The gusty wind had died down.
In the silence of the night I listened to the receding noise of the motor-cycle as it swept down the hill into Cromer town, where I knew Rayner would be on the alert.
The sound died away, therefore I relit my pipe, and mounting again into the driver's seat, sat back thinking—thinking mostly of Lola, and my ill-luck at having missed her.
Before me, in the white glare of the lamps upon the road, where insects of the night, attracted by the radiance, were dancing to their deaths, there arose before me that sweet, perfect face, the face that had so attracted me. I saw her smile—smile at me, as she did when first we had met. Ah! How strange had been our friendship, stranger than novelist had ever imagined. I had loved her—loved as I had never loved before, and she had loved me, with that bright, intense look in her wonderful eyes, the woman's look that can never lie.
There is but one love-look. A man knows it by his instinct, just as does a woman. A woman knows by intuition that the fool who takes her out to the theatre and supper, and is so profuse in his protestations of undying admiration, is only uttering outpourings of vapid nonsense. Just so, a man meets insincerity with insincerity. The woman gets to know in time how muchher vain, shallow admirer is good for, for she knows he will soon pass out of her life, while the man's instinct is exactly the same. In a word, it is life—the life of this, our Twentieth Century.
The man laughed at and derided to-day, is a hero ten years hence.
A few years ago Mr. John Burns carried a banner perspiringly along the Thames Embankment, in a May Day procession, and I assisted him. To-day he is a Cabinet Minister. A few years ago my dear friend, George Griffith, wrote about air-ships in his romance,The Angel of the Revolution, and everybody made merry at his expense. To-day airships are declared to be the chief arm of Continental nations.
Ah, yes! The world proceeds apace, and the unknown to-morrow ever brings its amazing surprises and the adoption of the "crank's" ideas of yesterday.
Lola had called to see me. That fact conjured up in my imagination a thousand startling theories.
Why?
Why had she called, after all that had passed between us?
I waited, waited for the coming of that mysterious cyclist, who arose from nowhere, and whose business with Jules Jeanjean was of such vast and secret importance.
The very fact of Jeanjean being in Cromer had staggered me. As I sat there smoking, and listening, I recollected when last I had heard mention of his name. Hamard—the great Hamard—Chief of theSûretéof Paris, had been seated in his private bureau in the offices of the detective police.
He had leaned back in his chair, and blowing a cloud of tobacco-smoke from his lips, had said in French—
"Ah! Mon cher Vidal, we are face to face in this affair with Jules Jeanjean, the most ingenious and most elusive criminal that we have met this century in France. In other walks of life Jeanjean would have been a great man—a millionaire financier, a Ministerof the Cabinet, a great general—a leader of men. But in the circumstances this arch-adventurer, who slips through our fingers, no matter what trap we set for him, is a criminal of a type such as Europe has never known within the memory of living man. Personally I admire his pluck, his energy, his inventiveness, his audacity, his iron nerve, and his amazing cunning. Truly, now, cher ami, he is a marvel. There is but one master-criminal, Jules Jeanjean."
That was the character given him by Monsieur Hamard, the greatest French detective since Lecoq.
And now this master-criminal was beneath the railway arch at Cromer meeting in secret a mysterious cyclist!
What evil was now intended?
I waited, my ears strained to catch every sound. But I only heard the distant rumble of the thunder, away across the North Sea, and, somewhere, the dismal howling of a dog.
I waited, and still waited. The sky grew brighter, and I grew perceptibly colder, so that I turned up my coat-collar, and shivered, even though the previous day had been so unusually warm. The car smelt of petrol and oil—a smell that nauseated me—and yet my face was turned to the open country ready to follow and track down the man who had swept past me to keep that mysterious tryst in the darkness.
Looking back, I saw, away to the right, the white shafts of light from the high-up lighthouse, slowly sweeping the horizon, flashing warning to mariners upon that dangerous coast, while, far away in the distance over the sea, I could just discern a flash from the lightship on the Haisboro' Sands.
In the valley, deep below, lay Cromer, the street-lamps reflecting upon the low storm-clouds. At that moment the thunder-storm threatened to burst.
Yet I waited, and waited, watching the rose of dawn slowly spreading in the Eastern sky.
Silence—a complete and impressive silence had fallen—even the dog had now ceased to howl.
And yet I possessed myself in patience, my ears strained for the "pop-pop" of the returning motor-cycle.
A farmer's cart, with fresh vegetables and fruit for the Cromer shops on the morrow, creaked slowly past, and the driver in his broad Norfolk dialect asked me—
"Any trouble, sir?"
I replied in the negative, whereupon he whipped up his horse, bade me a cheery "good morning," and descended the hill. For a long time, as I refilled and relit my pipe, I could hear the receding wheels, but no sound of a motor-cycle could I hear.
Time passed, the flush of dawn crept over the sea, brightened swiftly, and then overcast night gave place to a calm and clear morning. The larks, in the fields on either side, rose to greet the rising sun, and the day broke gloriously. Many a dawn had I witnessed in various parts of the world, from the snows of Spitzbergen to the baking sands of the Sahara, but never a more glorious one than that June morning in Poppyland, for Cromer is one of the few places in England where you can witness the sun both rise from, and set in the sea.
My headlights had burned themselves out long ago. It was now four o'clock. Strange that the nocturnal cyclist did not return!
All my preparations had, it seemed, been in vain.
I knew, however, that I was dealing with Jules Jeanjean, a past-master in crime, a man who, no doubt, was fully aware of the inquiries being made by the plain-clothes officers from Norwich, and who inwardly laughed them to scorn.
The man who had defied the ParisSûretéwould hardly entertain any fear of the Norfolk Constabulary.
Many country carts, most of them going towards Cromer, now passed me, and their drivers wished me "Good morning," but I remained at my lonely vigiluntil five o'clock. Then I decided that Jeanjean's friend must have taken another road out of Cromer, either the Sheringham, the Holt, or the Overstrand, the three other main roads out of the town.
What had Rayner done, I wondered? Where was he?
I sat down upon the grassy bank at the roadside, still pondering. Of all the mysteries of crime I had assisted in investigating, in order to write down the details in my book, this was assuredly the most remarkable.
I knew that I was face to face with some great and startling affair, some adventure which, when the truth became known, would amaze and astound the world. Jules Jeanjean was not the man to attempt small things. He left those to smaller men. In his profession he was the master, and a thousandescrocs, all over the Continent, forgers, international thieves, burglars, coiners,rats d'hotel—most ingenious of malefactors—regarded the name of Jeanjean with awe.
One of his exploits was well known up and down the Continent—for theMatinhad published the full story a year ago. Under another name, and in the guise of a wealthyrentierof Paris, he made the acquaintance of one of the Inspectors of the Paris detective service. Inviting him to his private sitting-room in theHôtel Royale, on the Promenade des Anglais, he gave him anaperitifwhich in less than three minutes caused the police official to lose consciousness. Thereupon Jeanjean took from the Inspector's pocket his card of authority as a detective—a card signed by the Prefect of Police—and at once left the hotel.
Next night, at theCafé Américainin Paris, he went up to a wealthy German who was spending a harmless but gay evening at that well-known supper-resort and arrested him for theft, exhibiting his warrant of authority.
In a taxi he conducted him to the Prefecture of Police, but on their way the German asked him if they could come to terms. The pseudo-Inspector hesitated,then told the taxi-driver to go to a small hotel opposite the Gare du Nord. There he and his prisoner discussed terms, it being eventually agreed that the German—a well-known shipowner of Hamburg—should in the morning telegraph to his bank for eighty thousand marks, for which sum he would be allowed to go at liberty.
It was well known, of course, to Jeanjean that his "prisoner" had been guilty of the offence for which he had "arrested" him, and thecoupwas quite easy.
He kept the German in the hotel till ten o'clock next morning, and then the pair went to the Crédit Lyonnais together. At four o'clock—the bogus Inspector still with his "prisoner,"—the money was brought to the obscure hotel, and after Jeanjean had carefully counted through the notes he allowed his prey to go at liberty, advising him to take the next train back to Germany.
At six o'clock, the sun shining out warm and brightly, my patience was exhausted. I had spent the night hours there in vain. Yet I dare not drive the car into Cromer, for I intended to repeat my effort on the following night. Therefore I started the engine, and was soon back in the yard of the small hotel in Aylsham.
There I put up the car, breakfasted, and then taking the first train to North Walsham, arrived in Cromer about half-past nine o'clock.
When I entered my room at theHôtel de Paristhe maid came quickly along, saying—
"Will you please go up to see your servant, sir! He's very unwell!"
"Unwell?" I said. "Why, what's the matter?"
"I don't know, sir. The police brought him in about half an hour ago. He's been out all night, they say. And they found him very ill."
I darted upstairs and entered Rayner's room without knocking.
He was lying upon the bed, still dressed, his face pale as death.
"Ah, sir!" he gasped, "I—I'm so glad you've comeback! I—I wondered whether anything had happened to you. I—I——"
He stretched out his hand to me, but no other word escaped his lips.
I saw that he had fainted.
At once I knew that some startling incident had happened.
Dr. Sladen, called by the police, entered the room a few moments afterwards, whereupon I turned to him, and in order to allay any undue curiosity, said—
"My man has been taken ill, doctor. Exhaustion, I suppose. He's a great walker, and, unknown to me, has apparently been out for a night ramble."
"Ah, yes," answered the quiet, old-fashioned medical man, peering at the invalid through his glasses.
Slowly he took Rayner's pulse, and then said—
"Heart a little weak, I suppose. There's nothing really wrong—eh?"
"I think not. He was talking to me only a few moments ago, and then suddenly fainted. Been on a long ramble, I should think."
"At night, eh?" asked the doctor in some surprise.
"It is a habit of his to walk at night. He does the same thing in London—walks miles and miles."
We dashed cold water into Rayner's face, gave him a smelling-bottle belonging to one of the maids, and very soon he came round again, opening his eyes in wonder at his surroundings.
"Here's Doctor Sladen," I said. "You feel better now, don't you, Rayner?"
"Yes, sir," was his feeble reply.
"Ah, you've been on one of your night rambles again," I said reprovingly. "You over-do it, you know."
Then Sladen asked him a few questions, and finding that he had recovered, shook my hand and left.
The instant the door was closed upon the doctor Rayner sat up, and with a serious expression upon his face said—
"Something has happened, sir. I don't know what. I'll tell you all I know. I went up to the railway arch as you directed, and lay down in the hedge to wait. After a long time the foreigner from the Overstrand Road came along, lit a cigar, and waited. He was wearing an overcoat, and I suppose he must have waited a full half-hour, until, at last, the cyclist came. They had a brief talk. Then the cyclist left his cycle about fifty yards from where I was in hiding, and both men set off towards the town. I, of course, followed at a decent distance, and they didn't hear me because of the rubber soles on my boots."
"Well, what then?" I inquired impatiently.
"They separated just against theAlbion, and then followed one another past the church, and to the left, behind this hotel, and along to the house where the dead man lived—the house you pointed out to me. Close by they met another man who, in the darkness, I took to be a chauffeur. But I had, then, to draw back into a doorway to watch their movements. The chap I took to be a chauffeur, after a few words with the two foreigners, came along in my direction, and passed within a yard of me, when of a sudden he turned and faced me. 'What are you doing here?' he asked quickly. 'Nothing,' was my reply. 'Then take that for your inquisitiveness,' he said, and in a second I felt something over both my nose and mouth. It was only for a second, but I recollect I smelt a strong smell of almonds; and then I knew no more, nothing until I found myself here."
"That's most extraordinary!" I exclaimed. "Then you don't know what became of the three men?"
"Not in the least, sir," Rayner replied. "I was so thoroughly taken aback, that I must have gone down like a log."
"Then, that's all you know?"
"Yes, sir."
Scarcely had he finished relating his strange adventure than Inspector Treeton entered, and greeting me, explained how Rayner had been found by a constable, lying senseless, about three miles out of the town on the road to Holt.
By that I knew he must have been conveyed there, probably by a motor-car, driven by the chauffeur who had so mysteriously attacked him, apparently at the foreigners' orders. It was Jeanjean's work, no doubt. The Frenchman had seemingly eyes at the back of his head, and had evidently detected that his actions were being spied upon.
To the police inspector I made no mystery of the affair, merely replying, as I had to the doctor, that my manservant was in the habit of taking long walks, long nocturnal rambles, and that he evidently had overdone it.
"Doctor Sladen has already been here and seen him," I added. "He says he's quite right again."
This satisfied the highly-esteemed local inspector, and presently he left us, expressing the hope that Rayner would very soon be himself once more.
"Well," I said to my man when the inspector had gone, "it's evident that while you were unconscious they picked you up, put you in the car, and tipped you out upon the road outside the town. Perhaps they believed you to be dead."
"Like enough, sir," he said, smiling grimly.
"They evidently trapped you, Rayner," I said, laughing. "You were not sharp enough."
"But, who'd have thought that the fellow could have come straight for me, and rendered me insensible in a tick—as he did?" asked my man as he lay, still extended on the bed, a dirty, dishevelled figure. "Iknow I was caught, sir; those men were cleverer than I was, I admit."
"Yes, Rayner," was my reply. "I don't blame you in the least. I'm only glad that your plight isn't worse. The men had a motor-car, it seems, at their disposal somewhere, and they went in the direction of Holt."
"That appears so, sir."
"Why, I wonder? Bertini probably obtained his machine and followed the car. They must have gone either through Wells and Fakenham, or East Dereham."
"Back to Norwich, perhaps, sir. All roads from here seem to lead to Norwich."
"But you say the incident happened close to Beacon House, where old Gregory lived—eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then they objected to you being present. Evidently something was intended and you prevented it."
"No. Perhaps I didn't prevent it. They prevented me instead."
Rayner was a bit of a humorist.
"Quite likely," I answered, smiling. But I was full of chagrin that I had been out all night, waiting on that lonely road, while that mysterious affair had been in progress.
"Well, at any rate, Rayner, you've had a very funny experience," I said, with a laugh.
"And not the first, sir, eh?" he replied, stretching lazily on the bed. "Do you recollect that funny case at Pegli, just outside Genoa? My word, those two assassins nearly did me in that night, sir."
"And three nights later we gave them over to agents of the Department of Public Security," I said. "Yes, Rayner, you had a tough half-hour, I know. But you're an adventurer, like myself. As long as we solve a mystery we don't regret the peril, or the adventure, do we?"
"No, sir. I don't—as long as you give a guidingeye over it. But I tell you straight, sir, I don't like detectives. They're chumps, most of 'em."
"No. Don't condemn them," I said. "Rather condemn the blind and silly police system of England. The man who snares a rabbit gets a conviction recorded against him, while the shark in the city pays toll to the Party and becomes a Baronet. I'm no socialist," I added, "but I believe in honesty in our daily life. Honesty in man, and modesty in woman, are the two ideals we should always retain, even in this age of degeneracy and irreligion."
"I think the local police are blundering the whole of this affair," Rayner went on. "Yet I can't make out by what means I was so suddenly put out of action. That curious, strong smell of almonds puzzles me. It's in my nostrils now."
"Your fancy, I expect," I said.
At that moment came a knock at the door, and the tall young constable entered, the same man who had been on duty when I had gone up to inspect the seat where Craig's body had been found.
"The Inspector has sent me, sir," he exclaimed, saluting, "to say he'd like to see you at once. He's just along the West Cliff—at Beacon House, where Mr. Craig lived in."
"Certainly," I replied. "Tell him I will come at once."
The constable disappeared, and turning to Rayner, I said: "I wonder why Treeton wishes to see me in such a hurry? What has happened now?" Then, promising to return quickly, I went out.
At Beacon House, I found Treeton standing in the front sitting-room, on the ground-floor, talking seriously with the landlady.
"Hulloa! Mr. Vidal," he exclaimed as I entered. "Something more has occurred in this house during the night. The place has been broken into by burglars, who've got clean away with all old Mr. Gregory's collection of jewellery."
"Burglary," I repeated slowly; and then all that Rayner had told me flashed across my mind. I saw the reason for Jeanjean and his mysterious cyclist companion being near the house, and also why Rayner, on being detected, had been rendered senseless.
"Have you found any trace of the thieves?" I asked, having already decided to keep my own information to myself.
"Lots of traces," laughed Treeton. "Come and see for yourself."
We ascended the stairs, followed by the excited landlady and her husband.
"This is really terrible," moaned the woman. "I wish we'd never set eyes upon the poor young man and his uncle. We heard nothing in the night, nothing. In fact, I didn't discover that the room had been opened until an hour ago, when I was sweeping down the stairs. Then I noticed that the seals placed upon it had been broken, and the lock sawn right out. Why we didn't hear them, I can't think!"
"Ah, you don't hear much when the modern burglar is at work," declared Treeton. "They're far too scientific for that."
He showed me the door, from which the lock had been cut away, saying—
"They evidently got in by the window of the room downstairs, where we've just been, for it was found closed but not latched. They came up these stairs, cut out the lock, as you see—and look at that!" he added as we entered the old man's room.
The strong old sea-chest stood in the centre of the room. The lid, which had been nailed down, and sealed by the police, had been wrenched off and the box stood empty!
"Look!" cried Treeton again. "Every scrap gone—and it must have been a pretty bulky lot—a couple, or even three, sacksful at the least."
I went to the two windows which overlooked the narrow street behind, and examining the sills, saw markswhere the paint had recently been rubbed away.
"Yes, I see," I remarked, "and they lowered the plunder to confederates outside."
"But who could have known of the existence of the jewellery, here?" asked Treeton. "Only ourselves were aware of it. At the inquest all mention of it was carefully suppressed."
"Somebody, of course, must have talked, perhaps unthinkingly, about it, and the news got round to the thieves," remarked the landlord.
I remained silent. Had I not, from the first, marvelled that old Mr. Gregory should disappear and leave behind him that collection of valuables?
"I've wired to Norwich, to Frayne, to come over at once, and see if he can find any finger-prints," said the local inspector. "We've discovered something here which the burglars left behind. Look at this."
And from a corner of the room he picked up something and handed it to me.
It was a woman's little, patent leather walking-shoe, with two white pearl buttons as fastening. The size I judged to be threes, but, as it was still fastened, it must have been too large for the wearer, who apparently having dropped it, was unable for some reason to regain it, and so left it behind.
"That's very strange!" I said, turning the little shoe over in my hand. It was not much worn, and of very good quality. "A woman has evidently been here!"
"Evidently, Mr. Vidal," replied the officer. "But surely a woman would never have the pluck to do a job of this sort. Nine people slept in this house last night and never heard a sound."
Truth to tell, I did not expect they would have done, now that I knew the robbery had been engineered by Jules Jeanjean.
"Very remarkable—very," I declared. "Probably Frayne, when he takes the finger-prints, will find some clue," I added, laughing inwardly, for I knew that those who had committed that robbery were far too clever toleave behind any traces of their identity. Besides, to actually lower the booty down into a public street showed a daring spirit which one only finds in the most expert criminals.
I could not, however, account for the discovery of that little shoe. Had it really been lost—or had it been placed there in order to mystify and mislead the police?
The latter suggestion had, of course, never entered Treeton's head.
"I wonder," I said to him, "if you would allow me to take this shoe along to the hotel? I want to take the exact measurements."
"Certainly, Mr. Vidal," was his reply. "You'll send it round to me, at the station, afterwards?"
"In an hour you shall have it," I promised him. Then I placed the shoe in my pocket, and made a tour of the room, touching nothing because of Frayne's coming hunt for finger-prints.
Jeanjean always wore gloves, skin-thin, rubber-gloves, which left no trace of his light touch. The curved lines of his thumb and forefinger were far too well known in Paris, in London, in Berlin and Rome, where the bureaux of detective police all possessed enlarged photographs of them.
Back in my room at theHôtel de Paris, I took from a drawer the plaster cast of the woman's footprints I had found near the spot where Craig had been found.
Then, carrying it down to the shore near the pier, I made a print with the cast in the wet sand left hard by the receding tide.
Afterwards, I took the tiny, patent leather shoe from my pocket, and placed it carefully in the print.
It fitted exactly.
The ingenious theft of old Gregory's treasure created the greatest consternation amongst the police, though the truth was carefully concealed from the public.
Treeton pledged Mr. and Mrs. Dean and their servant to secrecy, therefore all that was known in Cromer was that there had been an attempted burglary at Beacon House.
Cromer is a quiet, law-abiding town, and burglars had not been known there for years. Therefore the inhabitants were naturally alarmed, and now carefully locked and bolted their doors at night.
I returned the shoe to the police-station, but made no mention of the result of my test.
From the first I had guessed that old Gregory would not leave his treasure behind. Yet, if he were not guilty of Craig's murder, why had he fled?
Lola had visited him, and Jeanjean had been in Cromer. Those two facts were, in themselves, sufficient to tell me that Gregory was an impostor and that Craig, whoever he might really have been, had fallen the victim of some deadly vengeance.
Would Lola return to see me?
In the days that followed—bright June days, with the North Sea lying calm and blue below the cliffs—I waited in patience, scarce leaving the hotel all day, in fear lest she might again seek me, and, paying me a visit, find me absent.
Rayner considered me inactive and grumbled in consequence.
He spent his time lolling upon one of the seats on the cliff-top outside the hotel, idly smoking Virginian cigarettes. He had openly expressed his dissatisfaction that I had not made any attempt to follow the mysterious Doctor Arendt and his Italian friend.
Truth to tell, I was utterly confounded.
To follow Jules Jeanjean, now that he had got clean away with Gregory's treasure, would, I felt, be an utterly futile task. He was too clever to leave any trace behind—a past-master in the art of evasion, and a man of a hundred clever disguises.
What would they say at the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I related to them the strange story of Jeanjean's exploits in England? Was it possible, I wondered, that the master-criminal, finding the Continent of Europe growing a trifle too hot for him, had come to England to follow his nefarious profession. If so, then he would certainly cause a great deal of trouble to the famous Council of Seven at the Criminal Investigation Department in London.
Thus days went on—warm, idle, summer days with holiday visitors daily arriving, houses being repainted, and Cromer putting on her best appearance for the coming "season." Seaside towns always blossom forth into fresh paint in the month of June, window-sashes in white and doors in green. But Cromer, with its golf and high-class music, is essentially a resort of the wealthy, a place where the tripper is unwanted and where there are no importunate long-shoremen suggesting that it is a "Nice day for a bowot, sir!"
Where was Lola? Would she ever return?
I idled about the hotel, impatient and angry with myself. Yes, Rayner was right after all! I ought to have made some effort to follow the three men. But now, it was quite impossible. They were, no doubt, far away, and probably old Gregory's treasure was by that time safe in his own hands.
The evidence of the shoe puzzled me. The wearer of that little shoe with the two pearl buttons had, without doubt, been near that seat on the East Cliff where Craig had been killed—present, in all probability, when he had been so mysteriously stricken down.
Was it possible that a woman—the same woman—had assisted in the burglary, and had inadvertently losther shoe? Perhaps she had taken her shoes off in order to move noiselessly, and in trying to recover them could only regain one!
Lola, I remembered, possessed a very small foot. She was always extremely neat and dainty about the ankles and wore silk stockings and pretty shoes. Was it the print of her foot that I had found near that fatal seat? Was it her shoe that had been found at Beacon House?
Ah! If I could but see her? If she would only call upon me once again!
Day after day I waited, but, alas, she did not come.
That she was most anxious to see me was proved by the fact that she had dared to call at all after what had occurred. She had some strong motive in meeting me again, therefore I lived on in hope that she would return.
The Nightingale! Heavens! What strange memories that one word brought back to me as I sat in the window of my high-up room, gazing over the summer sea.
It was now July, and Cromer was rapidly filling with better-class folk. Now and then I went to London, but only for the day, fearing lest Lola should send me a telegram to meet her. In my absence Rayner always remained on duty.
I had written to her address in the Avenue Pereire, in Paris, but had received no reply. Then I had sent a line to the concierge of the house wherein the flat was situated. To this I had received an ill-scribbled few lines in French, expressing a regret that Mademoiselle had vacated the place some weeks previously and that her present address was unknown.
Unknown! Well, that, after all, scarcely surprised me. Lola's address generally was unknown. Only her most intimate friends ever knew it; and for obvious reasons. She existed always in a deadly fear.
Perhaps it was that very fear which even now kept her from me!
Several times I had advertised in the personal columnof theMatinin the hope that she might see it and communicate with me, but all to no avail.
In Cromer the sensation caused by the mysterious crime had quite died down.
Frayne, in Norwich, had ceased to make further inquiry, and Treeton now regarded the problem as one that would never be solved. So, with the daily arrival of visitors, Cromer and its tradespeople and landladies forgot the curious affair which had afforded them such a "nine days' wonder."
The month of July passed, and, with the London season over, every one rushed to the seaside. Cromer was filled to overflowing. The narrow streets were crowded with well-dressed folk, and large cars passed one at every turn. Stifled town-dwellers were there to enjoy the strong, healthy breezes from the North Sea, and to indulge in the bathing and the golf.
Yet, though August came, I still kept on my room at theParis, hoping against hope that Lola might yet return.
Quite suddenly, one day, I recollected that curious letter in Italian, signed "Egisto," and addressed to his "Illustrious Master," found at Beacon House.
It had referred to something which had appeared in the ParisMatinof March 17. Consequently I sent to Paris for a copy of the paper, and, one morning, the pale yellow sheet arrived.
"The business we have been so long arranging, was successfully concluded last night," the writer of the letter had said, adding that a report of it appeared in theMatinon the day of this letter.
Eagerly I searched the paper, which was, as usual, full of sensational reports, for the French newspaper reader dearly loves a tragedy.
The "feature" of the paper is always placed in the right-hand corner near the bottom, and, as I searched, my eyes fell upon the words, in bold capitals: "Motor Bandits: Dastardly Outrage near Fontainebleau."
What followed, roughly translated into English, read—
"By telephone from Fontainebleau. Early this morning we have received information of a dastardly outrage in which two lives have been sacrificed. It appears that, just after midnight, Monsieur Charles Benoy, the well-known jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, was travelling from Paris to his château near Maret-sur-Loire, on the other side of the Forest of Fontainebleau. He was accompanied by his son Pierre, aged twenty-four, and driven by the chauffeur, named Petit. With him, in the car, M. Benoy had in their leather cases four diamond collars of great value, and two pearl necklaces, which he intended to show next day to a certain American gentleman who has recently purchased the ancient Château de Provins, and who was one of the jeweller's customers.
"M. Benoy's intention was to take the jewels over to Provins in his car on the following morning. Apparently all went well on the journey. They passed through Melun, entered the Forest, and at a high speed passed through the little hamlet of Chantoïseau, where they were seen by two gendarmes.
"According to the story of the chauffeur, when about four kilometres beyond Chantoïseau, at a lonely point of the forest, he saw two red lights being waved in the roadway, and reduced his speed on this sign of danger.
"As he did so, however, three men sprang out from the undergrowth. They called upon him to stop, and a revolver was fired point-blank at him. Next moment the bandits fired, without further ado, upon the occupants of the car, but the chauffeur, severely wounded, then fainted, and knew no more until he recovered consciousness in the barracks of the Gendarmerie in Moret.
"What happened, apparently, was that the three assassins, after shooting all three of the occupants of the car, threw the bodies into the roadway, seized the automobile, and drove off with the jewels. M. Benoy and his son were dead when found, the father having two bullet-wounds in his head, while the son had beenstruck in the region of the heart. The chauffeur, Petit, lies in a critical condition, and only with great difficulty has been able to give an account of the murderous attack.
"Inquiries at M. Benoy's shop, in the Rue de la Paix, have revealed the fact that the jewellery is worth about four hundred thousand francs.
"The car was seen returning through Melun, being driven at a furious pace by the bandits, but, unfortunately, all traces of it, and of the three men, have been lost.
"According to the chauffeur's description of one of the men, who wore motor-goggles as a disguise, the police believe the outrage to be the work of the notorious Jules Jeanjean, the ingenious criminal of whom the police have been so long in search.
"The occupants of the car were treated with inhuman brutality. The bodies of both father and son, together with the number-plates of the car, were thrown unceremoniously into the undergrowth; that of Petit was allowed to lie across the footpath, but for what reason cannot be guessed at.
"From the fact that the number-plates of the car have been found, it would appear that before the bandits moved off they replaced the correct numbers by false ones. No doubt, also, a rapid attempt was made to alter the appearance of the body of the car, because, close by, there were found two pails containing grey paint, and large brushes with the paint still wet in them.
"From this it is seen that the intention of the bandits was to make a long run, perhaps all through the following day, to reach some distant point of safety.
"It will be remembered that Jules Jeanjean was the prime mover in the terrible outrage near Lyons, where three motorists were shot dead and two wounded. Two men named Dubois, and Leblon, were arrested, and before their condemnation confessed that Jeanjean, a dangerous anarchist, had instigated the plot.
"Readers of theMatinwill not need to be reminded of the many desperate crimes of which this atrocious scoundrel has been the author; of his amazing daring and marvellous cunning; and of the almost uncanny ease with which he, time after time, defies every effort of the police to trace and capture him.
"M. Hamard, Chef de la Sûreté, and several inspectors have left Paris, and are upon the scene of the outrage, while descriptions of the missing jewellery have already been circulated."
Several times I re-read the account of the dastardly outrage.
Too well I knew how dangerous and desperate a man was Jules Jeanjean, the studious, and apparently harmless, Belgian doctor, who had lodged in the Overstrand Road, and had strolled about the pier and promenade of Cromer. His name, during the last three years or so, had become well known from end to end of Europe as an Anarchist who defied all the powers of law and order; a man who moved from place to place with marvellous swiftness, and who passed from frontier to frontier under the very noses of the commissaries of police stationed there.
His narrowest escape of capture had been one day in Charleroi, where, while sitting before theCafé des XXV, he had been recognized by an inspector of the FrenchSûreté, who was in Belgium upon another matter. The inspector called a local agent of police, who suddenly pounced upon him, but in an instant Jeanjean had drawn a revolver, with which he shot the unfortunate policeman dead, and, in the confusion, escaped.
He then wrote an impudent letter to the Prefectureof Police in Paris, telling them that his intention was to serve any other police agent the same who might attempt to arrest him.
I took from my dispatch-box the copy I had made of the letter in Italian, found at Beacon House. In the light of that newspaper report it proved curious and interesting reading.
Who was the writer, Egisto? Evidently one of the conspirators. It was a report to his "Illustrious Master," of what had been done. Who was his Master? Surely not Jules Jeanjean, because one sentence read, "J. arrives back in Algiers to-morrow."
Was it possible that the "Illustrious Master"—the man who actually plotted and directed those dramatic coups—was none other than old Gregory himself!
The letter was certainly a report to the head of an association of dangerous malefactors. Who "H." was, who had "left as arranged," I knew not, but "J." evidently indicated Jules Jeanjean, and the fact that he would arrive back in Algiers on the morrow, showed first, that his hiding-place was on the other side of the Mediterranean; and, secondly, that after the crime a dash had been made to the south to join the mail-boat at Marseilles. The writer, Egisto, had left the other, travelling via Brindisi, to Port Said, so leaving the Paris police to again search for them in vain.
"Does H. know anything, do you think?" was the question Egisto had asked in his letter.
Did "H." indicate Monsieur Hamard, the Chef de la Sûreté?
My own theory was that "H." did indicate that well-known official, whom the gang had so often defied.
The writer, too, declared that "The Nightingale" still sang on blithely.
I knew the singer, the pretty, refined, fair-haired girl, so neat and dainty, with the sweet, clear contralto voice. It was Lola—Lola Sorel!
On the morning of August 24, I was standing with Mr. Day on the well-kept lawn outside the coast-guardstation, watching the life-boat being launched for the benefit of the visitors, and in order to collect funds for the Life-boat Institution. The morning was perfect, with bright sunshine, a clear sky and glassy sea. Below us, the promenade and beach were thronged with summer visitors in light clothes, and the scene was one of brightness and merriment.
Amid the cheers of the waiting crowd the life-boat, guided by its gallant crew of North Sea fishermen, wearing their cork belts, went slowly down to the water's edge. The instant it was launched, Mr. Day, who held a huge pistol in his hand, fired a green rocket high into the air—the signal to the Haisboro' Lightship that aid was on its way.
Just as he had done so, a telegraph-boy handed me a message.
I tore it open and read the words—
"Can you meet me at theMaid's Head Hotel, Norwich, this afternoon at four? Urgent. Reply,King's Head Hotel, Beccles—Lola."
My heart gave a great bound.
From the messenger I obtained a telegraph-form, and at once replied in the affirmative.
Just before four o'clock I entered the covered courtyard of the oldMaid's Head Hotel, in Norwich, one of the most famous and popular hostelries in Norfolk. John Peston mentioned it in 1472, when its sign wasThe MurtelorMolde Fish, and to-day, remodelled with taste, and its ancient features jealously preserved, it is well known to every motorist who visits the capital of Norfolk, the metropolis of Eastern England.
I engaged a small private sitting-room on the first-floor, a pretty, old-fashioned apartment with bright chintzes, and a bowl of fresh roses upon the polished table in the centre. Telling the waiter I expected a lady, I stood at the window to await my visitor.
As I stood there, all-impatient, the Cathedral chimes close by told the hour of four, and shortly afterwardsI heard the noise of a car turning from the street into the courtyard.
Was it Lola?
From the room in which I was I could not see either roadway or courtyard, therefore I waited, my ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps upon the stairs.
Suddenly I heard some one ascending. The handle of the door was turned, and next second I found myself face to face with the slim, fair-haired girl whose coming I had so long awaited.
She came forward smiling, her white-gloved hand outstretched, her pretty countenance slightly flushed, exclaiming in French—
"Ah! M'sieu' Vidal! After all this time!"
"It is not my fault, Mademoiselle, that we are such strangers," I replied with a smile, bowing over her hand as the waiter closed the door.
She was a charming little person, sweet and dainty from head to foot. Dressed in a black coat and skirt, the former relieved with a collar of turquoise silk, and the latter cut short, so that her silk-encased ankles and small shoes were revealed. She wore a tiny close-fitting felt hat, and a boa of grey ostrich feathers around her neck.
Her countenance was pale with well-moulded features of soft sympathetic beauty, a finely-poised head with pretty dimpled chin, and a straight nose, well-defined eyebrows, and a pair of eyes of that clear blue that always seemed to me unfathomable.
I drew forward a chair, and she sank into it, stretching forth her small feet and displaying her neat black silk stockings from beneath the hem of her short skirt, which, adorned with big ball buttons, was discreetly opened at the side to allow freedom in walking.
"Well, and why did you not call again upon me in Cromer?" I asked in English, for I knew that she spoke our language always perfectly.
"Because—well, because I was unable," was her reply.
"Why did you not write?" I asked. "I've been waiting weeks for you."
"I know. I heard so," she said with a smile. "I am ve-ry sorry, but I was prevented," she went on with a pretty, musical accent. "That same evening I called upon you, I had to leave Cromer ve-ry hurriedly."
A strange thought flashed across my mind. Had her sudden departure been due to the theft at Beacon House? Had she been present then and lost her shoe?
I glanced at the shoes she wore. They were very smart, of black patent leather, with a strip of white leather along the upper edge. Yes, the size looked to me just the same as that of the little shoe which so exactly fitted the imprint I had made in the sand.
"Why did you leave so quickly?" I asked, standing before her, and leaning against the table, as I looked into the wonderful eyes of the chic little Parisienne.
"I was compelled," was her brief response.
"You might have written to me."
"What was the use, M'sieu' Vidal? I went straight back to France. Then to Austria, Hungary, and Russia," she answered. "Only the day before yesterday I returned to London."
"From where?"
"From Algiers."
Algiers! The mention of that town recalled the fact that it was the hiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean.
"Why have you been in Algiers—and in August, too?"
"Not for pleasure," she replied with a grim smile. "The place is a perfect oven just now—as you may well imagine. But I was forced to go."
"Forced against your will, Lola, eh?" I asked, bending towards her, and looking her full in the face very seriously.
"Yes," she admitted, her eyes cast down, "against my will. I had a message to deliver."
"To whom?"
"To my uncle."
"Not a message," I said, correcting her. "Something more valuable than mere words. Is not that so?"
The Nightingale nodded in the affirmative, her blue eyes still downcast in shame.
"Where was your starting-point?" I asked.
"In St. Petersburg, a fortnight ago. I was given the little box in theHôtel de l'Europe, and that night I concealed its contents in the clothes I wore. Some of them I sewed into the hem of my travelling-coat, and, and——"
"Stones they were, I suppose?" I said, interrupting.
"Yes, from Lobenski's, the jeweller's in the Nevski," she replied. "Well, that night I left Petersburg and travelled to Vienna, thence to Trieste, where I found my uncle's yacht awaiting me, and we went down the Adriatic and along the Mediterranean to Algiers. My uncle was already at home. Thecoupwas a large one, I believe. Have you seen reports of it in the English papers?" she asked.
"Certainly," I replied. For a fortnight before I had read in several of the newspapers of the daring robbery committed at the shop of Lobenski, the Russian Court Jeweller, and of the theft of a large quantity of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The safe, believed to be impregnable, had been fused by an oxygen acetylene jet, and the whole of its contents stolen. From what Lola had revealed, it seemed that Jeanjean had had no actual hand in the theft, for he had been in Algiers awaiting the booty. But he always travelled swiftly after acoup.
"Did the papers say much about it?" asked Lola, with interest.
"Oh, just a sensational story," I replied. "But I never dreamt that you were in Russia, Lola—that you had carried the stones across Europe sewn in your dress!"
"Ah! It is not the first time, as you know, M'sieu'Vidal," she sighed. "There is always danger of some customs officer or agent of police recognizing me. But uncle says I am unsuspected, and hence the work is assigned always to me."
"And you have come to England to see me—eh? Why?" I asked, looking again into her clear blue eyes.
"I have come, M'sieu' Vidal, in order to ask a further favour of you—a request I almost fear to make after your great generosity towards me."
"Oh! Don't let us speak of that," I said. "It is all past and over. I only acted as any other man would have done in the circumstances, Lola!"
"You acted as a gentleman would act," she said. "But, alas! How few real gentlemen are met by a wretched girl like myself," she added bitterly. "Suppose you had acted as thousands would have done. Where should I be now? Spending my days in one of your female prisons here."
"Instead of which you are still the little Nightingale, who sings so blithely, and who is so inexpressibly dainty and charming," I said with a smile. "At the best hotels up and down Europe, Lola Sorel is a well-known figure, always ready to flirt with the idle youngsters, and to make herself pleasant to those of her own sex. Only they must be wealthy—eh?"
She made a quick movement as though to arrest the flow of my words.
"You are, alas! right, M'sieu' Vidal," she replied. "Ah, if you only knew how I hate it all—how day by day, hour by hour—I fear that I may blunder and consequently find myself in the hands of the police—if——"
"Never, if you follow your uncle, Jules Jeanjean," I interrupted. "And, I suppose, you are still doing so?"
She sighed heavily, and a hard expression crossed her pretty face.
"Alas! I am forced to. You know the bitter truth, M'sieu' Vidal—the tragedy of my life."
For a few moments I remained silent, my eyes upon her.
I knew full well the strange, romantic story of that pretty French girl seated before me—the sweet, refined little person—scarcely more than a child—whose present, and whose future, were so entirely in the hands of that notorious criminal.
Why had I not telegraphed to the Paris police on discovering Jeanjean's presence in Cromer? For one reason alone. Because his arrest would also mean hers. He had too vowed in my presence that if he were ever taken alive, he would betray his niece, because she had once, in a moment of despair and horror, at one of his cold-blooded crimes, threatened to give him away.
As she sat there, her face sweet and soft as a child's, her blue eyes so clear and innocent, one would never dream that she was the cat's-paw of the most ingenious and dangerous association of jewel thieves in the whole of Europe.
Truly her story was a strange one—one of the strangest of any girl in the world.
She noticed my thoughtfulness, and suddenly put out her little hand until it touched mine; then, looking into my eyes, she asked, in a low, intense voice—
"What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking of you, Lola," I replied. "I am wondering what really happened in Cromer, back in the month of June. You are here to explain—eh? Will you tell me?"
Her brows contracted slightly, and she drew her hand back from mine.
"You know what happened," she said.
"I don't. Explain it all to me in confidence," I urged. "You surely know me well enough to rely upon my keeping the secret."
"Ah, no!" she cried, starting up suddenly, a strange light of fear in her eyes. "Never, M'sieu' Vidal! I—I can tell you nothing of that—nothing more than what you already know. Please don't ask me—never askme again, for I—I can't tell you! It was all too dastardly, too terrible!"
And the girl, with a wild gesture, covered her pale face with her little hands as though to shut out from memory the grim recollection of a scene that was full of bitterness and horror.
"But you will tell me the truth, Lola. Do. I beg of you?" I urged, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.
"No," she cried in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "No. Don't ask me. Please don't ask me."
I stood before Lola, grieved at her distress.
Too well I knew, alas! how deeply she had suffered, of all the bitterness and remorse with which her young life was filled, blighted by an ever-present terror, her youth sapped and her ideas warped by living in an atmosphere of criminality.
Rapidly, as I took her little hands in unspoken sympathy, recollections of our strangely-made acquaintanceship ran through my memory, and before me arose a truly dramatic and impressive scene.
I had first seen Lola, two years before, seated alone at luncheon in the pretty salle-à-manger of theHôtel d'Angleterrein Copenhagen. Many eyes were upon her because of her youth and beauty, and many men sitting at the various tables cast admiring glances at her.
I was with my friend, Jack Bellairs, and we were breaking our journey for a few days in the Danish capital, before going up to Norway salmon-fishing.
Jack first noted her, and drew my attention to the fact that she was alone. At the time, I knew nothingof the two men who were lunching together at another table at the further end of the room, and that the name of one of them was Jules Jeanjean.
The girl, we discovered from the concierge, had been living alone in the hotel for a month, and had become on very friendly terms with a certain very wealthy Hungarian lady, the Baroness Függer, of Budapest. She accompanied the Baroness everywhere, but the reason she was lunching alone that morning was because the Baroness was absent for the day at Elsinore.
During the next day or two we saw the stately old lady, whose chief delight seemed to be the ostentatious display of jewellery, constantly in Lola's company. The girl, though admired everywhere, treated all the men about her with utter unconcern, being most modest and reserved.
On the fourth morning of our stay, at about ten o'clock, the hotel was thrown into the greatest commotion by an amazing report that the Baroness's bedroom had been entered during the night and the whole contents of her jewel-case stolen. The police were at once called, and were mystified by the fact that the Baroness had locked her door before retiring, and that it was still locked when she awoke in the morning. Therefore, it seemed that the jewels had been abstracted immediately before she had entered the room on the previous night—stolen by some one well acquainted with their hiding-place—for the jewel-case was kept for safety at the bottom of a trunk full of soiled linen.
Naturally the police inquired if any of the visitors had left the hotel since the previous night, but no person had left. All the visitors who had been in the hotel the previous day at noon were still there. The night-porter had not noticed anything suspicious, and nobody had heard any unusual sound during the night.
All of us in the hotel were closely interrogated, including Lola, who preserved an air of deepest regret that her dear friend, the Baroness, should have been so ingeniously robbed. Indeed, it was during thatinterrogation that I had first exchanged words with her.
"I can't understand it," she had declared to me in French. "I was in the Baroness's room until she returned at a quarter to twelve, and I am quite sure the jewels were there because, when she took off her diamond necklet, I got out the case, and placed it with the other jewels."
"The case might then have been already empty," said the Commissary of Police, who was making the investigation.
"It might have been, of course," replied the girl. "But the diamond necklet is no longer there!"
Well, to go into the whole details of the inquiry is unnecessary. Suffice it to say that, though the police searched everywhere, and the Baroness indignantly invoked the aid of her Legation, nothing was ever recovered, and at last I departed for Norway, leaving the Baroness still enjoying the bright companionship of the young and pretty Lola.
The two sedate visitors, one of whom I knew later on as Jules Jeanjean, also remained idling their days in the pleasant city, awaiting the conclusion of a business deal, but, of course, holding no communication with the fair-haired young girl.
After that, quite a year passed, and I found myself, in the course of my erratic wanderings, guest of Lord Bracondale at a shooting-party at Balmaclellan Castle, up in Kirkcudbrightshire—in that wild, lonely, heather-clad land which lies between New Galloway and the Solway Firth.
As is well known, the Earl and Countess of Bracondale surround themselves with a very smart set, and the party in question was a big one. Indeed, most of the rooms in the historic Scottish Castle were occupied, and while there was good sport by day, there was at night much dancing in the fine old ball-room, and much bridge-playing.
In the midst of all the gaiety came the County Ball at Dumfries, to which the whole party went over, theladies eclipsing each other with their jewels, as the function is always one of the smartest in Scotland.
My room at the castle, a big oak-panelled one, was in the east wing, at the top of a steep flight of spiral stairs set in a corner tower, and on the night following that of the ball, at about half-past two in the morning, I awoke, and lay thinking, when I fancied I heard somebody moving about, outside my door.
I strained my ears to listen.
The room next mine, further along the corridor, was occupied by a Mrs. Forbes Wilson, the widow of the well-known American millionaire, while further beyond slept Lady Oxborough, and beyond these were several other visitors' rooms.
I suppose I must have listened for nearly a quarter of an hour, drowsily wondering who could be on the move, when suddenly I was thoroughly roused by hearing a sharp click. The door of the room adjoining mine had been closed!
This struck me as distinctly curious, because, only at six o'clock the previous evening, Mrs. Forbes Wilson had been called away suddenly to the bedside of her little daughter, who had been taken ill at Wigton, where she was stopping with friends. The widow had taken her maid with her, and left very hurriedly, leaving her luggage behind, and promising to return next day if there was nothing seriously wrong with her child.
Some one was moving about in her room!
I lay there wondering. But as the minutes passed, and I heard no further sound, I began to believe that my imagination had deceived me. I had almost dozed off to sleep again when suddenly a brilliant ray of electricity shot across my room—the light of a small electric torch—and I was immediately aware that my own door had been opened noiselessly, and an intruder had entered.
Quick as thought I sprang out of bed in my pyjamas, but, as I did so, I heard a woman's light scream, while the torch was instantly extinguished.
I was at the door, behind the intruder, and when, next moment, I switched on the light, to my astonishment I found myself confronted with Lola Sorel!
"You!" I gasped, as the girl shrank from me against the wall, her face white as death. "You—Mademoiselle! What is the meaning of this visit—eh?"
"Will you—will you close the door, M'sieur?" she begged in a low whisper, in broken English. "Some one may overhear."
I did as she bade, and slipped on my dressing-gown, which was hanging over the foot-rail of the bed.
"Well?" I asked, with a good deal of severity, for I saw by her manner that she was there for some nefarious purpose. She was dressed in plain black, with a neat little velvet cap, and wore slippers with rubber soles. Her hands were covered with india-rubber gloves, such as surgeons often wear when operating or making post-mortem examinations. Her electric torch was attached to her wrist, while, beneath her dark golf-coat, which fell open, I saw that she wore around her waist a capacious bag of black silk.
"I—I never dreamed that this was your room, M'sieur," the girl declared, terrified. "I—I——"
But she did not conclude her sentence, for she realized how completely she had been trapped. Her pretty countenance betrayed terror in every line, her eyes were staring and haggard, and her hands were trembling.
"I—I—know there is no escape," she said with her pleasing French accent. "You are aware of the truth, M'sieur—of what occurred in Copenhagen. Ah, yes. It is Fate that you and I should again meet—and in these circumstances."
"Please be seated, Mademoiselle," I said. "You have no cause for alarm. Naturally, this encounter has upset you."
I feared that she might faint, therefore I went to the table where, on the previous night, the valet had placedsome brandy and a siphon of soda. Mixing a little, I gave it to her to drink.
"This will do you good," I said.
Then, when she had swallowed it, I asked her to explain the reason of her nocturnal visit to the castle.
She looked a pale, pathetic little figure, seated there before me, her fair head bowed with shame and confusion, her terrified eyes staring into space.
"I—I—am entirely in your hands, M'sieur," she stammered at last. "I came here to thieve, because—because I am forced to do so. It was work of peril for all three of us—for me most of all. This room was the last I intended to visit—and in it I found the very last person I wished to meet—you!"
"Tell me more about yourself," I urged. "I'm greatly interested."
"What is there to tell you?" she cried, her eyes filling with bitter tears. "I am a thief—that's all. You are a guest here—and it is your duty to your host to keep me here, and call the police. Jules was watching on the stairs below. By this time he knows you have trapped me, and they have both escaped—without a doubt—escaped with the stuff I handed to them ten minutes ago."
"Jules? Who is he?" I asked quickly.
"Jules Jeanjean—my uncle," she replied.
"Jules Jeanjean!" I ejaculated, "that man!" for the name was synonymous for all that was audacious and criminal.
"Yes, M'sieur."
"And he is your uncle?"
"Yes. At his instigation I am forced to do these things against my will," she declared in a hard, bitter voice. "Ah, if only you knew—if you knew everything, M'sieur, I believe you would have pity and compassion for me—you would allow me one more chance—a chance to escape—a chance to try once more to break away from these hateful men who hold me in the hollow of their hands!"
She spoke so fervently, so earnestly, that her appeal sank deeply into my heart. By her despairing manner I saw that she hoped for no clemency, for no sympathy, especially from me, who had actually been suspected of the robbery in Copenhagen which she and her confederates had committed.
"What have you in that bag?" I asked, indicating the black silk bag beneath her coat.
She placed her small hand into it and slowly and shamefacedly drew forth a splendid collar of large pearls.
"I took it from the next room," she said briefly. "I will replace it if—if only you would allow me to get away," she added wistfully.
"And the other stuff you have stolen?"
"Ah! My uncle has it. He has already gone—carrying it with him!"
"Deserted you—and left you to your fate—as soon as he realized the danger," I remarked. "The coward!"
"Yes. But it was fortunate that you did not come out of this room—upon the stairs," she said.
"Why?"
"Because he would have killed you with as little compunction as he would kill a fly," she replied slowly.
"I quite believe that. His reputation is known all over Europe," I said. "Mine was, no doubt, a fortunate escape."
"Will you let me put these pearls back?" she asked eagerly.
"No. Leave them on the table. I will replace them," I said.
"Then, what do you intend doing with me?" she asked very seriously. "Only allow me to go, and I shall always be grateful to you, M'sieur—grateful to you all my life."
And with a sudden movement she took my hand in hers, and looked so earnestly into my eyes, that I stood before her fascinated by her wonderful beauty.
The scene was indeed a strange one. She pleadedto me for her liberty, pleaded to me, throwing herself wildly upon her knees, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into a torrent of hot, bitter tears.