CHAPTER IX. THE PERFIDY OF MISS BROWN
Peter Ruff came down to his office with a single letter in his hand, bearing a French postmark. He returned his secretary’s morning greeting a little absently, and seated himself at his desk.
“Violet,” he asked, “have you ever been to Paris?”
She looked at him compassionately.
“More times than you, I think, Peter,” she answered.
He nodded.
“That,” he exclaimed, “is very possible! Could you get ready to leave by the two-twenty this afternoon?”
“What, alone?” she exclaimed.
“No—with me,” he answered.
She shut down her desk with a bang.
“Of course I can!” she exclaimed. “What a spree!”
Then she caught sight of a certain expression on Peter Ruff’s face, and she looked at him wonderingly.
“Is anything wrong, Peter?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, “I cannot say that anything is wrong. I have had an invitation to present myself before a certain society in Paris of which you have some indirect knowledge. What the summons means I cannot say.”
“Yet you go?” she exclaimed.
“I go,” he answered. “I have no choice. If I waited here twenty-four hours, I should hear of it.”
“They can have nothing against you,” she said. “On the contrary, the only time they have appealed for your aid, you gave it—very valuable aid it must have been, too.”
Peter Ruff nodded.
“I cannot see,” he admitted, “what they can have against me. And yet, somehow, the wording of my invitation seemed to me a little ominous. Perhaps,” he added, walking to the window and standing looking out for a moment, “I have a liver this morning. I am depressed. Violet, what does it mean when you are depressed?”
“Shall you wear your gray clothes for traveling?” she asked, a little irrelevantly.
“I have not made up my mind,” Peter Ruff answered. “I thought of wearing my brown, with a brown overcoat. What do you suggest?”
“I like you in brown,” she answered, simply. “I should change, if I were you.”
He smiled faintly.
“I believe,” he said, “that you have a sort of superstition that as I change my clothes I change my humors.”
“Should I be so very far wrong?” she asked. “Don’t think that I am laughing at you, Peter. The greatest men in the world have had their foibles.”
Peter Ruff frowned.
“We shall be away for several days,” he said. “Be sure that you take some wraps. It will be cold, crossing.”
“Are you going to close the office altogether?” she asked.
Peter Ruff nodded.
“Put up a notice,” he said—“‘Back on Friday.’ Pack up your books and take them round to the Bank before you leave. The lift man will call you a taxi-cab.”
He watched her preparations with a sort of gloomy calm.
“I wish you’d tell me what is the matter with you?” she asked, as she turned to follow her belongings.
“I do not know,” Peter Ruff said. “I, suppose I am suffering from what you would call presentiments. Be at Charing-Cross punctually.”
“Why do you go at all?” she asked. “These people are of no further use to you. Only the other day, you were saying that you should not accept any more outside cases.”
“I must go,” Peter Ruff answered. “I am not afraid of many things, but I should be afraid of disobeying this letter.”
They had a comfortable journey down, a cool, bright crossing, and found their places duly reserved for them in the French train. Miss Brown, in her neat traveling clothes and furs, was conscious of looking her best, and she did all that was possible to entertain her traveling companion. But Peter Ruff seemed like a man who labors under some sense of apprehension. He had faced death more than once during the last few years—faced it without flinching, and with a certain cool disregard which can only come from the highest sort of courage. Yet he knew, when he read over again in the train that brief summons which he was on his way to obey, that he had passed under the shadow of some new and indefinable fear. He was perfectly well aware, too, that both on the steamer and on the French train he was carefully shadowed. This fact, however, did not surprise him. He even went out of his way to enter into conversation with one of the two men whose furtive glances into their compartment and whose constant proximity had first attracted his attention. The man was civil but vague. Nevertheless, when they took their places in the dining-car, they found the two men at the next table. Peter Ruff pointed them out to his companion.
“‘Double-Fours’!” he whispered. “Don’t you feel like a criminal?”
She laughed, and they took no more notice of the men. But as the train drew near Paris, he felt some return of the depression which had troubled him during the earlier part of the day. He felt a sense of comfort in his companion’s presence which was a thing utterly strange to him. On the other hand, he was conscious of a certain regret that he had brought her with him into an adventure of which he could not foresee the end.
The lights of Paris flashed around them—the train was gradually slackening speed. Peter Ruff, with a sigh, began to collect their belongings.
“Violet,” he said, “I ought not to have brought you.” Something in his voice puzzled her. There had been every few times, during all the years she had known him, when she had been able to detect anything approaching sentiment in his tone—and those few times had been when he had spoken of another woman.
“Why not?” she asked, eagerly.
Peter Ruff looked out into the blackness, through the glittering arc of lights, and perhaps for once he suffered his fancy to build for him visions of things that were not of earth. If so, however, it was a moment which swiftly passed. His reply was in a tone as matter of fact as his usual speech.
“Because,” he said, “I do not exactly see the end of my present expedition—I do not understand its object.”
“You have some apprehension?” she asked.
“None at all,” he answered. “Why should I? There is an unwritten bargain,” he added, a little more slowly, “to which I subscribed with our friends here, and I have certainly kept it. In fact, the balance is on my side. There is nothing for me to fear.”
The train crept into the Gare du Nord, and they passed through the usual routine of the Customs House. Then, in an omnibus, they rumbled slowly over the cobblestones, through the region of barely lit streets and untidy cafes, down the Rue Lafayette, across the famous Square and into the Rue de Rivoli.
“Our movements,” Peter Ruff remarked dryly, “are too well known for us to attempt to conceal them. We may as well stop at one of the large hotels. It will be more cheerful for you while I am away.”
They engaged rooms at the Continental. Miss Brown, whose apartments were in the wing of the hotel overlooking the gardens, ascended at once to her room. Peter Ruff, who had chosen a small suite on the other side, went into the bar for a whiskey and soda. A man touched him on the elbow.
“For Monsieur,” he murmured, and vanished.
Peter Ruff turned and opened the note. It bore a faint perfume, it had a coronet upon the flap of the envelope, and it was written in a delicate feminine handwriting.
DEAR Mr. RUFF:
If you are not too tired with your journey, will you call soon after one o’clock to meet some old friends?
BLANCHE DE MAUPASSIM.
Peter Ruff drank his whiskey and soda, went up to his rooms, and made a careful toilet. Then he sent a page up for Violet, who came down within a few minutes. She was dressed with apparent simplicity in a high-necked gown, a large hat, and a single rope of pearls. In place of the usual gold purse, she carried a small white satin bag, exquisitely hand-painted. Everything about her bespoke that elegant restraint so much a feature of the Parisian woman of fashion herself. Peter Ruff, who had told her to prepare for supping out, was at first struck by the simplicity of her attire. Afterwards, he came to appreciate its perfection.
They went to the Cafe de Paris, where they were the first arrivals. People, however, began to stream in before they had finished their meal, and Peter Ruff, comparing his companion’s appearance with the more flamboyant charms of these ladies from the Opera and the theatres, began to understand the numerous glances of admiration which the impressionable Frenchmen so often turned in their direction. There was between them, toward the end of the meal, something which amounted almost to nervousness.
“You are going to keep your appointment to-night, Peter?” his companion asked.
Peter Ruff nodded.
“As soon as I have taken you home,” he said. “I shall probably return late, so we will breakfast here to-morrow morning, if you like, at half-past twelve. I will send a note to your room when I am ready.”
She looked him in the eyes.
“Peter,” she said, “supposing that note doesn’t come!”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear Violet,” he said, “you and I—or rather I, for you are not concerned in this—live a life which is a little different from the lives of most of the people around us. The million pay their taxes, and they expect police protection in times of danger. For me there is no such resource. My life has its own splendid compensations. I have weapons with which to fight any ordinary danger. What I want to explain to you is this—that if you hear no more of me, you can do nothing. If that note does not come to you in the morning, you can do nothing. Wait here for three days, and after that go back to England. You will find a letter on your desk, telling you there exactly what to do.”
“You have something in your mind,” she said, “of which you have not told me.”
“I have nothing,” he answered, firmly. “Upon my honor, I know of no possible cause of offense which our friends could have against me. Their summons is, I will admit, somewhat extraordinary, but I go to obey it absolutely without fear. You can sleep well, Violet. We lunch here to-morrow, without a doubt.”
They drove back to the hotel almost in silence. Violet was looking fixedly out of the window of the taxicab, as though interested in watching the crowds upon the street. Peter Ruff appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. Yet perhaps they were both of them nearer to one another than either surmised. Their parting in the hall of the Continental Hotel was unemotional enough. For a moment Peter Ruff had hesitated while her hand had lain in his. He had opened his lips as though he had something to say. Her eyes grew suddenly softer—seemed to seek his as though begging for those unspoken words. But Peter Ruff did not say them then.
“I shall be back all right,” he said. “Good night, Violet! Sleep well!”
He turned back towards the waiting taxicab.
“Number 16, Rue de St. Quintaine,” he told the man. It was not a long ride. In less than a quarter of an hour, Peter Ruff presented himself before a handsome white house in a quiet, aristocratic-looking street. At his summons, the postern door flew open, and a man-servant in plain livery stood at the second entrance.
“Madame la Marquise?” Peter Ruff asked.
The man bowed in silence, and took the visitor’s hat and overcoat. He passed along a spacious hall and into a delightfully furnished reception room, where an old lady with gray hair sat in the midst of a little circle of men. Peter Ruff stood, for a moment, upon the threshold, looking around him. She held out her hands.
“It is Monsieur Peter Ruff, is it not? At last, then, I am gratified. I have wished for so long to see one who has become so famous.”
Peter Ruff took her hands in his and raised them gallantly to his lips.
“Madame,” he said, “this is a pleasure indeed. At my last visit here, you were in Italy.”
“I grow old,” she answered. “I leave Paris but little now. Where one has lived, one should at least be content to die.”
“Madame speaks a philosophy,” Peter Ruff answered, “which as yet she has no need to learn.”
The old lady turned to a man who stood upon her right:
“And this from an Englishman!” she exclaimed.
There were others who took Peter Ruff by the hand then. The servants were handing round coffee in little Sevres cups. On the sideboard was a choice of liqueurs and bottles of wine. Peter Ruff found himself hospitably entertained with both small talk and refreshments. But every now and then his eyes wandered back to where Madame sat in her chair, her hair as white as snow—beautiful still, in spite of the cruel mouth and the narrow eyes.
“She is wonderful!” he murmured to a man who stood by his side.
“She is eighty-six,” was the answer in a whisper, “and she knows everything.”
As the clock struck two, a tall footman entered the room and wheeled Madame’s chair away. Several of the guests left at the same time. Ruff, when the door was closed, counted those who remained. As he had imagined would be the case, he found that there were eight.
A tall, gray-bearded man, who from the first had attached himself to Ruff, and who seemed to act as a sort of master of ceremonies, now approached him once more and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Mon ami,” he said, “we will now discuss, if it pleases you, the little matter concerning which we took the liberty of asking you to favor us with a visit.”
“What, here?” Peter Ruff asked, in some surprise.
His friend, who had introduced himself as Monsieur de Founcelles, smiled.
“But why not?” he asked. “Ah, but I think I understand!” he added, almost immediately. “You are English, Monsieur Peter Ruff, and in some respects you have not moved with the times. Confess, now, that your idea of a secret society is a collection of strangely attired men who meet in a cellar, and build subterranean passages in case of surprise. In Paris, I think, we have gone beyond that sort of thing. We of the ‘Double-Four’ have no headquarters save the drawing-room of Madame; no hiding-places whatsoever; no meeting-places save the fashionable cafes or our own reception rooms. The police follow us—what can they discover?—nothing! What is there to discover?—nothing! Our lives are lived before the eyes of all Paris. There is never any suspicion of mystery about any of our movements. We have our hobbies, and we indulge in them. Monsieur the Marquis de Sogrange here is a great sportsman. Monsieur le Comte owns many racehorses. I myself am an authority on pictures, and own a collection which I have bequeathed to the State. Paris knows us well as men of fashion and mark—Paris does not guess that we have perfected an organization so wonderful that the whole criminal world pays toll to us.”
“Dear me,” Peter Ruff said, “this is very interesting!”
“We have a trained army at our disposal,” Monsieur de Founcelles continued, “who numerically, as well as in intelligence, outnumber the whole force of gendarmes in Paris. No criminal from any other country can settle down here and hope for success, unless he joins us. An exploit which is inspired by us cannot fail. Our agents may count on our protection, and receive it without question.”
“I am bewildered,” Peter Ruff said, frankly. “I do not understand how you gentlemen—whom one knows by name so well as patrons of sport and society, can spare the time for affairs of such importance.”
Monsieur de Founcelles nodded.
“We have very valuable aid,” he said. “There is below us—the ‘Double-Four’—the eight gentlemen now present, an executive council composed of five of the shrewdest men in France. They take their orders from us. We plan, and they obey. We have imagination, and special sources of knowledge. They have the most perfect machinery for carrying out our schemes that it is possible to imagine. I do not wish to boast, Mr. Ruff, but if I take a directory of Paris and place after any man’s name, whatever his standing or estate, a black cross, that man dies before seven days have passed. You buy your evening paper—a man has committed suicide! You read of a letter found by his side: an unfortunate love affair—a tale of jealousy or reckless speculation. Mr. Ruff, the majority of these explanations are false. They are invented and arranged for by us. This year alone, five men in Paris, of position, have been found dead, and accounted, for excellent reasons, suicides. In each one of these cases, Monsieur Ruff, although not a soul has a suspicion of it, the removal of these men was arranged for by the’ Double-Four.’”
“I trust,” Peter Ruff said, “that it may never be my ill-fortune to incur the displeasure of so marvelous an association.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur Ruff,” the other answered, “the attention of the association has been directed towards certain incidents of your career in a most favorable manner. We have spoken of you often lately, Mr. Ruff, between ourselves. We arrive now at the object for which we begged the honor of your visit. It is to offer you the Presidency of our Executive Council.”
Peter Ruff had thought of many things, but he had not thought of this! He gasped, recovered himself, and realized at once the dangers of the position in which he stood.
“The Council of Five!” he said thoughtfully.
“Precisely,” Monsieur de Founcelles replied. “The salary—forgive me for giving such prominence to a matter which you doubtless consider of secondary importance—is ten thousand pounds a year, with a residence here and in London—also servants.”
“It is princely!” Peter Ruff declared. “I cannot imagine, Monsieur, how you could have believed me capable of filling such a position.”
“There is not much about you, Mr. Ruff, which we do not know,” Monsieur de Founcelles answered. “There are points about your career which we have marked with admiration. Your work over here was rapid and comprehensive. We know all about your checkmating the Count von Hern and the Comtesse de Pilitz. We have appealed to you for aid once only—your response was prompt and brilliant. You have all the qualifications we desire. You are still young, physically you are sound, you speak all languages, and you are unmarried.”
“I am what?” Peter Ruff asked, with a start.
“A bachelor,” Monsieur de Founcelles answered. “We who have made crime and its detection a life-long study, have reduced many matters concerning it to almost mathematical exactitude. Of one thing we have become absolutely convinced—it is that the great majority of cases in which the police triumph are due to the treachery of women. The criminal who steers clear of the other sex escapes a greater danger than the detectives who dog his heels. It is for that reason that we choose only unmarried men for our executive council.”
Peter Ruff made a gesture of despair. “And I am to be married in a month!” he exclaimed.
There was a murmur of dismay. If those other seven men had not once intervened, it was because the conduct of the affair had been voted into the hands of Monsieur de Founcelles, and there was little which he had left unsaid. Nevertheless, they had formed a little circle around the two men. Every word passing between them had been listened to eagerly. Gestures and murmured exclamations had been frequent enough. There arose now a chorus of voices which their leader had some difficulty in silencing.
“It must be arranged!”
“But it is impossible—this!”
“Monsieur Ruff amuses himself with us!”
“Gentlemen,” Peter Ruff said, “I can assure you that I do nothing of the sort. The affair was arranged some months ago, and the young lady is even now in Paris, purchasing her trousseau.”
Monsieur de Founcelles, with a wave of the hand, commanded silence. There was probably a way out. In any case, one must be found.
“Monsieur Ruff,” he said, “putting aside, for one moment, your sense of honor, which of course forbids you even to consider the possibility of breaking your word—supposing that the young lady herself should withdraw—”
“You don’t know Miss Brown!” Peter Ruff interrupted. “It is a pleasure to which I hope to attain,” Monsieur de Founcelles declared, smoothly. “Let us consider once more my proposition. I take it for granted that, apart from this threatened complication, you find it agreeable?”
“I am deeply honored by it,” Peter Ruff declared.
“Well, that being so,” Monsieur de Founcelles said, more cheerfully, “we must see whether we cannot help you. Tell me, who is this fortunate young lady—this Miss Brown?”
“She is a young person of good birth and some means,” Peter Ruff declared. “She is, in a small way, an actress; she has also been my secretary from the first.” Monsieur de Founcelles nodded his head thoughtfully.
“Ah!” he said. “She knows your secrets, then, I presume?”
“She does,” Peter Ruff assented. “She knows a great deal!”
“A young person to be conciliated by all means,” Monsieur de Founcelles declared. “Well, we must see. When, Monsieur Ruff, may I have the opportunity of making the acquaintance of this young lady?”
“To-morrow morning, or rather this morning, if you will,” Peter Ruff answered. “We are taking breakfast together at the cafe de Paris. It will give me great pleasure if you will join us.”
“On the contrary,” Monsieur de Founcelles declared, “I must beg of you slightly to alter your plans. I will ask you and Mademoiselle to do me the honor of breakfasting at the Ritz with the Marquis de Sogrange and myself, at the same hour. We shall find there more opportunity for a short discussion.”
“I am entirely at your service,” Peter Ruff answered. There were signs now of a breaking-up of the little party.
“We must all regret, dear Monsieur Ruff,” Monsieur de Founcelles said, as he made his adieux, “this temporary obstruction to the consummation of our hopes. Let us pray that Mademoiselle will not be unreasonable.”
“You are very kind,” Peter Ruff murmured.
Peter Ruff drove through the gray dawn to his hotel, in the splendid automobile of Monsieur de Founcelles, whose homeward route lay in that direction. It was four o’clock when he accepted his key from a sleepy-looking clerk, and turned towards the staircase. The hotel was wrapped in semi-gloom. Sweepers and cleaners were at work. The palms had been turned out into the courtyard. Dust sheets lay over the furniture. One person only, save himself and the untidy-looking servants, was astir. From a distant corner which commanded the entrance, he saw Violet stealing away to the corridor which led to her part of the hotel. She had sat there all through the night to see him come in—to be assured of his safety! Peter Ruff stared after her disappearing figure as one might have watched a ghost.
The luncheon-party was a great success. Peter Ruff was human enough to be proud of his companion—proud of her smartness, which was indubitable even here, surrounded as they were by Frenchwomen of the best class; proud of her accent, of the admiration which she obviously excited in the two Frenchmen. His earlier enjoyment of the meal was a little clouded from the fact that he felt himself utterly outshone in the matter of general appearance. No tailor had ever suggested to him a coat so daring and yet so perfect as that which adorned the person of the Marquis de Sogrange. The deep violet of his tie was a shade unknown in Bond Street—inimitable—a true education in color. They had the bearing, too, these Frenchmen! He watched Monsieur de Founcelles bending over Violet, and he was suddenly conscious of a wholly new sensation. He did not recognize—could not even classify it. He only knew that it was not altogether pleasant, and that it set the warm blood tingling through his veins.
It was not until they were sitting out in the winter garden, taking their coffee and liqueurs, that the object of their meeting was referred to. Then Monsieur de Founcelles drew Violet a little away from the others, and the Marquis, with a meaning smile, took Peter Ruff’s arm and led him on one side. Monsieur de Founcelles wasted no words at all.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “Monsieur Ruff has doubtless told you that last night I made him the offer of a great position among us.”
She looked at him with twinkling eyes.
“Go on, please,” she said.
“I offered him a position of great dignity—of great responsibility,” Monsieur de Founcelles continued. “I cannot explain to you its exact nature, but it is in connection with the most wonderful organization of its sort which the world has ever known.”
“The ‘Double-Four,’” she murmured.
“Attached to the post is a princely salary and but one condition,” Monsieur de Founcelles said, watching the girl’s face. “The condition is that Mr. Ruff remains a bachelor.”
Violet nodded.
“Peter’s told me all this,” she remarked. “He wants me to give him up.”
Monsieur de Founcelles drew a little closer to his companion. There was a peculiar smile upon his lips.
“My dear young lady,” he said softly, “forgive me if I point out to you that with your appearance and gifts a marriage with our excellent friend is surely not the summit of your ambitions! Here in Paris, I promise you, here—we can do much better than that for you. You have not, perhaps, a dot? Good! That is our affair. Give up our friend here, and we deposit in any bank you like to name the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand francs!” Violet repeated, slowly.
Monsieur de Founcelles nodded.
“It is enough?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It is not enough,” she answered.
Monsieur de Founcelles raised his eyebrows.
“We do not bargain,” he said coldly, “and money is not the chief thing in the world. It is for you, then, to name a sum.”
“Monsieur de Founcelles,” she said, “can you tell me the amount of the national debt of France?”
“Somewhere about nine hundred million francs, I believe,” he answered.
She nodded.
“That is exactly my price,” she declared.
“For giving up Peter Ruff?” he gasped.
She looked at her employer thoughtfully.
“He doesn’t look worth it, does he?” she said, with a queer little smile. “I happen to care for him, though—that’s all.”
Monsieur de Founcelles shrugged his shoulders. He knew men and women, and for the present he accepted defeat. He sighed heavily.
“I congratulate our friend, and I envy him,” he said. “If ever you should change your mind, Mademoiselle—”
“It is our privilege, isn’t it?” she remarked, with a brilliant smile. “If I do, I shall certainly let you know.”
On the way home, Peter Ruff was genial—Miss Brown silent. He had escaped from a difficult position, and his sense of gratitude toward his companion was strong. He showed her many little attentions on the voyage which sometimes escaped him. From Dover, they had a carriage to themselves.
“Peter,” Miss Brown said, after he had made her comfortable, “when is it to be?”
“When is what to be?” he asked, puzzled.
“Our marriage,” she answered, looking at him for a moment in most bewildering fashion and then suddenly dropping her eyes.
Peter Ruff returned her gaze in blank amazement.
“What do you mean, Violet?” he exclaimed.
“Just what I say,” she answered, composedly. “When are we going to be married?”
Peter Ruff frowned.
“What nonsense!” he said. “We are not going to be married. You know that quite well.”
“Oh, no, I don’t!” she declared, smiling at him in a heavenly fashion. “At your request I have told Monsieur de Founcelles that we were engaged. Incidentally, I have refused two hundred and fifty thousand francs and, I believe, an admirer, for your sake. I declared that I was going to marry you, and I must keep my word.”
Peter Ruff began to feel giddy.
“Look here, Violet,” he said, “you know very well that we arranged all that between ourselves.”
“Arranged all that?” she repeated, with a little laugh. “Perhaps we did. You asked me to marry you, and you posed as my fiancee. You kept it up just as long as you—it suits me to keep it up a little longer.”
“Do you mean to say—do you seriously mean that you expect me to marry you?” he asked, aghast.
“I do,” she admitted. “I have meant you to for some time, Peter!”
She was very alluring, and Peter Ruff hesitated. She held out her hands and leaned towards him. Her muff fell to the floor. She had raised her veil, and a faint perfume of violets stole into the carriage. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes were saying unutterable things.
“You don’t want me to sue you, do you, Peter?” she murmured.
Peter Ruff sighed—and yielded.
CHAPTER X. WONDERFUL JOHN DORY
The woman who had been Peter Ruff’s first love had fallen upon evil days. Her prettiness was on the wane—powder and rouge, late hours, and excesses of many kinds, had played havoc with it, even in these few months. Her clothes were showy but cheap. Her boots themselves, unclean and down at heel, told the story. She stood upon the threshold of Peter Ruff’s office, and looked half defiantly, half doubtfully at Violet, who was its sole occupant.
“Can I do anything for you?” the latter asked, noticing the woman’s hesitation.
“I want to see Mr. Ruff,” the visitor said.
“Mr. Ruff is out at present,” Violet answered.
“When will he be in?”
“I cannot tell you,” Violet said. “Perhaps you had better leave a message. Or will you call again? Mr. Ruff is very uncertain in his movements.”
Maud sank into a chair.
“I’ll wait,” she declared.
“I am not sure,” Violet remarked, raising her eyebrows, “whether that will be convenient. There may be other clients in. Mr. Ruff himself may not be back for several hours.”
“Are you his secretary?” Maud asked, without moving.
“I am his secretary and also his wife,” Violet declared. The woman raised herself a little in her chair.
“Some people have all the luck,” she muttered. “It’s only a few months ago that Mr. Ruff was glad enough to take me out. You remember when I used to come here?”
“I remember,” Violet assented.
“I was all right then,” the woman continued, “and now—now I’m down and out,” she added, with a little sob. “You see what I am like. You look as though you didn’t care to have me in the office, and I don’t wonder at it. You look as though you were afraid I’d come to beg, and you are right—I have come to beg.”
“I am sure Mr. Ruff will do what he can for you,” Violet said, “although—”
“I see you know all about it,” Maud interrupted, with a hard little laugh. “I came once to wheedle information out of him. I came to try and betray the only man who ever really cared for me. Mr. Ruff was too clever, and I am thankful for it. I have been as big a fool as a woman can be, but I am paying—oh, I am paying for it right enough!”
She swayed in her chair, and Violet was only just in time to catch her. She led the fainting woman to an inner room, made her comfortable upon a sofa, and sent out for some food and a bottle of wine. Down in the street below, John Dory, who had tracked his wife to the building, was walking away with face as black as night. He knew that Maud had lost her position, that she was in need of money—almost penniless. He had waited to see to whom she would turn, hoping—poor fool as he called himself—that she would come back to him. And it was his enemy to whom she had gone! He had seen her enter the building; he knew that she had not left it. In the morning they brought him another report—she was still within. It was the end, this, he told himself! There must be a settlement between him and Peter Ruff!
Mr. John Dory, who had arrived at Clenarvon Court in a four-wheel cab from the nearest railway station, was ushered by the butler to the door of one of the rooms on the ground floor, overlooking the Park. A policeman was there on guard—a policeman by his attitude and salute, although he was in plain clothes. John Dory nodded, and turned to the butler.
“You see, the man knows me,” he said. “Here is my card. I am John Dory from Scotland Yard. I want to have a few words with the sergeant.”
The butler hesitated.
“Our orders are very strict, sir,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow you to enter the room without a special permit from his lordship. You see, we have had no advice of your coming.”
John Dory nodded.
“Quite right,” he answered. “If every one were to obey his orders as literally, there would be fewer robberies. However, you see that this man recognizes me.”
The butler turned toward an elderly gentleman in a pink coat and riding-breeches, who had just descended into the hall.
“His lordship is here,” he said. “He will give you permission, without a doubt. There is a gentleman from Scotland Yard, your lordship,” he explained, “who wishes to enter the morning-room to speak with the sergeant.”
“Inspector John Dory, at your lordship’s service,” saluting. “I have been sent down from town to help in this little business.”
Lord Clenarvon smiled.
“I should have thought that, under the circumstances,” he said, “two of you would have been enough. Still, it is not for me to complain. Pray go in and speak to the sergeant. You will find him inside. Rather dull work for him, I’m afraid, and quite unnecessary.”
“I am not so sure, your lordship,” Dory answered. “The Clenarvon diamonds are known all over the world, and I suppose there isn’t a thieves’ den in Europe that does not know that they will remain here exposed with your daughter’s other wedding presents.”
Lord Clenarvon smiled once more and shrugged his shoulders. He was a man who had unbounded faith in his fellow-creatures.
“I suppose,” he said, “it is the penalty one has to pay for historical possessions. Go in and talk to the sergeant, by all means, Mr. Dory. I hope that Graves will succeed in making you comfortable during your stay here.”
John Dory was accordingly admitted into the room which was so jealously guarded. At first sight, it possessed a somewhat singular appearance. The windows had every one of them been boarded up, and the electric lights consequently fully turned on. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, serving as support for a long glass showcase, open at the top. Within this, from end to end, stretched the presents which a large circle of acquaintances were presenting to one of the most popular young women in society, on the occasion of her approaching marriage to the Duke of Rochester. In the middle, the wonderful Clenarvon diamonds, set in the form of a tiara, flashed strange lights into the somberly lit apartment. At the end of the table a police sergeant was sitting, with a little pile of newspapers and illustrated journals before him. He rose to his feet with alacrity at his superior’s entrance.
“Good morning, Saunders,” John Dory said. “I see you’ve got it pretty snug in here.”
“Pretty well, thank you, sir,” Saunders answered. “Is there anything stirring?”
John Dory looked behind to be sure that the door was closed. Then he stopped for a moment to gaze at the wonderful diamonds, and finally sat on the table by his subordinate’s side.
“Not exactly that, Saunders,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I came down here because of that list of guests you sent me up.”
Saunders smiled.
“I think I can guess the name you singled out, sir,” he said.
“It was Peter Ruff, of course,” Dory said. “What is he doing here in the house, under his own name, and as a guest?”
“I have asked no questions, sir,” Saunders answered. “I underlined the name in case it might seem worth your while to make inquiries.”
John Dory nodded.
“Nothing has happened, of course?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Saunders answered. “You see, with the windows all boarded up, there is practically only the ordinary door to guard, so we feel fairly secure.”
“No one hanging about?” the detective asked. “Mr. Ruff himself, for instance, hasn’t been trying to make your acquaintance?”
“No sign of it, sir,” the man answered. “I saw him pass through the hall yesterday afternoon, as I went off duty, and he was in riding clothes all splashed with mud. I think he has been hunting every day.”
John Dory muttered something between his lips, and turned on his heel.
“How many men have you here, Saunders?” he asked.
“Only two, sir, beside myself,” the man replied.
The detective went round the boarded windows, examining the work carefully until he reached the door.
“I am going to see if I can have a word with his lordship,” he said.
He caught Lord Clenarvon in the act of mounting his horse in the great courtyard.
“What is it, Mr. Dory?” the Earl asked, stooping down.
“There is one name, your lordship, among your list of guests, concerning which I wish to have a word with you,” the detective said—“the name of Mr. Peter Ruff.”
“Don’t know anything about him,” Lord Clenarvon answered, cheerfully. “You must see my daughter, Lady Mary. It was she who sent him his invitation. Seems a decent little fellow, and rides as well as the best. You’ll find Lady Mary about somewhere, if you’d like to ask her.”
Lord Clenarvon hurried off, with a little farewell wave of his crop, and John Dory returned into the house to make inquiries respecting Lady Mary. In a very few minutes he was shown into her presence. She smiled at him cheerfully.
“Another detective!” she exclaimed. “I am sure I ought to feel quite safe now. What can I do for you, Mr. Dory?”
“I have had a list of the guests sent to me,” Dory answered, “in which I notice the name of Mr. Peter Ruff.”
Lady Mary nodded.
“Well?” she asked.
“I have just spoken to his lordship,” the detective continued, “and he referred me to you.”
“Do you want to know all about Mr. Ruff?” Lady Mary asked, smiling.
“If your ladyship will pardon my saying so, I think that neither you nor any one else could tell me that. What I wished to say was that I understood that we at Scotland Yard were placed in charge of your jewels until after the wedding. Mr. Peter Ruff is, as you may be aware, a private detective himself.”
“I understand perfectly,” Lady Mary said. “I can assure you, Mr. Dory, that Mr. Ruff is here entirely as a personal and very valued friend of my own. On two occasions he has rendered very signal service to my family—services which I am quite unable to requite.”
“In that case, your ladyship, there is nothing more to be said. I conceive it, however, to be my duty to tell you that in our opinion—the opinion of Scotland Yard—there are things about the career of Mr. Peter Ruff which need explanation. He is a person whom we seldom let altogether out of our sight.”
Lady Mary laughed frankly.
“My dear Mr. Dory,” she said, “this is one of the cases, then, in which I can assure you that I know more than Scotland Yard. There is no person in the world in whom I have more confidence, and with more reason, than Mr. Peter Ruff.”
John Dory bowed.
“I thank your ladyship,” he said. “I trust that your confidence will never be misplaced. May I ask one more question?”
“Certainly,” Lady Mary replied, “so long as you make no insinuations whatever against my friend.”
“I should be very sorry to do so,” John Dory declared. “I simply wish to know whether Mr. Ruff has any instructions from you with reference to the care of your jewels?”
“Certainly not,” Lady Mary replied, decidedly. “Mr. Ruff is here entirely as my guest. He has been in the room with the rest of us, to look at them, and it was he, by the bye, who discovered a much more satisfactory way of boarding the windows. Anything else, Mr. Dory?”
“I thank your ladyship, nothing!” the detective answered. “With your permission, I propose to remain here until after the ceremony.”
“Just as you like, of course,” Lady Mary said. “I hope you will be comfortable.”
John Dory bowed, and returned to confer with his sergeant. Afterwards, finding the morning still fine, he took his hat and went for a walk in the park.
As a matter of fact, this, in some respects the most remarkable of the adventures which had ever befallen Mr. Peter Ruff, came to him by accident. Lady Mary had read the announcement of his marriage in the paper, had driven at once to his office with a magnificent present, and insisted upon his coming with his wife to the party which was assembling at Clenarvon Court in honor of her own approaching wedding. Peter Ruff had taken few holidays of late years, and for several days had thoroughly enjoyed himself. The matter of the Clenarvon jewels he considered, perhaps, with a slight professional interest; but so far as he could see, the precautions for guarding them were so adequate that the subject did not remain in his memory. He had, however, a very distinct and disagreeable shock when, on the night of John Dory’s appearance, he recognized among a few newly-arrived guests the Marquis de Sogrange. He took the opportunity, as soon as possible, of withdrawing his wife from a little circle among whom they had been talking, to a more retired corner of the room. She saw at once that something had happened to disturb him.
“Violet,” he said, “don’t look behind now—”
“I recognized him at once,” she interrupted. “It is the Marquis de Sogrange.”
Peter Ruff nodded.
“It will be best for you,” he said, “not to notice him. Of course, his presence here may be accidental. He has a perfect right to enter any society he chooses. At the same time, I am uneasy.”’
She understood in a moment.
“The Clenarvon diamonds!” she whispered. He nodded.
“It is just the sort of affair which would appeal to the ‘Double-Four,’” he said. “They are worth anything up to a quarter of a million, and it is an enterprise which could scarcely be attempted except by some one in a peculiar position. Violet, if I were not sure that he had seen me, I should leave the house this minute.”
“Why?” she asked, wonderingly.
“Don’t you understand,” Peter Ruff continued, softly, “that I myself am still what they call a corresponding member of the ‘Double-Four,’ and they have a right to appeal to me for help in this country, as I have a right to appeal to them for help or information in France? We have both made use of one another, to some extent. No doubt, if the Marquis has any scheme in his mind, he would look upon me as a valuable ally.”
She turned slowly pale.
“Peter,” she said, “you wouldn’t dream—you wouldn’t dare to be so foolish?”
He shook his head firmly.
“My dear girl,” he said, “we talked that all out long ago. A few years since, I felt that I had been treated badly, that I was an alien, and that the hand of the law was against me. I talked wildly then, perhaps. When I put up my sign and sat down for clients, I meant to cheat the law, if I could. Things have changed, Violet. I want nothing of that sort. I have kept my hands clean and I mean to do so. Why, years ago,” he continued, “when I was feeling at my wildest, these very jewels were within my grasp one foggy night, and I never touched them.”
“What would happen if you refused to help?”
“I do not know,” Peter Ruff answered. “The conditions are a little severe. But, after all, there are no hard and fast rules. It rests with the Marquis himself to shrug his shoulders and appreciate my position. Perhaps he may not even exchange a word with me. Here is Lord Sotherst coming to talk to you, and Captain Hamilton is waiting for me to tell him an address. Remember, don’t recognize Sogrange.”
Dinner that night was an unusually cheerful meal. Peter Ruff, who was an excellent raconteur, told many stories. The Marquis de Sogrange was perhaps the next successful in his efforts to entertain his neighbors. Violet found him upon her left hand, and although he showed not the slightest signs of having ever seen her before, they were very soon excellent friends. After dinner, Sogrange and Peter Ruff drifted together on their way to the billiard-room. Sogrange, however, continued to talk courteously of trifles until, having decided to watch the first game, they found themselves alone on the leather divan surrounding the room.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, my friend,” Sogrange said, watching the ash of his cigar. “Professional?”
Peter Ruff shook his head. “Not in the least,” he answered. “I have had the good fortune to render Lady Mary and her brother, at different times, services which they are pleased to value highly. We are here as ordinary guests—my wife and I.” The Marquis sighed.
“Ah, that wife of yours, Ruff,” he said. “She is charming, I admit, and you are a lucky man; but it was a price—a very great price to pay.”
“You, perhaps, are ambitious, Marquis,” Peter Ruff answered. “I have not done so badly. A little contents me.”
Sogrange looked at him as though he were some strange creature.
“I see!” he murmured. “I see! With you, of course, the commercial side comes uppermost. Mr. Ruff, what do you suppose the income from my estate amounts to?” Peter Ruff shook his head. He did not even know that the Marquis was possessed of estates!
“Somewhere about seven millions of francs,” Sogrange declared. “There are few men in Paris more extravagant than I, and I think that we Frenchmen know what extravagance means. But I cannot spend my income. Do you think that it is for the sake of gain that I have come across the Channel to add the Clenarvon diamonds to our coffers?”
Peter Ruff sat very still.
“You mean that?” he said.
“Of course!” Sogrange answered. “Didn’t you realize it directly you saw me? What is there, do you think, in a dull English house-party to attract a man like myself? Don’t you understand that it is the gambler’s instinct—the restless desire to be playing pitch-and-toss with fate, with honor, with life and death, if you will—that brings such as myself into the ranks of the ‘Double-Four’? It is the weariness which kills, Peter Ruff. One must needs keep it from one’s bones.”
“Marquis,” Peter Ruff answered, “I do not profess to understand you. I am not weary of life, in fact I love it. I am looking forward to the years when I have enough money—and it seems as though that time is not far off—when I can buy a little place in the country, and hunt a little and shoot a little, and live a simple out-of-door life. You see, Marquis, we are as far removed as the poles.”
“Obviously!” Sogrange answered.
“Your confidence,” Peter Ruff continued, “the confidence with which you have honored me, inspires me to make you one request. I am here, indeed, as a friend of the family. You will not ask me to help in any designs you may have against the Clenarvon jewels?”
Sogrange leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. His lips, when they parted from his white teeth, resolved themselves into lines which at that moment seemed to Peter Ruff more menacing than mirthful. Sogrange was, in many ways, a man of remarkable appearance.
“Oh, Peter Ruff,” he said, “you are a bourgeois little person! You should have been the burgomaster in a little German town, or a French mayor with a chain about your neck. We will see. I make no promises. All that I insist upon, for the present, is that you do not leave this house-party without advising me—that is to say, if you are really looking forward to that pleasant life in the country, where you will hunt a little and shoot a little, and grow into the likeness of a vegetable. You, with your charming wife! Peter Ruff, you should be ashamed to talk like that! Come, I must play bridge with the Countess. I am engaged for a table.”
The two men parted. Peter Ruff was uneasy. On his way from the room, Lord Sotherst insisted upon his joining a pool.
“Charming fellow, Sogrange,” the latter remarked, as he chalked his cue. “He has been a great friend of the governor’s—he and his father before him. Our families have intermarried once or twice.”
“He seems very agreeable,” Peter Ruff answered, devoting himself to the game.
The following night, being the last but one before the wedding itself, a large dinner-party had been arranged for, and the resources of even so princely a mansion as Clenarvon Court were strained to their utmost by the entertainment of something like one hundred guests in the great banqueting-hall. The meal was about half-way through when those who were not too entirely engrossed in conversation were startled by hearing a dull, rumbling sound, like the moving of a number of pieces of heavy furniture. People looked doubtfully at one another. Peter Ruff and the Marquis de Sogrange were among the first to spring to their feet.
“It’s an explosion somewhere,” the latter cried. “Sounds close at hand, too.”
They made their way out into the hall. Exactly opposite now was the room in which the wedding presents had been placed, and where for days nothing had been seen but a closed door and a man on duty outside. The door now stood wide open, and in place of the single electric light which was left burning through the evening, the place seemed almost aflame.
Ruff, Sogrange and Lord Sotherst were the first three to cross the threshold. They were met by a rush of cold wind. Opposite to them, two of the windows, with their boardings, had been blown away. Sergeant Saunders was still sitting in his usual place at the end of the table, his head bent upon his folded arms. The man who had been on duty outside was standing over him, white with horror. Far away in the distance, down the park, one could faintly hear the throbbing of an engine, and Peter Ruff, through the chasm, saw the lights of a great motor-car flashing in and out amongst the trees. The room itself—the whole glittering array of presents—seemed untouched. Only the great center-piece—the Clenarvon diamonds—had gone. Even as they stood there, the rest of the guests crowding into the open door, John Dory tore through, his face white with excitement. Peter Ruff’s calm voice penetrated the din of tongues.
“Lord Sotherst,” he said, “you have telephones in the keepers’ lodges. There is a motor-car being driven southwards at full speed. Telephone down, and have your gates secured. Dory, I should keep every one out of the room. Some one must telephone for a doctor. I suppose your man has been hurt.”
The guests were wild with curiosity, but Lord Clenarvon, with an insistent gesture, led the way back to the diningroom.
“Whatever has happened,” he said, “the people who are in charge there know best how to deal with the situation. There is a detective from Scotland Yard and his subordinates, and a gentleman in whom I also have most implicit confidence. We will resume our dinner, if you please, ladies and gentlemen.”
Unwillingly, the people were led away. John Dory was already in his great-coat, ready to spring into the powerful motor-car which had been ordered out from the garage. A doctor, who had been among the guests, was examining the man Saunders, who sat in that still, unnatural position at the head of the table.
“The poor fellow has been shot in the back of the head with some peculiar implement,” he said. “The bullet is very long—almost like a needle—and it seems to have penetrated very nearly to the base of the brain.”
“Is he dead?” Peter Ruff asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“No!” he answered. “An inch higher up and he must have died at once. I want some of the men-servants to help me carry him to a bedroom, and plenty of hot water. Some one else must go for my instrument case.”
Lord Sotherst took these things in charge, and John Dory turned to the man whom they had found standing over him.
“Tell us exactly what happened,” he said, briefly.
“I was standing outside the door,” the man answered. “I heard no sound inside—there was nothing to excite suspicion in any way. Suddenly there was this explosion. It took me, perhaps, thirty or forty seconds to get the key out of my pocket and unlock the door. When I entered, the side of the room was blown in like that, the diamonds were gone, Saunders was leaning forward just in the position he is in now, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Then you and the others came.”
John Dory rushed from the room; they had brought him word that the car was waiting. At such a moment, he was ready even to forget his ancient enmity. He turned towards Peter Ruff, whose calm bearing somehow or other impressed even the detective with a sense of power.
“Will you come along?” he asked.
Peter Ruff shook his head.
“Thank you, Dory, no!” he said. “I am glad you have asked me, but I think you had better go alone.”
A few seconds later, the pursuit was started. Saunders was carried out of the room, followed by the doctor. There remained only Peter Ruff and the man who had been on duty outside. Peter Ruff seated himself where Saunders had been sitting, and seemed to be closely examining the table all round for some moments. Once he took up something from between the pages of the book which the Sergeant had apparently been reading, and put it carefully into his own pocketbook. Then he leaned back in the chair, with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, as though thinking intently.
“Hastings,” he said to the policeman, who all the time was pursuing a stream of garrulous, inconsequent remarks, “I wonder whether you’d step outside and see Mr. Richards, the butler. Ask him if he would be so good as to spare me a moment.”
“I’ll do it, sir,” the man answered, with one more glance through the open space. “Lord!” he added, “they must have been in through there and out again like cats!”
“It was quick work, certainly,” Peter Ruff answered, genially, “but then, an enterprise like this would, of course, only be attempted by experts.”
Peter Ruff was not left alone long. Mr. Richards came hurrying in.
“This is a terrible business, sir!” he said. “His lordship has excused me from superintending the service of the dinner. Anything that I can do for you I am to give my whole attention to. These were my orders.”
“Very good of you, Richards,” Peter Ruff answered, “very thoughtful of his lordship. In the first place, then, I think, we will have the rest of this jewelry packed in cases at once. Not that anything further is likely to happen,” he continued, “but still, it would be just as well out of the way. I will remain here and superintend this, if you will send a couple of careful servants. In the meantime, I want you to do something else for me.”
“Certainly, sir,” the man answered.
“I want a plan of the house,” Peter Ruff said, “with the names of the guests who occupy this wing.”
The butler nodded gravely.
“I can supply you with it very shortly, sir,” he said. “There is no difficulty at all about the plan, as I have several in my room; but it will take me some minutes to pencil in the names.”
Peter Ruff nodded.
“I will superintend things here until you return,” he said.
“It is to be hoped, sir,” the man said, as he retreated, “that the gentleman from Scotland Yard will catch the thieves. After all, they hadn’t more than ten minutes’ start, and our Daimler is a flyer.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” Peter Ruff answered, heartily.
But, alas! no such fortune was in store for Mr. John Dory. At daybreak he returned in a borrowed trap from a neighboring railway station.
“Our tires had been cut,” he said, in reply to a storm of questions. “They began to go, one after the other, as soon as we had any speed on. We traced the car to Salisbury, and there isn’t a village within forty miles that isn’t looking out for it.”
Peter Ruff, who had just returned from an early morning walk, nodded sympathetically.
“Shall you be here all day, Mr. Dory?” he asked. “There’s just a word or two I should like to have with you.”
Dory turned away. He had forced himself, in the excitement of the moment, to speak to his ancient enemy, but in this hour of his humility the man’s presence was distasteful to him.
“I am not sure,” he said, shortly. “It depends on how things may turn out.”
The daily life at Clenarvon Court proceeded exactly as usual. Breakfast was served early, as there was to be big day’s shoot. The Marquis de Sogrange and Peter Ruff smoked their cigarettes together afterwards in the great hall. Then it was that Peter Ruff took the plunge.
“Marquis,” he said, “I should like to know exactly how I stand with you—the ‘Double-Four,’ that is to say—supposing I range myself for an hour or so on the side of the law?”
Sogrange smiled.
“You amuse yourself, Mr. Ruff,” he remarked genially.
“Not in the least,” Peter Ruff answered. “I am serious.”
Sogrange watched the blue cigarette smoke come down his nose.
“My dear friend,” he said, “I am no amateur at this game. When I choose to play it, I am not afraid of Scotland Yard. I am not afraid,” he concluded, with a little bow, “even of you!”
“Do you ever bet, Marquis?” Peter Ruff asked.
“Twenty-five thousand francs,” Sogrange said, smiling, “that your efforts to aid Mr. John Dory are unavailing.”
Peter Ruff entered the amount in his pocketbook. “It is a bargain,” he declared. “Our bet, I presume, carries immunity for me?”
“By all means,” Sogrange answered, with a little bow.
The Marquis beckoned to Lord Sotherst, who was crossing the hall.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “do tell me the name of your hatter in London. Delions failed me at the last moment, and I have not a hat fit for the ceremony to-morrow.”
“I’ll lend you half-a-dozen, if you can wear them,” Lord Sotherst answered, smiling. “The governor’s sure to have plenty, too.”
Sogrange touched his head with a smile.
“Alas!” he said. “My head is small, even for a Frenchman’s. Imagine me—otherwise, I trust, suitably attired—walking to the church to-morrow in a hat which came to my ears!”
Lord Sotherst laughed.
“Scotts will do you all right,” he said. “You can telephone.”
“I shall send my man up,” Sogrange determined. “He can bring me back a selection. Tell me, at what hour is the first drive this morning, and are the places drawn yet?”
“Come into the gun-room and we’ll see,” Lord Sotherst answered.