Chapter Four.
A Curious Story.
There was war in the air. At the Embassy we could not conceal from ourselves the seriousness of the situation. From hour to hour we were living in dread lest diplomatic negotiations should be broken off with the French Republic. We had discovered what seemed very much like a conspiracy against England, and as an energetic protest it appeared quite possible that the Marquess of Malvern might order my Chief to leave Paris. This would mean a rupture of diplomatic relations, and in all probability war.
Never in the history of modern Europe had there been a day so critical as that blazing, well-remembered one in mid-July. There were ugly rumours of complications in the Transvaal. The fate of certain nations trembled in the balance. In every capital diplomatists were active, some striving to force war, others endeavouring to prevent it. A diplomatist’s life is assuredly no sinecure. The British public, as I have said before, little dreams of the constant anxiety and terrible tension which are parts of the daily life of its faithful servants abroad.
On my return to the Embassy I found that some important despatches had been brought from London by Anderson, the foreign service messenger.
He was sitting in my room smoking a cigarette, and awaiting me in order to obtain the receipt for his despatch-box. A tall, round-faced, merry man of middle age, he was an especial favourite in all the embassies as far as Teheran. A thorough cosmopolitan and man of the world, he had resigned his commission in the Scots Greys to become one of that half-dozen of the greyhounds of Europe known as Queen’s messengers.
“Well, Anderson,” I exclaimed, shaking his hand on entering, “what’s the news from Downing Street?”
“Oh, nothing very fresh,” he laughed, sinking back in his chair again, and passing me over the receipt for signature. “Old Tuite, of the Treaty Department, has retired on his pension this week. That’s about all that’s new. The Chief, however, seems busy. I’m loaded with despatches.”
“Where for?”
“Vienna and Constantinople. I leave by the Orient express in an hour’s time,” he answered, with a glance at his watch.
“Then you’re getting over a little ground just now?” I laughed.
“A little ground!” he echoed. “Well, I’ve been two trips to Petersburg this month, twice here to Paris, and once to Vienna. I’ve only slept one night in London since the 1st.”
“You’re a bit sick of it, I should think,” I observed, looking at the round face lit up by its pair of merry grey eyes. He was an easy-going fellow; his good-humour never seemed ruffled.
“Oh, it agrees with me,” he laughed lightly. “I don’t care as long as I get the monthly run to Teheran now and then. That’s a bit of a change, you know, after these everlasting railways, with their stuffy sleeping-cars and abominable arrangements for giving a man indigestion.”
I examined the box to see that the seals affixed in Downing Street were intact, then signed the receipt and handed it back to him.
Of the corps of Queen’s messengers—nicknamed “the greyhounds” because of the badge which each wears suspended round his neck and concealed beneath his cravat, a silver greyhound surmounted by the Royal arms—Captain Jack Anderson was the most popular. A welcome guest at every embassy or legation, he was on friendly terms with the whole staff, from the Ambassador himself down to the hall-porter, and he carried the gossip of the embassies to and fro across Europe. From him we all gathered news of our old colleagues in other capitals—of their joys and their sorrows, their difficulties and their junketings. His baggage being by international courtesy free from Customs’ examination, he oft-times carried with him a new frock for an ambassador’s wife or daughter—a service which always put him high in the good graces of the feminine portion of the diplomatic circle.
“Kaye seems bobbing about pretty much,” he observed, handing me his cigarette-case. Anderson’s cigarettes were well known for their excellence, for he purchased them at a shop in Petersburg, and often distributed a box in one or other of the embassies. “I met him a week ago on board the Calais boat, and two days later I came across him in the buffet down at Bâle. He was, however, as close as an oyster.”
“Of course. It isn’t likely that he’d talk very much,” I remarked. “His profession is to know everything, and at the same time to affect ignorance. He went to Berlin last night.”
“We had breakfast together in the early morning at Bâle, and he questioned me closely about a friend of yours.”
“Who?”
“A lady—Mademoiselle de Foville. You remember her in Brussels, don’t you?”
“Mademoiselle de Foville!” I echoed. The denunciation of her as a secret agent instantly flashed through my mind.
“Yes, you were extremely friendly with her in Brussels,” he went on. “Don’t you recollect that you introduced me to her one evening at an al-fresco concert in the Vauxhall Gardens, where we sat together for quite a long time chatting?”
“I remember distinctly,” I responded. Every detail of that balmy summer night in those gaily illuminated gardens came back to me in that moment. I loved Yolande in those long-past days. “And what did Kaye want to know regarding her?”
“He asked me whether I had ever met her, and I told him that you had once introduced us.”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing much else. He remarked how very charming she was—a verdict in which we both agreed. Have you seen her lately?”
I hesitated for a moment.
“Yes, she’s here, in Paris.”
He bent forward quickly, regarding me curiously.
“That’s strange. How long has she been here?” he inquired with a rather puzzled look.
“Only a few days. I did not know that she was here till yesterday,” I replied with affected carelessness.
“Ah, I thought she could not have been here long.”
“Why?”
“Because only a week ago she travelled in the same compartment as myself between Berlin and Cologne.”
“And did you claim acquaintance with her?” I inquired quickly.
“No. She had a companion with her—a pimply-faced, ugly Johnnie, whom I took to be a German. They spoke in German all the time.”
Could it be, I wondered, that Yolande and her companion had travelled with Anderson with some evil intent?
“Didn’t you speak to them?”
“The man tried to open a conversation with me, but I pretended to be Italian, without any knowledge of German or English, so he didn’t get very far. To affect Italian is generally a sure game, for so few people speak it in comparison with those who know other Continental languages.”
“You wanted to overhear their conversation—eh?”
“I wanted to ascertain what their game was,” answered the Queen’s messenger. “They eyed my despatch-box very curiously; and it was to me an extremely suspicious circumstance that although they joined the train at Berlin they did not enter my compartment until an hour later, when the express stopped to change engines.”
“You were alone?”
“Yes, and it was at night,” he answered, adding: “To me it was also a curious circumstance that only three days afterwards Kaye should become so deeply interested in her. I had never seen her from that night in Brussels until we had met in the train, but I’ve a good memory for faces. I can swear I was not mistaken.”
“You speak as though you suspected her,” I said, looking straight into his ruddy countenance, which had grown unusually serious while we had been speaking.
“Well, to tell the truth, I did suspect her,” he responded. “I didn’t half like the look of the man. He was well-dressed, but as you know I’ve always a sharp eye where my fellow-travellers are concerned, and I felt certain that there was something shady about him. They shifted about all night, and were constantly watching to see whether I had gone to sleep. But all their watching was without reward. Jack Anderson never sleeps while he has a crossed despatch upon him;” and he blew a cloud of smoke upward from his lips.
“But surely you don’t think that their intention was to steal your despatches?” I cried.
“They were welcome to the whole collection in the box,” he laughed. “They were only consular reports and necessary evils of that sort. What they wanted was the crossed despatch from Berlin that I had in my belt next my skin.”
“They made no attempt to get at it?”
“Yes, they did. That’s just where my suspicion was proved.”
“How?” I asked breathlessly, bending eagerly towards him.
“Well, as you know, I always carry among my wraps a little cushion covered with black satin. Experience has taught me that that cushion has saved me many an aching head and stiff neck when on long journeys. So I placed it behind my head, and through the night read a novel by the dim, uncertain light. About two o’clock in the morning we ran into Hanover, and I got out to get a drink. When I returned, however, and placed the cushion behind my head, I felt a slight dampness upon it. In an instant suspicion seized me. Some liquid had been sprinkled upon it in my absence. My two fellow-travellers, wrapped in their rugs, were apparently sleeping. At once I resolved to act with caution, and, turning my cheek towards the pillow, smelt it. There was a curious odour, sweet and subtle, like some new perfume. I had suspected chloroform, but it was certainly not that. Yet almost the instant after I had inhaled it a curious and unaccountable drowsiness seized me. Then I knew the truth. They had plotted to render me insensible and afterwards steal the despatch! I struggled against this feeling of weariness, and, rising to my feet, buttoned my overcoat as though I were chilly. This action allowed the cushion to fall away from my head, and, again re-seating myself, I made a feint of being interested in my book; but in reality my head was awhirl, and in the pocket of my ulster I had my hand upon my revolver, ready to use it should that pimply-faced ruffian attempt violence. The pair commenced to shift about uneasily in their seats, and I could see that their failure had considerably disconcerted them.”
“You gave them no idea that you had discovered their intentions?”
“None whatever. I was anxious to see how they would act after being foiled.”
“Well, what did they do?”
“They exchanged glances of annoyance, but spoke no word. They were silent for over an hour, during which time it occurred to me to move the cushion farther from me, in case the evaporation of the mysterious liquid should cause insensibility. I was determined that your pretty little friend’s companion should be the first to be thus affected. The feeling of drowsiness, however, wore off, and at Cologne the pair, after chatting in German regarding the train to Venlo, bustled about hastily and descended. They had no baggage, and went into the buffet to breakfast.”
“You, of course, continued your journey?”
“Yes, to Ostend and London.”
“It seems as though you had rather a narrow escape,” I observed thoughtfully.
“It was a daring attempt to get at that despatch,” he remarked with some warmth. “Depend upon it, my dear Ingram, that woman is a spy. I know she’s a friend of yours, but I can’t help saying just what I think.”
“But I can’t believe it!” I declared. “Indeed, I won’t believe it!” I added vehemently.
“As you like,” he said coldly, with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “I’ve told you the plain truth as to what occurred.”
“She’s wealthy, and of one of the best families in Belgium. There is no necessity whatever for her to be in the pay of any foreign Government,” I protested.
“We have nothing to do with her reasons,” he said. “All we know is that she and her companion tried to drug me in order to get at the despatch.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, of the contents of the despatch in question?” I inquired.
“None, except that when I gave it into the Chief’s own hands in his private room at Downing Street, he appeared to be very much surprised by its contents, and at once wrote a reply, with which I posted back to Berlin by the same night’s mail from Charing Cross.”
“Then it was upon a matter of importance?”
“I judged it to be of extreme importance. Yolande de Foville was evidently well aware that I had the despatch in my belt.”
“You had never before seen this man who accompanied her?”
“Never. But now he has made one attempt it is quite probable he may make another. I’m on the look-out for him again.”
“And the cushion? Have you discovered what they placed upon it?”
“I left it in London with Dr Bond, the analyst, at Somerset House. He’s trying to discover the liquid used. I hope he will be successful, for the stuff was so potent that I have no desire for it again to be sprinkled upon my belongings.”
“They were at least ingenious,” I exclaimed, amazed at this extraordinary story, which seemed to prove so conclusively the truth of Kaye’s denunciation.
Yet I could not believe that Yolande, my charming little friend, in whom I had in the old days reposed so many confidences, and by whose side I had lingered through many idle hours in the Bois or in that almost endless forest around her feudal home, was actually a spy. The suggestion seemed too absurd. Nevertheless, Kaye was not a man to make unfounded charges, nor was Anderson given to relating that which was untrue. Truth to tell, this story of his held me absolutely dumbfounded. I recollected my conversation with her an hour ago, and the strange effect my announcement that Wolf was in Paris had made upon her. She had implored me to save her. Why?
A silence fell between us. I was preoccupied by my own thoughts. But a few moments later the Queen’s messenger again glanced at his watch, and, rising, said:
“I must be off, or I shan’t catch the Orient. Any message for them down at Constantinople?”
“No,” I responded, gripping his strong hand in farewell. “Take care of yourself, and don’t let any of those confounded spies get at you again.”
“Trust me, my dear fellow,” he laughed, and lighting another cigarette he went forth on his long journey to the East as airily as though he were strolling down to get a cocktail at Henry’s.
When he had gone I sat for a long time thinking. A remembrance of the mad love of those days that had gone came back to me, sweet, charming memories of that half-forgotten time when Yolande was my ideal, and when her lips met mine in tender, passionate caresses. Ah! how fondly I had loved her in those days! But with an effort I at last arose, and, casting all those reflections behind me with a sigh, broke the seals of the despatch-box, and, seating myself at the big writing-table, commenced to examine them with a view to ascertaining their contents.
There were several important papers, and very soon I became absorbed in them. Nearly an hour later there came a sudden rap at the door, and one of the English footmen entered, saying:
“There is a man below, sir, who wishes to see you at once on important business. He says he is valet-de-chambre of the Countess de Foville.”
“Of the Countess de Foville!” I echoed, much surprised.
I at once ordered him to be shown upstairs, and a few moments later a tall, thin-faced, clean-shaven Frenchman entered.
“M’sieur Ingram?” he inquired breathlessly in French, evidently in a state of great agitation.
“Yes,” I said. “What is your message?”
“I have been sent by Madame la Comtesse to ask you to be good enough to come to her at once. A most distressing incident has occurred.”
“What has occurred?” I demanded quickly.
“Ah, m’sieur, it is terrible!” he cried with much Gallic gesticulation. “Poor Mademoiselle Yolande! She is asking to see you. She says she must speak with you, m’sieur.”
“With me?”
“Yes, m’sieur. Do not let us lose a single instant, or it may be too late. Ah! my poor young mistress! Poor mademoiselle! it is terrible—terrible!”
Chapter Five.
La Comtesse.
The Countess, a handsome, well-preserved woman of middle age, slightly inclined to embonpoint, met me on the threshold, and in silence grasped my hand. From the window she had apparently watched me alight from the fiacre, and had rushed forth to meet me.
That something unusual had occurred was plain from the paleness of her countenance and the look of despair in her eyes. We had been excellent friends in Brussels in bygone days, for she had favoured my suit and had constantly invited me to her pretty home in the Boulevard de Waterloo or to the great old château in the Ardennes. A glance was sufficient to show me that she had grown considerably older, and that her face, although it still bore distinct traces of a faded beauty, was now worn and haggard. She was essentially a grande dame of the old régime, now fast disappearing from our ken, but at no time could she be considered a great hostess. She was somewhat intransigent, a woman of strong prejudices, usually well justified, and incapable of pretence or shams. But the law of kindliness was ever on her tongue, and she contented herself with giving those of whom she disapproved a wide berth. She was dressed plainly in black, with a single wisp of lace at the throat—a costume unusual for her. In Brussels her handsome toilettes, obtained from Paris, had always been admired. Although matronly, like the majority of Belgian women, she was extremely chic, with an almost girlish waist, and at whatever hour one called one always found her dressed with extreme taste and elegance. I must, however, admit that her appearance surprised me. Her hair had grown greyer, and she seemed as though utterly negligent of her personal appearance.
“Madame!” I exclaimed in alarm as our hands met, “tell me what has occurred.”
“Ah, m’sieur,” she cried in French, “I am in despair, and have sent for you! You can help me—if you will.”
“In what manner?” I inquired breathlessly.
“Yolande!” she gasped, in a choking voice.
“Yolande!” I echoed. “What has happened to her? Your man will tell me nothing.”
“He has orders to say nothing,” she explained, leading the way into the elegant salon. “Now tell me,” she said, looking at me very earnestly, “I am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or I would not presume to question you. Will you forgive me if I do?”
“Most certainly,” I responded.
“Then before we go further I will put my question to you,” she said in a strange voice. “Do you love Yolande?”
Such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise. I stood looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed.
“Why ask me that?” I inquired, puzzled. “Tell me what has happened to her.”
“I can tell you nothing until you have answered my question,” she replied quite calmly. I saw from her countenance that she was desperate.
“I think, madame, that when we were together in Brussels my actions must have betrayed to you—a woman—the state of my heart towards your daughter,” I said. “I do not seek to deny that at that time I loved her more fondly than I could ever love again, and—”
“Then you do not love her still?” she cried, interrupting me.
“Allow me to conclude,” I went on, speaking quite calmly, for I saw in this curious question of hers some mysterious motive. “I loved her while in Brussels, and for two years hoped to make her my wife.”
“And then you grew tired of her?” the Countess asked, in a tone that was almost a sneer in itself. “It is always the same with you diplomatists. The women of every capital amuse you, but on your promotion you bow your adieux and seek fresh fields to conquer.”
“I think you misjudge me,” I protested, rather annoyed at her words. “I loved Yolande. When I admit this, I also admit that, like other men whose calling it is to lounge in the principal salons of Europe, I had not escaped the fascination exercised by other eyes than hers. But to me she was all the world. Surely, madame, you remember the days at Houffalize? You cannot disguise from yourself that I really loved her then?”
“But all that is of the past,” she said seriously, her white hands clasped before her. “Briefly, you no longer entertain any love for her. Is not that so?”
I hesitated. My position was a difficult one. I was a diplomatist, and could speak untruths artistically when occasion required, but she had cornered me.
“Madame has guessed the truth,” I answered at last.
“Ah!” she cried hoarsely, “I thought as much. You have found some other woman whom you prefer?”
I nodded assent. It was useless to lead her to believe what was not the truth. Yolande was of course charming in many ways; but when I thought of Edith I saw that comparison was impossible.
“And you have no further thought of her?” she asked.
“As far as marriage is concerned, no,” I responded. “Nevertheless, I still regard her as an intimate friend. I was here only two or three hours ago chatting with her.”
“You!” she cried, glaring at me strangely. “You were here—to-day?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I thought she would certainly tell you of my visit.”
“She told me nothing. I was quite unaware of it. I was out, and the servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence.”
“I gave a card,” I replied. “It is no doubt in the hall.”
“No, it is not. It has been destroyed.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For some mysterious reason known to Yolande.” Then, turning quickly again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness, saying: “Tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead—so dead that you would not care to perform her a service?”
Anderson’s strange and startling story flashed through my mind. I made no reply.
“Remember the affection you once bore her,” she urged. “I am a woman, m’sieur, and I presume to remind you of it.”
I needed no reminder. The recollection of those sweet idyllic days was still fresh as ever in my memory. Ah! in those brief sunny hours I had fondly believed that our love would last always. It is ever the same. Youth is ever foolish.
“I should have loved her now,” I answered at last, “were it not for one fact.”
There was a mystery which had ended our love, and I saw now an opportunity of clearing it up. “To what fact do you refer?”
“To the reason of our parting.”
“The reason!” echoed the Countess. “I have no idea whatever of the reason. What was it?”
I held my breath. Would it be just to tell her the truth? I wondered. I reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered:
“Because I discovered that her heart was not wholly mine.”
She regarded me with undisguised amazement.
“Do you mean that Yolande had another lover?”
“No!” I cried with sudden resolve. “This conversation is not fair to her. It is all finished. She has forgotten, and we are both happy.”
“Happy!” cried the Countess hoarsely. “You are, alas! mistaken. Poor Yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world. She has never ceased to think of you.”
“Then I regret, madame,” I responded.
“If you really regret,” she answered, “then your love for her is not altogether dead.”
She spoke the truth. At this point I may as well confide to you, my reader, the fact that I still regarded my charming little friend of those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to love. I recollected the painful circumstances which led to our parting. My memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer’s evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her home, I charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in Brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting. After that I had applied to the Foreign Office to be transferred, and a month later found myself in Rome.
Perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded. Sometimes I had thought I had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, I had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere acquaintance. Indeed, I think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love I once bore her to remain within me. It was not just to Edith—that I knew; yet notwithstanding the denunciations of both Kaye and Anderson, I could not altogether crush her from my heart. To wholly forget the woman for whom one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult, sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. Visions of some sweet face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. Thus it was with me—just as it has been with thousands of others.
“No,” I admitted truthfully and honestly at last, “my love for Yolande is perhaps not altogether dead.”
“Then you will render me a service?” she cried quickly. “Say that you will—for her sake!—for the sake of the great love you once bore her!”
“Of what nature is this service you desire?” I asked, determined to act with caution, for the startling stories I had heard had aroused within me considerable suspicion.
“I desire your silence regarding an absolute secret,” she answered in a hoarse half-whisper.
“What secret?”
“A secret concerning Yolande,” she responded. “Will you, for her sake, render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as to what you may see or learn here to-day?”
“I will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips,” I said. “But as to assistance, I cannot promise until I am aware of the nature of the service demanded of me.”
“Of course,” she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile. My words had apparently reassured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though relying upon me for help. “Then as you give me your promise upon your honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth. Come with me.”
She led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the sunset. The room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and motionless. In the dim half-light I could just distinguish the features as those of Yolande.
“What has occurred?” I cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in fascination.
“We do not know,” answered the trembling woman at my side. “It is all a mystery.”
I stretched forth my hand and touched her cheek. It was icy cold.
In those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of the darkened room, and I detected the change that had taken place in the girl’s countenance. Her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged pillow.
I held my breath. The awful truth was distinctly apparent. I placed my hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened. Then a few seconds later I drew back, standing rigid and aghast.
“Why, she’s dead!” I gasped.
“Yes,” the Countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. “My poor Yolande! she is dead—dead!”
The discovery appalled me. Only a couple of hours before we had chatted together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in the old days, until I had made the announcement of Wolf’s presence in Paris. The effect of that statement upon her had apparently been electrical. Why, I knew not. Had she not implored me to save her? This in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear.
Again I bent in order to make further examination, but saw the unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance. The lower jaw had dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which I had snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded. There was no movement—no life. Yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days, was dead.
I stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream. So swiftly had she been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of realisation.
The Countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly. Truly the scene in that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one. Never before in my whole life had I been in the presence of the dead.
“Yolande—Yolande!” I called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken her, for I could not believe that she was actually dead.
But there was no response. Those blanched lips and the coldness of those cheeks told their own tale. She had passed to that land which lies beyond the range of human vision.
How long I stood there I cannot tell. My thoughts were inexpressibly sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that I scarcely knew what I said or did. The blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed me. The affair was mysterious, to say the least of it. Of a sudden, however, the sobs of the grief-stricken Countess aroused me to a sense of my responsibility, and taking her hand I led her from the bedside into an adjoining room.
“How has this terrible catastrophe occurred?” I demanded of her breathlessly. “Only two hours ago she was well and happy.”
“You mean when you saw her?” she said. “What was the object of your call?”
“To see her,” I responded.
“And yet you parted ill friends in Brussels?” she observed in a tone of distinct suspicion. “You had some motive in calling. What was it?”
I hesitated. I could not tell her that I suspected her daughter to be a spy.
“In order to assure her of my continued good friendship.”
She smiled, rather superciliously I thought.
“But how did the terrible affair occur?”
“We have no idea,” answered the Countess brokenly. “She was found lying upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. Jean, the valet-de-chambre, on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead.”
“Astounding!” I gasped. “She was in perfect health when I left her.”
She shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief, declared:
“My child has been killed—murdered!”
“Murdered! Impossible!” I cried.
“But she has,” she declared. “I am absolutely positive of it!”
Chapter Six.
A Piece of Plain Paper.
“What medical examination has been made?” I demanded.
“None,” responded the Countess. “My poor child is dead, and no doctor can render her assistance. Medical aid is unavailing.”
“But do you mean to say that on making this discovery you did not think it necessary to send for a doctor?” I cried incredulously.
“I did not send for one—I sent for you,” was her response.
“But we must call a doctor at once,” I urged. “If you have suspicion of foul play we should surely know if there is any wound, or any injury to account for death.”
“I did not consider it necessary. No doctor can return her to me,” she wailed. “I sent for you because I believed that you would render me assistance in this terrible affair.”
“Most certainly I will,” I replied. “But in our own interests we must send for a medical man, and if it is found to be actually a case of foul play, for the police. I’ll send a line to Doctor Deane, an Englishman whom I know, who is generally called in to see anybody at the Embassy who chances to be ill. He is a good fellow, and his discretion may be relied upon.”
So saying, I scribbled a line on the back of a card, and told the man to take a cab down to the Rue du Havre, where the doctor occupied rooms over a hosier’s shop a stone’s throw from the bustling Gare St. Lazare.
A very curious mystery was evidently connected with this startling discovery, and I was anxious that my friend, Dick Deane, one of my old chums of Rugby days, should assist me in clearing it up.
The Countess de Foville, whose calmness had been so remarkable while speaking with me before we entered the death-chamber, had now given way to a flood of emotion. She sank back into her chair, and, burying her face in her hands, cried bitterly.
I tried to obtain some further information from her, but all that escaped her was:
“My poor Yolande! My poor daughter!” Finding that my endeavours to console her were futile, I went forth and made inquiries of the three frightened maidservants regarding what had occurred.
One of them, a dark-eyed Frenchwoman in frilled cap, whom I had seen on my previous visit, said, in answer to my questions:
“Jean discovered the poor mademoiselle in the petit salon about a quarter of an hour after m’sieur had left. She was lying upon her face near the window, quite rigid. He shouted; we all rushed in, and on examining her found that she was already dead.”
“But was there no sign of a struggle?” I inquired, leading the way to the room indicated.
“The room was just as m’sieur sees it now,” she answered, with a wave of her hand.
I glanced around, but as far as I could distinguish it was exactly as I had left it.
“There was no mark of violence—nothing to show that mademoiselle had been the victim of foul play?”
“Nothing, m’sieur.”
Could it have been a case of suicide? I wondered. Yolande’s words before I had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man Wolf who had so suddenly arrived in Paris—the man who exercised upon her some mysterious influence, the nature of which I could not guess.
“It was not more than fifteen minutes after I had left, you say?” I inquired.
“No, m’sieur, not more.”
“Mademoiselle had no other visitor?”
“No, m’sieur. Of that we are all certain.”
“And the Countess, where was she during the time I was here?”
“She was out driving. She did not return till about five minutes after we had made the terrible discovery.”
“And how did madame act?”
“She ordered us to carry poor mademoiselle to her room. Poor madame! She bore the blow with wonderful fortitude.”
That remark caused me to prick up my ears.
“I don’t quite understand,” I said. “Did she not give way to tears?”
“No, m’sieur; she shed no tears, but sat erect, motionless as a statue. She appeared unable to realise that poor mademoiselle was actually dead. At last she rang, and sent Jean to you.”
“You are absolutely certain that mademoiselle had no visit or after I left?”
“Absolutely.”
“It would, moreover, not be possible for anyone to enter or leave without your knowledge?” I suggested.
“M’sieur understands me perfectly. Mademoiselle must have fallen to the floor lifeless immediately after I had let you out. She made no sound, and had Jean not entered with her letters, which the concierge had brought, my poor young mistress might be lying there now.”
The average Frenchwoman of the lower class is always dramatic wherever a domestic calamity is concerned, and this worthy bonne was no exception. She punctuated all her remarks with references to the sacred personages of the Roman Catholic religion.
“You haven’t searched the room, I suppose?”
“No, m’sieur. Madame gave orders that nothing was to be touched.”
This reply was eminently satisfactory. I glanced again around the place, now dim in the falling twilight, and ordered her to throw back the sun-shutters.
The woman went to the window and opened them, admitting a flood of mellow light, the last crimson of the glorious afterglow. Up from the boulevard came the dull roar of the traffic, mingling with the sound of distant bells ringing the Ave Maria. The bonne—an Alsatian, from her accent—crossed herself from force of habit, and retreated towards the door.
“You may go,” I said. “I will remain here until the doctor arrives.”
“Bien, m’sieur,” answered the woman, disappearing and closing the door after her.
My object in dismissing her was to make a thorough search of the apartment, in order to discover whether any of Yolande’s private possessions were there. She had been denounced by Kaye and Anderson as a spy, and it occurred to me that I might possibly discover the truth. But she was dead. The painful fact seemed absolutely incredible.
The room was not a large one, but well furnished, with considerable taste and elegance. There was the broad, silk-covered couch, upon which Yolande had sat in the full possession of health and spirits only a couple of hours before; the skin rug, upon which her tiny foot had been stretched so coquettishly; the small table, by which she had stood supporting herself after I had made the fatal announcement that Wolf was in Paris.
As I stood there the whole of that strangely dramatic scene occurred to me. Yet she was dead—dead! She had died with her secret in her heart.
At any moment Dick Deane might arrive, but I desired to be the first to make an examination of the room, and with that object crossed to the little escritoire of inlaid olive-wood, one of those rather gimcrack pieces of furniture manufactured along the Ligurian coast for unsuspecting winter visitors. It was the only piece of incongruous furniture in the room, all the rest being genuine Louis Quatorze.
One or two letters bearing conspicuous coats-of-arms were lying there, but all were notes of a private nature from one or other of her friends. One was an invitation to Vichy from the Baronne Deland, wife of the great Paris financier; another, signed “Rose,” spoke of the gaiety of Cairo and the dances at Shepheard’s during the past winter; while a third, also in French, and bearing no signature, made an appointment to meet her in the English tea-shop in the Rue Royale on the following day at five o’clock.
That note, written upon plain paper of business appearance, had apparently been left by hand. Who, I wondered, was the person who had made that appointment? To me the writing seemed disguised, and probably, owing to the thickness of the up-strokes, had been penned by a male hand. There was a mistake in the orthography, too, the word “plaisir” being written “plasir.” This showed plainly that no Frenchman had written it.
I placed the letter in my pocket, and, encouraged by it, continued my investigations.
In the tiny letter-rack was a note which the unfortunate girl had written immediately before being struck down. It was addressed to “Baronne Maillac, Château des Grands Sablons, Seine et Marne.” The little escritoire contained four small drawers; the contents of each I carefully scrutinised. They were, however, mostly private letters of a social character—some from persons whom I knew well in Society. Suddenly, from the bottom of one of the smaller drawers, I drew forth several sheets of plain octavo paper of a pale yellow shade. There were, perhaps, half-a-dozen sheets, carefully wrapped in a sheet of plain blue foolscap. I opened them, and, holding one up to the light, examined the water-mark.
Next instant the truth was plain. That paper was the official paper used in French Government offices for written reports. How came it in her possession, if the accusation against her were untrue?
I held it in my hand, glaring at it in bewilderment. Sheet by sheet I examined it, but there was no writing upon it. Apparently it was her reserve store of paper, to be used as wanted. In the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs everything is methodical, especially the preparation of the dossiers. A certain dossier had once fallen into Kaye’s hands, and it contained sheets of exactly similar paper to that which I held in my hand.
Eagerly I continued my search, striving to discover some writing which might lead me to a knowledge of the truth, but I found nothing. I had completed an examination of the whole of the contents of the drawers, when it occurred to me that there might be some other drawer concealed there. Years ago I had been offered an escritoire of this pattern in Genoa, and the sun-tanned fellow who endeavoured to induce me to purchase it had shown behind the centre drawer in the table a cunningly contrived cavity where private correspondence might be concealed.
Therefore I drew out the drawer, sounded the interior at the back, and, finding it hollow, searched about for the spring by which it might be opened. At last I found it, and next moment drew forth a bundle of letters. They were bound with a blue ribbon that time had faded. I glanced at the superscription of the uppermost, and a thrill of sympathy went through me.
Those carefully preserved letters were my own—letters full of love and tenderness, which I had written in the days that were dead. I stood holding them in my hand, my heart full of the past.
In this narrative, my reader, it is my intention to conceal nothing, but to relate to you the whole, undisguised truth, even though this chapter of England’s secret history presents a seemingly improbable combination of strange facts and circumstances. Therefore I will not hide from you the truth that in those moments, as I drew forth one of the letters I had written long ago and read it through, sweet and tender memories crowded upon me, and in my eyes stood blinding tears. I may be forgiven for this, I think, when it is remembered how fondly I had once loved Yolande, before that fatal day when jealousy had consumed me, and I had turned my back upon her as a woman false and worthless.
Letter after letter I read, each bringing back to me sad memories of those days, when in the calm sunset hour we had wandered by the riverside hand in hand like children, each supremely content in each other’s love, fondly believing that our mad passion would last always. In all the world she had been, to me, incomparable. The centre of admiration at those brilliant balls at the Royal Palace at Brussels, the most admired of all the trim and comely girls who rode at morning in the Bois, the merriest of those who picnicked in the forest round about the ancient château, the sweetest, the most tender, and the most pure of all the women I knew—Yolande in those days had been mine. There, in my hand, I held the letter which I had written from Scotland when on leave for the shooting, asking if she loved me sufficiently to become my wife. To that letter I well remembered her reply—indeed, I knew it verbatim; a tender letter, full of honest love and straightforward admission—a letter such as only a pure and good woman could have penned. Yes, she wrote that she loved me dearly, and would be my wife.
And yet it was all of the past. All had ended.
I sighed bitterly—how bitterly, mere words cannot describe. You, reader, be you man or woman, can you fully realise how deeply I felt at that moment, how utterly desolate the world then seemed to me?
Those letters I slowly replaced in the cavity and closed it. Then, as I turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small whatnot close by the escritoire. They were of persons whom I did not know—all strangers, save one. This was a cabinet portrait in a heavy silver frame, and as I took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry involuntarily escaped my lips.
The picture was a three-quarter length representation of a black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his pockets, and smoking a cigarette. There was no mistaking those features. It was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose presence in Paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her—Rodolphe Wolf.
Chapter Seven.
By a Thread.
I was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when Dick Deane was shown in.
“What’s the matter, old chap? Are you the man in possession here?” he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.
He was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He had been born in Paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to Edinburgh, where he took his degree. Then he had returned to Paris, taken his French degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the French capital. He was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies.
“I’m not in possession,” I answered. “A very serious affair has happened here, and we want your assistance.”
In an instant he became grave, for I suppose my tone showed him that I was in no humour for joking.
“What’s the nature of the affair?” he asked.
“Death,” I replied seriously. “A lady here—a friend of mine—has died mysteriously.”
“A mystery—eh?” he exclaimed, instantly interested. “Tell me about it.”
“This place,” I replied, “belongs to the Countess de Foville, a lady whom I knew well when I was at the Brussels Embassy, and it is her daughter Yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening.”
“Yolande de Foville!” he repeated, with knit brows. “She was a friend of yours once, if I mistake not?” he added, looking me straight in the face.
“Yes, Dick, she was,” I responded. “I told you of her long ago.”
“You loved her once?”
“Yes,” I answered with difficulty, “I loved her once.”
“And how did the unfortunate affair occur?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. “Tell me the whole story.”
“I called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her,” I said. “Then I left and returned straight to the Embassy—”
“You left her here?” he inquired, interrupting. “Yes, in this very room. But it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead.”
“Curious!” he ejaculated. “Has a medical man seen her?”
“No. The Countess sent for me as being one of her daughter’s most intimate friends, and I, in turn, sent for you.”
“Where is the poor young lady?”
“In her room at the end of the corridor,” I answered hoarsely.
“Is there any suspicion of murder?”
“Apparently none whatever. She had no visitor after I left.”
“And no suspicion of suicide?” he asked, with a sharp look. “Did you part friends?”
“Perfectly so,” I responded. “As to suicide, she had no reason, as far as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life.”
He gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Now, be perfectly frank with me, Gerald,” he said, suddenly turning to me and placing his hand upon my shoulder. “You loved her very dearly once—was that not so?”
I nodded.
“I well remember it,” he went on. “I quite recollect how, on one occasion, you came over to London, and while dining together at Jimmy’s you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. Do you remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?”
“Perfectly.”
“And as time went on you suddenly dropped her—for what reason I know not. We are pals, but I have never attempted to pry into your affairs. If she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she heard that you had forsaken her for Edith Austin.”
“You reproach me,” I said. “But you do not know the whole truth, my dear fellow. I discovered that Yolande possessed a second lover.”
He nodded slowly, with pursed lips.
“And that was the reason of your parting?”
“Yes.”
“The sole reason?”
“The sole reason.”
“And you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because of her love for you? Such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls of a certain temperament.”
“If she has committed suicide, it is not on my account,” I responded in a hard voice.
“I did not express that opinion,” he hastened to protest. “Before we discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her. Death may have been due to natural causes, for aught we know.”
I stood motionless. His suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days had committed suicide because I had forsaken her was a startling one. Surely that could not be so?
“Come,” my friend said, “let us lose no time. Which is the room?”
I led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in which she was lying so cold and still. The light of the afterglow fell full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life. But it was only for a few moments. The slanting ray was lost, and the pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of her wondrous hair.
In silence I stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was now busy with his examination. He opened her eyes and closed them again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering no word. His serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely puzzled.
One after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks. Upon her neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after time, as though not satisfied as to its cause. Upon her lower lip, too, was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times, comparing it with the mark upon the neck. He was unable to account for either.
“Curious!” he ejaculated. “Very curious indeed!”
“What is curious?” I inquired eagerly.
“Those marks,” he answered, indicating them with his finger. “They are very puzzling. I’ve never seen such marks before.”
“Do they point to foul play?” I inquired, feeling suspicious that she had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin.
“Well, no,” he responded, after some hesitation; “that is not my opinion.”
“Then what is your opinion?”
“At present I have none. I can have none until I make a thorough examination. There are certainly no outward marks of violence.”
“We need not inform the police, I suppose?”
“Not at present,” he replied, his eyes still fixed upon the blanched face of the woman who had once been all the world to me.
I raised her dead hand, and upon it imprinted a last fervent kiss. It was cold and clammy to my lips. In that hour all my old love for her had returned, and my heart had become filled with an intense bitterness and desolation. I had thought that all my love for her was dead, and that Edith Austin, the calm, sweet woman far away in an English county, who wrote to me daily from her quiet home deep in the woodlands, had taken her place. But our meeting and its tragic sequel had, I admit, aroused within me a deep sympathy, which had, within an hour, developed into that great and tender love of old. With men this return to the old love is of no infrequent occurrence, but with women it seldom happens. Perhaps this is because man is more fickle and more easily influenced by woman’s voice, woman’s glances, and woman’s tears.
The reader will probably accuse me of injustice and of fickleness of heart. Well, I cannot deny it; indeed, I seek to deny nothing in this narrative of strange facts and diplomatic wiles, but would only ask of those who read to withhold their verdict until they have ascertained the truth yet to be revealed, and have read to the conclusion, this strange chapter of the secret history of a nation.
My friend the doctor was holding one hand, while I imprinted a last kiss upon the other. A lump was in my throat, my eyes were filled with tears, my thoughts were all of the past, my anguish of heart unspeakable. That small chill hand with the cold, glittering ring—one that I had given her in Brussels long ago—seemed to be the only reality in all that hideous phantasmagoria of events.
“Do not despair,” murmured the kind voice of my old friend, standing opposite me on the other side of the bed. “You loved her once, but it is all over—surely it is!”
“No, Dick!” I answered brokenly. “I thought I did not love her. I have held her from me these three years—until now.”
“Ah!” he sighed, “I understand. Man always longs for the unattainable.”
“Yes, always,” I responded.
In that moment the memory of the day when we had parted arose gaunt and ghost-like. I had wronged her; I felt confident that I had. All came back to me now—that cruel, scandalous denunciation I had uttered in the heat of my mad jealousy—the false tale which had struck her dumb by its circumstantial accuracy. Ah! how bitter it all was, now that punishment was upon me! I remembered how, in the hour of my worldly triumph and of her highest hope—at the very moment when she had spoken words of greater affection to me than she had ever used before—I had made the charge against her, and she had fallen back with her young heart crushed within her. My ring was there, still glittering mockingly upon her dead hand. By the unfounded charge I had made against her I had sinned. My sin at that moment arose from its grave, and barred the way for ever to all hope—to all happiness.
The summer twilight was stealing on apace, and in the silence of the room there sounded the roar of life from the boulevard below. Men were crying Le Soir with strident voices, and all Paris was on its way to dine, and afterwards to enjoy itself in idleness upon the terraces of the cafés or at those al-fresco variety performances in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where the entrance fee includes a consommation.
Deane still held my old love’s hand, bending in the dim light until his eyes were close to it, watching intently. But I took no notice, for my eyes were fixed upon that face that had held me in such fascination, and had been so admired at those brilliant receptions given by King Leopold and the Countess of Flanders. The doctor stretched forth his hand, and of a sudden switched on the electric light. The next instant I was startled by his loud ejaculation of surprise.
“Thank God!” he cried. “She’s not dead, after all!”
“Not dead!” I gasped, unable fully to realise his meaning.
“No,” he answered breathlessly. “But we must not lose a single instant.” And I saw that with a lancet he had made an incision in her delicate wrist, and there was blood there. “She is in a state of catalepsy, and we must do all in our power to bring her round.”
“But do you think you can?” I cried.
“I hope so.”
“Do your best, Dick,” I implored. “Save her, for my sake.”
“Rely upon me,” he answered calmly, adding: “Run along to Number 18 in the boulevard—the corner house on the right—and bring Doctor Trépard at once. He lives au troisième. Tell him that I sent you, and that the matter is one of life or death.” He scribbled some words on a card, and, giving it me, added: “Tell him to bring this. Meanwhile, I will commence artificial respiration. Go!”
“But do you think she will really recover?” I demanded.
“I can’t tell. We have already lost so much time. I had no idea of the truth. It has surprised me just as it has surprised you. This moment is not one for words, but for actions. Don’t lose an instant.”
Thus urged, I snatched up my hat and tore along the boulevard like a madman. Without difficulty I found Trépard’s appartement, and on being admitted found him a grave-faced, rather stout old Frenchman, who, on the instant I mentioned Dick’s name and gave him the card with the words upon it, naming some drugs he required, went into an adjoining room, and fetched a phial of tiny red pillules, which he held up to the light. Then he put on his hat, and descended with me to the street. A fiacre was passing, which we took, and five minutes later we were standing together in the room where Yolande was lying.
“This is a most curious case, my dear Trépard,” began Dick, speaking in French—“a case of coma, which I have mistaken for death;” and, continuing, he briefly explained how the patient had been found in a state so closely resembling death that he himself had been deceived.
The old Frenchman placed his hand upon her heart, and, withdrawing it, said:
“She’s breathing now.”
“Breathing!” I echoed. “Then she is recovering!”
“Yes, old fellow,” Dick replied, “she is recovering—at least we hope we shall save her.” Then, turning to his colleague, he raised her hand and pointed to the finger-nails, asking: “Do you notice anything there?”
The other, adjusting his pince-nez, bent and examined, them one by one.
“Yes,” he answered at last. “A slight purple discoloration at the base of the nails.”
“And upon the lower lip does anything strike you as peculiar?”
“A yellow mark,” he answered, after carefully inspecting the spot indicated.
“And there?” Deane asked, touching the mark upon the neck.
“Very strange!” ejaculated the elder man. “It is a most unusual case.”
“Yes. Have you brought the hydrated peroxide of iron?”
For answer the Frenchman produced the tiny tube, saying:
“Then you suspect poison?”
“Most certainly,” he replied; and, taking a glass, he placed a single pillule in it, dissolving it in water, which he afterwards forced between the grey lips of my unconscious love. Afterwards he glanced at his watch, observing: “We must give another in fifteen minutes.”
Then, drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, holding her wrist and watching her countenance for any change that might take place there.
“Have you no idea of the nature of the poison?” I inquired eagerly.
“None,” he responded. “Ask me no questions now. When we have brought her round will be time enough. It should be sufficient for you to know that she is not dead. Why not leave us for the present? Go and break the good news to the Countess.”
“You wish to be alone?”
“Yes. This is a serious matter. Leave us undisturbed, and on no pretext allow her mother to enter here.”
Thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite perceptible, I left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and sought the Countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned plunged in grief and dark despair.
She was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight before her. The blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead. I well knew how deep was her affection for Yolande, and how tender was her maternal love.
The room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the light. As I entered I did so with her permission, saying quietly:
“Madame, I come to you with a message.”
“From whom?” she asked in a hard mechanical voice.
“From my friend Deane, the English doctor whom I have summoned. Yolande still lives!”
“She lives!” she cried, springing to her feet in an instant. “You are deceiving me!”
“I am not, madame,” I reassured her, smiling. “Your daughter is still breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly. The doctors say that she will probably recover.”
“Thank God!” she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her. “I pray that He may give her back to me. I will go to her.”
But I held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed a wish to remain there alone.
“But what caused that appearance so akin to death?” she asked quickly.
“At present they cannot tell,” I responded. “Some deleterious substance is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing.”
“But she will recover, m’sieur?” the Countess asked. “Are you certain?”
“The chances are in her favour, the doctors say. They have given her a drug to counteract the effect of the poison.”
“Poison! Was she poisoned?” gasped the Countess.
“Poison is suspected,” I answered quietly. “But calm yourself, madame. The truth will be discovered in due course.”
“I care nothing so long as Yolande is given back to me!” the distressed woman cried. “Was it your English friend who discovered the truth?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He is one of the cleverest men in Paris.”
“And to him my poor Yolande will owe her life?”
“Yes, to him.”
“And to you also, m’sieur? You have done your utmost for us, and I thank you warmly for it all.”
“Madame,” I said earnestly, “I have done only what a man should do. You sought my assistance, and I have given it, because—”
“Because of what?” she inquired sharply the instant I paused.
“Because I once loved her,” I responded with perfect frankness.
A sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.
“I was young once, m’sieur,” she said in that calm, refined voice which had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead mother. “I understand your feeling—I understand perfectly. It is only my poor daughter who does not understand. She knows that you have forsaken her—that is all.”
It was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart’s longings, yet I hesitated. I remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced woman on the other side of the English Channel, far from the glare and glitter of life as I knew it—the fevered life which the diplomat in Paris is forced to lead. I remembered my troth to Edith, and my conscience pricked me.
“Could it be possible,” I reflected, “that Yolande was really in the pay of a Government hostile to England?” Kaye was already nearing Berlin with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a spy, while Anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from Berlin to Downing Street.
With a mother’s solicitude the Countess could for some time only speak of Yolande’s mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my inquiries further, I observed, during a lull in the conversation:
“At the Baroness de Chalencon’s last night a friend of yours inquired about you, madame.”
“A friend? Who?”
“A man named Wolf—Rodolphe Wolf.”
The next instant I saw that the mention of that name affected the mother no less markedly than it had affected the daughter. Her face blanched; her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment suspicious. With marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended ignorance.
“Wolf?” she repeated. “I do not remember the name. Possibly he is some person we have met while travelling.”
“Yolande knew him, I believe, in Brussels,” I remarked. “He appeared to be acquainted with you.”
“My daughter’s friends are not always mine,” she remarked coldly, with that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once returned to the discussion of Yolande and the probability of her recovery.
This puzzled me. I felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. She had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. What it was, however, I could not determine.
She was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, Dick opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:
“Can I speak with you a moment, Ingram?” She dashed to the door in eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her that Yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.
“Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame,” he urged. “Your daughter, I am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept absolutely quiet. I cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext whatsoever.”
“She will not die, will she?” the woman implored distractedly.
“No,” he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, I thought, “she will not die. Of that you may rest assured.”
Then turning to me, he beckoned, and I followed him out of the room.