Chapter Twenty Five.The Man of the Hour.Months of anxiety went wearily by, but no tidings of Ella could I glean. Time could never efface the bitter memories of the past. The police had, at Lord Warnham’s instigation, exerted every effort to trace her, but without avail. She had disappeared with a rapidity that was astounding, for, apparently expecting that some attempt might be made to follow her, she had ingeniously taken every precaution to baffle her pursuers in the same manner as her mother had done. The cause of her sudden flight was an enigma only equalled by my discovery of her portrait in the Earl’s possession. Although I had several times in conversation led up to the subject of photographs, and shown him Ella’s picture, that had been taken by a firm in Regent Street, the astute old statesman made no sign that he already had her counterfeit presentment hidden among his most treasured possessions. When I recollected, as I often did, how on gazing upon it, while believing me engrossed in the writing of a dispatch, the sight of it had affected him, the new phase of the mystery perplexed me sorely. That they had been previously acquainted seemed more than probable, and his Lordship’s earnest desire to secure knowledge of her whereabouts lent additional colour to this opinion.Daily the aged statesman grew more gloomy and misanthropic. He lived alone, in an atmosphere of severe officialdom. His only recreation was a formal visit on rare occasions to a reception at one or other of the principal Embassies, or attendance on Her Majesty at Osborne or Balmoral; his brief, far-seeing suggestions at the Cabinet Council were always adopted unanimously, and his peremptory “notes” to the Powers incontrovertible marvels of diplomacy. He hated society, and never went anywhere without some strong motive by which he could further his country’s interests. His eccentricities were proverbial, his caustic observations on men and things the delight of leader-writers on Government journals; and as director of England’s foreign policy he was feared, yet admired, in every capital in Europe. He, however, cared not a jot for notoriety, but with an utter disregard for all else, served his country with a slavish devotion, that even the most scathing Opposition gutter-journal could not fail to recognise.It was common talk that some strange, romantic incident had overshadowed his life, but with that innate secrecy that was part of his creed he never confided in anybody. Notwithstanding his frigid cynicism, however, he was nevertheless sympathetic, and at any mention of Ella’s name he would rivet his searching eyes upon me, while across the white brow, furrowed by the heavy responsibilities of State through so many years, would spread an expression of regret, anxiety or pain. But he spoke seldom upon that subject. That he regarded my marriage as a deplorable fiasco I was well aware, but felt that in his cold heart, hardened as it was by the artful subterfuges of successful diplomacy, there yet remained a spark of pity, for he still regarded me as hisprotégé.On the day after Ella had fled I called at Andrew Beck’s office at Winchester House, Old Broad Street, but found he had sailed a few days before by the Union LinerScotfor Cape Town. Of late he had become connected with several South African gold ventures of enormous extent, and in the interests of some of the companies most prominently before the public, had undertaken the journey. His great wealth, in combination with that of his associates, had inspired public confidence, and there had commenced that feverish tendency in the city that quickly developed, and was later known as the “gold boom.” The movements of the popular member for West Rutlandshire were cabled and chronicled in the newspapers as diligently as if he were a prince of a reigning house, and it was with extreme satisfaction that one morning in June I saw it announced that the mail had arrived at Southampton from the Cape bearing him on board, the same paper printing an account of an interview regarding gold prospects in South Africa which he had given its representative before he left the steamer. I was down at Warnham at the time, but three days later returned to London, and that same night sought Beck at the House of Commons.I found him in the Members’ Lobby, bustling about in his ill-fitting evening clothes and crumpled shirt-front, looking sun-tanned and well; a trifle more arrogant, perhaps, but nevertheless easy-going and good-natured as usual. He greeted me heartily, and the night being warm we lit cigars and walked out upon the Terrace beside the Thames. Big Ben was chiming the midnight hour. It was bright and star-lit above, but before us the river ran darkly beneath the arches of Westminster Bridge, its ripples glistening under the gas lamps. Across on the opposite bank, in the row of buildings comprising St Thomas’s Hospital, lights glimmered faintly in the windows of the wards, while here and there on the face of the black, silent highway, lights, white, red and green, shone out in silent warning.As we set foot upon the long, deserted Terrace, strolling slowly forward in the balmy, refreshing night air, my thoughts wandered back to the last occasion when we had spent an evening together beside the Thames, that memorable night at “The Nook,” when we had afterwards discovered Dudley Ogle lying dead.During the first half-hour we discussed the progress of several questions of foreign policy which had been pursued during his absence, and he, an enthusiast in politics, confided in me his intention to head a select circle of his party to demand a commission of inquiry into the working of our mobilisation scheme for home defence.“One would think that you desired to obtain further notoriety,” I laughed. “Surely you are popular enough; you are now the man of the hour.”“Well, I suppose I am,” he answered, a trifle proudly, halting suddenly, leaning with his back to the stone parapet and puffing vigorously at his cigar. “But it isn’t for the sake of notoriety that I’m pressing forward this inquiry. It is for the benefit of the country generally. The scheme for the mobilisation of our forces in case of invasion is utterly rotten, and had we been compelled to fight a little time ago, when France and Russia were upon the point of declaring war, we should have been in a wretched plight. The scheme is all very well on paper, but I and my friends are determined to ascertain whether it will act. It has never been tested, and no doubt it is utterly unworkable. What, indeed, can be said of a scheme which decrees that in case of an enemy landing on our shores a regiment of cavalry, now in London, must draw its horses from Dublin! Why, the thing’s absurd. We don’t mean to rest until the whole matter is thoroughly threshed out.”“You intend to worry up the War Office a little,” I observed, smiling.“Yes,” he answered, ostentatiously. “We intend to bring public opinion to bear so heavily upon them that they will be absolutely bound to submit to the inquiry. This is, however, a secret for the present. It is best that the newspapers should not get hold of it yet. You understand?”“Of course,” I said.We stood watching the dark, swirling waters and enjoying the cool night breeze that swept along the river, causing the lamps to flicker, when he suddenly asked,—“How is Ella? I quite forgot to ask after your wife.”“I don’t know,” I replied, after a brief pause.“Don’t know?” he echoed, looking at me, puzzled. “Why, what’s the matter?”“She has left me,” I answered gravely.“Left you!” he cried, removing his cigar and staring at me. “Have you quarrelled?”“No. On my return home one night in January I found a note of farewell from her. I have heard nothing of her since. Mrs Laing disappeared on the same day.”“Disappeared!” he gasped. My announcement had caused him the greatest consternation, for he stood agape. “Have you no idea of the reason?”“None whatever,” I replied. Then confidentially I told him of Ella’s mysterious absences, her walk in Kensington Gardens, and her letters from the unknown individual who had met her so frequently, omitting, however, all mention either of the theft or recovery of the secret convention, for it was Lord Warnham’s wish that I should keep the existence of that instrument a profound secret.“Have you no idea who this strange fellow is?” he inquired, sympathetically.“Not the slightest,” I said.“Ella was not addicted to flirtation,” he observed reflectively, a few moments later. “As you are aware, I have been acquainted with the family for some years, and have known your wife ever since she could toddle.”“Tell me of them,” I urged impatiently. “I know scarcely anything beyond what Ella and her mother have told me. What do you know of Ella’s past?”“You speak as if you suspected her to be an adventuress,” he said, and as the lamplight fell upon his face I saw that his lips relaxed into a good-humoured smile. “As far as I’m aware there is no incident of her life prior to marriage that will not bear the fullest investigation; and as for her mother, no more straightforward nor upright woman ever lived. Before poor Robert Laing died I was a frequent visitor at their country house, so I had ample opportunity of noticing what an affectionate family they were; and after his death it was I who succeeded in turning his great business into a limited liability concern.”To outsiders Beck was a swaggering parvenu, who delighted in exhibiting his wealth to others by giving expensive dinners and indulging in extravagances of speech and beverage; but towards me he had always been honestly outspoken and unassuming—in fact, a typical successful business man, with whose unruffled good humour I had, even when madly jealous of his attentions to Ella, found it impossible to quarrel. I had long ago grown to ridicule the suggestion that any secret had existed between them, and now felt instinctively that he was my friend.“Do you think—” I asked him, after a long pause. “Candidly speaking, have you any suspicion that Dudley Ogle was her lover?”He knit his brows. For an instant a hard expression played about his mouth, and he drew a long breath.“I didn’t, of course, know so much of Dudley as you did,” he answered, slowly contemplating the end of his cigar. “But to tell you the honest truth, I always suspected that he loved her. In fact her own evidence at the inquest was sufficient proof of that.”“His death was an enigma,” I observed.“Entirely so,” he acquiesced, sighing.“She alleged that he had been murdered, and there is no room for doubt that she entertained certain very grave suspicions.”“Of what?”“Of the identity of the murderer,” I said. “She declared to me, times without number, that she would never rest until she had unravelled the mystery.”“Her theory was a very wild one,” he laughed. “Personally, I do not entertain it for one moment. The medical opinion that he died from a sudden but natural cause is undoubtedly correct,” he said, replacing his dead cigar between his lips, as, slowly striking a vesta, he re-lit it. Then he added, “Her anxiety to avenge Dudley’s death certainly seems to bear out your suspicion that they were lovers.”“Then you entirely agree with me?” I cried.“In a measure only,” he answered, his voice suddenly harsh and cold. “I have no suspicion that she ever reciprocated his affection, although in seeking to learn the truth of your friend’s tragic end she must have had some very strong motive.”“Another fact I also discovered was a trifle curious,” I observed, after we had strolled along the deserted Terrace from end to end, discussing the details of Dudley’s death, and the manner in which it had affected her.“What was it?” he inquired, glancing towards me.“I found that she was in the habit of visiting every day a pretty Russian girl with whom I was acquainted.”“Before marriage?” he asked, raising his eyebrows meaningly.“Yes,” I answered. “She was a refugee, and I had been enabled to render her father a service some time before; therefore we had become friends. I had lost sight of her for a long time, and when I again met her I discovered that she had not only been an intimate friend of poor Dudley, but that Ella visited her frequently on her bicycle when she was supposed by her mother to be riding in the Park.”“Was there anything remarkable in that fact?” he inquired, with a half-amused air, nevertheless regarding me with undue keenness, I thought.“Nothing, except that the little Russian, who, having lost her father, was living a lonely life in a rather large house in Kensington, warned me against Ella, telling me she was my enemy. She, however, left without fulfilling her promise to reveal the details.”“Your enemy!” he cried, laughing jocosely. “She was evidently jealous of your attentions to her, my boy. A Russian, too! She was a Nihilist, I suppose, or some interestingly romantic person of that sort, eh? Surely you didn’t heed what she said, did you?”“Of course not,” I replied, with a forced laugh. “I loved Ella too well; so I married her.”“And you now regret it,” he added abruptly.Without replying I walked on by his side, smoking furiously. My object in seeking him had been to learn what I could of Ella’s past, but no mysterious incident had, to his knowledge, occurred. Her family were well-known in Yorkshire, respected throughout the county, and no breath of scandal had ever besmirched the fair fame of either Robert Laing’s widow or his daughter. Beck, their intimate friend, concealed nothing from me, but frankly discussed my hopes and fears, expressing his heartfelt sympathy that I should have thus mysteriously lost my well-beloved, and offering me all the assistance that lay in his power.“It certainly is extremely curious that Mrs Laing should have left Pont Street without sending me a letter to the club, giving me her new address,” he said calmly, after reflection.“You have not, then, heard from her?”“No, I have had no letter. A week before I left for South Africa I dined there, and she then told me that she intended to remain in England throughout the year. She expressed the greatest gratification that Ella had married so happily, and seemed in the best of spirits. Yet a few days later, it appears, she fled as secretly as if she had been a criminal. It is really very extraordinary; I can’t account for it in the least.”“All effort to trace Ella has failed,” I observed gloomily, after a moment’s reflection.“Whose aid have you sought? A private inquiry agent?”“No. The police,” I answered.“Police!” he exclaimed, surprised. “They have committed no crime, surely. I—I mean that the police do not trace missing friends.”“They will carry out the orders of any Government Department,” I answered. “The request came from my chief.”“From Lord Warnham! Then you have told him!”“Of course,” I responded.In contemplative silence he slowly blew a great cloud of smoke from his lips. Then he said, “There is one thing you haven’t told me, Geoffrey. What was the name of this pretty Russian who made these mysterious allegations against Ella?”“Her name was Sonia Korolénko.”“Sonia Korolénko!” he cried in a voice strangely hoarse, halting and glaring at me with wide-open, staring eyes. “Sonia! And she has gone, you say?”“Yes. She has returned to Russia, I believe. But what do you know of her?” I quickly inquired.“Nothing. I merely know her by repute as a notorious woman, that’s all,” he answered. “You were certainly wise to discard her allegations.”“Is she such a well-known person?” I asked.“I should rather think so,” he answered, elevating his eyebrows. “Her fame has spread all over the Continent. She was leader of a certain circle of questionable society in Vienna a year ago, and narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the police.”“But what can have induced Ella to associate with her?” I exclaimed in wonderment.“Ah! That is more than we can tell,” he answered, in a tone of sincere regret. “The ways of women of her type are ofttimes utterly incomprehensible.”“Were you aware that Ella was acquainted with her?” I inquired earnestly.At that moment, however, the electric gongs along the Terrace commenced ringing sharply, announcing that the House was about to divide. The division was upon an important amendment, and had been expected at any moment since the dinner-hour. Turning back quickly he hurried through the tea-room along the corridor, and shaking hands with me in haste, promising to resume our conversation on another occasion, disappeared to record his vote.For a single instant I stood alone in the Lobby, watching the receding figure of the portly man of the hour, and pondering deeply. Then, full of gloomy recollections of the past, I turned on my heel and went out through the long, echoing hall.
Months of anxiety went wearily by, but no tidings of Ella could I glean. Time could never efface the bitter memories of the past. The police had, at Lord Warnham’s instigation, exerted every effort to trace her, but without avail. She had disappeared with a rapidity that was astounding, for, apparently expecting that some attempt might be made to follow her, she had ingeniously taken every precaution to baffle her pursuers in the same manner as her mother had done. The cause of her sudden flight was an enigma only equalled by my discovery of her portrait in the Earl’s possession. Although I had several times in conversation led up to the subject of photographs, and shown him Ella’s picture, that had been taken by a firm in Regent Street, the astute old statesman made no sign that he already had her counterfeit presentment hidden among his most treasured possessions. When I recollected, as I often did, how on gazing upon it, while believing me engrossed in the writing of a dispatch, the sight of it had affected him, the new phase of the mystery perplexed me sorely. That they had been previously acquainted seemed more than probable, and his Lordship’s earnest desire to secure knowledge of her whereabouts lent additional colour to this opinion.
Daily the aged statesman grew more gloomy and misanthropic. He lived alone, in an atmosphere of severe officialdom. His only recreation was a formal visit on rare occasions to a reception at one or other of the principal Embassies, or attendance on Her Majesty at Osborne or Balmoral; his brief, far-seeing suggestions at the Cabinet Council were always adopted unanimously, and his peremptory “notes” to the Powers incontrovertible marvels of diplomacy. He hated society, and never went anywhere without some strong motive by which he could further his country’s interests. His eccentricities were proverbial, his caustic observations on men and things the delight of leader-writers on Government journals; and as director of England’s foreign policy he was feared, yet admired, in every capital in Europe. He, however, cared not a jot for notoriety, but with an utter disregard for all else, served his country with a slavish devotion, that even the most scathing Opposition gutter-journal could not fail to recognise.
It was common talk that some strange, romantic incident had overshadowed his life, but with that innate secrecy that was part of his creed he never confided in anybody. Notwithstanding his frigid cynicism, however, he was nevertheless sympathetic, and at any mention of Ella’s name he would rivet his searching eyes upon me, while across the white brow, furrowed by the heavy responsibilities of State through so many years, would spread an expression of regret, anxiety or pain. But he spoke seldom upon that subject. That he regarded my marriage as a deplorable fiasco I was well aware, but felt that in his cold heart, hardened as it was by the artful subterfuges of successful diplomacy, there yet remained a spark of pity, for he still regarded me as hisprotégé.
On the day after Ella had fled I called at Andrew Beck’s office at Winchester House, Old Broad Street, but found he had sailed a few days before by the Union LinerScotfor Cape Town. Of late he had become connected with several South African gold ventures of enormous extent, and in the interests of some of the companies most prominently before the public, had undertaken the journey. His great wealth, in combination with that of his associates, had inspired public confidence, and there had commenced that feverish tendency in the city that quickly developed, and was later known as the “gold boom.” The movements of the popular member for West Rutlandshire were cabled and chronicled in the newspapers as diligently as if he were a prince of a reigning house, and it was with extreme satisfaction that one morning in June I saw it announced that the mail had arrived at Southampton from the Cape bearing him on board, the same paper printing an account of an interview regarding gold prospects in South Africa which he had given its representative before he left the steamer. I was down at Warnham at the time, but three days later returned to London, and that same night sought Beck at the House of Commons.
I found him in the Members’ Lobby, bustling about in his ill-fitting evening clothes and crumpled shirt-front, looking sun-tanned and well; a trifle more arrogant, perhaps, but nevertheless easy-going and good-natured as usual. He greeted me heartily, and the night being warm we lit cigars and walked out upon the Terrace beside the Thames. Big Ben was chiming the midnight hour. It was bright and star-lit above, but before us the river ran darkly beneath the arches of Westminster Bridge, its ripples glistening under the gas lamps. Across on the opposite bank, in the row of buildings comprising St Thomas’s Hospital, lights glimmered faintly in the windows of the wards, while here and there on the face of the black, silent highway, lights, white, red and green, shone out in silent warning.
As we set foot upon the long, deserted Terrace, strolling slowly forward in the balmy, refreshing night air, my thoughts wandered back to the last occasion when we had spent an evening together beside the Thames, that memorable night at “The Nook,” when we had afterwards discovered Dudley Ogle lying dead.
During the first half-hour we discussed the progress of several questions of foreign policy which had been pursued during his absence, and he, an enthusiast in politics, confided in me his intention to head a select circle of his party to demand a commission of inquiry into the working of our mobilisation scheme for home defence.
“One would think that you desired to obtain further notoriety,” I laughed. “Surely you are popular enough; you are now the man of the hour.”
“Well, I suppose I am,” he answered, a trifle proudly, halting suddenly, leaning with his back to the stone parapet and puffing vigorously at his cigar. “But it isn’t for the sake of notoriety that I’m pressing forward this inquiry. It is for the benefit of the country generally. The scheme for the mobilisation of our forces in case of invasion is utterly rotten, and had we been compelled to fight a little time ago, when France and Russia were upon the point of declaring war, we should have been in a wretched plight. The scheme is all very well on paper, but I and my friends are determined to ascertain whether it will act. It has never been tested, and no doubt it is utterly unworkable. What, indeed, can be said of a scheme which decrees that in case of an enemy landing on our shores a regiment of cavalry, now in London, must draw its horses from Dublin! Why, the thing’s absurd. We don’t mean to rest until the whole matter is thoroughly threshed out.”
“You intend to worry up the War Office a little,” I observed, smiling.
“Yes,” he answered, ostentatiously. “We intend to bring public opinion to bear so heavily upon them that they will be absolutely bound to submit to the inquiry. This is, however, a secret for the present. It is best that the newspapers should not get hold of it yet. You understand?”
“Of course,” I said.
We stood watching the dark, swirling waters and enjoying the cool night breeze that swept along the river, causing the lamps to flicker, when he suddenly asked,—“How is Ella? I quite forgot to ask after your wife.”
“I don’t know,” I replied, after a brief pause.
“Don’t know?” he echoed, looking at me, puzzled. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“She has left me,” I answered gravely.
“Left you!” he cried, removing his cigar and staring at me. “Have you quarrelled?”
“No. On my return home one night in January I found a note of farewell from her. I have heard nothing of her since. Mrs Laing disappeared on the same day.”
“Disappeared!” he gasped. My announcement had caused him the greatest consternation, for he stood agape. “Have you no idea of the reason?”
“None whatever,” I replied. Then confidentially I told him of Ella’s mysterious absences, her walk in Kensington Gardens, and her letters from the unknown individual who had met her so frequently, omitting, however, all mention either of the theft or recovery of the secret convention, for it was Lord Warnham’s wish that I should keep the existence of that instrument a profound secret.
“Have you no idea who this strange fellow is?” he inquired, sympathetically.
“Not the slightest,” I said.
“Ella was not addicted to flirtation,” he observed reflectively, a few moments later. “As you are aware, I have been acquainted with the family for some years, and have known your wife ever since she could toddle.”
“Tell me of them,” I urged impatiently. “I know scarcely anything beyond what Ella and her mother have told me. What do you know of Ella’s past?”
“You speak as if you suspected her to be an adventuress,” he said, and as the lamplight fell upon his face I saw that his lips relaxed into a good-humoured smile. “As far as I’m aware there is no incident of her life prior to marriage that will not bear the fullest investigation; and as for her mother, no more straightforward nor upright woman ever lived. Before poor Robert Laing died I was a frequent visitor at their country house, so I had ample opportunity of noticing what an affectionate family they were; and after his death it was I who succeeded in turning his great business into a limited liability concern.”
To outsiders Beck was a swaggering parvenu, who delighted in exhibiting his wealth to others by giving expensive dinners and indulging in extravagances of speech and beverage; but towards me he had always been honestly outspoken and unassuming—in fact, a typical successful business man, with whose unruffled good humour I had, even when madly jealous of his attentions to Ella, found it impossible to quarrel. I had long ago grown to ridicule the suggestion that any secret had existed between them, and now felt instinctively that he was my friend.
“Do you think—” I asked him, after a long pause. “Candidly speaking, have you any suspicion that Dudley Ogle was her lover?”
He knit his brows. For an instant a hard expression played about his mouth, and he drew a long breath.
“I didn’t, of course, know so much of Dudley as you did,” he answered, slowly contemplating the end of his cigar. “But to tell you the honest truth, I always suspected that he loved her. In fact her own evidence at the inquest was sufficient proof of that.”
“His death was an enigma,” I observed.
“Entirely so,” he acquiesced, sighing.
“She alleged that he had been murdered, and there is no room for doubt that she entertained certain very grave suspicions.”
“Of what?”
“Of the identity of the murderer,” I said. “She declared to me, times without number, that she would never rest until she had unravelled the mystery.”
“Her theory was a very wild one,” he laughed. “Personally, I do not entertain it for one moment. The medical opinion that he died from a sudden but natural cause is undoubtedly correct,” he said, replacing his dead cigar between his lips, as, slowly striking a vesta, he re-lit it. Then he added, “Her anxiety to avenge Dudley’s death certainly seems to bear out your suspicion that they were lovers.”
“Then you entirely agree with me?” I cried.
“In a measure only,” he answered, his voice suddenly harsh and cold. “I have no suspicion that she ever reciprocated his affection, although in seeking to learn the truth of your friend’s tragic end she must have had some very strong motive.”
“Another fact I also discovered was a trifle curious,” I observed, after we had strolled along the deserted Terrace from end to end, discussing the details of Dudley’s death, and the manner in which it had affected her.
“What was it?” he inquired, glancing towards me.
“I found that she was in the habit of visiting every day a pretty Russian girl with whom I was acquainted.”
“Before marriage?” he asked, raising his eyebrows meaningly.
“Yes,” I answered. “She was a refugee, and I had been enabled to render her father a service some time before; therefore we had become friends. I had lost sight of her for a long time, and when I again met her I discovered that she had not only been an intimate friend of poor Dudley, but that Ella visited her frequently on her bicycle when she was supposed by her mother to be riding in the Park.”
“Was there anything remarkable in that fact?” he inquired, with a half-amused air, nevertheless regarding me with undue keenness, I thought.
“Nothing, except that the little Russian, who, having lost her father, was living a lonely life in a rather large house in Kensington, warned me against Ella, telling me she was my enemy. She, however, left without fulfilling her promise to reveal the details.”
“Your enemy!” he cried, laughing jocosely. “She was evidently jealous of your attentions to her, my boy. A Russian, too! She was a Nihilist, I suppose, or some interestingly romantic person of that sort, eh? Surely you didn’t heed what she said, did you?”
“Of course not,” I replied, with a forced laugh. “I loved Ella too well; so I married her.”
“And you now regret it,” he added abruptly.
Without replying I walked on by his side, smoking furiously. My object in seeking him had been to learn what I could of Ella’s past, but no mysterious incident had, to his knowledge, occurred. Her family were well-known in Yorkshire, respected throughout the county, and no breath of scandal had ever besmirched the fair fame of either Robert Laing’s widow or his daughter. Beck, their intimate friend, concealed nothing from me, but frankly discussed my hopes and fears, expressing his heartfelt sympathy that I should have thus mysteriously lost my well-beloved, and offering me all the assistance that lay in his power.
“It certainly is extremely curious that Mrs Laing should have left Pont Street without sending me a letter to the club, giving me her new address,” he said calmly, after reflection.
“You have not, then, heard from her?”
“No, I have had no letter. A week before I left for South Africa I dined there, and she then told me that she intended to remain in England throughout the year. She expressed the greatest gratification that Ella had married so happily, and seemed in the best of spirits. Yet a few days later, it appears, she fled as secretly as if she had been a criminal. It is really very extraordinary; I can’t account for it in the least.”
“All effort to trace Ella has failed,” I observed gloomily, after a moment’s reflection.
“Whose aid have you sought? A private inquiry agent?”
“No. The police,” I answered.
“Police!” he exclaimed, surprised. “They have committed no crime, surely. I—I mean that the police do not trace missing friends.”
“They will carry out the orders of any Government Department,” I answered. “The request came from my chief.”
“From Lord Warnham! Then you have told him!”
“Of course,” I responded.
In contemplative silence he slowly blew a great cloud of smoke from his lips. Then he said, “There is one thing you haven’t told me, Geoffrey. What was the name of this pretty Russian who made these mysterious allegations against Ella?”
“Her name was Sonia Korolénko.”
“Sonia Korolénko!” he cried in a voice strangely hoarse, halting and glaring at me with wide-open, staring eyes. “Sonia! And she has gone, you say?”
“Yes. She has returned to Russia, I believe. But what do you know of her?” I quickly inquired.
“Nothing. I merely know her by repute as a notorious woman, that’s all,” he answered. “You were certainly wise to discard her allegations.”
“Is she such a well-known person?” I asked.
“I should rather think so,” he answered, elevating his eyebrows. “Her fame has spread all over the Continent. She was leader of a certain circle of questionable society in Vienna a year ago, and narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the police.”
“But what can have induced Ella to associate with her?” I exclaimed in wonderment.
“Ah! That is more than we can tell,” he answered, in a tone of sincere regret. “The ways of women of her type are ofttimes utterly incomprehensible.”
“Were you aware that Ella was acquainted with her?” I inquired earnestly.
At that moment, however, the electric gongs along the Terrace commenced ringing sharply, announcing that the House was about to divide. The division was upon an important amendment, and had been expected at any moment since the dinner-hour. Turning back quickly he hurried through the tea-room along the corridor, and shaking hands with me in haste, promising to resume our conversation on another occasion, disappeared to record his vote.
For a single instant I stood alone in the Lobby, watching the receding figure of the portly man of the hour, and pondering deeply. Then, full of gloomy recollections of the past, I turned on my heel and went out through the long, echoing hall.
Chapter Twenty Six.A Mission and its Sequel.“You fully understand the position, Deedes?”“Absolutely,” I replied.“Well, this is your first mission abroad—a secret one and most important—so do your best, and let me see how you shape towards being a diplomatist. Remember you have one main object to bear in mind, as I have already told you; and further, that the strictest secrecy is absolutely necessary.”It was the Earl of Warnham who thus spoke gravely as we stood opposite one another in the private room of the Minister in attendance at Osborne. Between us was a large table littered with state documents, each of which Her Majesty had carefully investigated before appending her firm, well-written signature. Late on the previous night I had travelled to the Isle of Wight in response to a telegram summoning me and my chief, who, after three rather protracted audiences of Her Majesty during the morning, had instructed me to proceed at once to Paris, entrusting me with a secret mission. Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, would undoubtedly have gone, but as he was away in Scotland attending some election meetings, and as time was pressing, I had, much to my gratification, been chosen. My mission was a rather curious one, not unconnected with Her Majesty’s personal affairs, and the instructions I had to deliver to the Marquis of Worthorpe, our Ambassador to the French Republic, were of such a delicate nature that if written in a formal dispatch would, the Earl feared, cause that skilled and highly-valued diplomatist to send in his resignation.I had therefore been chosen to put a suggestion politely to his Excellency, and at the same time deliver the Earl’s instructions with deference, yet so firmly that they could not be disregarded. Mine was certainly a difficult task, nevertheless in my enthusiasm at being chosen to execute this secret mission abroad I was prepared to attempt anything, from the settlement of the Egyptian Question to the formation of a Quadruple Alliance.“I shall carry out your instructions to the best of my ability,” I assured him, after he had given me various valuable hints how to act.“Yes,” the aged Minister said, slowly gathering the tails of his black broadcloth frock coat over his arms and thrusting his hands into his pockets, “cross from Newhaven to-night, and you can see Worthorpe at noon to-morrow. Tell him to give you an interview alone; then explain what I have told you. He must obtain an audience of the President some time to-morrow.”“I shall act as discreetly as possible,” I declared.“I feel sure you will, Deedes,” he exclaimed, with a look more kindly than usual. “This mission will, I hope, lead to others, further afield, perhaps. But remember that you were once victimised by a spy; therefore exercise the greatest care and caution in this and all matters.”“I certainly shall,” I answered, smiling; then, after the further discussion of a point upon which I was not perfectly clear, I wished my chief adieu.As I passed out of the room he said,—“Put up at the Continental. If I have any further instructions, I’ll wire in cypher.”“Very well,” I replied, and as I went forth I met on the threshold a servant in the royal livery who had come to summon the trusted Minister to another audience with his Sovereign.Eager to fulfil my mission to the satisfaction of the eccentric old statesman, who, if to others was a martinet, was to me a firm and sympathetic friend, I at once set out, crossed to Dieppe that night, and duly arrived in Paris next day. Shortly before noon I presented myself at the handsome official residence of the British Ambassador, and was quickly ushered into his presence. We were not strangers, having met on several occasions when he visited London and called to consult the chief; therefore he welcomed me cordially when I entered his private room. The Marquis was a tall, brown-bearded, pleasant-faced man, who had graduated in the Constantinople and Vienna schools of diplomacy before being appointed Ambassador in Paris, and who had achieved considerable reputation as a skilled negotiator of the most delicate points.Seated opposite one another in softly-padded armchairs, we chatted affably for perhaps a quarter of an hour. First, he inquired after our chief’s health, and then endeavoured to ascertain from me the policy about to be pursued towards Russia in view of our recent strained relations, but I strenuously avoided answering any of his artfully-concealed questions. A dozen times, with that consummate tact acquired by a lifetime of diplomacy, he endeavoured to get me to hazard an opinion or express a doubt, but I always refused. Lord Warnham’s instructions were that I should say nothing of those affairs of State which, in my capacity of private secretary, were well-known to me, hence my determination to maintain silence.Presently the Marquis smilingly exclaimed, “Lord Warnham has evidently taught you the first requisite of the successful diplomatist—namely, secrecy. You’ve borne well the test I have applied, Deedes. By the same questions I have just put to you I could have learnt just what I wanted from half the diplomatic circle here in Paris, yet you have fenced with me admirably. I shall not omit to mention the fact to Lord Warnham when next I call at the Foreign Office.”I thanked his Excellency, adding, with a smile, “One learns the value of silence with our chief.”“Yes,” he answered, slowly tapping his table with a quill. “He’s a curious man, extremely curious. His very eccentricity causes him to be feared by every Cabinet in Europe. Is he really as impetuous and strange in private life as he is in public?”I paused, looking fixedly into my companions dark eyes.“The object of my visit, your Excellency, is not to discuss the merits of my chief or the policy of the Home Government, but to make a suggestion which he has desired me to place before you with all deference to your wide experience as Ambassador, and your unequalled knowledge of the French people,” I said gravely, and then, clearly and succinctly, I placed before him the Earl’s ideas, together with the instructions he had entrusted me to deliver.At first the Ambassador, resenting my interference with his actions, seemed disinclined to entertain the suggestions; but using the arguments my chief had advanced, I at length induced him to view the matter from the same standpoint. I even obtained from him what was practically an admission that the policy he had pursued in the past regarding the question under discussion was not altogether sound, and once having obtained that, I felt confident of gaining my point without any unpleasant incident. From that moment, indeed, he recognised that I bore a message from the chief, therefore he treated me pleasantly, and announced his intention of seeking an audience with the President of the Republic at the Elysée at four o’clock, to enter upon negotiations which Her Majesty earnestly desired should be carried forward without delay.Although the Marquis treated me with calm, unruffled dignity, as befitted the Ambassador of the greatest nation on earth, I nevertheless congratulated myself that my efforts had been eminently successful. Aided by the promptings of the shrewd old Earl, I had, I flattered myself, exercised a careful and even delicate tact in dealing with this leader among diplomatists, and, as may be imagined, the knowledge that my mission was successful caused me the utmost satisfaction.When I had first approached the subject he had been inclined to disregard my words, and grew so angry that I feared lest he might tender his resignation, as the Earl had apprehended. But the Minister’s clever arguments, rather than my own tact, convinced him, for he saw that to act at once was imperative; hence the success of my first secret mission.We sat together for nearly an hour calmly discussing the matter from various standpoints, and when we rose his Excellency again congratulated me upon the soundness of my views, laughingly declaring that, instead of penning the Earl’s impatient and irritating dispatches, he ought to appoint me to a post abroad.Full of elation, I descended the broad stairs, so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly, and met unexpectedly, a few moments later, my friend Captain Cargill, of the 2nd Life Guards, the junior Military Attaché, who greeted me with a hearty British hand-grip.“Didn’t expect to meet you here, old chap,” he cried. “I thought you were tied up in the chief’s private room always, and never allowed out of England.”“This is the first time I’ve been here officially,” I replied, laughing.“What’s the trouble? Anything startling?” he inquired.“No, nothing very extraordinary,” I remarked, carelessly. “I’ve seen the Marquis, and concluded my mission.”Continuing, I extracted from him a promise to dine with me at the Continental that evening, as I intended to leave next day, and after a brief conversation we parted. Along the shady side of the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré I strolled leisurely, turning into the Rue Royale, passing the gloomy façade of the Madeleine, and continuing along the boulevard to the Grand Café. Paris possessed but little attraction for me in my gloomy frame of mind. Five years of my youth had been spent there, and I knew the city in every mood, but to-day, plunged as I was in a debauch of melancholy, its gay aspect under the warm sunshine jarred upon me.On leaving the Embassy it had occurred to me to call upon an old friend, who, in my student days, had shared rooms with me, but who had been returned as Deputy at the last election, and now lived in the Rue des Petits-Champs. With that object I had walked along mechanically, and instead of turning down the Rue des Capucines, as I should have done, I had found myself in the Place de l’Opéra. Then, seating myself at one of the tables in front of the Grand Café, I ordered a “bock,” and contemplatively watched the crowd of passers-by.When last I had sat at that spot it was with Ella, on the night before we had returned to London from our honeymoon. Well I remembered how happy and content she had then been; how she had enjoyed the light, cosmopolitan chatter about her, and how fondly we had loved each other. In those days she had mingled tender words with her kisses, which seemed to bear my soul away. Yet how weary and full of terrible anxiety had been the nine months that had elapsed since that delightful autumn night, the last of our lazy tour through rural France. When I reflected upon all the remarkable occurrences, they seemed like some hideous nightmare, while she herself appeared striking, yet mysterious, as the fair vision in some half-remembered dream.Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar.A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the café when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him.It was Ivan Renouf.He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we returned to the café, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently, after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing’s, I asked him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service.“What your wife told you was quite correct,” he answered, with a mysterious smile; “I was detected.”“You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are keeping observation,” I remarked.Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly, answered,—“It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame’s service.”“She left London almost immediately,” I said.“Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her,” he observed, rather abruptly.“My wife also fled on the same day,” I exclaimed slowly. “I haven’t seen her since.”At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, “So I have heard.”“Tell me,” I urged earnestly, “do you know anything of her movements? I am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair.”With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass, raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing it upon the table, he coldly answered,—“I know nothing of your wife’s whereabouts, m’sieur.”“Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?” I asked, annoyed.He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him instinctively.“Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary manner?” I suggested. “Can you assign any motive whatever for their flight?”“I am really not good at conundrums,” he replied indifferently. “But if you took my advice, m’sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved you.”“How do you know that?” I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time.“From my own observations,” he answered, looking straight at me across the table. “Your marriage was, I am fully aware, an unhappy one; therefore you should regard it entirely as of the past. She will never trouble you again, I can assure you.”“Why?” I demanded. “Your words indicate that you are fully aware of the true facts. Tell me all, Renouf, and set my mind at rest.”“I have told you all, m’sieur,” he said, suddenly tossing his cigarette away, glancing at his watch and rising. “That is, I have told you all that I may. But I have an appointment,” he added abruptly. “Adieu.”And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the direction of the Boulevard des Italiens.In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella’s faithlessness. What motive could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved me?That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool, star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day.Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or American resident in Paris, the Hôtel Chatham, and entering the American bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender, counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel—Monsieur Goron, the well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft, loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took upLe Monde Illustré, lying upon the table, and opened it carelessly.Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay.The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound.
“You fully understand the position, Deedes?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
“Well, this is your first mission abroad—a secret one and most important—so do your best, and let me see how you shape towards being a diplomatist. Remember you have one main object to bear in mind, as I have already told you; and further, that the strictest secrecy is absolutely necessary.”
It was the Earl of Warnham who thus spoke gravely as we stood opposite one another in the private room of the Minister in attendance at Osborne. Between us was a large table littered with state documents, each of which Her Majesty had carefully investigated before appending her firm, well-written signature. Late on the previous night I had travelled to the Isle of Wight in response to a telegram summoning me and my chief, who, after three rather protracted audiences of Her Majesty during the morning, had instructed me to proceed at once to Paris, entrusting me with a secret mission. Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, would undoubtedly have gone, but as he was away in Scotland attending some election meetings, and as time was pressing, I had, much to my gratification, been chosen. My mission was a rather curious one, not unconnected with Her Majesty’s personal affairs, and the instructions I had to deliver to the Marquis of Worthorpe, our Ambassador to the French Republic, were of such a delicate nature that if written in a formal dispatch would, the Earl feared, cause that skilled and highly-valued diplomatist to send in his resignation.
I had therefore been chosen to put a suggestion politely to his Excellency, and at the same time deliver the Earl’s instructions with deference, yet so firmly that they could not be disregarded. Mine was certainly a difficult task, nevertheless in my enthusiasm at being chosen to execute this secret mission abroad I was prepared to attempt anything, from the settlement of the Egyptian Question to the formation of a Quadruple Alliance.
“I shall carry out your instructions to the best of my ability,” I assured him, after he had given me various valuable hints how to act.
“Yes,” the aged Minister said, slowly gathering the tails of his black broadcloth frock coat over his arms and thrusting his hands into his pockets, “cross from Newhaven to-night, and you can see Worthorpe at noon to-morrow. Tell him to give you an interview alone; then explain what I have told you. He must obtain an audience of the President some time to-morrow.”
“I shall act as discreetly as possible,” I declared.
“I feel sure you will, Deedes,” he exclaimed, with a look more kindly than usual. “This mission will, I hope, lead to others, further afield, perhaps. But remember that you were once victimised by a spy; therefore exercise the greatest care and caution in this and all matters.”
“I certainly shall,” I answered, smiling; then, after the further discussion of a point upon which I was not perfectly clear, I wished my chief adieu.
As I passed out of the room he said,—
“Put up at the Continental. If I have any further instructions, I’ll wire in cypher.”
“Very well,” I replied, and as I went forth I met on the threshold a servant in the royal livery who had come to summon the trusted Minister to another audience with his Sovereign.
Eager to fulfil my mission to the satisfaction of the eccentric old statesman, who, if to others was a martinet, was to me a firm and sympathetic friend, I at once set out, crossed to Dieppe that night, and duly arrived in Paris next day. Shortly before noon I presented myself at the handsome official residence of the British Ambassador, and was quickly ushered into his presence. We were not strangers, having met on several occasions when he visited London and called to consult the chief; therefore he welcomed me cordially when I entered his private room. The Marquis was a tall, brown-bearded, pleasant-faced man, who had graduated in the Constantinople and Vienna schools of diplomacy before being appointed Ambassador in Paris, and who had achieved considerable reputation as a skilled negotiator of the most delicate points.
Seated opposite one another in softly-padded armchairs, we chatted affably for perhaps a quarter of an hour. First, he inquired after our chief’s health, and then endeavoured to ascertain from me the policy about to be pursued towards Russia in view of our recent strained relations, but I strenuously avoided answering any of his artfully-concealed questions. A dozen times, with that consummate tact acquired by a lifetime of diplomacy, he endeavoured to get me to hazard an opinion or express a doubt, but I always refused. Lord Warnham’s instructions were that I should say nothing of those affairs of State which, in my capacity of private secretary, were well-known to me, hence my determination to maintain silence.
Presently the Marquis smilingly exclaimed, “Lord Warnham has evidently taught you the first requisite of the successful diplomatist—namely, secrecy. You’ve borne well the test I have applied, Deedes. By the same questions I have just put to you I could have learnt just what I wanted from half the diplomatic circle here in Paris, yet you have fenced with me admirably. I shall not omit to mention the fact to Lord Warnham when next I call at the Foreign Office.”
I thanked his Excellency, adding, with a smile, “One learns the value of silence with our chief.”
“Yes,” he answered, slowly tapping his table with a quill. “He’s a curious man, extremely curious. His very eccentricity causes him to be feared by every Cabinet in Europe. Is he really as impetuous and strange in private life as he is in public?”
I paused, looking fixedly into my companions dark eyes.
“The object of my visit, your Excellency, is not to discuss the merits of my chief or the policy of the Home Government, but to make a suggestion which he has desired me to place before you with all deference to your wide experience as Ambassador, and your unequalled knowledge of the French people,” I said gravely, and then, clearly and succinctly, I placed before him the Earl’s ideas, together with the instructions he had entrusted me to deliver.
At first the Ambassador, resenting my interference with his actions, seemed disinclined to entertain the suggestions; but using the arguments my chief had advanced, I at length induced him to view the matter from the same standpoint. I even obtained from him what was practically an admission that the policy he had pursued in the past regarding the question under discussion was not altogether sound, and once having obtained that, I felt confident of gaining my point without any unpleasant incident. From that moment, indeed, he recognised that I bore a message from the chief, therefore he treated me pleasantly, and announced his intention of seeking an audience with the President of the Republic at the Elysée at four o’clock, to enter upon negotiations which Her Majesty earnestly desired should be carried forward without delay.
Although the Marquis treated me with calm, unruffled dignity, as befitted the Ambassador of the greatest nation on earth, I nevertheless congratulated myself that my efforts had been eminently successful. Aided by the promptings of the shrewd old Earl, I had, I flattered myself, exercised a careful and even delicate tact in dealing with this leader among diplomatists, and, as may be imagined, the knowledge that my mission was successful caused me the utmost satisfaction.
When I had first approached the subject he had been inclined to disregard my words, and grew so angry that I feared lest he might tender his resignation, as the Earl had apprehended. But the Minister’s clever arguments, rather than my own tact, convinced him, for he saw that to act at once was imperative; hence the success of my first secret mission.
We sat together for nearly an hour calmly discussing the matter from various standpoints, and when we rose his Excellency again congratulated me upon the soundness of my views, laughingly declaring that, instead of penning the Earl’s impatient and irritating dispatches, he ought to appoint me to a post abroad.
Full of elation, I descended the broad stairs, so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly, and met unexpectedly, a few moments later, my friend Captain Cargill, of the 2nd Life Guards, the junior Military Attaché, who greeted me with a hearty British hand-grip.
“Didn’t expect to meet you here, old chap,” he cried. “I thought you were tied up in the chief’s private room always, and never allowed out of England.”
“This is the first time I’ve been here officially,” I replied, laughing.
“What’s the trouble? Anything startling?” he inquired.
“No, nothing very extraordinary,” I remarked, carelessly. “I’ve seen the Marquis, and concluded my mission.”
Continuing, I extracted from him a promise to dine with me at the Continental that evening, as I intended to leave next day, and after a brief conversation we parted. Along the shady side of the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré I strolled leisurely, turning into the Rue Royale, passing the gloomy façade of the Madeleine, and continuing along the boulevard to the Grand Café. Paris possessed but little attraction for me in my gloomy frame of mind. Five years of my youth had been spent there, and I knew the city in every mood, but to-day, plunged as I was in a debauch of melancholy, its gay aspect under the warm sunshine jarred upon me.
On leaving the Embassy it had occurred to me to call upon an old friend, who, in my student days, had shared rooms with me, but who had been returned as Deputy at the last election, and now lived in the Rue des Petits-Champs. With that object I had walked along mechanically, and instead of turning down the Rue des Capucines, as I should have done, I had found myself in the Place de l’Opéra. Then, seating myself at one of the tables in front of the Grand Café, I ordered a “bock,” and contemplatively watched the crowd of passers-by.
When last I had sat at that spot it was with Ella, on the night before we had returned to London from our honeymoon. Well I remembered how happy and content she had then been; how she had enjoyed the light, cosmopolitan chatter about her, and how fondly we had loved each other. In those days she had mingled tender words with her kisses, which seemed to bear my soul away. Yet how weary and full of terrible anxiety had been the nine months that had elapsed since that delightful autumn night, the last of our lazy tour through rural France. When I reflected upon all the remarkable occurrences, they seemed like some hideous nightmare, while she herself appeared striking, yet mysterious, as the fair vision in some half-remembered dream.
Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar.
A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the café when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him.
It was Ivan Renouf.
He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we returned to the café, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently, after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing’s, I asked him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service.
“What your wife told you was quite correct,” he answered, with a mysterious smile; “I was detected.”
“You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are keeping observation,” I remarked.
Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly, answered,—
“It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame’s service.”
“She left London almost immediately,” I said.
“Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her,” he observed, rather abruptly.
“My wife also fled on the same day,” I exclaimed slowly. “I haven’t seen her since.”
At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, “So I have heard.”
“Tell me,” I urged earnestly, “do you know anything of her movements? I am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair.”
With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass, raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing it upon the table, he coldly answered,—
“I know nothing of your wife’s whereabouts, m’sieur.”
“Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?” I asked, annoyed.
He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him instinctively.
“Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary manner?” I suggested. “Can you assign any motive whatever for their flight?”
“I am really not good at conundrums,” he replied indifferently. “But if you took my advice, m’sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved you.”
“How do you know that?” I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time.
“From my own observations,” he answered, looking straight at me across the table. “Your marriage was, I am fully aware, an unhappy one; therefore you should regard it entirely as of the past. She will never trouble you again, I can assure you.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Your words indicate that you are fully aware of the true facts. Tell me all, Renouf, and set my mind at rest.”
“I have told you all, m’sieur,” he said, suddenly tossing his cigarette away, glancing at his watch and rising. “That is, I have told you all that I may. But I have an appointment,” he added abruptly. “Adieu.”
And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the direction of the Boulevard des Italiens.
In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella’s faithlessness. What motive could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved me?
That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool, star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day.
Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or American resident in Paris, the Hôtel Chatham, and entering the American bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender, counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel—Monsieur Goron, the well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft, loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took upLe Monde Illustré, lying upon the table, and opened it carelessly.
Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay.
The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound.
Chapter Twenty Seven.Cosmopolitans.“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. “You look as if you’ve got an acute attack of the jim-jams.”“See!” I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves.“Deucedly pretty woman,” declared the attaché, who was nothing if not a ladies’ man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.“Yes, yes, I know,” I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon.The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words,—“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia.”“Look!” I cried, my eye still upon the page. “Surely there’s some mistake! That can’t be the Grand Duchess!”Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both declared that there was no mistake.“She’s very well-known here,” exclaimed the attaché. “I’ve seen her driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one never forgets such a face as hers.”“Does she live here?” I inquired breathlessly.“Sometimes,” he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke, he added, “She’s been away a long time now. I suppose you want an introduction to her—eh? Well, I don’t expect you’ll be successful, as her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the ‘corps diplomatique.’”“No,” I answered huskily, “I desire no introduction.” A sudden giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter, the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down.“Do you know her?” inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent, at the same time regarding me curiously.“Yes,” I answered, not without hesitation. “She is—I mean we have already met.”“Well, you’re to be congratulated,” he answered, smiling. “I reckon she’s the finest looking woman in Paris, and that’s a solid fact.”Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait. Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows,—“Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, the scene of so many brilliantfêtesduring her last residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly, in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoïe-Selo, but her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return.”I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified. This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the cousin of an Emperor.The astounding truth seemed incredible.“Well,” asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, “have you been reading all about her?”“Yes,” I answered, drawing a long breath.“Come, don’t sigh like that, old fellow,” he cried, and glancing across to the bar, shouted, “Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend.”To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream.“Her beauty is simply marvellous,” Allender acknowledged, smoking on in his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years, formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among the English-speaking colonies in the French capital.“I entirely agree with m’sieur,” observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken English. “Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah—cold as an icicle.”“Is there no scandal regarding her?” I inquired eagerly, well knowing that in Paris no woman is considered reallychicwithout some story being whispered about her.“None,” replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. “I have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a most estimable young lady. There is, however,” he added, “some curious romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life.”“A romance?” cried Cargill. “Do tell us all about it.”“Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details,” answered the old Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. “It was alleged once by somebody I met officially—who it was, I really forget. She lived for years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of the richest women in Paris.”“Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city and gives money to the poor?” I asked him, for this love of midnight adventure accounted for Ella’s strange penchant for rambling alone at night that had once caused me so much perturbation.“Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on several occasions last year,” he replied. “She attired herself in an old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However, when she is going we always know at the Préfecture, and take precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an Imperial Highness,” he added.“Of course not,” observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct, “Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance,” an observation at which we all three laughed merrily.“Has she a lover?” inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron.“I think not,” the other replied. “I never heard of one. Indeed, I have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody.”“Tell me, m’sieur,” I asked, “are you acquainted with a Russian named Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service.”“Renouf!” he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes. “Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he is in the actual service of the Tzar’s Government I don’t know, but one thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel,” he added frankly.“What offence has he committed?” I asked, eager to learn some fact to his detriment.“He keeps well within the bounds of the law,” my companion answered. “Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies, always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their places being taken by a fresh batch.”“Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?”“None, m’sieur,” Monsieur Goron answered. “He has been absent fully six months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala.”“Did you speak?”“Yes. He did not, however, recognise me,” smiled the Chief of Police. “I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight to the Préfecture,” added the man of a thousand disguises with a chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp.“Where does the Grand Duchess live?” I inquired, after a slight pause.“Deedes is simply gone on her,” cried Cargill, with good-humoured banter. “He evidently wants to take her out to dinner.”“No,” I protested, smiling grimly. “Nothing of the kind. I only want to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysées she lives.”“It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side, just beyond the Avenue de l’Alma,” explained the Chief of Police, laughing at Cargill’s suggestion.“But how did you become acquainted with her?” inquired the attaché, presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling her virtues.“We met in London,” I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential mood.“And she captivated you, eh?” my friend exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she’s here.”“It is said, and I believe there’s a good deal of truth in it,” exclaimed Goron, confidentially, “that young Max Duchanel, the well-known writer on theFigaro, committed suicide last year by shooting himself over at Le Pré St Gervais because she disregarded his attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the position of the personage therein mentioned.”At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia’s disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had, while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known; and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room, pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress.“Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?” Goron asked me presently, appearing much interested.“Yes,” I replied.“Ah!” he ejaculated. “She is perfectly charming, and so fond of concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To me, she is always so affable and so nice.”“Goron is sweet on her also, I believe,” observed Allender, whereat we all laughed in chorus.I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions, endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London, New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to pursue.“Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several occasions a year ago, but she declined each,” I heard the attaché saying. “She’s a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut above us. But, after all, I don’t blame her,” he added, reflectively. “Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to struggle for a foothold in society.”“Correct,” observed Allender. “The women who flutter around at our Embassy are the gayest crowd I’ve ever struck. I reckon they’re not of her set. But she’s a very fine woman, even though she may be a Highness. She’s simply beautiful. I’ve seen some fine women in my day, but for thrilling a man’s soul and driving him to distraction, I never saw anyone to compare with her.”“That’s so,” Cargill acquiesced. “Yet her refusal to come to us has often been remarked by our chief, especially as we’ve entertained a crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another.”“She has a reason, I suppose,” observed Goron, slowly twisting his eternal caporal.“Goron appears to know all her secrets,” said Cargill, winking at me knowingly. “He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement.”The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both his hands in protest, crying,—“No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly.”“But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta Nicolayevna,” observed Cargill, “therefore, when you next see her, tell her how her portrait inLe Mondehas been admired by an impressionable young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and profound admiration of all three of us.”“Don’t do anything of the kind, Goron,” I cried, rather angrily. “Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult.”“Very well, if you’re really going to call on her, you might convey our message,” exclaimed the attaché, nonchalantly. “You’re not jealous, are you?”“I don’t think there’s any need for jealousy,” I responded.Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and “dead beats” make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would have been difficult.As we still sat together smoking and drinking, the pair directed their chaff continually in my direction. Evidently believing that the incomparable beauty of Her Highness had fascinated me, they urged me to go to her and suggest a drive in the Bois, a quiet little dinner somewhere, or a box at the opera. Little did they dream how every jesting word they uttered pained me, how each laugh at my expense caused me excruciating anguish, or how any detrimental allegation, spoken unthinkingly, sank deeply into my mind. But I had never worn my heart on my sleeve, therefore I treated their banter with good humour, determined that, at least for the present, they should remain in ignorance of the fact that I was the husband of the woman whose adorable face and charming manner had excited universal admiration in the gayest capital of the world.
“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. “You look as if you’ve got an acute attack of the jim-jams.”
“See!” I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves.
“Deucedly pretty woman,” declared the attaché, who was nothing if not a ladies’ man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.
The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon.
The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words,—
“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia.”
“Look!” I cried, my eye still upon the page. “Surely there’s some mistake! That can’t be the Grand Duchess!”
Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both declared that there was no mistake.
“She’s very well-known here,” exclaimed the attaché. “I’ve seen her driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one never forgets such a face as hers.”
“Does she live here?” I inquired breathlessly.
“Sometimes,” he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke, he added, “She’s been away a long time now. I suppose you want an introduction to her—eh? Well, I don’t expect you’ll be successful, as her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the ‘corps diplomatique.’”
“No,” I answered huskily, “I desire no introduction.” A sudden giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter, the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down.
“Do you know her?” inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent, at the same time regarding me curiously.
“Yes,” I answered, not without hesitation. “She is—I mean we have already met.”
“Well, you’re to be congratulated,” he answered, smiling. “I reckon she’s the finest looking woman in Paris, and that’s a solid fact.”
Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait. Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows,—
“Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, the scene of so many brilliantfêtesduring her last residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly, in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoïe-Selo, but her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return.”
I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified. This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the cousin of an Emperor.
The astounding truth seemed incredible.
“Well,” asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, “have you been reading all about her?”
“Yes,” I answered, drawing a long breath.
“Come, don’t sigh like that, old fellow,” he cried, and glancing across to the bar, shouted, “Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend.”
To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream.
“Her beauty is simply marvellous,” Allender acknowledged, smoking on in his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years, formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among the English-speaking colonies in the French capital.
“I entirely agree with m’sieur,” observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken English. “Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah—cold as an icicle.”
“Is there no scandal regarding her?” I inquired eagerly, well knowing that in Paris no woman is considered reallychicwithout some story being whispered about her.
“None,” replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. “I have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a most estimable young lady. There is, however,” he added, “some curious romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life.”
“A romance?” cried Cargill. “Do tell us all about it.”
“Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details,” answered the old Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. “It was alleged once by somebody I met officially—who it was, I really forget. She lived for years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of the richest women in Paris.”
“Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city and gives money to the poor?” I asked him, for this love of midnight adventure accounted for Ella’s strange penchant for rambling alone at night that had once caused me so much perturbation.
“Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on several occasions last year,” he replied. “She attired herself in an old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However, when she is going we always know at the Préfecture, and take precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an Imperial Highness,” he added.
“Of course not,” observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct, “Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance,” an observation at which we all three laughed merrily.
“Has she a lover?” inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron.
“I think not,” the other replied. “I never heard of one. Indeed, I have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody.”
“Tell me, m’sieur,” I asked, “are you acquainted with a Russian named Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service.”
“Renouf!” he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes. “Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he is in the actual service of the Tzar’s Government I don’t know, but one thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel,” he added frankly.
“What offence has he committed?” I asked, eager to learn some fact to his detriment.
“He keeps well within the bounds of the law,” my companion answered. “Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies, always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their places being taken by a fresh batch.”
“Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?”
“None, m’sieur,” Monsieur Goron answered. “He has been absent fully six months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala.”
“Did you speak?”
“Yes. He did not, however, recognise me,” smiled the Chief of Police. “I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight to the Préfecture,” added the man of a thousand disguises with a chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp.
“Where does the Grand Duchess live?” I inquired, after a slight pause.
“Deedes is simply gone on her,” cried Cargill, with good-humoured banter. “He evidently wants to take her out to dinner.”
“No,” I protested, smiling grimly. “Nothing of the kind. I only want to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysées she lives.”
“It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side, just beyond the Avenue de l’Alma,” explained the Chief of Police, laughing at Cargill’s suggestion.
“But how did you become acquainted with her?” inquired the attaché, presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling her virtues.
“We met in London,” I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential mood.
“And she captivated you, eh?” my friend exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she’s here.”
“It is said, and I believe there’s a good deal of truth in it,” exclaimed Goron, confidentially, “that young Max Duchanel, the well-known writer on theFigaro, committed suicide last year by shooting himself over at Le Pré St Gervais because she disregarded his attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the position of the personage therein mentioned.”
At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia’s disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had, while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known; and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room, pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress.
“Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?” Goron asked me presently, appearing much interested.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “She is perfectly charming, and so fond of concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To me, she is always so affable and so nice.”
“Goron is sweet on her also, I believe,” observed Allender, whereat we all laughed in chorus.
I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions, endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London, New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to pursue.
“Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several occasions a year ago, but she declined each,” I heard the attaché saying. “She’s a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut above us. But, after all, I don’t blame her,” he added, reflectively. “Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to struggle for a foothold in society.”
“Correct,” observed Allender. “The women who flutter around at our Embassy are the gayest crowd I’ve ever struck. I reckon they’re not of her set. But she’s a very fine woman, even though she may be a Highness. She’s simply beautiful. I’ve seen some fine women in my day, but for thrilling a man’s soul and driving him to distraction, I never saw anyone to compare with her.”
“That’s so,” Cargill acquiesced. “Yet her refusal to come to us has often been remarked by our chief, especially as we’ve entertained a crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another.”
“She has a reason, I suppose,” observed Goron, slowly twisting his eternal caporal.
“Goron appears to know all her secrets,” said Cargill, winking at me knowingly. “He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement.”
The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both his hands in protest, crying,—
“No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly.”
“But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta Nicolayevna,” observed Cargill, “therefore, when you next see her, tell her how her portrait inLe Mondehas been admired by an impressionable young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and profound admiration of all three of us.”
“Don’t do anything of the kind, Goron,” I cried, rather angrily. “Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult.”
“Very well, if you’re really going to call on her, you might convey our message,” exclaimed the attaché, nonchalantly. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“I don’t think there’s any need for jealousy,” I responded.
Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and “dead beats” make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would have been difficult.
As we still sat together smoking and drinking, the pair directed their chaff continually in my direction. Evidently believing that the incomparable beauty of Her Highness had fascinated me, they urged me to go to her and suggest a drive in the Bois, a quiet little dinner somewhere, or a box at the opera. Little did they dream how every jesting word they uttered pained me, how each laugh at my expense caused me excruciating anguish, or how any detrimental allegation, spoken unthinkingly, sank deeply into my mind. But I had never worn my heart on my sleeve, therefore I treated their banter with good humour, determined that, at least for the present, they should remain in ignorance of the fact that I was the husband of the woman whose adorable face and charming manner had excited universal admiration in the gayest capital of the world.