"Then your Highness is travelling for pleasure?" she inquired.
I smiled vaguely, for I did not satisfy her. She struck me as being a
particularly inquisitive old busybody.
When next morning Mademoiselle Elise informed me that her aunt was
suffering from a headache, I invited her to go for a stroll with me out
of the town, to which she at once acceded.
Her smart conversation and natural neat waisted _chic_ attracted me.
She used "Ideale," the very expensive Parisian perfume that to the
cosmopolitan is somehow the hall-mark of up-to-date smartness. Her gown
was well-cut, her gloves fresh and clean, and her hat a small toque of
the very latest _mode_.
Idling beside her in the bright sunshine, with the broad river hundreds
of feet below, and the high blue Balkans on every side about us, I spent
a most delightful morning.
"We move down to Varna to-morrow, and then home by way of
Constantinople," she replied in French in answer to my question. "Aunt
Melanie has invited your Highness to our house in Toddington Terrace,
she tells me. I do hope you will come. But send us a line first. In a
month we shall be back again to the dreariness of the Terrace."
"Dreariness? Then you are not fond of London?"
"No." And her face fell, as though the metropolis contained for her
some sad memory she would fain forget. Her life with that
yellow-toothed, wizen-faced old aunt could not be fraught with very much
pleasure, I reflected. "I much prefer travelling. Fortunately we are
often abroad, for on all my aunt's journeys I act as her companion."
"You are, however, French--eh?"
"Yes--from Paris. But I know the Balkans well. We lived in Belgrade
for a year--before the Servian _coup d'etat_. I am very fond of the
Servians."
"And I also," I declared, for I had been many times in Servia, and had
many friends there.
They were a curious pair, and about them both was an indescribable air
of mystery which I could not determine, but which caused me to decide to
visit them at their London home, the address of which I had already
noted.
At five o'clock that evening I took farewell of both Madams and her
dainty little niece, and by midnight was in the Roumanian capital. My
business--which by the way concerned the obtaining of a little matter of
20,000 francs from an unsuspecting French wine merchant--occupied me
about a week and afterwards I went north to Klausenburg, in Hungary, and
afterwards to Budapest, Graz, and other places.
Contrary to my expectations, my affairs occupied me much longer than I
expected, and four months later I found myself still abroad, at the fine
Hotel Stefanie, among the beautiful woods of evergreen laurel at
Abbazia, on the Gulf of Quarnero. My friend, the Rev Thomas Clayton
from Bayswater, was staying there, and as, on the evening of my arrival,
we were seated together at dinner I saw, to my great surprise, Madame
Demidoff enter with the pretty Elise, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired
gentlemanly young man, rather foppishly dressed.
"Hulloa?" I exclaimed to my friend, "there's somebody I know! That old
woman is Madame Demidoff."
"No, my dear Prince," was my friend's reply. "You are, I think,
mistaken. That is the old Countess Gemsenberg, and the girl is her
daughter Elise. She's engaged to that fellow--an awful ass--young
Hausner, the son of the big banker in Vienna, who died last year,
leaving him thirty million kroners."
"Do you really know this?" I asked, looking the Parson straight in the
face.
"Know it? Why, everybody in this Hotel knows of their engagement. I've
been here five weeks, and they were here before I arrived. They're
staying the season, and have the best suite of rooms in the place. The
old Countess is, no doubt, very wealthy, and lives in Munich."
Neither of the women had noticed me, and I remained silent.
What my friend had told me was certainly extraordinary. Why, I wondered
had Madame represented herself as a woman of the middle-class, resident
in a dull West End terrace? Why had Elise not admitted to me the truth?
She had seemed so charmingly frank.
With an intention to remain unseen and observant I purposely avoided the
pair that evening.
Next morning I saw Elise and young Hausner strolling together on the
Strandweg, that broad path which forms the principal promenade, and runs
along the rocky coast from Volosca to Icici. She was smartly dressed in
cream serge, girdled narrow but distinctive, and wore a large black hat
which suited her admirably, while he was in an easy suit of dark blue, a
panama, and white shoes. They were talking very earnestly as they
walked slowly on in the bright autumn sunshine with the blue Adriatic
before them. He seemed to be telling her something very seriously, and
she was listening without uttering a word--or, at least, she scarcely
spoke while they were within my sight.
On returning to the hotel I stumbled upon Madame Demidoff, who, seated
in the hall, was chatting with a tall, bald-headed, middle-aged man in
dark brown tweed, who had every appearance of an Englishman. She had
just given him a letter to read, and he was laughing heartily over it.
Fortunately, however, she sat with her back to the door and, therefore,
did not observe me. So I was enabled to make my exit without detection.
Half an hour later I pointed out the Englishman to the Parson, asking
who he was.
"I don't know," was his reply. "I've never seen him before; a fresh
arrival, I suppose."
That day I lunched and dined in my private sitting-room, in order to
avoid the pair, and continue my observations. That night I caught sight
of Elise, whose exquisite gown of pale pink chiffon was creating a
sensation among the well-dressed women, for the news of her engagement
to the young millionaire banker made her the most-talked-of and admired
girl in the great crowded hotel.
At eleven that night, when I believed that the ladies had gone to bed, I
ventured downstairs to the _fumoir_. As I went along the corridor, I
noticed Madame's English friend, with his overcoat over his evening
clothes, leaving the hotel for a stroll, while almost at the same moment
Madame herself emerged from one of the rooms, and, without doubt,
recognised me, I saw her start quickly, hesitate for a second, and then
turn away in pretence that she had not noticed me.
Her attitude was distinctly curious, and therefore I made no attempt to
claim acquaintance.
The mystery of the situation was, however, considerably increased when,
next morning, I was surprised to learn that the Countess Gemsenberg had
received bad news from Munich, that her husband had been injured in a
lift accident, and that she and her daughter had left Mattuglie--the
station for Abbazia, three miles distant--by the 8:48 train, young
Hausner leaving by the same train.
From the servants I discovered that Madame and her daughter had spent
half the night packing, and had not announced their departure until six
that morning. No telegram had been received by either of the trio,
which seemed to me a curiously interesting point.
Was it possible that Madame had fled upon recognising me? If so, for
what reason?
The mystery surrounding the pair attracted me, and during the further
fortnight I remained at the Stefanie, I made inquiries concerning them.
It appeared that a few days after their arrival the Countess herself had
told two German ladies of her daughter's engagement to young Hausner,
and that the latter would arrive in a few days. This news at once
spread over the big hotel, and when the young man arrived he at once
became the most popular person in Abbazia.
The Countess's enemies, however, declared that one night in the
hotel-garden she and Hausner had a violent quarrel, but its nature was
unknown, because they spoke in English. Mademoiselle was also present,
and instead of supporting her lover, took her mother's side and openly
abused him.
And yet next morning the pair were walking arm-in-arm beside the sea, as
though no difference of opinion had occurred.
As for the Englishman in brown, I ascertained that he did not live
there, but at the Quarnero, down by the sea. Those who heard him talk
declared that the Countess addressed him as Mr Wilkinson, and that he
was undoubtedly English.
Many facts I ascertained were distinctly strange. The more so when, on
making inquiry through a man whom the Parson knew living at the
Quarnero, I found that this Mr Wilkinson had left Abbazia at the same
hour as his three friends.
I could see no reason why my presence at the Stefanie should create such
sudden terror within the mind of the old lady with the yellow teeth.
The more I reflected upon the whole affair, the more mysterious were the
phases it assumed.
I recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at Number
10 Toddington Terrace, Regent's Park, and I resolved to call and see her
in pretence that I had not recognised her in Abbazia, and was unaware of
her presence there.
Autumn gave place to winter, and I was still wandering about the
Continent on matters more or less lucrative. To Venice Naples and down
to Constantinople I went, returning at last in the dark days of late
January to the rain and mud of London; different, indeed, to the
sunshine and brightness of the beautiful Bosphorus.
One afternoon, while seated here in Dover Street, lazily looking forth
upon the traffic, I suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady,
and with that purpose took a taxi-cab.
As we pulled up before Number 10, I at once recognised the truth, for
the green Venetian blinds were all down.
In answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman,
evidently the caretaker, opened the door.
"No, sir. Madame Demidoff and Elise left home again for the Continent a
fortnight ago, and they won't be back till the beginning of April." She
spoke of Elise familiarly without the prefix "Miss." That was curious.
"Do you know where they are?"
"I send their letters to the Excelsior Hotel, at Palermo."
"Thank you. By the way," I added, "do you happen to know who is the
landlord of these houses?"
"Mr Epgrave, sir. He lives just there--that new-painted house at the
corner;" and she pointed to the residence in question.
And with that information I re-entered the cab and drove back to the
club.
So Madame was enjoying the war in Sicilian sunshine! Lucky old woman.
I had only been back in London a week, and was already longing for
warmth and brightness again.
That night, seated alone, trying to form some plan for the immediate
future, I found myself suggesting a flying visit to Palermo. The Villa
Igiea was a favourite hotel of mine, and I could there enjoy the winter
warmth, and at the same time keep an eye upon the modest old lady of
Toddington Terrace, who appeared to blossom forth into a wealthy
countess whenever occasion required.
The idea grew upon me. Indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller
that I am, I ran from Paris to Naples in the "sixty," with Garrett, and
shipped the car over to Palermo, where I soon found myself idling in the
big white and pale green lounge of the Igiea, wondering how best to get
sight of Madame, who I had already ascertained, was at the Excelsior at
the other end of the town, still passing as Countess Gemsenberg. The
pretty Elise was with her, and my informant--an Italian--told me in
confidence that the young Marquis Torquato Torrini, head of the
well-known firm of Genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was
head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent.
I heard this in silence. What, I wondered had become of the young
Austrian millionaire, Hausner?
I, however, kept my own counsel, waited and watched. The Parson also
turned up a couple of days later and started gossip and tea-drinking in
the hotel. But, of course, we posed as strangers to each other.
The Igiea being the best hotel in Palermo and situated on the sea, the
blue Mediterranean lapping the grey rocks at the end of the beautiful
garden, it is the mode for people at other hotels to go there to tea,
just as they go to the "Reserve," at Beaulieu, or the Star and Garter at
Richmond.
I therefore waited from day to day, expecting her to come there. Each
day I pottered about in the car, but in vain.
One morning, however, while passing in front of the cathedral, I saw her
walking alone, and quickly seized the opportunity and overtook her.
"Ah! Mademoiselle!" I exclaimed in French as I raised my cap in
feigned surprise and descended from the car. "Fancy, you! In Palermo!
And Madame, your aunt?"
"She is quite well, thank you, Prince," she replied; and then, at my
invitation, she got into the car and we ran round the town. I saw that
she was very uneasy. The meeting was not altogether a pleasant surprise
for her; that was very evident.
"This place is more civilised than Tirnovo," I laughed. "Since then I
expect that you, like myself, have been travelling a good deal."
"Yes. We've been about quite a lot--to Vienna, Abbazia, Rome, and now
to Palermo."
"And not yet to London?"
"Oh! yes. We were at home exactly eleven days. The weather was,
however, so atrocious that Madame--my aunt, I mean--decided to come
here. We are at the Excelsior. You are, of course, at the Igiea?"
And so we ran along through the big, rather ugly, town, laughing and
chatting affably. Dressed in a neat gown of dove-grey cloth, with hat
to match and long white gloves, she looked extremely _chic_, full of
that daintiness which was so essentially that of the true Parisienne.
I told her nothing of my visit to Toddington Terrace, but presently I
said:
"I'll come to the Excelsior, and call on your aunt--if I may?"
I noticed that she hesitated. She did not seem at all desirous to see
me at their hotel. I, of course, knew the reason. The old lady was not
Madame Demidoff in Palermo.
"We will call and see you at the Igiea," she said. "We have never been
there yet."
"I shall be delighted," I answered her. "Only send me a note, in order
that I may be in."
Beyond the town we ran along beside the calm blue sea, with the high
purple hills rising from across the bay.
Bright and merry, she seemed quite her old self again--that sweet and
charming self that I had first met in that rough, uncouth Bulgarian
town. After an hour, we got out and seated ourselves on the rocks to
rest.
She was certainly not averse to a mild flirtation. Indeed--had she not
already been engaged to Hausner, broken it off, and was now half engaged
to the Marquis Torrini? She was nothing if not fickle.
"Yes," she sighed at last, "I suppose we shall have to go back to
humdrum London, before long. It is so much more pleasant here than in
Toddington Terrace," she added in her pretty broken English.
"Ah! Mademoiselle," I laughed. "One day you will marry and live in
Paris, or Vienna, or Budapest."
"Marry!" she echoed. "Ugh! No!" and she gave her little shoulders a
shrug. "I much prefer, Prince, to remain my own mistress. I have been
too much indulged--what you in English call spoil-et."
"All girls say that!" I laughed. "Just as the very man who unceasingly
declares his intention to remain a bachelor is the first to become
enmeshed in the feminine web."
"Ah! you are a pessimist, I see," she remarked, looking straight into my
eyes.
"No, not exactly. I suppose I shall marry some day."
"And you are engaged--eh?"
"No," I laughed, "it hasn't got so far as that yet. A single kiss and a
few letters--that's the present stage."
"And the lady is Engleesh?"
"Ah! The rest must, for the present, remain a mystery, mademoiselle," I
laughed, wondering what the Marquis would say if he discovered us idling
away the morning like that.
And so we chatted and laughed on, the best of friends. I tried to
obtain some facts regarding her visit to Abbazia, but she was not
communicative. Knowing that she was well aware of my visit to the
Stefanie, I mentioned it casually, adding:
"You must have already left before my arrival."
For an instant she raised her eyes to mine with a keen look of inquiry,
but, finding me in earnest, lowered her gaze again.
At length I saw from my watch that we must move again, if we intended to
be back to luncheon, therefore we rose and re-entering the car drove by
the sea-road, back to the town. She seemed delighted with her ride.
"I'll bring my aunt to call on you very soon," she said, as we parted.
"I will send you a line to say the day."
"Yes, do, mademoiselle, I shall be greatly charmed. _Au revoir_!" and I
lifted my hat as she gave me her tiny, white-gloved hand and then turned
away.
Next afternoon, while in the car near the theatre, I saw her driving
with a dark-bearded, well-dressed young man, whom I afterwards
discovered was the Marquis.
She saw me raise my hat, blushed in confusion, and gave me a slight bow
of acknowledgment.
That evening I made a discovery considerably increasing the puzzle.
I met the mysterious Mr Wilkinson face to face in the hall of the Hotel
de France, whither I had gone to pay a call upon some English friends
who had just arrived.
Wearing the same brown suit, he passed me by and left the hotel, for he
was unacquainted with me, and therefore unaware of my presence. From
the hall-porter I learnt that "Mr James Wilkinson, of London"--as he
had registered in the hotel-book--had been there for the past three
days.
For four days I awaited Madame's visit, but no note came from Elise.
The latter was, no doubt, too occupied with her Italian lover. I could
not write to her, as she had not given me the name by which she was
known at the Excelsior.
Compelled, therefore, to play a waiting game, I remained with my eyes
ever open to catch sight of one or other of the mysterious quartette.
But I was disappointed, for on this fifth day I made inquiry, and to my
utter dismay discovered that the same tactics had been adopted in
Palermo as in Abbazia.
The whole four had suddenly disappeared!
Greatly puzzled, the Parson returned to London. I nevertheless remained
in Italy until May, when back again I found myself, one bright afternoon
about five o'clock, descending from the car outside the house in
Toddington Terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon Madame
Demidoff.
My ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron.
Next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement. It was
Elise!
Utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched.
"You--you want to see Madame," she managed to stammer in her broken
English. "She isn't at home!"
Beyond her, in the hall, stood the tall figure of a man, whom I at once
recognised as the mysterious Wilkinson.
"But, mademoiselle," I said, smiling, yet wondering, the motive of that
masquerade. "I called also to see you."
She drew herself up in an instant, replying with some hauteur:
"I think, m'sieur, you have made some mistake. We have never met
before--to my knowledge."
Her reply staggered me.
"When will Madame Demidoff return?" I inquired, amazed at this
reception.
"To-morrow--at this hour," was her rather hesitating reply.
"Then I shall be glad if you will give her my card, and say I will
call," I said; "that is if you still deny having met me in Tirnovo and
in Palermo?"
"I really do not know what you are talking about, m'sieur," she
answered, and then, without further parley, closed the door in my face.
I stood still, staggered.
Surely my reception at Toddington Terrace was the reverse of cordial.
Next afternoon at the same hour I called at Number 10, but there was no
response to my ring, and the blinds were all down again. The place was
deserted, for the tenants had evidently fled.
That same night as I sat in my rooms, a short, thick-set man, who gave
the name of Payne, was ushered in.
"I think," he said, "your Highness happens to know something of an old
lady named Demidoff and her friends who live in Toddington Terrace?"
"Yes," I replied, much surprised.
"Well," he explained, "I'm a police officer, and I watched you go twice
to the house, so I thought you knew something about them. Are they your
friends?"
"Well, no; not exactly my friends," I replied, very suspicious of my
visitor. "I had never been nearer a man from Scotland Yard in all my
life! Imagine my position, my dear Diprose!"
"Ah! that's a good job. They seem to have been playing a pretty smart
game on the Continent of late."
"How? What was their game?" I asked eagerly.
"One that brought them in thousands a year. From the Italian and
Austrian police, who are both over here, it seems that they worked like
this: Old Madame Demidoff had a young and pretty French servant named
Elise. On the Continent Madame took the title of countess, and Elise
posed as her daughter. The latter flirted with wealthy young bachelors,
and so cleverly did she play her cards, that in several instances they
proposed marriage to her. Then, after the old woman had secretly spread
the report of the engagement, there would suddenly appear on the scene
Elise's English husband--a well-known ex-convict named Wilkinson. This
latter person would at once bluster, make charges against the
unsuspecting young lover, threaten exposure, and end by accepting a
thousand or two to preserve secrecy, none of the young elegants, of
course, caring that it should be known how completely they had been
`had.' There are over a dozen different charges against them, the most
recent being a coup in Palermo a few months ago, by which they
blackmailed the young Marquis Torrini to the tune of nine thousand
pounds."
"I was in Palermo at the time, but I never knew that was their game."
"Were you?" he cried in triumph. "Then you'll identify them, won't you?
I arrested Madame Demidoff and Wilkinson at Parkeston Quay last night,
as they were getting away to the Hook. The girl tried to get to Paris,
but was followed and apprehended on landing at Calais early this
morning. The Italian Government are asking for the extradition of the
interesting trio, and the papers are already on their way over."
I regretted having blurted forth the fact that I had known them in
Palermo, for in the interests of justice--though terribly afraid of
being recognised myself--I was compelled to identify Madame and
Wilkinson at Bow Street next day.
She swore a terrible vengeance upon me, but at present I have no fear of
her reprisals, for the Assize Court at Palermo a month ago condemned her
to ten years' imprisonment, while Wilkinson--whose past record was
brought up--has been sent to Gorgona for fifteen years, and the dainty
Elise, his wife, is serving seven years at Syracuse.
"But," the Prince added: "By Jove! it was a narrow squeak for me. Old
Never-let-go Hartley, of Scotland Yard, was in the Extradition Court.
And I know he was racking his brains to remember where he had met me
before."