On the Track
"Le vrai moyen d'être trompé c'est de se croire plus fin que
les autres."
I stole out of the house before daybreak the next morning, and riding
to Yarmouth, took a very early and (with perhaps a subtle
appropriateness) a very fishy train to London.
So ill equipped was I to contend with a financier of Miste's force
that I did not even know the hour at which the London banks opened for
business. A general idea, however, that half-past ten would make quite
a long enough day for such work made me hope to be in time to
frustrate or perchance to catch red-handed this clever miscreant.
The train was due to arrive at Liverpool Street station at ten
o'clock, and ten minutes after that hour I stepped from a cab at the
door of the great bank in Lombard Street.
"The manager," I said, hurriedly, to an individual in brass buttons
and greased hair, whose presence in the building was evidently for a
purely ornamental purpose. I was shown into a small glass room like a
green-house, where sat two managers, as under a microscope--a living
example of frock-coated respectability and industry to half a hundred
clerks who were ever peeping that way as they turned the pages of
their ledgers and circulated in an undertone the latest chop-house
tale.
"Mr. Howard," said the manager, with his watch in his hand. "I was
waiting for you."
"Have you cashed the draft?"
"Yes--at ten o'clock. The payee was waiting on the doorstep for us to
open. The clerk delayed as long as possible, but we could not refuse
payment. Hundred-pound notes as usual. Never trust a man who takes it
in hundred-pound notes. Here are the numbers. As hard as you can to
the Bank of England and stop them! You may catch him there."
He pushed me out of the room, sending with me the impression that
inside the frock-coat, behind the bland gold-rimmed spectacles, there
was yet something left of manhood and that vague quality called fight,
which is surely hard put to live long between four glass walls.
The cabman, who perhaps scented sport, was waiting for me though I had
paid him, and as I drove along Lombard Street I thought affectionately
of Miste's long thin neck, and wondered whether there would be room
for the two of us in the Bank of England.
The high-born reader doubtless has money in the Funds, and knows
without the advice of a penniless country squire that the approach to
the Bank of England consists of a porch through which may be discerned
a small courtyard. Opening on this yard are three doors, and that
immediately opposite to the porch gives entrance to the department
where gold and silver are exchanged for notes.
As I descended from the cab I looked through the porch, and there,
across the courtyard, I saw the back of a man who was pushing his way
through the swing doors. Charles Miste again! I paid the cabman, and
noting the inches of the two porters in their gorgeous livery,
reflected with some satisfaction that Monsieur Miste would have to
reckon with three fairly heavy men before he got out of the courtyard.
There are two swing doors leading into the bank, and the man passing
in there glanced back as he crossed the second threshold, giving me,
however, naught but the momentary gleam of a white face. Arrived in
the large room I looked quickly around it. Two men were changing
money, a third bent over the table to sign a note. None of these could
be Charles Miste. There was another exit leading to the body of the
building.
"Has a gentleman passed through here?" I asked a clerk, whose
occupation seemed to consist in piling sovereigns one upon another.
"Yes," he said, through his counting.
"Ah!" thought I. "Now I have him like a rat in a trap."
"He cannot get through?" I said.
"Can't he--you bet," said the young man with much humour.
I hurried on, and at last found the exit to Lothbury.
"Has a gentleman just passed out this way?" I inquired of a porter,
who looked sleepy and dignified.
"Three have passed out this five minutes--old gent with a squint,
belongs to Coutts's--tall fair man--tall dark man."
"The dark one is mine," I said. "Which way?"
"Turned to the left."
I hurried on with a mental note that sleepy men may see more than they
appear to do. Standing on the crowded pavement of Lothbury, I realised
that Madame de Clericy was right, and I little better than a fool. For
it was evident that I had been tricked, and that quite easily by
Charles Miste. To seek him in the throng of the city was futile, and
an attempt predestined to failure. I went back, however, to the bank,
and handed in the numbers of the stolen notes. Here again I learnt
that to refuse payment was impossible, and that all I could hope was
that each note changed would give me a clue as to the whereabouts of
the thief. Each forward step in the matter showed me more plainly the
difficulties of the task I had undertaken, and my own incapacity for
such work. Nothing is so good for a man's vanity as contact with a
clever scoundrel.
I resolved to engage the entire services of some one who, without
being a professed thief-catcher, could at all events meet Charles
Miste on his own slippery ground. With the help of the bank manager, I
found one, named Sander, an accountant, who made an especial study of
the shadier walks of finance, and this man set to work the same
afternoon. It was his opinion that Miste had been confined in Paris by
the siege, and had only just effected his escape, probably with one of
the many permits obtained from the American Minister at this time by
persons passing themselves as foreigners.
The same evening I received information from an official source that a
man answering to my description of Miste had taken a ticket at
Waterloo station for Southampton. The temptation was again too strong
for one who had been brought up in an atmosphere and culture of sport.
I set off by the mail train for Southampton, and amused myself by
studying the faces of the passengers on the Jersey and Cherbourg
boats. There was no sailing for Havre that night. At Radley's Hotel,
where I had secured a room, I learnt that an old gentleman and lady
with their daughter had arrived by the earlier train, and no one else.
At the railway station I could hear of none answering to my
description.
If Charles Miste had entered the train at Waterloo station, he had
disappeared in his shadowy way en route.
During the stirring months of the close of 1870, men awoke each
morning with a certain glad expectancy. For myself--even in my
declining years--the stir of events in the outer world and near at
home is preferable to a life of that monotony which I am sure ages
quickly those that live it. Circumstances over which I exercised but a
nominal control--a description of human life it appears to me--had
thrown my lot into close connection with France, that "light-hearted
heroine of tragic story"; and at this time I watched with even a
greater eagerness than other Englishmen the grim tragedy slowly
working to its close in Paris.
It makes an old man of me to think that some of those who watched the
stupendous events of '70 are now getting almost too old to preserve
the keenest remembrance of their emotions, while many of the actors
on that great stage have passed beyond earthly shame or glory. Keen
enough is my own memory of the thrill with which I opened my
newspaper, morning after morning, and read that Paris still held out.
Before quitting London, I had heard that the French had recaptured the
small town of Le Bourget, in the neighborhood of Paris, and were
holding it successfully against the Prussian attack. Telegraphic
communication with Paris itself had long been suspended, and we,
watchers on the hither side, only heard vague rumours of the doings
within the ramparts. It appeared that each day saw an advance in the
organisation of the defence. The distribution of food was now carried
out with more system, and the defenders of the capital were confident
alike of being able to repel assault and withstand a siege.
The Empress had long been in England, whither, indeed, she had fled,
with the assistance of a worthy and courageous gentleman, her American
dentist, within a few hours of our departure from Fécamp. The Emperor,
a broken man bearing the seed of death, had been allowed to join her
at Chiselhurst, thus returning to the land where he had found asylum
in his early adversity. It is strange how the Buonapartes, from the
beginning to the close of their wondrous dynasty, had to deal with
England.
The first of that great line died a captive to English arms, the last
perished fighting our foes.
"Paris has not fallen yet, has it, sir?" the waiter asked me when he
brought my breakfast on the following day--and I think the world
talked of little else than Paris that rainy morning. For the siege had
now lasted six weeks, and the ring of steel and iron was closing
around the doomed city.
The London newspapers had not arrived, so the morning news was passed
from mouth to mouth with that eagerness which is no respecter of
persons. Strangers spoke to each other in the coffee-room, and no man
hesitated to ask a question of his neighbour--the whole world seemed
akin. In those days Southampton was the port of discharge for the
Indian liners, and the hotel was full, every table being occupied. I
looked over the bronzed faces of these administrators, by sword and
pen, of our great empire, and soon decided that Charles Miste was not
among them. The wisdom that cometh in the morning had, in fact, forced
me to conclude that the search for the miscreant was better left in
the hands of Mr. Sander and his professional assistants.
[Illustration: "IT IS THE LADY WHO ARRIVED YESTERDAY," ANSWERED THE
WAITER.]
At the breakfast table I received a telegram from Sander informing me
that Paris still held out. He wired me this advice according to
arrangement; for he had decided that Miste, feeling, like all
Frenchmen, ill at ease abroad, was only awaiting the surrender to
return to Paris, and there begin more active measures to realise his
wealth. As soon, therefore, as the city fell I was to hasten thither
and there meet Sander.
The arrival of my message occasioned a small stir in the room, and
many keen glances were directed towards me as I read it. I handed it
to my nearest neighbour, explaining that he in turn was at liberty to
pass the paper on. It was not long before the waiter came to me with
the request that he might make known to a young French lady travelling
alone any news that would interest one of her nationality.
"Certainly," answered I. "Take the telegram to her that she may read
it for herself."
"But, sir, she knows no English, and although I understand a little
French, I cannot speak it."
"Then bring me the telegram, and point out to me the lady."
"It is the lady who arrived yesterday," answered the waiter. "She
came, as I understand, with an old lady and gentleman, but they have
left this morning for the Isle of Wight, and she remains alone."
He indicated the fair traveller, and I might have guessed her
nationality from the fact that, unlike the Englishwomen present, she
was breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty woman--no longer quite
young--with a pale oval face and deep brown hair. As I approached she,
having breakfasted, was drawing her veil down over her face, and
subsequently attended to her hat with pretty, studied movements of the
hands and arms which were essentially French.
She returned my bow with quiet self-possession, and graciously looked
to me to speak.
"The waiter tells me," I said in French, "that I am fortunate enough
to possess some news which may be of interest to you."
"If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am _sur des épingles_ until I
hear it."
I laid the telegram before her, and she looked at it with a pretty
shake of the head which wafted to me some faint and pleasant scent.
"Translate, if you please," she said. "I blush for an ignorance of
which you might have spared me the confession."
It was a pretty profile that bent over the telegram, and I wished that
I had arrived sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She followed my
translation with a nod of the head, but did not raise her eyes.
"And this word?" pointing out the name of my agent with so keen an
interest that she touched my hand with her gloved fingers. "This word
'Sander,' what is that?"
"That," I answered, "is the name of my agent, 'Sander,' the sender of
the telegram."
"Ah--yes, and he is in London? Yes."
"And is he reliable?--excuse my pertinacity, Monsieur--you know, for a
Frenchwoman--who has friends at the front--" she gave a little shiver.
"Mon Dieu! it is killing."
She gave a momentary glance with wonderful eyes, which made me wish
she would look up again. I wondered whom she had at the front.
"Yes, he is reliable," I answered. "You may take this news,
Mademoiselle, as absolutely true."
And then, seeing that she was traveling alone, I made so bold as to
place my poor services at her disposal. She answered very prettily, in
a low voice, and declined with infinite tact. She had no reason, she
said, at the moment to trespass on my valuable time, but if I would
tell my name she would not fail to avail herself of my offer should
occasion arise during her stay in England. I gave her my card, and as
her attitude betokened dismissal, returned to my table, accompanied
thither by the scowls of some of the young military gentlemen present.
Had I been a younger fellow, open to the fire of any dark eyes, I
might have surrendered at discretion to the glance that accompanied
her parting bow. As it was, I left her, desiring strongly that she
might have need of my service. For reasons which the reader knows, all
Frenchwomen were of special interest in my eyes, and this young lady
wielded a strong and lively charm, to which I was fully alive so soon
as she raised her deep eyes to mine.