COUNTESS MARAVITZ ENTERTAINS
Upon what small circumstances will great events hinge! It was barely
twenty-four hours later when Ailsa Lorne followed Cleek up to town, and
together they spent the next few days rioting in shopping. Ailsa was now
preparing for an event which would put an end to these delays and
separations, and Cleek, set free for the time being from the Yard by an
unexpected absence of Mr. Narkom, was as happy as a schoolboy on leave
in term-time.
All thoughts of peril from the Apache friends of Margot seemed to have
been banished, and possibly the knowledge that Ailsa was
shadowed--unknown to her--by two of the Yard's most trusty men whenever
he himself was not with her had much to do with Cleek's peace of mind.
Strangely enough, his customary fears seemed to have been transferred to
Dollops. Ever since the return of Cleek to London, Dollops had grown
nervous and worried. His eyes had a strained, hunted look, and even his
appetite had lost something of its voracity--a sure sign of trouble.
Cleek, however, was too happy to note the trouble of his young
satellite, and thus for the first time in their companionship had cause
for regret in view of the event to come.
"Lor lumme, sir, you ain't a-going out again to-night, are ye?" the boy
said, anxiously, one evening, as he noted Cleek about to change again
into evening clothes.
"Why not, you inquisitive young monkey?" rejoined Cleek, amusedly.
"Didn't I hear you say you were going to the theatre yourself? I'm
dining with Countess Maravitz this evening, both Miss Lorne and I.
Unless you have any objection," he added, ceremoniously. Then noting
Dollops' dejected mien, he asked, "What's wrong, old man?"
"Nothing wrong, sir," said the boy, bravely, "only I don't like that
'ere Countess Mara--what's-her-name. 'Er eyes flash too much when she
claps 'em onto yer. Besides, I saw 'er talking to too many
French-looking characters last week. I didn't mean for to go and worry
you," he blurted out. "Thought perhaps it was a mistake, but it ain't."
Cleek's face grew grave and he pinched up his chin thoughtfully.
"Countess Maravitz? Are you sure, Dollops?"
The boy nodded. "In the park it was by the Ash-heels statue, I saw her
talking to what was Apaches or I miss my guess. They didn't see me 'cos
I nipped round to the back, but I wasn't mistaken nohow. Couldn't yer
telephone you was ill, sir?" he added, anxiously.
"No," was the decisive reply. "I'm not going to show the white feather,
Dollops. Besides, Miss Lorne will be there, and in the enemies' hands,
if you are right. Gad! When will it end!" he added, under his breath.
Then he darted into the dressing room again, and it was some ten minutes
before he emerged, immaculate as ever, to all appearances the customary
fashionable man about town. But there were grim lines about the
well-cut, flexible mouth, and a watchful gleam in the eyes that restored
more peace to Dollops' heart than he had known for the past week.
"Don't you stay in, old man. You cut along to the Oxford. I'll keep my
eyes open, all right. Forearmed is forewarned, thanks to you," said
Cleek with a little laugh, as opening his hand he revealed a tiny
automatic revolver, as deadly as it was small.
Dollops' eyes gleamed.
"Golly! That's the stuff to give 'em," he said, approvingly, and after
Cleek had driven off in a taxi he, too, sallied forth, but not in the
direction of any theatre. "Not for me, old thing," he soliloquized to
the lamp-post. "Where Mr. Cleek goes is good enough for me. I wonder how
the money goes." Under the light he counted his handful of coins and
again nodded approvingly as he shot along now in the vicinity of Wardour
Street.
Meanwhile, Hamilton Cleek's taxi had joined the string of carriages in
Park Lane outside the pretty white house which the Countess Maravitz, a
Polish count's widow, had taken for the season.
Once inside the flower-filled hall, Cleek searched anxiously amidst the
guests trying to catch a glimpse of Ailsa Lorne.
The Countess Maravitz had evinced a strong liking for her, bringing, so
she said, a verbal introduction from Mrs. Hawkesley--once Lady
Chepstow--whose son both Ailsa and Cleek had saved from imminent peril.
Cleek's senses, quickened by the information given him by Dollops,
noticed almost mechanically that although the number of guests was large
they consisted mainly of men. There were very few women, and such as
were present were decidedly of foreign aspect. Polish, Belgian--and
French. Cleek's heart sank and then pounded violently as his eyes rested
on a slender, white-gowned figure shaking hands with their hostess. It
was Ailsa, and as several of the guests closed round the group it seemed
already to Cleek's strained nerves as if they were closing in on the one
woman in the world.
A feeling came over him that right well had they played into their
enemies' hands. Would they live to emerge safe? Cleek's fingers
tightened instinctively on the pistol in his pocket. Almost he felt
inclined to dash forward and at its point to bear Ailsa out of the
house into safety. He blamed himself for his blindness--blamed even
Dollops for not speaking out before.
Quietly and as unconcernedly as usual, however, to all outward mien, he
sauntered across the great ballroom, and gently insinuated his way to
Ailsa, who greeted him with that smile of infinite trust that always
pierced his very heart. The thought that her life should be in danger
because of him was one of his greatest sorrows.
Giving her his arm and in the buzz of talk and laughter, as they
commenced to dance a few minutes later, he contrived to whisper:
"Dearest, be brave! I fear we are in danger. Keep as close to me as
possible and make some excuse to leave early. Laugh now if you can. I
feel sure that that woman is watching us!"
"That woman" was the Polish countess, and she was indeed watching them.
Just then, whether impelled by the signal of Ailsa's paling and flushing
face, or because she actually read the movements of Cleek's lips, she
glided over to them as they came to a standstill at one side of the
ballroom.
"Ah, _mes amis_, but you dance so beautifully! You are tired, eh? Miss
Lorne, come, do me the pleasure of seeing some pictures of my
countrymen. They came to-day!"
She opened a small and almost hidden door behind her and, not knowing
for the moment what else to do, Ailsa, with Cleek close behind,
followed her as she stepped through the doorway. The room was almost
dark, and, blinded by the sudden transition from the brilliantly lighted
ballroom, Ailsa stopped short, but too late! The door closed behind them
with a little vicious click, and as the Countess gave a low laugh of
infinite triumph she switched on the lights. The sudden blaze revealed
the presence of half a dozen men, guards evidently, and as Cleek
recognized the familiar brand of his implacable enemies, the Paris
Apaches, his heart sank.
"My pictures, sir! They came but to-day! _Our_ clansmen, yours and mine,
at your service, Cracksman," and she made an ironic curtsey in front of
Cleek, his face gray with anger at the trick, his lips set in a thin
line.
Ailsa clutched swiftly at his arm. She, too, realized their danger and
was prepared to fight with him to the bitter end.
"Enough of this play-acting, Countess," he said, harshly. "You seek
queer companions for one of noble birth, but I have been blind indeed."
"Ah, yes, indeed, most impeccable of detectives," she mocked, "and now
your eyes are to be opened, eh?" She stamped her foot, and, at what was
very obviously a signal, the men with one swift movement seized Cleek's
hand even as it clutched the tiny pistol, while others sprang from the
darkness behind them and seized Ailsa. In less than a minute the two
were separated, helpless, impotent in the hands of their captors.
"It is regrettable, sir," said the Countess more gently, "but I have to
obey my orders. When the Queen arrives----!"
"Margot!" cried Cleek. "I might have known! Her influence is
everywhere!" Then, seeing that resistance was vain, he submitted to the
inevitable with as good a grace as possible. He recognized that both
Ailsa's and his own safety lay in the hands of Margot alone, and nothing
was to be gained by exhausting either his breath or his strength against
a dozen men trained in the service of the most desperate band in Europe.
In secret anguish he watched them bind Ailsa in a huge carved chair at
one end of the room, while he was subjected to the same indignity at the
other, and again he cursed his stupidity.
It took but a few moments to bind them, and barely had the men stepped
back when a knock sounded and the door opened to admit a figure only too
familiar to Cleek, and to the men, who saluted with real or mock
solemnity. For this was Margot, Queen of the Apaches.
"Good, sister! You have indeed succeeded where I failed," said Margot,
as her eyes took in the scene. As Cleek noticed the hatred in the glance
she directed at the serene face of Ailsa Lorne, his courage almost
failed.
As the woman who had once held so much influence over his life advanced
toward Cleek, her face became a mask, and even he, trained to read the
motives of all classes of men, was at a loss to tell what emotions were
at play behind her steely eyes. Used to her letting her uncontrolled
Latin temperament have full sway, this was a new Margot, and his master
mind was puzzled.
"I regret this step"--her voice was hard--"but we have sworn an oath
that you shall return to the fold. When that happens we will do with you
as we will: accept you back into the band, or subject you to a lingering
death--both are in our power--but return you must. We have so decreed
it."
"I----" began Cleek, indignantly, but she raised her hand for silence,
and went calmly on:
"There are many ways we could force you to return and, as for our own
safety you must be rendered impotent to work against us, we hope that
you will not make it necessary for us to use the one we have chosen----"
A cry of horror burst from Cleek's lips as Margot glanced significantly
at Ailsa Lorne, and the meaning of that glance dawned on his senses.
It was not his life that was in danger, but hers, the woman who in
Margot's thoughts blocked the way to his return to his old life--and to
her. Broken at last by the horror of it, a string of pleas and
adjurations came from Cleek's lips.
Margot listened with a scornful smile upon her lips.
"The woman dies, Cracksman, unless you consent to return to Paris with
us to-night."
"Why not kill her first, Queen Margot?" put in the slow, seductive voice
of one of the men behind them, and Cleek strove impotently at his bonds.
He could not let Ailsa die, as die she would, if he refused. And if he
consented, she would be lost to him forever.
It was the cruellest dilemma in which man had ever been placed, and he
cried aloud in agony. Margot turned on her heel and dismissed with a few
words the grim, waiting members of her band.
"Return to your guests, madame," she said to the Countess whose real
identity Cleek would have given much to know. "You have done your work
well, and we will not forget. Keep the orchestra playing, and if the
sound of a shot reaches you, let no one open the door. Have a carriage
at the side gate, and give orders for it to be driven where bidden. That
is all, I think. I will write to you for the rest."
The door shut softly and the three were alone!
"You have ten minutes to decide!" Margot drew out a watch and a
revolver, which Cleek knew only too well she would not hesitate to use.
"My dear--my dear, forgive me, but you must be saved, whatever happens,"
he groaned. "And----"
"Death would be preferable to life without you," said Ailsa. "Even if
they kill me, they cannot force you to rejoin them. Besides, they would
not dare. The police----"
Margot smiled. "Brave words, Miss Ailsa Lorne, but we care not that for
these pigs of English police," and she snapped her fingers.
Again Cleek turned, and then a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"A man just come from Paris, with some special news," said the voice of
the Countess.
"I will see him," was the curt reply, "but do not let any one come near
the room afterward."
The door opened and shut as a desperate looking a character as one
could imagine entered with a swaggering mien, his cap pulled low over
his eyes. How he could have come through the London streets Cleek found
himself wondering, in spite of his own fearful predicament.
"You have a special message for me?" said Margot, concealing the
revolver in her hand.
There was dead silence. The messenger evidently was listening to the
sound of the retreating footsteps.
"Be queek. I haf not time----" she went on in English as if she wished
Ailsa Lorne to know how little she regarded her presence.
"Not 'arf I ain't, lady!" was the astonishing reply, as Dollops hurled
himself forward.
With an exclamation Margot whipped out the revolver again. A shot rang
out, but Dollops was too quick. Like a veritable human catapult he flung
himself on the figure of the woman, the impetus carrying her down on the
slippery floor, her head striking against the carved table leg. Then all
was silence.
"God bless you, Dollops!" breathed Cleek, as the lad bounded over and
slashed furiously at the binding ropes.
"Quick, sir! Miss Ailsa, put my coat on. Gawd bless yer both, and now
let's get out before this beauty wakes up, or shall I finish her, sir?"
"No, no," said Cleek, catching Ailsa in a fervent embrace while Dollops
picked up the revolver which had fallen from Margot's hand.
"Through here, Dollops. There's a side door and a carriage she said."
Quickly the three stepped out into a deserted corridor. Even if the
Countess had heard the shot, she had evidently obeyed orders. Not a soul
was in sight, and darting down the corridor to the door at the end, they
found it led out to a small gate in the high surrounding wall.
Outside there waited a carriage, and Cleek, muttering a well-remembered
password, bade the driver take them to Charing Cross. But when that
individual drew up at the station and a porter opened the carriage door,
its passengers had strangely vanished.
But it was not until Cleek had seen Ailsa safe in her own room that he
dared give a sigh of relief.
"Good boy, Dollops," he said, softly, as that individual hovered over
them both. "How did you manage it?"
"Looked himportant, sir, and swore at the footman. That's the way to
treat their sort, sir. Works hevery time."
"Maybe you're right, boy," said Cleek.