CHAPTER IIITHE "GAME"—AND ITS PLAYERSOn the following morning Mr. Emery, the young solicitor, entered Mrs. Morrison's sitting-room at Llandudno with a telegram in his hand."I've just had this from the manager of the Universal. They are prepared to do the business and are writing me full particulars. I shall get them by to-morrow morning's post. I've wired to my clerk, Wilson, to post me a proposal form and some other papers."Emery, his one thought being the big commission upon the business, entered Mrs. Morrison's room twenty-four hours later with a number of papers in his hand.He sat down with the rich widow, and put before her the proposal form—a paper which had printed upon it a long list of questions, mostly inquisitorial. The bed-rock question of that document was "Who are you, and are you subject to any of the ills that human flesh is heir to?"Question after question she read, and her answers he wrote down in the space reserved for them. Once or twice she hesitated before replying, but he put down her hesitation to a natural reserve.The filling up of the form took some time, after which she appended her signature in a bold hand, and this completed the proposal."I fear it will be necessary for you to go to London to pass the doctor," he said. "When would that be convenient?""Any time after next Wednesday," she replied. "As a matter of fact, I have some shopping to do in town before I return to Scotland, so I can kill two birds with one stone.""Excellent! They will, of course, make it as easy for you as possible. You will hear from Mr. Gray at the head office. Where shall you stay in town?"With a friend of mine—a Mrs. Pollen." And she gave him an address in Upper Brook Street which he wrote down.Before eleven o'clock Mrs. Morrison had dispatched a telegram addressed to "Braybourne, 9b, Pont Street, London," which read:"All preliminaries settled. Shall be in London end of week.—AUGUSTA MORRISON."Meanwhile, the solicitor, greatly elated at securing such a remunerative piece of work, sent the completed proposal to the head office of the company in London, and on the following day, accompanied by his wife, returned to his home in Manchester, after what had turned out to be a very profitable as well is beneficial holiday.Before leaving, Mrs. Morrison arranged that he should carry the whole matter through, her parting injunction being:"Remember—tell the Company to write to me at Upper Brook Street, and not to Scotland. And always write to me yourself to London."Now that same evening, after Emery's departure, there arrived at the Beach Hotel, wearing rimless pince-nez, a dark, strongly-built man, well dressed, and with a heavy crocodile suit-case which spoke mutely of wealth. He signed the visitor's form as Pomeroy Graydon, and gave his address as "Carleon Road, Roath, Cardiff, Shipbroker."He was late, and ate his dinner alone. Afterwards he went out for a stroll on the esplanade in the direction of the Little Orme, when, after walking nearly half a mile, he suddenly encountered the red-haired widow, who was attired plainly in navy blue with a small hat, having evidently changed her dress after dinner."Well, Ena!" he exclaimed, lifting his soft felt hat politely. "I'm here, you see! I thought it best to come up and see you. I'm at your hotel as Mr. Graydon of Cardiff.""I'm awfully glad you've come, Bernie," she said. "I rather expected you.""As soon as Lilla got your wire I started, and was fortunate to get to Euston just in time for the Irish mail—changed at Chester, and here I am!"The pair strolled to a convenient seat close to where the waves lazily lapped upon the wall of the esplanade—for the tide was up—and the night a perfect one with a full white moon."Everything going well?" asked the smartly dressed man, whose pose in Hammersmith was so entirely different. He spoke in an eager tone."Yes, as far as I can see it's all plain sailing. I'm doing my part, and leave you and Lilla to do the rest. I've met here a very nice young fellow—as I intended—a useful solicitor named Emery, of Manchester. He is carrying the matter through for me. He's agent of the Universal.""A first-class office.""Well, I'm insuring with them in Lilla's favour.""Have you carried out the plan we discussed?""To the very letter! Trust me, my dear Bernie.""I always do, Ena," he declared, gazing across the moonlit sea. They were alone on the seat, and there was none to overhear:"Ten thousand is a decent sum. Let's hope it will be all over soon. I sometimes have bad quarters of an hour—when I think!" he remarked."The sums assured have been higher and higher," she said. "We started with five hundred—you recollect the woman Bayliss?—and now we are always in thousands. Only you, Bernard, know how the game should be played. I do my part, but it is your brain which evolves all this business for which the companies are so eager, and which is so wonderful.""True, our plan works well," Boyne admitted, still gazing over the sea. "We've all of us made thousands out of it—haven't we?""Yes. I can see no loophole by which the truth might leak out—save one," she said very seriously."And what's that?"'"Your visits to your wife," was her reply. "Suppose somebody watched you, and saw you leave your frowsy little house in Hammersmith, go to Lilla in Pont Street, and blossom forth into a gentleman of means; it would certainly arouse a nasty suspicion. Therefore you should always be most careful.""I am. Never fear," he said. "Recollect, nobody in Hammersmith knows that Lilla Braybourne is my wife.""They don't know. But they might suspect things, which may lead eventually to an awkward inquiry, and then——?""Oh! my dear Ena, don't contemplate unpleasant things!" he urged, with a shrug of the shoulders. "I know you are a clever woman—more clever by far than Lilla herself—therefore I always rely upon your discretion and foresight. Now, tell me—what has happened up to date?"In reply she told him briefly of her meeting with the young solicitor Emery—which she had prearranged, by the way—and how she had entertained the newly-married pair."They, of course, believe you to be Mrs. Augusta Morrison, of Carsphairn, widow of old Joe Morrison, the great shipbuilder of Govan?" he remarked, smiling."Exactly. As you know, I paid a visit in secret to Carsphairn six weeks ago, and found out quite a lot. This I retailed to the Emerys, and they took it all in. I described Carsphairn to them, and showed them the snapshots of the place which I took surreptitiously when I was up there. Indeed, I gave a couple of them to Mrs. Emery—to make evidence.""Excellent!" he exclaimed. "You never leave anything undone, Ena.""One must be thorough in everything if one desires success.""And what is your address?""I gave it to my own flat in Upper Brook Street—care of Ena Pollen—widow.""So you will come to London?""Yes—I have to go there shopping before I return to Scotland," she replied grimly. "I am staying with Mrs. Pollen.""Good! It will be far the best for their London doctors to examine you. If you were examined up here they might resist the claim. If they did that—well, it would open up the whole business, and we certainly can't afford to arouse the very least little bit of doubt.""Hardly," she laughed. "Well, I've played the game properly, my dear Bernie. My name is Morrison, and I am the widow of old Joe Morrison, the woman with the red hair, and I live at Carsphairn, Kirkcudbrightshire, the fine sporting estate left me by my late husband. All that is upon the records of the Universal Life Assurance Corporation.""Excellent! You've established an undeniable identity—red hair and everything!" he said, again gazing reflectively out across the rippling waters. "You have taken the first step.""The second move is that Mrs. Morrison goes to London on a shopping visit, prior to going abroad," the widow said."Really, you are marvellous, Ena!" declared the humble insurance agent of Hammersmith. "Your foresight always carries you to success.""In a number of cases it has done so, I admit," the woman laughed. "When one's identity is not exactly as one represents, one has to have one's eyes skinned day and night. Men—even the shrewdest lawyers—are always easily gulled. Why? Because of the rapacious maws the legal profession have for fees. Women are always dangerous, for they are too frequently jealous of either good looks or pretty frocks. A man I can usually manage—a woman, seldom, unless she is in love. Then I side with her in her love affair and so gain her confidence.""Ena, I repeat I hold you in admiration as one of the cleverest women I have ever known. Nothing deters you—nothing perturbs you! You fix a plan, and you carry it through in your own way—always with profit to our little combination.""And very substantial profit, I venture to think, eh?""I agree," he said, with a grim laugh."All thanks to you, my dear Bernie," the red-haired woman said. "But really I am growing just a little apprehensive. Why—I don't know, I cannot tell. But somehow I fear we may play the game once too often. And what then—eh?""Funnily enough, I've experienced the same curiously apprehensive feeling of late," he said. "I always try, of course, to crush it out, just as I crush out any other little pricks of conscience which occur to me when I awake in the mornings.""Very strange that we should both of us entertain apprehensive feelings!" she remarked very thoughtfully. "I hope it's no ill omen! Do you think it is?""No," he laughed. "Don't let us seek trouble—for Heaven's sake. At present there is not the slightest danger. Of that I feel confident. Let us go forward. When shall you go up to London?""To-morrow. I go to visit my dear friend, Mrs. Pollen—as I have told you."He laughed."So really you are going on a visit to yourself—eh? Excellent! Really you are unique, Ena!""Well—it is the only way, and it will work well."Then the strange pair, who were upon such intimate terms, rose and strolled leisurely side by side back towards the opposite end of the promenade, chatting merrily the while.When approaching the Beach Hotel they halted, and the woman bade the man good-bye. Afterwards he sank upon a seat in one of the shelters, while she walked on and entered the hotel.Not until half an hour later, after he had taken a stroll along to the end of the pier, where the band was still playing, did he return to the hotel. Mrs. Morrison was at the moment sitting in the lounge chatting with two men visitors. The eyes of the pair met as he passed, but neither gave any sign of recognition.To those in the lounge the two were absolutely strangers to each other.Little did the other visitors dream of the dastardly, even demoniacal, plot that was being so skilfully woven in their midst.Next afternoon Bernard Boyne stepped from out of the Holyhead express upon Euston platform and drove in a taxi to Pont Street, where he was greeted warmly by his wife, who had been informed of his advent by telegram from Chester."Well?" she asked, when the door of the luxurious drawing-room was closed and they were alone. "And how did you find Ena?""She's splendid! All goes well," was his enthusiastic reply. "She's got hold of a young Manchester solicitor who is carrying the policy through all right. He happens to be an agent of the Universal. She's on her way back to London now. I wasn't seen with her in the hotel, of course.""When is she coming here?""To-night at nine. She wants to see you.""I think the less she sees of me just now the better, don't you, Bernie?""I quite agree. We don't want anyone to recognise you as friends when the time comes," replied Boyne. "As soon as she gets passed by the doctors—both of them unknown to any of us—which is a blessing—she'll have to go up to Scotland.""To New Galloway again?""No. To Ardlui, that pretty little village at the head of Loch Lomond. The inquiries I have been making of the servants at Carsphairn show that it is the lady's intention to go with her maid to Ardlui for a fortnight, and thence to Edinburgh for another fortnight.""Really, Bernie, you are wonderful in the way you pry into people's intentions.""Only by knowing the habits and intentions of our friends can we hope to be successful," was his reply, as he flung himself back among the silken cushions of the couch and lazily lit a cigarette."So Ena will have to go to Scotland again?""Yes. She ought to pass the doctors in a week, for this young fellow is pushing it through because of the handsome fee she will give him, and then, in the following week, she must put on her best frocks and best behaviour and take a 'sleeper' on the nine twenty-five from Euston to Glasgow.""What an adventure!" remarked the handsome woman before him."Of course. But we are out for big money this time, remember.""You have examined the whole affair, I suppose, and considered it from every standpoint—eh?""Of course I have. As far as I can discover, there is no flaw in our armour. This young solicitor is newly married, and is much gratified that the wealthy Mrs. Morrison should take such notice of his young wife. But you know Ena well enough to be sure that she plays the game all right. She's the rich widow to the very letter, and talks about her 'dear husband' in a manner that is really pathetic. She declares that they were such a devoted couple.""Yes. Ena can play the game better than any woman in England," agreed his wife. "Have some tea?""No; it's too hot," he replied. "Get me some lemonade."And she rose, and presently brought him a glass of lemonade. She preferred to wait upon him, for she was always suspicious of the maids trying to listen to their conversation, which, however, was discreet and well guarded.That night at about half-past nine, husband and wife having dined togethertête-à-tête—being waited on by the smart young Italian footman—Ena Pollen was ushered into the drawing-room."Oh! Welcome back, dear!" cried Mrs. Braybourne, jumping up and embracing her friend, making pretence, of course, before the servant. "Sit down. I had no idea you were in London! I thought you were somewhere in the wilds of Wales."Then, when the door had closed, her attitude altered to one of deep seriousness."Well," she said, "according to Bernie, everything goes well, doesn't it?""Excellently," replied the other. "You see in me Mrs. Augusta Morrison, widow, of Carsphairn, New Galloway, who is in London on a visit to her friend, Ena Pollen, and who is about to be passed as a first-class life!" And she laughed, the other two smiling grimly."I congratulate you upon finding that young solicitor. What's his name?""Emery—just getting together a practice and looking out for the big commission on the first of my premiums," she said. "We've met those before. Do you recollect that fellow Johnson-Hughes? Phew! what an ass!""But he was over head and ears in love with you, my dear Ena," said Boyne, "and you know it.""Don't be sarcastic, Bernie!" she exclaimed, with a pout. "Whether he was in love with me or not, it doesn't matter. We brought off the little affair successfully, and we all had a share of the pickings. In these post-war profiteering days it is only by callous dishonour and double-dealing one can make both ends meet. It begins in the Cabinet and ends with the marine store dealer. Honesty spells ruin. That's my opinion.""I quite agree," Lilla declared. "If we had all three played a straight game, where should we be now?""Living in Bridge Place," remarked Boyne, whereat the two women laughed merrily.* * * * *That night Marigold met Gerald at Mark Lane Station, and they travelled westward together on the way home. In the Underground train they chatted about the mystery of Bridge Place, but amid the crush and turmoil of home-going City workers they could say but little.Marigold had been again to see her deaf aunt, who was still unsuspicious of the strange state of affairs in her master's humble home.Gerald was next day compelled to accompany his principal up north to a conference upon food prices, and for ten days he remained away. Therefore Marigold could only watch and wait.She went to Bridge Place several times, and saw Mr. Boyne there. He was always cheerful and chatty. About him there seemed nothing really suspicious. Indeed, when she considered it all, she began to wonder whether she had not made a fool of herself.CHAPTER IVPROGRESS OF THE PLOTIn the dull, sombre consulting-room of Sir Humphrey Sinclair in Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square—a room with heavy mahogany furniture, well-worn carpet, a big writing-table set in the window, and an adjustable couch against the wall—sat the pseudo Mrs. Augusta Morrison, who desired to insure her life.At the table sat the great physician, a clean-shaven, white-haired man, in large, round, gold-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed in a grey cashmere suit—for the weather was unbearably hot that morning—and, truth to tell, he was longing for his annual vacation at his pretty house by the sea at Frinton.In the medical world Humphrey Sinclair had made a great name for himself, and had had among his patients various European royalties, besides large numbers of the British aristocracy and well-known people of both sexes. Quiet mannered, soft spoken, and exquisitely polite, he was always a favourite with his lady patients, while Lady Sinclair herself moved in a very good set.Having arranged a number of papers which the Universal had sent to him, he took one upon which a large number of questions were printed with blank spaces for the proposer's replies. Then, turning to her, he said, with a smile:"I fear, Mrs. Morrison, that I shall be compelled to ask you a number of questions. Please understand that they are not merely out of curiosity, but the company claim a right to know the family and medical history of any person whose life they insure."I perfectly understand, Sir Humphrey," replied the handsome woman. "Ask me any questions you wish, and I will try to reply to them to the best of my ability.""Very well," he said. "Let's begin." And he commenced to put to her questions regarding the date of her birth, the cause of the deaths of her father and her mother, whether she had ever suffered from this disease or that, dozens of which were enumerated. And so on.For nearly half an hour the great doctor plied her with questions which he read aloud from the paper, and then wrote down her replies in the spaces reserved for them.Never once did she hesitate—she knew those questions off by heart, indeed, and had her replies ready, replies culled from a budget of information which during the past three months had been cleverly collected. Truth to tell, she was replying quite accurately to the questions, but only so far as Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn was concerned. The medical history she gave was correct in every detail concerning Mrs. Morrison.But, after all, was not the proposal upon the life of Mrs. Morrison, and did not the famous physician believe her to be the widow of Carsphairn?Sir Humphrey asked her to step upon the weighing machine in the corner of the room, and afterwards he measured her height and wrote it down with a grunt of satisfaction.Then, after further examination, and putting many questions, he reseated himself, and turned to the page upon which his own private opinion was to be recorded."I hope you don't find much wrong with me?" asked the lady, with a little hesitation."No, my dear madam—nothing that I can detect," was the physician's reply as he gazed at her through his big glasses. "Of course, my colleague, Doctor Hepburn, may discover something. I shall have to ask you to call upon him.""When?""Any time you care to arrange. To-day—if you like. He may be at home. Shall I see?""I do so wish you would, Sir Humphrey," Ena said. "I want to get back to Scotland, as I have to go to Ardlui next week."The great doctor took the telephone at his elbow, and was soon talking to Doctor Hepburn, with whom he arranged for the lady to call in an hour.Then Sir Humphrey scribbled the address in Harley Street on a slip of paper, and with a few polite words of reassurance, rang his bell, and the man-servant conducted her out."An exceptionally pretty woman," grunted old Sir Humphrey to himself when she had gone. "Highly intelligent, and a first-class life."And he sat down to record his own private views as to the physical condition of the person proposed for insurance.Ena idled before the shop windows in Oxford Street for three-quarters of an hour, and then took a taxi to Harley Street, where she found Doctor Stanley Hepburn, a short, stout, brown-bearded man of rather abrupt manner.In his smart, up-to-date consulting-room he put the same questions to her, wearying as they were, and parrot-like she answered them."Truly, I'm having a busy morning, doctor," she remarked, with a sigh, laughing at the same time."Apparently," he said, smiling. "I must apologise for bothering you with all these questions. Sir Humphrey has, no doubt, gone through them all.""He has.""Well, never mind. Forgive me, and let's get along," he said briskly.And he proceeded with question after question. At last, after an examination exactly like that conducted by Sir Humphrey, Doctor Hepburn reseated himself at his table, and said:"Well, Mrs. Morrison, I don't think I need keep you any longer.""Are you quite satisfied with me?" she asked boldly.He was silent for a few seconds."As far as I myself am concerned I see no reason whatever why the company should not accept the risk," was his reply. "Of course, I don't know the nature of Sir Humphrey's report; but I expect it coincides with my own. I can detect nothing to cause apprehension, and, in normal circumstances, you should live to quite old age.""Thanks! That is a very agreeable piece of information," she said.Then, his waiting-room being crowded—for he had given her a special appointment—he rose and, bowing, dismissed her, saying:"I shall send in my report to the company to-night, therefore the matter should go through without delay."Afterwards, as she walked along Harley Street, a great weight having been lifted from her mind, she hailed a taxi and drove back to her pretty flat in Upper Brook Street, where a dainty lunch awaited her.To answer frankly and correctly those questions had been an ordeal. Those queries were so cleverly arranged that if, after death, the replies to any of them are found to be false the company would be able to resist the claim upon it. To give a true and faithful account of your parents' ailments and your own illnesses is difficult enough, but to give an equally true account of those of another person is extremely difficult and presents many pitfalls. And none knew that better than Ena Pollen.After lunch, she rested for an hour, as was her habit in summer, and then she took a taxi to Pont Street, where she had tea with Lilla Braybourne.To her she related her adventures among the medicos, adding:"All is serene! There's nothing the matter with Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn! She's in excellent health and may live to be ninety. Hers is a first-class life!""Bernie predicted it," said the wife of the humble insurance agent of Hammersmith. "You were passed fit in the Fitzgerald affair—you recollect.""Yes," snapped the handsome woman. "What a pity the sum wasn't five thousand instead of five hundred.""I agree. But we didn't then realise how easy was the game. Now we know—a few preliminary inquiries, a plausible tongue—which, thanks to Heaven, you've got, Ena—a few smart dresses, and a knowledge of all the devious ways of insurance and assignments—and the thing is easy.""Well, as far as we've gone in this matter all goes well—thanks to Bernie's previous inquiries regarding the good lady of Carsphairn.""She's a bit of a skinflint, I believe. Can't keep servants. She has a factor who is a very close Scot, and things at Carsphairn are usually in a perturbed condition," Lilla said. "Bernie has gone back to Bridge Place. What an awful life the poor dear leads! Fancy having to live with that deaf old woman Felmore!""Yes. But isn't it part of the game? By living in Hammersmith, and being such a hard-working, respectable man, he acquires a lot of very useful knowledge.""Quite so; but it must be very miserable there for him.""He doesn't mind it, he says," was the reply. "It brings money.""It certainly does that," said Lilla. "When shall you go north? Will you wait till the policy is issued?""I think not. The sooner I meet Mrs. Morrison the better. Don't you agree?""Certainly. What does Bernie say?""That's his view," answered Ena. "So I shall go to Scotland at the end of the week. I shall stay at the Central, in Glasgow, for a night or two, and then on to Loch Lomond.""Bernie has heard from one of his secret sources of information that the widow is leaving Carsphairn three days earlier than she intended. She goes to visit a niece who lives in Crieff, and then on to Ardlui.""I've been to Ardlui before—on a day trip from Glasgow up the Loch," Ena said. "A quiet, remote little place, with an excellent hotel right at the extreme end of the Loch, beyond Inversnaid.""Then you'll go north without waiting for the policy?""Yes. Letters will come to me addressed care of myself, and Bernie will send them on. As soon as I have notice that the company will accept me, I'll pay the premium. I've already opened a little account in the name of Augusta Morrison, so that I can send them a cheque. In the meanwhile, we need lose no time.""And yet I don't think we ought to rush it unduly, do you?" asked Lilla."Oh! we shan't do that, my dear Lilla. There's a lot to be done in the matter of inspiring confidence. Perhaps dear Augusta will not take to me. What then?""You always know how to make yourself pleasant, Ena. She'll take to you, never fear!""According to the reports we've had about her, she's rather discriminating in her friendships," said the handsome woman, smiling grimly."Well, I rather wish I were coming with you for a fortnight on Loch Lomond," said Lilla."No, my dear, you have no place in the picture at present. Much as I would like your companionship, you are far better here at home.""Yes, I suppose you are right!" answered her friend, sighing. "But I long for Scotland in these warm summer days.""Get Bernie to take you to the seaside for a bit. There's nothing urgent doing just now.""Bernie is far too busy in Hammersmith, my dear," Lilla laughed. "He wouldn't miss his weekly round for worlds. Besides, he's got some important church work on—helping the vicar in a series of mission meetings.""Bernie is a good Churchman, I've heard," said Ena."Of course. That, too, is part of the big bluff. The man who carries round the bag every Sunday is always regarded as pious and upright. And Bernie never loses a chance to increase his halo of respectability."Ena remained at Pont Street for about half an hour longer, and then, returning to her own flat, she set about sorting out the dresses she would require for Scotland, and assisted her elderly maid to pack them.Afterwards she returned into her elegant little drawing-room and seated herself at the little writing-table, where she consulted a diary. Then she wrote telegrams to the hotels at Glasgow and at Ardlui, engaging rooms for dates which, after reflection, she decided upon.Ena Pollen was a woman of determination and method. Her exterior was that of a butterfly of fashion, careless of everything save her dress and her hair, yet beneath the surface she was calm, clever, and unscrupulous, a woman who had never loved, and who, indeed, held the opposite sex in supreme contempt. The adventure in which she was at that moment engaged was the most daring she had ever undertaken. The unholy trio had dabbled in small affairs, each of which had brought them profit, but the present undertaking would, she knew, require all her tact and cunning.The real Mrs. Augusta Morrison, the widow of Carsphairn, was one of Boyne's discoveries, and by judicious inquiry, combined with other investigations which Ena herself had made, they knew practically everything concerning her, her friends, and her movements. The preliminaries had taken fully three months, for prior to going to Llandudno, there to assume the widow's identity, Ena had been in secret to New Galloway, and while staying at the Lochinvar Arms, at Dairy, she had been able to gather many facts concerning the rich widow of Carsphairn, a copy of whose birth and marriage-certificate she had obtained from Somerset House.After writing the telegrams, she took a sheet of notepaper and wrote to Mr. Emery in Manchester, telling him that she had passed both doctors, and asking him to hurry forward the policy."My movements during the next fortnight or so are a little uncertain," she wrote, "but please always address me as above, care of my friend, Mrs. Pollen. Please give my best regards to your dear wife, and accept the same yourself .—Yours very sincerely,AUGUSTA MORRISON."Three nights later, Ena left Euston in the sleeping-car for Glasgow, arriving early next morning, and for a couple of days idled away the time in the great hotel, the Central, eagerly awaiting a telegram.At last it came.The porter handed it to her as she returned from a walk. She tore it open, and when she read its contents, she went instantly pale.The message was disconcerting, for instead of giving information regarding the movements of the woman she had been impersonating, it read:"Remain in Glasgow. Am leaving to-night. Will be with you in morning. Urgent.—BERNARD."What could have happened? A hitch had apparently occurred in the arrangements, which had been so thoroughly discussed and every detail considered.It was then six o'clock in the evening. Boyne could not be there until eight o'clock on the following morning. She glanced bewildered around the busy hall of the hotel, where men and women with piles of luggage were constantly arriving and departing."Why is he not more explicit?" she asked herself in apprehension.What could have happened? she wondered. For yet another fourteen hours she must remain in suspense.Suddenly, however, she recollected that she could telephone to Lilla, and she put through a call without delay.Half an hour later she spoke to her friend over the wire, inquiring the reason of Boyne's journey north."My dear, I'm sorry," replied Lilla in her high-pitched voice, "but I really cannot tell you over the 'phone. It is some very important business he wants to see you about.""But am I not to go to Ardlui?" asked Ena."I don't know. Bernie wants to see you without delay—that's all.""But has anything happened?" she demanded eagerly."Yes—something—but I can't tell you now. Bernie will explain. He'll be with you in Glasgow early to-morrow morning.""Is it anything very serious?""I think it may be—very!" was Lilla's reply; and at that moment the operator cut off communication with London, the six minutes allowed having expired.CHAPTER VCONTAINS A NOTE OF ALARMEna Pollen was on the platform when the dusty night express from London ran slowly into the Caledonian Station, at Glasgow.Bernard Boyne, erect and smartly-dressed, stepped out quickly from the sleeping-car, to be greeted by her almost immediately."What's happened?" she demanded anxiously beneath her breath."I can't tell you here, Ena. Wait till we're in the hotel," he replied. She saw by his countenance that something was amiss.Together they walked from the platform into the hotel, and having ascended in the lift to her private sitting-room, the man flung himself into a chair, and said:"A very perilous situation has arisen regarding the Martin affair!""The Martin affair!" she gasped, instantly pale to the lips. "I always feared it. That girl, Céline Tènot, had some suspicion, I believe.""Exactly. She was your maid, and you parted bad friends. It was injudicious.""Where is she now, I wonder?""At her home in Melun, near Paris. You must go at once to Paris, and ask her to meet you," Boyne said."To Paris?" she cried in dismay."Yes; not a second must be lost. Inquiries are on foot. I discovered the situation yesterday, quite by accident.""Inquiries!" she cried. "Who can be making inquiries?""Some friend of that girl—a Frenchman. He has come over here to find me.""To find you! But she only knew you under the name of Bennett!""Exactly. In that is our salvation," he said, with a grin. "But the affair is distinctly serious unless we can make peace with Céline, and at the same time make it worth her while to withdraw this inquiry. No doubt she's looking forward to a big reward for furnishing information.""But why can't we give her the reward—eh?" asked the shrewd, red-haired woman quickly."That's exactly my argument. That is why you must leave this present little matter, turn back to Céline, and make it right with her.""How much do you think it will cost?"Bernard Boyne shrugged his shoulders."Whatever it is, we must pay," he replied. "We can't afford for this girl to remain an enemy—and yours especially.""Of course not," Ena agreed. "What is her address?"Boyne took a slip of paper from his pocket-book and handed it to the handsome woman."But what excuse can I possibly make for approaching her?" she asked bewildered."Pretend you've come to Paris to offer to take her into your service again," Boyne suggested. "She will then meet you, and you can express regret that you sent her away so suddenly, and offer to make reparation—and all that.""There was an object in sending her away so peremptorily. You know what it was, Bernie.""I know, of course. She might have discovered something then. You adopted the only course—but, unfortunately, it has turned out to have been a most injudicious one, which may, if we are not very careful and don't act at once, lead to the exposure of a very nasty circumstance—the affair of old Martin.""I quite see," she said. "I'll go to Paris without delay.""You'll stay at the Bristol, as before, I suppose?""Yes. I will ask her to come and see me there."Boyne hesitated."No. I don't know whether it would not be better for you to go out to Melun for the day and find her there," he queried. "Remember, you must handle the affair with the greatest delicacy. You've practically got to pay her for blackmail which she has not sought.""That's the difficulty. And the sum must be equal, if not more, to that which she and her French friend who has come over here to seek and identify you hope to get out of it by their disclosures. Oh! yes," she said, "I quite see it all.""I admit that the situation which has arisen is full of peril, Ena," remarked the man seated before her, "but you are a clever woman, and with the exercise of tact and cunning, in addition to the disbursement of funds, we shall undoubtedly be able to wriggle out—as we always do.""Let's hope so," she said, with a sigh. "But what about Ardlui and Mrs. Morrison?""Your visit to Paris is more important at the moment. You must lose no time in getting there. Before I left London, I instructed my bank to send five thousand pounds to you at the head office of the Credit Lyonnais. You will be able to draw at once when you get there, and it will give you time to get more money if you deem it wise to pay any bigger sum.""Really, you leave nothing undone, Bernie."Not when danger arises, my dear Ena," he laughed. "In the meantime, I'll have to remain very low. That infernal Frenchman may be watching Lilla with the idea that I might visit Pont Street. But I shan't go near her again till the danger is past.""Then I'd better get away as soon as possible," she said. "I can be in London this evening, and cross to Paris by the night mail.""Yes," he replied. "Don't waste an instant in getting in touch with her. Have a rest in Paris, and then go to Melun. You can be there to-morrow afternoon.""Shall you go back to London with me?""No. Better not be seen together," he said. "Let us be discreet. You can go by the ten o'clock express, which will just give you time to cross London to Victoria and catch the boat train, and I'll leave by the next express, which goes at one. The less we are together at present the better.""I agree entirely," Ena said, with a sigh. "But this affair will, I see, be very difficult to adjust.""Not if you keep your wits about you, Ena," he assured her. "It isn't half so difficult as the arrangements you made with that pious old fellow Fleming. Don't you recollect how very near the wind we were all sailing, and yet you took him in hand and convinced him of your innocence.""I was dealing with a man then," she remarked. "Now I have to deal with a shrewd girl. Besides, we don't know who this inquisitive Frenchman may be.""You'll soon discover all about him, no doubt. Just put on your thinking-cap on the way over to Paris, and doubtless before you arrive, you'll hit upon some plan which will be just as successful as the attitude you adopted towards old Daniel Fleming." Then he added: "I wish you'd order breakfast to be served up here, for I'm ravenously hungry."She rose, rang the bell, and ordered breakfast for two.While it was being prepared, Boyne went along the corridor to wash, while Ena retired to her room, and packed her trunk ready for her departure south at ten o'clock.Afterwards she saw the head porter and got him to secure her a place on the train, and also in the restaurant-car, which is usually crowded.They breakfastedtête-à-tête, after which she paid her bill, and at ten o'clock left him standing upon the platform to idle away three hours wandering about the crowded Glasgow streets before his departure at one o'clock.Next morning Ena Pollen took her déjeuner at half-past eleven in the elegant table d'hôte room of the aristocratic Hôtel Bristol, in Paris, a big white salon which overlooks the Place Vendôme. Afterwards she took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, whence she travelled to Melun, thirty miles distant—that town from which come the Brie cheeses. On arrival, she inquired for the Boulevard Victor Hugo, and an open cab drove her away across the little island in the Seine, past the old church of St. Aspais, to a point where, in the boulevard, stood a monument to the great savant, Pasteur. The cab pulled up opposite the monument, where, alighting, Ena found herself before a large four-storied house, the ground floor of which was occupied by a tobacconist and a shop which sold comestibles.Of the old bespectacled concierge who was cobbling boots in the entrance she inquired for Madame Ténot, and his gruff reply was:"Au troisième, à gauche."So, mounting the stone steps, she found the left-hand door on the third floor, and rang the bell.The door opened, and the good-looking young French girl, who had been her maid for six months at Brighton, confronted her."Well, Céline!" exclaimed Ena merrily in French. "You didn't expect to see me—did you?"The girl stood aghast and open-mouthed."Dieu! Madame!" she gasped. "I—I certainly did not!""Well, I chanced to be passing through Melun, and I thought I would call upon you."The girl stood in the doorway, apparently disinclined to invite her late mistress into the small flat which she and her mother, the widow of the local postmaster, occupied."I wrote to you, Madame, two months ago—but you never replied!""I have never had any letter from you, Céline," Ena declared. "But may I not come in for a moment to have a chat with you? Ah! but perhaps you have visitors?""No, Madame," was her reply; "I am alone. My mother went to my aunt's, at Provins, this morning.""Good! Then I may come in?""If Madame wishes," she said, still with some reluctance, and led the way to a small, rather sparsely-furnished salon, which overlooked the cobbled street below."I have been staying a few days at Marlotte, and am now on my way back to Paris," said her former mistress, seating herself in a chair. "Besides, I wanted particularly to see you, Céline, for several reasons. I feel somehow that—well, that I have not treated you as I really ought to have done. I dismissed you abruptly after poor Mr. Martin's death. But I was so very upset—I was not actually myself. I know I ought not to have done what I did. Please forgive me."The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in well-cut black skirt and cotton blouse merely shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. She uttered no word. Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise at the sudden appearance of her former mistress."I don't know what you must have thought of me, Céline," Ena added."I thought many things of Madame," the girl admitted."Naturally. You must have thought me most ungrateful, after all the services you had rendered me, often without reward," remarked the red-haired widow. "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful."The girl only smiled. She recollected the manner in which she had been suddenly dismissed and sent out from the house at five minutes' notice—and for no fault that she could discover.She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor, living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame, who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room. That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's wages, and requesting her to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in France.It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered her.And now this woman's sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity."Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly."No, no, Céline! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me."Céline, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died.Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite another reason—in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger.Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was in her service."Now look here, Céline," she said at last. "I'll be perfectly frank with you. I've come to ask you if you'll let bygones be bygones, and return to me?"The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then replied:"I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."That was exactly the reply for which the clever woman wished."Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone of regret."Because the man to whom I am betrothed would not allow me," was her reply."Oh! Then you are engaged, Céline! Happy girl! I congratulate you most heartily. And who is the happy man?""Henri Galtier.""And what is his profession?""He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was her reply."He is at Chantilly now?"The girl again hesitated. Then she replied:"No—he is in London."Ena held her breath. It was evidently the man to whom Céline was engaged who was in London in search of Richard Bennett. Next second she recovered from her excitement at her success in making the discovery."In London? Is he employed there?""Yes—temporarily," she answered."And when are you to marry?""In December—we hope.""Ah! Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand that you cannot return to me, Céline," exclaimed Ena. "Does Monsieur Galtier speak English?""Yes; very well, Madame. He was born in London, and lived there until he was eighteen.""Oh, well, of course he would speak our language excellently. But though you will no doubt both be happy in the near future, I myself am not at all satisfied with my own conduct towards you. I've treated you badly; I feel that in some way or other I ought to put myself right with you. I never like a servant to speak badly of me.""I do not speak badly of Madame," responded the girl, wondering whether, after all, her late mistress suspected her of overhearing that startling conversation late on the night following Mr. Martin's death.Ena hesitated a moment, and then determined to act boldly, and said:"Now Céline, let us be quite frank. I happen know that you have said some very nasty and things about me—wicked things, indeed. I heard that you have made a very serious allegation against me, and——""But, Madame! I——!" cried the girl, interrupting."Now you cannot deny it, Céline. You have said those things because you have sadly misjudged me. But I know it is my own fault, and the reason I am here in Melun is to put matters right—and to show you that I bear you no ill will.""I know that, Madame," she said. "Your words are sufficient proof of it.""But, on the contrary, you are antagonistic—bitterly antagonistic towards myself—and"—she added slowly, looking straight into the girl's face—"and also towards Mr. Bennett."She started, looking sharply at the red-haired widow."Yes, I repeat it, Céline!" Ena went on. "You see I know the truth! Yet your feeling against Mr. Bennett does not matter to him in the least, because he died a month ago—of influenza.""Mr. Bennett dead!" echoed the girl, standing aghast, for, as a matter of fact, her lover, Henri Galtier, was searching for him in London."Yes; the poor fellow went to Birmingham on business, took influenza, and died there a week later. Is it not sad?""Very," the girl agreed, staring straight before her. If Bennett were dead, then of what avail would be all her efforts to probe the mystery of Mr. Martin's death?"Mr. Bennett was always generous to you—was he not?" asked Ena."Always," replied the girl. "I am very sorry he is dead!""Well, he is, and therefore whatever hatred you may have conceived for him is of no importance," she replied; and then adroitly turned the conversation to another subject.At length, however, she returned to Céline's approaching marriage, expressing a hope that she would be very comfortably off."Has Monsieur Galtier money?""Not very much," she replied. "But we shall be quite happy nevertheless.""Of course. Money does not always mean happiness. I am glad you view matters in that light, Céline," Ena said. "Yet, on the other hand, money contributes to luxury, and luxury, in most cases, means happiness.""True, Madame, I believe so," replied the ex-maid, whose thoughts were, however, filled by what her late mistress had, apparently in all innocence, told her, namely, that Bennett, the man her lover meant to hunt down, was dead. She had no reason to doubt what Mrs. Pollen had said, for only on the previous day Henri had written her to say that his inquiries had had no result, and that he believed that the man Bennett must be dead, as he could obtain no trace of him. The reward which they hoped to gain from the insurance company when they had established Bennett's identity had therefore vanished into air.Céline Tènot sat bewildered and disappointed, and the clever woman seated with her read her thoughts as she would have read a book."Now let's come to the point," she said, after a pause. "I want to make amends, Céline. I want you to think better of me, and for that purpose, I want to render you some little service, now that you are to marry. My desire is to remove from your mind any antagonism you may entertain towards myself. The best way in which I can do that is to make you a little wedding-present—something useful.""Oh, Madame!" she cried. "I—I really want nothing!""But I insist, Céline!" replied the wealthy widow. "Poor Mr. Bennett remarked that I was very harsh in dismissing you. At the time I did not think so, but I now realise that the fault was on my side, therefore I shall give you thirty thousand francs to put by as a little nest-egg.""But, Madame, I could not really accept it!" declared the girl, exhibiting her palms."I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and to-morrow I shall place the thirty thousand francs there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen. "I shall want you to come to Paris—to the Hôtel Bristol—so that we can go to the bank together, and you can there open an account and give them your signature. If I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur Galtier about it—or even tell him of my visit. Just keep the money for yourself—as a little present from one who, after all, greatly valued your services."Though the girl pretended to be entirely against receiving any present, yet she realised that possession of such a respectable sum would be able to assist in preparing her new home. After all, it was most generous of Madame. Yes! she had sadly misjudged her, she reflected, after Mrs. Pollen had left. So, adopting her late mistress's suggestion, she refrained from telling her mother of the unexpected visit.That night she wrote to Galtier, who was staying in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury, telling him that she had heard of the death of Bennett, but not revealing the source of her information. She therefore suggested that he should spend no further time or money on the inquiry, but return at once to his duties at Chantilly.Next day Céline called at the Hôtel Bristol, when mistress and maid went together to the bank in the Boulevard des Italians, and there the girl received the handsome present. After this, she returned much gratified to Melun, while her late mistress left Paris that same night for London.She had cleverly gained the girl's complete confidence, thereby preventing any further inquiry into the curious circumstances attending the death of Mr. Martin, of Chiswick.
CHAPTER III
THE "GAME"—AND ITS PLAYERS
On the following morning Mr. Emery, the young solicitor, entered Mrs. Morrison's sitting-room at Llandudno with a telegram in his hand.
"I've just had this from the manager of the Universal. They are prepared to do the business and are writing me full particulars. I shall get them by to-morrow morning's post. I've wired to my clerk, Wilson, to post me a proposal form and some other papers."
Emery, his one thought being the big commission upon the business, entered Mrs. Morrison's room twenty-four hours later with a number of papers in his hand.
He sat down with the rich widow, and put before her the proposal form—a paper which had printed upon it a long list of questions, mostly inquisitorial. The bed-rock question of that document was "Who are you, and are you subject to any of the ills that human flesh is heir to?"
Question after question she read, and her answers he wrote down in the space reserved for them. Once or twice she hesitated before replying, but he put down her hesitation to a natural reserve.
The filling up of the form took some time, after which she appended her signature in a bold hand, and this completed the proposal.
"I fear it will be necessary for you to go to London to pass the doctor," he said. "When would that be convenient?"
"Any time after next Wednesday," she replied. "As a matter of fact, I have some shopping to do in town before I return to Scotland, so I can kill two birds with one stone."
"Excellent! They will, of course, make it as easy for you as possible. You will hear from Mr. Gray at the head office. Where shall you stay in town?
"With a friend of mine—a Mrs. Pollen." And she gave him an address in Upper Brook Street which he wrote down.
Before eleven o'clock Mrs. Morrison had dispatched a telegram addressed to "Braybourne, 9b, Pont Street, London," which read:
"All preliminaries settled. Shall be in London end of week.—AUGUSTA MORRISON."
Meanwhile, the solicitor, greatly elated at securing such a remunerative piece of work, sent the completed proposal to the head office of the company in London, and on the following day, accompanied by his wife, returned to his home in Manchester, after what had turned out to be a very profitable as well is beneficial holiday.
Before leaving, Mrs. Morrison arranged that he should carry the whole matter through, her parting injunction being:
"Remember—tell the Company to write to me at Upper Brook Street, and not to Scotland. And always write to me yourself to London."
Now that same evening, after Emery's departure, there arrived at the Beach Hotel, wearing rimless pince-nez, a dark, strongly-built man, well dressed, and with a heavy crocodile suit-case which spoke mutely of wealth. He signed the visitor's form as Pomeroy Graydon, and gave his address as "Carleon Road, Roath, Cardiff, Shipbroker."
He was late, and ate his dinner alone. Afterwards he went out for a stroll on the esplanade in the direction of the Little Orme, when, after walking nearly half a mile, he suddenly encountered the red-haired widow, who was attired plainly in navy blue with a small hat, having evidently changed her dress after dinner.
"Well, Ena!" he exclaimed, lifting his soft felt hat politely. "I'm here, you see! I thought it best to come up and see you. I'm at your hotel as Mr. Graydon of Cardiff."
"I'm awfully glad you've come, Bernie," she said. "I rather expected you."
"As soon as Lilla got your wire I started, and was fortunate to get to Euston just in time for the Irish mail—changed at Chester, and here I am!"
The pair strolled to a convenient seat close to where the waves lazily lapped upon the wall of the esplanade—for the tide was up—and the night a perfect one with a full white moon.
"Everything going well?" asked the smartly dressed man, whose pose in Hammersmith was so entirely different. He spoke in an eager tone.
"Yes, as far as I can see it's all plain sailing. I'm doing my part, and leave you and Lilla to do the rest. I've met here a very nice young fellow—as I intended—a useful solicitor named Emery, of Manchester. He is carrying the matter through for me. He's agent of the Universal."
"A first-class office."
"Well, I'm insuring with them in Lilla's favour."
"Have you carried out the plan we discussed?"
"To the very letter! Trust me, my dear Bernie."
"I always do, Ena," he declared, gazing across the moonlit sea. They were alone on the seat, and there was none to overhear:
"Ten thousand is a decent sum. Let's hope it will be all over soon. I sometimes have bad quarters of an hour—when I think!" he remarked.
"The sums assured have been higher and higher," she said. "We started with five hundred—you recollect the woman Bayliss?—and now we are always in thousands. Only you, Bernard, know how the game should be played. I do my part, but it is your brain which evolves all this business for which the companies are so eager, and which is so wonderful."
"True, our plan works well," Boyne admitted, still gazing over the sea. "We've all of us made thousands out of it—haven't we?"
"Yes. I can see no loophole by which the truth might leak out—save one," she said very seriously.
"And what's that?"'
"Your visits to your wife," was her reply. "Suppose somebody watched you, and saw you leave your frowsy little house in Hammersmith, go to Lilla in Pont Street, and blossom forth into a gentleman of means; it would certainly arouse a nasty suspicion. Therefore you should always be most careful."
"I am. Never fear," he said. "Recollect, nobody in Hammersmith knows that Lilla Braybourne is my wife."
"They don't know. But they might suspect things, which may lead eventually to an awkward inquiry, and then——?"
"Oh! my dear Ena, don't contemplate unpleasant things!" he urged, with a shrug of the shoulders. "I know you are a clever woman—more clever by far than Lilla herself—therefore I always rely upon your discretion and foresight. Now, tell me—what has happened up to date?"
In reply she told him briefly of her meeting with the young solicitor Emery—which she had prearranged, by the way—and how she had entertained the newly-married pair.
"They, of course, believe you to be Mrs. Augusta Morrison, of Carsphairn, widow of old Joe Morrison, the great shipbuilder of Govan?" he remarked, smiling.
"Exactly. As you know, I paid a visit in secret to Carsphairn six weeks ago, and found out quite a lot. This I retailed to the Emerys, and they took it all in. I described Carsphairn to them, and showed them the snapshots of the place which I took surreptitiously when I was up there. Indeed, I gave a couple of them to Mrs. Emery—to make evidence."
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "You never leave anything undone, Ena."
"One must be thorough in everything if one desires success."
"And what is your address?"
"I gave it to my own flat in Upper Brook Street—care of Ena Pollen—widow."
"So you will come to London?"
"Yes—I have to go there shopping before I return to Scotland," she replied grimly. "I am staying with Mrs. Pollen."
"Good! It will be far the best for their London doctors to examine you. If you were examined up here they might resist the claim. If they did that—well, it would open up the whole business, and we certainly can't afford to arouse the very least little bit of doubt."
"Hardly," she laughed. "Well, I've played the game properly, my dear Bernie. My name is Morrison, and I am the widow of old Joe Morrison, the woman with the red hair, and I live at Carsphairn, Kirkcudbrightshire, the fine sporting estate left me by my late husband. All that is upon the records of the Universal Life Assurance Corporation."
"Excellent! You've established an undeniable identity—red hair and everything!" he said, again gazing reflectively out across the rippling waters. "You have taken the first step."
"The second move is that Mrs. Morrison goes to London on a shopping visit, prior to going abroad," the widow said.
"Really, you are marvellous, Ena!" declared the humble insurance agent of Hammersmith. "Your foresight always carries you to success."
"In a number of cases it has done so, I admit," the woman laughed. "When one's identity is not exactly as one represents, one has to have one's eyes skinned day and night. Men—even the shrewdest lawyers—are always easily gulled. Why? Because of the rapacious maws the legal profession have for fees. Women are always dangerous, for they are too frequently jealous of either good looks or pretty frocks. A man I can usually manage—a woman, seldom, unless she is in love. Then I side with her in her love affair and so gain her confidence."
"Ena, I repeat I hold you in admiration as one of the cleverest women I have ever known. Nothing deters you—nothing perturbs you! You fix a plan, and you carry it through in your own way—always with profit to our little combination."
"And very substantial profit, I venture to think, eh?"
"I agree," he said, with a grim laugh.
"All thanks to you, my dear Bernie," the red-haired woman said. "But really I am growing just a little apprehensive. Why—I don't know, I cannot tell. But somehow I fear we may play the game once too often. And what then—eh?"
"Funnily enough, I've experienced the same curiously apprehensive feeling of late," he said. "I always try, of course, to crush it out, just as I crush out any other little pricks of conscience which occur to me when I awake in the mornings."
"Very strange that we should both of us entertain apprehensive feelings!" she remarked very thoughtfully. "I hope it's no ill omen! Do you think it is?"
"No," he laughed. "Don't let us seek trouble—for Heaven's sake. At present there is not the slightest danger. Of that I feel confident. Let us go forward. When shall you go up to London?"
"To-morrow. I go to visit my dear friend, Mrs. Pollen—as I have told you."
He laughed.
"So really you are going on a visit to yourself—eh? Excellent! Really you are unique, Ena!"
"Well—it is the only way, and it will work well."
Then the strange pair, who were upon such intimate terms, rose and strolled leisurely side by side back towards the opposite end of the promenade, chatting merrily the while.
When approaching the Beach Hotel they halted, and the woman bade the man good-bye. Afterwards he sank upon a seat in one of the shelters, while she walked on and entered the hotel.
Not until half an hour later, after he had taken a stroll along to the end of the pier, where the band was still playing, did he return to the hotel. Mrs. Morrison was at the moment sitting in the lounge chatting with two men visitors. The eyes of the pair met as he passed, but neither gave any sign of recognition.
To those in the lounge the two were absolutely strangers to each other.
Little did the other visitors dream of the dastardly, even demoniacal, plot that was being so skilfully woven in their midst.
Next afternoon Bernard Boyne stepped from out of the Holyhead express upon Euston platform and drove in a taxi to Pont Street, where he was greeted warmly by his wife, who had been informed of his advent by telegram from Chester.
"Well?" she asked, when the door of the luxurious drawing-room was closed and they were alone. "And how did you find Ena?"
"She's splendid! All goes well," was his enthusiastic reply. "She's got hold of a young Manchester solicitor who is carrying the policy through all right. He happens to be an agent of the Universal. She's on her way back to London now. I wasn't seen with her in the hotel, of course."
"When is she coming here?"
"To-night at nine. She wants to see you."
"I think the less she sees of me just now the better, don't you, Bernie?"
"I quite agree. We don't want anyone to recognise you as friends when the time comes," replied Boyne. "As soon as she gets passed by the doctors—both of them unknown to any of us—which is a blessing—she'll have to go up to Scotland."
"To New Galloway again?"
"No. To Ardlui, that pretty little village at the head of Loch Lomond. The inquiries I have been making of the servants at Carsphairn show that it is the lady's intention to go with her maid to Ardlui for a fortnight, and thence to Edinburgh for another fortnight."
"Really, Bernie, you are wonderful in the way you pry into people's intentions."
"Only by knowing the habits and intentions of our friends can we hope to be successful," was his reply, as he flung himself back among the silken cushions of the couch and lazily lit a cigarette.
"So Ena will have to go to Scotland again?"
"Yes. She ought to pass the doctors in a week, for this young fellow is pushing it through because of the handsome fee she will give him, and then, in the following week, she must put on her best frocks and best behaviour and take a 'sleeper' on the nine twenty-five from Euston to Glasgow."
"What an adventure!" remarked the handsome woman before him.
"Of course. But we are out for big money this time, remember."
"You have examined the whole affair, I suppose, and considered it from every standpoint—eh?"
"Of course I have. As far as I can discover, there is no flaw in our armour. This young solicitor is newly married, and is much gratified that the wealthy Mrs. Morrison should take such notice of his young wife. But you know Ena well enough to be sure that she plays the game all right. She's the rich widow to the very letter, and talks about her 'dear husband' in a manner that is really pathetic. She declares that they were such a devoted couple."
"Yes. Ena can play the game better than any woman in England," agreed his wife. "Have some tea?"
"No; it's too hot," he replied. "Get me some lemonade."
And she rose, and presently brought him a glass of lemonade. She preferred to wait upon him, for she was always suspicious of the maids trying to listen to their conversation, which, however, was discreet and well guarded.
That night at about half-past nine, husband and wife having dined togethertête-à-tête—being waited on by the smart young Italian footman—Ena Pollen was ushered into the drawing-room.
"Oh! Welcome back, dear!" cried Mrs. Braybourne, jumping up and embracing her friend, making pretence, of course, before the servant. "Sit down. I had no idea you were in London! I thought you were somewhere in the wilds of Wales."
Then, when the door had closed, her attitude altered to one of deep seriousness.
"Well," she said, "according to Bernie, everything goes well, doesn't it?"
"Excellently," replied the other. "You see in me Mrs. Augusta Morrison, widow, of Carsphairn, New Galloway, who is in London on a visit to her friend, Ena Pollen, and who is about to be passed as a first-class life!" And she laughed, the other two smiling grimly.
"I congratulate you upon finding that young solicitor. What's his name?"
"Emery—just getting together a practice and looking out for the big commission on the first of my premiums," she said. "We've met those before. Do you recollect that fellow Johnson-Hughes? Phew! what an ass!"
"But he was over head and ears in love with you, my dear Ena," said Boyne, "and you know it."
"Don't be sarcastic, Bernie!" she exclaimed, with a pout. "Whether he was in love with me or not, it doesn't matter. We brought off the little affair successfully, and we all had a share of the pickings. In these post-war profiteering days it is only by callous dishonour and double-dealing one can make both ends meet. It begins in the Cabinet and ends with the marine store dealer. Honesty spells ruin. That's my opinion."
"I quite agree," Lilla declared. "If we had all three played a straight game, where should we be now?"
"Living in Bridge Place," remarked Boyne, whereat the two women laughed merrily.
* * * * *
That night Marigold met Gerald at Mark Lane Station, and they travelled westward together on the way home. In the Underground train they chatted about the mystery of Bridge Place, but amid the crush and turmoil of home-going City workers they could say but little.
Marigold had been again to see her deaf aunt, who was still unsuspicious of the strange state of affairs in her master's humble home.
Gerald was next day compelled to accompany his principal up north to a conference upon food prices, and for ten days he remained away. Therefore Marigold could only watch and wait.
She went to Bridge Place several times, and saw Mr. Boyne there. He was always cheerful and chatty. About him there seemed nothing really suspicious. Indeed, when she considered it all, she began to wonder whether she had not made a fool of herself.
CHAPTER IV
PROGRESS OF THE PLOT
In the dull, sombre consulting-room of Sir Humphrey Sinclair in Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square—a room with heavy mahogany furniture, well-worn carpet, a big writing-table set in the window, and an adjustable couch against the wall—sat the pseudo Mrs. Augusta Morrison, who desired to insure her life.
At the table sat the great physician, a clean-shaven, white-haired man, in large, round, gold-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed in a grey cashmere suit—for the weather was unbearably hot that morning—and, truth to tell, he was longing for his annual vacation at his pretty house by the sea at Frinton.
In the medical world Humphrey Sinclair had made a great name for himself, and had had among his patients various European royalties, besides large numbers of the British aristocracy and well-known people of both sexes. Quiet mannered, soft spoken, and exquisitely polite, he was always a favourite with his lady patients, while Lady Sinclair herself moved in a very good set.
Having arranged a number of papers which the Universal had sent to him, he took one upon which a large number of questions were printed with blank spaces for the proposer's replies. Then, turning to her, he said, with a smile:
"I fear, Mrs. Morrison, that I shall be compelled to ask you a number of questions. Please understand that they are not merely out of curiosity, but the company claim a right to know the family and medical history of any person whose life they insure.
"I perfectly understand, Sir Humphrey," replied the handsome woman. "Ask me any questions you wish, and I will try to reply to them to the best of my ability."
"Very well," he said. "Let's begin." And he commenced to put to her questions regarding the date of her birth, the cause of the deaths of her father and her mother, whether she had ever suffered from this disease or that, dozens of which were enumerated. And so on.
For nearly half an hour the great doctor plied her with questions which he read aloud from the paper, and then wrote down her replies in the spaces reserved for them.
Never once did she hesitate—she knew those questions off by heart, indeed, and had her replies ready, replies culled from a budget of information which during the past three months had been cleverly collected. Truth to tell, she was replying quite accurately to the questions, but only so far as Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn was concerned. The medical history she gave was correct in every detail concerning Mrs. Morrison.
But, after all, was not the proposal upon the life of Mrs. Morrison, and did not the famous physician believe her to be the widow of Carsphairn?
Sir Humphrey asked her to step upon the weighing machine in the corner of the room, and afterwards he measured her height and wrote it down with a grunt of satisfaction.
Then, after further examination, and putting many questions, he reseated himself, and turned to the page upon which his own private opinion was to be recorded.
"I hope you don't find much wrong with me?" asked the lady, with a little hesitation.
"No, my dear madam—nothing that I can detect," was the physician's reply as he gazed at her through his big glasses. "Of course, my colleague, Doctor Hepburn, may discover something. I shall have to ask you to call upon him."
"When?"
"Any time you care to arrange. To-day—if you like. He may be at home. Shall I see?"
"I do so wish you would, Sir Humphrey," Ena said. "I want to get back to Scotland, as I have to go to Ardlui next week."
The great doctor took the telephone at his elbow, and was soon talking to Doctor Hepburn, with whom he arranged for the lady to call in an hour.
Then Sir Humphrey scribbled the address in Harley Street on a slip of paper, and with a few polite words of reassurance, rang his bell, and the man-servant conducted her out.
"An exceptionally pretty woman," grunted old Sir Humphrey to himself when she had gone. "Highly intelligent, and a first-class life."
And he sat down to record his own private views as to the physical condition of the person proposed for insurance.
Ena idled before the shop windows in Oxford Street for three-quarters of an hour, and then took a taxi to Harley Street, where she found Doctor Stanley Hepburn, a short, stout, brown-bearded man of rather abrupt manner.
In his smart, up-to-date consulting-room he put the same questions to her, wearying as they were, and parrot-like she answered them.
"Truly, I'm having a busy morning, doctor," she remarked, with a sigh, laughing at the same time.
"Apparently," he said, smiling. "I must apologise for bothering you with all these questions. Sir Humphrey has, no doubt, gone through them all."
"He has."
"Well, never mind. Forgive me, and let's get along," he said briskly.
And he proceeded with question after question. At last, after an examination exactly like that conducted by Sir Humphrey, Doctor Hepburn reseated himself at his table, and said:
"Well, Mrs. Morrison, I don't think I need keep you any longer."
"Are you quite satisfied with me?" she asked boldly.
He was silent for a few seconds.
"As far as I myself am concerned I see no reason whatever why the company should not accept the risk," was his reply. "Of course, I don't know the nature of Sir Humphrey's report; but I expect it coincides with my own. I can detect nothing to cause apprehension, and, in normal circumstances, you should live to quite old age."
"Thanks! That is a very agreeable piece of information," she said.
Then, his waiting-room being crowded—for he had given her a special appointment—he rose and, bowing, dismissed her, saying:
"I shall send in my report to the company to-night, therefore the matter should go through without delay."
Afterwards, as she walked along Harley Street, a great weight having been lifted from her mind, she hailed a taxi and drove back to her pretty flat in Upper Brook Street, where a dainty lunch awaited her.
To answer frankly and correctly those questions had been an ordeal. Those queries were so cleverly arranged that if, after death, the replies to any of them are found to be false the company would be able to resist the claim upon it. To give a true and faithful account of your parents' ailments and your own illnesses is difficult enough, but to give an equally true account of those of another person is extremely difficult and presents many pitfalls. And none knew that better than Ena Pollen.
After lunch, she rested for an hour, as was her habit in summer, and then she took a taxi to Pont Street, where she had tea with Lilla Braybourne.
To her she related her adventures among the medicos, adding:
"All is serene! There's nothing the matter with Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn! She's in excellent health and may live to be ninety. Hers is a first-class life!"
"Bernie predicted it," said the wife of the humble insurance agent of Hammersmith. "You were passed fit in the Fitzgerald affair—you recollect."
"Yes," snapped the handsome woman. "What a pity the sum wasn't five thousand instead of five hundred."
"I agree. But we didn't then realise how easy was the game. Now we know—a few preliminary inquiries, a plausible tongue—which, thanks to Heaven, you've got, Ena—a few smart dresses, and a knowledge of all the devious ways of insurance and assignments—and the thing is easy."
"Well, as far as we've gone in this matter all goes well—thanks to Bernie's previous inquiries regarding the good lady of Carsphairn."
"She's a bit of a skinflint, I believe. Can't keep servants. She has a factor who is a very close Scot, and things at Carsphairn are usually in a perturbed condition," Lilla said. "Bernie has gone back to Bridge Place. What an awful life the poor dear leads! Fancy having to live with that deaf old woman Felmore!"
"Yes. But isn't it part of the game? By living in Hammersmith, and being such a hard-working, respectable man, he acquires a lot of very useful knowledge."
"Quite so; but it must be very miserable there for him."
"He doesn't mind it, he says," was the reply. "It brings money."
"It certainly does that," said Lilla. "When shall you go north? Will you wait till the policy is issued?"
"I think not. The sooner I meet Mrs. Morrison the better. Don't you agree?"
"Certainly. What does Bernie say?"
"That's his view," answered Ena. "So I shall go to Scotland at the end of the week. I shall stay at the Central, in Glasgow, for a night or two, and then on to Loch Lomond."
"Bernie has heard from one of his secret sources of information that the widow is leaving Carsphairn three days earlier than she intended. She goes to visit a niece who lives in Crieff, and then on to Ardlui."
"I've been to Ardlui before—on a day trip from Glasgow up the Loch," Ena said. "A quiet, remote little place, with an excellent hotel right at the extreme end of the Loch, beyond Inversnaid."
"Then you'll go north without waiting for the policy?"
"Yes. Letters will come to me addressed care of myself, and Bernie will send them on. As soon as I have notice that the company will accept me, I'll pay the premium. I've already opened a little account in the name of Augusta Morrison, so that I can send them a cheque. In the meanwhile, we need lose no time."
"And yet I don't think we ought to rush it unduly, do you?" asked Lilla.
"Oh! we shan't do that, my dear Lilla. There's a lot to be done in the matter of inspiring confidence. Perhaps dear Augusta will not take to me. What then?"
"You always know how to make yourself pleasant, Ena. She'll take to you, never fear!"
"According to the reports we've had about her, she's rather discriminating in her friendships," said the handsome woman, smiling grimly.
"Well, I rather wish I were coming with you for a fortnight on Loch Lomond," said Lilla.
"No, my dear, you have no place in the picture at present. Much as I would like your companionship, you are far better here at home."
"Yes, I suppose you are right!" answered her friend, sighing. "But I long for Scotland in these warm summer days."
"Get Bernie to take you to the seaside for a bit. There's nothing urgent doing just now."
"Bernie is far too busy in Hammersmith, my dear," Lilla laughed. "He wouldn't miss his weekly round for worlds. Besides, he's got some important church work on—helping the vicar in a series of mission meetings."
"Bernie is a good Churchman, I've heard," said Ena.
"Of course. That, too, is part of the big bluff. The man who carries round the bag every Sunday is always regarded as pious and upright. And Bernie never loses a chance to increase his halo of respectability."
Ena remained at Pont Street for about half an hour longer, and then, returning to her own flat, she set about sorting out the dresses she would require for Scotland, and assisted her elderly maid to pack them.
Afterwards she returned into her elegant little drawing-room and seated herself at the little writing-table, where she consulted a diary. Then she wrote telegrams to the hotels at Glasgow and at Ardlui, engaging rooms for dates which, after reflection, she decided upon.
Ena Pollen was a woman of determination and method. Her exterior was that of a butterfly of fashion, careless of everything save her dress and her hair, yet beneath the surface she was calm, clever, and unscrupulous, a woman who had never loved, and who, indeed, held the opposite sex in supreme contempt. The adventure in which she was at that moment engaged was the most daring she had ever undertaken. The unholy trio had dabbled in small affairs, each of which had brought them profit, but the present undertaking would, she knew, require all her tact and cunning.
The real Mrs. Augusta Morrison, the widow of Carsphairn, was one of Boyne's discoveries, and by judicious inquiry, combined with other investigations which Ena herself had made, they knew practically everything concerning her, her friends, and her movements. The preliminaries had taken fully three months, for prior to going to Llandudno, there to assume the widow's identity, Ena had been in secret to New Galloway, and while staying at the Lochinvar Arms, at Dairy, she had been able to gather many facts concerning the rich widow of Carsphairn, a copy of whose birth and marriage-certificate she had obtained from Somerset House.
After writing the telegrams, she took a sheet of notepaper and wrote to Mr. Emery in Manchester, telling him that she had passed both doctors, and asking him to hurry forward the policy.
"My movements during the next fortnight or so are a little uncertain," she wrote, "but please always address me as above, care of my friend, Mrs. Pollen. Please give my best regards to your dear wife, and accept the same yourself .—Yours very sincerely,AUGUSTA MORRISON."
Three nights later, Ena left Euston in the sleeping-car for Glasgow, arriving early next morning, and for a couple of days idled away the time in the great hotel, the Central, eagerly awaiting a telegram.
At last it came.
The porter handed it to her as she returned from a walk. She tore it open, and when she read its contents, she went instantly pale.
The message was disconcerting, for instead of giving information regarding the movements of the woman she had been impersonating, it read:
"Remain in Glasgow. Am leaving to-night. Will be with you in morning. Urgent.—BERNARD."
What could have happened? A hitch had apparently occurred in the arrangements, which had been so thoroughly discussed and every detail considered.
It was then six o'clock in the evening. Boyne could not be there until eight o'clock on the following morning. She glanced bewildered around the busy hall of the hotel, where men and women with piles of luggage were constantly arriving and departing.
"Why is he not more explicit?" she asked herself in apprehension.
What could have happened? she wondered. For yet another fourteen hours she must remain in suspense.
Suddenly, however, she recollected that she could telephone to Lilla, and she put through a call without delay.
Half an hour later she spoke to her friend over the wire, inquiring the reason of Boyne's journey north.
"My dear, I'm sorry," replied Lilla in her high-pitched voice, "but I really cannot tell you over the 'phone. It is some very important business he wants to see you about."
"But am I not to go to Ardlui?" asked Ena.
"I don't know. Bernie wants to see you without delay—that's all."
"But has anything happened?" she demanded eagerly.
"Yes—something—but I can't tell you now. Bernie will explain. He'll be with you in Glasgow early to-morrow morning."
"Is it anything very serious?"
"I think it may be—very!" was Lilla's reply; and at that moment the operator cut off communication with London, the six minutes allowed having expired.
CHAPTER V
CONTAINS A NOTE OF ALARM
Ena Pollen was on the platform when the dusty night express from London ran slowly into the Caledonian Station, at Glasgow.
Bernard Boyne, erect and smartly-dressed, stepped out quickly from the sleeping-car, to be greeted by her almost immediately.
"What's happened?" she demanded anxiously beneath her breath.
"I can't tell you here, Ena. Wait till we're in the hotel," he replied. She saw by his countenance that something was amiss.
Together they walked from the platform into the hotel, and having ascended in the lift to her private sitting-room, the man flung himself into a chair, and said:
"A very perilous situation has arisen regarding the Martin affair!"
"The Martin affair!" she gasped, instantly pale to the lips. "I always feared it. That girl, Céline Tènot, had some suspicion, I believe."
"Exactly. She was your maid, and you parted bad friends. It was injudicious."
"Where is she now, I wonder?"
"At her home in Melun, near Paris. You must go at once to Paris, and ask her to meet you," Boyne said.
"To Paris?" she cried in dismay.
"Yes; not a second must be lost. Inquiries are on foot. I discovered the situation yesterday, quite by accident."
"Inquiries!" she cried. "Who can be making inquiries?"
"Some friend of that girl—a Frenchman. He has come over here to find me."
"To find you! But she only knew you under the name of Bennett!"
"Exactly. In that is our salvation," he said, with a grin. "But the affair is distinctly serious unless we can make peace with Céline, and at the same time make it worth her while to withdraw this inquiry. No doubt she's looking forward to a big reward for furnishing information."
"But why can't we give her the reward—eh?" asked the shrewd, red-haired woman quickly.
"That's exactly my argument. That is why you must leave this present little matter, turn back to Céline, and make it right with her."
"How much do you think it will cost?"
Bernard Boyne shrugged his shoulders.
"Whatever it is, we must pay," he replied. "We can't afford for this girl to remain an enemy—and yours especially."
"Of course not," Ena agreed. "What is her address?"
Boyne took a slip of paper from his pocket-book and handed it to the handsome woman.
"But what excuse can I possibly make for approaching her?" she asked bewildered.
"Pretend you've come to Paris to offer to take her into your service again," Boyne suggested. "She will then meet you, and you can express regret that you sent her away so suddenly, and offer to make reparation—and all that."
"There was an object in sending her away so peremptorily. You know what it was, Bernie."
"I know, of course. She might have discovered something then. You adopted the only course—but, unfortunately, it has turned out to have been a most injudicious one, which may, if we are not very careful and don't act at once, lead to the exposure of a very nasty circumstance—the affair of old Martin."
"I quite see," she said. "I'll go to Paris without delay."
"You'll stay at the Bristol, as before, I suppose?"
"Yes. I will ask her to come and see me there."
Boyne hesitated.
"No. I don't know whether it would not be better for you to go out to Melun for the day and find her there," he queried. "Remember, you must handle the affair with the greatest delicacy. You've practically got to pay her for blackmail which she has not sought."
"That's the difficulty. And the sum must be equal, if not more, to that which she and her French friend who has come over here to seek and identify you hope to get out of it by their disclosures. Oh! yes," she said, "I quite see it all."
"I admit that the situation which has arisen is full of peril, Ena," remarked the man seated before her, "but you are a clever woman, and with the exercise of tact and cunning, in addition to the disbursement of funds, we shall undoubtedly be able to wriggle out—as we always do."
"Let's hope so," she said, with a sigh. "But what about Ardlui and Mrs. Morrison?"
"Your visit to Paris is more important at the moment. You must lose no time in getting there. Before I left London, I instructed my bank to send five thousand pounds to you at the head office of the Credit Lyonnais. You will be able to draw at once when you get there, and it will give you time to get more money if you deem it wise to pay any bigger sum."
"Really, you leave nothing undone, Bernie.
"Not when danger arises, my dear Ena," he laughed. "In the meantime, I'll have to remain very low. That infernal Frenchman may be watching Lilla with the idea that I might visit Pont Street. But I shan't go near her again till the danger is past."
"Then I'd better get away as soon as possible," she said. "I can be in London this evening, and cross to Paris by the night mail."
"Yes," he replied. "Don't waste an instant in getting in touch with her. Have a rest in Paris, and then go to Melun. You can be there to-morrow afternoon."
"Shall you go back to London with me?"
"No. Better not be seen together," he said. "Let us be discreet. You can go by the ten o'clock express, which will just give you time to cross London to Victoria and catch the boat train, and I'll leave by the next express, which goes at one. The less we are together at present the better."
"I agree entirely," Ena said, with a sigh. "But this affair will, I see, be very difficult to adjust."
"Not if you keep your wits about you, Ena," he assured her. "It isn't half so difficult as the arrangements you made with that pious old fellow Fleming. Don't you recollect how very near the wind we were all sailing, and yet you took him in hand and convinced him of your innocence."
"I was dealing with a man then," she remarked. "Now I have to deal with a shrewd girl. Besides, we don't know who this inquisitive Frenchman may be."
"You'll soon discover all about him, no doubt. Just put on your thinking-cap on the way over to Paris, and doubtless before you arrive, you'll hit upon some plan which will be just as successful as the attitude you adopted towards old Daniel Fleming." Then he added: "I wish you'd order breakfast to be served up here, for I'm ravenously hungry."
She rose, rang the bell, and ordered breakfast for two.
While it was being prepared, Boyne went along the corridor to wash, while Ena retired to her room, and packed her trunk ready for her departure south at ten o'clock.
Afterwards she saw the head porter and got him to secure her a place on the train, and also in the restaurant-car, which is usually crowded.
They breakfastedtête-à-tête, after which she paid her bill, and at ten o'clock left him standing upon the platform to idle away three hours wandering about the crowded Glasgow streets before his departure at one o'clock.
Next morning Ena Pollen took her déjeuner at half-past eleven in the elegant table d'hôte room of the aristocratic Hôtel Bristol, in Paris, a big white salon which overlooks the Place Vendôme. Afterwards she took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, whence she travelled to Melun, thirty miles distant—that town from which come the Brie cheeses. On arrival, she inquired for the Boulevard Victor Hugo, and an open cab drove her away across the little island in the Seine, past the old church of St. Aspais, to a point where, in the boulevard, stood a monument to the great savant, Pasteur. The cab pulled up opposite the monument, where, alighting, Ena found herself before a large four-storied house, the ground floor of which was occupied by a tobacconist and a shop which sold comestibles.
Of the old bespectacled concierge who was cobbling boots in the entrance she inquired for Madame Ténot, and his gruff reply was:
"Au troisième, à gauche."
So, mounting the stone steps, she found the left-hand door on the third floor, and rang the bell.
The door opened, and the good-looking young French girl, who had been her maid for six months at Brighton, confronted her.
"Well, Céline!" exclaimed Ena merrily in French. "You didn't expect to see me—did you?"
The girl stood aghast and open-mouthed.
"Dieu! Madame!" she gasped. "I—I certainly did not!"
"Well, I chanced to be passing through Melun, and I thought I would call upon you."
The girl stood in the doorway, apparently disinclined to invite her late mistress into the small flat which she and her mother, the widow of the local postmaster, occupied.
"I wrote to you, Madame, two months ago—but you never replied!"
"I have never had any letter from you, Céline," Ena declared. "But may I not come in for a moment to have a chat with you? Ah! but perhaps you have visitors?"
"No, Madame," was her reply; "I am alone. My mother went to my aunt's, at Provins, this morning."
"Good! Then I may come in?"
"If Madame wishes," she said, still with some reluctance, and led the way to a small, rather sparsely-furnished salon, which overlooked the cobbled street below.
"I have been staying a few days at Marlotte, and am now on my way back to Paris," said her former mistress, seating herself in a chair. "Besides, I wanted particularly to see you, Céline, for several reasons. I feel somehow that—well, that I have not treated you as I really ought to have done. I dismissed you abruptly after poor Mr. Martin's death. But I was so very upset—I was not actually myself. I know I ought not to have done what I did. Please forgive me."
The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in well-cut black skirt and cotton blouse merely shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. She uttered no word. Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise at the sudden appearance of her former mistress.
"I don't know what you must have thought of me, Céline," Ena added.
"I thought many things of Madame," the girl admitted.
"Naturally. You must have thought me most ungrateful, after all the services you had rendered me, often without reward," remarked the red-haired widow. "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful."
The girl only smiled. She recollected the manner in which she had been suddenly dismissed and sent out from the house at five minutes' notice—and for no fault that she could discover.
She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor, living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame, who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room. That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's wages, and requesting her to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in France.
It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered her.
And now this woman's sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity.
"Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly.
"No, no, Céline! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me."
Céline, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died.
Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite another reason—in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger.
Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was in her service.
"Now look here, Céline," she said at last. "I'll be perfectly frank with you. I've come to ask you if you'll let bygones be bygones, and return to me?"
The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
"I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."
That was exactly the reply for which the clever woman wished.
"Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone of regret.
"Because the man to whom I am betrothed would not allow me," was her reply.
"Oh! Then you are engaged, Céline! Happy girl! I congratulate you most heartily. And who is the happy man?"
"Henri Galtier."
"And what is his profession?"
"He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was her reply.
"He is at Chantilly now?"
The girl again hesitated. Then she replied:
"No—he is in London."
Ena held her breath. It was evidently the man to whom Céline was engaged who was in London in search of Richard Bennett. Next second she recovered from her excitement at her success in making the discovery.
"In London? Is he employed there?"
"Yes—temporarily," she answered.
"And when are you to marry?"
"In December—we hope."
"Ah! Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand that you cannot return to me, Céline," exclaimed Ena. "Does Monsieur Galtier speak English?"
"Yes; very well, Madame. He was born in London, and lived there until he was eighteen."
"Oh, well, of course he would speak our language excellently. But though you will no doubt both be happy in the near future, I myself am not at all satisfied with my own conduct towards you. I've treated you badly; I feel that in some way or other I ought to put myself right with you. I never like a servant to speak badly of me."
"I do not speak badly of Madame," responded the girl, wondering whether, after all, her late mistress suspected her of overhearing that startling conversation late on the night following Mr. Martin's death.
Ena hesitated a moment, and then determined to act boldly, and said:
"Now Céline, let us be quite frank. I happen know that you have said some very nasty and things about me—wicked things, indeed. I heard that you have made a very serious allegation against me, and——"
"But, Madame! I——!" cried the girl, interrupting.
"Now you cannot deny it, Céline. You have said those things because you have sadly misjudged me. But I know it is my own fault, and the reason I am here in Melun is to put matters right—and to show you that I bear you no ill will."
"I know that, Madame," she said. "Your words are sufficient proof of it."
"But, on the contrary, you are antagonistic—bitterly antagonistic towards myself—and"—she added slowly, looking straight into the girl's face—"and also towards Mr. Bennett."
She started, looking sharply at the red-haired widow.
"Yes, I repeat it, Céline!" Ena went on. "You see I know the truth! Yet your feeling against Mr. Bennett does not matter to him in the least, because he died a month ago—of influenza."
"Mr. Bennett dead!" echoed the girl, standing aghast, for, as a matter of fact, her lover, Henri Galtier, was searching for him in London.
"Yes; the poor fellow went to Birmingham on business, took influenza, and died there a week later. Is it not sad?"
"Very," the girl agreed, staring straight before her. If Bennett were dead, then of what avail would be all her efforts to probe the mystery of Mr. Martin's death?
"Mr. Bennett was always generous to you—was he not?" asked Ena.
"Always," replied the girl. "I am very sorry he is dead!"
"Well, he is, and therefore whatever hatred you may have conceived for him is of no importance," she replied; and then adroitly turned the conversation to another subject.
At length, however, she returned to Céline's approaching marriage, expressing a hope that she would be very comfortably off.
"Has Monsieur Galtier money?"
"Not very much," she replied. "But we shall be quite happy nevertheless."
"Of course. Money does not always mean happiness. I am glad you view matters in that light, Céline," Ena said. "Yet, on the other hand, money contributes to luxury, and luxury, in most cases, means happiness."
"True, Madame, I believe so," replied the ex-maid, whose thoughts were, however, filled by what her late mistress had, apparently in all innocence, told her, namely, that Bennett, the man her lover meant to hunt down, was dead. She had no reason to doubt what Mrs. Pollen had said, for only on the previous day Henri had written her to say that his inquiries had had no result, and that he believed that the man Bennett must be dead, as he could obtain no trace of him. The reward which they hoped to gain from the insurance company when they had established Bennett's identity had therefore vanished into air.
Céline Tènot sat bewildered and disappointed, and the clever woman seated with her read her thoughts as she would have read a book.
"Now let's come to the point," she said, after a pause. "I want to make amends, Céline. I want you to think better of me, and for that purpose, I want to render you some little service, now that you are to marry. My desire is to remove from your mind any antagonism you may entertain towards myself. The best way in which I can do that is to make you a little wedding-present—something useful."
"Oh, Madame!" she cried. "I—I really want nothing!"
"But I insist, Céline!" replied the wealthy widow. "Poor Mr. Bennett remarked that I was very harsh in dismissing you. At the time I did not think so, but I now realise that the fault was on my side, therefore I shall give you thirty thousand francs to put by as a little nest-egg."
"But, Madame, I could not really accept it!" declared the girl, exhibiting her palms.
"I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and to-morrow I shall place the thirty thousand francs there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen. "I shall want you to come to Paris—to the Hôtel Bristol—so that we can go to the bank together, and you can there open an account and give them your signature. If I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur Galtier about it—or even tell him of my visit. Just keep the money for yourself—as a little present from one who, after all, greatly valued your services."
Though the girl pretended to be entirely against receiving any present, yet she realised that possession of such a respectable sum would be able to assist in preparing her new home. After all, it was most generous of Madame. Yes! she had sadly misjudged her, she reflected, after Mrs. Pollen had left. So, adopting her late mistress's suggestion, she refrained from telling her mother of the unexpected visit.
That night she wrote to Galtier, who was staying in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury, telling him that she had heard of the death of Bennett, but not revealing the source of her information. She therefore suggested that he should spend no further time or money on the inquiry, but return at once to his duties at Chantilly.
Next day Céline called at the Hôtel Bristol, when mistress and maid went together to the bank in the Boulevard des Italians, and there the girl received the handsome present. After this, she returned much gratified to Melun, while her late mistress left Paris that same night for London.
She had cleverly gained the girl's complete confidence, thereby preventing any further inquiry into the curious circumstances attending the death of Mr. Martin, of Chiswick.