Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

CHAPTER TWENTY

I suppose some who read this plain statement of fact will declare me to have been a fool. But to such I would reply that in your hearts the flame of real love has never yet burned. You may have experienced what you have fondly believed to have been love—a faint flame that has perhaps flickered for a time and, dying out, has long been forgotten. Only if you have really loved a woman—loved her with that all-consuming passion that arises within a man once in his whole lifetime when he meets his affinity, can you understand why I made Sylvia my wife.

I had the car brought up to meet us in Perth, and with it Sylvia and I had explored all the remotest beauties of the Highlands. We ran up as far north as Inverness, and around to Oban, delighting in all the beauties of the heather-clad hills, the wild moors, the autumn-tinted glades, and the broad unruffled lochs. Afterwards we went round the Trossachs and motored back to London through Carlisle, the Lakes, North Wales and the Valley of the Wye, the most charming of all motor-runs in England.

Afterwards, Sylvia wanted to do some shopping, and we went over to Paris for ten days. There, while at the Meurice, her father, who chanced to be passing through Paris on his way from Brussels to Lyons, came unexpectedly one evening and dined with us in our private salon.

Pennington was just as elegant and epicurean as ever. He delighted in the dinner set before him, the hotel, of course, being noted for its cooking.

That evening we were a merry trio. I had not seen my father-in-law since the morning of our marriage, when I had called, and found him confined to his bed. Therefore we had both a lot to relate to him regarding our travels.

“I, too, have been moving about incessantly,” he remarked, as he poised his wine-glass in his hand, regarding the colour of its contents. “I was in Petersburg three weeks ago. I’m interested in some telegraph construction works there. We’ve just secured a big Government contract to lay a new line across Siberia.”

“I’ve written to you half-a-dozen times,” remarked his daughter, “but you never replied.”

“I’ve never had your letters, child,” he said. “Where did you address them?”

“Two I sent to the Travellers’ Club, here. Another I sent to the Hôtel de France, in Petersburg.”

“Ah! I was at the Europe,” he laughed. “I find their cooking better. Their sterlet is even better than the Hermitage at Moscow. Jules, the chef, was at Cubat’s, in the Nevski, for years.”

Pennington always gauged a hotel by the excellence of its chef. He told us of tiny obscure places in Italy which he knew, where the rooms were carpetless and comfortless, but where the cooking could vie with the Savoy or Carlton in London. He mentioned the Giaponne in Leghorn, the Tazza d’Oro in Lucca, and the Vapore in Venice, of all three of which I had had experience, and I fully corroborated what he said. He was a man who ate his strawberries with a quarter of a liqueur-glass of maraschino thrown over them, and a slight addition of pepper, and he always mixed his salads himself.

“Perhaps you think me very whimsical,” he laughed across the table, “but really, good cooking makes so much difference to life.”

I told him that, as an Englishman, I preferred plainly-cooked food.

“Which is usually heavy and indigestible, I fear,” he declared. “What, now, could be more indigestible than our English roast beef and plum pudding—eh?”

My own thoughts were, however, running in an entirely different channel, and when presently Sylvia, who looked a delightful picture in ivory chiffon, and wearing the diamond necklet I had given her as one of her wedding presents, rose and left us to our cigars, I said suddenly—

“I say, Pennington, do you happen to know a stout, grey-bearded Frenchman who wears gold-rimmed glasses—a man named Pierre Delanne?”

“Delanne?” he repeated. “No, I don’t recollect the name.”

“I saw him in Manchester,” I exclaimed. “He was at the Midland, and said he knew you—and also Sylvia.”

“In Manchester! Was he at the Midland while I was there?”

“Yes. He was dressed in black, with a silk hat and wore on his finger a great amethyst ring—a rather vulgar-looking ornament.”

Pennington’s lips were instantly pressed together.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, almost with a start, “I think I know who you mean. His beard is pointed, and his eyes rather small and shining. He has the air of a bon-vivant, and speaks English extremely well. He wears the amethyst on the little finger of his left hand.”

“Exactly.”

“And, to you, he called himself Pierre Delanne, eh?”

“Yes. What is his real name, then?”

“Who knows? I’ve heard that he uses half-a-dozen different aliases,” replied my father-in-law.

“Then you know him?”

“Well—not very well,” was Pennington’s response in a rather strange voice, I thought. “Did he say anything regarding myself?”

“Only that he had seen you in Manchester.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact he met me in London the same night, and I fancy I have caught sight of him twice since. The first occasion was a fortnight ago in Princes Street, Edinburgh, when I saw him coming forth from the North British Hotel with another man, also a foreigner. They turned up Princes Street, and then descended the steps to the station before I could approach sufficiently close. I was walking with Sylvia, so could not well hasten after them. The second occasion was yesterday, when I believe I saw him in a taxi passing us as we drove out to tea at Armenonville.”

“Did he see you?” asked Pennington quickly.

“I think so. I fancy he recognized me.”

“Did Sylvia see him?” he asked almost breathlessly.

“No.”

“Ah!” and he seemed to breathe again more freely.

“Apparently he is not a very great friend of yours,” I ventured to remark.

“No—he isn’t; and if I were you, Biddulph, I would avoid him like the plague. He is not the kind of person desirable as a friend. You understand.”

“I gathered from his conversation that he was something of an adventurer,” I said.

“That’s just it. Myself, I always avoid him,” he replied. Then he turned the conversation into a different channel. He congratulated me upon our marriage and told me how Sylvia, when they had been alone together for a few moments before dinner, had declared herself supremely happy.

“I only hope that nothing may occur to mar your pleasant lives, my dear fellow,” he said, slowly knocking the ash from his cigar. “In the marriage state one never knows whether adversity or prosperity lies before one.”

“I hope I shall meet with no adversity,” I said.

“I hope not—for Sylvia’s sake,” he declared.

“What is for Sylvia’s sake?” asked a cheery voice, and, as we both looked up in surprise, we found that she had re-entered noiselessly, and was standing laughing mischievously by the open door. “It is so dull being alone that I’ve ventured to come back. I don’t mind the smoke in the least.”

“Why, of course, darling!” I cried, jumping from my chair and pulling forward an arm-chair for her.

I saw that it was a bright night outside, and that the autos with their sparkling lights like shooting stars were passing and repassing with honking horns up and down the Rue de Rivoli. For a moment she stood at my side by the window, looking down into the broad thoroughfare below.

Then, a second later, she suddenly cried—

“Why, look, Owen! Do you see that man with the short dark overcoat standing under the lamp over there? I’ve seen him several times to-day. Do you know, he seems to be watching us!”

“Watching you!” cried her father, starting to his feet and joining us. The long wooden sun-shutters were closed, so, on opening the windows which led to the balcony we could see between the slats without being observed from outside.

I looked at the spot indicated by my wife, and then saw on the other side of the way a youngish-looking man idly smoking a cigarette and gazing in the direction of the Place de la Concorde, as though expecting some one.

I could not distinguish his features, yet I saw that he wore brown boots, and that the cut of his clothes and the shape of his hat were English.

“Where have you seen him before?” I asked of her.

“I first met him when I came out of Lentheric’s this morning. Then, again, when we lunched at the Volnay he was standing at the corner of the Rue de la Paix and the Rue Daunou. He followed us in the Rue Royale later on.”

“And now he seems to have mounted guard outside, eh?” I remarked, somewhat puzzled. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“I did not wish to cause you any anxiety, Owen,” was her simple reply, while her father asked—

“Do you know the fellow? Ever seen him before, Sylvia?”

“Never in my life,” she declared. “It’s rather curious, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I said.

And as we all three watched we saw him move away a short distance and join a taller man who came from the direction he had been looking. For a few moments they conversed. Then the new-comer crossed the road towards us and was lost to sight.

In a few seconds a ragged old man, a cripple, approached the mysterious watcher with difficulty, and said something to him as he passed.

“That cripple is in the business!” cried Pennington, who had been narrowly watching. “He’s keeping observation, and has told him something. Some deep game is being played here, Biddulph.”

“I wonder why they are watching?” I asked, somewhat apprehensive of the coming evil that had been so long predicted.

Father and daughter exchanged curious glances. It seemed to me as though a startling truth had dawned upon them both. I stood by in silence.

“It is certainly distinctly unpleasant to be watched like this—providing, of course, that Sylvia has not made a mistake,” Pennington said.

“I have made no mistake,” she declared quickly. “I’ve been much worried about it all day, but did not like to arouse Owen’s suspicions;” and I saw by her face that she was in dead earnest.

At the same moment, however, a light tap was heard upon the door and a waiter opened it, bowing as he announced—

“Monsieur Pierre Delanne to see Monsieur Biddulph.”

“Great Heavens, Sylvia!” cried Pennington, standing pale-faced and open-mouthed. “It’s Guertin! He must not discover that I am in Paris!” Then, turning to me in fear, he implored: “Save me from this meeting, Biddulph! Save me—if you value your wife’s honour, I beg of you. I’ll explain all afterwards. Only save me!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I suppose he is,” I replied rather faintly; “we had better ask the waiter. He is not stopping here. He merely came to-night to dine with us.”

“Of course,” said Delanne. “He arrived by the 2.37 train from Bruxelles, went to the Hôtel Dominici, near the Place Vendôme, sent you a petit-bleu, and arrived here at 6.30. I am here because I wish to see him most particularly. I was in Orleans when the news of my friend’s arrival in Paris was telephoned to me—I have only just arrived.”

I opened the door leading to my bedroom, and called my father-in-law, but there was no response. In an instant Delanne dashed past me, and in a few seconds had searched the suite.

“Ah, of course!” he cried, noticing that the door of my wife’s room led back to the main corridor; “my friend has avoided me. He has passed out by this way. Still, he must be in the hotel.”

He hurried back to the salon, and, opening the shutters, took off his hat.

Was it some signal to the watchers outside? Ere I could reach his side, however, he had replaced his hat, and was re-entering the room.

“Phew! this place is stifling hot, my dear friend,” he said. “I wonder you do not have the windows open for a little!”

Sylvia had stood by in silence. I saw by her face that the Frenchman’s sudden appearance had caused her the greatest alarm and dismay. If Delanne was her father’s friend, why did the latter flee in such fear? Why had he implored me to save him? From what?

The Frenchman seemed highly disappointed, for finding the waiter in the corridor he asked him in French which way the Englishman had fled.

The waiter, however, declared that he had seen nobody in the corridor, a reply which sorely puzzled Delanne.

“Where is he?” he demanded of Sylvia.

“I have no idea,” was her faltering reply. “He simply went into the next room a few moments ago.”

“And slipped out in an endeavour to make his exit, eh?” asked the man, with a short, harsh laugh. “I quite expected as much. That is why I intended to have a straight business talk with him.”

“He is in no mood to talk business just now,” said my wife, and then—and only then—did I recollect that this man was the associate of the assassin Reckitt.

This fact alone aroused my antagonism towards him. Surely I was glad that Pennington had got away if, as it seemed, he did not wish to meet his unwelcome visitor.

“He shall talk business!” cried the Frenchman, “and very serious business!”

Then turning, he hurried along the corridor in the direction of the main staircase and disappeared.

“What does all this mean?” I asked Sylvia, who still stood there pale and panting.

“I—I don’t know, Owen,” she gasped. Then, rushing across to the window, she looked out.

“That man has gone!” she cried. “I—I knew he was watching, but had no idea of the reason.”

“He was evidently watching for your father,” I said.

“He was watching us—you and I—not him.”

We heard two men pass the door quickly. One of them exclaimed in French—

“See! The window at the end! It would be easy to get from there to the roof of the next house.”

“Yes!” cried his companion. “He has evidently gone that way. We must follow.”

“Hark!” I said. “Listen to what they are saying! Delanne is following your father!”

“He is his worst enemy,” she said simply. “Do you not remember that he was watching him in Manchester?”

The fact that he was an associate of Reckitt puzzled me. I felt highly resentful that the fellow should have thus intruded upon my privacy and broken up my very pleasant evening. He had intruded himself upon me once before, causing me both annoyance and chagrin. I looked forth into the corridor, and there saw the figures of two men in the act of getting through the window at the end, while a waiter and a femme-de-chambre stood looking on in surprise.

“Who is that man?” I asked of Sylvia, as I turned back into our salon.

“His real name is Guertin,” she replied.

“He told me that he knew you.”

“Perhaps,” she laughed, just a trifle uneasily, I thought. “I only know that he is my father’s enemy. He is evidently here to hunt him down, and to denounce him.”

“As what?”

But she only shrugged her shoulders. Next instant I saw that I had acted wrongly in asking Sylvia to expose her own father, whatever his faults might have been.

Again somebody rushed past the door and then back again to the head of the staircase. The whole of the quiet aristocratic hotel seemed to have suddenly awakened from its lethargy. Indeed, a hue and cry seemed to have been started after the man who had until a few moments before been my guest.

What could this mean? Had it not been for the fact that Guertin—or Delanne, as he called himself—was a friend of the assassin Reckitt, I would have believed him to have been an agent of the sûreté.

We heard shouting outside the window at the end of the corridor. It seemed as though a fierce chase had begun after the fugitive Englishman, for yet another man, a thin, respectably-dressed mechanic, had run along and slipped out of the window with ease as though acquired by long practice.

I, too, ran to the window and looked out. But all I could see in the night was a bewildering waste of roofs and chimneys extending along the Rue de Rivoli towards the Louvre. I could only distinguish one of the pursuers outlined against the sky. Then I returned to where Sylvia was standing pale and breathless.

Her face was haggard and drawn, and I knew of the great tension her nerves must be undergoing. Her father was certainly no coward. Fearing that he could not escape by either the front or back door of the hotel his mind had been quickly made up, and he had made his exit by that window, taking his chance to hide and avoid detection on those many roofs in the vicinity.

The position was, to me, extremely puzzling. I could not well press Sylvia to tell me the truth concerning her father, for I had noticed that she always had shielded him, as was natural for a daughter, after all.

Was he an associate of Reckitt and Forbes, as I had once suspected? Yet if he were, why should Delanne be his enemy, for he certainly was Reckitt’s intimate friend.

Sylvia was filled with suppressed excitement. She also ran along the corridor and peered out of the window at the end. Then, apparently satisfied that her father had avoided meeting Delanne, she returned and stood again silent, her eyes staring straight before her as though dreading each second to hear shouts of triumph at the fugitive’s detection.

I saw the manager and remonstrated with him. I was angry that my privacy should thus be disturbed by outsiders.

“Monsieur told the clerk that he was a friend,” he replied politely. “Therefore he gave permission for him to be shown upstairs. I had no idea of such a contretemps, or such a regrettable scene as this!”

I saw he was full of regret, for the whole hotel seemed startled, and guests were asking each other what had occurred to create all that hubbub.

For an hour we waited, but Delanne did not return. He and the others had gone away over the roofs, on what seemed to be an entirely fruitless errand.

“Were they the police?” I heard a lady ask anxiously of a waiter.

“No, madame, we think not. They are strangers—and entirely unknown.”

Sylvia also heard the man’s reply, and exclaimed—

“I hope my father has successfully escaped his enemies. It was, however, a very narrow shave. If they had seen him, they would have shot him dead, and afterwards declared it to have been an accident!”

“Surely not!” I cried. “That would have been murder.”

“Of course. But they are desperate, and they would have wriggled out of it somehow. That was why I feared for him. But, thank Heaven, he is evidently safe.”

And she turned from the window that looked forth into the Rue de Rivoli, and then made an excuse to go to her room.

I saw that she was greatly perturbed. Her heart beat quickly, and her face, once pale as death, was now flushed crimson.

“How your father got away so rapidly was simply marvellous!” I declared. “Why, scarcely ten seconds elapsed from the time he closed that door to Delanne’s appearance on the threshold.”

“Yes. But he instantly realized his peril, and did not hesitate.”

“I am sorry, dearest, that this exciting incident should have so upset our evening,” I said, kissing her upon the brow, for she now declared herself much fatigued. “When you have gone to your room, I shall go downstairs and learn what I can about the curious affair. Your father’s enemies evidently knew of his arrival from Brussels, for Delanne admitted that word of it was telephoned to Orleans, and he came to Paris at once.”

“Yes, he admitted that,” she said hurriedly. “But do not let us speak of it. My father has got away in safety. For me that is all-sufficient. Good-night, Owen, dear.” And she kissed me fondly.

“Good-night, darling,” I said, returning her sweet caress; and then, when she had passed from the room, I seized my hat and descended the big flight of red-carpeted stairs, bent on obtaining some solution of the mystery of that most exciting and curious episode.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you mean they would kill him openly?”

“Of course. They have no fear. Their only fear is while he remains alive.”

“But the law would punish them.”

“No, it would not,” she responded, shaking her head gravely. “They would contrive an ‘accident.’”

“Well,” I said, “he has evaded them, and we must be thankful for that. Do you expect to hear from him?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I shall probably receive a message to-night. That is why I wish to remain, Owen. I wonder,” she added rather hesitatingly, “I wonder whether you would consider it very strange of me if I asked you to let me go out to-night at ten o’clock alone?”

“Well, I rather fear your going out alone and unprotected at that hour, darling,” I responded.

“Ah! have no fear whatever for me. I shall be safe enough. They will not attempt anything just now. I am quite confident of that. I—I want to go forth alone, for an hour or so.”

“Oh, well, if it is your distinct wish, how can I refuse, dear?”

“Ah!” she cried, putting her arm fondly about my neck, “I knew you would not refuse me. I shall go out just before ten, and I will be back long before midnight. You will excuse my absence, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” I said. And thus it was arranged.

Her request, I admit, puzzled me greatly, and also caused me considerable fear. My past experience had aroused within me a constant phantom of suspicion.

We lunched at the Ritz, and in the afternoon took a taxi into the Bois, where we spent an hour upon a seat in one of the by-paths of that beautiful wood of the Parisians. On our return to the hotel, Sylvia was all eagerness for a message, but there was none.

“Ah! he is discreet!” she exclaimed to me, when the concierge had given her a negative reply. “He fears to send me word openly.”

At ten o’clock that night, however, she had exchanged her dinner gown for a dark stuff dress, and, with a small black hat, and a boa about her neck, she came to kiss me.

“I won’t be very long, dearest,” she said cheerily. “I’ll get back the instant I can. Don’t worry after me. I shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

But recollections of Reckitt and his dastardly accomplice arose within me, and I hardly accepted her assurance, even though I made pretence of so doing.

For a few moments I held her in my arms tenderly, then releasing her, she bade me au revoir merrily, and we descended into the hall together.

A taxi was called, and I heard her direct the driver to go to the Boulevard Pereire. Then, waving her hand from the cab window, she drove away.

Should I follow? To spy upon her would be a mean action. It would show a lack of confidence, and would certainly irritate and annoy her. Yet was she not in peril? Had she not long ago admitted herself to be in some grave and mysterious danger?

I had only a single moment in which to decide. Somehow I felt impelled to follow and watch that she came to no harm; yet, at the same time, I knew that it was not right. She was my wife, and I dearly loved her and trusted her. If discovered, my action would show her that I was suspicious.

Still I felt distinctly apprehensive, and it was that apprehension which caused me, a second later, to seize my hat, and, walking out of the hotel, hail a passing taxi, and drive quickly to the quiet, highly respectable boulevard to which she had directed her driver.

I suppose it was, perhaps, a quarter of an hour later when we turned into the thoroughfare down the centre of which runs the railway in a deep cutting. The houses were large ones, let out in fine flats, the residences mostly of the professional and wealthier tradesman classes.

We went along, until presently I caught sight of another taxi standing at the kerb. Therefore I dismissed mine, and, keeping well in the shadow, sauntered along the boulevard, now quiet and deserted.

With great precaution I approached the standing taxi on the opposite side of the way. There was nobody within. It was evidently awaiting some one, and as it was the only one in sight I concluded that it must be the same which Sylvia had taken from the hotel.

Some distance further on I walked, when, before me, I recognized her neat figure, and almost a moment afterwards saw her disappear into a large doorway which was in complete darkness—the doorway of what seemed to be an untenanted house.

I halted quickly and waited—yet almost ashamed of myself for spying thus.

A moment later I saw that, having believed herself unobserved, she struck a match, but for what reason did not seem apparent. She appeared to be examining the wall. She certainly was not endeavouring to open the door. From the distance, however, I was unable to distinguish very plainly.

The vesta burned out, and she threw it upon the ground. Then she hurriedly retraced her steps to where she had left her cab, and I was compelled to bolt into a doorway in order to evade her.

She passed quite close to me, and when she had driven away I emerged, and, walking to the doorway, also struck a light and examined the same stone wall. At first I could discover nothing, but after considerable searching my eyes at last detected a dark smudge, as though something had been obliterated.

It was a cryptic sign in lead pencil, and apparently she had drawn her hand over it to remove it, but had not been altogether successful. Examining it closely, I saw that the sign, as originally scrawled upon the smooth stone, was like two crescents placed back to back, while both above and below rough circles had been drawn.

The marks had evidently some prearranged meaning—one which she understood. It was a secret message from her father, without a doubt!

At risk of detection by some agent of police, I made a further close examination of the wall, and came upon two other signs which had also been hurriedly obliterated—one of three double triangles, and another of two oblongs and a circle placed in conjunction. But there was no writing; nothing, indeed, to convey any meaning to the uninitiated.

The wall of that dark entry, however, was no doubt the means of an exchange of secret messages between certain unknown persons.

The house was a large one, and had been let out in flats, as were its neighbours; but for some unaccountable reason—perhaps owing to a law dispute—it now remained closed.

I was puzzled as to which of the three half-obliterated signs Sylvia had sought. But I took notice of each, and then walked back in the direction whence I had come.

I returned at once to the hotel, but my wife had not yet come back. This surprised me. And I was still further surprised when she did not arrive until nearly one o’clock in the morning. Yet she seemed very happy—unusually so.

Where had she been after receiving that secret message, I wondered? Yet I could not question her, lest I should betray my watchfulness.

“I’m so sorry to have left you alone all this long time, Owen,” she said, as she entered the room and came across to kiss me. “But it was quite unavoidable.”

“Is all well?” I inquired.

“Quite,” was her reply. “My father is already out of France.”

That was all she would vouchsafe to me. Still I saw that she was greatly gratified at the knowledge of his escape from his mysterious enemies.

The whole situation was extraordinary. Why should this man Delanne, the friend of Reckitt and no doubt a member of a gang of blackmailers and assassins, openly pursue him to the death? It was an entire enigma. I could discern no light through the veil of mystery which had, all along, so completely enshrouded Pennington and his daughter.

Still I resolved to put aside all apprehensions. Why should I trouble?

I loved Sylvia with all my heart, and with all my soul. She was mine! What more could I desire?

Next evening we returned to Wilton Street. She had suddenly expressed a desire to leave Paris, perhaps because she did not wish to again meet her father’s enemy, that fat Frenchman Guertin.

For nearly a month we lived in perfect happiness, frequently visiting the Shuttleworths for the day, and going about a good deal in town. She urged me to go to Carrington to shoot, but, knowing that she did not like the old place, I made excuses and remained in London.

“Father is in Roumania,” she remarked to me one morning when she had been reading her letters at the breakfast-table. “He sends his remembrances to you from Bucharest. You have never been there, I suppose? I’m extremely fond of the place. There is lots of life, and the Roumanians are always so very hospitable.”

“No,” I said, “I’ve never been to Bucharest, unfortunately, though I’ve been in Constanza, which is also in Roumania. Remember me to your father when you write, won’t you?”

“Certainly. He wonders whether you and I would care to go out there for a month or two?”

“In winter?”

“Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest.”

“As you please, dearest,” I replied. “I am entirely in your hands, as you know,” I laughed.

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Owen,” she declared. “You are always indulging me—just like the spoilt child I am.”

“Because I love you,” I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and looking into her wonderful eyes.

She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look: the expression which a woman can never feign.

Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.

Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known roads out of London.

The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.

Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.

Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the one exception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should be so. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, and that all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however, only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! how differently would I have acted had I but known what the future—the future of which I was now so careless—held in store for me!

One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylvia was fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimate theatre. As we sat in the box, I thought—though I could not be certain—that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebody seated below amid the crowded audience.

My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I felt convinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. I trusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken a perfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore I laughed at my own foolish fancy, and turned my attention again to the performance.

At last the curtain fell, and as we stood together amid the crush in the vestibule, the night having turned out wet, I left her, to go in search of our carriage.

I suppose I was absent about two or three minutes, but on my return I could not find her.

She had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her up.

I waited until the theatre was entirely empty. I described her to the attendants, and I had a chat with the smart and highly popular manager, but no one had seen her. She had simply disappeared.

I was frantic, full of the wildest dread as to what had occurred. How madly I acted I scarcely knew. At last, seeing to remain longer was useless, now that the theatre had closed, I jumped into the brougham and drove with all haste to Wilton Street.

“No, Mr. Owen,” replied Browning to my breathless inquiry, “madam has not yet returned.”

I brushed past him and entered the study.

Upon my writing-table there lay a note addressed to me.

I recognized the handwriting in an instant, and with trembling fingers tore open the envelope.

What I read there staggered me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I stood staring at the uneven scribbled lines, blurred as they were by the tears of the writer.

What had happened? Why had she so purposely left me? Why had she made that signal from the theatre-box to her accomplice?

She admitted having grossly deceived me, and that she was unworthy. What did she mean? In what manner had she deceived me?

Had she a secret lover?

That idea struck me suddenly, and staggered me. In some of her recent actions I read secrecy and suspicion. On several occasions lately she had been out shopping alone, and one afternoon, about a week before, she had not returned to dress for dinner until nearly eight o’clock. Her excuse had been a thin one, but, unsuspicious, I had passed it by.

Had I really been a fool to marry her, after all? I knew Marlowe’s opinion of our marriage, though he had never expressed it. That she had been associated with a shady lot had all along been apparent. The terrors of that silent house in Porchester Terrace remained only too fresh within my memory.

That night I spent in a wild fever of excitement. No sleep came to my eyes, and I think Browning—to whom I said nothing—believed that I had taken leave of my senses. The faithful old servant did not retire, for at five in the morning I found him seated dozing in a chair outside in the hall, tired out by the watchful vigil he had kept over me.

I tried in vain to decide what to do. I wanted to find Sylvia, to induce her to reveal the truth to me, and to allay her fear of my reproaches.

I loved her; aye, no man in all the world ever loved a woman better. Yet she had, of her own accord, because of her own shame at her deception, bade farewell, and slipped away into the great ocean of London life.

Morning dawned at last, cold, grey and foggy, one of those dispiriting mornings of late autumn which the Londoner knows so well. Still I knew not how to act. I wanted to discover her, to bring her back, and to demand of her finally the actual truth. All the mystery of those past months had sent my brain awhirl.

I had an impulse to go to the police and reveal the secret of that closed house in Porchester Terrace. Yet had she not implored me not to do so? Why? There was only one reason. She feared exposure herself.

No. Ten thousand times no. I would not believe ill of her. Can any man who really loves a woman believe ill of her? Love is blind, it is true, and the scales never fall from the eyes while true affection lasts. And so I put suspicion from my mind, and swallowed the cup of coffee Browning put before me.

The old man, the friend of my youth, knew that his mistress had not returned, and saw how greatly I was distressed. Yet he was far too discreet a servant to refer to it.

I entered the drawing-room, and there, in the grey light, facing me, stood the fine portrait of my well-beloved in a silver frame, the one she had had taken at Scarborough a week after our marriage.

I drew it from its frame and gazed for a long time upon it. Then I put it into an envelope, and placed it in my pocket.

Soon after ten o’clock I returned to the Coliseum, and showed the portrait to a number of the attendants as that of a lady who was missing. All of them, both male and female, gazed upon the picture, but nobody recognized her as having been seen before.

The manager, whom I had seen on the previous night, sympathized with me, and lent me every assistance. One after another of the staff he called into his big office on the first floor, but the reply was always the same.

At length a smart page-boy entered, and, on being shown the portrait, at once said to the manager—

“Why, sir, that’s the lady who went away with the gentleman who spoke to me!”

“Who was he?” I demanded eagerly. “What did he say? What was he like?”

“Well, sir, it was like this,” replied the boy. “About a quarter of an hour before the curtain fell last night I was out in the vestibule, when a tall dark gentleman, with his hair slightly grey and no moustache, came up to me with a lady’s cloak in his hand—a dark blue one. He told me that when the audience came out a fair young lady would come up to me for the cloak, as she wanted to get away very quickly, and did not want to wait her turn at the cloak-room. There was a car—a big grey car—waiting for her outside.”

“Then her flight was all prepared!” I exclaimed. “What was the man like?”

“He struck me as being a gentleman, yet his clothes seemed shabby and ill-fitting. Indeed, he had a shabby-genteel look, as though he were a bit down on his luck.”

“He was in evening clothes?”

“No, sir. In a suit of brown tweeds.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I waited till the curtain fell, and then I stood close to the box-office with the cloak over my arm. There was a big crush, as it was then raining hard. Suddenly a young lady wearing a cream theatre-wrap came up to me hastily, and asked me to help her on with the cloak. This I did, and next moment the man in tweeds joined her. I heard him say, ‘Come along, dear, we haven’t a moment to lose,’ and then they went out to the car. That’s all I know, sir.”

I was silent for a few moments. Who was this secret lover, I wondered? The lad’s statement had come as an amazing revelation to me.

“What kind of car was it?” I asked.

“A hired car, sir,” replied the intelligent boy. “I’ve seen it here before. It comes, I think, from a garage in Wardour Street.”

“You would know the driver?”

“I think so, sir.”

It was therefore instantly arranged that the lad should go with me round to the garage, and there try to find the man who drove the grey car on the previous night.

In this we were quickly successful. On entering the garage there stood, muddy and dirty, a big grey landaulette, which the boy at once identified as the one in which Sylvia had escaped. The driver was soon found, and he explained that it was true he had been engaged on the previous night by a tall, clean-shaven gentleman to pick up at the Coliseum. He did so, and the gentleman entered with a lady.

“Where did you drive them?” I asked quickly.

“Up the Great North Road—to the George Hotel at Stamford, about a hundred miles from London. I’ve only been back about a couple of hours, sir.”

“The George at Stamford!” I echoed, for I knew the hotel, a quiet, old-fashioned, comfortable place much patronized by motorists to and fro on the north road.

“You didn’t stay there?”

“Only just to get a drink and fill up with petrol. I wanted to get back. The lady and gentleman were evidently expected, and seemed in a great hurry.”

“Why?”

“Well, near Alconbury the engine was misfiring a little, and I stopped to open the bonnet. When I did so, the lady put her head out of the window, highly excited, and asked how long we were likely to be delayed. I told her; then I heard her say to the gentleman, ‘If they are away before we reach there, what shall we do?’”

“Then they were on their way to meet somebody or other—eh?”

“Ah! that I don’t know, sir. I drew up in the yard of the hotel, and they both got out. The lady hurried in, while the gentleman paid me, and gave me something for myself. It was then nearly four o’clock in the morning. I should have been back earlier, only I had a puncture the other side of Hatfield, and had to put on the ‘Stepney.’”

“I must go to Stamford,” I said decisively. Then I put something into his palm, as well as into that of the page-boy, and, entering a taxi, drove back home.

An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur, as we drove through the steadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath, on our hundred-mile journey into Lincolnshire.

We both knew every inch of the road, having been over it many times. As it was wet, police-traps were unlikely, so, having negotiated the narrow road as far as Hatfield, we began to “let her out” past Hitchin, and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stilton village. We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford, but about half-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hill beneath the high wall of Burghley Park, and saw beneath us the roofs and many spires of quiet old Stamford.

Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George, and, alighting, entered the broad hall, with its splendid old oak staircase, in search of the manageress.

She related a rather curious story.

On the previous night, about eleven o’clock, there arrived by car two well-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together in French. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that they expected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in the night. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of the hotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latter stated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, he saw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examining something which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to be diamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept a watchful eye upon the pair.

One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed—the exact description of Pennington—and the other description the man afterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second man was none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece of chicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?

“About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir,” went on the boots, “and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in, and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that I should not understand, they again started talking in some foreign language—French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentleman came in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name of Lewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heard him exclaim: ‘By Jove! old man, you can’t think how glad we are to see you back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another single living man would have acted with the determination and bravery with which you’ve acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man—deuced careful. There are enemies about, you know.’ Then the gentleman said: ‘I know! I’m quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrow shave in Paris a short time ago—I hear from Sonia.’ ‘Yes,’ laughed the other, ‘she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very close thing. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?’ he asked. The other said: ‘He met me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me all that’s happened.’ ‘Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?’ he asked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding: ‘It’s a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph—a very bad job for the fellow!’ That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time, for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas.”

“And what else did you see or hear?” I asked eagerly, much puzzled by his statement.

“They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir,” the man said. “After I had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed to hold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two men drove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I told him he was—for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name of Douglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to the conference.”

“Rather curious—to hold a conference in such a manner and at such an hour!” I remarked.

“Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke in another language. The two men who last arrived were no doubt foreigners.”

“Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?” I inquired quickly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Well, sir, the fact is, when I had had my suspicions aroused, I crept out into the yard, and found that I could see into the lounge through the chink between the blind and the window. They were all seated round the table, the head of which had been taken by the gentleman who had arrived from London with the lady. He seemed to be chairman, and he talked in a low, deliberate, and very earnest tone, being listened to with greatest interest. He evidently related something which amazed them. Then a map, or plan, was placed upon the table, and each examined it in turn. Afterwards two photographs were produced by Mr. Winton and handed around the assembly. Each man looked long and steadily at the pictures—both were of women. The young lady present refused to take any part in the discussion, and I noticed that she passed on the photographs without comment—without even glancing at them.”

“Did she appear to be present there against her will?” I asked breathlessly.

“No, not exactly. She seemed very friendly with all the gentlemen. The two foreigners were strangers to her—for she was introduced to them.”

“By name?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Sonia Poland.”

I bit my lip. Had she already dropped my name, and was now passing under an alias?

“Sonia Poland!” I echoed. “Was it for the purpose of concealing her identity from the foreigners, do you think?” I asked.

“No, sir. Because Winton and his companion addressed her as Sonia Poland when she arrived.”

“And you believed it to be her real name?”

“I suppose it is, sir,” was the man’s reply, for I fear my manner somewhat mystified him.

“Well, and what further did you see at this early morning consultation?” I asked, mindful that his curiosity had no doubt been aroused by sight of something sparkling in the strange visitor’s hand.

“The gentleman called Mr. Lewis wrote out a paper very carefully and handed it round. Every one signed it—except the lady. They asked her to do so, but she protested vigorously, and the matter was not pressed. Then the photograph of a man was shown to the two foreigners, and the lady tried to prevent it. Curiously enough, sir, I caught a good sight of it—just a head and shoulders—and the picture very much resembled you yourself, sir!”

“Me!” I cried. “And they showed it to the two young foreigners—eh?”

“Yes, sir. One of them took it and put it into his pocket. Then the mysterious Mr. Lewis, as chairman of the meeting, seemed to raise a protest. The two foreigners gesticulated, jabbered away, and raised their shoulders a lot. I dearly wish I could have made out a word they said. Unfortunately I couldn’t. Only I saw that in Mr. Lewis’s face was a look of fierce determination. They at first defied him. But at last, with great reluctance, they handed back the photograph, which Mr. Lewis himself burned on the fire.”

“He burned my photograph!”

“Yes, sir. I think it was yours, sir—but of course I can’t be quite positive.”

“And what else?”

“Mr. Winton said something, whereupon all of them glanced at the door and then at the window. One of the foreigners came to the window, but did not notice that there was a slight crack through which I could see. Then he turned the key in the door. After he had returned to his chair, the man who had arrived with Mr. Winton took from his pocket something that shone. My heart beat quickly. It was a diamond necklet—the object I had seen in his hand earlier. He passed it round for the admiration of the others, who each took it and closely examined it beneath the light—all but the young lady. She was standing aside, near the fireplace, watching. Now and then she placed her hand to her forehead, as though her brain were weary.”

“And after that?”

“After the necklet had been passed round the elder of the two foreigners wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. Then Mr. Lewis gave them a long address, emphasizing his words with his hand, and they listened to him without uttering a word. Suddenly Mr. Winton sprang up and wrung his hand, afterwards making what appeared to be some highly complimentary remarks, for Mr. Lewis smiled and bowed to the assembly, who afterwards rose. Then the young lady rushed up to Mr. Lewis and implored him to do something, but he refused. She stood before him, pale-faced and determined. Her eyes seemed starting from her head. She seemed like one horrified. But he placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, and uttered some quick low words which instantly calmed her. Very shortly after that the party broke up, and the door was re-opened. The two foreigners hurriedly swallowed a liqueur-glass of brandy each, and then, passing into the yard, wished their companions adieu and drove away in their car—in the direction of London.”

“Carrying with them the diamond necklet which the other man had brought there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what became of the young lady?” I inquired very anxiously.

“She first had a long and private conversation with the gentleman named Winton—the bald-headed man.”

This, it will be remembered, was the person whose description tallied exactly with that of her father.

“They went outside together,” said the boots, “out into the yard, and there conversed alone in half-whispers. Afterwards they rejoined the others. Mr. Lewis seemed very annoyed with her; nevertheless, after a cup of tea each, about half-past five the four of them got into the car in which Winton had arrived and drove away in the direction of Grantham. Winton gave me a sovereign for myself—an unusually generous gift, I can assure you, sir,” he laughed.

“And now what is your own opinion concerning them?” I asked.

“Why, there can only be one opinion, sir—that they are wrong ’uns. I felt half a mind to tell Mr. Pearson, the police-constable who lives across in Water Lane, but I didn’t like to without consulting somebody. And I didn’t want to wake up the manageress.”

“Ah! and it may now be too late, Cross,” said the lady in question, who had been standing by all the time. Then, addressing me, she said—

“The whole affair seemed most mysterious, sir, therefore I went round and saw the inspector of police this morning, and told him briefly of our strange visitors. I’m rather glad they’re gone, for one never likes unpleasantness in a hotel. Yet, of course, the fault cannot be that of the hotel-keeper if he takes in an undesirable.”

“Of course not. But what view did the inspector hold?”

“Inspector Deane merely expressed the opinion that they were suspicious persons—that’s all.”

“So they seem to have been,” I remarked, without satisfying her as to who I really was. My story there was that I had business relations with Mr. Lewis, and had followed him there in the hope of catching him up.

We were in the manageress’s room, a cosy apartment in the back of the quaint old hostelry, when a waitress came and announced Inspector Deane. The official was at once shown in, whereupon he said abruptly—

“The truth is out, Miss Hammond, regarding your strange visitors of last night.” And he glanced inquiringly at myself.

“You can speak openly before this gentleman,” she said, noticing his hesitation.

“The fact is, a circular-telegram has just been sent out from Scotland Yard, saying that by the express from Edinburgh due at King’s Cross at 10.45 last night the Archduchess Marie Louise, niece of the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria, was a passenger. She had been staying at Balmoral, and travelled south in a special saloon. When the luggage came to be collected a dressing-case was missing—it evidently having been stolen in transit by somebody who had obtained access to the saloon while on the journey. The corridor was open between York and London, so that the restaurant could be reached, and it is believed that the thief, or thieves, managed to pass in unobserved and throw the bag out upon the line to some confederate awaiting it. The bag contained a magnificent diamond necklet—a historic heirloom of the Imperial family of the Hapsburgs—and is valued at fifty thousand pounds!”

“And those people who met here were the thieves!” gasped the manageress, turning instantly pale.

“Without a doubt. You see, the Great Northern main line runs close by us—at Essendine. It may be that the thieves were waiting for it near there—waiting for it to be dropped out in the darkness. All the platelayers along the line are now searching for the bag, but we here are certain that the thieves spent the night in Stamford.”

“Not the thieves,” I said. “The receivers.”

“Exactly.”

“But the young foreigner has it!” cried the boots. “He and his friend set off for London with it.”

“Yes. They would reach London in time to catch one of the boat-trains from Victoria or Charing Cross this morning, and by this time they’re safely out of the country—carrying the necklet with them. Ah! Scotland Yard is terribly slow. But the delay seems to have been caused by the uncertainty of Her Highness as to whether she had actually brought the dressing-case with her, and she had to telegraph to Balmoral before she could really state that it had been stolen.”

“The two men, Douglas Winton and his friend, came here in a motor-car,” I remarked. “They had evidently been waiting somewhere near the line, in order to pick up the stolen bag.”

“Without a doubt, sir,” exclaimed the inspector. “Their actions here, according to what Miss Hammond told me this morning, were most suspicious. It’s a pity that the boots did not communicate with us.”

“Yes, Mr. Deane,” said the man referred to, “I’m very sorry now that I didn’t. But I felt loath to disturb people at that hour of the morning.”

“You took no note of the number of either of the three cars which came, I suppose?”

“No. We have so many cars here that I hardly noticed even what colour they were.”

“Ah! That’s unfortunate. Still, we shall probably pick up some clue to them along the road. Somebody is certain to have seen them, or know something about them.”

“This gentleman here knows something about them,” remarked the manageress, indicating myself.

The inspector turned to me in quick surprise, and no doubt saw the surprise in my face.

“I—I know nothing,” I managed to exclaim blankly, at once realizing the terrible pitfall into which I had fallen.

“But you said you knew Mr. Lewis—the gentleman who acted as president of that mysterious conference!” Miss Hammond declared, in all innocence.

“I think, sir,” added the inspector, “that the matter is such a grave one that you should at once reveal all you do know. You probably overlook the fact that if you persist in silence you may be arrested as an accessory.”

“But I know nothing,” I protested; “nothing whatever concerning the robbery!”

“But you know one of the men,” said Cross the boots.

“And the lady also, without a doubt!” added the inspector.

“I refuse to be cross-examined in this manner by you!” I retorted in anger, yet full of apprehension now that I saw myself suspected of friendship with the gang.

“Well, sir, then I regret that I must ask you to walk over the bridge with me to the police-station. I must take you before the superintendent,” he said firmly.