Chapter Thirty Four.
At Bordighera.
Bordighera, that charming, well-sheltered little town which, lying well back in its picturesque bay on the Italian Riviera, has during the past year or so come quickly into fashionable prominence, is at its best towards the end of February. It is not by any means a large place. The quaint old town is perched upon a conical hill with queer ladder-like streets, so narrow that no vehicles can pass up them. There are strong stone arches to support the houses against possible earthquakes. The streets are dark, sometimes mere tunnels, as is so frequent in those neighbouring rock villages, Sasso, Dolceacqua, Apricale, and the rest, the reason being that they were built in the days when the Moorish pirates made constant raids along that coast, and the houses were clustered together for mutual protection against those dreaded raiders.
But below the ancient town, Bordighera has spread along the seashore and into the olive-woods. In February, when in England all is bare and cheerless, the gardens of the handsome hotels and the big white villas on the hillsides are ablaze with flowers, the air is heavy with the perfume of the heliotrope, growing in great bushes, and the sweet scent of the carnations, grown in fields for Covent Garden and the flower-market outside the Madeleine.
The tourist in knickerbockers, with his camera over his shoulder, never goes to Bordighera, for to the uninitiated it is far too dull. There is no casino, as at Nice, no jetty, no cafés with al-fresco music, no tables out upon the pavement; and, truth to tell, such attractions are not required. The people who winter at Bordighera represent the most distinguished coterie in Europe. They are not of the snobbish crowd who frequent San Remo, and they do their best to avoid attracting into their midst the undesirable crowd from Monte Carlo, or the Cookites from Nice. Life in Bordighera from November until the end of April is essentially charming. The people who winter there regularly—English, Germans, Russians, Belgians, and Italians—all know each other, and nearly every evening there are brilliant entertainments, at which princes, dukes, marquesses, and counts attend as thickly as blackberries grace the hedgeside in autumn. The big hotels give dances weekly, to which everyone in Society is welcome. In fact, life in Bordighera is very similar to that in a pleasant country town in England, but with the difference that it is purely cosmopolitan, without any distinction of caste. Emperors, kings, grand-dukes, and reigning princes are all patrons of the place, and it certainly stands unique in the whole world both for its natural beauties and for its unpretentiousness. There is no artificial charm, as at Nice, San Remo, Monte Carlo, or Cannes. The easy-going people of Bordighera are well aware that the charm of their clean, white little town lies in its natural beauty and quaint old-world picturesqueness; hence, although the health and comfort of their foreign visitors are studied, no attempt is made to give it a false air of garishness and gaiety.
When at noon, two days after the Princess’s visit to me, I stepped from the sleeping-car that had brought me down from Paris, and, entering a fiacre, drove up to the Hôtel Angst, I turned back and saw before me a sunny panorama of turquoise sea and purple mountains, which compelled me to pause in rapt admiration. The grey-green of the olives, the brighter foliage of the oranges with the yellow fruit gleaming in the green, the high feathery palms waving in the zephyr, the flowers of every hue, the dazzlingly white town, and its background of grey inaccessible crags, snow-tipped here and there, behind Apricale, combined to make up a picture unique and superb.
I had been in Bordighera once before, but this second impression in no way destroyed the former. On several previous occasions I had spent a month or so in the South at Monte Carlo, Mentone, and Nice, but I must admit that I preferred King’s Road at Brighton to the Promenade des Anglais at Nice. Mentone I disliked because of its bath-chair invalids, San Remo because of its snobbery; and Monte Carlo, with all its jargon of the play, the eternal Casino, the band outside the Café de Paris, the clatter at Ciro’s, and the various pasteboard attractions, was to me only tolerable for a week. Bordighera, with better climate and a native population exceedingly well-disposed towards the English, possesses distinct advantages over them all, although it never advertises itself on railway-station hoardings, like Nice or San Remo, by means of posters in which the sea is the colour of washing-blue.
As I had not advised Edith of my coming, it being my intention to surprise her, it was not until after the dressing-bell had rung for dinner that evening that I went below. I watched her descend the staircase, a neat figure in cream, with corsage slightly décolleté, and with pink carnations in her hair. Then I approached her in the great hall and held out my hand.
She drew back in amazement. The next moment she welcomed me warmly, evidently under the impression that I had come there in order to forgive.
Aunt Hetty, looking quite spruce in black satin, and wearing a gay cap and an emerald brooch, came downstairs a few minutes later, and, after a brief explanation, we followed the others in to the table-d’hôte. As early arrivals, they had places near the head of the table, while mine was far down, near the end. Therefore, not until the meal was over, and we sat in rocking-chairs in the hall listening to the music, was I able to chat to her, and then nothing confidential could pass between us because of the other guests seated around, the men smoking and gossiping, and the women enjoying the lazy post-prandial hour before the arrival of the English mail with the two-days-old letters and newspapers.
After a long talk with her, mostly upon trivialities, I retired that night with a distinct impression that somehow my presence there was unwelcome. She had told me that they did not intend to remain much longer in Bordighera, and that they would either go on to Rome or back to England. I felt convinced that this decision had been suddenly arrived at since my advent.
On the following morning, after my coffee, I went forth for a stroll into the long high-street of the town, where, in the window of the British Vice-Consulate, was placed a board bearing a number of telegrams. I paused, finding that they gave the latest news of the war in the Transvaal, which was telegraphed from London twice daily. As I did so, another passer-by paused and eagerly peered into the window beside me.
He was a shabbily dressed Italian, smoking a long, rank Toscano, and as I turned away from the board my eyes fell suddenly upon his face.
It was Paolo Bertini.
Our recognition was mutual, and I saw in an instant that he became confused. He moved away, but I walked beside him.
“Why are you here?” I inquired in French with some warmth.
“I may put to you the same question,” he answered defiantly, his dark eyes flashing upon me with an evil gleam.
“Remember,” I said, “you have been already condemned as a French spy, although you are an Italian. They are not fond of French spies here, on the frontier.”
“What do you mean?” he cried, turning upon me quickly. “Is that a threat?”
“It is,” I answered boldly. “We have met now, and you must answer to me for several things.”
“For what?”
“For your recent actions as a spy.”
“You are extremely polite—like all the English,” he said sneeringly.
We had turned back and were walking in the direction of the hotel again.
“In this matter politeness is not necessary—only plain speaking,” I said. “First, I may tell you, for your own information, that I know well your methods and all about your assistance to your accomplice Wolf. Every action of yours during these past three months has been watched, and the truth is now known.”
His face went pale, but his nerve never deserted him. Even though I myself had once given him into the hands of the police, he was still the same scheming, desperate spy as he had ever been.
“Well,” he laughed, “if you know the truth I hope it interests you. You had best go back to Paris and not seek to interfere with me.”
“I came here for a purpose,” I told him plainly, “and that purpose was to find you and hand you over to the police as a French secret agent. In France you are secure, but here you will discover that your countrymen are not so well-disposed towards a traitor.”
“I have no fear of arrest,” he replied. “Do your worst, caro mio. You cannot harm me.”
“Very well,” I answered, “we shall see.”
He glanced at me quickly with an evil look. If he had dared he would have struck me down with the poignard which he kept always concealed in his belt. But he was a coward, I knew; therefore, I felt safe while among the crowd of gaily dressed promenaders who were enjoying the morning sunshine. If he made an attempt upon me, it would be in secret, not in the open.
“Shall I tell you why you are here?” he asked. “You have come to Bordighera to follow Edith Austin—just as I did.”
“And if so, what then?”
“Return to Paris. She is mine.”
“She shall never be!” I cried furiously. “You, a spy, a coward, and a traitor, hold her within your power, and are forcing her to become your catspaw. I know it all. I saw you that night at Ryburgh. I followed you. I made inquiries of her, and learned the truth.”
“What!” he cried, “she told you—she has dared to give me away?”
“I know all,” I answered firmly, “and your doom is imprisonment on the Island of Gorgona for the remainder of your life.”
“You exposed me once!” he cried in anger. “I have not forgotten it. We shall be quits one day.”
“We shall be quits this very day,” I asserted hotly.
“Ah!” he laughed defiantly, “that remains to be seen. You are jealous of Edith Austin,” he added with a supercilious sneer.
“She is your victim!” I cried, “and I have resolved to rescue her.”
“Because you think she is pure and honest, and that she loves you? But very soon you will discover your mistake.”
“Do you make an imputation against her honour?” I demanded fiercely.
He shrugged his shoulders meaningly, his face broadening into an evil grin.
“You are a coward in addition to being a spy and a traitor!” I declared. “You would even endeavour to besmirch a woman’s fair name.”
“Fair name!” he laughed insultingly. “Love like yours, amico mio, is always blind. You English are always so amusingly simple.”
“Come,” I said, halting suddenly when we had arrived at the small garden in the centre of which the band-stand is placed. As we were some distance away from the promenaders, we could not be overheard. “Enough has passed between us. I tell you plainly that it is my intention to end all this and to apply for your arrest as a spy.”
“And supposing I do not allow myself to be arrested? Suppose I cross the frontier at once?”
“A telegram to the police at Ventimiglia will prevent you,” I answered quite calmly. “You see that city guard yonder?” I said, pointing to a man in uniform standing not far off upon the kerb. “I have only now to demand your arrest, and you will never again enjoy freedom your whole life long.”
“But you don’t think I should be such a fool as to allow myself to be taken, do you?” he said, his air of defiance still perfect.
He went on chewing the end of his Virginia. “Your description is too well known. You will not be at liberty a single hour after I make my statement to the Prefect.” Then I paused, and, looking straight into his evil face, added, “There is, however, yet another way.”
“How?”
“A way in which you may avoid arrest—the only way.”
“Explain,” he said. “This is very interesting.”
“By being perfectly frank with me,” I replied, “and by making explanation of your work of espionage in London.”
“You will never know that,” he replied quickly. “Cause my arrest if you wish, but upon the incidents of the past year my lips are sealed, because I know that you can never secure my conviction in Italy.”
“Then you still defy me, and refuse to explain anything?”
It was my endeavour to obtain from him the secret of how despatches had so frequently been stolen.
“I will explain nothing,” he declared firmly.
“You have no evidence upon which to convict me.”
“Very well,” I answered slowly and distinctly, “we shall see. You apparently forget that within your photographic camera, which so fortunately fell into my hands, was an undeveloped negative of an important diplomatic document having reference to Italy’s position in regard to the Triple Alliance, which you photographed in the Italian Embassy in Brussels and intended to hand to your employers in Paris? I have a print of it here, in my pocket-book, and I think it will be of considerable interest both to the Italian police and the Italian Government.”
His jaw dropped, and the light went out of his dark, sallow countenance. I saw that if ever the spirit of murder was in this scoundrel’s heart it was there at that moment.
Chapter Thirty Five.
In which Edith Speaks Plainly.
After luncheon, when Miss Foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to take her afternoon nap, Edith managed to escape and accompany me for a walk. The hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly English, who had come South in search of sunshine. The Battle of Flowers was to be fought that day. The little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and irresponsibility that Carnival lends to every Italian town. In Carnival Bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festà is fast and furious, without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at Nice.
Edith had, however, seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice in the previous week, having gone over there for the day. As this was so, we resolved to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. Up a steep road on the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny Ospedaletti we climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered the beautiful olive-groves. Seen through the grey-green trees with their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful, the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand, the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep sapphire of the glassy sea. Although February, it was like a May day in England, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk in overcoats or wraps was impossible.
“Well,” I said at length, when we had halted a second time to turn back and admire the view, “you are displeased with me, Edith? Why am I so unwelcome?”
“You are not unwelcome,” she declared quickly. “I am certainly not displeased.”
“I begin to think that during the months you’ve been here you have forgotten those words you uttered to me in Paris, just as you forgot your vow made to me beneath the willows at Ryburgh.”
“I have forgotten nothing,” she protested. “This is cruel of you, Gerald, to reproach me thus.”
“You told me then that you reciprocated my affection, yet you allow this man Bertini to follow you everywhere. He is here.”
“Here?” she gasped in alarm, her face pale in an instant. “Are you certain?”
“I have seen and spoken with him this morning.”
I did not tell her the nature of our conversation, or how I had given him twelve hours in which to decide whether he preferred to reveal the truth or take the consequences of arrest; neither did I tell her that I had called at the police-office and that the spy was already under close observation, the police believing him to be an undesirable visitor from Monte Carlo.
“You’ve spoken with him? What did he tell you?”
“Very little of consequence. I know that you are his victim, and I am seeking to release you from the thraldom,” I answered gravely.
“Ah!” she cried wistfully, “if you only could! If you only could, then I should commence a new life and be happy! The awful suspense is killing me.”
“Suspense of what?”
She was silent for a moment.
“I fear his threats,” she faltered. “I know he would have no compunction whatever in causing my ruin when I am no longer of further use to him.”
“Now, tell me plainly and honestly, Edith,” I asked, looking straight into her white, anxious face. “Do you love him?”
“Love him!” she echoed wildly. “Why, I hate him! Have I not already told you so?”
“But he loves you.”
“Of that I am not certain. If he does, it is through no fault whatever of mine. I detest and hate him!”
“Will you not tell me how he managed to obtain this irresistible power over you? Can you not help me in my search for the truth?”
“I must not speak; I dare not, Gerald,” she answered in a hoarse whisper, as though the very thought of exposure filled her with alarm.
“You fear his revenge?”
She nodded, adding in a low tone, “He knows my secret.”
“And I, your lover, do not,” I observed reproachfully. “Well,” I continued, “answer me truly one question. Tell me whether, when you called upon me on the last occasion in Paris, you stole a letter from my desk—a letter from the Princess von Leutenberg?”
“From the woman who loves you?” she cried huskily. “Yes, I did.”
“And you stole it at Bertini’s instigation? He told you where it would be found, the colour of the envelope, and the coronet and cipher upon it, did he not?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“And that same night you met him in a small café at Batignolles, and handed him the letter? He was with his accomplice, Rodolphe Wolf.”
“It is just as you say,” she answered. “But how did you know this?”
“Because I myself watched you,” I answered. “That letter was stolen to be used against the Princess.”
“And if it is, what then? That woman who offered to betray her country in return for your love is my rival!” she cried fiercely.
“The theft of that letter was committed with quite another motive,” I replied. “That adventurer Wolf desires to marry the Princess, and with his accomplice has made you his catspaw to obtain the letter, and thus compel her to marry him. If she refuses, he threatens to denounce her.”
“Has he actually threatened this?” she cried in surprise. “I never dreamt that such was his motive.”
“She is in Paris, suffering from this scoundrel’s tyranny. As the man is an adventurer and spy, marriage between them is out of the question.” She turned to me, and, looking into my eyes, earnestly demanded:
“Tell me, Gerald, do you love her, as they told me that you do? You visited her at Chantoiseau, and it is said that you often went long walks in the forest together. Besides, in Paris you met often at various receptions and dances.”
“True,” I admitted. “We met often, and I have more than once been her guest at the château; but as to loving her, such an idea has never entered my head. She is a smart and attractive woman, like many others in the circle in which I am compelled to move; but I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that I never loved her in the past, and that to-day is as yesterday.”
“She loves you. That letter is sufficient proof of it.”
“It was written in a moment of madness,” I assured her. “She regretted it a few hours afterwards, and asked me to destroy it. The fault is entirely my own, for I neglected to carry out her wish. By my own culpable negligence she is placed in this position.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Forgive me, Gerald; I acted under compulsion, as I have always been compelled to act.”
“Certainly I forgive,” I answered. “But will it not be humane conduct on your part to rescue the Princess from this terrible doom? Wolf wishes to marry her for her money alone, and will force this step upon her if we can find no means to save her.”
She paused. Hitherto she had been jealous of Léonie, but now, upon my assurance that I had no love for her, I saw that she inclined towards mercy.
“If I could,” she said at last, “I would assist her. But I cannot see that it is possible.”
“You can do so by explaining your own position to me,” I said. “Despicable though it may seem, the ghastly truth is, that you are actually a spy in the service of France. If you do not seek to clear yourself now, you may be condemned with your accomplices Wolf, Bertini, and Yolande de Foville.”
“That woman!” she cried quickly. “It was she who plotted against you.”
“Then you have met her!” I exclaimed, surprised at this revelation.
I had never believed that they had met.
“Yes,” Edith replied, “I met her in London; and while dining one night at the Carlton with Wolf and Bertini she told me how she had misled you into the belief that she loved you passionately, in order to obtain from you certain official information which had been of the greatest use to them at the Quai d’Orsay. She little dreamed that I knew you and loved you, and the three of them laughed heartily over what they called your gullibility.”
I pursed my lips, for I now saw that woman’s motive in responding to my declaration of love long ago. At the time I would not believe the whispered condemnation of the Countess and her daughter as secret agents, but of late the truth had been shown me all too plainly.
“And did she mention an incident last year in Paris as the result of which she nearly lost her life?” I inquired.
“Yes; she told us a long story of how a mysterious attempt had been made to poison her in her own apartment in Paris by some subtle poison being placed upon the gum of the envelopes in her escritoire. She wrote a letter, and licked the envelope in order to seal it, when she was seized suddenly by excruciating pains, followed by coma and a state so nearly resembling death that even the doctors were at first deceived. Only by an antidote administered by an English doctor—a friend of yours, I believe—was her life saved. Because of your efforts she had, she said, been seized by remorse, and ceased to mislead you further, because of the debt of gratitude she owed you.”
“Very kind indeed of her,” I laughed.
A silence fell between us. We were both looking seaward, far away over the great expanse of clear bright blue, to where a distant steamer was leaving a trail of smoke upon the horizon. Down in the carnation-gardens some girls were singing an old Italian folk-song while they cut and packed the flowers for the London market; at our feet were violets everywhere.
“Can you tell me absolutely nothing, in order to lead me to a knowledge of the truth, Edith?” I asked again. “Remember that our love and our future depend upon you alone. At present you are a spy, liable to arrest as a traitress.”
“I know—I know!” she cried, bursting into a flood of tears. “It was not my fault. I could not help it. I was compelled—compelled!”
“You are aware of the channels through which knowledge of our diplomatic secrets have been obtained by our enemies. Will you not make amends by telling me the truth?” I asked in a low, persuasive, earnest tone, my arm about her slim waist.
“I dare not!” she sobbed—“I dare not! They would kill me, as they have sworn to do if I betrayed them!”
During the hour that followed, as we wandered together among the olives, I ascertained a few unimportant facts from her—facts which threw considerable light upon the ingenuity of the spies with whom she had been compelled to ally herself. But upon the secret of how their great coups had been accomplished her lips were sealed.
I gave her to understand that Bertini was now within an ace of arrest, and that in less than an hour he would, if I willed it, be inside the Prefecture, charged with treason against his own Government; but in such terror did she hold him that even my assertion that his power over her had ended did not induce her to disclose anything.
At first it had seemed to me almost impossible that she, living in the country with the strictly prim and proper Miss Foskett, could at the same time be a member of the secret service of our enemies. But I had witnessed her midnight meeting with Bertini, and that had convinced me.
“And if you cause his arrest,” she exclaimed reflectively, as we descended the mule-path on our return, “what will be the result?”
“The only result will be, as far as I can tell at present, that his evil influence over you will be ended, and you will be free.”
“No,” she responded, sighing, “there are the others. His arrest would only bring their wrath upon me, for they would believe that I had betrayed them.”
“They are spies and enemies of our country and our Queen, Edith,” I urged. “To betray them is your duty as an Englishwoman.”
“To disclose their secret would mean to me a swift and terrible death,” she answered.
I saw that all my efforts at persuasion were unavailing. As we retraced our steps the silence between us was a sad and painful one.
“You do not love me sufficiently to sacrifice all for my sake, Edith,” I said at last gravely; “otherwise you would help me to unravel the mystery.” We were just descending a narrow winding path to the high road as I spoke, and she halted suddenly in indecision.
“I do love you, Gerald,” she cried with sudden resolution. She flung her arms about my neck; she buried her face upon my shoulder; she burst again into tears. “I love you—I have never loved any man except yourself!” she declared passionately, lifting her face to me until our lips met.
“Then will you not make this sacrifice, if you really love me so well?” I asked. “Will you not tell me the truth, and allow me to be your champion?”
She hesitated, and I saw the terrible struggle going on within her.
“Yes,” she cried hoarsely at last, “I will—I will! and if they kill me, you will at least know that I loved you, Gerald—that I loved you deeply and dearly!”
“I am convinced of that, darling,” I said. “But in this affair your interests are my own. Tell me the truth, and give me freedom of action. If you will, we may yet overthrow our enemies.”
For a few moments she did not speak, but sobbed convulsively upon my breast. Then, suddenly holding her breath, she raised her tear-stained face to mine. At last, her love for me conquering all else, she said in a low whisper, as though fearful lest someone should overhear:
“Go to the little village of Feltham, near London, the next station to Twickenham, and find Cypress Cottage. You will discover the secret there.”
Feltham! It was the place mentioned by Wolf when I had listened to that conversation in the dingy little café at Batignolles.
“What is there?” I inquired quickly. “What secret does the cottage contain?”
“Have a care in approaching the place. Obtain the assistance of the police—surround it—search it—and see.”
“Is there sufficient evidence there to justify the spy’s arrest?”
“Certainly. Go and ascertain for yourself. I have betrayed their secret—that is enough. If their revenge falls upon me, then I am content to bear it, Gerald, for your sake. Tell me, however, that you have forgiven me all the past; that you will believe no word of any vile scandal that may be uttered against me by that pair of adventurers. Promise me,” she cried in deep earnestness.
“I will believe nothing without proof,” I answered, kissing her fondly. “I love you to-day, darling, just as passionately as I did when first we met long ago. I start for London by the Calais express at six to-night, and will at once follow your directions.”
“And Bertini, what of him?” she asked in alarm. “He is here, in Bordighera, for an evil purpose, without a doubt. If he knows, I shall be in deadly peril.”
“Have no fear,” I assured her. “Before I leave he will be in the hands of the police. My plans are already matured.” We walked back through the orange-grove down to the hotel hand-in-hand, both resolved to act firmly and fearlessly. As we walked along we seldom spoke with our lips; but our hearts discovered a beautiful language in the silence; and used it.
I loved her and she had proved her affection for me. The betrayal of their secret made it plain that after all she was really mine; for she had now defied her enemies and had placed her life in deadly jeopardy for my sake.
Chapter Thirty Six.
The Secret.
The village of Feltham is a sleepy little place standing in the centre of a bare, flat country half-way between Twickenham and Staines. It is still quite a rural spot, even though only a league outside the twelve-mile radius.
When I alighted from the train which had brought me down from Waterloo on the third day after leaving the sunshine of the Mediterranean, a cold cast wind was blowing, and the platform was covered with finely powdered snow. I had as companions three plain-clothes officers from Scotland Yard, one of whom was Inspector Chick of the special political branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. Application for assistance to the Commissioner had quickly been responded to, and outside the station we were met by the local plain-clothes constable of the T Division, who had been informed by telegraph of our advent. On my arrival in London that morning I had received a telegram from the police at Bordighera stating that Paolo Bertini was already under arrest.
We at once inquired the whereabouts of Cypress Cottage, and the local officer explained that it was a lonely house, situated nearly three miles away across the plain beyond Ashford, towards the valley of the Thames. We therefore obtained a wagonette at the station inn, and were very soon driving in company over the snow-covered road towards the spot indicated.
About a mile beyond Ashford village Chick, who directed the operations, ordered the coachman to stop, and he and I descended. In the distance we could see outlined against the gloomy, snow-laden sky a small, whitewashed cottage, standing where the road we were traversing made a junction with the high road between Staines and Kingston. This the local constable pointed out as our goal. It was a truly lonely place of residence, for there seemed no other house within a radius of several miles.
Chick, nimble of wit and resourceful, decided that we both should approach the place on foot, investigate, and endeavour to enter upon some pretext, while our three companions, at the moment of our entry, should drive up, leave the wagonette, and surround the place.
As soon as we had arranged our plan of operations, I buttoned my coat and strode on beside the inspector, who now took from his hip pocket a police-revolver and placed it in readiness in the outside pocket of his overcoat. With what resistance we might meet, or what was to be the nature of our discovery, we knew not. The revelation made by Edith was, to say the least of it, one of the strangest in my experience.
At last, after trudging through the snow, which lay thickly upon that road, we reached the cottage, a rather ill-kept place of about six rooms, and walked up the pathway to the door. That it was inhabited was shown by the smoke ascending from one of the chimneys and the stunted geraniums which screened the windows on the inside.
Chick knocked at the door, but for some anxious moments no response was made to his summons. Both of us listened attentively, and distinctly heard the shuffling of feet within, accompanied by an ominous whispering and the low growl of a dog, which was apparently being ordered to remain quiet.
“I hope these good people are not out,” Chick exclaimed in a loud voice, with a meaning look. “It’s evident we’ve lost our way.”
His words were heard by those within, and apparently at once disarmed suspicion, for in a few seconds the door was thrown open, and a tall, bony-faced woman of middle age confronted us with a look of inquiry. She was grey-haired, with a face which bore evident signs of the burdens of life.
“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” explained the inspector. “But we have unfortunately lost our way. We are strangers here. Could you direct us to the road to Littleton?”
“Certainly, gentlemen,” she answered. “Take the road along here to the left, and the Littleton road is the first on the left again. You can’t mistake it. There’s a sign-post up.”
Scarcely had the woman finished her sentence, however, before Chick pushed her aside and entered the place, I following close behind. The height of the woman was uncommon, and it occurred to me that she was the mysterious female who had watched me on the Calais boat some months before.
She gave a warning shout, and an ugly bulldog, released from the room beyond, came bounding fiercely upon us. Quick as thought Chick drew his revolver and shot the brute dead. The woman screamed “Murder!” So well-timed was our raid that at this very moment we heard outside the shouts of our companions, telling us that they had surrounded the place.
Those moments were full of wild excitement. From one room to another we dashed quickly, but discovered absolutely nothing to arouse any suspicions until we started to ascend the narrow flight of stairs, when, on doing so, we were suddenly confronted by the dark figure of a man standing at the head, with a revolver pointed straight at us. He spoke no word, but I was amazed to recognise him as the man who had once before made a dastardly attempt upon my life—Rodolphe Wolf! Then I knew that that cottage, as Edith had declared, contained the key to the mystery.
“If you attempt to come up here, I shall shoot!” cried the spy in English.
“I call upon you, in the name of the law, to surrender as my prisoner,” responded Chick firmly in his loud, ringing voice. “I don’t know your name, but I arrest you all the same.”
“His name is Wolf,” I explained breathlessly. “He is Rodolphe Wolf, the French spy!”
It seemed that then for the first time did the fellow recognise me, for, peering down, he cried: “It is you—you! Gerald Ingram!”
“Yes,” I answered. “Your secret is out! We know the truth! Surrender!”
“Never!” he shouted, standing at bay. “Advance a step, and I’ll shoot you both dead.”
“The place is surrounded. You cannot escape,” Chick replied. “I am an officer of Metropolitan Police, and command you to lay down your weapon.”
But he refused, and we both saw that to ascend that narrow staircase in face of his revolver was a very risky proceeding. A dozen times Chick repeated the demand, but the adventurer was nothing daunted. The secret, if anywhere, was in that room, and he was evidently determined to guard it with his life.
Of a sudden the inspector, handing me the revolver, whispered to me to remain there, covering Wolf so as to prevent his escape, and assured me that he would return instantly. He rushed outside, but returned to my side in a few moments.
The vituperation which Rodolphe Wolf heaped upon me I need not repeat. Suffice it to say that during the few minutes which elapsed while we faced one another in that narrow way, each unable to move, he invoked upon my head all the curses of the evil one, vowing a revenge swift and terrible, not only upon myself, but also upon Léonie and Edith.
With a suddenness that startled all of us, however, there was a loud crashing of glass in the room behind him, and, thus taken by surprise, he turned to see how it had been caused.
In an instant Chick had sprung up the stairs, and we were both upon him. The spy fired his revolver, but at random, and the bullet pierced the ceiling. The inspector closed with him in deadly embrace, and a second later was assisted by one of the detectives, who had broken the window and entered the room by a ladder.
The fellow still held his weapon in a desperate grasp, and, having succeeded in pinning Chick against the wall, raised the revolver to his face. At that instant the other officer threw himself upon the pair. Wolf’s revolver exploded, but the bullet, instead of entering Chick’s head, penetrated the spy’s own neck, close behind the ear.
“Dieu!” he shrieked, “I’m shot! I’ve shot myself!” and as his grip relaxed, the two detectives allowed him to stagger and fall back upon the ground.
In endeavouring to murder the inspector he had inflicted a fatal wound upon himself.
Chick, who had had such a narrow escape from death, only brushed his clothes here and there, and remarked with a smile:
“That was pretty tough, sir, wasn’t it?”
Then, ordering his assistant to look after the wounded prisoner, we both searched the room. At first we saw nothing to account for Wolf resisting our progress so desperately. It was a bare place, with a couple of tables, a chair or two, and a few papers that had been strewn about in the struggle. I picked up some. They were copies of the Figaro, the Libre Parole, and the Petit Journal.
But in a corner by the fireplace, I saw a twisted heap of pale-green paper, like ribbon, and a moment later found beneath the table a broken telegraph-receiver. On taking it up I saw upon the small brass plate the words “General Post Office,” while near it lay the other portions of the apparatus, which was one of those which print upon the paper ribbon, and are worked by clockwork.
“Hulloa!” cried Chick, crossing the room and bending over the instrument, “what’s that?”
“A telegraph-receiver,” I replied, at the same moment examining the ceiling of the room and at once discovering two loose ends of wires suspended from a corner.
The instrument had evidently been torn hurriedly from the wires, and an unsuccessful effort made to destroy it and remove all traces of its existence. Wolf, however, had not had time to accomplish his object.
While the wounded man lay groaning, we all proceeded to make further search, and the result of our investigations proved startling indeed. We found that from the room there ran two wires outside, which, after being buried in the garden and along a field on the left, emerged beside one of the telegraph-posts on the main road, and joined one of the lines running to London.
At first we did not realise the extreme importance of our discovery, but from the telegraph-tape found in the room and the deciphers of official despatches which we discovered locked in a cupboard, the amazing truth was disclosed.
The wire so ingeniously tapped was the Queen’s private wire, which ran from Windsor Castle, along the road through Staines and Kingston, to the Foreign Office, and over which Her Majesty constantly exchanged views and gave instructions to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and others of her Ministers.
In that comfortless room we found transcripts of all kinds of official despatches and confidential messages, which, although sent in cipher over the wire, had been deciphered by the spies, who had unfortunately also obtained a copy of the secret code in use. The interchanges of views included much that concerned England’s attitude in the Boer war, then still in progress, and had without doubt been communicated to the Boers through their Continental agents. Not a single secret of State was safe from those emissaries of our enemies. Thus it was that before the suggestions or instructions of our Sovereign reached Downing Street, they were in the possession of those who aimed at our downfall, for every message transmitted between Windsor and Downing Street, every decision of the Sovereign or of the Cabinet, passed through that inoffensive-looking little instrument, and was registered upon the pale-green snake-like tape before it reached its destination.
A thorough search of the place revealed a perfect system of receiving and deciphering the despatches, all of which had been carefully registered by number in a book and the copies sent to the Quai d’Orsay. Hence it was, of course, that the knowledge of England’s decision regarding the attitude to be adopted towards the Transvaal and of our policy in reference to Ceuta, had been obtained before the Marquess had even written his despatch; while the secret instructions which I myself had carried from Downing Street to Paris had actually been known to the spies before the Chief had put his pen to paper. They did not seek to secure the despatches, because they were always in possession of the decisions and line of our diplomacy beforehand.
Having taken possession of the whole of the papers, some of which I was amazed to discover were in Edith’s handwriting, we removed the whole into the wagonette, placed a constable in charge of the cottage, and ordered the wounded man’s removal to the Cottage Hospital at Staines, as being the nearest institution where he could be treated.
That same evening I had a long interview with the Marquess at his private house, and, assisted by Chick, showed him the papers secured as the result of our investigations. Afterwards, when he had gone through them, I related to him the whole story, concealing nothing. While I sat recounting the incidents a telegram arrived for the inspector, to whom it had been forwarded from Scotland Yard. It was an official police message stating that the prisoner Wolf had died in the hospital at half-past six, having made no statement.
Her Majesty’s Minister heard me through, listening with breathless interest, and when I had concluded bestowed upon both of us many complimentary words.
“Both your Queen and your country owe a debt of gratitude to you, Ingram; for by dint of care and perseverance you have rescued us from our secret enemies,” he said. “Rest assured that your claim to distinction as an Englishman will not be forgotten.”
That night I sent a telegram from Charing Cross announcing to Léonie the death of the spy, which to her meant freedom. The same wire also carried a second message of comfort to Edith, with the promise that I would leave London for Bordighera on the following morning. Then, entering the telephone-box, I had a long conversation with Lord Barmouth, explaining to him the truth, and receiving his heartiest congratulations and best wishes for my happiness on my marriage with Edith Austin, who, he declared, had saved England’s prestige.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Conclusion.
Two days later I was again seated with Edith under the olives on the sunny hillside behind Bordighera.
I had told her all that had happened, explained what we had discovered in that upper room at Cypress Cottage, and demanded to know the reason why some of the copies of those messages were in her own handwriting. Our hands were clasped in fervent affection, and now, fearing not the revenge of either Wolf or Bertini, she revealed to me the plain and ghastly truth in regard to her connection with that band of unscrupulous spies who had sought to bring about England’s downfall.
“I first knew Paolo Bertini when I was at school at St. Leonards, six years ago. He was then our Italian master, and we girls admired him, and were one and all enamoured of our teacher, as school-girls so often are. He and I became good friends, and one day he urged me to steal from another girl’s locker a letter addressed to her by her father, a high official at the War Office. He wished to see it, and I gave it to him in ignorance that the real reason was that he desired the signature for purposes of forgery. I knew it afterwards, but he threatened if I exposed him that he would denounce me as a thief. From that moment he held me in his power, gradually drawing me into the net he so carefully spread in order to secure my assistance in his nefarious schemes of espionage in conjunction with Rodolphe Wolf. Although she knew that upon leaving school I should be comparatively wealthy, my aunt, who, as you know, is eccentric, insisted that I should be taught some means of earning my own livelihood. At Bertini’s demand I chose telegraphy, and when I became proficient the wires from Windsor were tapped, and I was compelled to act as telegraphist in that lonely, unsuspicious-looking cottage, which became the headquarters of French spies in England. My many compulsory visits to London often aroused my aunt’s suspicion, but I always managed to receive convenient invitations from relatives or old schoolfellows, until at last I succeeded in convincing her that all was well. Ah!” she added, her bright, honest eyes turned away over the broad Mediterranean, where the sun was going down in golden glory behind the dark purple rock of Ventimiglia, “I have suffered, Gerald, quite as bitterly as yourself. I was held in that man’s power irrevocably, unable to extricate myself from the bond, unable to give you the least intimation of the evil influences always working against you, unable to accept your love. From the moment when, as a school-girl, I stole that letter, until to-day, my enemies implicated me more and more deeply, until to draw back became utterly impossible. I was their catspaw—held to them by fear of exposure and imprisonment, or even of death, if I disclosed their secret.”
“I understand it all now, darling. All is plain, and our estrangement has only rendered our love the more perfect.”
“You are generous to forgive, Gerald,” she answered in a low, faltering tone. “But I swear it was not my fault. In my ignorance of the world and its ways I took one false step long ago while still at school, and then could not draw back. I became a traitress and a spy!”
“And what of Yolande de Foville?” I inquired. “She was one of us, and in the service of France,” my love replied. “Like myself, she also was held in bondage. She wished to marry the young Count de Hochberg, an aide-de-camp of the Emperor William; but Bertini, who was in love with her, refused to allow her. It was because of jealousy that he made the ingenious attempt upon her life by the same means that he did later upon an Englishman in Paris, named Payne, who recognised him and suspected him of espionage. He is in possession of the knowledge of some subtle alkaloid poison, which he once boasted in my hearing to be even more deadly than the Indian Bikh poison, and unknown in the science of toxicology.”
“And where is Yolande now?”
“In Rome. Having obtained some secret of Bertini’s past, and a knowledge of his attempt upon her life, she defied him, and, freeing herself from the secret service, married de Hochberg only a fortnight ago. She is spending her honeymoon in southern Italy.”
“She is married!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Yes. Her declarations of love for you were all false, made at the instigation of those schemers, Wolf and Bertini, who intended that she should worm from you certain diplomatic secrets. She hated her position, but, like myself, was powerless and compelled to submit.”
“To you alone, my love, is due the breaking-up of this ingenious band of spies, and the frustrating of the great conspiracy against England, which has, it seems, been fostered and aided by certain of the Powers.”
“And have you really perfect confidence in my honour and purity, Gerald?” she asked again, looking at me dubiously.
“I love you, darling,” I answered, bending down once more to kiss her beautiful mouth; “and that my confidence in you remains unshaken and is the same to-day as it was long ago in Scotland when I first declared my love, will be shown by our marriage, which nothing can now prevent. We are about to come into our kingdom.”
“But that letter,” she faltered, still dubious—“that letter of the Princess!”
“I do not love her, dearest. I have never loved her,” I declared earnestly. “I am yours, and yours alone.”
She turned quickly, kissing me fondly, and shedding tears of joy. We were both free at last, and that peaceful hour of our new-found happiness was full of that ecstasy which comes to man and woman only once in a lifetime, at the moment when two hearts first beat in unison.
But why need I dwell upon the supreme happiness of that calm and glorious evening high up above the tideless sea, except to say that it was then each read the other’s heart openly and truly; then that we discovered how best to interchange a perfect and fadeless affection.
And you ask how this strange romance of an Englishman in his Sovereign’s service ended? Well, Edith became my own queen within two months. We were married in London, and since my promotion and transfer to the Embassy at St. Petersburg our lives have been idyllic in their happiness. Edith likes the Russian capital, where everyone is so hospitable and the fêtes are never-ending. I also prefer it to the artificiality and glare of Paris which is to me a city of bitter memories.
As for the Princess, she is one of Edith’s warmest friends. She was married four months ago to Prince Stroganoff, a charming Russian whom everyone knows in Moscow and the capital, and who lives at the great Stroganoff Palace in St. Petersburg, where we are frequent visitors Lord Barmouth’s failing health compelled him to retire from the Diplomatic Service after the lamented death of Her Majesty, and he is now living in London once more, after so many years of compulsory exile; while the World, a few weeks ago, announced Sibyl’s engagement to the Hon. Jack Willoughby, who is well known as a rising politician and Member for one of the Metropolitan Boroughs. Her ladyship has written to me, declaring it to be a most excellent match.
Bertini, the spy and traitor, having been condemned by the military court in Milan to imprisonment for life, is at this moment languishing in the convict prison at Orbetello. Assuredly Europe is well rid of such an ingenious and unscrupulous scoundrel.
Nothing appeared in the English newspapers regarding Wolf’s death, beyond the statement that he had committed suicide rather than suffer arrest. For what reason the police raided Cypress Cottage never leaked out. It was kept a close secret, in order that the discovery of the headquarters of the French spies should not create undue public alarm. Hence all of the foregoing incidents long remained a secret chapter of England’s history; and the gigantic conspiracy on the part of our nation’s enemies is here related for the first time by one who was himself a principal actor in the stirring drama of diplomacy, and who has been fortunate enough to secure peace, happiness, and the love of a gentle and happy woman.
The End.