In the spacious library of Mr. Jasper Jarman's house, "Holmstrand," in a respectable suburb of Kidderminster, the wealthy carpet manufacturer was sitting at his ease. On a tiny table drawn up to the fire stood a silver coffee service and a small decanter of brandy. Across his knee lay the unopened copy of theMidland Echowhich had just been delivered.
Indifferently he took it up and turned to the market reports, reading the comments from the London correspondent through carefully. Then he read half a report of a divorce case, then—he read the paragraph that had caused his nephew by marriage to laugh for ten minutes in the Union Hotel at Penzance.
But the news that the flower of Scotland Yard were following up with a keen interest the movements of himself, Jasper Jarman, and his wife since their eventful departure from Adderbury Cottage was not calculated to draw a like explosion of mirth from the elderly gentleman taking his after-dinner ease in his library at "Holmstrand." Perhaps Mr. Jasper Jarman was deficient in his sense of humour.
He skimmed through the account hurriedly, then starting up from his leather arm-chair he walked to the door and turned the key. For some reason for which he would have found it difficult to account he walked on tiptoe. Then he took the paper, and standing under the cluster of electric bulbs that hung from the centre of the ceiling, he read the report again, carefully this time, assimilating every point.
Then he put theMidland Echoon the fire and watched it crumble away into ashes, continuing to stand there upon the hearthrug deep in thought.
There were many aspects of the position in which he found himself that he alone could see. At first it seemed best to him that he should go to the police and explain to them fully the part he had taken in the affair. But then it was hardly creditable for him to associate himself in so scandalous a matter or to admit such a person as Edward Povey, who to his mind was clearly a guilty person, as a relative. Besides, his story might not be believed.
Inspector Melton, too, would make it as hot as he could for him. He was not likely to forget that Councillor Jarman had voted against the proposed increase of salary for the hard-worked police official. He grew cold and hot by turns, too, as he thought of the handle he was giving to his opponent in the forthcoming parliamentary election, in which he, Jasper Jarman, had been persuaded to stand in the interests of Free Trade.
He remembered with a pang the affair of a fire which had taken place at his warehouse a year since. The insurance company involved had been introduced to him by his nephew, and had been curiously unenthusiastic in settling his claim.
To be mixed up in any police court affair with Povey would be to open the question again. The company had been hard hit and had refused to renew his policy, and Jasper felt sure they would not let pass any chance to get even with him.
There were also some things in the past life of the carpet manufacturer which caused him to shun any chance of cross-examination. There was a man who had invented a new shuttle (a machine from which Jasper had made thousands), who was now living in poverty in the slums of Kidderminster, swearing revenge against the man who had sucked his brain and reaped the reward of his labours.
The more he thought, the more a blind and unreasoning panic seized the soul of the carpet manufacturer. Any connection with Povey would cause much dirty water to be stirred up. Better far, he told himself, to leave the country until the affair had blown over or had been satisfactorily explained. He would have it given out that his health had broken down.
He took an "ABC Guide" from the top of a revolving bookcase and opened it at random: Draycot (Derby)—Draycot (Somerset)—Drayton (Norfolk)—147-½ miles from King's Cross—Population 486—Ah! that ought to suit in the mean time. He moved cautiously to the door. For a moment he stood in an attitude of listening, then unlocked it. The whole framework of nerve which had made Jasper Jarman what he was, seemed to break and crumble away before the panic which had seized him.
On second thoughts, however, perhaps it were better to bury himself in the heart of London, in the network of the metropolis where it is so easy to lie hidden. He wrote a letter to his wife, who was spending a few days in Birmingham, telling her the fiction of his health, then he rang the bell for the servant.
As the man entered the room and stood awaiting his orders, his master scanned him narrowly. The man seemed quite normal.
Jasper, controlling his voice with an effort, ordered the car to be brought round for him in a quarter of an hour, and after the man had left the room, he took a bunch of keys, and, selecting one, opened a drawer in his bureau. From it he took a small fortune in notes and gold, and going to his bedroom he changed his evening clothes for a blue serge suit and put on a heavy travelling ulster. As he made his way down-stairs he heard the throbbing of the engine at the door.
At half-past eight that evening Jasper Jarman slid out of Kidderminster in his Napier car, and in a wonderfully short space of time pulled up at the Warwick Arms Hotel at Warwick. Here he dismissed the car, and after a light supper took train to London.
From a paper he bought at Euston he learnt nothing further relating to his case, but after a day or two spent in London, he read the tidings that his identity had been established, and that an officer who had been dispatched to interview him, not finding him at his house, had applied for a warrant for his apprehension.
On the shattered brain of the poor man this news had a terrible effect. He saw at once that his flight would be looked upon as a sign of his guilt, and he racked his brain for the name of some country where the laws of extradition were lax. The Argentine rose to his mind, but he had no idea of going so far from England unless it were absolutely necessary. He preferred somewhere where the living would be more or less civilized and where he could be handy for return when circumstances permitted.
Spain he had heard of, but that was some time ago and there might be new laws now. Then the fate that has the moving of the pieces in life's chessboard whispered in his ear—San Pietro.
Even at this late hour he told himself that it were better for him to face the music, but the good common sense of Stone-wall Jarman was in a state of complete disorganization, and to his panic-distorted brain flight seemed the only thing possible.
His wife would be interrogated, but he was convinced that the machinery of the law could not touch her. For himself, on the other hand, there was a definite issue: if he returned it would be undoubtedly to stand his trial, and he knew what that meant even if he was acquitted, which he was not at all sure would be the case. In any event he said he would be ruined beyond redemption, and his reputation would become the legitimate sport of his many enemies, political and social, in Kidderminster. The fact would remain that he, Jasper Jarman, had stood in the dock beside a man like Povey, who had claimed him as a relative! Far rather would he spend the rest of his days in exile; it would mean leaving the country in any case, and by doing it now he would escape the ordeal that he feared. "DO IT NOW"—that's what was on a little printed card in his office—and he had made it his motto.
Again, how could he hope to explain his hurried and agitated flight from Adderbury Cottage, taking place as it did immediately after the publication in theEvening Newsof Kyser's death? People would never believe the evidence of the bad drainage if Povey liked to deny it—as he doubtless would. Edward Povey to Jasper's mind was a guilty man, and he attributed to him all the motives and actions of the most hardened of criminals; he would only be too glad to whitewash himself at the expense of his uncle.
The morning after Mr. Jarman's arrival in London, he had called on his bank and drawn a considerable sum of money in cash. It was not without fear and trepidation that he had done this, but he had told himself that it was then or never, and the hue and cry had not really begun. The manager had met him, and there was no suspicion in his manner. This important point settled, Jasper Jarman had made all haste to shake the dust of his native country from the soles of his "sensible shape" boots.
It was a dull, dripping evening when the carpet manufacturer stood on Paddington platform, waiting for the through express for Cardiff. He was rather a different man to the Jasper Jarman who had only a few nights previously been reading in his library at "Holmstrand." He had shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers, and his iron-grey hair he had attempted to dye black, in which endeavour he had been successful—in patches—and to hide this piebald appearance he had taken to a larger brimmed soft hat. He was buttoned up to the chin in his heavy ulster, and a muffler covered his mouth. He looked for all the world what he was—a disguised man. Had there been a detective watching for him on that train—which there was not—Jasper would have been the first man to merit his attention. His manner, too, was furtive and full of suspicion as he glanced from under the brim of his hat at each passer-by.
He had the carriage to himself, and he gave a sigh of relief as the train slid out of the station on its non-stop run to the western seaport.
With an excess of cunning he disposed of his broad-brimmed hat, by dropping it out of the window as the train crawled through the Severn Tunnel, replacing it with a cloth travelling hat, which he took from his bag.
It was past eleven when he arrived, and the hotel clerk looked curiously at the figure in the ulster who asked for a room. Remembering the looks which the Paddington passengers had given him, he resolved upon a further modification in his attire, and the man who for the next few days lounged about the Bute Dock on the look-out for an unassuming-looking boat to take him as near San Pietro as possible was by no means such a conspicuous figure.
He was successful, after many days, in bribing a passage to Bilbao on a tramp steamer that was about to leave, and without loss of time Jasper transferred his portmanteau, his ulster, and himself on board.
*****
And so it came about that at the same time that Edward Povey Sydney was travelling in luxury with his two lady companions between Calais and Paris (which latter city had been decided upon as the first stopping-place in their journey), his unfortunate relative by marriage was passing the great red light on the Scilly Isles in a rousing south-wester, a gale which sported with the poor littleBellaas with a cork.
Thus does necessity play games with the best of us, even with Jasper Jarman, who, poor fellow, could not cross the straits of Dover without the most acute bodily suffering.
The Duc Armand de Choleaux Lasuer opened one eye and then the other. Then he shut them quickly and called for hisvalet de chambre, whom he cursed roundly for not seeing that there was a gap between the silken curtains of his bedroom window, a little space of which the winter sun had taken full advantage.
His grace yawned and smothered an exclamation. Then he watched with a lazy interest the sedate and black-garbed figure of his servant as he went about his duties. The brows of the duke were contracted as though in pain, which was not to be wondered at considering the time at which his grace had gone to bed. To be precise, the duke had a shocking head.
"Rémy."
"Yes, your grace."
"What o'clock is it?"
"A quarter to one, your grace."
"Then bring my letters and chocolate at a quarter past, Rémy."
Left to himself, the nobleman turned his pillow over and rested his aching head on the cool freshness and slept fitfully, until Rémy woke him and placed a little table containing a silver chocolate service by his elbow. He then pulled up the blinds, lit the fire, and entered the adjacent room to prepare his master's bath.
Duke Armand tumbled out of bed and thrust his feet into a pair of Turkish slippers and himself into a Japanese dressing-gown, and drew up a commodious arm-chair to the fire. Rémy, hearing the movement, followed noiselessly with the chocolate, beside which he now placed an ivory box of cigarettes and a spirit-lamp.
It was one of Rémy's duties, previous to brushing and folding his master's evening clothes each night, to empty the pocketsen masseinto a small drawer in the dressing-table. The duke was thereby enabled to piece together, by the evidence of the articles, the hazy threads of the previous evening's doings. He now drew out this drawer and emptied the assorted collection in the lap of his barbaric dressing-gown.
A bunch of keys, a menu from Maxim's on the margin of which were pencilled two ladies' names—some loose gold and silver—a pair of white kid gloves torn to ribbons, and a little gold-chain lady's bag. This latter he held up and tried to think how it came into his possession.
All the time that he was in Rémy's hands he thought and thought, but to no purpose. He had a hazy kind of recollection of having seen it before, that was all. It contained a little lace handkerchief and a twenty-franc gold piece, but no initial or other mark of identification could be found.
When his toilet was complete, the young Duc de Choleaux Lasuer stood before the cheval glass in his room whilst he sprinkled a suspicion of Jockey Club upon his handkerchief.
He saw the reflection of a well set up, clean-limbed man of twenty-five, with crisp hair of a dark brown, almost black, curling back from an intellectual brow. The skin was of that olive tint that sets off dark eyes so well.
The duke was dressed in a grey lounge suit with a waistcoat of some dark material sprigged with tiny violet flowers. His cravat, tied in the latest mode, was held in position by a pin surmounted by a large blood-red ruby. The hands were rather large, but with tapering fingers; the feet, in their patent leather boots withsuèdecloth uppers, were long and thin. An aristocrat every inch of him, and a dandy withal, but yet with a suggested air of strength and manliness. In short, his Grace the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer was a very presentable person indeed. So had thought the Princess Galva when she had caught sight of him in the corridors or in the Palm Court of their hotel.
The duke slowly made his way down the wide carpeted staircase, pausing in the foyer to light a cigarette. Then he crossed to the board containing letters and telegrams and glanced idly over them. It was here that he read a notice that any one finding a small gold chain-bag should communicate with the office clerk of the hotel.
In a flash it came to him that he had picked up the dainty little trifle as he went to his room the night before. His friend, the Viscount Mersac, had been with him. What a night it had been, to be sure! The duke smiled at the recollections.
As he approached the office a little man in a dark grey suit and with gold-rimmed spectacles was interviewing the clerk in charge. He turned as the duke approached, and caught sight of the bag in his hand.
"Ah!" he said. "You have found it?"
The clerk looked up. "Your Grace," he said, "this is the gentleman who has advertised. It is his ward who has lost it—the little purse."
It was a trivial incident in itself, yet it was the means of an acquaintance of sorts springing up between the duke and Mr. Edward Sydney, an acquaintance which permitted a whisky and soda together in the buffet and a word or two when they met in the foyer.
The introduction to Galva took place after dinner one night, when Edward was leaving the hotel with the ladies for the opera. The duke's large white motor-car had refused to budge from in front of the entrance, and the girl and her foster-mother had had to walk round it to their waiting fiacre. The duke had apologized very prettily, and Galva's already favourable impression of him suffered nothing from the meeting—rather the reverse.
From that time the young people seemed to be always crossing the foyer at the same time, and once Galva and Edward had accepted the duke's invitation to join him in a spin in the lovely car to Barbizon. It was when he was driving his engine that the duke showed to his best advantage and told clearly that under the dandified exterior was a nerve of iron. To see his capable hands grip the steering-wheel was in itself enough to inspire the utmost confidence.
Galva never forgot that ride and the other rides that followed hard upon it. During her stay in England she had hardly seen a car—the roads round Tremoor were not ideal for the sport, and the novelty of it all was, to her, wonderful. The long, straight, white roads fringed with tall poplars, and the absence of speed-limit, showed her motoring at its best, and she would return to the hotel with cheeks aglow and with fascinating tendrils of hair escaping from the dainty motor-bonnet she had bought in the Magasin du Louvre.
It seemed nearly every day that the great white car sped away from the hotel with the duke at the wheel and the little fur-clad figure of Miss Baxendale tucked up cosily by his side. Edward, who invariably sat with the chauffeur in the tonneau, enjoyed these exhilarating spins as much as any one, but he began to wonder where it would all end, and to ask himself whether he was doing his duty in the sphere to which he had called himself.
He indirectly tackled the girl on the subject one day as they sat after tea in their private drawing-room. Anna was writing in her own room, and the opportunity was too good to be missed. Edward cleared his throat, and started the subject by saying—
"I have been looking out the trains, Galva. We will go through to Madrid, I think. It is a little out of our way, but it will be interesting."
"Why, guardy, you don't want to leave Paris, surely. It's grand here, and old Spain can wait. When I get to San Pietro there'll be a lot of horrid things to think about and to worry us. I love Paris."
"Is it only Paris you are so loath to leave, Galva?"
The princess blushed a delicious pink that did not pass unnoticed by her self-appointed guardian. He rose and straightened himself importantly, pulling down his waistcoat with a tug.
"You seem to take a great delight in the company of the duke," he began.
For a moment a look of resentment came into the girl's eyes, but she rose and put a warm arm round Edward's shoulders.
"Surely you can have no objection to him, guardy. I—I—dolike him; but I like you, too, and I wouldn't care to do anything you would not wish me to do."
"My dear child"—Edward was quite paternal—"I think it would be best to see how things are in your country. A duke is a good match for Miss Baxendale—but perhaps not so suitable for the Queen of San Pietro."
Galva made no answer, but stood looking out from one of the long windows at the twilight settling down over the gardens of the Louvre. Edward went on—
"Besides, we know nothing of the duke. Titles on the continent are hardly the same as in England. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Galva, but the young man keeps shocking hours. I saw him come in at three this morning. I don't think he was quite sober; he insisted on giving champagne to all the hall porters and taking two huge motor lamps to light his way up-stairs."
"Why, guardy! weren'tyouin bed at three?"
Edward gave a little cough.
"Well—it may have been earlier. I—I—had been sitting up reading. I don't sleep very well, Galva. I think it's the change of scene."
The princess turned away so that he should not see her smile.
"I don't expect he's a saint, guardy, but he's most attentive, polite and—nice."
"That's not every thing in a husband, Galva, let alone a consort for a queen. You see, I have to look after your destiny—it's my mission—and I feel we ought to be on our way."
"At once?"
"Well—say the day after to-morrow. Tell the duke if he wants to know your movements that you will be here at this hotel at the same time next year. We ought to be able to manage it by that time, whatever happens. I must ask you not to tell him where we are going. We don't know how the land lies over there at San Pietro, and we don't want any love-sick dukes monkeying round and getting in the way. You don't mind doing as I ask you, do you?"
"My dear guardy, I am in your hands entirely. I wouldn't like to think that I will never see Armand—I mean the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer again, but I'll do as you say, I know you are right, but I—I think he likes me."
"So I think, Galva. Really I have been afraid to be left alone with him for a week past. It would be a nice way to carry out my duty to Mr. Baxendale to give you to the first man we meet, even if he is a duke. Besides, if he means anything, he'll wait a year,—don't forget we're dining early, Galva, as we're going to the Porte Saint Martin."
Edward held the door open for her to pass out, then he turned and walked to the fireplace. For some moments he stood, his legs well apart and his back to the fire, communing with himself on his importance.
Then a half smile spread itself over his features as he took his mind back a few weeks to a dejected little bowed figure shuffling its way over London Bridge, and as he glanced round the sumptuous furnishings of the room he now found himself in and compared it to Belitha Villas, the smile broadened out and he rolled on the brocaded sofa in uncontrollable mirth. Then he sat up and drove his fist into a cushion of yellow satin.
"HowdareI!" he cried to himself, "howdareI!—Edward Povey, you've made strides with a vengeance from the time when you were a poor little clerk at forty-five bob a week, when you can forbid a queen to marry a duke! Oh, whatwouldCharlotte say?"
And the little man composed himself and went to his room to dress for dinner.
*****
In a somewhat secluded corner of the Palm Court two young people were sitting. One of them, a young man of twenty-five was moodily stirring his spoon round and round in a tiny cup of tea. In his other hand he held the fingers of Miss Galva Baxendale.
"A year's a long time," he was saying.
"But you've only known me a few days, and——"
The Duc de Choleaux Lasuer turned to her.
"Nearly a fortnight, Galva, and in knowing you I have known myself. I've been a bit of a 'rotter' as you English call it, but things are going to be different now. I'll turn teetotaler—and learn a trade."
"And get to bed without the aid of two Bleriot lamps?"
The duke drove the spoon through the bottom of the dainty cup.
"Now come, Galva, that's hardly fair; they told me about it in the morning. I didn't know it was the talk of the hotel. You know when it happened?"
"No—why?"
"It was after you had refused to come to the Opera with me, that's when, how, and why it happened."
"In that case I suppose I am an accessory before the fact or something—look, there's Mr. Sydney dressed; we're dining early."
Galva rose.
"You'll not forget to-morrow?"
"No, of course I'll not forget to-morrow, duke—it's our last spin."
Rémy could never understand why it was that the duke was so bad-tempered that night as he dressed him for dinner. But then Rémy was not paid to understand the moods of so exalted a personage as the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer.
"I remember seeing in a Club I visited last year in Buda, some framed hands of cards—remarkable hands that had occurred in the play there. It is a pretty custom. I have often since wished to start a similar collection. Permit me."
And Señor Gabriel Dasso screwed a monocle into a cold and calculating eye and crossed over to the card table.
"May I take them?—thanks. Most extraordinary. And how much did you win, Lieutenant Mozara, on your four kings?"
The young officer addressed nicked the ash from his cigarette and glanced carelessly over the pile of notes and gold before him.
"Oh, about four hundred crowns—thereabouts," he answered carelessly.
"Then the fair Julie of theCasinohas a rosy future before her for—shall we say nearly a week?"
At this a laugh came from the Lieutenant's two opponents, and Dasso continued, gathering up the cards as he spoke—
"You're sure, gentlemen, you don't mind. I'll have them framed with a little brass plate with all the particulars. Let me see, Count, you, was it not, who held the full house, aces high too—and you, Captain Olalla, the flush—am I right?"
He went over to where a handsome inlaid writing table stood near the window and returned with three envelopes. The players watched idly whilst he put five cards into each; afterwards placing the three in a larger envelope, which latter he stuck down. Then, taking a tiny fountain pen from the pocket of his white vest, he wrote:—
Three hands at Poker, held by Count Petola, Captain Olalla, and Lieutenant Mozara—Friday the fifteenth of January1908.
"Many thanks, gentlemen, and a thousand apologies for interrupting your game."
Señor Dasso returned to his position by the fire, one arm resting on the high mantleboard and letting his monocle fall with a little tinkle against his shirt front. The men at the table tore open another pack of cards and resumed their game.
But it was late, and the play became desultory. Following such an exciting hand, the cards ran badly, and after the next "jackpot" the Count and Captain Olalla took their leave.
Lieutenant Mozara carried his glass over and joined Dasso, who still maintained his position by the fireplace. He made way for the younger man, and—
"A good evening's play, eh, Mozara?"
"So so, but I say, Dasso, was it hardly playing the game to drag Julie into it? I don't like being laughed at."
"Oh, a little chaff is the least one has to pay for one's gallantries."
"I expect you did the same, at my age."
Señor Dasso turned and contemplated his handsome face with its iron-grey imperial in the pier-glass before replying.
"Worse, my dear boy, far worse. San Pietro was not then what it is now, but Paris was—Paris—and so was Vienna."
There was silence for a moment, and it was Mozara who first broke it.
"Rather childish isn't it—to keep those cards? They weren't so wonderful, after all; you'll see better at the Club almost any night."
"Possibly—but not sointeresting."
Something in the elder man's voice made the other look up sharply. His eyes narrowed in his head.
"What do you mean, Dasso—more interesting?"
For answer, Señor Dasso drew up a little table in front of the fire, and taking the envelope from his pocket, handed his fountain pen to the Lieutenant.
"I don't understand this, Señor."
"It means, my dear lieutenant, that the record I have written is not yet complete. You will finish it to my dictation."
"If this is a joke, Señor——"
"Pardon me, it is no joke. You will write at my dictation."
"I'm damned if I will—you forget, Señor Dasso, that you——"
"I forget nothing. I know that I am a guest in your uncle's house. Señor Luazo is the soul of honour, and his sister's child should—but never mind. Again I say you will write at my dictation—or you will blow out your brains here and now—Oh, no, you don't."
For with a snarling sound the young man had made a dash at the packet, but before it could reach the flames a hand closed like steel over his wrist.
"You understand me now—eh?"
"Yes, damn you, I understand that you, a guest of my uncle's, dares to spy upon me. I understand that."
"Is there, then, so little difference between a spy and—a cheat?"
Lieutenant Mozara sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands for a moment, then he reached out for the pen.
"What is it you want me to write?"
The other thought for a moment, drumming his fingers upon the polished surface of the little table. "How does it end—yes—'on the fifteenth of January1908,' now add—'The hands were dealt by me, Gaspar Mozara. The cards were provided by me—and I won four hundred crowns. God be merciful to me a sinner.'"
With an oath the young man rose, throwing over the table in his agitation.
"I'll see you in he——"
He stopped and gave a little cry as he saw the shining barrel of a small revolver pointed at him.
"You—you would murder me, then?"
"Morally, yes, but not physically unless you drive me to it. I would say you shot yourself at being found out. This," and he tapped the little package, "would prove everything; marked cards are the finest of evidence."
Then the boy—he was hardly more—was on his knees. "Why are you doing this, Señor Dasso?" he pleaded. "Before God it's the first time. You knew my mother—I've never harmed you. I will return the money to-morrow. I—I—wanted it for Julie."
"Yes, I know that, bless her. It isn't the first time that a woman has played my game for me. There is no mercy in ambition, andI want you. I can make use of you. Oh, your secret is safe with me, provided you write as I say."
"And place my honour and my life in your hands for ever."
"Precisely, that is all I want."
Tremblingly the boy looked past the muzzle to the steady hand and up to the cruel, thin face. Then he righted the table, and whilst Dasso held the package he wrote.
"And your seal," said his tormentor, when the lieutenant had signed his name, and he fetched a stick of black wax from the writing table. Then after Mozara had sealed it with his signet ring, Dasso placed the envelope in his pocket and leant back with a half smile.
"And now, my dear lieutenant, for my motive. Believe me I like you, and I have no personal objection to your method of playing poker. I can be frank with you now that I have this," and he tapped the pocket over the cards.
"You know what they say here in Corbo, that it was I who engineered the affair of fifteen years ago. They even hint that I took an active part in the doings at the palace on that night. Well, they are not far wrong. It was I who did the majority of the work, seeing that my followers faltered at the last moment. I had too much at stake to risk failure. I had worked hard, believing that the choice of the people would fall on me, failing a direct heir. It did; I was made Dictator, and for a few brief weeks I tasted the fruits of power.
"But Spain was stronger than I, and my crime—my political crime—went for nothing. Enrico was placed where I would sit, and now he is at last paying the penalty of his licentious and foolish mode of life. The King is dying."
For a moment the lieutenant was interested in spite of himself.
"But his nephew will——"
Señor Dasso rose and snapped his fingers.
"That for him. What do the people think or even know of him, a man who has hardly been seen by them, a man who hates San Pietro and all in it—including his uncle? I understand he is in Africa shooting lions at this present moment. When he hears of his uncle's death it will be too late."
"But Spain?"
"Spain has her own troubles now, and I have information that a little diplomacy is all that is needed. It is my hour and I will want help—I will want dirty work done. To-night I saw my chance when I noticed that your cards were marked. I took it, as I take all chances."
"What is it you want of me?"
"There will be many things. First I want you to watch and tell me all about these English people, Miss Bax—Baxendale and her Mr. Sydney. I want you to——"
"I will not play the spy in my uncle's house—he has been a father to me—more than a father."
"But youplay—in your uncle's house—how you play is known only to you and me—so far. It's not much I'm asking of you, but much or little you'll have to do it. They visit here a great deal, and your task will be easy—and I'll help you with Julie. Half-past one; I'll go now—you'll remember."
Gabriel Dasso descended the broad stairway of Señor Luazo's mansion, and was helped into his sable overcoat by the sleepy man-servant at the door. In the courtyard his motor was waiting, but instructing the chauffeur to keep him in sight Dasso turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out briskly.
It was a lovely night, and the Bay of Lucana gleamed silver beneath the moon. The boulevard that terraced above the beach lay white under the cold glare of the arc lamps which threw a delicate tracery of shadow from the acacia trees.
The town of Corbo was built on a cliff, or rather a series of little cliffs that rose in terraces, upon the highest of which stood the royal palace. Under the gay reign of Enrico I, Corbo had prospered exceedingly, and there was but little remaining of the old and quaint town of a decade ago. Modern hotels, rivalling the palace in splendour and far exceeding it in comfort, lined the lower boulevard, and the Casino lying back in its palm gardens had been erected by a syndicate of Russian Jews and had cost a fabulous amount of money.
The lights were still blazing from its myriad windows as Señor Dasso made his way along the broad pavement, followed at a respectful distance by his car. There was a slight wind off-shore and little bursts of melody came to him at intervals, of a popular waltz played by a string band.
For perhaps half-an-hour the man continued to walk up and down, his chin sunk deep in his collar, then he raised his hand and the watching chauffeur slid noiselessly up to him.
Leaving the lighted thoroughfare the car made its way to the eastern end of the town, which lay in darkness. It was here, in a part that still contained some of the buildings of the old town, that Dasso's home lay. It was a large mediæval-looking structure, more of a castle than a house. When first it had been erected it stood alone, but with the growth of the town it had been surrounded, and portions of its grounds taken in till now it had the appearance of a giant being elbowed and crowded out by pigmies.
Before the massive old gateway the car drew up, and at the sound of the brakes the oak doors opened. Señor Dasso passed in between the two footmen, one of whom relieved him of his coat and hat, whilst the other shot home the great bolts behind him.
"I'll want nothing more," he said shortly, and crossing the hall entered a room on the left. On the table stood a decanter and a syphon. He mixed himself a drink, then selecting a key from the bunch on his chain inserted it in the lock of a small but massive safe that was let into the wall by the fireplace. He took from it a portfolio of black leather, and, seating himself near the lights of a branch candelabra, unfastened the little strap.
It contained a varied assortment of papers, and Dasso ran through them hurriedly until he came to a card bearing a photograph. This he held close to the light and scanned narrowly.
He saw an old silver print of a young and beautiful woman in royal robes. Tall, and of a commanding carriage that savoured somewhat of arrogance, the late Queen of San Pietro looked out from the faded picture. For some minutes Señor Dasso gazed at the eyes, looking away now and again as though conjuring up some picture to his mind. Then he spoke murmuringly to himself, his eyes fixed on the portrait he held in his hand.
"I who knew you better than the others—I who saw you last of all—can perhaps see more than the others now. Yes, Queen Elene, your eyes have looked at me again to-night—in the flesh"—he laughed shortly—"but I did not flinch, Elene; the nerves of Gabriel Dasso are as firm to-day as they were fifteen years ago."
For a little while longer he looked, a half smile curling his cruel mouth, then he replaced the photograph in the portfolio, putting with it the three poker hands of Lieutenant Mozara, and again locked it in the safe.
Then taking the candelabra, he ascended the wide oak staircase to his chamber.
The residence which Edward Povey Sydney had chosen for his party occupied a central position overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and embracing a fine view of the Bay of Lucana from the verdure-clad heights of the western arm to the tiny white lighthouse that stood sentinel on the spur of rock to the eastward.
The house itself was modern, having been built five years before Edward's arrival by a Cornhill financier, to whom the extradition laws of San Pietro offered as much inducement as the climate. But at the end of his first year's residence the call of the joys of London proved too strong for the poor man of finance, and the change from the luxury of Venta Villa to the hardships of a cell at Dartmoor had been as unpleasant as it had been swift.
Whatever may have been the failings of the poor gentleman—and doubtless they were many and varied—he had shown a pretty taste in the designing and building of Venta Villa and a wise expenditure of his—or rather other people's—money. The house stood high, having the appearance of being propped up by a series of little lawns and white terraces. The steps leading from the front portico, widening out as they descended, gave upon a square courtyard in which played curiously-carved little fountains. Palms in green tubs lined this pathway of steps, and the banks of the lawns were gay with flowering shrubs.
Miss Baxendale, looking adorable in an old rose, tailor-made gown, that set off the slender lines of her little figure to perfection, stood on the top step debating how and where to spend the hour or so beforedéjeuner.
It was a glorious morning in late January, and the girl's eyes and cheeks glowed with health as she drank in the delicious morning air. Below her the promenade was bright with a happy, well-dressed crowd, the sprinkling of uniforms adding greatly to the gaiety of the scene. Slender victorias and smart dog-carts trotted up and down under the acacias, and shapely motors threaded their noiseless way in and out of the slower traffic, the sun glinting bravely upon their polished brass and silver.
So occupied was the little lady with the novelty and beauty of her surroundings, that she did not at first notice the scarlet and black figure which had detached itself from the crowd of promenaders and now stood trying to attract her attention at the gateway of the lower courtyard. When she did so, she smiled, and waving her long white gloves, ran lightly down to him.
It cannot be said that she was in any way attracted to Lieutenant Gaspar Mozara, in fact, had she asked herself the question, she would have said that she disliked him, but she was gracious to the young soldier from a sense of duty to his uncle, for since presenting Mr. Baxendale's letter to Señor Luazo, the old aristocrat had done everything in his power to make their stay on the island a pleasant one.
As to the true object of their coming to San Pietro, Galva had been willing, as in Paris, to let things in the mean time shape themselves. Señor Luazo also, when put in possession of all the facts, advised caution.
There seemed to her something horrible in the thought of "plotting" in this gay little kingdom. To her the name of "plot" meant bloodshed and hardships, and the world in all its beauty was so new, and seemed so good to her, that she was loath to endanger her newly-acquired paradise. She had even told Edward that she had no immediate desire to be a queen of anywhere, let alone San Pietro—life in the little villa, overlooking the bay, seemed to her far more desirable than existence in the rather ugly royal palace on the hills behind the town—the palace with its long rows of square windows, that reminded her of a workhouse. And in her own heart she was looking forward to the visit to Paris in a year, and her thoughts ran on the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer more often than Mr. Sydney or Anna suspected. She told herself that she did not want to take that journey as a queen, with a crowd of irritating courtiers and maids-of-honour.
"I suppose this is the height of the season, Lieutenant Mozara," she said, indicating the butterfly throng moving round them as they made their way along the boulevard; "how happy and gay they all seem, and what a happy and gay little kingdom you have here—laughter, laughter everywhere."
"Yes, Miss Baxendale, it is the season—we have a long one. We are always happy here; it is only in the height of summer that it is quiet, and then there's nobody here to see it. All these villas are empty then, and everybody who is anybody is in London or Paris. When the king dies, however——"
"Why, is King Enrico very ill?"
"Surely you have heard, Miss Baxendale, that it is only a matter of months, perhaps weeks. There will be trouble then, I'm afraid. You see, the heir-apparent is not popular. It will be the chance for a strong man then."
"But this heir—is he here, in Corbo?"
"Here? he's never here. It's little he troubles about San Pietro. They say he's in Africa now, shooting lions or something silly. The man who keeps his throne warm for him will hardly welcome him when he does come back."
"And who will this man be—this man who keeps his throne warm?"
The young soldier turned and pointed with his cane to where Señor Dasso's house rose, gaunt and forbidding, above the roofs and gables of the old town.
"Dasso, undoubtedly—and with him will rise others. I am a friend of Dasso's," he added meaningly.
"Which means——?"
The lieutenant made an expressive gesture with his shoulders.
"Who knows? A dukedom perhaps"; then, as he looked at her, "I shall have to be looking out for a duchess."
The girl laughed, and gazed out over the sea.
"She will be a lucky woman," she said carelessly.
For a little while the smart figure in its astrakhan tunic and scarlet riding-breeches walked on beside Galva in silence. During the two months of their acquaintance, Lieutenant Mozara had found himself irresistibly attracted by this beautiful girl from England, and the task imposed upon him during the last week by Señor Dasso had been irksome and distasteful in the extreme. Since the eventful night of the marked cards the two men had not met, but Dasso would soon be getting impatient, and Mozara had during the last few days learnt much respecting Miss Baxendale's presence in San Pietro, and he suspected more.
He found himself between two stools, his fear of Dasso and the unbounded ambition that his suspicions of Galva's parentage had roused in him. As the accepted suitor of the girl by his side he would be in a strong position—strong enough, perhaps, to defy his enemy. But he told himself he must speak before her secret was known, it would be impossible after.
These thoughts ran quickly through his brain as they walked along the crowded promenade. Then, impetuous as ever, he bent his head until his lips all but touched a tendril of dark hair that had strayed from under the fascinating toque that Galva wore.
"You think so, really, Miss Baxendale, that she will be a lucky woman. Willyoube she?"
In a moment the little face became white and set.
"Lieutenant Mozara!"
"Is it so strange, then, that I should have learnt to love you? We of the South do not hesitate to speak where our hearts are concerned. I ask you, is it strange?"
"I—I—don't know how to answer you, lieutenant, I only know that—that——Oh! I didn't expect this."
"Do you dislike me, Miss Baxendale?"
"Dislike—oh no, but I do not love you."
"And you could never do so?"
The girl paused in her walk and faced the young soldier. "This conversation is distasteful to me, Lieutenant Mozara. If you will have an answer, it is that I could never look upon you except as a friend."
A look of anger came into Mozara's narrow eyes.
"That sounds final," he said rather nastily; "there is some one else, then?"
"You have no right to say that," and Galva thought again of a certain nobleman and of delightful rides in the glades of Fontainebleu.
"Pardon me, Miss Baxendale, I have offended you."
"Offended—no, but I am afraid you have put a stop to a very pleasant friendship. These walks will be impossible now, won't they?"
The girl smiled a sad little smile and went on: "I have some shopping to do, lieutenant, and that street up there looks promising. Do you know, a woman can tell a shop miles away."
She held out her hand, and in a moment she was gone, leaving Lieutenant Gaspar Mozara with anger in his heart.
"So it must be the other way, my lady; Gaspar Mozara does not ask twice." He said this between set teeth, and hailing a passing fiacre, gave the direction of Señor Dasso's house in the old town.
*****
Dasso was sitting reading in the oak-panelled library. It was a dignified apartment, low ceilinged and sombre in colouring. The firelight played richly on the dark red hangings and on the pewter which stood on the low bookcases. In shadowy corners stood suits of armour, with here and there a choice bronze statue.
The ex-Dictator put aside the book and rose as the lieutenant was announced, and held out his hand with a show of greeting.
"I have been expecting you," he said.
Gaspar Mozara drew a chair up to face his host, and threw himself into it with an oath. Dasso looked his inquiries.
"Expecting me, have you? It was useless my worrying you, señor, until I had news."
Señor Dasso rose and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Now look here, Gaspar, there's no need for you to be surly. There are times ahead in San Pietro, and you should be honoured to think that I have chosen you to work with me. Oh, I know you are thinking of those cards—they are just my safeguard, nothing more, against treachery. A hand such as I am playing does not allow of throwing away a single trick, of missing a single chance. Work with me, Gaspar, and forget that you ever played poker."
A manservant entered and placed refreshment on the table and noiselessly withdrew.
Dasso poured out Madeira into two thin goblets of Venetian glass and handed one to the young man, who stood looking into the fire, seeing in the glowing coals the disdainful face of Galva Baxendale. He stood up with a clanking of spurs on the polished oak floor and took the glass.
"To Dasso," he said, with a reckless laugh; "To King Gabriel the First."
He drained the goblet, then: "You may burn the cards, Dasso, as I have burned my boats. Heart and soul I am with you, and any work in your cause I will do, for it is my cause, too, now. And the more devilish the work the better I shall like it. My fiacre is outside, Dasso; I will come again this evening. My news can hold till then; I am taking Julie to lunch at Amato's."