Only at that moment did the “crook” realise what an astute player the stranger was.
He tried to cheat, and, though he performed the trick, nevertheless his opponent actually beat him.
He bit his lip in anger.
Then, pushing the money across to the Baron, he rose from the table and bade his companions good-night, though the sun was beginning to shine in between the drawn curtains of the stuffy room.
At noon next day, while Ansell was lying lazily in bed in the Palace Hotel reading theMatin, a page entered with a letter.
He tore it open, and found that it was dated from the railway buffet at Calais-Maritime, and read:
“Dear Ralph,—Impossible to send oof. Lady Michelcoombe squeezed dry. Husband knows. So lie low.—Ted.”
“Dear Ralph,—Impossible to send oof. Lady Michelcoombe squeezed dry. Husband knows. So lie low.—Ted.”
He crushed the letter in his hand with an imprecation. His mine of wealth had suddenly become exhausted.
From the address it was plain that Ted Patten was flying from England. Lord Michelcoombe had discovered the truth. Probably his wife had confessed, and explained how she had been trapped and money extracted from her. Well he knew that the penalty for his offence was twenty years’ penal servitude.
It was all very well for Ted to advise him to “lie low,” but that was impossible without ample funds. The “crook” who is big enough to effect a bigcoupcan go into safe retirement for years if necessary. But to the man who is penniless that is impossible.
He rose and dressed even more carefully than usual. Afterwards he took hisdéjeunerin the bigsalle-à-mangerand drank half a bottle of Krug with it. Like all men of his class, he was fastidious over his food and wines. The afternoon he spent idling in the casino, and that night he again visited the private gaming house with his two hundred francs, or eight pounds, in his pocket.
It proved a gay night, for there was a dance in progress. In the card-room, however, all was quiet, and there he again met the Russian, who, however, was playing with three other men, strangers to him.
After he had critically inspected the company, he at length accepted the invitation of a man he did not know to sit down to a friendly hand. In those rooms he was believed to be the wealthy American, as he represented himself to be.
The men he found himself playing with were Frenchmen, and very soon, by dint of “working the trick,” he succeeded in swindling them out of about fifty pounds.
Then suddenly his luck turned dead against him. In threecoupshe lost everything, except two coins he had kept in his pocket.
Again, with a gambler’s belief in chance, he made another stake, one of five hundred francs.
The cards were dealt and played. Again he lost.
His brows knit, for he could not pay.
From his pocket he drew a silver case, and, taking out his card:
Silas P. Hoggan,San Diego, Cal.
Silas P. Hoggan,
San Diego, Cal.
handed it to the man who had invited him to play, with a promise to let him have the money by noon next day.
In return he was given a card with the name: “Paul Forestier, Château de Polivac, Rhone.”
The men bowed to each other with exquisite politeness, and then Ralph Ansell went out upon the moonlitplagewith only two pounds in his pocket, laughing bitterly at his continued run of ill-luck.
That night he took a long walk for miles beside the rocky coast of Calvados, through the fashionable villages of Beuzeval and Cabourg, meeting no one save two mounted gendarmes. The brilliant moon shone over the Channel, and the cool air was refreshing after the close, stuffy heat of the gaming-house.
As he walked, much of his adventurous past arose before him. He thought of Jean, and wondered where she was. Swallowed in the vortex of lower-class life of Paris—dead, probably.
And “The Eel”? He was still in prison, ofcourse. Would they ever meet again? He sincerely hoped not.
As he walked, he tried to formulate some plan for the future. To remain further in Trouville was impossible. Besides, he would have once more to sacrifice his small belongings and leave the hotel without settling his account.
He was debating whether it would be wise to return to Paris. Would he, in his genteel garb, be recognised by some agent of the Sûreté as “The American”? There was danger. Was it wise to court it?
At a point of the road where it ran down upon the rocky beach, upon which the moonlit sea was lapping lazily, he paused, and sat upon the stump of a tree.
And there he reflected until the pink dawn spread, and upon the horizon he saw the early morning steamer crossing from Havre.
He was broke!
Perhaps Ted Patten had treated him just as he had treated Adolphe. That letter might, after all, be only a blind.
“He may have got money, and then written to frighten me,” he muttered to himself. “Strange that he didn’t give an address. But I know where I shall find him sooner or later. Harry’s in Paris is his favourite place, or the American Bar at the Grand at Brussels. Oh, yes, I shall find him. First let me turn myself round.”
Then, rising, he walked back to Trouville in the brilliant morning, and going up to his room, went to bed.
Whenever he found himself in an hotel with no money to pay the bill, he always feigned illness, and so awakened the sympathies of the management. In some cases he had lain ill for weeks, living on luxuries, and promising to settle for it all when he was able to get about.
He had done the trick at the Adlon, in Berlin, till found out, and again at the Waldorf-Astoria, in New York. This time he intended to “work the wheeze” on the Palace at Trouville, though he knew that he could not live there long, for the short season was nearly at an end, and in about three weeks the hotel would be closed.
But for a fortnight he remained in bed—or, at least, he was in bed whenever anyone came in. The doctor who was called prescribed for acute rheumatism, and the way in which the patient shammed pain was pathetic.
This enforced retirement was in one way irksome. Wrapped in his dressing-gown, he, after a week in bed, was sufficiently well to sit at the window and look down upon the gay crowd on theplagebelow, and sometimes he even found himself so well that he could appreciate a cigar.
The manager, of course, sympathised with his wealthy visitor, and often came up for an hour’s chat, now that the busiest week of his season was over.
All the time Ansell’s inventive brain was busy. He was devising a new scheme for money-making, and concocting an alluring prospectus of a venture into which he hoped one “mug,” or even two,might put money, and thus form “the original syndicate,” which in turn would supply him with funds.
He knew Constantinople, the city where the foreign “crook” and concession-hunter abounds. Among his unscrupulous friends was an under-official at the Yildiz Kiosk, with whom he had had previous dealings. Indeed, he had paid this official to fabricate and provide bogus concessions purporting to be given under the seal of the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire. For one of these concessions—for mining in Asia Minor—he had paid one thousand pounds two years ago, and had sold it to a syndicate in St. Petersburg for ten thousand. When the purchasers came to claim their rights they found the document to be a forgery.
He was contemplating a similarcoup. He had written to Youssof Effendi asking if he were still open for business, and had received a telegram answering in the affirmative. Therefore, after days of thought, he had at last decided upon obtaining a “concession” for the erection and working of a system of wireless telegraphy throughout the Turkish Empire, and opening coast stations for public service.
His ideas he sent in a registered letter to his accomplice in Constantinople, urging him to have the “concession” prepared in his name with all haste.
And now he was only waiting from day to day to receive the document by which he would be able to net from some unsuspecting persons a few thousand pounds.
True, the bogus documents concerning the mining concession had borne the actual seal of the Grand Vizier, but though an inquiry had been opened, nothing had been discovered. Corruption is so rife in Turkey that the Palace officials ever hang together, providing there is sufficient backsheesh passing. Ralph knew that, therefore he was always liberal. It paid him to be.
A few days before the date of the closing of the hotel a large, official envelope, registered and heavily sealed, was brought up to Mr. Hoggan’s room by a page, and Ralph, opening it, found a formidable document in Turkish, which he was unable to read, bearing four signatures, with the big, embossed seal of the Grand Vizier of the Sultan.
With it was an official letter headed “Ministère des Affaires Étrangers, Sublime Porte,” enclosing a translation of the document in French, and asking for an acknowledgment.
The imitation was, indeed, perfect. Ralph Ansell rubbed his hands with glee. In Berlin he could obtain at least ten thousand pounds for it, if he tried unsuspicious quarters.
But he wanted ready money to pay his hotel bill and to get to Germany.
An hour later, when the manager came up to pay his usual morning visit, he expressed regret that he had to close the hotel, and added:
“We have still quite a number of visitors. Among them we have Mr. Budden-Reynolds, of London. Do you happen to know him? They say he has made a huge fortune in speculation on the Stock Exchange.”
“Budden-Reynolds!” exclaimed Ralph, opening his eyes wide. “I’ve heard of him, of course. A man who’s in every wild-cat scheme afloat. By Jove! That’s fortunate. I must see him.”
The introduction was not difficult, and that same evening Mr. Budden-Reynolds, a stout, middle-aged, over-dressed man of rather Hebrew countenance, was ushered into the “sick” financier’s room.
“Say, sir, I’m very pleased to meet you. I must apologise for not being able to come down to you, but I’ve had a stiff go of rheumatism. I heard you were in this hotel, and I guess I’ve got something which will interest you.”
Then, when he had seated his visitor, he took from a drawer the formidable registered packet, and drew out the Turkish concession.
The speculator, whose name was well known in financial circles, took it, examined the seal and signatures curiously, and asked what it was.
“That,” said Silas P. Hoggan, grandly, “is a concession from the Sultan of Turkey to establish wireless telegraph stations where I like, and to collect the revenue derived from them. Does it interest you, sir?”
Hoggan saw that the bait was a tempting one.
“Yes, a little,” replied the speculator grandly.
“It’s a splendid proposition! I’m half inclined to go with it straight to the Marconi Company, who will take it over gladly at once. But I feel that we shall do better with a private syndicate, who, in turn, will resell to the Telefunken, the Goldsmidt, or Marconi Company.”
“I think you are wise,” was the reply.
“There’s a heap of money in it! Think of all the coast stations we can establish along the Levant, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea, to say nothing of the inland public telegraph service. And this, as you will see by the French translation, gives us a perfectly free hand to do whatever we like, and charge the public what we like, providing we give a royalty of five per cent. to the State.”
Then he handed Mr. Budden-Reynolds the letter from the Sublime Porte, together with the French translation.
The letter the speculator read through carefully, and then expressed a desire to participate in the venture.
Ansell’s bluff was superb.
The two men talked over the matter, “The American” drawing an entrancing picture of the enormous sums which were bound to accrue on the enterprise until, before he left the room, Mr. Budden-Reynolds declared himself ready to put up three hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary expenses if, in exchange, he might become one of the original syndicate.
Upon a sheet of the hotel notepaper a draft agreement was at once drawn up, but not, however, until Ansell had raised many objections. He was not eager to accept the money, a fact which greatly impressed the victim.
An hour later, however, he took Mr. Budden-Reynolds’ cheque, signed a receipt, and from that moment his recovery from his illness was extremely rapid.
Early next morning he handed in the cheque to a local bank for telegraphic clearance—which would occupy two days—and then set about packing.
On the second day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he drew the money, paid his hotel bill with a condescending air, and prepared to depart for Constantinople, for, as he had explained to his victim, there were several minor points in the concession which were not clear, and which could only be settled by discussion on the spot.
Therefore he would go to Paris, and take the Orient Express direct to the Bosphorus.
He had been smoking with Budden-Reynolds from four till five, and then went out to the American bar for anapéritif.
When, however, he returned and ascended to his room to dress for dinner, he was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the door, and his friend Budden-Reynolds bustled in.
Facing “The American” suddenly, he said, purple with rage:
“Well, you’re about the coolest and most clever thief I’ve ever met! Do you know that your confounded Turkish concession isn’t worth the paper it’s written upon?”
“What do you mean?” asked Ansell, with an air of injured innocence.
“I mean, sir,” cried the speculator, “I mean that you are a thief and a swindler, and I now intend to call in the police and have you arrested for palming off upon me a bogus concession. As it happens, my son is in the British Consulate inConstantinople, and, having wired to him to investigate the facts, he has just sent me a reply to say that the Grand Vizier has no knowledge of any such concession, and that it has not been given by him. Indeed, the concession for wireless telegraphy in Turkey was given to the Marconi Company a year ago, and, further, they have already erected two coast-stations on the Black Sea.”
Mr. Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal., unscrupulous as he was, stood before his irate visitor absolutely nonplussed.
The countrychâteauof the Earl of Bracondale, though modestly named the Villa Monplaisir, stood on the road to Fécamp amid the pines, about half a mile from the sea, at St. Addresse, the new seaside suburb of Havre.
St. Addresse is, perhaps, not so fashionable as Etretat or Yport, being quieter and more restful, yet with excellent sea-bathing. Along the broadplageare numerous summer villas, with quaint gabled roofs and small pointed towers in the French style—houses occupied in the season mostly by wealthy Parisians.
Monplaisir, however, was the largest and most handsome residence in the neighbourhood; and to it, when the British statesman was in residence, came various French Ministers of State, and usually for a few days each year the President of the Republic was his lordship’s guest.
It was a big, modern house, with wide verandahs on each floor, which gave extensive views of country and sea, a house with a high circular slated towerat one end, and many gables with black oaken beams. Around was a plantation of dark pines, protecting the house from the fierce, sweeping winter winds of the Channel, and pretty, sheltered flower-gardens, the whole enclosed with railings of white painted ironwork.
Over the doorway was a handsome semi-circular roof of glass, while from the west end of the house ran a large winter garden, full of palms and exotic flowers.
Before his marriage, Bracondale had been inclined to sell the place, for he went there so very little; but Jean, being French, expressed a wish that it should be kept, as she liked to have apied-à-terrein her own land. At Montplaisir she always enjoyed herself immensely, and the bathing had always been to little Lady Enid of greatest benefit.
One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.
“How delightful it is here!” exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse of distant sea.
“Ah!” he laughed. “You always prefer thisplace to Bracondale—eh? It is but natural, because you are among your own people.”
At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car, raised his soft felt hat to them.
“Halloa!” exclaimed the Earl. “Here’s Martin! Left Downing Street last night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest.”
“Yes, but you’ll come with us, won’t you?”
“Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought,” was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife’s side, passed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty’s Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.
“Mornin’, Martin!” exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. “Nice passage over?”
“Yes, my lord,” was the traveller’s response. “It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday.”
And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked “On His Britannic Majesty’s Service.”
The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.
Then he scribbled his signature upon the receiptwhich Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King’s Messenger took it with a word of thanks.
“When do you go back?” he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.
“To-night, at midnight.”
“Will you call here at eight for despatches?”
“Certainly.”
“They’ll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople.”
“Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey—to Petersburg—on Friday,” he added, speaking as though a journey to that Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.
“Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no objection, I suppose?”
“None,” laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but few short spells of leave. The life of a King’s Messenger is, indeed, no sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffywagonlitsof the European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office, had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy inEurope, and to every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.
“And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street, Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera,” added Lord Bracondale. “I wish you would bring it over next time you come.”
“Certainly,” Martin replied.
“Then, at eight o’clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,” his lordship said.
So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box—a steel one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas—upon a side table, and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.
Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.
During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no delay.
Upon Bracondale’s brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned Charlton’s letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.
But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.
In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and were quickly driven through the pines and out upon the sea-road until, when on the railed esplanade at St. Addresse, the car pulled up suddenly at some steps which led down to the sands.
Just before he did so his lordship, addressing Jean, said:
“I know you will excuse me staying with you this morning, dear, but I must attend to those despatches Martin has brought. And they will certainly take me till luncheon. So I will see you down to the beach and then go back. The car shall come for you at half-past twelve.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Jean, regretfully. “But I know, dear, how worried you are. So I’ll forgive you. I shall spend a quiet morning with a book, and Enid will enjoy herself.”
Then the car stopped, he got out, helped Enid and Miss Oliver down, and then gave his hand to Jean, who, with her dark cloak thrown over her white dress, looked extremely dainty, and much younger than her years.
While the car waited for them, all four descended to the beach, where little Enid with her governess went forward, while Bracondale and his wife walked along to a secluded corner in the rocks, where it was Jean’s habit to read while awaiting her little girl.
Then, after he had seen her comfortably settled in the shadow, for the sun was hot, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to where the car awaited him, absorbed in the international problem which had, according to Charlton, so suddenly arisen.
As he sat in the car and was whirled along the sea-front towards Monplaisir, he passed a clean-shaven, well-dressed man in a dark suit with carefully-ironed trousers, his handkerchief showing from his jacket pocket, patent leather boots, grey spats, and a light grey Tyrolese hat. The stranger gave him a curious, inquisitive glance as he passed, then, looking after him, muttered some words beneath his breath.
The idler stood and watched the car disappear in the dust along the wide, straight road, and then he walked to the steps over which Jean had passed and followed in her footsteps.
As a matter of fact, this was not the first occasion upon which the stranger had watched her ladyship.
On the previous day he had been passing along a street in Havre when a big red car had passed, and in it was her ladyship with little Lady Enid.
In a second, on looking up suddenly, he had recognised her.
But she had not seen him. At the moment she had been bending towards the child, buttoning up her coat.
The stranger, who had only the day previous arrived in Havre, and was awaiting a steamer to America, turned upon his heel and, chancing to meet a postman face to face, pointed out the car and asked in French whose it was.
The veteran, for he wore his medal, glanced at the car and replied:
“Ah! That is the automobile of the English lord. That is the Countess of Bracondale, his wife.”
“Do they live here?”
“At the Villa Monplaisir, m’sieur, out on the road to Fécamp.”
“Are they rich?” he asked unconcernedly.
“Oh, yes; Lord Bracondale is the English Minister for Foreign Affairs.”
“Bracondale!” echoed the stranger, recognising the name for the first time. “And that is his wife?”
“Yes.”
“And the child?”
“His daughter.”
“Is Lady Bracondale often here, in Havre?” he inquired eagerly.
“Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping,” replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his letters.
“Look here, my friend,” exclaimed the stranger. “Tell me something more about that lady.” And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man’s hand.
“Ah! I fear I know but little—only what people say, m’sieur.”
“What do they say?”
“That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife, although she is such a great lady—one of the greatest ladies in England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and are enormously wealthy.”
“Rich—eh?” remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. “You know nothing more?”
“No, m’sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do.”
“Bien. Bon jour,” said the stranger, and hepassed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries.
And the stranger, whose name was “Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.,” was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess.
With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had disappeared.
Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly into his jacket pocket.
His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone.
“What luck!” he murmured. “I wonder how she’ll take it? To think that I should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she was living here. I’ve got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if you are cute, Ralph Ansell,” he said, addressing himself, “you won’t want to use that ticket.”
He chuckled and smiled.
“The Countess of Bracondale!” he muttered. “I wonder what lie she told the Earl? Perhaps she’s changed—become unscrupulous—since we last met. I wonder?”
And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be.
He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present.
It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed—different indeed to the black gown and print apron of those Paris days.
He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English:
“Well, Jean!”
Startled, she looked up. Next second she staredat him open-mouthed. The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand.
“Yes, it’s me—Ralph Ansell, your husband!”
“You!” she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. “I—I——The papers said you were dead—that—that——”
“I know,” he laughed. “The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California.”
“Hoggan!” she echoed, looking about her in dismay.
“Yes—and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean.”
She was silent. What could she say?
Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her in all its evil hideousness—the past which she had put behind her for ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.
And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!
Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!
She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.
“Well—speak! Tell me who and what you are.”
The word “what” cut deeply into her.
He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard, remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.
“It seems long ago since we last met, doesn’t it?” he remarked, in a hard voice. “You left me because I was poor.”
“Not because you were poor, Ralph,” she managed to reply; “but because you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back.”
“Adolphe!” he cried in disgust. “The swine is still in prison, I suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river—the safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned, but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I’ve had a most pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself into the Seine.”
She looked at him with a strange expression.
“True; but his deeds still remain.”
“Deeds—what do you mean?”
“I mean this!” she cried, starting to her feet and facing him determinedly. “I mean that you—Ralph Ansell, my husband—killed Richard Harborne!”
His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.
He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:
“Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing? Harborne—oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in England.”
“Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the authorities know that he died by your hand,” was her slow reply. “It is known that you acted as the cats’-paw—that it wasyou who tampered with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time—at the time when I, in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!”
“Then you love me no longer—eh, Jean?” he asked, facing her, his brows knit.
“How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?”
“Murderer!” he cried, in anger. “You must prove it! I’ll compel you to prove it, or by gad! I’ll—I’ll strangle you!”
“The facts are already proved.”
“How do you know?”
“From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband’s possession—locked up in his safe.”
“Your husband!” repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I have married, believing that you were dead.”
“And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!” he laughed, with a sneer.
She said nothing.
At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single blow—that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last fallen to crush her.
No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother, but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an assassin to boot.
Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her breath.
The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.
“I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again,” she said simply.
“Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he knows how you’ve deceived him.”
“I have told him no lie!”
“No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes.”
“Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes,” she replied. “The affair is not forgotten, I assure you. And a word from me will sentence you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve.”
“Good. Do it!” he laughed, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I wish you would. You would be rid of me then—the widow of a murderer!”
“You killed Richard Harborne because you were paid to do so—paid by a spy of Germany,” she said, very slowly. “The report which my husband possesses tells the truth. The British Secret Service has spared no pains to elucidate the mystery of Harborne’s death.”
“Then they also know that I married you, I suppose? They know you are wife of the guilty man—eh?”
She bit her lip. That thought had not recently occurred to her. Long ago, when it had, she had quickly crushed it down, believing that Ralph was dead. But, on the contrary, he was there, standing before her, the grim vision of the long-buried past.
“Well,” she asked suddenly, “what do you want with me now that you have found me?”
“Not much. I dare say you and I can come to terms.”
“What terms? I don’t understand?”
“You are my wife,” he said. “Well, that is your secret—and mine. You want to close my mouth,” he said roughly. “And of course you can do so—at a price.”
“You want money in return for your silence?”
“Exactly, my dear girl. I am very sorry, but I have been a trifle unfortunate in my speculations of late. I’m a financier now.”
She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne, who had been such a platonic friend to her.
“I wish you to understand, now and at once,” she said, “that you will have nothing from me.”
He smiled at her.
“Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean,” was his reply. “Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely—even for the sake of your charming little girl.”
“Yes,” she said angrily. “You taunt me with my position—why? Because you want money—you,a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I will go to the police and have you arrested.”
“Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P. Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy Countess of Bracondale. Say—what a sensation it would cause in the halfpenny papers, wouldn’t it?”
Jean shuddered, and shrank back.
“And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne—you, the hired assassin of the Baron,” she retorted. “Oh, yes, all is known, I assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale’s papers, and read it—every word.”
“And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?”
“Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and, further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay’s aeroplane. You can’t deny it!”
“Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same time I was rid of a rival.”
“He was not my lover!” she protested, her cheeks scarlet. “I loved you, and only you.”
“Then why don’t you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to me?”
“Return!” she gasped. “Never!”
“But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband.”
“That I cannot deny,” she said, her hands twitching nervously. “But I read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true,” she added in despair.
“Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have been living in London all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person.”
She shrank at the word “wife.” That surely was the most evil day in all her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview—how to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen—how best to hide her dread secret from Bracondale.
“Well,” she said at last, “though you married me, Ralph, you never had a spark of affection for me. Do you recollect the last night that I was beneath your roof—your confession that you were a thief, and how you raised your hand against me because I begged you not to run into danger. How——?”
“Enough!” he interrupted roughly. “The past is dead and gone. I was a fool then.”
“But I remember it all too well, alas!” she said. “I remember how I loved you, and how full and bitter was my disillusionment.”
“And what do you intend doing now?” he asked defiantly.
“Nothing,” was her reply. Truth to tell, she was nonplussed. She saw no solution of the ghastly problem.
“But I want money,” he declared, fiercely.
“I have none—only what my husband gives me.”
“Husband! I’m your husband, remember. I tell you, Jean, I don’t intend to starve. I may be well dressed, but that’s only bluff. I’ve got only a few pounds in the world.”
“I see,” she said. “You intend to blackmail me. But I warn you that if those are your tactics, I shall simply tell Bracondale what I know concerning Richard Harborne.”
“You will—will you!” he cried, fiercely, advancing towards her threateningly. “By Heaven, if you breathe a word about that, I—I’ll kill you!”
And in his eyes shone a bright, murderous light—a light that she had seen there once before—on the night of her departure.
She recognised how determined he was, and drew back in fear.
Then, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, he drew forth a small leather wallet, much worn, and from it took a soiled, crumpled but carefully-preserved letter, which he opened and presented for her inspection.
“Do you recognise this?” he asked, with a sinister grin.
She drew back and held her breath.
“I’ll read it,” he said with a triumphant laugh. “I kept it as a souvenir. The man you call husband will no doubt be very pleased to see it.” Then he read the words: