Chapter Thirty One.
The Red Ass.
When the woman who had declared her love for me had entered the uninviting-looking place I slipped back to my old position, but was prevented from listening too openly for fear of awakening the curiosity of the cocher who was awaiting her. I heard them greet her in English; then both rose, and all three passed through the café to a room beyond, apparently the apartment of the proprietor. Hence I was unable to discover the reason of her visit there.
As no purpose could be served by remaining longer in the doorway, I lit another cigarette with an appearance of carelessness and strolled away down the narrow street as far as the Avenue de Clichy, returning presently on the opposite side of the roadway, and waiting in patience for the conspirators to leave the café.
I congratulated myself upon my good-fortune in not being detected, and was resolved to watch further the doings of the spies. I only wished that Kaye or Grew were with me, in order to follow up at once the clue I had thus obtained.
The word “Feltham” was to me extremely puzzling. That chance remark doubtless referred to a matter brimming over with interest. What were the “arrangements” that worked so well and were so complete?
Truly, the conspiracy of the Powers against Great Britain, alleged by Léonie, was a gigantic one. Each hour brought home to me more forcibly the terrible truth that we were living upon the very edge of a volcano, whose eruption might be expected at any moment.
For fully half an hour I strolled up and down, always keeping a careful watch upon the café with the faded blinds, until suddenly Edith emerged, followed by her two companions. Bertini handed her into her cab, and I heard him order the cocher to drive to the Grand Hotel. Then, as they stood on the kerb, with their hats in their hands, she bowed and was driven rapidly off, while they turned and walked together in the opposite direction, passing down the avenue to the Boulevard de Clichy, and thence along to the Place Blanche, past that paradise of the British tourist, the Moulin Rouge.
The four illuminated arms of the Red Windmill were still revolving, and the night-birds of Paris in their gay plumage were entering and leaving, for the so-called “life” at that haunt of Terpsichore modernised and debased does not begin until long after midnight. I never glance in at those open doors without sighing for my compatriots; and usually fall to reflecting upon the reason why so many English fathers of families, who at home would not dream of going to a music-hall, so frequently drift there with their wives, and often with their daughters. It is a curious feature of Paris life, absurdly artificial, and almost entirely supported by my unthinking compatriots, who go there because to have been there is synonymous with having seen the gay life of the French capital. Alas! that the British tourist is so gullible, for the students who dance there in velvet berets and paint-besmirched coats are no students at all, while the pretty grisette, his companion, is merely a dancing-girl, in a befitting frock, paid by the management to pose as a mock Bohémienne. The Moulin Rouge is no more the centre of gay Paris than is Maskelyne’s entertainment the centre of gay London.
Presently, having gained the Rue de Maubeuge, the spies entered that Bohemian café, where a charming air of chez soi and good-fellowship always pervades—the Café of the Red Ass. It has a small and unassuming front, except that the windows are profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, while a red ass looks down from over the narrow door. It is furnished more like an old curiosity-shop than a café, and has its particular clientèle of Bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes, that hang in racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures, when not shouting some rollicking chorus. The place was filled with littérateurs of the Quarter, and a célébration was in progress, one of their number having succeeded in finding a publisher for a volume of his poetry.
Hence I was enabled to follow the pair unnoticed. They had, I found, seated themselves at a table with two rather small, ferret-eyed men, who had apparently been awaiting them. Then all four entered into an earnest discussion over their bocks, while I sat on the opposite side of the place, pretending to be interested in the Soir, but watching them as a cat a mouse.
The nature of their conversation was manifestly secret, for all four looked round furtively from time to time, as though suspicious lest someone should overhear. Wolf was relating some fact which apparently created a great impression upon the men whom he and Bertini had met. Whatever it was he told them, it created evident surprise.
Bertini rolled a cigarette in silence, lit it slowly, and sat back, blowing clouds of smoke into the air. Loud chatter and laughter and the rattle of saucers upon the tables sounded everywhere, mingled with the constant click of shuffled dominoes and the shouts of the rushing waiters calling their orders. The Red Ass always awakens from its lethargy at midnight, just as do the Café Américain and the showy establishments on the Boulevard des Italiens.
The short, middle-aged Frenchman who had been speaking pulled a blue paper from his pocket, and gave it to Wolf for examination. From its folding and size I perceived that it was a telegram. All this time the attitude of the Italian was that of a man who wished to affect an air of supreme carelessness.
More bocks were ordered, pen and paper were brought by the waiter, and a reply to the telegraphic message was written by the Frenchman, not, however, without some discussion, in which Bertini took part. The actions of these men showed that some further conspiracy was in progress, but what it was I was naturally unable to guess. I only knew that the two men whom I had followed were the most desperate, ingenious, and unscrupulous spies in Europe.
After nearly an hour, during which time I exhausted all the periodical literature provided by the management of the establishment, all four rose and went out. The two Frenchmen made their adieux, and the pair whose movements had so interested me walked slowly down to the Place de l’Opéra until they gained the narrow Rue des Petits Champs, a thoroughfare that intersects the Rue de la Paix and the Avenue de l’Opéra. At the end of this, not far from the Palais Royal, they turned suddenly into a dark alley, which led into a large courtyard, in which I soon discovered a small, fifth-rate hotel, evidently their temporary quarters.
I waited in the vicinity for nearly half an hour, until the concierge put out the lights and bolted the door; then I returned to the avenue, hailed a fiacre, and drove home just as the clocks were chiming three.
My vigil had been a long and tedious one, and when I entered my rooms I sank into a chair utterly worn out. I had, however, learnt several facts of supreme interest, not the least being the discovery of Wolf’s headquarters. I got my man to ring up Kaye on the telephone, and presently gave him the information, suggesting that he should send one of his assistants to the Rue des Petits Champs to keep the spies under observation.
My statement filled him with feverish activity, for within half an hour he was seated with me in my room, and I was explaining all that had come to pass.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “They will not evade us now we know where they are. There is something fresh in the wind, without a doubt. We must discover what it is.”
Then he went to the telephone, rang up one of his assistants who lived out at Passy, and gave him some instructions, together with the address of the obscure hotel to which I had followed the pair of rogues.
Far into the night we sat discussing the situation. As far as he knew, the Ceuta negotiations were at a standstill. All that was known in Madrid was that the Spanish Government had offered to sell that strategic position to France, and that the latter had accepted. Beyond this we had no further information, save that a complete tracing of the plans for the fortification of the place, which had been prepared in the French War Office, had found its way into our Embassy, where, as may be imagined, it had a cordial welcome. It had been purchased by Kaye from one of the draughtsmen, and showed plainly with what thoroughness it was proposed to fortify the place in opposition to our defences at Gibraltar. With its usual ingenuity the French Government, through its mouthpiece, the Figaro, had inspired an article alleging that Ceuta was about to be bought by Russia, in order, of course, to create alarm in England, where the periodical Russian bogey would at once be brought forward. But to us at the Embassy, who knew the truth, the Figaro article proved farcical reading.
During the past two or three days cipher télégraphie despatches had been constantly exchanged between the Quai d’Orsay and the various European embassies, and there had been many other signs of unusual diplomatic activity on the part of the Republic.
At last the chief of the secret service drained his glass, and, rising, left me to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before my next day’s duties at the Embassy.
When I arose next morning I had occasion to go to the small writing-table in my sitting-room to obtain some note-paper, but was surprised to find the contents of the drawer in great disorder, as though they had been hastily overturned.
I called my man and questioned him, but he declared he knew nothing of it and that no one had entered my room. I frequently left the key in the drawer, as I had done when last I unlocked it. Whoever had searched that drawer had evidently looked for some private papers. I at once hastily set to work to rearrange them and find out whether any were missing.
Before five minutes had passed the truth became plain. A sealed envelope, in which I had placed the letter the Princess had written me offering her secret in exchange for my love, had been stolen. In an instant it flashed upon me that I had spoken of it to her as being destroyed. But it had now passed into the hands of our enemies!
Dark and mysterious are the ways of modern diplomacy as practised in the capitals of Europe, but this dastardly theft was not far from being the most daring and mysterious of any I had known.
Carefully I examined each of the papers. As far as I could discover, the only one missing was the letter of the Princess. Who could have stolen it? The only stranger who had entered the room was Edith, and I remembered that on the previous afternoon she had waited there alone before my arrival.
It was a strange thought, but it impressed itself upon me as a key to the truth. Surely she had not visited me for the sole purpose of stealing the letter which Léonie had sent to my room on that well-remembered night at Chantoiseau? I could not believe her capable of such duplicity, unless perchance it were prompted by jealousy. She might have heard of our acquaintance through one or other of those spies, her associates, and forthwith resolved on revenge. In any case the loss of the letter placed the Princess in an exceedingly serious position, and compromised her honour.
When I entered my room at the Embassy I found Lord Barmouth and Sibyl together. She was persuading him to allow her to accept an invitation to visit some relatives in the north of England, for she was tired of Paris, she declared. When I entered he dismissed her, saying that he wished to talk with me privately.
“Ingram, something extremely serious is in the wind,” he said, when the door had closed and we were alone. His face was pale and showed traces of sleeplessness. “I was at de Wolkenstein’s reception last night, and overheard a conversation between Berchtold and de Hindenburg. There is a conspiracy against us!”
“In what manner?” I asked, surprised that he should have become aware of it.
“The intercepting of those secret instructions which you brought from London some months ago is part of it; the Ceuta affair is another portion; and it appears, as far as I can gather, that the Powers, with the exception of Russia and Italy, have formed a gigantic plot against us to provoke war.”
“To provoke war!” I echoed. “What details do you know?”
“Olsoufieff, who, as you know, is my personal friend, dropped a hint which we may take as a warning. He told me he had reason to believe that the secret service of both France and Germany had of late made several successful coups against us, and that the interests of those two nations had been considerably promoted thereby.”
“He told you nothing further?”
“He could not be more explicit,” replied His Excellency. “Russia, who, according to the Press, is our hereditary enemy, is in reality our friend. If every monarch loved unity and concord as well as the Czar, the peace of Europe would to-morrow be assured. Yet diplomatic usages prevented Olsoufieff from betraying his confrères in their diplomacy, even though he is my intimate friend.”
“And how are we to act?” I asked. “The theft of the contents of that despatch was certainly most astonishing. How it was accomplished is an inscrutable mystery.”
“Sibyl has been endeavouring to assist us,” answered the Ambassador. “She, too, was at the reception last night, and kept eyes and ears open. She heard that both Wolf and that scoundrel Bertini are in Paris in company. Surely that bodes no good!”
“I was watching the pair until nearly three o’clock this morning,” I explained. “At present Kaye has the matter in hand;” and then I proceeded to explain all the occurrences of the previous night and those that befell in the early hours of the morning. I told him of Edith, of my visit to her at Ryburgh, of her call upon me, and of my subsequent discovery of her at that low café near the station of Batignolles.
“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed in wonder, when I had finished. “Then this woman who declared that she loved you is, although an English girl living in a rural Norfolk village, actually a French spy? The ramifications of the secret service of our enemies are indeed amazing. The plot which has for its object the downfall of England is the most gigantic and at the same time the most ingenious and carefully planned of any known in modern history. Save for the little rift in the veil of secrecy, through which we have fortunately detected the danger, it is absolutely perfect.”
Chapter Thirty Two.
Betrayal.
Winter came, grey, cold, and cheerless, in Paris. The war that had broken out in the Transvaal dragged on, and the European outlook grew daily darker and more lowering.
Occasionally I had received letters from Edith in Bordighera, telling me how pleasant life was there amid the sunshine and the palms after the leafless dreariness of an English winter. She, however, never once mentioned the man Bertini. Her letters were still affectionate, despite the fact that my replies were very cold and distant.
I entertained a distinct suspicion that she it was who had stolen the compromising letter of the Princess. In addition to this, her midnight visit to that pair of adventurers in the café had incensed me. For this reason her letters to me were unwelcome, and I answered them in quite an indifferent spirit. There was a wound in my heart that never could be healed. Edith Austin, it was proved, was the associate of two of the most unscrupulous adventurers in Europe.
In Paris matters were extremely critical. Lord Barmouth had been to Downing Street to have an interview with the Marquess, the latter refusing further to trust his secret instructions to any messenger; yet though not a word had been written and though the interview had taken place in the Foreign Secretary’s private room, where the doors are double, thus preventing any sound from reaching the corridor, the exact nature of His Excellency’s instructions was actually known at the Quai d’Orsay. The thing was incomprehensible; it rendered our diplomacy utterly powerless, forewarning the French of our policy and giving them a weapon to use against us. The mystery was impenetrable. Yet the truth was only too evident. Within four days of the interview taking place in London, Kaye brought to the Embassy a copy of a cipher telegram handed in at the Waterloo Station Telegraph-office, and received by the French Foreign Office, giving practically every detail of the verbal instructions received by the Ambassador. The way in which the truth had leaked out staggered belief.
The Marquess, on receiving the despatch from our Embassy, was at first disinclined to believe that such a thing could be possible, but I myself next day carried the copy of the spy’s telegram to London and placed it in his hands. It was in mid-February, and the Channel passage had been about as bad as it possibly could be. He read the telegram with its decipher, and stood utterly bewildered.
“Absolutely nothing seems safe from the scoundrels!” he cried angrily. “How they have obtained this is a complete mystery. No one was present, for I myself took every precaution. While this goes on we are powerless—utterly powerless. In order to render our diplomacy abortive the French are spreading the secret of our policy broadcast in every capital. The thing is monstrous, and can only be done with the object of creating war.”
“Every negotiation which England has had with the Transvaal since the commencement of the war is known at the Quai d’Orsay, as you will have noticed from the reports we have sent from the Embassy,” I said. “Indeed, the news of the declaration of war by President Kruger was known to the French Government within half an hour of its receipt by our Colonial Office.”
“It may have been sent to Paris direct from Pretoria,” answered the great statesman, frowning in his perplexity.
“But our reply was known in Paris hours before it was officially issued. The decision of our Cabinet was known at the Quai d’Orsay before the meeting actually broke up,” I remarked.
“I know, Ingram—I know,” answered the Marquess. “Unfortunately for us, this was indeed the case. The mystery of how they obtain their intelligence is absolutely inscrutable.”
We sat together for a long time in deep discussion. From his agitated manner and the unusual greyness of his fine, intelligent face, I knew that this man, upon whose shoulders rested the responsibility for England’s security at the most critical moment when the greater part of her Army was in South Africa, was in fear of some terrible disaster. That England, with her land forces in the Transvaal, was vulnerable was known not only to every diplomatist, but also to the man in the street in every foreign capital. Now that Lord Barmouth had discovered the existence of the great plot against us, of which the defiant attitude of the Transvaal was part, active inquiries had been made all over the Continent to discover its character, and it had been ascertained that it was the intention of certain Powers to intervene in favour of the Boers, and thus cause a general rupture with Great Britain.
The plans had been carefully laid. The Boers, backed by France, Austria, and Germany, had fought well, but British pertinacity and pluck, under Lord Roberts, had won their way to the relief of Ladysmith and the occupation of Bloemfontein. With Joubert dead, with Cronje captured at Paardeberg, the Majuba stigma had been wiped out. Besides, Pretoria had been occupied. Now the Continental Powers, having planned to league themselves against us, were awaiting their opportunity to intervene, cause a rupture, and declare war against us on the slightest pretext.
It was this matter that we were discussing.
“The plan has been fostered for two years past,” the Marquess declared. “The hostility of the French Press was part of the programme; the disgusting caricatures in the Rire inflamed the Anglophobes against us, and this—” and he took up a copy of the Monde Illustré, consisting wholly of a lurid forecast of the “Downfall of England” profusely illustrated,—“this, coming at such a moment, is more than mischievous. It will fan the too vigorous flames of French detestation of England, and increase the craving in France for war. I have read it, and it is apparently written to show how vulnerable our country is at this moment. I am not one who fears the downfall of our country; but should a war unhappily result, it would be a great calamity for Europe, and for France and the Republic most of all.”
“It is an odd thing,” I remarked, “that just as this pleasing brochure appears France should decide to mobilise four army corps in the coming autumn. All these corps are to be assembled in the north-west, close to the sea, and ready for a move if an opportunity comes. This is, I grant, not the first time that such a step has been taken, but it certainly requires to be met by ample precaution.”
“Yes,” he answered gravely, beating a tattoo upon his writing-pad with his quill. “It is not pleasant to reflect that, owing to the savings on the shipbuilding vote during the past three years, our Navy is not in a condition to warrant a feeling of security. Battleships and destroyers are hopelessly in arrears. An addition to our destroyer fleet—the best preventive of invasion—should be made without delay, as a simple precaution; for the risks are great with our Army absent, as it will still be in August, in South Africa.”
“In Paris,” I said, “we have been asked by the representatives of the Powers to believe that we have nothing to fear from a deliberate war policy on the part of the Governments of Germany, France, and Austria. They are all engaged in enterprises of far-reaching importance, which would be injured almost beyond recovery by war. Germany, de Hindenburg has pointed out, has entered with an unparalleled degree of enthusiasm into the struggle for industrial supremacy, with America and Great Britain as her only dangerous rivals.”
“To blind us to the truth,” observed the great Minister, smiling. “The Libre Parole inadvertently exposed the French secret when two months ago it declared that the bogey of British power had been flaunted in the face of the civilised world once too often, and a small but resolute nation had accepted the challenge. England, that outspoken sheet declared, has claimed to be predominant everywhere. The nations are tired of her pretensions, it insisted, and as soon as diplomacy has been forced to act in accordance with public opinion, there will be an end to this tyranny of the seas. The French forget,” he added, “that it is not always safe to try to take advantage of a nation hardened by recent warfare. A country is sometimes more remarkable for military power at the end than at the beginning of a campaign.”
“It appears to me,” I remarked, “that Kruger demands peace upon impossible conditions, in order to be able to say that England has refused to discuss peace, that she is quite intractable, and that she is, therefore, responsible for the bloodshed which will continue.”
“Most certainly Kruger’s peace proposals are part of the Continental plot. He knows well enough how to play upon human simplicity and at the same time to assist his friends,” observed the great statesman who controlled England’s destinies. “But,” he urged, “we must do one thing, Ingram. We must stop our policy leaking out as it does. This has already nearly landed us into war over the Ceuta incident, and must be a constant menace to us. Kaye, who was over a few days ago, told me that you had discovered certain persons who were evidently spies. What do you know of them?”
I told him all that I had discovered, omitting of course all reference to Edith and my love for her, as well as the fact that the Princess had offered me details of the plot upon terms which I had been unable to accept.
“Strive to keep them well under observation and discover the source of their information,” he said. “By doing this you will in a great measure frustrate the plans of our enemies, and afterwards our diplomacy can checkmate them. But while all our intentions are known our diplomacy must of necessity be rendered futile. You know these people, Ingram, and with you rests a very great responsibility.”
“I have all along striven to do my duty,” I answered. “I have made effort after effort in order to obtain the truth, but up to the present all has been in vain.”
“Continue,” he urged, looking at me with those grave, serious eyes, beneath the calm gaze of which many a foreign diplomatist at the Court of St. James had trembled. “By perseverance and with the help of the secret service you may one day be successful. Then we will unite all the peaceful forces of England in order to break up this dastardly conspiracy. It shall be done!” he cried angrily, striking the table with his clenched fist. “My country shall never fall a victim to this cunningly devised plot of Messieurs les Anglophobes—never!”
The very thought had set fire to his indignation, he rose, and paced the room with a flush upon his ashen checks.
“I trust you, Ingram, just as I have always trusted you in the past,” he said, turning suddenly on his heel towards me. “You have a clever and trustworthy chief in Lord Barmouth, a man fully fitted to occupy the place I hold in the British Government; therefore, strain every nerve to thwart the machinations of our enemies. Otherwise there must be war before the year is out—there must be!”
“I shall do my utmost, rely upon me,” I answered. “It shall not be because of my want of enterprise that this base system of espionage is allowed to continue.”
“Good,” he said, offering me his hand. “Return to Paris to-night, resume your inquiries, and remember that in this affair you may be the means of saving your country from a war long and disastrous. There is a conspiracy against our beloved lady the Queen. That in itself is sufficient incentive to arouse to action any man in the Foreign Office. Remember it always while working at this inscrutable mystery.”
I took his thin, bony hand, and he gripped mine warmly. The secret of the great statesman’s popularity with all his staff, from ambassador down to fourth-grade clerk, was his personal contact with them, his readiness to consult and advise, and his unfailing friendship and courtesy.
I promised him that I would continue to do my utmost to discover the truth. Then, taking my leave, I went out and down the great staircase into Downing Street, where the dark afternoon was rendered the more cheerless by the rain falling heavily; and the solitary policeman in his dripping cape touched his hat respectfully as I passed. The outlook in every way was certainly a most dismal and oppressive one.
In obedience to the Marquess’ command, I returned to Paris by the night mail from Charing Cross. During that journey I reflected deeply upon the best course to pursue in solving the problem. But the enigma was difficult, and its solution beyond the efforts even of the ubiquitous Kaye and his associates. If I obtained leave of absence, and went down to the Riviera, was it at all probable that I could learn some clue from Edith? I was doubtful.
Ever since that night, three months ago, when I had followed the spies to that obscure hotel in the Rue des Petits Champs, they had been shadowed, and their doings reported. Wolf had been to Brussels and to Berlin, while Bertini had returned to London; but their actions, although sometimes suspicious, had never supplied us with the clue we wanted.
Bertini was at that moment, according to the reports of the special section at Scotland Yard, whose speciality it is to watch suspected secret agents in England, living in comfort at the Midland Hotel at St. Pancras Station. He usually passed his evenings with a few of his compatriots, playing dominoes at the Café Royal or the Café Monaco. Wolf, on the other hand, was travelling hither and thither visiting various people, all of whom were noted in the elaborate system of espionage which was now being exercised upon them.
After a week in Paris I consulted Lord Barmouth, and he agreed that it would be wise for me to travel to Bordighera and make a final attempt to obtain some fact from the woman whom I had once hoped to make my wife. Truth to tell, I made up my mind to travel South with great reluctance, for so false and untrue had she been that I had long ago resolved within myself never again to see her. But it was a matter of necessity that we should no longer remain in ignorance of the source of the information which constantly leaked out to our enemies; hence, one evening I busied myself in assisting Mackenzie to pack my bag. While doing so the electric bell rang suddenly, and when my servant returned from answering the summons, he announced a visitor, saying:
“A lady has called to see you, sir—the Princess von Leutenberg.”
“The Princess!” I gasped in surprise.
Then, wondering what could be the nature of her business with me at that hour, I smoothed down my hair before the glass, drew a long breath (for I expected a scene), and entered the room into which she had been shown.
“Léonie—you!” I cried in surprise.
Her rich sables were unclasped at the throat, and when she rose quickly they fell from her, displaying her finely moulded white neck and arms, shining like alabaster in contrast to her low-cut corsage of black chiffon.
Her face was blanched to the lips, the slim, gloved hand she gave me trembled, and her beautiful eyes, usually so brilliant and sparkling, had a look of haunting fear in them.
“Gerald!” she whispered hoarsely, as if fearful lest she might be overheard, “my secret is out! I am ruined—ruined! And through you! You have betrayed me to my enemies—you, the man I love!”
Chapter Thirty Three.
Which Contains a Surprise.
“Betrayed you, Léonie!” I echoed. “I have not betrayed you!”
“But you have!” she declared angrily, her eyes flashing upon me. “You have broken your oath to me.”
“I have broken no oath,” I answered calmly; adding, “Let us sit down and talk quietly.”
“Talk quietly!” she cried, speaking rapidly in French. “Do you think I can talk quietly with ruin staring me in the face?”
“In what manner does ruin threaten you?” I inquired, placing my hand upon her arm in an effort to calm her.
She was terribly agitated, I could see, and her anger knew no bounds, although she was striving strenuously to suppress it.
“You have betrayed my secret—the secret of my love for you!” she cried. “That letter which you promised me to destroy is in the hands of my bitterest enemy.”
“Forgive me, Léonie,” I cried quickly. “The letter was mysteriously stolen from that writing-table there. How, I know not.”
“Cannot you even guess who is the thief?”
I hesitated. The only person I suspected was Edith, who had been the solitary occupant of that room while she waited for me. It was after her departure that I found the drawer in confusion and the letter missing.
“I have suspicion,” I replied with some hesitation, “yet I feel assured it is unfounded.”
“Of whom?”
“Of a friend.”
“A friend of yours?” she exclaimed quickly. “Therefore, an enemy of mine. It is a woman. Come, admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” I answered with a forced smile, my diplomatic instinct instantly asserting itself.
“Is it a woman, or is it not?” she demanded.
“I am not compelled to answer that question, Léonie,” I remarked in a quiet voice.
“But having betrayed me—or rather having allowed me to be betrayed—it is surely only manly of you to endeavour to make amends!” she cried reproachfully. “Even if you do not love me sufficiently to make me your wife, that is hardly a reason why you should expose me to my enemies.”
“I have not done so wilfully,” I declared. “As the letter has been stolen by an enemy, I feel sure that the suspicion resting upon my friend is unfounded.”
“But if the thief is a woman and she loves you, she would naturally be my enemy, and seek to overthrow me,” argued the Princess logically.
“It is my fault,” I said. “I regret the incident, and seek your forgiveness, Léonie. I had no idea that spies and thieves surrounded me, as apparently they do, or I would have destroyed it instead of keeping it as a cherished relic of one of the few romantic incidents of my life.”
“You w’ere very foolish to keep it, just as it was foolish of me to have written it,” she observed. “Cannot you see how compromised I am by it? I have offered to betray to you a secret of State, a secret known only to kings, emperors, and their immediate advisers, in return for your love. I am self-condemned,” she added wildly.
“But into whose hands has the letter passed?” I inquired, now quite convinced of the extreme gravity of the situation.
“Into the possession of a man who is my most bitter enemy in all the world. Ah, you don’t know, Gerald, how I am suffering!”
She placed her hand upon her brow, and stood rigid and motionless.
“Why?”
“Because this man, with the evidence of my treason in his possession, is endeavouring to force me into a hateful bondage. To save myself,” she added hoarsely, “I must obey, or else—”
“Or else what?” I inquired, looking at her in astonishment.
“Or else escape exposure and ruin by another method, more swift and more to be trusted.”
“I don’t understand you. What do you mean?”
“Suicide,” she answered in a low, hard voice, regarding me coldly, with a truly desperate look in her eyes.
“Come, come, Léonie,” I said quickly, “to talk like that is absurd.”
“No, it is not in the least absurd,” she protested, a heavy, serious look upon her face. “Like yourself, I am the victim of a vile conspiracy. This man has long sought to entrap me, and has, alas! now succeeded.”
“For what reason?”
She remained silent, as though doubting whether to tell me the whole truth. In a few moments, however, she made a sudden resolve.
“Because he wishes to marry me,” she answered briefly.
“And by holding this letter as a menace he now seeks to force you into a marriage that is distasteful?”
“Distasteful!” she echoed. “I hate and detest him! Rather than marry him I would prefer suicide.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do not accept his conditions for the return of that letter he will expose me,” she answered in despair.
“Has he threatened this?”
“Yes.”
“And what is your response?”
“I have refused, Gerald. Even though he were not so hateful I could not marry him, because I love you.”
She was trembling with agitation, and tears stood in her fine eyes.
“Love for me is out of the question, Léonie,” I answered kindly, yet firmly. “Now that you find yourself in this critical situation it is for us both to strive to frustrate this enemy of yours. It is my duty to assist you.”
“Ah, you cannot!” she said in a tone of utter despair. “The power he holds over me by possessing the written evidence of my treason—my offer to betray to you the secret of my Emperor—is complete, and he is well aware of it. He demands marriage with me, or he will ruin me, and brand me as a traitress to my country and my Emperor.”
“This man is, of course, now aware of what passed between us during my visit at Chantoiseau?” I said.
“He knows everything,” she answered. “I was living quietly at Rudolstadt, and endeavouring to forget you, when of a sudden, a fortnight ago, there came to the castle a stranger, who sent in his card sealed in an envelope. My servants regarded him with some suspicion, and well they might, for when I opened the envelope and took out the card I knew that at last the blow had fallen. He had dared to come and seek me there.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes, he demanded an interview. We had not met for nearly two years, yet he approached me with a declaration of love upon his lips. I laughed at him, but presently he held me dumb by producing from his pocket the compromising letter. He began by pointing out how easily he could ruin me socially, and prove me to be a traitress. He made an end by offering to place the letter unreservedly in my hands on the day I became his wife.”
“He had declared his love to you before?”
“Yes, two years ago. But I knew him too well, and hated him too thoroughly, to take a favourable view of his ridiculous declaration.”
“And this man?” I asked. “Who is he?”
“He was once in the employ of my father, Prince Kinsky von Wchinitz, and was administrator of the estates at Wchinitz and Tettau, in Bohemia. Immediately my husband died and the feudal estates of Schwazbourg passed into my possession, as well as those of my late father, this man pressed his claim. He first endeavoured to pay court to me; then, on finding I was cold to his attentions, he became threatening, and I was compelled to discharge him. Afterwards he drifted away, became a chevalier d’industrie, and at last, because of my refusal to hear his repeated declarations of affection, he made a dastardly attempt upon my life.”
“He tried to kill you?” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes,” she responded. “Had it not been for the timely intervention of a stranger—a person whom I did not see—he would have murdered me.”
“Through jealousy?”
“Yes, through jealousy.”
“And this fellow’s name?” I asked, my anger rising at the thought of a discharged employé thus holding Léonie in his power, and, despite the fact that he had made an attempt upon her life, badgering her to marry him. “Is there any reason why I should not know it?”
There was a brief silence. She hesitated to tell me, and not until I had pressed her several times to disclose to me his name would she answer.
“The man who is seeking to drive me to destruction and to suicide is,” she replied reluctantly, “an adventurer of the worst type—a man who is seeking to make a wealthy marriage at the expense of a woman whom he holds in his power, and whom he can ruin at any moment if he chooses.”
“His name? Tell me.”
“His name is Count Rodolphe d’Egloffstein-Wolfsburg.”
I held my breath, utterly amazed by this disclosure.
“The man known as Rodolphe Wolf?” I cried—“the adventurer who fell into the hands of the police at St. Petersburg, and served nine months’ imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond?”
“What! you know him?” she demanded in surprise. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“A friend!” I echoed. “No, not a friend by any means. An enemy, and a bitter one.”
“Then he is mutually our enemy?” she declared.
“Most certainly,” I answered, adding, “What you have just told me, Léonie, reveals to me the truth regarding several incidents which have been hitherto unaccountable. Was Wolf actually in your father’s employ?”
“Yes, for years. He was the younger son of old Count Leopold d’Egloffstein-Wolfsburg, whose small estate joined that of Tettau, and, after a wild career in Vienna and Paris, returned home a ne’er-do-well. My father, in order to give him another chance in life, gave him control of a portion of the estates, and, finding him shrewd and clever at management, ultimately made him administrator of the whole, which position he filled up to the time when, after my husband’s death, I discharged him on account of dishonesty and of the constant annoyance to which I was subjected by him. When he left me he vowed that one day I should become his wife, and it seems that in order to gain that end he has been scheming ever since.”
“He is a spy in the French secret service,” I observed thoughtfully, for strange reflections were running through my mind at that instant.
“I have heard so,” she answered. “But that is not actually proved, is it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it possible that he himself stole the letter from your desk there? Has he ever been here?”
“Never, to my knowledge. He would never dare to enter here,” I replied. “No, that letter was stolen by one of his accomplices.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, I think it was a woman.”
“A woman whom you love, or have loved, Gerald? Come now, be perfectly frank with me.”
“You guess aright,” I answered, remembering that as far as I was aware she knew nothing of the existence of Edith Austin.
A dark look crossed her features.
“Then if that woman knew the contents of the letter she had a motive of jealousy,” argued the Princess.
“She may have had. At any rate I have suspicion that, acting under Wolf’s instructions, she abstracted the letter and handed it to him without previous knowledge of what it contained.”
“No, I scarcely think that. Wolf would tell her that I loved you and was her rival in your affections, in order to incense her against me. What is her name?”
I kept silence for a moment, reflecting upon the wisdom of telling her the truth at that juncture. At last I resolved that, as our interests were mutual, there should be no secrets between us.
“She is English, and her name is Austin—Edith Austin.”
“Edith Austin!” she cried in dismay. “And you love her?—you love that woman?”
“Why do you speak of her in that manner?” I demanded.
“Austin—Austin?” she repeated. “It is certainly not the first time I have heard that name. Certainly her reputation is not above suspicion. And you actually love her, Gerald?” she added in a blank tone of reproach. “Is it really possible that you love her?”
“Why?”
“Because Bertini—who was once in the Austrian service, and is now a secret agent of the French—told me in Vienna not long ago that one of the most successful French agents in England was a young girl named Edith Austin. She must be the same. I know Bertini well, although he is not at all a desirable acquaintance. And you love this girl—you, in your responsible position at the Embassy? Is it not extremely dangerous?”
I admitted that it was, but expressed disinclination to discuss the matter further, feeling that the more we talked of it the deeper would be the pain I caused to the handsome and desperate woman before me.
“You told me just now that Wolf once made an attempt upon your life,” I said presently. “These words of yours have given me a clue to an incident which has to me long been a mystery.”
“How?”
“Listen, and I’ll tell you. One day in late autumn two years ago I alighted at the little station of Montigny, on the line to Montargis, in order to ride through the forest of Fontainebleau to Bois-le-Roi, and return thence to Paris by rail. I am fond of the forest, and when I can snatch a day, sometimes go for a healthy spin through it, either riding, cycling, or on foot. Having lunched at the little inn at Marlotte, where my mare was stabled, I started off on the road which, as you know well, leads through the wild rocks of the Gorge aux Loups to the Carrefour de la Croix du Grand Maître in the heart of the forest, and thence away to the town of Fontainebleau. The afternoon was gloomy and lowering, and darkness crept on much more quickly than I had anticipated. It had rained earlier in the day, and the roads were wet and muddy, while the wind that had sprung up moaned dismally through the half-bare trees, rendering the ride anything but a cheerful one.
“By six o’clock it was already quite dark, and I was still in the centre of the forest, galloping along a narrow by-way which I knew would bring me out upon the main road to Paris. The mare’s hoofs were falling softly upon the carpet of rain-sodden leaves when of a sudden I heard a woman’s cry of distress in the darkness close to me. A man’s voice sounded, speaking in German, and next instant there was the flash of a revolver and a loud report. The light gave me a clue, and, pulling up, I swung myself from my saddle and without hesitation rushed to the woman’s assistance. I slipped my own revolver from my pocket and sprang upon the man who had fired, while at the same instant the woman wrested herself from the assassin’s grasp. By means of the white shawl she wore about her head I saw her disappearing quickly through the undergrowth. With a fierce oath the man turned upon me, and, as we struggled, endeavoured to get the muzzle of his weapon beneath my chin. I felt the cold steel against my jaw, and next instant he pulled the trigger. My face was scorched by the flash, but happily the bullet went harmlessly past my cheek. I had dropped my own weapon early in the encounter, and now saw that the only way in which I could save my life was to beat the fellow’s head against a tree until he became insensible. This I succeeded in doing, tripping him suddenly, forcing him down, and beating his skull against a tree-stump until he lay there motionless as a log. Then I took his weapon from him, and, striking a match, bent down to see his face. To my astonishment I found that he was a man I had known slightly several years before—the man who holds you within his power—Rodolphe Wolf.”
“And the woman who so narrowly escaped death—indeed, whose life was saved by your timely aid—is the woman who loves you—myself!” she cried.
“I never dreamed, until your words just now gave me a clue to the truth, that you were actually the unknown woman who escaped from the hands of the assassin,” I said.
For answer she grasped my hand warmly and looked straight into my eyes, though she did not utter a single word.