Two months passed, and no tidings of Kaffar—at least, none that were worthy of consideration. The detectives had done all that men could do; they had made every inquiry possible, they had set on foot dozens of schemes; but all in vain. Voltaire, who had been closely watched, was apparently living a quiet, harmless life, and was not, so far as could be seen, in communication with him. I had done all that I could do myself. I had followed in England every possible clue, all of which had ended in failure.
Three months passed. Still no reliable news. One detective fancied he had detected him in Constantinople; another was equally certain he had, at the same time, seen him in Berlin. I became almost mad with despair. The first of December had come, and I was not a step nearer finding the man whose presence would free me from Voltaire's villainous charge.
That which troubled me most was the fact that I did not know whether he were alive. Even if I did not kill him, perhaps Voltaire had got him out of the way so that he might fasten the guilt on me. "What, after all," was the thought that maddened me, "if he should be lying at the bottom of Drearwater Pond?"
There were only twenty-four days now. Three weeks and three days, and I knew not what to do. If I failed, my love would marry the man who was worse than a fiend, while I, for whom she was to suffer this torture, was unable to help her.
And yet I had tried, God alone knows how; but only to fail. Still, there were twenty-four days; but what were they? Kaffar, if he were alive, might be in Africa, Australia—no one knew where. I saw no hope.
A week more slipped by. There were only seventeen days left now. I was sitting in my room, anxiously waiting for the Continental mail, and any telegrams which might arrive. I heard the postman's knock, and in a minute more letters were brought in. Eagerly I opened those which came from the detectives, and feverishly read them. "Still in the dark; nothing discovered"—that summed up the long reports they sent me. I read the other letters; there was nothing in them to help me.
Still another week went by. Only ten days were wanting to Christmas Eve, and I knew no more of Kaffar's whereabouts than I did on the day when I defied Voltaire and started on my search. Again reports from the detectives came, and still no news. No doubt, by this, Voltaire was gloating over his victory, while I was nearly mad with despair.
Only ten days! I must do something. It was my duty, at all hazards, to free Gertrude Forrest from Voltaire. That was plain. I could not find the Egyptian, and thus it was probable I had killed him as had been said. What must I do? This, and this only. I must go to Scotland Yard, and relate to the authorities my whole story. I must tell them of Voltaire's influence over me, and that it was probable I had, while held under a mesmerist's spell, killed the man I had been trying to find. This was all. Itmightbring this villain under suspicion, and, if so, it would hinder him from exacting the fulfilment of Gertrude Forrest's promise.
It was at best but an uncertain venture, but it was all I could do. I owed it to the woman I loved. It was my duty to make this sacrifice. I would do it.
I wasted no time; I put on my overcoat and walked to Scotland Yard.
I put my hand upon the door of the room which I knew belonged to one of the officials, to whom I determined to report my case.
I thought of the words I should say, when—
I am sure I heard that word, clear and distinct. Where it came from I knew not; but it was plain to me.
An idea flashed into my mind!
Mad, mad, I must have been, never to have thought of it before.
Ten days! Only ten days! But much might be done even yet. I rushed away, and got into St. James's Park, and there, in comparative quietness, I began to think.
The clouds began to dispel, the difficulties began to move away. Surely I had hit upon a plan at last, a plan on which I should have thought at the outset.
I walked on towards Westminster Abbey, still working out my newly conceived idea, and when there jumped into a cab.
Yes, I remembered the address, for I had seen it only the day before, soI told the cabman to drive to —— Street, Chelsea.
I was right. There on the door was the name of the man I had hoped to find—Professor Von Virchow. I paid the cabman, and knocked at the door with a beating heart.
A sallow-faced girl opened the door, and asked my business.
Was Professor Virchow at home?
Yes, he was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an hour; after that, he could see me on business connected with his profession.
I was accordingly ushered into a musty room, which sadly wanted light and air. The quarter of an hour dragged slowly away, when the sallow-faced girl again appeared, saying that Professor Von Virchow would be pleased to see me.
I followed her into an apartment that was fitted up like a doctor's consulting-room. Here I found the man I had come to see.
He was a little man, about five feet four inches high. He had, however, a big head, a prominent forehead, and keen grey eyes. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and was evidently well fed and on good terms with himself.
"You are a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, I believe?" I began.
"That is my profession," said the little man, "Then I am in hopes that you may be able to help me in my difficulty."
"I shall be pleased to help you," he said, still stiffly.
"Can you," I went on, "tell the whereabouts of a man whom I may describe to you?"
"That is very vague," was the reply. "Your description may be incorrect, or a hundred men might answer to it. I would promise nothing under such conditions."
"Perhaps I had better tell my story," I said.
"I think you had," said the little professor, quietly.
"On the 2nd of January of the present year," I said, "a man disappeared in the night from a place in Yorkshire. He is an Egyptian, and easily distinguished. A great deal depends on finding him at once. Ever since May, endeavours have been made to track him, but without success."
"Perhaps he is dead," said the professor.
"Perhaps so; but even then it is important to know. Can you help me to find out his whereabouts?"
"Undoubtedly I can; but I must have a good photograph of him. Have you one?"
"I have not."
"Could you obtain one?"
"I think not."
"But this man has been seen by many people. Could not some one you know, and who knows him, sketch a faithful likeness from memory?"
"I do not know of any one."
"Then I could not guarantee to find him. You see, I cannot work miracles. I can only work through certain laws which I have been fortunate enough either to recognize or discover; but there must ever be some data upon which to go, and, you see, you give me none that is in the least satisfactory."
"Perhaps you can," I said, "if I relate to you all the circumstances connected with what is, I think, a somewhat remarkable story."
I had determined to tell this little man every circumstance which might lead to Kaffar's discovery, especially those which happened in Yorkshire. It seemed my only resource, and I felt, that somehow something would come of it.
I therefore briefly related what I have written in this story.
"That man who mesmerized you is very clever," said the professor quietly, when I had finished. "It was very unfortunate for you that you should have matched yourself with such a one. His plot was well worked out in every respect. He only made a mistake in one thing."
"And that?"
"He thought it impossible that you should ever be freed from his power without his consent. Still it was a well-planned affair. The story, the ghost, the quarrel—it was all well done."
"I fail to see what part the ghost had in the matter," I said.
The professor smiled. "No?" he said. "Well, I should not think it was a vital part of his plan, but it was helpful. He calculated upon the young lady's superstitious fancies. He knew what the particular form in which the ghost appeared portended, and it fitted in with his scheme of murder. Evidently he wanted the young lady to believe in your guilt, and thus give him greater chance of success. Ah, he is a clever man."
"But," I asked anxiously, "can you tell me Kaffar's whereabouts now?"
"No, I cannot—that is, not to-day."
"When, then?"
"I may not be able to do so at all. It all depends on one man."
"Who is he?"
"Simon Slowden, I think you called him."
"Simon Slowden! How can he help us?"
"Evidently he is susceptible to mesmeric influences, and he knows the man you wish to find. But the difficulty lies here. Is he sufficiently susceptible?"
"Is that the only hope?"
"All I can see at present. I was going to suggest that you be thrown into a mesmeric sleep; but you could not be depended on. The experiences which you have had would make you very uncertain."
"Then your advice is—"
"Send for this man at once. If he fails—well, I have another alternative."
"May I know what?"
"No, not now."
"Answer me this. Do you think I killed Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
"No, I do not; but your enemy intended you should."
"Why did I not, then?"
"Because the Egyptian also possessed a mesmerist's power, and hindered you. At any rate, such is my opinion. I am not sure;" and the little man looked very wise.
"Expect us early to-morrow morning," I said, and then went away to the nearest telegraph office, with a lighter heart than I had known for many long months. The little professor had given me some hope. The matter was still enshrouded in mystery, but still I thought I had found a possible solution.
"Send Simon Slowden to me at once" I telegraphed. "Extremely important. Wire back immediately the time I may expect him."
Anxiously I waited for an answer. Although the message was flashed with lightning speed, it seemed a long time in coming. At length it came, and I read as follows:
"Slowden will come by train leaving Leeds 11.38. Meet him at St. Pancras."
I immediately caught a cab and drove to Gower Street, and, on looking at my time-table, I found that the train mentioned in the telegram arrived in London at 5.15. This would do splendidly. I could get Simon to my room and give him some breakfast, and then, after a little rest, drive direct to the professor's.
I need not say I was early at St. Pancras the following morning. I had scarcely slept through the night, and anxiously awaited the appearance of the train. It swept into the station in good time, and, to my great relief and delight, I saw Simon appear on the platform, looking as stolid and imperturbable as ever.
We were not long in reaching Gower Street, where Simon enjoyed a good breakfast, after which we drew up our chairs before the cheerful fire and began to talk.
"Did you have a good journey, Simon?" I asked.
"Slept like the seven sleepers of the patriarch, sur, all the way fromLeeds."
"And you don't feel tired now?"
"Not a bit, yer honour."
"Then," I said, "I want to explain to you a few things that must have appeared strange."
Accordingly I told him of Voltaire's influence over me, and what came out of it.
"Why, sur," said Simon, when I had finished, "that 'ere willain must be wuss nor a hinfidel; he must be the Old Nick in the garret. And do you mean to say, sur, that that 'ere beautiful Miss Forrest, who I've put down for you, is goin' to git married to that 'ere somnamblifyin' waccinatin' willain, if his dutiful mate ain't a found before Christmas Eve?"
"Only nine days, Simon."
"But it mustn't be, yer honour."
"So I say, Simon; and that's why I've sent for you."
"But I can't do nothink much, sur. All my wits hev bin waccinated away, and my blood is puddled like, which hev affected the workin' o' my brains; and, you see, all your detective chaps have failed."
"But I shan't fail, if you'll help me."
"Help you, Mr. Blake? You know I will!"
"Simon, you offered to be my friend, now nearly a year ago."
"Ay, and this 'ere is a lad as'll stick to his offer, sur, and mighty proud to do so."
"Well, then, I'm in hopes we shall succeed."
"How, yer honour?"
"By fighting Voltaire with his own weapons."
"What, waccinatin'?"
"By mesmerism and clairvoyance, Simon."
"And who's the chap as hev got to be waccinated—or mesmerized, as you call it?"
"You, if you will, Simon."
"Me, sir?" said Simon, aghast.
"If you will."
"Well, I said after that 'ere willain experimented on me in Yorkshire, I never would again; but if it's for you, sur—why, here goes; I'm purty tough. But how's it to be done?"
Then I told him of my interview with the professor, and how he had told me that only he—Simon—could give the necessary help.
"Let's off at once, yer honour," cried Simon. "I'm willin' for anything if you can git the hupper 'and of that 'ere willain and his other self. Nine days, sur—only nine days! Let's git to the waccinator. I'd rather have small-pox a dozen times than you should be knocked overboard by sich as he."
I was nothing loth, and so, although it was still early, we were soon in a cab on our way to the professor's. On arriving, we were immediately shown in, and the little man soon made his appearance.
"Ah! you've brought him?" said he. "I'm glad to see you so prompt. Would you mind taking this chair, my friend?"—to Simon. "That's it, thank you. You've been travelling all night and are a little tired, I expect. No? Well, it's well to be strong and able to bear fatigue. There, look at me. Ah, that's it!"
With that he put his fingers on Simon's forehead, and my humble friend was unconscious of what was going on around him.
"He's very susceptible; but I am afraid he has not been under this influence a sufficient number of times for his vision to be clear. Still, we'll try.—Simon!"
"That's me," said Simon, sleepily.
"Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
He looked around as if in doubt. His eyes had a vacant look about them, and yet there seemed a certain amount of intelligence displayed—at any rate, it seemed so to me.
"I see lots of people, all dim like," said Simon, slowly; "but I can't tell no faces. They all seem to be covered wi' a kind o' mist."
"Look again," said the professor. "You can see more clearly now."
Simon peered again and again, and then said, "Yes, I can see him; but he looks all strange. He's a-shaved off his whiskers, and hev got a sort o' red cap, like a baisin, on his head."
My heart gave a great bound. Kaffar was not dead. Thank God for that!
"Where is he?"
"I am tryin' to see, but I can't. Everything is misty. There's a black fog a-comin' up."
"Wait a few minutes," said the professor, "and then we'll try him again."
Presently he spoke again. "Now," he said, "what do you see?"
But Simon did not reply. He appeared in a deep sleep.
"I thought as much," said the little man. "His nature has not been sufficiently prepared for such work. I suppose you had breakfast before you came here?"
I assured him that Simon had breakfasted on kidneys and bacon; after which he had made considerable inroads into a cold chicken, with perchance half a pound of cold ham to keep it company. Besides which, he had taken three large breakfast cups of chocolate.
"Ah, that explains somewhat. Still, I think we have done a fair morning's work. We've seen that our man is alive."
"But do you think there is any hope of finding him?"
"I'm sure there is, only be patient."
"But what must I do?"
"Well, take this man to see some of the sights of London until three o'clock, then come home to dinner. After dinner he'll be sleepy. Let him sleep, if he will, until nine o'clock; then bring him here again; but let him have no supper until after I have done with him."
"Nine o'clock to-night! Why, do you know, that takes away another day?There will only want eight clear days to Christmas Eve."
"I can't help that, sir," said the little professor, testily; "you should have come before. But that is the way. Our science, which is really the queen of sciences, is disregarded; only one here and there comes to us, and then we are treated as no other scientific man would be treated. Never mind, our day will come. One day all the sciences shall bow the knee to us, for we are the real interpreters of the mysteries of nature."
I apologized for my impatience, which he gravely accepted, and then wokeSimon from his sleep.
"Where am I?" cried Simon. "Where've I been?"
"I can't tell," said the professor; "I wish I could, for then our work would be accomplished."
"Have you bin a-waccinatin' me?" said Simon.
The little man looked to me for explanation.
"He calls everything mysterious by that name," I said.
"'Cause," continued Simon, "I thought as how you waccinators, or mesmerists, made passes, as they call 'em, and waved your hands about, and like that."
"Did that Mr. Voltaire, I think you call him, make passes?" asked the professor.
"He!" said Simon. "He ain't no ordinary man. He's got dealin's with old Nick, he hev. He didn't come near me, nor touch me, and I wur sleepin' afore I could think of my grandmother."
"Just so; he is no ordinary man. He's a real student of psychology, he is. He has gone beyond the elements of our profession. I despise the foolish things which these quacks of mesmerism make Billy people do in order to please a gaping-mouthed audience. It is true I call myself a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, but it would be more correct to call me a practical psychologist. You'll attend to my wishes with regard to our friend, won't you? Good-morning."
I will not try to describe how I passed the day. It would be wearisome to the reader to tell him how often I looked at my watch and thought of the precious hours that were flying; neither will I speak of my hopes and fears with regard to this idea of finding Kaffar's whereabouts by means of clairvoyance. Suffice it to say I was in a state of feverish anxiety when we drove up to the professor's door that night, about half-past nine.
We did not wait a minute before operations were commenced. Simon was again in a mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to call it, in a few seconds after he had sat down.
Von Virchow began by asking the same question he had asked in the morning: "Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
I waited in breathless silence for the answer. Simon heaved a deep sigh, and peered wearily around, while the professor kept his eye steadily upon him.
"Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?" repeated he.
"Yes, I see him," said Simon at length.
"Where?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," said Simon. "The place is strange; the people talk in a strange tongue. I can't make 'em out."
"What do you see now?" said the professor, touching his forehead.
"Oh, ah, I see now," said Simon. "It's a railway station, and I see that 'ere willain there, jest as cunnin' as ever. He's a gettin' in the train, he is."
"Can you see the name of the station?"
"No, I can't. It's a biggish place it is, and I can't see no name. Stay a minute, though. I see now."
"Well, what's the name?"
"It's a name as I never see or heard tell on before. B-O-L-O—ah, that's it; BOLOGNA, that's it. It is a queer name though, ain't it?"
"Well, what now?"
"Why, he's in the train, and it's started, it is."
"Do you know where he's going?"
"No."
"But he has a ticket; can't you see it?"
"Course I can't. It's in his pocket, and I can't see through the cloth,I can't."
"And what's he doing now?"
"Why, he's in for makin' hisself comfortable, he is. He's got a piller, and he's stretchin' hisself on the seat and layin' his head on the piller. There, he's closed his eyes—he's off to sleep."
The professor turned to me. "I am afraid we can do no more to-night," he said. "Evidently he is on a journey, and we must wait until he arrives at his destination."
"But can't Slowden remain as he is and watch him?"
"The thing would be at once cruel and preposterous, sir. No, you must come again in the morning; then, perchance, he will have finished his journey;" and accordingly he proceeded to awake Simon.
After all, it did not matter so much. It was now ten o'clock, and I could do nothing that night, in any case.
"I do not know but that I am glad that things are as they are," continued the professor. "This second sleep will enable him to see more clearly to-morrow. Meanwhile, consider yourself fortunate. If the Egyptian stops anywhere in Italy, it will be possible for you to reach him and bring him back within the time you mention. Take heart, my friend. Good-bye for the time. I shall expect you early to-morrow."
No sooner were we in the street than Simon began to ask me what he had told me, for I found that he was entirely ignorant of the things he had said.
"Who'd 'a thought it?" he said musingly, when I had told him. "Who'd 'a thought as 'ow I should hassist in a waccinatin' business like this 'ere! Tell 'ee, yer 'onour, I shall believe in ghosts and sperrits again soon. Fancy me a-seein' things in Italy and tellin' 'em to you without knowin' anything about it! Well, but 'twill be grand if we can find 'im, yer honour, won't it then?"
I spent a sleepless night, harassed by a thousand doubts and fears. There, in the quiet of my room, all this mesmerism and clairvoyance seemed only so much hocus-pocus, which no sensible and well-educated man should have anything to do with. Still, it was my only hope, and it only wanted eight days to Christmas Eve. Only one little week and a day, that was all, and then, if I did not produce Kaffar, all was lost. It would be no use to go to Miss Forrest's house in Kensington and tell her that Simon Slowden had, while in a mesmeric sleep, seen Kaffar in Italy. No, no; that would never do. I must produce him, nothing else would suffice.
We were early at the professor's the following morning, and found him waiting and almost as anxious as we were. Again Simon submitted to the influence of the little man, and soon answered his questions far more readily than he had hitherto done.
Did he see Kaffar?
"Yes," was the reply.
"Where is he now?"
He was in a beautiful town. The houses were white, the streets were white; the town was full of squares, and in these squares were many statues. Such was Simon's information.
"Do you know what country the town is in?"
"No," said Simon, shaking his head.
"Could you not by any means find out? There's a railway station in the town; can you not see the name there?"
"Yes, there's a railway station, a fine one. Ah, I see the name now.T-O-R-I-N-O. TORINO, that's it."
"Torino!" I cried, "Turin! That's a town in Italy, some distance beyond the French border."
The professor beckoned me to be quiet.
"Kaffar is at Torino, is he?" said the professor.
"That's it—yes."
"What is he doing?"
"Talkin' with a man who keeps an hotel."
"What does he say?"
"It's in a foreign language, and I can't tell."
"Can you repeat what he said?"
"It sounded like this—'Je restey ici pour kelka jour;' but I can't make out what it means."
The professor turned to me.
"He's speaking French. I did not know Kaffar knew French; perhaps he's learned it lately. The words mean that he will stay there for some days."
"Can you describe the street in which this hotel is?" continued VonVirchow.
Simon began to describe, but we could make nothing of it.
"We can't understand," replied the professor. "Can you draw a sketch of the road to it from the railway station?" and he put a piece of paper and pencil in Simon's hand.
Without hesitating, Simon drew a sketch, a facsimile of which is given on the opposite page.
I had been to Turin, and remembered some of the places the sketch indicated. It might be far from perfect, but it was sufficient for me. It would be child's play to find Kaffar there.
"That will do," I said to the professor. "I'll start at once. Thank you so much."
"Ah, that will do, will it?" he said, with a smile. "Then I'll wake up this man."
Simon woke up as usual, rubbing his eyes, and asked whether any good had been done.
"Everything's been done," cried I. "Come, professor, allow me to write you a cheque. How much shall it be?"
"Not a penny until your work is accomplished," replied the little man, with dignity.
"That is not fair," I said. "I don't know what may happen, and you must not be defrauded. Anyhow, here's something on account;" and I put a twenty-pound note in his hand.
He smiled as he looked at it, while I took my hat, and stated my intention to start for Turin at once.
"Beggin' yer pardon," said Simon, "but this 'ere waccination business is awfully wearyin', and I should like to—that is—"
"The very thing," I replied, anticipating his request. "You shall go with me."
Half-an-hour later, we were at Gower Street, making preparations for our journey to Turin—Simon calm and collected, I feverish and excited.
There were, as I said, eight days in which to find Kaffar and bring him to London, counting the day on which we started our journey. It was Wednesday; by the following Wednesday, at midnight, I must prove to Gertrude that Voltaire was a villain and a liar. It should be done easily. It was but little more than a thirty hours' ride to Turin—that is, providing everything went smoothly. To put it at the outside, it was only a forty-eight hours' journey, allowing time for a sleep on the way. Thus four days would suffice for travelling, and I should have more than three days in which to find Kaffar. It was true Turin was a large town, but in three days I was sure I could find him. In that time I thought I could hunt every lodging-house and hotel in the city.
I shall say little of the journey. Mostly it was cold and wearisome enough. From Dover to Paris it was fairly comfortable, but from Paris to the Italian border we were travelling through a snowstorm, and thus, when we came to this our last stopping-place before going through the famous Mont Cenis Tunnel, we were four hours late. It was terribly cold there. Everything was ice-bound. Brooklets, waterfalls, rivers, all were held fast by the ice-king. Simon was much impressed by the scenery. The great giant mountains towering up on every hand were a revelation to him, and he stood open-mouthed, gazing at what is perhaps among the grandest sights in France.
We swept through Mont Cenis Tunnel, and then, with a cry of gladness, we entered the sunny land of Italy. What a change it was! Here the warm sun, which had been hidden on the other side by the high mountain range, had melted the snow, and so bright streams of water came rushing down the mountain sides, laughing as if in glee. The cottagers sat outside their doors, singing in the sun. The vine-covered hills, although not yet clothed with their green garment, were still beautiful, while away in the distance spread a broad Italian plain, dotted with villages, out of whose midst a modest church spire ever lifted its head.
I had seen all this before, but to Simon it was a marvel of beauty. In England the streets were muddy, and a yellow fog hung over London, and yet in forty-eight hours we were beneath sunny skies, we were breathing a comparatively humid air.
But I must not stay to write about this, for my story is not about Italian scenery, or beautiful sights of any sort. It is my work now to tell about my search after Kaffar.
We arrived in Turin on Friday evening, about fifty-one hours from the time we started from London. We had spent some little time in Paris, or we could have done it more quickly. We found Turin lit up with a pure bright light, and, as Simon declared, "looking one of the most purtiest places like, as ever he'd clapped his eyes on."
We stayed at Hotel Trombetta. We had several reasons for doing this. First, it was a good hotel. I had stayed there before, and so I knew. It was also near the station, and fairly near the place where, according to Simon's sketch, Kaffar was staying. We got into the hotel just in time for dinner. Simon declared that he "dar'n't go into the dining-room amo' the swells like; it would take away his appetite jist like waccination did;" but as I insisted, he gave way, and certainly did not draw any one's attention by his awkwardness. I had got him a perfectly fitting suit of clothes in Paris, in which he looked a respectable member of society.
Directly after dinner I went out, to try to find Kaffar's whereabouts; but although Turin is beautifully built, and the streets very straight, I found I had to put off my search until the morning.
Every hour of waiting was, as the reader may imagine, of great anxiety to me. I was now making my great move. If I missed in this, all was lost. Was Kaffar in Turin? Was he or had he been there? Was all this mesmerism so much hocus-pocus and nonsense to deceive me, a credulous fool? And yet I was sure Simon would not be a party in deceiving me. But might not I have been deceived by the professor? Could he not make my friend say, not what really existed, but what existed in his own mind? And yet the little man seemed honest! Anyhow, I could do no more, and it was my only hope. There could be no harm in trying. If I failed, well, I could not help it; I had done my best. I would go back and face Voltaire and Miss Forrest, and—well—I knew not what—! But if I found the Egyptian! Ah, it was too good to be true. I dared not dwell upon the thought. It was not for me to build castles in the air, and weave bright fancies; but to work, until I had accomplished the work I had set out to do.
And so I went quietly to bed, and, much to my astonishment, slept longand soundly. The sun was shining in at my window when I awoke, and thisItalian city looked wondrously beautiful as it lay there this clearDecember morning, in the light of the bright sun.
We wasted no time after breakfast before setting out—I with beating heart, Simon still calm and collected, looking with critical eyes on the sketch he had drawn in his mesmeric sleep.
"After all," remarked Simon, slowly, "it shows us how a feller can live away from his body, don't it, then? We are fearfully and terribly made, as Solomon said to the people on Mount Sinai."
I did not reply to Simon's philosophy, nor to his wonderful scriptural quotations. I was too anxious to get to this hotel, where I hoped Kaffar would be staying.
We came to the great square in which stood the palace of the king, but I paid no heed to the imposing building nor to the magnificently carved monuments that stood around in the square. I was too anxious to turn down the street in which my hopes lay.
I went slowly down, till I came to the bottom of it, where a narrow road branched off, leading to a kind of observatory; but I saw nothing of an hotel.
My heart became like lead.
Simon's sketch of the streets had not been a false one. If any of my readers have been to Turin, they will remember the long street leading from the station; they will also recognize the two squares which Simon indicated in his plan. True, he had sketched them out of proportion, while the street was far more straight than he had drawn it. Still, it bore a close resemblance to that particular part of the city.
But there was no hotel, nor sign of one in the street.
We walked up and down again and again, with no success. Could it be that I had come all these weary miles again only for a bitter and terrible disappointment? The thought almost drove me mad.
I would not give up, however! There might be no hotel, but it was possible Kaffar stayed in a lodging-house, or even in a private house. I would knock at every house in the street, and make inquiries, before I would give up.
The Italian language was not altogether strange to me. I could not by any means speak it fluently, but I knew it enough to enter into an ordinary conversation. So, seeing a soldier pass up the street, I saluted him and asked him whether he knew a lodging-house or private boarding establishment in the street?
No, the soldier said, he did not know any at all in that street, or, indeed, in that part of the town; but if I would go with him, he would direct me to a splendid place, marvellously convenient, marvellously clean, and marvellously cheap, and, best of all, kept by his mother's sister.
I cannot say I felt either elated or depressed by this answer. Evidently this was a keen youth, trying to get a suitable customer for his relations.
Another youth came up to me soon after, offering to sell me photographs of some of the principal sights in Turin. Could he tell me of any boarding or lodging establishment in the street?
Yes, he knew of three or four. For a franc he would give me their history and lead me to them.
Was there one about the middle of the street?
Yes, there were two close together. Should he take me?
I closed with the youth's offer, and accordingly we walked down the street together. He entered a tobacconist's shop, assuring me that this was a lodging-house.
A young Italian girl stood behind the counter, as if waiting for an order; so I asked to see the proprietor of the place.
She immediately went out of the shop and gave a shout, and a minute after a matronly woman entered, about fifty years of age, and who, from her close resemblance to the dark-eyed girl, was probably her mother.
Was she the proprietor of this establishment?
She was.
Did she keep a boarding-house?
She did—for well-behaved people.
She had no husband?
The Blessed Virgin had taken him home.
And a man did not conduct her business?
Certainly not. She was a capable woman, able to attend to the wants of her guests, while her daughter was a universal favourite because of politeness to customers and the good tobacco she sold. Should she have the pleasure of selling me some?
I did not reply except by a smile, which this Italian maiden evidently took for an assent to her mother's proposition, and accordingly proceeded to make some cigarettes for me. Meanwhile her mother assured me that her house was convenient and comfortable, and asked permission to show me some vacant rooms, and give me an idea of the attendance I should receive.
I accordingly followed her, and found rooms which, while not altogether according to my English tastes, did her credit.
"Have you many lodgers now?" I asked.
"Four," was the reply.
"Gentlemen?"
"All gentlemen."
"Might I ask their nationality?" I said.
"They are all Italian," was the reply.
My hopes had risen high, but they were by this answer dashed to the ground. Then I remembered that Simon had described Kaffar as being in a room with a man. So, after thanking the lady for her kindness and paying for the cigarettes, I asked the boy, who was waiting for his franc, to show me to the other lodging-house close by.
"Oh, sir," said the proprietress of this establishment, "don't go there! It's a bad house; it really is! The lodgers are bad men, and they are bad people." She said this evidently in earnest, while the little girl behind the counter hoped I should not go among those thieves.
I was not displeased at this. I did not think Kaffar would be very particular as to his society, and he would be more likely to stay at this disreputable place than in a respectable lodging-house.
Accordingly, I told the good lady that I should not take lodgings there, and, if I took apartments in any place in the city, hers should have the first consideration. This considerably mollified her, so my guide proceeded to lead the way to the other lodging-house. This was also a tobacconist's shop, but a dirty old woman stood behind the counter. She was very polite, however, and quickly called down the proprietor of the establishment.
This was a lodging-house, was it not?
He assured me that my surmise was correct, and forthwith began to enumerate the advantages received by those who were fortunate enough to be received as lodgers.
"Have you many lodgers at present?" I asked.
"Five," was the reply.
My heart began to beat violently now, for I felt I was near the time when my labours would be rewarded by success, or I should have to give up my search in despair.
"Are they all Europeans?" I asked.
"No. There was one Turk, one Frenchman, two Italians, and one Egyptian."
My heart gave a great bound. Surely I had been guided aright; I should find him at last.
"Are they at home during the day?"
"No," was the reply; "they are mostly out."
"But they come home at night?"
"Yes, they come home at night, all except one."
Which was he?
The Egyptian.
Did he stay at home during the day?
He really could not say. He only came a little more than two days ago, and his habits seemed uncertain.
"And is the Egyptian at home now?"
"No," said the man, eyeing me keenly.
"Might I ask when he will be home?" I asked eagerly.
"I do not think it right to answer questions about my lodgers," said the man, sharply. "You have asked a great many; I must know your reasons for so doing before I answer any more."
I began to chide myself for my folly. I had raised suspicions, and now I might not be able to get the information I wanted. "I did not intend to be offensive," I said. "If I mistake not, this Egyptian gentleman is acquainted with a man in England whom I know, and I have a message of great importance to convey."
"To Mr. Kaffar's advantage?" asked the Italian, eagerly.
No words can express what I felt as the man unthinkingly uttered Kaffar's name. I had not come on a false report. The Egyptian bore the name of the man I wanted to find.
"He can turn it to his advantage," I replied.
"Mr. Kaffar is not in Turin at present," he said confidentially.
"Could you tell me where he is?" I said, with beating heart.
"I cannot. You see—" and the Italian put his face close to mine. "MightI ask if you are somewhat of a—well, a gentleman fond of play?"
I did not reply.
"Ah, I thought so," said he, cunningly. "At first I was afraid you were a detective fellow, but I see now. Well, you will perhaps know that Mr. Kaffar is a very accomplished gentleman, and he left yesterday afternoon for a little tour—where I don't know. Another accomplished gentleman went with him. We have a jolly house, and you Englishmen would enjoy a few nights here. Come up to-night and win some of our Italian gold."
"When will Mr. Kaffar be back?"
"He said he might be back on Monday night—on Tuesday morning at latest."
"I daren't come and play till he comes," I said. "Will he let you know when he is coming back?"
"Yes; he said he'd telegraph."
"Would you mind letting me know the train? I am staying at the HotelTrombetta."
"Yes, yes, I shall be delighted; and then, when he comes, we'll—But what name shall I write on my message?"
"Herod Voltaire," I said.
I went away then, and began to think. I found the man, and yet I had not. Nothing was certain yet. It was now Saturday, and he would not return until Monday night or Tuesday morning, and I must be in London by Wednesday at midnight, or all was lost. Say he came back on Tuesday by noon, there would then be only thirty-six hours left in which to get to London. Thirty-six hours, and many hundreds of dreary, weary miles between! Or if he should not come at all! If the Italian were deceiving me!
I shall not try and relate what happened the next two days, except to say that I set Simon to watch every train that came into Turin station, while I did all I could to discover whether he were hiding in Turin.
Neither of us saw Kaffar, nor did we hear anything of him.
Monday night came. I had received no message from the lodging-house keeper, neither had I heard any news. The suspense was becoming terrible.
Six o'clock! Seven o'clock, and no news!
"Simon," I said, "go to that lodging-house and ask whether any message has been received."
The willing fellow, still with a smile on his face and a cheery look, started to do my bidding. I do not know how I should have borne up during those two terrible days, but for my faithful friend.
He had not been gone above half a minute before he came bounding back to my room.
"A message jist 'a come, yer honour!" he cried.
Eagerly I snatched it, and read—"Expect me home to-night by the midnight train.—KAFFAR."
I caught up a time-table and anxiously scanned it. The telegram was fromNice. There was a train due from this fashionable seaport at 12.30.
The lodging-house keeper had kept his word, and Kaffar would be safe. It was become intensely real, intensely exciting!
Five hours to wait—five hours! Only those who have felt as I did can know what they meant.
At twelve o'clock I sent Simon to the station, while I went to the lodging-house to await Kaffar's arrival.
"Mr. Kaffar will have supper, I suppose?" I said to the proprietor of the house.
"Yes, I shall prepare supper."
"Where?"
"In his own room."
"Just so. Could you manage to put me in a room where I can see him at supper without being observed? I should like to enter quietly and give him a surprise."
"You mean nothing wrong?"
"On my honour, I do not."
"It is said," mused the Italian, "that an English gentleman's honour is like English cloth; it can always be depended on. The adjoining room is empty, sir."
"Thank you," I replied, while he led the way to the room.
I had not been there long before I heard some one enter with the landlord. The two rooms, like many we find in French hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other. I had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see.
The man with the landlord was Kaffar!
I found that Kaffar could not speak Italian. He spoke French enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, French was the tongue in which they conversed.
"Has any one been asking for me?" asked Kaffar.
"Yes, sir."
"Who?"
"A gentleman from England."
"From England! What kind of a man?"
"A giant, with brown hair."
"A giant, with brown hair! Man, where is he now?"
"How can I say?" said the Italian.
Kaffar held down his head for a minute, and then said hastily, "And his message?"
"Something to your advantage, sir."
"My advantage? Can it be he? Did he give his name?"
"Herod Voltaire!"
"Voltaire! Never! He dare not come near me; I'm his master for many reasons—he dare not come! But—"
He checked himself, as if he were telling the Italian too much. The host then left the room, while Kaffar went on with his supper.
I opened the door noiselessly and went into the room, and said distinctly, "Good evening, Mr. Kaffar."
He looked up and saw me. Never, I think, did I see so much terror, astonishment, mingled with hate, expressed on a human face before.
He made a leap for the door. I caught him, and held him fast.
"No, Mr. Kaffar, you must not escape," I said, leading him back to his chair.
"You cannot—kill me—here!" he gasped. "I mean no wrong—to you. I—Ah, you've followed me for revenge."
For an answer I went to the door and locked it.
"Have mercy!" he said. "Don't kill me. I—you don't know all! Voltaire's your enemy, not I."
"You knew I was following you, did you?" I said.
"Yes. Voltaire said you were mad for my life; that you swore to be revenged; that you would pull me limb from limb! Ah, you do not know."
Surely I had found out the man's nature. He was a coward, and stood in deadly fear of me. He had been Voltaire's tool, who had frightened him to do his every bidding. Now I must use his fear of me to make him do my will.
"Well, I have found you out," I said. "You thought you would master me, didn't you?"
"Well, I'm master of you both. Voltaire's influence over me is gone, and now he is in my power; while you—"
"Ah, Mr. Blake, have mercy," he whined. "I only did what he told me, and he has treated me like a dog."
"Yes; he intended me to kill you, while both of you tried to ruin me."
"Curse him! I know he did. Oh, I am not his friend now. Mr. Blake, forgive me. Ah, say—"
I felt that if I allowed this man to think my welfare depended on his doing my will, he would defy me. I must use means suitable to the man.
"Kaffar," I said, "had I a heart like you Egyptians, you know what I should do; but—well, I will be merciful on one condition."
"Oh, what-what?"
"That you will come back to England with me at once."
"I cannot; I dare not. He has promised to take my life-blood if I do."
"No harm shall happen to you, I promise."
"You will not allow him to touch me?"
"He shall not."
"Then I will go."
My point was gained. The man had promised to accompany me willingly, while I had expected a difficult matter in getting him to England.
Early the next day we were on our way to England, Simon and I taking turns in watching the wily Egyptian.
The skies were clear when we left Turin, and the air pure and free. We had not got far into France, however, when we found everything changed. It was snow—snow everywhere. On ordinary occasions I should not have minded much, but now everything depended on my getting to London at a certain hour. How slowly the train seemed to creep, to be sure; and how long we stopped at the little roadside stations!
Simon did his best to cheer me, while Kaffar furtively watched us both, as if in fear. I was silent and fearful, for I felt sure the Egyptian meditated escape. The laughter of the light-hearted French people, who were preparing for Christmas festivities, grated on my ears; for, although I had succeeded almost beyond my hopes, a great fear rested upon me that I should fail even yet. Especially was this realized when I knew that our train was hours late, and I knew that did we not arrive in Paris at something like reasonable time, we should miss the express trains for England.
When we got to the French metropolis we were nearly five hours late. It was not to be wondered at, for the snow fell in blinding drifts, until, in some cases, the railways were completely blocked. The wonder was how we got to Paris so soon, when we considered what had to be contended with.
Anxiously I inquired after trains by which I could catch the boats for England, but the replies were vague. First, it was now Christmas Eve, which at all times caused the general traffic to be delayed; and, second, the weather was so bad that to state times of arrival was impossible.
It was now Wednesday morning, and I started from Paris with sixteen hours before me in which to get to London. Ordinarily I should have had time enough and to spare, but everything was delayed and confused. I had thought of going back by Dieppe and Newhaven; but a storm was blowing, and I knew that meant a longer sea-passage, so I went to Calais, thus riding through one of the most uninteresting parts of France. It was five o'clock on Christmas Eve when we arrived at this little French seaport, and then it took us two hours to cross the straits, although we happened to be on one of the fast-sailing steamers. We had now five hours to get to Kensington. I was getting terribly anxious now. If there should be a breakdown, or if anything should happen to hinder us! We were so near, and yet so far. Once I thought of telegraphing and telling of my success, but I refrained from that. I wanted to tell of my victory in person, and thus, if needs be, destroy Voltaire's last hope.
The usual time for an express train to run from Dover to Victoria is about two hours; but it was Christmas Eve, special trains were running, and passengers crowded on every hand, thus we were more than three hours in accomplishing the journey. The train swept into Victoria at a quarter-past ten. There was one hour and three-quarters to go to Kensington.
"This way to the Custom House," shouted one of the officials. I had forgotten this part of the programme, but I determined not to wait for my luggage. I would sooner lose it a thousand times over than be late in reaching Kensington. I accordingly got the keys from Kaffar and Simon, and pointing out the portmanteaus to an official, gave him a sovereign to see them examined and sent on to my address in Gower Street.
I hailed a hansom, but the cabby refused to take the three of us, upon which Kaffar offered to go in another; but I dared not risk him out of my sight, so we got into a rumbling old four-wheeler, and I offered the cabby a sovereign if he would get me at the address I gave him in half-an-hour.
"Couldn't do it for ten sovereigns, sir," said the cabby. "The streets is as slippery as glass, and as crowded as herrin's in a barrel. I'll do it inthree-quartersfor a quid, yer honour."
It was now nearly half-past ten; that would make it a quarter-past eleven. To me it was drawing it terribly fine, but I consented. If he were not spurred on by thought of reward, short as the distance was, there was no knowing how long he would be.
At length the cab stopped. It was a quarter-past eleven, and as I got out I noticed that we stood in front of one of those tall noble-looking mansions which are so common in Kensington.
"Wait a minute," I said to the cabby; "I want to be certain this is the right house." Meanwhile I noticed that my constant friend Simon held Kaffar by the arm.
I rang the bell violently, and a servant appeared at the door.
Did Miss Gertrude Forrest live there?
Yes.
Was she at home?
Yes.
Could I see her?
The servant was not sure, but would ascertain. Miss Forrest was then engaged.
I stopped the man, for I did not wish to appear in the way that matters seemed to promise. Meanwhile Simon had paid the cabby, and so the three of us stood together in the hall.
"I am an old friend of Miss Forrest's," I said to the man; "I want to be shown to the room where she is, without her being apprised of my presence."
"I daren't," he replied; "it would be as much as my place is worth."
"No, it would not," I replied. "You would not suffer in the slightest degree."
"But there are several people in the room," he said, eyeing a sovereignI was turning over in my hand.
"How many?"
"There's Miss Forrest, her aunt, and Miss Staggles, besides a gentleman that came early in the evening."
"That gentleman's name is Herod Voltaire," I said.
"Yes, sir, that's the name. Well, I'll do as you wish me."
I followed the servant, while Simon kept fast hold on Kaffar. The man knocked at the door, while I stood close behind him, and the moment he opened the door I entered the room.
Never shall I forget the sight. Evidently Voltaire had been claiming the fulfilment of her promise, for he was earnestly speaking when I entered, while Miss Forrest, pale as death, sat by an elderly lady, who I concluded to be her aunt. Miss Staggles also sat near, as grim and taciturn as ever.
"It is nearly twelve o'clock," I heard Voltaire say, "and he's not here. He dare not come; how dare he? He has left the country, and will never return again."
"But I am here," I said distinctly.
They all turned as I spoke, and Miss Forrest gave a scream. I had been travelling incessantly for forty hours, so I am afraid I did not present a very pleasant appearance. No doubt I was travel-stained and dusty enough.
"Who are you?" demanded Voltaire.
"You know well enough who I am," I said.
"Begone!" he cried; "this is no place for murderers."
"No," I said, "it is not."
No sooner had Miss Forrest realized who I was, than she rushed to my side.
"Oh, are you safe—are you safe?" she said huskily.
I looked at her face, and it was deathly pale, while her eyes told me she had passed sleepless nights.
"No, he's not safe," said Voltaire, "and he shall pay for this with his life."
"Is it manly," I said to him, "to persecute a lady thus? Can't you see how she scorns you, hates you, loathes you? Will you insist on her abiding by a promise which was made in excitement to save an innocent man?"
"Innocent!" he sneered, and I noticed a look of victory still in his glittering eye. "Innocent! Yes, as innocent as Nero or Robespierre; but you shall not come here to pollute the air by your presence. Begone! before I forget myself, and send for the police to lock you up. Ah, I long for vengeance on the man who murdered my dear friend."
"Then you will not release Miss Forrest?"
"Never!"
"Then I shall make you."
"You make me?" he cried savagely.
Meanwhile Miss Forrest had clung tremblingly to my arm; Miss Forrest's aunt had looked fearfully, first at Voltaire, then at me; while Miss Staggles had been mumbling something about showing me out of doors.
"Yes," I said; "I shall make you."
"You cannot," he jeered. "I have it in my power now to lodge you safe in a felon's gaol, and bring you to a hangman's noose."
"Ay, and I would too," cried Miss Staggles. "You are too kind, too forbearing, Mr. Voltaire."
"Oh, leave me," cried Miss Forrest, clinging closer to me; "I will suffer anything rather than you should be—be—"
"Ring the bell for a servant," I said; and Miss Forrest's aunt tremblingly touched a button close beside her.
The man who had showed me in immediately answered the summons.
"Show my friends in," I said.
A minute more and Simon entered, carefully leading Kaffar. Voltaire gave a yell like that of a mad dog, while Miss Forrest gave a scream of delight.
"There, villain," I said, "is the man whom you say I've murdered."
"How dare you come here?" said Voltaire to Kaffar.
"Because I brought him," I said, "to save this lady and expose you. Now, where is your power, and where are the charges you have brought?"
Had he a pistol I believe he would have shot me dead. His ground was cut from under him. The man who destroyed his every hope stood before us all, and refuted his terrible charges. For a minute he stood as if irresolute; then he turned to Miss Forrest and spoke as coolly as if nothing had happened.
"May I claim your pardon, your forgiveness?" he said. "Believe me, lady, it was all because I loved you that I have acted as I have. Say, then, now that all is against me, that you forgive me."
She hesitated a minute before replying; then she said slowly, "It is difficult for me to speak to you without shuddering. Never did I believe such villainy possible; but—but I pray that God may forgive you, as I do."
"Then I will leave you," he said, with a terrible look at me.
"No," I said; "you will not leave us so easily. Know, man, that you are punishable by the law of England."
"How?"
"You are guilty of many things that I need not enumerate here; some Kaffar has told me about, some I knew before. So, instead of my lying in a felon's cell, it will be you."
Then we all received a great shock. Miss Staggles arose from her chair and rushed towards me.
"No, no, Mr. Blake," she cried; "no, not for my sake. He's my only son.For my sake, spare him."
"Youronly son?Yours?" cried Miss Forrest's aunt.
"Mine," cried this gaunt old woman. "Oh, I was married on the Continent when quite a girl, and I dared not tell of it, for my husband was a gambler and a villain; but he was handsome and fascinating, and so he won me. Herod, this son of mine, was born just the day before his father was killed in a duel. Oh, spare him for my sake!"
I need not enter into the further explanations she made, nor how she pleaded for mercy for him, for they were painful to all. And did I spare him? Yes; on condition that he left England, never to return again, besides stipulating for Kaffar's safety.
He left the house soon after, and we all felt a sense of relief when he had gone, save Miss Staggles, or rather Mrs. Voltaire, who went up to her room weeping bitterly.
Need I relate what followed that night? Need I tell how I had to recount my doings and journeyings over again and again, while Simon and Kaffar were asked to give such information as I was unable to give, and how one circumstance was explained by another until all was plain? I will not tax my readers' patience by so doing; this must be left to their own imagination.
After this, Mrs. Walters insisted that we must have refreshments, and bustled away to order it, while a servant conducted Simon and Kaffar to a room where food was to be obtained; and so I was left alone with the woman I loved.
"Well?" I said, when they were gone.
"Well?" she replied, looking shyly into my face.
"I have done your bidding," I said, after a minute's silence. "I have freed you from that man."
"Thank God, you have!" she said, with a shudder. "Oh, if you only knew how I have prayed and hoped and thought!"