that it is the Archduchess who has done this?" I said.
Lady Delahaye lifted her eyebrows.
"Either the Archduchess, or Isobel has walked off of her own sweet will," she remarked calmly. "In any case you have lost the child, and I have lost my necklace. I positively cannot risk losing my dinner too," she added, with a glance at the clock, "so I am afraid—I am so sorry, but I must ask you to go away. Come and see me again, won't you? Perhaps we can be friends again now that this bone of contention is removed."
"I have never desired anything else, Lady Delahaye," I said. "But if my friendship is really of any value to you, if you would care to earn my deepest gratitude, you could easily do so."
"Really! In what manner?"
"By helping me to regain possession of the child."
She laughed at me, softly at first, and then without restraint. Finally she rang the bell.
"My dear Arnold," she exclaimed, wiping her eyes, "you are really too naïve! You amuse me more than I can tell you. My maid will show you the way downstairs. Do come and see me again soon. Good-bye!"
So that was the end of any hope we may have had of help from Lady Delahaye. I called a hansom outside and drove at once to Blenheim House, the temporary residence of the Archduchess and her suite. A footman passed me on to a more important person who was sitting at a round table in the hall with a visitor's book open before him. I explained to him my desire to obtain a few moments' audience with the Archduchess, but he only smiled and shook his head.
"It is quite impossible for her Highness to see anyone now before her departure, sir," he said. "If you are connected with the Press, I can only tell you what I have told all the others. We have received a telegram from Illghera with grave news concerning the health of his Majesty the King of Waldenburg, and notwithstanding the indisposition of the Princess Adelaide, the Archduchess has arranged to leave for Illghera at once. A fuller explanation will appear in theCourt Circular, and the Archduchess is particularly anxious to express her great regret to all those whom the cancellation of her engagements may inconvenience. Good-day, sir!"
The man recommenced his task, which was apparently the copying out of a list of names from the visitor's book, and signed to the footman with his penholder to show me out. But I stood my ground.
"You are leaving to-day, then?" I said.
"We are leaving to-day," the man assented, without glancing up from his task. "We are naturally very busy."
"Can I see the Baron von Leibingen?" I asked.
"It is quite impossible, sir," the man answered shortly. "He is engaged with her Highness."
"I will wait!" I declared.
"Then I must trouble you, sir, to wait outside," he said, with a little gesture of impatience. "I do not wish to seem uncivil, but my orders to-day are peremptory."
At that moment a door opened and a man came across the hall, slowly drawing on his gloves. I looked up and saw the Baron von Leibingen. He recognized me at once, and bowed courteously. At the same time there was something in his manner which gave me the impression that he was not altogether pleased to see me.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Greatson?" he asked, pausing for a moment by my side.
"I am anxious to obtain five minutes' interview with the Archduchess," I answered. "If you could manage that for me I should be exceedingly obliged."
He shook his head.
"It is quite impossible!" he said decisively. "You have heard of the serious news from Illghera, without doubt. We shall be on our way there in a few hours."
I drew him a little on one side.
"Is Isobel here, Baron?" I asked bluntly.
"I beg your pardon—is who here?" he inquired, with the air of one who is puzzled by an incomprehensible question.
"Isobel—the Princess Isobel, if you like—has been lured from our care by a forged message. We know her history now, and we are able to understand the nature of the interest which your mistress has shown in her. Therefore, when I find her missing I come to you. I want to know if she is in this house."
"If she were," the Baron remarked, "I, and everyone else who knows anything about it, would say at once that she was in her proper place. If she were, I should most earnestly advise the Archduchess to keep her here. But I regret to say that she is not. To tell you the truth, the Archduchess is so annoyed at the young lady's refusal to accept her protection, that she has lost all interest in her. I doubt whether she would receive her now if she came."
"Perhaps," I remarked slowly, "she has gone to Illghera."
"It is, of course," the Baron agreed, "not an impossibility."
"If I do not succeed in my search," I said, "it is to Illghera that I shall come."
"You will find it," the Baron assured me, with a smile, "a most charming place. I shall be delighted to renew our acquaintance there."
"His Majesty," I continued, "is, I have heard, very accessible. I shall be able to tell him Isobel's story. You may keep the child away from him, Baron, but you cannot prevent his learning the fact of her existence and her history."
"My young friend," the Baron answered, edging his way towards the door, "your enigmas at another time would be most interesting. But at present I have affairs on hand, and I am pressed for time. I will permit myself to say, however, that you are altogether deceiving yourself. It was the one wish of the Archduchess to have taken Isobel to her grandfather and begged him to recognize her."
"You decline to meet me fairly, then—to tell me the truth? Mind, I firmly believe that Isobel is now under your control. I shall not rest until I have discovered her."
"Then you may discover, my young friend," the Baron said, putting on his hat, and turning resolutely away, "the true meaning of the word weariness. You are a fool to ask me any questions at all. We are on opposite sides. If I knew where the child was you are the last person whom I should tell. Her place is anywhere—save with you!"
He bowed and turned away, whispering as he passed to a footman, who at once approached me. I allowed myself to be shown out. As a matter of fact, I had no alternative. But on the steps was an English servant in the Blenheim livery. I slipped half a sovereign into his hand.
"Can you tell me what time the Archduchess leaves, and from what station?" I asked.
"I am not quite sure about the time, sir," the man answered, "but the 'buses are ordered from Charing Cross, and they are to be here at eight to-night."
It was already past seven. I lit a cigarette and strolled on towards the station.
At Charing Cross station a strange thing happened. The Continental train arrived whilst I was sauntering about the platform, and out of it, within a few feet of me, stepped Feurgéres. He was pale and haggard, and he leaned heavily upon the arm of his servant as he stepped out of his carriage. When he saw me, however, he held out his hand and smiled.
"You expected me, then?" he exclaimed.
"Not I," I answered. "You have taken my breath away."
"I had your telegram at Brussels," he explained. "I wired St. Petersburg at once, and turned back. Any news?"
"None," I answered.
"What are you doing here?"
I told him in a few rapid words. He listened intently, nodding his head every now and then.
"The Archduchess has her," he said, "and if only one of us had the ghost of a legal claim upon the child our difficulties would end. She is an unscrupulous woman, but there are things which even she dare not do. What are they doing over there?"
He pointed to the next platform. I took him by the arm and dragged him along.
"It is the special!" I exclaimed. "We must see them start."
Red drugget was being stretched across the platform, and to my dismay the barricades were rolled across. The luggage was already in the van, and the guard was looking at his watch. Then a small brougham drove rapidly up and stopped opposite to the saloon. Baron von Leibingen descended, and was immediately followed by the Archduchess. Together they helped from the carriage and across the platform a dark, tall girl, at the first sight of whom my heart began to beat wildly. Then I remembered the likeness between the cousins and what I had heard of the Princess Adelaide's indisposition. She was almost carried into the saloon, and at the last moment she looked swiftly, almost fearfully, around her. I could scarcely contain myself. The likeness was marvellous! As the train steamed out of the station Feurgéres pushed aside the barricade and walked straight up to the station-master.
"I want a special," he said, "to catch the boat. I am Feurgéres, and I am due at Petersburg Wednesday."
The station-master shook his head.
"You can have a special, sir, in twenty minutes, but you cannot catch the boat. The one I have just sent off would never do it, but the boat has a Royal command to wait for her."
"Can't you give me an engine which will make up the twenty minutes?" Feurgéres asked.
"It is impossible, sir," the station-master answered. "We have not an engine built which would come within ten miles an hour of that one."
"Very good," Feurgéres said. "I will have the special, at any rate. Be so good as to give your orders at once."
"You will gain nothing if you want to get on, sir," the station-master remarked. "An ordinary train will leave here in two hours, which will catch the next boat."
"The special in twenty minutes," Feurgéres answered sharply. "Forty pounds, is it not? It is here!"
The station-master hurried away. I scarcely understood Feurgéres' haste to reach Dover. When I told him so he only laughed and led me away towards the refreshment-room. He ordered luncheon baskets to be sent out to the train, and he made me drink a brandy-and-soda. Then he took me by the arm.
"You are not much of a conspirator, my friend, Arnold Greatson," he said. "You have been within a dozen yards of Isobel within the last few minutes, and you have not recognized her."
I stopped short. That wonderful likeness flashed once more back upon my mind. Certainly in the Mordaunt Rooms it had not been so noticeable. And her eyes! I looked at Feurgéres, and he nodded.
"The Princess Adelaide either remains in England or has gone on quietly ahead," he said. "They have dressed Isobel in her clothes, and the general public could never tell the difference. You see how difficult they have made it for us to approach her. They will be hedged around like this all across the Continent. Oh, it was a very clever move!"
I scarcely answered him. My eyes were fixed upon the tangled wilderness of red and green lights, amongst which that train had disappeared. What had they done to her, these people, that she should scarcely have been able to crawl across the platform? What had they done to make her accept their bidding, and leave England without a word or message to any of us? It had not been of her own choice, I was sure enough of that.
"Come!" Feurgéres said quietly.
I followed him to the platform, where the saloon carriage and engine were already drawn up. Feurgéres brought with him his servant and all his luggage. A few curious porters and bystanders saw us start. No one, however, manifested any particular interest in us. There was no one whose business it seemed to be to watch us.
I sat back in my corner and looked out into the darkness. Feurgéres, opposite to me, was leaning back with half-closed eyes. From his soft, regular breathing it seemed almost as though he slept. For me there was no thought of rest or sleep. I made plans only to discard them, rehearsed speeches, appeals, threats, only to realize their hopeless ineffectiveness. And underneath it all was a dull constant pain, the pain which stays.
Our journey was about three-parts over when Feurgéres suddenly sat up in his seat, and opening his dressing-case, drew out a Continental timetable.
"In a sense that station-master was right," he remarked, turning over the leaves. "We shall not reach Paris any the sooner for taking this special train. On the other hand, we shall have time to ascertain in Dover whether our friends really have gone on to Calais, or whether they by any chance changed their minds and took the Ostend boat. I sincerely trust that that course will not have presented itself to them."
"Why?" I asked.
"Somewhere on the journey," he remarked, "they must pause. They will have to exchange Isobel for the Princess Adelaide, and make their plans for the disposal of Isobel. If they should do this, say, in Brussels, we shall be at a great disadvantage. If, however, they should stay in Paris, we should be in a different position altogether. The chief of the police is my friend. I am known there, and can command as good service as the Archduchess herself. We must hope that it will be Paris. If so, we shall arrive—let me see, six hours behind them; but supposing they do break their connection, we shall have still five hours in Paris with them before they can get on. If they are cautious they will go to IllgheraviâBrussels and their own country. If, however, they do not seriously regard the matter of pursuit they will go direct."
A few moments later we came to a standstill in the town station. Feurgéres let down the window, and talked for a few minutes with the station-master. Then he resumed his seat.
"We will go on to the quay," he said. "It is almost certain that our friends left by the Paris boat. We shall have four hours to wait, but we can secure our cabins, and perhaps sleep."
We moved slowly on to the quay. A few enquiries there completely assured us. Midway across the Channel, plainly visible still, was a disappearing green light.
"That's theMarie Louise, sir," a seaman told me. "Left here five and twenty minutes ago. The parties you were enquiring about boarded her right enough. The young lady had almost to be carried. She's the new turbine boat, and she ought to be across in about half an hour from now."
Monsieur Feurgéres engaged the best cabin on the steamer, and his servant fitted me up a dressing-case with necessaries for the journey from his master's ample store. Then we went into the saloon, and had some supper. Afterwards we stood upon deck watching the passengers come on board from the train which had just arrived. Suddenly I seized Feurgéres by the arm and dragged him inside the cabin.
"The Princess Adelaide!" I exclaimed. "Look!"
We saw her distinctly from the window. She was dressed very plainly, and wore a heavy veil which she had just raised. She stood within a few feet of us, talking to the maid, who seemed to be her sole companion.
"Find my cabin, Mason," she ordered. "I shall lie down directly we start. I am always ill upon these wretched night boats. It is a most unpleasant arrangement, this."
Feurgéres looked at me and smiled.
"Isobel's features," he remarked, "but not her voice. You see, we are on the right track. We must contrive to keep out of that young lady's way."
To keep out of the way of the Princess Adelaide was easy enough, presuming that she kept her word and remained in her cabin. I watched her enter it and close the door. Afterwards I wrapped myself in an ulster of Feurgéres' and went out on deck. It was a fine night, but windy, and a little dark. I lit a pipe and leaned over the side. I had scarcely been there two minutes when I heard a light footstep coming along the deck and pause a few feet away. A girl's voice addressed me.
"Can you tell me what that light is?"
I knew who it was at once. It was the most hideous ill-fortune. I answered gruffly, and without turning my head.
"Folkestone Harbour!"
I thought that after that she must surely go away. But she did nothing of the sort. She came and leaned over the rail by my side.
"You are Mr. Arnold Greatson, are you not?"
My heart sank, and I could have cursed my folly for leaving my cabin. However, since I was discovered there was nothing to do but to make the best of it.
"Yes, I am Arnold Greatson," I admitted.
"I wonder if you know who I am?" she asked.
"You are the Princess Adelaide of——"
She held up her hand.
"Stop, please! I see that you know. For some mysterious reason I am travelling almost alone, and under another name which I do not like at all. You are very fond of my cousin, Isobel, are you not, Mr. Greatson?"
I tried to see her face, but it was half turned away from me. Her voice, however, reminded me a little of Isobel's.
"Yes," I admitted slowly. "You see, she was under our care for some time, and we all grew very fond of her."
"But you—you especially, I mean," she went on. "Do not be afraid of me, Mr. Greatson. I know that my mother is very angry with you, and has tried to take Isobel away, but if I were she I would not come. I think that she must be very much happier as she is."
"I—I am too old," I said slowly, "to dare to be fond of anyone—in that way."
"How foolish!" she murmured. "Do you know, Mr. Greatson, that I am only eighteen, and that I am betrothed to the King of Saxonia. He is over forty, very short, and he has horrid turned-up black moustaches. He is willing to marry me because I am to have a great fortune, and my mother is willing for me to marry him because I shall be a Queen. But that is not happiness, is it?"
"I am afraid not," I answered.
"Mr. Greatson," she continued, "I feel that I can talk to you like this because I have read your books. I like the heroes so much, and of course I like the stories too. I think that Isobel is very wise not to want to come back to Waldenburg. I wish that I were free as she is, and had not to do things because I am a Princess. And I am sure that she is very fond of you."
"Princess——" I began.
She stopped me.
"If you knew how I hated that word!" she murmured. "I may never see you again, you know, after this evening, so it really does not matter—but would you mind calling me Adelaide?"
"Adelaide, then," I said, "may I ask you a question?"
"As many as you like."
"Do you know where Isobel is now?"
Her surprise was obviously genuine.
"Why, of course not! Is she not at your house in London?"
I shook my head.
"She is a few hours in front of us on her way to Paris," I said, "with your mother and the Baron von Leibingen and the rest of your people. She is travelling in your clothes and in your name. That is why you were left to follow as quietly as possible."
She laid her hand upon my arm. Her eyes were full of tears, and her voice shook.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she cried softly, "so very sorry. Why cannot my mother leave her alone with you? I am sure she would be happier."
"I think so too," I answered. "That is why I am going to try and fetch her back."
She looked at me very anxiously.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you do not know my mother. If she makes up her mind to anything she is terribly hard to change. I do hope that you succeed, though. Why ever did Isobel leave you?"
"She received a forged letter, written in somebody else's name," I said. "How your mother has induced her to stay since, though, I do not know. She looked very ill at Charing Cross, and she had to be helped into the train."
The Princess Adelaide went very white.
"It was she I heard this morning—cry out," she murmured. "They told me it was one of the servants who had had an accident. Mr. Greatson, this is terrible!"
She turned her head away, and I could see that she was crying.
"You must not distress yourself," I said kindly. "I daresay that it will all come right. You will see Isobel, I think, in Paris. If you do, will you give her a message?"
"Of course, I will," she answered.
"Tell her that we are close at hand, and that we have powerful friends," I whispered. "We shall get to see her somehow or other, and if she chooses to return she shall!"
"Yes. Anything else?"
"I think not," I answered.
"Do you not want to send her your love?" she asked, with a faint smile.
"Of course," I said slowly.
She leaned a little over towards me.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "do you know what I should want you to do if I were Isobel—what I am quite sure that she must want you to do now?"
"Tell me!"
"Why, marry her! She would be quite safe then, wouldn't she?"
I tried to smile in a non-committal sort of way, but I am afraid there were things in my face beyond my power to control.
"You forget," I answered. "I am thirty-four, and Isobel is only eighteen. Besides, there is someone else who wants to marry Isobel. He is young, and they have been great friends always. I think that she is fond of him."
She shook her head doubtfully.
"I do not think that thirty-four is old at all, and if you care for Isobel, I would not let anyone else marry her," she declared. "Is that Calais?"
"Yes."
"I think that I will go now in case my maid should see us together," she said. "Oh, I can tell you where we are going in Paris. Will that help you?"
"Of course it will," I answered.
"Number 17, Rue Henriette," she whispered. "Please come a little further this way a moment."
I obeyed her at once. We were quite out of sight now, in the quietest corner of the ship.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you will think that I am a very strange girl. I am going to be married in a few months to a man I do not care for one little bit, and it seems to me that that will be the end of my life. I want you to marry Isobel, and I hope you will both be very happy—and—will you please kiss me once? I am Isobel's cousin, you know."
I leaned forward and touched her lips. Then I grasped her hands warmly.
"You are very, very kind," I said gratefully, "and you can't think how much happier you have made me feel. If only—you were not a Princess!"
She flitted away into the darkness with a little broken laugh. She passed me half an hour later in the Customs' house with a languid impassive stare which even her mother could not have excelled.
Feurgéres looked at me in surprise.
"What have you been doing to yourself?" he exclaimed. "Is the fresh air so wonderful a tonic, or have you been asleep and dreaming of Paradise?"
I laughed.
"The sea air was well enough," I answered, "but I have been having a most interesting conversation."
"With whom?" he asked.
"The Princess Adelaide!"
He drew a little closer to me.
"You are serious?"
"Undoubtedly. Listen!"
Then I told him of my conversation with Isobel's cousin, excepting the last episode. His gratification was scarcely equal to mine. He was a little thoughtful for some time afterwards. I am sure he felt that I had been indiscreet.
"The Princess Adelaide," I said, "will not betray us. I am sure of that. She will tell her mother nothing."
"These Waldenburgs," he answered gravely, "are a crafty race. It is in their blood. They cannot help it."
"Isobel is a Waldenburg," I reminded him.
"She is her mother's daughter," he said. "There is always one alien temperament in a family."
"In this case," I declared, "two!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"We shall soon know," he said, "whether this young lady is honest or not. A man will meet us at Paris with an exact record of the doings of the Archduchess and her party. We shall know then where Isobel is. If the address is the same as that given you by the Princess Adelaide, I will believe in her."
"But not till then?" I remarked, smiling.
"Not till then!" he assented.
Before we left Calais, Feurgéres sent more telegrams, and for an hour afterwards he sat opposite to me with wide-open eyes, seeing nothing, as was very evident, save the images created by his own thoughts. As we reached Amiens, however, he spoke to me.
"You had better try and get some sleep," he said. "You may have little time for rest in Paris."
"And you?" I asked.
"It is another matter," he answered. "I am accustomed to sleeping very little; and besides, it is probable that this affair may become one which it will be necessary for you to follow up alone. The sight of me, or the mention of my name, is like poison to all the Waldenburgs. They would only be the more bitter and hard to deal with if they knew that I, too, had joined in the chase. I hope to be able to do my share secretly."
I followed his suggestion, and slept more or less fitfully all the way to Paris. I was awakened to find that the train had come to a standstill. We were already in the station, and as I hastily collected my belongings I saw that Feurgéres had left me, and was standing on the platform talking earnestly to a pale, dark young Frenchman, sombrely dressed and of insignificant appearance. I joined him just as his companion departed. He turned towards me with a peculiar smile.
"My apologies to the Princess," he said. "The address is correct. They have gone to a suite of rooms belonging to the Baron von Leibingen."
"They are there still, then?" I exclaimed.
"They are there still," Feurgéres assented, "and they show no immediate signs of moving on. They are apparently waiting for someone—perhaps for the Princess Adelaide. Inside the house and out they are being closely watched, and directly their plans are made I shall know of them."
I looked, as I felt, a little surprised. Feurgéres smiled.
"I am at home here," he said, "and I have friends. Come! My own apartments are scarcely a stone's-throw away from the Rue Henriette. Estere will see our things safely through the Customs."
We drove through the cold grey twilight to the Rue de St. Antoine, where Feurgéres' apartments were. To my surprise servants were at hand expecting us, and I was shown at once into a suite of rooms, in one of which was a great marble bath all ready for use. Some coffee and a change of clothes were brought me. All my wants seemed to have been anticipated and provided for. I had always imagined Feurgéres to be a man of very simple and homely tastes, but there were no traces of it in his home. He showed me some of the rooms while we waited for breakfast, rooms handsomely furnished and decorated, full of art treasures and curios of many sorts collected from many countries.
But, in a sense, it was like a dead house. One felt that it might be a dwelling of ghosts. There were nowhere any signs of the rooms being used, the habitable air was absent. Everything was in perfect order. There was no dust, none of the chilliness of disuse. Yet one seemed to feel everywhere the sadness of places which exist only for their history. One door only remained closed, and that Feurgéres unlocked with a little key which hung from his chain. But he did not invite me to enter.
"You will excuse me for a few moments," he said. "My housekeeper will show you into the breakfast-room. Please do not wait for me."
An old lady, very primly dressed in black, and wearing a curious cap with long white strings, bustled me away. As Feurgéres opened the door of the room, in front of which we had been standing, the air seemed instantly sweet with the perfume of flowers. The old lady sighed as she poured me out some coffee. I am ashamed to say that I felt, and doubtless I looked, curious.
"Would it not be as well for me to wait for Monsieur Feurgéres?" I asked. "He will not be very long, I suppose?"
The old lady shook her head sadly.
"Ah! but one cannot say!" she answered. "Monsieur had better begin his breakfast."
"Your master has perhaps someone waiting to see him?" I remarked.
Madame Tobain—she told me her name—shook her head once more. She spoke softly, almost as though she were speaking of something sacred.
"Monsieur did not know, perhaps—it was the chamber of Madame. Always Monsieur spends several hours a day there when he is in Paris, and always after he has performed at the theatre he returns immediately to sit there. No one else is allowed to enter; only I, when Monsieur is away, am permitted once a day to fill it with fresh flowers—flowers always the most expensive and rare. Ah, such devotion, and for the dead, too! One finds it seldom, indeed! It is the great artists only who can feel like that!"
She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, dropped me a curtsey, and withdrew. Feurgéres came in presently, and I avoided looking at him for the first few minutes. To tell the truth, there was a lump in my own throat. When he spoke, however, his tone was as usual.
"I shall ask you," he said, "to stay indoors, but to be prepared to start away at a moment's notice. I am going to make a few enquiries myself."
His voice drew my eyes to his face, and I was astonished at his appearance. The skin seemed tightly drawn about his cheeks, and he was very white. As though in contradiction to his ill-looks, however, his eyes were unusually brilliant and clear, and his manner almost buoyant.
"Forgive me, Monsieur Feurgéres," I said, "but it seems to me that you had better rest for a while. You have been travelling longer than I have, and you are tired."
He smiled at me almost gaily.
"On the contrary," he declared, "I never felt more vigorous. I——"
He stopped short, and walked the length of the room. When he returned he was very grave, but the smile was still upon his lips. He laid his hand almost affectionately upon my shoulder.
"My dear friend," he said softly, "I think that you are the only one to whom I have felt it possible to speak of the things which lie so near my heart. For I think that you, too, are one of those who know, and who must know, what it is to suffer. We who carry the iron in our hearts, you know, are sometimes drawn together. The things which we may hide from the world we cannot hide from one another. Only for you there is hope, for me there has been the wonderful past. People have pitied me often, my friend, for what they have called my lonely life. They little know! I am not a sentimentalist. I speak of real things. Isobel, my wife, died to the world and was buried. To me she lives always. Just now—I have been with her. She sat in her old chair, and her eyes smiled again their marvellous welcome to me. Only—and this is why I speak to you of these things—there was a difference."
He was silent for a few minutes. When he continued, his voice was a little softer but no less firm.
"Dear friend," he said, "I will be honest. When Isobel was taken from me I had days and hours of hideous agony. But it was the craving for her body only, the touch of her lips, the caress of her hands, the sound of her voice. Her spirit has been with me always. At first, perhaps, her coming was faint and indefinable, but with every day I realized her more fully. I called her, and she sat in her box and watched me play, and kissed her roses to me. I close the door upon the world and call her back to her room, call her into my arms, whisper the old words, call her those names which she loves best—and she is there, and all my burden of sorrow falls away. My friend, a great love can do this! A great, pure love can mock even at the grave."
I clasped his hand in mine.
"I think," I said, "that I will never pity you again. You have triumphed even over Fate—even over those terrible, relentless laws which sometimes make a ghastly nightmare of life even to the happiest of us. You have turned sorrow into joy. It is a great deed. You have made my own suffering seem almost a vulgar thing."
"Ah, no!" he said, "for you, too, there is hope. You, too, know that we need never be the idle, resistless slaves of Fate—like those others. Will and faith and purity can kindle a magic flame to lighten the darkness of the greatest sorrow. I speak to you of these things—now—because I think that the end is near."
He suddenly sank into a chair. I looked at him in alarm, but his face was radiant. There was no sign of any illness there.
"You are young, Arnold Greatson," he said. "They tell me that you will be famous. Yet you are not one of those to turn your face to the wall because the greatest gift of life is withheld from you. That is why I have lifted the curtain of my own days. I know you, and I know that you will triumph. It is a world of compensations after all for those who have the wit to understand."
I think that he had more to say to me, but we were interrupted. There was a knock at the door, and the man entered whom I had seen talking with Feurgéres upon the platform of the railway station. Feurgéres rose at once, calm and prepared. They talked for a while so rapidly that I could not follow them. Then he turned to me.
"They are preparing for a move," he announced. "They are going south as though for Marseilles and Illghera, but they insist upon a special train. They have declined a saloon attached to the train de luxe, and Monsieur Estere here has doubts as to their real destination. Wait here until I return. Be prepared for a journey."
They left me alone. I lit a cigarette and settled down to read. In less than half an hour, however, I was disturbed. There was a knock at the door, and Madame Tobain entered.
"There is a lady here, sir, who desires to see Monsieur!" she announced.
A fair, slight woman in a long travelling cloak brushed past her. She raised her veil, and I started at once to my feet. It was Lady Delahaye.
It did not need a word from Lady Delahaye to acquaint me fully with what had happened. Indeed, my only wonder had been that this knowledge had not come to her before. She greeted me with a smile, but her face was full of purpose.
"Where is he?" she asked simply.
"Not here," I answered.
She seated herself, and began to unpin the travelling veil from her hat.
"So I perceive," she remarked. "He will return?"
"Yes," I admitted, "he will return."
She folded the veil upon her knee and looked across at me thoughtfully.
"What an idiot I have been!" she murmured. "After all, that emerald necklace might easily have been mine."
"I am not so sure about that," I answered. "I think I know what is in your mind, but I might remind you that suspicion is one thing and proof another."
"The motive," she answered, "is the difficult thing, and that is found. I suppose the police are good for something. They should be able to work backwards from a certainty."
"Are you," I asked, "going to employ the police? Don't you think that, for the good of everyone, and even for your husband's own sake, the thing had better remain where it is?"
She laughed scornfully.
"You would have me let the man go free who shot another in the back treacherously and without warning?" she exclaimed. "Thank you for your advice, Arnold Greatson. I have a different purpose in my mind."
I moved my chair and drew a little nearer to her.
"Lady Delahaye—" I began.
"The use of my Christian name," she murmured, "would perhaps make your persuasions more effective. At any rate, you might try. I have never forbidden you to use it."
"If you have any regard for me at all, then, Eileen," I said, "you will think seriously before you take any steps against Monsieur Feurgéres. Remember that he had, or thought he had, very strong reasons for acting as he did. Looking at it charitably, your husband's proceedings were open to very grave misconstruction. There will be a great deal of unpleasant scandal if the story is raked up again, and Isobel's whole history will be told in court. How will that suit the Archduchess?"
"Not at all," Lady Delahaye admitted frankly; "but the Archduchess is not the only person to be considered. You seem to forget that this is no trifling matter. It is a murderer whom you are shielding, the man who killed my husband whom you would have me let go free."
"Technically," I admitted, "not actually. Your husband did not die of his wound. He was in a very bad state of health."
"I cannot recognize the distinction," Lady Delahaye declared coldly. "He died from shock following it."
"Consider for a moment the position of Monsieur Feurgéres," I pleaded. "Isobel was the only child of the woman whom he had dearly loved. The care of her was a charge upon his conscience and upon his honour. Any open association with him he felt might be to her detriment later on in life. All that he could do was to watch over her from a distance. He saw her, as he imagined, in danger. What course was open to him? Forget for the moment that Major Delahaye was your husband. Put yourself in the place of Feurgéres. What could he do but strike?"
"He broke the law," she said coldly, "the law of men and of God. He must take the consequences. I am not a vindictive woman. I would have forgiven him for making a scene, for striking my husband, or taking away the child by force. But he went too far."
"Have you," I asked, "been to the police?"
"Not yet."
I caught at this faint hope.
"You came here to see him first? You have something to propose—some compromise?"
She shook her head slowly.
"Between Monsieur Feurgéres and myself," she said, "there can be no question of anything of the sort. There is nothing which he could offer me, nothing within his power to offer, which could influence me in the slightest."
"Then why," I asked, "are you here?"
"To see you," she answered. "I want to ask you this, Arnold. You wish Monsieur Feurgéres to go free. You wish to stay my hand. What price are you willing to pay?"
I looked at her blankly. As yet her meaning was hidden from me.
"Any price!" I declared.
Then she leaned over towards me.
"What is he to you, Arnold—this man?" she asked softly. "You are wonderfully loyal to some of your friends."
"I know the story of his life," I answered, "and it is enough. Besides, he is an old man, and I fancy that his health is failing. Let him end his days in peace. You will never regret it, Eileen. If my gratitude is worth anything to you——"
"I want," she interrupted, "more than your gratitude."
We sat looking at each other for a moment in a silence which I for my part could not have broken. I read in her face, in her altered expression, and the softened gleam of her eyes, all that I was expected to read. I said nothing.
"It is not so very many years, Arnold," she went on, "since you cared for me, or said that you did. I have not changed so much, have I? Give up this senseless pursuit of a child. Oh, you guard your secret very bravely, but you cannot hide the truth from me. It is not all philanthropy which has made you such a squire of dames. You believe that you care for her—that child! Arnold, it is a foolish fancy. You belong to different hemispheres; you are twice her age. It will be years before she can even realize what life and love may be. Give it all up. She is in safe hands now. Come back to London with me, and Monsieur Feurgéres shall go free."
"Monsieur Feurgéres, Madame, thanks you!"
He had entered the room softly, and stood at the end of the screen. Lady Delahaye's face darkened.
"May I ask, sir, how long you have been playing the eavesdropper?" she demanded.
"Not so long, Madame, as I should have desired," he answered, "yet long enough to understand this. My young friend here seems to be trying to bargain with you for my safety. Madame, I cannot allow it. If your silence is indeed to be bought, the terms must be arranged between you and me."
She looked at him a trifle insolently.
"I have already explained to Mr. Greatson," she remarked, "that bargaining between you and me is impossible because you have nothing to offer which could tempt me."
"And Mr. Greatson has?"
"That, Monsieur," she answered, "is between Mr. Greatson and myself."
Monsieur Feurgéres stood his ground.
"Lady Delahaye," he said, "I want you to listen to me for a moment. It is not a justification which I am attempting. It is just a word or two of explanation, to which I trust you will not refuse to listen."
"If you think it worth while," she answered coldly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Who can tell! I have the fancy, however, to assure you that what took place that day at the Café Grand was not the impulsive act of a man inspired with a homicidal mania, but was the necessary outcome of a long sequence of events. You know the peculiar relations existing between Isobel and myself. I had not the right to approach her, or to assume any overt act of guardianship. Any association with me would at once have imperilled any chance she may have possessed of being restored to her rightful position at Waldenburg. I accordingly could only watch over her by means of spies. This I have always done."
"With what object, Monsieur Feurgéres?" Lady Delahaye asked. "You could never have interfered."
"The care of Isobel—the distant care of her—was a charge laid upon me by her mother," Feurgéres answered. "It was therefore sacred. I trusted to Fate to find those who might intervene where I dared not, and Fate sent me at a very critical moment Mr. Arnold Greatson. Lady Delahaye, to speak ill of a woman is no pleasant task—to speak ill of the dead is more painful still. Yet these are facts. The Archduchess was willing to go to any lengths to prevent Isobel's creditable and honourable appearance in Waldenburg. It was the Archduchess who, after what she has termed her sister's disgrace, sent Isobel secretly to the convent, and your husband, Lady Delahaye, who took her there. It was your husband who brought her away, and it was the announcement of his visit to the convent, and an ill-advised confidence to a friend at his club in Paris, which brought me home from America. I will only say that I had reason to suspect Major Delahaye as the guardian of Isobel—even the Archduchess was ignorant of the position which he had assumed. Since I became a player there are many who forget that my family is noble. Major Delahaye was one of these. He returned a letter which I wrote to him with a contemptuous remark only. My friend the Duc d'Autrien saw him on my behalf. From him your husband received a second and a very plain warning. He disregarded it. Once more I wrote. I warned him that if he took Isobel from the convent he went to his death. That is all!"
There was a silence. Lady Delahaye was very pale. She looked imploringly at me.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," she said, "I am not your judge. I do not wish to seem vindictive. Will you leave me with Mr. Greatson for a few minutes?"
"Madame, I cannot," he answered gravely. "Apart from the fact that I decline to have my safety purchased for me, especially by one to whom I already owe too much, it is necessary that Mr. Greatson leaves this house within the next quarter of an hour."
I sprang to my feet. I forgot Lady Delahaye. I forgot that this man's life and freedom rested at her disposal. The great selfishness was upon me.
"I am ready!" I exclaimed.
Lady Delahaye looked, and she understood. Slowly she rose to her feet and crossed the room towards the door. I was tongue-tied. I made no protest—asked no questions. Feurgéres opened the door for her and summoned his servant, but no word of any sort passed between them. Then he turned suddenly to me. His tone was changed. He was quick and alert.
"Arnold," he said, "the rest is with you. They are taking her to the convent. Madame Richard is here, and the Cardinal de Vaux. They have a plot—but never mind that. If she passes the threshold of the convent she is lost. It is for you to prevent it."
"I am ready!" I cried.
He opened a desk and tossed me a small revolver.
"Estere waits below in the carriage. He will drive with you to the station. You take the ordinary express to Marcon. There an automobile waits for you, and you must start for the convent. The driver has the route. Remember this. You must go alone. You must overtake them. Use force if necessary. If you fail—Isobel is lost!"
"I shall not fail!" I answered grimly.
"Bring her back, Arnold," he said, with a sudden change in his tone. "I want to see her once more."
I left him there, and glancing upwards from the street as the carriage drove off, I waved my hand to the slim black figure at the window, whose wan, weary eyes watched our departure with an expression which at the time I could not fathom. It was not until I was actually in the train that I remembered what Lady Delahaye's silent departure might mean for him.
Our plans were skilfully enough laid, but the Archduchess also had missed nothing. We rushed through the village of Argueil without having seen any sign of the carriage, and it was not until we had reached the vineyard-bordered road beyond that we saw it at last climbing the last hill to the convent.
"Shall we catch it?" I gasped.
Thechauffeuronly smiled.
"Monsieur may rest assured," he answered, changing into his fourth speed, notwithstanding the slight ascent.
Half-way up the hill we were barely one hundred yards behind. The man glanced at me for instructions.
"Blow your horn," I said.
He obeyed. The carriage drew to the side of the road. We rushed by, and I caught a glimpse of three faces. My spirits rose. There was only the Baron to deal with. Madame Richard and Isobel were the other occupants of the carriage.
"Stop, and draw the car across the road!" I ordered.
The man obeyed. I sprang to the ground. The Baron had his head out of the window, and the driver was flogging his horses.
"If you do not stop," I called out, "I shall shoot your horses."
The driver took no notice. He had flogged his horses into a gallop, and was coming straight at me. I fired, and one of the horses, after a wild plunge came down, dragging the other with him, and breaking the pole. The driver was thrown on to the top of them and rolled off into the hedge, cursing volubly. The Baron leaned out of the window, and he had something in his hand which gleamed like silver in the sunlight.
"I have had enough of you, my young friend," he said fiercely, and instantly fired.
An unseen hand struck his arm as he pulled the trigger. I felt my hat quiver upon my head as I sprung forward. The Baron had no time to fire again. I caught him by the throat and dragged him into the road.
"I have had more than enough of you, you blackguard," I muttered, and I shook him till he groaned, and threw him across the road.
Isobel stretched out her arms to me—Isobel herself, but how pale and changed!
"Arnold, Arnold, take me away!" she moaned.
I would have lifted her out, but Madame Richard had seized her.
"The child is vowed," she said. "You shall not touch her. She belongs to God."
"Then give her to me," I cried, "for I swear she is nearer to Heaven in my arms than yours."
The woman's black eyes flashed terrible things at me, and she wound herself round Isobel with a marvellous strength. For a moment I was helpless.
"Madame," I said, "I have never yet raised my hand against a woman, but if you do not release that girl this moment I shall have to forget your sex."
"Never!" she shrieked. "Help! Baron! Cocher!"
Some blue-bloused men looked up from their work in the vineyards a long way off. It was no time for hesitation. I set my teeth, and I caught hold of the woman's arms. Her bones cracked in my hands before she let go. Isobel at last was free!
"Jump up and get in the automobile, Isobel!" I said. "Bear up, dear! It is only for a moment now."
Half fainting she staggered out and groped her way across the road. Once she nearly fell, but mychauffeurleaped down and caught her. Then Madame Richard looked in my eyes and cursed me with slow, solemn words.
I sprang away from her. She followed. I jumped into the automobile. She stood in front of it and dared us to start. The driver backed a little, suddenly shot forward, and with a wonderful curve avoided her. She ran to meet the peasants who were streaming now across the fields. We could hear for a few minutes her shrill cries to them. Then the vineyards became patchwork, and the still air a rushing wind. Ourchauffeursat grim and motionless, like a figure of fate, and we did our forty miles an hour.
"You have orders?" I asked him once.
"But yes, Monsieur," he answered. "We go to Paris—and avoid the telegraph offices."
All the while Isobel was only partially conscious. Gradually, however, her colour became more natural, and at last she opened her eyes and smiled at me. Her fingers faintly pressed mine. She said nothing then, but in about half an hour she made an effort to sit up.
"Dear Arnold," she murmured, "you are indeed my guardian. Oh——"
She broke off, and shuddered violently.
"Please don't try to talk yet," I said. "I shouldn't have been much of a guardian, should I, if I hadn't fetched you out of this scrape? Besides, it was Monsieur Feurgéres who planned everything."
"Arnold," she murmured, "I—haven't eaten anything for some time. They put things in my food to make me drowsy, so I dared not."
Under my breath I made large demands upon my stock of profanity. Then I leaned over and spoke to thechauffeur. We were passing through a small town, and he at once slackened pace and pulled up at a small restaurant. With the first mouthful of soup Isobel's youth and strength seemed to reassert themselves. After a cutlet and a glass of wine she had colour, and began to talk. She even grumbled when I denied her coffee, and hurried her off again. In the automobile she came close to my side, and with a shyness quite new to her linked her arm in mine. So we sped once more on our way to Paris.
Conversation, had Isobel been fit for it, was scarcely possible. But in a disjointed sort of way she tried to tell me things.
"I was inside the house," she said, "and the door of the room was locked before I knew that Monsieur Feurgéres was not there—that the letter was not a true one. My aunt came and talked to me. She tried to be kind at first. Afterwards she was very angry. She said that my grandfather was an old man, that he wished to see me before he died. I must go with her at once. I said that I would go if I might see you first, but that only made her more angry still. She said that my life had been a disgrace to our family, that I must not mention your name, that I must speak as though I had just left the convent. Then I, too, lost my temper. I said that I would not go to Illghera. I did not want to see my grandfather, or any of my relations. They had left me alone so many years that now I could do without them altogether. She never interrupted me. She looked at me all the time with a still, cold smile. When I had finished she said only, 'We shall see,' and she left me alone. They brought me food, and after I had taken some of it I was ill. After that everything seemed like a dream. I simply moved about as they told me, and I did not seem to care much what happened. Then in Paris Adelaide came into my room. She brought me some chocolate, and she told me that you were near. I think that I should have died but for her. I began to listen to what they said. I found out that they never meant to take me to Illghera. It was the convent all the time. Adelaide brought me more chocolate, and kissed me. Then I made up my mind to fight. I would not take their food. I told myself all the time that I was not ill—I would not be ill. That is why I was able to look out for you, to strike at the Baron when he tried to shoot you, and to walk by myself. Arnold, why does my aunt hate me so?"
I did not answer her, for even as she talked her voice grew fainter and fainter, and in a moment or two she was in a dead sleep. Her head fell upon my shoulder, her hand rested in mine. So she remained until we reached the outskirts of Paris. Then the noise of passing vehicles, and the altered motion of the car over the large cobble-stones woke her. She pressed my arm.
"I am safe, Arnold?" she murmured, with a shade of anxiety still in her tone.
"Quite," I assured her.
In a few moments we turned into the Rue de St. Antoine and drew up before Monsieur Feurgéres' house. In the hall we met Tobain. I could see that she had been weeping, and her tone, as she took me a little on one side, was full of anxiety.
"Monsieur," she murmured, "I am afraid——"
I stopped her.
"The young lady first," I said. "She has been ill. Where shall I take her?"
She threw open the door of the dining-room. A small round table, elegantly appointed, was spread with such a supper as Feurgéres knew well how to order. There was a gold foiled bottle, flowers, salads and fruits. Tobain nodded vigorously as she drew up a chair for Isobel.
"It was Monsieur himself who ordered everything," she exclaimed. "He was so particular that everything should be of the best, and the wine he fetched himself."
"Where is Monsieur Feurgéres?" I asked, struck by some note of hidden feeling in her tone.
"I will take you to him," she answered, "if Mademoiselle will wait here."
In the hall she no longer concealed her fears.
"Monsieur," she said, "I am afraid. Soon after you had left, and the master had given his orders for the supper, he called me to him. He was standing before the door of Madame's chamber, the room which it is not permitted to enter, and his hands and arms were full of flowers. He had been to the florists himself, I knew, for there were more than usual. 'Tobain,' he said, 'always, as you know, I lock the door of this room when I enter. To-day I shall not do so. But you must understand that no one is permitted to enter but my friend, Mr. Arnold Greatson, who will return this evening. Those are my orders, Tobain.' 'But, Monsieur, dejeuner?' 'Remember, Tobain—Mr. Arnold Greatson only.' Then I caught a glimpse of his face, Monsieur, and I was afraid. I have been afraid ever since. It was the face of a young man, so brilliant, so eager. I was at my master's marriage, and the look was there then. He went in and he closed the door, and since then, Monsieur, I have heard no sound, and many hours have passed. Monsieur will please enter quickly."
For myself, I shared, too, Tobain's nameless apprehensions. I left her, and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer. So I entered.
The room was in darkness, but the opening of the door touched a spring under the carpet, and several heavily-shaded electric lamps filled the apartment with a soft dim light. Monsieur Feurgéres was sitting opposite to me, his eyes closed, a faint smile upon his lips. He had the air of a man who slept with a good conscience, and whose dreams were of the pleasantest. Close drawn to his was another chair, against which he leaned somewhat, and over the arm of which one hand was stretched, resting gently upon the soft mass of deep pink roses, whose perfume made fragrant the whole room. I spoke to him.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," I cried, "it is done. I have brought Isobel. She is here."
There was no answer. Had I, indeed, expected any, I could almost have believed that the smile, so light and delicate a thing, which quivered upon his pale lips, deepened a little as I spoke. But that, of course, was fancy, for Monsieur Feurgéres had won his heart's desire. Softly, and with fingers which felt almost sacrilegious, I broke off one of the blossoms with which the empty chair was laden, and with it in my hands I went back to Isobel.