The suspicion had arisen in my mind that De Gex and his agent Suzor knew that I was in Madrid for the purpose of watching them, and they had resorted to a very clever and secret means of getting rid of me once andfor all. If the notorious criminal Despujol was in their pay he would no doubt afterwards blackmail them, now that the desperate plot had failed. Again, could it be possible that Moroni had had any hand in supplying this most effective and dangerous of all secret poisons to the Spanish malefactor who snapped his defiant fingers under the very nose of the police?
As I sat in that quiet room of the Professor’s, a room that smelt strongly of chemicals, though it was filled mostly with books, I could not refrain from shuddering when I reflected upon the narrow escape I had had. Yet if De Gex resorted to such measures, he must certainly hold me in great fear. Besides, if my life was threatened, so also was that of my friend Harry Hambledon, who remained so vigilant in the serene belief that his presence was undetected.
At that time I never dreamed that the great financier who controlled the destinies of certain European States never moved without a police official being in attendance, and that surveillance was kept upon him as though he were royalty travelling incognito. De Gex, it seemed, was ever afraid that one of his enemies, the hundreds whom he had ruined by dint of sharp practice, unscrupulous dealing, and flagrant bribery, might seek revenge.
Hence, though neither Hambledon nor myself knew of it, both De Gex and his toady and agent, Gaston Suzor, were well aware of our presence, and, moreover, were kept posted concerning our movements from day to day!
Though we were in ignorance of all this, yet the desperate nature of the plot against me caused me to wonder what exactly was the fear in which De Gex held me. Of course it concerned Gabrielle Tennison. But exactly how, I failed to surmise.
One thing was certain, that the mystery-man of Europeintended to rid himself of me, and in this he was being aided by certain of his friends, chief among whom were Suzor and Moroni. That the assassin Despujol was only a paid servant was quite clear. But the pay must have been a very handsome sum to cause him to dare to come to Madrid so boldly and run the risk of arrest.
I smiled at my own innocence when I remembered how completely he had imposed upon me by showing me his papers of identity, and the photographs of his pretended family. Truly only a great criminal could have remained so imperturbed and polite to the man whom he intended should die.
“This drug orosin is a very mysterious one, I suppose?” I remarked a few seconds later as the Professor, who had offered me a cigar, was in the act of lighting up.
“Yes. A very weak solution taken by the mouth produces extraordinary effects upon the human brain. The latter almost instantly becomes unbalanced and the victim lapses into an unconscious state for days, even for weeks,” he said. “Very often the brain is quite normal, save that a complete loss of memory follows the return to consciousness. In other cases orosin has produced complete and hopeless dementia.”
“Always hopeless?” I asked eagerly, recollecting my own case and that of Gabrielle Tennison.
“Not always hopeless. There have been cases that have been cured.”
“Do you know any personally?” I demanded breathlessly.
“There are one or two—very few—on record. Professor Gourbeil, the well-known alienist of Lyons, has observed two patients who recovered. But the majority of cases where orosin has been administered were found incurable. The mind is blank, the memory completely destroyed, and the general health so undermined that only the strongest persons can withstand the strain.”
At once I described Gabrielle’s symptoms and general attitude, whereupon the Professor said:
“What you tell me are the exact symptoms exhibited by a person to whom a small dose of orosin has been administered. In most cases, however, such a state of mind develops into actual insanity with a homicidal tendency. Such a patient should be very carefully watched, for in ninety per cent. the chance of a cure is, alas! beyond expectation.”
One very important fact I had established. Orosin was the obscure and little-known drug that had been administered to Gabrielle Tennison, as well as to myself, by the mystery-man of Europe at his palatial house in Stretton Street. Gabrielle being the weaker, was still suffering from its paralysing effects, while I, the stronger, had practically recovered.
Yet it had been intended by the daring Despujol that a fatal “accident” should now befall me! And could anything be plainer than that the fellow for whom the police were searching so eagerly was a hireling of the man De Gex who went in fear of me?
That most secret and most potent of all poisons might be known to Moroni! Indeed, it apparently was known to him, and the endeavour had been to introduce it into my system by means of an infected carpet pin.
On leaving Professor Vega I at once sent a note round to Hambledon, and awaited his arrival.
When he came I related all the professor had told me.
“Well, Hugh,” he said, “we now know the truth, and it remains for us to combat the fiends. If you are marked down—no doubt I am also. So it behoves us both to be very wary.”
“Why can’t we tell the police the whole circumstances?” I suggested.
“My dear fellow, they wouldn’t believe you, and they wouldn’t arrest such a powerful man as Oswald De Gex,” was his serious reply. “Money can buy immunity from arrest in every country in Europe, and especially De Gex’s money, for it can be distributed in secret by his agents. No. If we are to be successful we must lay our plans just as cleverly as he lays his. We must allow him to believe that we are entirely unsuspicious of his plotting. That is our only way.”
I realized that there was much truth in his argument. It remained with us to pretend ignorance. Therefore we resolved to still watch and wait.
A few hours later I told Señor Andrade, the Chief of Police, of the professor’s discovery that the points of the pins had been infected with orosin, the newly discovered drug which in small doses produced loss of memory and insanity, and in larger doses sudden death.
In reply, he informed me that though every effort had been made to trace the elusive fugitive, all had been in vain, and that he was still at large.
“But if he has this terrible drug in his possession he is more than ever a danger to society,” the Spanish official went on, speaking in French. “I thank you, m’sieur, for all the information you have given me, and you may rely upon me to take every possible step towards securing his arrest. I was in telegraphic communication with the Paris Sûreté only this morning concerning him. I will wire them again. They have been stirred into activity by the message I sent them after your call to see me.”
I longed again to be frank with the affable Señor Andrade, yet I saw that if I were I might negative all chance of solving the problem which concerned the health and life of the girl whom I had grown to love so fervently.
Upon a sudden impulse I remarked with affected carelessness:
“I hear that our English financier, Mr. De Gex, is at the Ritz.”
“Yes,” he replied. “He is here under an assumed name in connexion with some big railway scheme in Estremadura—a line between Toledo and Merida. It is badly wanted, and has been talked of for years. There is a huge stretch of country south of the Tagus as far as Villa Nueva without any railway communication. The King himself has been agitating for the development of that rich agricultural region for the last ten years. And now it seems as though your great financier, Monsieur De Gex, is here to consult with the Ministry of Communications.”
“Yes,” I said, realizing in what high esteem that mystery-man of millions was held.
“I do not think I would care to have such colossal wealth as his,” remarked the Chief of Police. “As soon as he arrived from Paris I had orders from the Ministry to place him under surveillance, because, it seems, he goes in fear of some personal attack upon him.”
“By whom?” I asked, instantly interested.
“The information is vague,” was his reply. Then, taking up a large yellow paper from his desk, he said: “It seems that he has applied to the Ministry for personal protection, and for a daily report of anyone who may be keeping observation upon him. There is a young Englishman living at the Palace Hotel who seems unduly interested in the gentleman’s movements. We are watching him.”
I held my breath. This was an unexpected revelation. De Gex was in fear of us, and had resorted to that ruse in order to keep himself posted upon Hambledon’s movements! Truly the situation was daily growing more complicated!
“Surely such a well-known man as Mr. De Gex—a man who is noted not only for his immense wealth, but for his generous contributions to charity—could not have enemies?” I remarked.
“Everyone has enemies, my dear m’sieur,” was the police official’s suave reply. “Señor De Gex was here in Madrid a year ago when he made a similar application to the Ministry for personal surveillance. He was here in connexion with the foundation of the new Madrid and Southern Spain Banking Corporation, which is guaranteed by a group of French and Dutch financiers of whom Señor De Gex is the head.”
He paused, and then continued:
“He seems highly strung and nervous. All men who are in the public eye seem to be the same. Well-known foreigners visiting Madrid often apply for surveillance, yet there is certainly no need of it. And I confess to you that my staff is, after all, unduly worked.”
“I can quite imagine that,” I said. “But is a strict watch kept upon Mr. De Gex?”
“Yes, and upon his agent, Monsieur Suzor, also.”
“Has Monsieur Suzor been in Madrid before?”
“He was here two years ago when Señor De Gex had some big financial deal with the Count Chamartin, who was head of the Miramar Shipping Company of Barcelona. They say he bought the whole fleet of steamers from Count Chamartin.”
“Was Count Chamartin wealthy?”
“Yes. A millionaire, without a doubt. But it is said that shortly before his death he quarrelled with his wife. Why, nobody knows. She lives at Segovia, and their house here in the capital has just been sold.”
“Was any attempt made upon Mr. De Gex?” I asked.
“Well, a mysterious young Frenchman called one night at the Ritz and demanded to see him. He was very excited, and when he was refused admission upstairs, he flourished a revolver. My agent on duty arrested the stranger, who was, after examination, deported. For that Señor De Gex sent me a letter of thanks, and the scarf-pin which you see I wear.”
The pin he indicated consisted of a single black pearl with the base surrounded by diamonds, an expensive piece of jewellery. That, in itself, was sufficient to show that Oswald De Gex was a past-master in the art of bribery, and that he had established in the minds of the authorities of the Spanish capital that when he came there he came in the interests of the Government, and hence he could do no wrong.
Ah! How I longed to be able to tell my story to that charming official. But I saw that if I did so he would not only disbelieve me, but put me down as an exaggerating fool. So I held my tongue.
I further questioned him concerning De Gex and his friend Suzor.
“Monsieur Suzor has been in Madrid before,” he said. “He is agent of Señor De Gex. But how wealthy the latter must be! During the war he made a big loan to our Government. The real extent of it is not known, but some say that he can pull the strings of the Cabinet in any way he wishes, though the King disapproved of the whole transaction. At least that is the rumour. Yet, after all, Señor De Gex is a true friend of Spain, even though he, like all financiers, obtains huge percentages upon his loans.”
“True,” I laughed.“Men of wealth are seldom philanthropists. One finds more true philanthropy among the poor, and in the artistic circles of lower Bohemia, than in the circles of the ultra-rich. Philanthropy is not written in the dictionary of the war-rich—those blatant profiteers with their motors and their places in the country, who, having fattened upon the lives of the brave fellows who fought and died to save Europe from the unholy Hun, are now enjoying their lives, while the widows and orphans of heroes starve.”
“Ah, M’sieur Garfield, with that I entirely agree,” sighed the astute man seated at his writing-table with the three telephones at his elbow. “In my official career as head of the police department of Madrid, I have watched recent events, and I have seen how men who were little removed from the category of the worst criminals, have suddenly jumped into wealth, with its consequent notoriety, and the power which is inseparable from the possessor of money.”
“The international financier Oswald De Gex is one of those,” I said. “You cannot close your eyes to that fact!”
“You appear to entertain some antipathy towards him,” he remarked, a little surprised it seemed.
“No, not at all,” I assured him, smiling. “I only speak broadly. All these great financiers fatten upon the ruin of honest folk.”
“I hardly think that such is the case with Señor De Gex,” he remarked. “But you are English, and you probably know more than myself concerning his career.”
“Nobody in England knows much about him,” was my reply. “We only know that he is immensely wealthy, and that his riches are daily increased by the various ventures which he finances.”
“He is a great support to our Ministry of Finance,” declared the Chief of Police.“It was Count Chamartin who first interested him in Spain, I believe. In any case, they combined to finance a number of industrial enterprises, including the great Guadajoz Copper Mine which must, in itself, have brought them both a fortune.”
“You said that the count is dead,” I remarked.
“Yes. He died quite suddenly last year. He was one of the most popular men at Court, and his tragic death caused a great sensation. He was taken ill in the Sud Express while travelling from Madrid to keep an appointment with Señor De Gex in Paris, and though he was taken from the train on its arrival at San Sebastian and conveyed to the hospital, he died a few moments after reaching there. He had a weak heart, and had consulted two doctors only a month previously. They had ordered him a complete rest and change, but, contrary to their advice, he continued attending to his affairs—with fatal result.”
“And the countess?”
“Ah! Poor lady, she was beside herself with grief. She was his second wife. His first was the daughter of an Englishman who lived in Madrid. The present countess is the daughter of the Marquis Avellanosa of Algeciras, and they were a most devoted pair. She now lives in Segovia in comparative seclusion. The count’s untimely end was a great loss to Spain.”
It was news to me that Oswald De Gex was in Madrid with his agent Suzor in connexion with the new railway scheme. Indeed, what I had just been told was all amazing, and showed De Gex to be a man of outstanding genius. The mystery-man of Europe took good care to inform himself of any person who watched his movements, or sought to inquire into his business. It certainly was a master-stroke to pretend fear of assassination, and compel the police to act as his personal guard. By that means he had learnt that Hambledon and myself were in Madrid on purpose to discover what we could, hence hehad hired the assassin Despujol to set that dastardly trap for me.
Again it was upon the tip of my tongue to reveal the suspicions I had of the great financier, but I refrained, because I could see that my companion held De Gex in high esteem as a friend and financial mainstay of his country.
A few moments later I reverted to the possibility of the arrest of Despujol, for if arrested he might betray De Gex as the person who had paid him to place those infected pins in my room. In such case my story would be heard and investigated.
But the Chief of Police shook his head dubiously.
“I fear that he has again gone into safe hiding—up in the mountains somewhere, without a doubt,” he replied. “It was an act of considerable daring to come boldly to Madrid and stay at your hotel when he knows full well the hue-and-cry for him is raised everywhere, and that there is actually ten thousand pesetas offered as reward for his capture.”
“Someone may betray him,” I suggested with a smile.
“Yes. We hope so. One of his friends, male or female, will no doubt do so and come one day to us for the reward. Not till then shall we know the truth of that strange attempt upon your life. The motive could not have been robbery, as you had nothing worth taking save your watch. If he had been found in De Gex’s room at the Ritz one could have understood it.”
I smiled. The Chief of Police never suspected the true facts of the case, facts within my own knowledge, which were of such an amazing and startling character that I hesitated to relate them.
When I left my friend I again sought Hambledon and told him all I had learnt.
“H’m!” he grunted. “Very wily of De Gex to get the police to keep an eye upon me. If I’m not careful I shall suddenly find myself under arrest as a suspicious person who is in the habit of loitering in the vicinity of the great financier.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “This seems to put an end to our present activity—does it not?”
“Well, he apparently knows that we are watching,” Hambledon said. “What a pity we cannot tell the police all we know.”
“If we did we should not be believed, and, moreover, they wouldn’t hear a word against the great man who is such a friend to Spain. Money buys reputation, remember. Nobody knows that better than De Gex.”
Hambledon was standing at my bedroom window looking thoughtfully down upon the Puerta del Sol with its crowd of hurrying foot-passengers.
“It seems a miserable ending to all our careful surveillance upon Suzor—doesn’t it?” he grumbled.
“True, it does. But now that the pair are on the alert I cannot see that anything can be gained by remaining in Madrid longer,” I pointed out.
“Then you intend to give up the quest for the truth?”
“Not by any means,” I replied quickly.“I intend, at all hazards, and at all costs, to still fathom the mystery. What we have learned since we came to Spain puts quite a different complexion upon matters. We are now in possession of certain facts concerning De Gex—facts of which we had no suspicion. We had never dreamed that to further his ends he did not hesitate to employ a notorious criminal to commit murder with malice aforethought. Neither did we know anything of his financial dealings with the Spanish Ministry of Finance, or his partnership with the Conde de Chamartin, or that the drug he used upon poor Gabrielle and myself was the obscure but most deadly and dangerous orosin. All these are points which may in the near future be of greatest advantage to us. Therefore we must not despair. Let us take courage and continue to probe the mystery—for the sake of poor Gabrielle Tennison,” I urged. “Let us act as quietly and discreetly as our enemy is acting, and we may yet attain success!”
Having decided to still remain in Madrid I deemed it advisable to engage the services of a private inquiry agent to watch the movements of De Gex and Suzor, who still remained at the Ritz. The mystery-man, living under an assumed name, never went out in the daytime, though Suzor often went forth, paying visits to certain banks and commercial offices in connexion with the proposed new railway.
The man we engaged was an elderly ex-detective of the Seville police, named Pardo, who very soon discovered the identity of the secret agent employed to keep surveillance upon De Gex on behalf of the police so that no harm should befall him.
In consequence, I took Pardo into my confidence, and calling him to my hotel, explained that I desired to keep secret watch upon the Frenchman Suzor, without the knowledge of the detective watching De Gex.
“I particularly desire to know the addresses of any telegram which Suzor may send. Probably he may send some message to Italy. If so, please discover the address and the text of the message.”
I believed that De Gex might communicate with Moroni, now that the plot of Despujol had failed.
“I will watch, señor,” was the grey-haired Spaniard’s reply.“If Señor Suzor sends any telegram I shall probably obtain a copy of it. They know me well at the chief telegraph office. Señor Suzor appears to be transacting a considerable amount of business in Madrid—a scheme for a new railway, I understand.”
“Yes, I know. All I want you to do is to find out who visits Mr. De Gex, and whether any telegrams are sent by either him or Mr. Suzor.”
“I quite understand, señor,” was the detective’s reply as he rose, and a few minutes later withdrew.
Late in the evening two days afterwards I returned to the hotel to find the man Pardo awaiting me. After I had taken him up to my room and closed the door, he drew a piece of paper from his pocket, saying in French:
“Señor Suzor sent a telegram at half-past eight this evening of which this is a copy.”
The message he handed me was in a pencilled scribble, and was in English as follows:
“Charles Rabel, Rue de Lalande 163, Montauban.—“Important that I should see you. Meet me at Hôtel Luxembourg, Nîmes, without fail, next Monday at noon.—O.”
“Charles Rabel, Rue de Lalande 163, Montauban.—
“Important that I should see you. Meet me at Hôtel Luxembourg, Nîmes, without fail, next Monday at noon.—O.”
The initial “O” stood for Oswald—Oswald De Gex! So the mystery-man of Europe contemplated leaving Madrid!
I thanked the man Pardo, who said:
“Señor Suzor did not dispatch the telegram from the chief office in the Calle del Correo, but from the branch office in the Plaza del Progreso. He apparently wished to send it in secret.”
“I wonder why?” I asked.
The Spaniard raised his shoulders.
The address conveyed nothing to me. But the message was proof that De Gex intended to leave Spain, and further, it was a source of satisfaction to know his destination in case he slipped away suddenly.
After Pardo had gone I sat and pondered. It struck me as very curious that Suzor should have gone to a distant telegraph office in order to send the message. It seemed that he feared to be recognized by the counter-clerk at the chief telegraph office. For over an hour I smoked reflectively. I confess that a curious ill-defined suspicion had arisen in my mind, a suspicion that became so strong that just about eleven o’clock I entered the Jefatura Superior de Policia in the Calle de la Princesa, and again inquired for Señor Andrade.
Fortunately he had been detained in his office, and I was shown into his presence.
He seemed surprised to see me, but at once he became interested when I said:
“I have a distinct suspicion that I know the whereabouts of Despujol.”
“Have you?” he exclaimed quickly. “What causes you to suspect?”
“A man whom I believe to be an acquaintance of his has to-day sent an urgent telegram to Charles Rabel, Rue de Lalande, 163, in Montauban, in France, making an appointment to meet him at the Hôtel Luxembourg at Nîmes next Monday at noon.”
“Who is his friend?” he asked eagerly.
“I regret, Señor Andrade, that I am not in a position to answer that question. The whole matter is only one of suspicion—very strong suspicion.”
The Chief of Police looked very straight at me.
“Ah! Then you are in possession of certain secret knowledge concerning the man who made such a dastardly attempt upon your life!” he remarked. “And you suspect this Charles Rabel at Montauban to be the fugitive—eh?”
“Exactly,” I replied.
He asked me to repeat the address, which he scribbled down, and then looking up, said:
“Personally, Señor Garfield, I think your suspicions are unfounded. Despujol, if he is ever found, will be discovered in hiding somewhere in the mountains of the north.”
“But why not in Montauban?” I asked. “He is apparently a well-educated man, judging from his conversation with me. He speaks French well, and perhaps passes as a French subject.”
“He could pass for a Spaniard, an Italian, a Greek, or a Frenchman,” Andrade remarked. “And as forged passports are so cheap nowadays, and almost impossible to detect, the means of escape of such a daring criminal are both numerous and easy. But,” he added, “I am interested in this person whom you believe to be a friend of the fugitive. Cannot you tell me who he is?”
I shook my head, and smiling replied:
“I have only come here to tell you of a very distinct suspicion I entertain that Despujol is at Montauban.”
“Then his friend is your enemy—eh?” he suggested, his dark, penetrating eyes fixed upon mine. “You know the motive of that trap which Despujol set for you, and yet you will not reveal it to me!”
Again I shook my head and smiled.
“It would make my task much easier,” he remarked.
“I am aware of that. But at present mine is only a suspicion. I have no actual knowledge that Charles Rabel is the man you are so desirous of arresting.”
“And you really refuse to tell me who sent this message?” he asked in a tone of disappointment.
“It was sent in secret,” I answered.“Indeed, it was that fact which caused me to suspect. You can, of course, obtain the original of the telegram by applying for it from the authorities. But it is only signed by an initial.”
“How did you obtain knowledge of it?”
“Again I have no intention of disclosing the source of my information, Señor Andrade,” I replied as politely as I could, “I am, as a matter of fact, here in Madrid attempting to solve a very remarkable mystery which occurred in London a few months ago.”
“This is most interesting! You never told me that before!” he exclaimed. “I confess I wondered with what motive you and your friend Señor Hambledon, living at separate hotels, had in remaining here. It was regarded as suspicious by the detective force that being such intimate friends you lived at separate hotels, and met only in secret. Reports have reached me of your movements, and of your meetings,” he laughed. “More than once you have been regarded as suspected persons,” he added.
“Well, I hope you do not regard me as a suspected person any longer, Señor Andrade!” I exclaimed with a smile.
“No, no,” he laughed. “But I confess you are something of a mystery. Why should the notorious Despujol dare to put his foot into Madrid and lay that deadly plot to kill you? You know the motive, and yet you will not disclose it to me.”
“Not at present,” I said. “If it is found that Charles Rabel is really Despujol, then I will come forward and state all that I know.”
“You promise that?”
“I do.”
“Very well—then I will give orders to have your suspicions investigated,” replied the patient, urbane official.“A detective shall leave by the next train for Montauban with a request to the Prefect of Police of the Department of Tarn-et-Garonne for the arrest of the individual in question, if he should be identified.”
“Then I will accompany him,” I said.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed. “It would be well if Señor Rivero, the head of the Detective Department, whom you have met, went in person to France. I will ring him up at his house.”
He took up the telephone and a few minutes later spoke rapidly in Spanish to the chief detective of Spain.
Presently after a rapid conversation he put down the receiver, and said:
“Señor Rivero will meet you at the Delicias Station at two o’clock to-morrow morning. The express for Barcelona leaves at two-fifteen. From Barcelona you can get direct to Nîmes, and on to Montauban. And,” he added, “I only hope you will be successful in arresting the notorious Despujol.”
I thanked him, and suggested that if we should be fortunate enough to identify him, we should watch for the keeping of the appointment at the Hôtel Luxembourg at Nîmes on the following Monday.
“With whom is he keeping the appointment?” asked Señor Andrade.
“That I will disclose later,” was my reply. “I know that the appointment has been fixed, and if we watch, we shall, I feel assured, gain some knowledge of considerable interest.”
“As you wish,” replied the Chief of Police, who now seemed convinced by my manner that I was in possession of certain actual facts. “You will meet Señor Rivero—eh?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Then I wish the pair of you the good fortune of arresting the assassin Despujol,” he said as we shook hands and parted.
I drove at once to Hambledon’s hotel, where I found that he had just retired to bed. As he stood in his pyjamas, surprised at my unexpected visit at that hour, I told him what I had arranged.
“Then I will remain here and watch De Gex’s departure,” he said.
“Yes. But be very careful of yourself,” I urged. “Keep your revolver handy, for you never know when an attack may be made upon you. These fellows, though great men in the eyes of the world, employ desperate characters to do their dirty work.”
“I’m quite alive to that fact, Hugh,” replied my friend. “But we won’t give up till we punish those responsible for poor Miss Tennison’s state—will we?”
“No, we won’t,” I declared determinedly. “Of course we may be on a wrong scent, but something seems to tell me that we are pretty hot on the trail. The assassin Despujol would never have been employed by them if they did not hold us in dread.”
“Your journey to Montauban will prove whether you are right, Hugh,” he said, and then, after arranging that he should follow Suzor should De Gex leave without him, and that he should at once wire me word to the Poste Restante at Nîmes, I left, and returning to the hotel packed my suit-case and later met the bald-headed but famous detective.
The latter proved an amusing companion who, during the long night journey to the Mediterranean, recounted to me many of his interesting experiences. His French was better than his English, so we conversed in the former tongue.
There was no sleeping carriage upon the train, therefore, after my companion had spoken to the conductor, we made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the first-class compartment which had been reserved for us. At half-past three in the morning, with true Spanish forethought, he produced some sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a bottle of excellent wine, upon which we made a hearty meal, after which we dozed in our corners till dawn.
Throughout the day my companion, who was quite as eager as myself to arrest the notorious Despujol, chatted in French as we went slowly down the fertile valley of the Ebro and suddenly out to where on our right lay the broad blue sea. Not until late afternoon did we arrive at Barcelona, and having two hours to wait we went along the Paseo de San Juan to the Francia Station, and having deposited our bags there, strolled along to the Plaza de Cataluña, where, at the gay Maison Dorée, we had coffee and cigarettes, while my companion read theDiarioand I watched the picturesque crowd about us. Rivero knew Barcelona well, so after we had finished our cigarettes we took a taxi to the Central Police Office, where we had a chat with the chief of the Detective Department, a short stout little man with a round boyish face and a black moustache. After that we took another taxi along to the toy-fair in the Plaza de la Constitución, it being the Feast of St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia, which accounted for the bustle and gaiety of the city.
Then, after an interesting half-hour, we returned to the station and set out upon our slow eight-hour journey through the rich wine lands of Catalonia, with their quaint mediæval villages and towns, with occasional glimpses of sapphire sea, and passing over many ravines and gullieswe at last, long after nightfall, entered a long tunnel at the end of which was the station of Port-Bou, the French frontier.
The usual prying douaniers were quickly at work, and after some coffee at the Restaurant Baqué, which is so well known to travellers to Southern Spain, we re-entered the train for Narbonne, where in the morning we changed and travelled to Montauban, by way of Carcassonne and Toulouse.
It was late in the afternoon when, on arrival at our destination, we took rooms at the Hôtel du Midi on the opposite side of the Tarn to the prosperous pleasant little French town, once a headquarter of the Inquisition, and even now containing in its Museum the executioner’s axe and many instruments of torture. After a wash and a meal, for we were both very hungry, we set out to find Monsieur Charles Rabel, whose address was Rue de Lalande, number 163.
We crossed the wonderful old brick bridge from Villebourbon to the town—a bridge built in the fourteenth century with an internal passage running beneath the roadway to the ancient Château. Then, making our way past the old Church of St. Jacques, with its fine Gothic octagonal tower, and passing through a number of streets we found ourselves in the narrow old-world Rue de Lalande.
Just as we entered the street, which contained a number of small shops, I halted.
“He must not see me!” I exclaimed.
“I quite agree,” replied the Spanish detective. “There is a little café over there. Go in and wait for me. I will make some discreet inquiries concerning this Monsieur Rabel.”
Hence we parted, and while Señor Rivero saunteredalong the street in search of the house in question, I went into the café and ordered a bock.
Full of anxiety lest, after all, this man Rabel should be a respectable citizen, I waited.
Time passed slowly. Half an hour went by. I ordered a mazagran and sat smoking, trying to suppress my eagerness. An hour elapsed—an hour and a half—two hours!
I waited yet another half-hour until the proprietor of the café began to look askance at me. Then I paid, and rising, went out into the street.
It was now dark. There was no sign of my friend the Spanish police agent. He had disappeared!
I stood upon the pavement full of anxiety and bewilderment.
What could have happened to him?
I returned to my rather barely-furnished room at the Hôtel du Midi which overlooked the Place outside the station in the suburb across the river, and sank into a chair to reflect.
The concierge—a lad who wore the concierge’s cap—the concierge being off duty at his evening meal—informed me that my friend had not returned. He seemed an alert French lad of that type so frequently seen in Continental hotels.
Señor Rivero had disappeared! For an hour I waited seated alone in my room reflecting deeply. My sole desire and fixed object was to solve the enigma of Gabrielle Tennison’s unfortunate mental state and to bring to justice those unscrupulous blackguards responsible for it. As I sat there her pale beautiful face arose before me—the wonderful countenance of the girl who had, in such a strange and indescribable manner, taken possession of my soul. To analyse my feelings towards her was impossible. I put to myself the query why I loved her, but I was utterly unable to answer it.
I loved her most passionately and devotedly. That was all.
The tragedy of the situation was that I loved one who, alas! could not return my affection as a girl with her mental balance unaffected could do. Her poor unbalanced brain could never allow her to understand me, or to return my love.
I was tired after the long sleepless journey from Spain, and I suppose I must have dozed in my chair.
I awoke suddenly, hearing a tap upon the door, and an elderly chambermaid entered with a telegram.
I tore it open and found it had been dispatched from Castelsarrasin, and was from Rivero, saying: “Absence unavoidable. Hope to be back by midnight.”
“Where is Castelsarrasin?” I inquired of the woman.
“It is about sixteen kilomètres from here, m’sieur,” replied the buxom woman in the strong accent of Toulouse. “It is on the road to Agen and the railway junction for Beaumont-de-Lomagne. Just a small town. They say that the name is a corruption of Castel-sur-Azin. At least my mother used to tell me so.”
What, I wondered, had taken the head of the Madrid detective force out there? He must be following some fresh clue.
So I went forth across the bridge to a big café opposite the theatre, and there idled till nearly midnight, when I returned eagerly to meet my friend.
He entered my room just before one o’clock in the morning, tired and dusty, for he appeared to have walked a long distance. I had some cognac and a syphon of seltzer awaiting him, and sinking exhausted into a chair, he took a long and refreshing drink before he spoke.
“Well?” he said with a sigh.“You have been wondering why I disappeared so mysteriously—eh? The fact is I was compelled. On making inquiry of a shoemaker who has a little shop near Charles Rabel’s house I learned that the man for whom we are searching lived in a flat on the first floor of the house kept by a widow named Cailliot. But he was frequently absent in England or in Italy. Only for short spells was he there, for he was a commercial traveller representing a Lyons firm of silkweavers. As we were speaking, the shoemaker pointed to a rather smart young woman who was at that moment leaving the house, and said: ’Look! That is Mademoiselle Jacquelot, the fiancée of Monsieur Charles! She might tell you where he is. I do not think he is at home to-day. I saw him four days ago and spoke to him as he passed. But I believe he has left again!’ I thanked him, and at once followed Mademoiselle, hence I had no time to tell you, for I had no idea where she was going. I saw that by following Rabel’s fiancée I might gain some useful knowledge. She walked to the station, and took a ticket for Castelsarrasin. I did the same. We had half an hour to wait, but I spent it patiently, and when we left I travelled alone with her in the same compartment. Soon I managed to get into conversation with her, whereupon I mentioned that I had a friend, Monsieur Charles Rabel, in Montauban, and that we had met in Paris. He had once shown me her photograph and I believed I was not mistaken that she was Mademoiselle Jacquelot. At first she was surprised, but I told her a very plausible story, whereupon she explained that Charles had gone to Toulouse on business three days before, but that he was returning at noon to-morrow. She herself lived in Castelsarrasin.”
“But do you anticipate that we shall discover in Charles Rabel the notorious Despujol?” I inquired eagerly.
Rivero raised his shoulders and elevated his black eyebrows, saying:
“From facts I gathered from Mademoiselle concerning him I certainly think that we are really upon his track. It hardly seems possible, but we must remain in patience till to-morrow. Then, if we find our surmise correct, we must act with the greatest caution if we are to watch him to Nîmes where he is to meet your mysterious friend—the man whose name you refuse to reveal.”
“When they meet you will at once recognize him,” I said. “I may be mistaken,” I added. “But I do not anticipate that I am. If all goes well, then you will arrest the notorious Despujol.”
“I only wish that the fellow would fall into my hands,” replied my companion. “If so, then revelations will be made that will startle Europe.”
“And incidentally gain you promotion in the service—eh?” I laughed.
He nodded and admitted:
“I hope so, Señor Garfield. I sincerely hope so,” he replied, and we parted for the night.
Next day I woke early and sought my friend. We idled about till nearly noon, when we went together to the railway station to watch the arrival of the train from Toulouse.
A number of people were about, for the dusty lumbering express from Bordeaux to Marseilles had, at that moment, arrived, and considerable bustle ensued in consequence.
While we stood watching the crowd Señor Rivero suddenly touched my arm, and whispered:
“Look yonder! The girl in dark blue! That is Mademoiselle Jacquelot! She must not see me. I wonder why she is here—if not to warn him of the inquiries made concerning him by a stranger!”
I glanced in the direction he had indicated and saw a tall, slim, rather good-looking girl sauntering idly in our direction. Her attention had, for the moment, been diverted by an advertisement upon the wall.
“Quick!” cried my friend. “Let us slip back here.”
And next moment we had repassed the barrier, back into the booking-office.
“If she sees me her suspicions will be aroused—if they are not already aroused,” said my companion. “The fact that she is here gives rise to the question whether she is really so innocent as she pretends. She may know of her lover’s escapades, and suspects me of having followed her out to her home.”
“If she does suspect, then she is cleverer than you anticipated,” I remarked.
“Yes. But in any case we had better act independently. You return to the platform, for she has never seen you. You will remain well concealed and watch them meet, while I shall be at the exit to identify him if you find that you cannot get near enough to him without courting observation.”
As he spoke the bell was clanging, and there came the roar of the engine entering the big echoing station.
I slipped back instantly upon the platform and standing at a point against the corner of the bookstand where I hoped to escape unobserved, I turned my head away as the train came along. Then, when it drew up, I held my breath anxiously as I turned around.
The girl in navy blue was not far from me searching along the train until, of a sudden, she espied a man in a dark overcoat and dark-green velour hat, who had just alighted, carrying in his hand a small leather case. His countenance was ruddy, and he had a small black moustache.
My heart fell. The man was a stranger to me! The countenance was not that of the man whom I had surprised in my bedroom at Madrid. He bent and greeted her affectionately, but next moment it was apparent thatshe was explaining something which caused his countenance to grow serious.
He put one or two swift questions to her. Then halting suddenly, he glanced at his watch.
I strove to get sufficiently near to look well into his face, but I feared recognition.
Would he pass out of the exit where the famous Spanish detective was awaiting him? Rivero knew Despujol by photographs, and indeed had been present when he had been convicted on the last occasion a few years before.
Mademoiselle’s friend hesitated for some moments, and then accosting a porter asked a question. The man pointed to a train on the opposite platform.
Was it possible that what Mademoiselle had told him had scared him? It seemed so, for with a sudden resolve, instead of walking to the exit he entered the booking-office and bought another ticket.
In an instant I dashed to the exit where the Spaniard was waiting, and in a few breathless words told him of the man’s intention.
To my amazement Señor Rivero heard me unmoved.
“I was awaiting you,” he said. “The man you have been watching is not Despujol at all. Despujol, whom I recognized, passed out a few moments ago and took a cab to his house in the Rue de Lalande.”
“Then you have seen him!” I gasped.
“Yes. It is Rodriquez Despujol, without a doubt, Monsieur Garfield. You have not been mistaken, and we must certainly thank you for putting us upon the track of this dangerous assassin.”
“Then, after all, my surmise is correct! And he will go on Monday to meet his paymaster in Nîmes,” I said.“The plot against me failed. Probably a second attempt is to be made.”
“We shall be careful not to be seen until he travels to Nîmes,” laughed Rivero, well satisfied at the progress he had made.
“But I wonder who is the red-faced man whom Mademoiselle has met,” I remarked. “She has evidently warned him of some danger.”
“If that’s so we ought to see him,” my friend exclaimed. “Let us go together on to the platform and watch. So long as Mademoiselle does not recognize me, we are safe.”
With the reassuring knowledge that the man who was being sought for by the whole police of Europe had gone to his unsuspicious abode in the Rue de Lalande, we returned to the far platform where a train stood waiting to leave. It was therapidefor Paris by way of Bourges. The man was already in a third-class compartment and as he stood with his head out of the window, Mademoiselle was chatting with him. Truly his stay in Montauban had not been long.
The instant Rivero caught sight of the fellow’s face, he exclaimed:
“Holy Madonna! Why, it is Mateo Sanz, the motor-bandit. We’ve been searching everywhere for him! He shot and killed a carabineer near Malaga a month ago!”
Next second he had left me and a few moments later hurried back. He had bought a ticket.
“Sanz does not know me. As soon as we’ve left the station and are away from Mademoiselle I shall be all right. Remain here. I will wire you, and in any case we shall be together in Nîmes on Monday. But be careful not to be seen by Despujol. He is a wary bird, remember!”
Then, unseen by Mademoiselle, he entered a first-class compartment of the train, just as the signal was given to start.
The train moved off, and I was left alone. Surely much had happened in those few exciting moments!
But why had Mademoiselle Jacquelot warned her friend the motor-bandit? If she had warned him because of Rivero’s inquiries concerning Despujol then she could also warn the latter. Again it was curious that she met Sanz, and did not meet Despujol. Further, it was a strange fact that the pair of Spanish criminals had not travelled together—unless there was some reason for it.
Perhaps there was.
I watched Mademoiselle as she passed out of the station to a little restaurant where she had a frugal meal. Then she returned and took a ticket back to her home in Castelsarrasin.
Rivero now had his hands full. Not only had he identified in the respectable commercial traveller, Charles Rabel, the notorious assassin Despujol, but he had also quite accidentally come across Sanz the motor-bandit, who of late had terrorized the south of Spain, and whose daring depredations were upon everyone’s lips. Mademoiselle seemed to be a friend of both men!
I returned to my hotel close by, and ate mydéjeuneralone. My position was a very unenviable one, for I feared to go over into the town lest I should come face to face with the man who had so cunningly made an attempt upon me as the hireling of Oswald De Gex.
But my thoughts were ever of my beloved, the girl who was the victim of some foul plot into which I, too, had been drawn—a mystery which I was devoting my whole life to solve.
At five o’clock that evening I received a telegram fromHarry in Madrid, telling me that all was quiet, and “our friend”—meaning De Gex—never went out.
To this I replied in a cryptic way that our suspicions had been verified, and that the person of whom we were in search we had discovered. We were only now waiting for the appointment to be kept at the Hôtel de Luxembourg at Nîmes.
Next day passed uneventfully. In order to kill time I took train to the quaint little town of Moissac, an ancient little place on the Tarn about twenty-five kilomètres distant, and there spent the hours wandering about the countryside which is so famed for its grapes in autumn. I did not return to Montauban till after seven, and while I sat at dinner the waiter handed me another telegram. It was from Rivero, and having been sent from Lyons, read: “All well. Just returning to Montauban.”
Later, I busied myself with time-tables and found that he would be due to arrive about six o’clock on the following morning. Therefore I possessed myself in patience, and I was still in bed when in the morning he entered my room.
“Well?” he exclaimed in French, as he sank wearily into a chair. “I’ve had a swift and weary journey. Sanz has been alarmed by the girl. Why, I cannot tell. Did she go to see Despujol?”
“No,” I replied. “She didn’t see him, but went straight home.”
“You have not ventured near Despujol, I hope?”
“No. I have hardly ventured into the town.”
“Good. Well, we shall make a double arrest,” he went on.“When the train arrived at the junction at Montlucon at midnight Sanz, evidently fearing lest he was followed, slipped out of the train and into another on the opposite side of the platform. It is a favourite dodge of elusive persons of his type. So, unseen by him, I also joined the train, and we travelled across to Lyons. There he went to a house in the Rue Chevreuil, close to the river, and when I had him safely there I went to the Bureau of Police and asked that observation should be kept upon him until such time that we in Spain should demand his arrest and extradition. The Lyons police know me very well, so two agents were at once detailed for that duty, and I immediately made my way back here. It seems that Sanz is also wanted in France for a motor-car exploit outside Orleans. Therefore our discovery is indeed a lucky one!”
“Will Sanz be arrested?” I asked.
“Yes. I have already reported by telegram to Señor Andrade in Madrid. He will at once ask them in Paris to order the arrest.”
“And Despujol?”
“We have now to await his journey to Nîmes to keep this mysterious appointment with your friend.”
“Not my friend,” I remarked, “rather with my bitterest enemy!”
As a detective Rivero was of outstanding shrewdness. He knew that more could be gained by patience than by sharp activity. Hence he did not go near the Rue de Lalande. Indeed, on the Saturday night we both left Montauban together, and travelled by that slow, cross-country route through the Aveyron, by way of Sévérac, down to the ancient city of Nîmes—that quaint, quiet old place which contains more monuments of antiquity than any other town in France.
Early in the morning we alighted at the station, high upon a viaduct, after a sleepless night, and drove to a small commercial hotel, the Cheval Blanc, in the Place des Arènes, nearly opposite the Luxembourg where the mystery-man of Europe had appointed to meet the infamous Despujol. When I inquired for a telegram one was handed to me. It was from Hambledon, saying that De Gex had left for Nîmes and Suzor was returning to Paris, therefore he would follow the latter.
Having installed ourselves in the hotel, Rivero went to the concierge, and taking him into his confidence over a twenty-franc note, told him that he was very anxious to know whether a gentleman named Rabel had arrived at the Luxembourg. Would he ask the concierge there privately on the telephone?
The man in uniform at once rang up the Luxembourg, and addressing the concierge as his “dear Henri,” made the inquiry.
The reply was that Monsieur Rabel was expected at noon.
“Ask if a gentleman is expected who has engaged a private sitting-room,” Rivero said.
The reply came back that a gentleman, believed to be English, had arrived in the night and now occupied the best suite. His name was Monsieur Johnson, of London.
I then described De Gex to the concierge, who repeated the description to the other hotel.
“Yes, m’sieur,” he said, turning again to me. “Henri believes it is the same gentleman whom you describe.”
“Who is he?” asked Rivero, much puzzled.
“Wait—and you will see,” I replied, laughing, for we now seemed to be within an ace of success.
Just before midday we watched the arrival of the train from Montauban, and from it there descended the man we expected—the notorious Despujol. Though his features were unmistakable he was made up to look much older, his hair being made grey above the ears.
At his side there walked a man whom I instantly recognized, and sight of him, I must confess, caused me to hold my breath.
It was the sinister-faced Italian, Doctor Moroni.
We drew back, and hastening to a taxi, returned at once to our hotel, from the door of which we could see the entrance to the Luxembourg, where a few moments later we saw both the travellers enter.
What further devil’s work was now in progress?
We watched the hotel in patience, until just before three o’clock the trio came forth laughing airily.
“Why, look!” gasped Rivero. “Despujol is with your great English financier, Señor De Gex!”
I smiled triumphantly.
“I told you that I had a surprise in store for you,” I exclaimed.
“But if Despujol is with him it must be with some evil intent!”
“That is certain!”
“While Señor De Gex was in Madrid we had orders to afford him police protection,” Rivero said. “Possibly he suspected that some attempt might be made upon him. Certainly he has no idea of that man’s true identity.”
“Yes, he has, for he has come here specially to meet him in secret. But why that Italian should be here I can only surmise. He is a doctor from Florence, named Moroni—a man of very evil repute.”
“But why should Señor De Gex meet such people in secret?” asked Rivero, much astonished.
“I suppose there is some strong motive why they should meet—the more so, now that I have proved to you that the notorious Despujol is a hireling of this wealthy man De Gex.”
“A hireling!” he gasped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that De Gex hired Despujol to make that attempt upon my life, and I have a suspicion—one not yet entirely verified—that Moroni prepared that deadly orosin by the agency of which it was hoped that I should meet with my death.”
“Do you really suggest that De Gex, one of the best-known and most philanthropic men in Europe, actually hired Despujol to go to your room that night?” my companion asked, his eyes following the trio as they walked together and chatted beneath the trees of the Avenue Feuchères.
“I do. And further, De Gex has every motive in closing my lips.”
“Ah! Then you hold some secret of his, perhaps?” asked Rivero, a new interest being instantly aroused.
“I do—one that I intend to expose when I obtain sufficient corroborative evidence,” I answered with determination. “But is not the fact of the three men meeting here in secret under assumed names sufficient proof to you that some fresh plot is afoot?”
“Certainly it is,” Rivero agreed. “But I wish you would reveal to me the whole facts.”
“It is unnecessary,” was my reply. “You are here only to deal with Despujol. I promised I would bring you to him—and I have done so. Instead of living in obscurity in a high-up frontier village in the Pyrenees, as you in Madrid believed, I have shown you that he lives in Montauban, where he passes as an industrious commercial traveller. If you search that house in the Rue de Lalande you might find a quantity of stolen property.”
“As a matter of fact, it has already been searched by the police of Montauban at my request,” he replied. “The raid was made last night after Charles Rabel had left. I received a telegram from the Commissary of Police only an hour ago to the effect that six heavy cases of ‘travellers’ samples’ had been opened, and in them was found a great quantity of stolen jewellery, negotiable securities, and other objects of value, including two valuable paintings which were missing from the Prado Museum three years ago.”
“Then my information has been of some little use to you—eh?”
“Of enormous use, Señor Garfield! You will no doubt receive an official letter of thanks from the Ministry of the Interior,” he replied.“But we must act very warily. Despujol will not risk remaining here for long. Besides, some friend may telegraph to him that the police have been to the Rue de Lalande!”
Once more it was upon the tip of my tongue to explain the manner in which I had become implicated in the evil deeds of Oswald De Gex and his sycophants, when of a sudden he added:
“You must really forgive me, Señor Garfield, but you are an entire mystery to me. You have never been frank with me—never once!”
“I have been as frank as I dared,” I replied. “I tell you that I am here to watch and to strive to elucidate a great plot—one which concerns myself and the woman I love. We have both been victims of a vile and desperate conspiracy.”
“And whom do you suspect?”
“Oswald De Gex.”
“With what motive?” he asked, for he held the enormously wealthy financial friend of Spain in awe and admiration.
“That, alas! is an enigma to me. I only know that he has made an attempt upon my life, and that at least one woman has been sent to the grave by foul means.”
“Do you really infer that Señor De Gex is an assassin?” he asked incredulously.
“I only tell you what I know, Señor Rivero,” I replied quietly. “I said that I would lead you to the secret abode of Despujol, and I think I have now fulfilled my promise, and shown you that he is on friendly terms with the great financier whom you in Spain all hold in such high esteem.”
“There is certainly no man more welcome in Madrid than Señor De Gex,” replied the police official.“At the Ritz, whether in his own name or incognito, he constantly receives our greatest politicians and most prominent personages. Even the King has more than once commanded him to the palace, in order to confer with him upon acute financial problems in the interests of our country. And yet you infer that Señor De Gex is an assassin!”
“I not only infer it,” I said, “but I openly allege it!” I added hotly, as I thought of Gabrielle.
Rivero glancing at me quickly raised his shoulders with a gesture of disbelief.
“Very well,” I said. “At least I have proved to you that he is a secret friend of the notorious Despujol. Why is he here in Nîmes to consult with De Gex and his friend the Italian, Moroni, if not for purposes of evil? Despujol has made desperate war upon society, and it is De Gex who secretly finances him! Hence he is the servant of the man with money.”
The dark-faced Spaniard reflected.
“Well,” he exclaimed at last. “What you have revealed is certainly most interesting.”
“And if you wish to capture Despujol you must lose no time,” I assured him. “Remember, he and his gang have agents everywhere with eyes and ears open. He will soon know of the raid upon his retreat in Montauban.”
“No doubt he will,” agreed my companion. “They will return presently, and then we will arrest him. In the meantime I will call upon the Commissary of Police. Come with me.”
We at once took a cab to the Prefecture where we were ushered into the presence of Monsieur Coulagne, a rather tall, grey-haired elegant man, with the rosette of the Legion of Honour in his coat.
When Rivero introduced himself the Commissary bowed to us both and bade us be seated.
In a few quick sentences the Spanish detective explained the object of his mission, and producing his authority from the Spanish Ministry, requested the arrest of the infamous bandit Despujol.
“But is Despujol actually in Nîmes?” cried the Commissary astounded.
“He certainly is. I identified him on his arrival here at midday.”
“We have been searching for him for over two years. He is wanted, among other things, for the murder of Madame Lescot, a wealthy widow of Aix-en-Provence.”
“Ah! Then it is not a matter for extradition, eh?” remarked Rivero. “We want him for a dozen crimes of violence in Spain. He attempted the death of my English companion here, Monsieur Garfield—who will give evidence against him.”
The Commissary pressed an electric button, whereupon his secretary appeared.
In a few rapid sentences the tall, elegant French official gave orders, and the secretary retired at once to execute them.
“Despujol is a desperate character. He is always armed, and possesses abnormal strength. He could strangle his strongest opponent,” Rivero remarked.
“I have taken precautions,” replied Monsieur Coulagne, smiling. “I have ordered ten men in plain clothes to go at once unobtrusively to the Hôtel du Luxembourg, and arrest him when he returns.”
“That will frighten De Gex and Moroni,” I said quickly. “And if they are frightened they will escape!”
Rivero laughed. I knew that he entirely disbelieved my statement. In his eyes the wealthy friend of Spain could do no wrong. Did not his King invite him to conference, in ignorance, of course, of his true character?
I was not surprised at Rivero’s attitude, yet I had hoped that Despujol’s arrest would be effected without the knowledge of De Gex and his sinister medical friend.
I pointed this out, whereupon Rivero remarked with sarcasm:
“If what you allege against Señor De Gex and his friend be true, they ought also to be arrested.”