CHAPTER IV.
Peace after the storm! Ay, in so far that the tempest fiend has vanished, leaving behind him only the low moan of the dying gale. High above the heights which look down on Eilean Fianan, Tiorin’s ruins, and the lovely woods of Shona’s Isle, hover the cloud mists of rising morn, through whose seemingly tissue veil glint and gleam the joyous sparks, fantastic offspring of the new-born sun.
Its light, too, is warming those heights with a rosy glow, and the thick dark woods are pierced with its golden shafts. Like myriad diamonds sparkle the raindrops on the pines, and the dew on the glades and fairy rings, where elfin goblins have held their midnight orgies.
Yet the gale has left its after-birth in the rolling swell, which beats in relentless fury on the rock-girt coast of Shona’s Isle, and lashes the sandy stretch of beach between Ardtoe and Ru Druimnich. High tide is rising on those shores, an inland current has set in, and in its grasp are the trophies of the storm-fiend’s victory over the handiwork of man.
What are these trophies? Why, here and there a spar, a tossing barrel, a broken oar. There is something floating, too, on the heaving swell with which the waves are making merry, for they carry it to the sandy beach and drag it back again, toss it still further inland, and smother it in their spray.
It is a choice plaything; the salt sea waves are battling for it hard, but the tide and the inland current say them nay, and the sandy beach gives it a rugged welcome. There for a time it may rest.
It! But what may it be? A human body, surely?
Out in the bay the yacht Eilean is coasting up and down. Eager eyes are scanning the waste of water, and every sign of wreckage is minutely observed. Ever and anon the voices of the men aloft shout down some new discovery to the anxious watchers on the deck below. There is a look of intense agony in the eyes of the young Duke of Ravensdale as he paces that snow-white deck. His features are drawn and haggard, his cheeks are deathly pale, and the lines of care have seared their mark indelibly across his high and noble brow.
“Wreckage ahoy!” The men on the look out have spied another victim of the gale which the inland current is drawing to Ardnamurchan’s shores. What can it be? It looks like the back of a whale, or a huge porpoise turning over in its course. What can it be?
The Eilean steams towards it, and comes close up alongside it. No, it is no whale. Only the remnant of a fishing smack, part of which appears to have been bodily severed from the whole.
The sharp order to man the lifeboat cutter is given. In a few minutes it is riding the heaving swell. All eyes are occupied with this new discovery; even the look-out men have forgotten their duty aloft. Suddenly, however, Flora Desmond’s voice rings out. She has been keeping silent, faithful watch by Evie Ravensdale.
“What’s that?” she cries.
In a moment he is straining with an eager, hungry look those wild, despairing eyes. She is pointing away to starboard, and he sees, unmistakably sees, a human head and shoulders rising up and down on the grey ocean’s surface. With a low cry he springs forward. Were it not for Flora’s restraining clutch he would be overboard and swimming to meet it.
“Wait, Evie!” she says imploringly. “The boat will fetch it in a moment. Don’t go, Evie. Alas, it is not she!”
She has a clear sight has Flora Desmond. She has caught a glimpse of the dead white face thrown back as it rises on the crest of the heaving swell, and she knows that it is not the face of Gloria de Lara. But when the lifeboat cutter retrieves the body, and it is hoisted on to the deck, then indeed Flora cannot restrain a cry of horror as she recognises in the set, rigid face, wide open, staring eyes, and close clenched teeth the unmistakable features of the girl traitoress, the female Judas, Léonie.
“Take her from my sight! Oh God! take her away!” bursts from the pale lips of Evie Ravensdale, as in a moment the sight of the body before him drives from his heart the clinging hope that Gloria is not dead. He knows now that the storm-fiend has claimed her for his victim, that on this earth the dark blue eyes will never look their love again.
As they bear Léonie from his sight an unnatural calmness seizes him. He turns to Flora.
“We must do our duty, Flora. Mine is to see you safe. We will put the helm about, and steer for the great free land. And when we get there Flora, you will see her mother and break it to her, won’t you?”
His words are so cold and measured, his face so unmoved, that Flora is half fearful for his reason. She lays her hand gently on his arm.
“Not yet, Evie. We must put back to Shona first. We must not give up the search yet. I mean to examine the whole coast line between this and Ru Druimnich.”
“But she is dead, Flora. Don’t you know she is dead?” he says coldly.
“Still, Evie, we may find her dear body. Oh no, Evie, we must not give up the search; we must seek on,” answers Flora. She dare not buoy him up with the fresh hope that Gloria may be alive. The sight of Léonie has told her this cannot be; yet still she is resolved more than ever to search on for the body of her friend. The boatswain is standing near. She sends him with instructions to the captain, to put the yacht’s head about and run for Moidart’s Loch, and then she resumes her watch by Evie Ravensdale. Time flies, but he does not notice her; his eyes are staring out over the ocean wave. As they near the Loch, Nigel Estcourt comes up.
“A moment, Flora,” he says, motioning her to come apart. “The doctor is trying to bring Léonie round. He says life is not extinct. If he can only succeed, we may be able to extract from her what has happened. Will you go and see her? I will keep Ravensdale company while you go down?”
“You must be very gentle, Estcourt. You must watch him closely, too; I am terribly afraid for his reason. He seems turned to stone since he set eyes on Léonie. It is a bad sign. If tears would come they would relieve him. Ah! God help him. It is terrible.”
She sighs deeply as she turns from him. Heavy at heart, yet is Flora’s heart heavier still when it thinks of the agony which Evie Ravensdale is suffering. What would she not endure to bring comfort and peace to his tortured soul!
She makes her way down to the cabin where Léonie is lying; the doctor, with the stewardess and her assistant, are busy treating her. He looks up hopefully as Flora enters.
“She has moved; she has struggled for breath,” he observes quickly. “Lady Flora, she will live. She seems to me a mere child. I wonder who she is.”
But Flora does not answer, only she moves over to the couch, and looks down on the motionless girl.
It is strange, but as she looks she sees the same remarkable resemblance in this girl to Bernie Fontenoy, which Gloria had remarked the previous night. Certainly it is strange, very strange.
There is a long-drawn sigh, and then a struggle for breath. Léonie clutches the air with her hands, and her lips move.
“I am stifling,” she gasps; “don’t choke me, don’t, please don’t! Let me breathe, please let me breathe!” The doctor raises her up slightly, and again Léonie sighs. Then she draws a long breath. “I love you,” she says softly; “I love you, Gloria. I love God, too. I wish I hadn’t betrayed you now. But you have forgiven me, you have been kind to me, you have kissed me. Oh! those waves, those dreadful waves! They will kill you; you have given me the life-belt, and you have not got one. Take it off, Gloria. Put it on yourself and leave me. I don’t mind drowning. I would like to drown for you. Let me kiss you first. Let me sleep now; let me die.”
Her hitherto fixed and staring eyes shoot with a gleam of returning intelligence. She closes them, and her head falls forward.
“She will sleep now,” observes the doctor, as he lays her down and turns her on her side, “and when she awakes she will be all right. A marvellous recovery. She must have wonderful vitality in her. We will leave her now quiet, Lady Flora. The yacht is in motion again. Do we continue the search?”
“Yes, but along the coast. I must go now, doctor. You will let me know later how the patient is, won’t you?”
“Certainly,” he answers cheerfully.
Flora returns on deck. Léonie’s words have puzzled her. They were clearly addressed to Gloria, and yet these disjointed utterances can convey but one interpretation of her fate. Gladly would Flora swallow a grain of hope, but she knows that it would only make the reality harder to bear, a reality which she has faced and accepted already.
“Gloria,” she whispers, “if you can hear me now, you will know how true was Flora’s friendship. God help me, and I will clear your name of that foul charge laid to your door. Léonie may know something of it, and she will tell me, for on the threshold of death has she not said that she loves you?”
Brave, noble Flora! Self is buried in those generous words. She never pauses to think of the danger in which she stands, or the trouble which she must suffer. But Flora is heroic.
The yacht is gliding into Moidart’s Loch, and again the lifeboat cutter is manned and lowered. Flora has determined to search the whole shore within the radius of the drifting inland current, which long experience of these coasts has taught her, draws wrecks thereto.
She will conduct the search in this direction herself, while, as is now arranged, Estcourt and Archie Douglasdale will prosecute it along Shona’s rocky coast in the large gig. Archie had returned to Glenuig Bay, on the evening before, only to find the fishing box deserted, his sister, Ravensdale, and Estcourt gone. One of his trusty Ruglen retainers awaited him, however, with the information that they had crossed the hills by Kinlockmoidart for Eilean Shona, where the duke’s yacht lay anchored. The message which Léonie had been entrusted to convey was to this very effect, the duke having further commissioned her to apprise Gloria of his intended arrival alone, from the Loch Eilort side.
“Evie,” says Flora gently, “you will come with me, will you not? I am going to search the sand beaches in the cutter up to Ru Druimnich. Come, Evie.”
He turns almost sullenly. God help him! The torture he is suffering is writ in his eyes. “She is dead,” is all he says. But he follows Flora, nevertheless, and they enter the cutter together. Then he bows his face in his hands and remains silent.
The search they make is thorough. How could it be else with Flora in command? And gradually the cutter creeps slowly on in the direction of the body on the shore.
It is sighted at length; the look-out man utters his warning cry, and Flora stands suddenly up and stares eagerly ahead.
Yes, there it lies, high and dry on the sandy beach. Undoubtedly a human form.
“Bend to your oars, lads!” she cries. “I’m going to beach her;” and with that she brings the boat’s nose sharply for the shore. “Evie,” she says again, “rouse yourself, Evie. We shall be in the breakers in a minute. There is a body on the beach.”
He looks up quickly. Just a gleam of hope is in his wild eyes, and he is thoroughly on the alert. The boat rushes forward; it rises high on the first breaker, and is hurled towards the shore. True is the hand that holds the tiller and the nerve that guides it. Straight as a dart does Flora keep the cutter’s nose, and her voice encourages the oarsmen to their duty, the seething foam half fills the boat, but it gallantly rides the water still, as another breaker bears it onward. Now the keel grates the sandy bottom.
“Ship oars, lads, and out of her!” Flora commands, but she sets the example, too.
She is in the water waist high. In a moment the stalwart sailors have obeyed her. Rough, willing hands grasp the cutter’s sides, and with combined force to the seaman’s cheery “Pull, boys, together,” run her high and dry on to the beach.
But Evie Ravensdale has rushed forward. Hope still surges in his heart. The body is stretched out upon the sand, the figure is lying on its face, the hands are clenched. It is easy, however, to see that the body is not that of a woman; it is plain as plain can be that it is a man.
He sees this at once, and turns away with a bitter, despairing cry. It was a mad, vain hope to have indulged in, and yet in his breaking heart, Evie Ravensdale had prayed to be allowed to look upon her face once more, ay, even though it were in death.
An exclamation from Flora for a moment attracts him. She has followed him and has turned the body over.
“Evie!” she cries, and there is a passionate ring of triumph in her voice, “though Gloria be dead, her pure, fair fame is saved. Though God has taken her, He has dashed to the ground the foul lie with which they sought to doom her. Look, Evie, look! Her noble name is cleared.”
With a startled, eager look he comes to her side. He sees at his feet the pallid upturned face of a dead man. This man has dark hair, and a dark thick beard, moustache and whiskers in which grey hairs are stealing fast. This man has dark eyes, but the lustre of life has left them, and his white teeth are clenched together with a horrid grin.
He stares down at the corpse below him. The wild, hungry look in his beautiful eyes is dying now. Triumph and exultation are there.
“Gloria!” he cries, “my darling, you have triumphed. They thought they could kill you with a false and awful lie. There is your answer. Nor shall your great cause die. I swear to win it for you! I swear—I swear it now!”
He turns away with a gasping sob. But Flora has no longer any fear for him. Evie Ravensdale’s vow will bid him live, live on for Gloria’s sake.
Calmly and quietly she turns to the sailors. “We will carry that body to Dorlin, my lads. Guard it well. There lies the man whom a too confident jury declared to be dead, for whose murder the noblest of women was unjustly condemned. That corpse is Lord Westray!”
CHAPTER V.
The blinds are drawn down in the single window of a small bedroom that overlooks a narrow, dull, and dingy street, not far removed from Trafalgar Square. The room, though clean, bears a poverty-stricken look, for in it, in addition to the bed, there are only two chairs, an old table, and a dilapidated sofa with a thin rug covering it. There is a small washhand-stand in this room besides the other articles named, but this is all.
Lying on the bed is a large-eyed, pale, emaciated young man, upon whose face is unmistakably written the sign of death. His thin hands, in which the blue veins show prominently clear, lie listlessly on the coverlet, though now and again the feeble fingers twitch nervously thereat, and a hectic flush covers his pale cheeks. His large hollow eyes have a brilliant, shining look in them, and they appear to be fixed on the door of the room which stands slightly ajar.
There is a sound of the street door downstairs opening, and the movement of several feet. The young man raises himself up and listens eagerly, but the exertion is too much for him, and he sinks back with a heavy sigh. The footsteps he has heard are ascending the staircase, however, and his eyes devour the door more eagerly than before. It opens and admits a young girl, a girl who would decidedly be called pretty were it not for the pinched, careworn look that rules in her regular and well-cut features. She bears a great resemblance to the invalid whom we have been describing. This is not to be wondered at, seeing she is his twin-sister.
“Maggie,” he exclaims in a low voice as she enters, “have you brought him?”
“Yes, Eric,” she answers at once, as she comes to his bedside, and puts the old faded coverlet at which his fingers have been twitching smooth and tidy.
“Where is he?” again asks the brother in the same low voice.
“Downstairs, Eric. I’ll fetch him up. He’s brought another gentleman with him. He calls him a magistrate, I think. He said this gentleman must take your deposition, because he couldn’t,” says Maggie, as she opens the door. The next minute she is running down the somewhat rickety staircase. Two gentlemen are standing in the passage below.
“This way, please, sirs,” she says politely, and they follow up behind her to Eric Fortescue’s room. The two gentlemen are Colonel Francis Barrett, divisional magistrate, and Evie, Duke of Ravensdale.
Eric Fortescue fixes his eyes on the latter, whom he knows well by sight. He has seen him often before with Hector D’Estrange.
“You wish to see me, my lad?” inquires the duke in a kind, but sad voice. “Your sister tells me you have something particular to say to me?”
“Yes,” answers the sick youth, in his low, feeble voice; “and I want you, sir, to take down what I say, and hear me swear it’s all true. I want to tell you quick, sir, because I’m dying; I can’t last long.”
There is a sob over by the window. Maggie is looking out into the miserable street with her forehead pressed against one of its cracked panes.
“Say all you have to say very slowly to this gentleman then, my lad,” answers Evie Ravensdale. “He is a magistrate, and will take your deposition, and hear you swear to it.”
“I want to tell you, sir, how wicked I have been. But God has forgiven me, for Father Vaughan has heard my confession, and given me absolution. I’m a Catholic, sir, you know. But Father Vaughan told me I ought to tell you what I’m going to, because of the great wrong which other people have suffered by what I’ve helped to do. So, sir, this is it.
“I’m twenty-three years of age, sir, and I have earned my living since a boy, and since poor mother died, in the service of Mr. Trackem. He’s a private detective agent, sir, and something else besides. He always said I was a sharp lad, and that I did things quick for him, so that when I was eighteen he made me his head clerk, and used to tell me all about his affairs and jobs. It was he and I who arranged that attack on Mrs. de Lara, and several days before it I had watched her every night when she came out for her evening stroll, and the night before the attack I got into her sitting-room while she was out, and stole a lot of her note-paper and some of her writing. I was at Mr. D’Estrange’s trial, sir, and all what Mrs. de Lara and Miss Vernon and you swore to was quite true, and nearly all what Mr. Trackem said was a lie. Well, sir, after Mr. D’Estrange and you and Miss Vernon rescued Mrs. de Lara, Mr. Trackem and I and Lord Westray held a consultation. His lordship was very much put about, and swore he would be revenged. He offered me and Mr. Trackem a deal of money to help him, and then Mr. Trackem hatched the plan, sir. I can imitate handwriting well, and he made me write two letters copying Mrs. de Lara’s handwriting. One was to her maid, saying she was going up to London, and the other to Mr. Trackem, telling him to keep the house in Verdegrease Crescent for her and Lord Westray. And then Lord Westray himself wrote several letters in the vein described by Mr. Trackem at the trial. And then, sir, Mr. Trackem arranged with his lordship all about buying a poor man’s body, as soon as one could be found suitable for the purpose. You look startled, sir, but it’s not difficult to do a job of that sort in some parts of London, and, in fact, one was soon got. We put Lord Westray’s gold ring on one of its little fingers, and hung the chain and locket about its neck, and it was me, sir, that took it down by night and buried it in Mrs. de Lara’s grounds where it was found, and close to it I buried the clothes which Lord Westray was wearing the night that Mr. D’Estrange fired at him. By this time Lord Westray had gone abroad, but it was all arranged that in two years’ time or so Mr. D’Estrange was to be accused of the murder. When that time had elapsed, anonymous letters were sent to the present Lord Westray, telling him all about the murder, and then Mr. Trackem went and told his lordship what he knew. Everything happened as we wanted it to. The matter was placed in Mr. Trackem’s hands; he communicated with the police, and he employed me and a dog of his called Nero, a half-bred bloodhound, to hunt the grounds of Mrs. de Lara’s place at night in search of the body and clothes. I had previously given Nero a lesson or two as to their whereabouts, so he soon traced them in the presence of the police. This is all I know, sir. On my dying oath I swear that Mr. D’Estrange did not murder Lord Westray. The wound received was slight, and soon healed up. This is my confession, sir. I know I did wrong, but I was a poor boy, and I was sorely tempted by the money offered me. I loved a girl, sir. She was called Léonie, and she was in Mr. Trackem’s service. I wanted to marry her, and I didn’t dare ask her till I got money. But God has punished me. I shall never see Léonie again; she’s gone away, I don’t know where, and now I’m dying. If it had not been for dear sister Maggie I should have been dead by now, for Lord Westray never paid me the money he promised to; least if he gave it to Mr. Trackem I never got it. Not that I want it now. I would not touch it for all the world, indeed I would not. And now, sir, I want to ask you to forgive me as I know God has, and I want you to ask Mrs. de Lara and Mr. D’Estrange to forgive me too. I think if they saw me as you do now, sir, they would pity and forgive me.”
The young man pauses, and listens eagerly for a reply. The hectic flush has deepened in his cheeks, and his eyes gleam with the fire that heralds death more brilliantly than ever.
“My poor lad, I do forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven myself,” says Evie Ravensdale softly. Terrible and horrible as is the plot which this dying youth has disclosed to him, yet in the presence of that death which he can see approaching fast, he feels that he must forgive.
“And Mrs. de Lara, Mr. D’Estrange?” persists Eric Fortescue anxiously.
“Mr. D’Estrange is dead,” is all that Evie Ravensdale can trust himself to reply.
Eric Fortescue starts up in his bed, and stares wildly at the duke.
“Not hanged, sir? Oh God! not hanged, sir? I thought he escaped, sir?”
A hollow racking cough seizes him. The blood dyes his lips as he falls back helplessly as before. In a moment Maggie is by his side with her left arm tenderly round him, and supporting him in a sitting position, as she wipes the blood from his lips with an old handkerchief.
“Have you anything, my girl, to moisten his lips with?” inquires the duke, horrified at the sight before him.
“No, sir,” she answers in a low, hopeless voice. “He had his last orange yesterday, and I have not a penny left except enough for the rent. I daren’t use that. They would turn us out if that was not paid punctual.”
Evie Ravensdale shudders; words would not paint his feelings.
“Here, Maggie,” he says, “here is some money. Run, my girl, and buy what you think he will fancy, and we will stay with him until you return. At least, colonel, I won’t ask you to. I know your time is precious. Will you swear this lad, and let him sign that deposition, and then I won’t keep you? But I want to stay myself and see him comfortable before I leave.”
With a happy smile lighting up her face Maggie Fortescue hurries from the room, and then Eric swears to and signs the deposition. The signature is tremblingly and weakly penned, still there it is, a living witness to the truth of Speranza and Gloria de Lara’s innocence.
These formalities completed, Colonel Barrett takes his departure with the precious document in his safe keeping. Its contents will ring through the world before another sun is down. No sooner has he gone, than Eric Fortescue turns his eyes once more on the duke.
“I’m glad he’s gone, sir,” he says slowly, and speaking with difficulty, “because I want to tell you one more thing very particular, sir. It will be my last words, I think, for I feel I’m sinking. It’s about Léonie, sir. I want to tell you who she is, sir. Mr. Trackem told me, sir, long ago. Her mother was Nell Stanley. Of course you know who I mean, sir—the big beauty whom your father, sir, took away from Lord Beauladown. It was she they fought that duel over. Well, Léonie is Nell Stanley’s child, and her father was the late Duke of Ravensdale. He treated her mother very bad, poor thing, and forsook her altogether after she got disfigured with the small-pox. She came to live in Verdegrease Crescent, and earned her living on the streets. But she did not live long, and died at Mr. Trackem’s house when Léonie was three years old. Mr. Trackem was beginning detective business then. Léonie was so pretty and so smart, that he kept her and trained her to the work, and that’s how I came to know her, sir. And I did love her, and it was my love which tempted me to do all the wicked things I did. But God has punished me, sir. I am dying. I shall never see Léonie any more. Still I should be happy if I knew you would care for her, sir.”
He says the last words in a whisper. He has used all the strength that he possesses to make this last statement. Poor Eric Fortescue! It is his last.
Maggie’s footstep is on the stairs; she is coming up so quickly. She has bought some grapes amongst other things with the duke’s gift.
“Look, Eric dear!” she exclaims, as she hurries in, and holds up a big bunch of fine black grapes for him to view. “Look what I’ve got you!”
But Eric’s eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has given way to a deathly pallor. He has made his last effort on this earth.
She sets the things down on the rickety table with a low cry, and comes over to the bedside.
“Eric,” she pleads, “look at Maggie, Eric, poor Maggie; she’s brought you such nice things.”
He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them has died out; there is a dead, heavy, vacant look in them.
“I’m going, Maggie,” she hears him mutter; “tell Father Vaughan I did tell all. There’s mother, Maggie; how pretty she looks. She’s in a garden full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. The sun is so bright and the air so pure. And there’s Léonie—dear, pretty little Léonie. Don’t hold me, Maggie; I must go to her, I must——”
And Maggie, bending over her twin brother, hears his voice grow still, feels on her cheek the last breath of life that goes forth with these words, for Eric Fortescue is dead.
Poor Maggie! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. For weeks she has worked hard to support her brother, and watched by his bedside in her spare hours. She has stinted herself of food to buy him little delicacies. But of late, work has been hard to get, and during the last week she has obtained but scant employment, barely sufficient to buy bread with. At this moment food has not passed her lips for thirty-six hours, and the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, the remnants of some bread from the crumb of which she had made her brother a little bread and milk. Poor Maggie! It is as well. He wants no bread and milk now.
But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is all over. She merely closes the dull, staring, lustreless eyes, smooths the worn coverlet once more, joins his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small crucifix from her chest, kisses it, and places it between his thin white fingers. Then she turns to Evie Ravensdale.
“He is dead, your Grace,” she says meekly; “it is God’s will. I will never forget your kindness in forgiving him. Poor Eric! he was a good lad if he had not been led astray. Can I fetch you a cab, your Grace?”
Her voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact, and yet Maggie Fortescue is alone in the world, hungry, tired, weary, and penniless.
“No, Maggie,” he says gently, “certainly not. I am going away now, but I will send some one to help you. And when you have buried your poor brother, you must come to this address and let me know. I have several things to ask you, and you must let me help you to earn a comfortable living.”
“God bless your Grace!” she answers in a low voice. Then, as Evie Ravensdale turns to go, she holds out some silver to him, saying as she does so:
“It’s the change, your Grace, out of what you gave me to get those things for Eric.”
“Keep it, keep it, Maggie,” he says huskily; and then he turns and leaves the poor scantily furnished room in which he has learned so much, and in which he has established, absolutely and completely, the innocence of the woman whose lost image is ever before his eyes.
CHAPTER VI.
And while Eric Fortescue unburdens his soul of the heavy sin that has stained it, and bears it, purified and triumphant, through the portals of a new life, there is confusion and rage in the heart of Mr. Trackem as he sits at his business table hastily examining papers and committing them to the safe keeping of a large fire, which consumes each consignment as it is thrown in.
Mr. Trackem’s usually confident and satisfied expression, has given place to one of anxiety and fear. That he is disturbed is evident.
“Curse the fellow!” he keeps muttering to himself; and then a gleam of baffled rage shoots from his cunning eyes.
There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. He is evidently acquainted with it, for he looks up eagerly and calls out, “Come in.”
A woman enters obedient to the summons. She is a woman with a plump, artificial-looking figure, her hair is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and rouge affords to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, which all women who decorate themselves in this manner verily believe looks natural and becoming. Alas! if they could only see themselves as others see them! She is overdressed is this woman, with plenty of rings on her fingers and jewellery about her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for what she is.
“Well?” inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient voice, as she comes in. “How you dawdle, Victoire! Were they there?”
“Yes,” she replies at once. “I saw the duke, and a strange gentleman, and the girl Maggie, all go into the house.”
“Did you follow and hear what Eric said?” again asks Mr. Trackem. He never stops the work upon which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety to hear what she has to say.
“How could I?” she answers peevishly. “I’m not a fairy who can become invisible at will. I saw them go in, that’s all, and then I hurried back here.”
“Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he works away harder than ever.
Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-stick. On the ground below the chair stands a small black business bag. Into this bag Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper from out the heap that he is destroying.
There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks.
“What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here now?” she inquires.
“Safe!” he laughs angrily, “rather not. I suppose they’ll have the bloodhounds on me before an hour’s out. No, Victoire, I must cut it.”
“And what’s to become of me?” she asks, somewhat aghast. “You’ll leave me some money, Trackem, and let me know where you are going to?”
“Money! I’ve deuced little left of that now; and as for telling you where I’m going to, I’m not such a fool. Why, you’d blurt it out any moment,” and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly.
“But what’s to become of me?” she again inquires.
“Damned if I know!” he replies impatiently. “I don’t suppose you’ll have much trouble in making a living along with some one else, same way as you’ve made it here. You don’t suppose I can saddle myself with you now, and drag you about wherever I go? What a fool you are, Victoire!”
“Then you are going to throw me up?” she asks in a low voice.
“Haven’t I told you I can’t drag you about all over the place?” he answers savagely.
“But you’ll leave me a little money, won’t you?” she says, with a half sob. “I haven’t got a farthing, Trackem.”
“Then you must go and make it, my girl,” he replies coarsely. “You’ll have no difficulty in doing that, and I’ve no money to give you. You know perfectly well that I’ve nigh ruined myself with lending all the money that I did to that Lord Westray, and now he’s dead I can’t get it back. Curse him! I wish I’d never seen him, or had anything to do with that Mrs. de Lara and her daughter. They’ve beat us fair and square, Victoire, even though the daughter be dead. Fair and square.”
“I hate them both,” she bursts out with unreasoning fury. “They are the cause of my misery now. Oh, Trackem! don’t forsake me. I might have had a comfortable, respectable home with Charles, but I threw it up to be with you. What did I do it for but because I loved you? I’m a bad one, no doubt; but at least I loved you, and do love you still. Don’t forsake me! I’ll stop here and put the trackers off the scent, and do all I know how to help you, only promise me you’ll let me know where you are by-and-by, and let me join you again.”
A brilliant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has not the slightest intention of doing as she asks, but it will be just as well, he thinks, to lead her to believe that he will. And meantime she may be useful in assisting his escape.
“Well, Victoire,” he says in a more conciliatory voice, “you’re a good girl and a faithful one. Look here, here’s five pounds, and I’ll send you more soon. Stay here as long as you can, and keep the bloodhounds at bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink them. When you change your address put it in the Times. And now, my girl, give us a kiss. I must be off. Every moment makes it more risky.”
He has finished burning his compromising papers, has taken up his hat, stick, and gloves, thrown his coat over one arm, and picked up the business bag. He is quite ready to go.
She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, degraded, wicked as is Victoire Hester, yet she loves this vile, scheming, and contemptible wretch, for whose sake she has steeped her soul in the inky dye of sin, and turned from the path of honour and of truth.
“There now, there now, that’s enough, old girl,” he says hastily, and as she unclasps her hands from about his neck, he steps quickly towards the door and opens it.
“Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers,” he says significantly, and then he passes out from her presence, and is gone.
She hears the front door open and shut again, and springs to the window. She can just catch sight of him as he passes along the Crescent. It is her last glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the contrary, she feels that it is. But Victoire Hester for the moment forgets herself. In the presence of the danger which threatens the man she loves, she becomes calm. All trace of his hasty departure must be quickly obliterated. She feels that this is imperatively necessary. Quickly she sets to work, tidies up his table, sets the room neat, and with her own hands collects the burnt paper and carries it off. Then she opens the windows to let out the smell which the burning paper has emitted, heaps more coals on the fire, and moves into Mr. Trackem’s bedroom to arrange his things. In less than an hour all is ship-shape and tidy as usual. There is not a sign of hasty departure.
A few hours later there comes a ring at the front door. Victoire has given instructions that she will see any one that calls. She has often before undertaken this duty in Mr. Trackem’s absence, and the servant sees nothing strange in the order. He therefore admits the new-comers, and shows them into Mr. Trackem’s business room. These two new-comers are men. They are dressed in dark clothes, and they both seat themselves to await his coming.
“Run him in pretty sharp, eh?” observes one of them with a smile, as the door closes on the servant.
“Haven’t got him yet, Bush,” retorts the other quietly. Inspector Truffle is not of so sanguine a temperament as is Inspector Bush.
“As good as though,” replies Inspector Bush confidently, but he stops abruptly as he hears steps approaching. Again the door of Mr. Trackem’s business room opens. Victoire enters. There is blank disappointment on Inspector Bush’s face. Victoire sees it as she fixes her dark eyes full upon him.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she says quietly; “you wished to see Mr. Trackem? I am sorry to say he is away, but I expect him back the day after to-morrow. His head clerk is ill too, but I can do anything for you in Mr. Trackem’s place. I always attend to his affairs in his absence.”
She smiles good-naturedly on the blank, nonplussed detectives. She seems to give her attention especially to Inspector Bush. Inspector Truffle rises to the occasion.
“Thank you, madam,” he says briskly, “but I fear the business we have come about can only be transacted with Mr. Trackem. The fact is, madam, we came to settle an account that we owe him, and which would require Mr. Trackem’s signature to be of any use as a receipt. And the worst of it is, we are going away, and shall not be able to call again.”
He fixes a piercing glance upon her as he speaks, but Victoire is equal to the occasion. She does not believe a word of Inspector Truffle’s statement, and divines perfectly well what his business is.
She assumes a disappointed air as she exclaims,
“It is a great pity. But what is to be done? I do not think I can possibly get Mr. Trackem back before the day after to-morrow. However, I will telegraph to him, and will send you his reply. Will you favour me with your address?”
Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, and inwardly chuckles. But again Inspector Truffle attempts to uphold the fair fame of detective smartness.
“Certainly, madam,” he replies, as he takes out his card-case and hands her a card therefrom, upon which she reads the address of a well-known firm of solicitors.
She assumes a most deferential manner.
“I think Mr. Trackem will make every effort to be here by to-morrow. I will telegraph at once, and unless you hear to the contrary, will you kindly call on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-morrow, if you please, gentlemen?”
Mr. Truffle is triumphant.
“We will,” he answers. “Well, thank you, madam. Good-afternoon to you.”
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she replies with admirably feigned regret ringing in her voice.
Inspectors Truffle and Bush betake themselves to the comfortable hansom that awaits them. As it rattles along, the former breaks silence.
“We managed that capitally,” he says with a chuckle. “Quite took her in. The chink of money soon made her open her ears. Bet you it brings Mr. Trackem home pretty quick.”
“Yes,” answers Inspector Bush. “I didn’t like the look of the woman when she first came in, but she took the bait readily enough. Poor things, those sort of women. No match for the likes of us, eh?”
Inspector Truffle has had more experience than Inspector Bush, and doesn’t agree there. But he thinks, as he drives along, that anyhow this one is quite taken in.
Is she, though? You’ll find out your mistake, inspector, when you call to-morrow with Inspector Bush at the same hour!