THE TEMPTER.
"Just as I suspected!" Jack exclaimed. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken.
I have spotted the thief. The queer chap who bought my water-color
sketches is the same who carried off the Rembrandt. How cleverly he
worked his little game! But there my information stops, and I doubt
if the police could make much out of it."
The letter, which he had crumpled excitedly in his hand after reading
it, was written in French; freely translated it ran as follows:
"No. 15, BOULEVARD DE COURCELLES, PARIS.
"My Dear Jack--I was rejoiced to hear from you, after so long a silence,
and it gave me sincere pleasure to look into the matter of which you
spoke. But I fear that my answers must be in the negative. It is certain
that no such individual as M. Felix Marchand lives in or near the Pare
Monceaux, where I have numerous acquaintances; nor do I find the name in
the directory of Paris. Moreover, he is unknown to the dealer, Cambon, on
the Quai Voltaire, of whom I made inquiries. So the matter rests. I am
pleased to learn of your prosperity. When shall I see you once more in
Lutetia?
"With amiable sentiments I inscribe myself,
"Your old friend,
"CHARLES JACQUIN."
"I'll take the earliest opportunity of seeing Lamb and Drummond," Jack
resolved. "The affair will interest them, and it may lead to something.
But I shan't bother about it--I didn't value the picture very highly,
and the thief almost deserves to keep it for his cleverness."
During the next three days, however, Jack was too busy to carry out his
plan--at least in the mornings. Not for any consideration would he have
sacrificed his afternoons, for then he met Madge in Regent's Park, and
spent an hour or more with her, reckless of extortionate cab fares from
Ravenscourt Park to the neighborhood of Portland Terrace. On the second
night, dining in town, he met Victor Nevill, and had a long chat with
him, the two going to a music-hall afterward. Jack was discreetly silent
about his love affair, nor did he or Nevill refer to the little incident
near Richmond Hill.
At the end of the week Jack's opportunity came. He had finished some
work on which he had been employed for several days, and soon after
breakfast, putting on a frock coat and a top hat he went off to town. He
presented a card at Lamb and Drummond's, and the senior partner of the
firm, who knew him well by reputation, invited him into his private
office. On learning his visitor's errand, Mr. Lamb evinced a keen
interest in the subject. He listened attentively to the story, and asked
various questions.
"Here is the letter from my friend in Paris," Jack concluded. "You will
understand its import. It shows conclusively that M. Marchand came to my
studio under a false name, and leaves no room for doubt that it was he
who stole my duplicate Rembrandt."
"I agree with you, Mr. Vernon. It is a puzzling affair, and I confess I
don't know what to make of it. But it is exceedingly interesting, and I
am very glad that you have confided in me. I think it will be best if
we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves for the present."
"By all means."
"I except the detectives who are working on the case."
"Yes, of course. They are the proper persons to utilize the
information," assented Jack. "It should not be made public."
"I never knew that a copy of Von Whele's picture was in existence," said
Mr. Lamb. "I need hardly ask if it is a faithful one."
"I am afraid it is," Jack replied, smiling. "I worked slowly and
carefully, and though I was a bit of an amateur in those days, I was
more than satisfied with the result. The pictures were of the same size;
and I really don't think many persons could have distinguished the one
from the other."
"Could _you_ do that now, supposing that both were before you, framed
alike, and that the duplicate was cunningly toned to look as old as the
original?"
"I should not hesitate an instant," Jack replied, "because it happens
that I took the precaution of making a slight mark in one corner of my
canvas."
"Ah, that was a clever idea--very shrewd of you! It may be of the
greatest importance in the future."
"You have not yet given me your opinion of the mysterious Frenchman,"
Jack went on. "Do you believe that he was concerned in both robberies?"
"Circumstances seem to point that way, Mr. Vernon, do they not? Your
picture was certainly taken before mine?"
"It was, without doubt."
"Then, what object could the Frenchman have had in stealing the
comparatively worthless duplicate, unless he counted on subsequently
getting possession of the original?"
"It sounds plausible," said Jack. "That's just my way of looking at it.
The advantage would be--"
"That the thieves would have two pictures, equally valuable to them, to
dispose of secretly," put in Mr. Lamb. "We may safely assume, then, that
our enterprising burglars are in possession of a brace of Rembrandts.
What they will do with them it is difficult to say. They will likely
make no move at present, but it is possible that they will try to
dispose of them in the Continental market or in America, in which case
I have hopes that they will blunder into the hands of the police. Proper
precautions have been taken both at home and abroad."
"Is there any clew yet?"
Mr. Lamb shook his head sadly.
"Not a ray of light has been thrown on the mystery," he replied, "though
the best Scotland Yard men are at work. You may depend upon it that the
insurance people, who stand to lose ten thousand pounds, will leave no
stone unturned. As for Raper, our watchman, he has been discharged. Mr.
Drummond and I are convinced that his story was true, but it was
impossible to overlook his gross carelessness. We never knew that he
was in the habit of going nightly to the public house in Crown Court."
"It's a wonder you were not robbed before," said Jack. "You have my
address--will you let me know if anything occurs?"
"Certainly, Mr. Vernon. Must you be off? Good morning!"
Jack sauntered along Pall Mall, and turned up Regent street. At
Piccadilly Circus he saw two men standing before the cigar shop on the
corner. One was young and boyish looking. The other, a few years older,
was of medium height and stout beyond proportion; he wore a tweed suit
of a rather big check pattern, and the coat was buttoned over a scarlet
waistcoat; the straw hat, gaudily beribboned, shaded a fat, jolly,
half-comical face, of the type that readily inspires confidence. He was
talking to his companion animatedly when he saw Jack approaching. With a
boisterous exclamation of delight he rushed up to him and clapped him on
the shoulder.
"Clare, old boy!" he cried.
"Jimmie Drexell!" Jack gasped in amazement. "Dear old chap, how awfully
glad I am to see you!"
With genuine and heartfelt emotion they shook hands and looked into
each other's eyes--these two who had not met for long years, since the
rollicksome days of student life in Paris when they had been as intimate
as brothers.
"You're fit as a king, my boy--not much changed," spluttered Drexell,
with a strong American accent to his kindly, mellow voice. "I was going
to look you up to-day--only landed at Southampton yesterday--got beastly
tired of New York--yearned for London and Paris--shan't go back for six
months or a year, hanged if I do."
"I'm jolly glad to hear it, Jimmie."
"We'll see a lot of each other--eh, old man? So, you've stuck to the
name of Vernon? I called you Clare, didn't I? Yes, I forgot. You told me
you had taken the other name when you wrote a couple of years ago. I
haven't heard from you since, except through the papers. You've made
a hit, I understand. Doing well?"
"Rather! I've no cause to complain. And you, Jimmie? What's become of
the art?"
"Chucked it, Jack--it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk--hired a
studio--filled it with jimcrackery--got the best-looking models--wore a
velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned
twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's
shop--his place burnt down--I made him fork over. Then a deceased
relative left me $150,000--said I deserved it for working so hard in
Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and
here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."
Jack laughed heartily.
"Art never _was_ much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you
kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to
learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."
"There will be another one some day, Jack--when this is gone. By the
way, I met old Nevill last night--dined with him. And that reminds me--"
He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to
Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and
exchanged a few commonplace words.
"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell.
"Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven.
Name your place."
"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.
As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by
the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell
whispered at Jack's ear:
"A good sort, that young chap. I met him in New York a year ago. His
next eldest brother, the Honorable George, is over there now. I believe
he is going to marry a cousin of mine--a girl who will come into a pot
of money when her governor dies."
* * * * *
Nine o'clock at night, and a room in Beak street, Regent street; a back
apartment looking into a dingy court, furnished with a sort of tawdry,
depressing luxury, and lighted by a pair of candles. A richly dressed
woman who had once been extremely handsome, and still retained more than
a trace of her charms, half reclined on a couch; a fluffy mass of
coppery-red hair had escaped from under her hat, and shaded her large
eyes; shame and confusion, mingled with angry defiance, deepened the
artificial blush on her cheeks.
Victor Nevill stood in the middle of the floor, confronting her with a
faint, mocking smile at his lips. He had not taken the trouble to remove
his hat. He wore evening dress, with a light cloak over it, and he
twirled a stick carelessly between his gloved fingers.
"So it is really you!" he said.
"If you came to sneer at me, go!" the woman answered spitefully. "You
have your revenge. How did you find me?"
"It was not easy, but I persevered--"
"Why?"
"For a purpose. I will tell you presently. And do not think that I came
to sneer. I am sorry for you--grieved to find you struggling in the
vortex of London." He looked about the room, which, indeed, told a plain
story. "You were intended for better things," he added. "Where is Count
Nordhoff?"
"He left me--three years ago."
"I wouldn't mind betting that you cleaned him out, and then heartlessly
turned him adrift."
"You are insolent!"
"And I dare say you have had plenty of others since. What has become of
the Jew?"
The woman's eyes flashed like a tiger's.
"I wish I had him here now!" she cried. "He deserted me--broke a hundred
promises. I have not seen him for a week."
"You are suffering heavily for the past."
"For the past!" the woman echoed dully. "Victor," she said with a sudden
change of voice, "_you_ loved me once--"
"Yes, once. But you crushed that love--killed it forever. No stage
sentiment, please. Understand that, plainly."
The brief hope died out of the woman's eyes, and was replaced by a gleam
of hatred. She looked at the man furiously.
"There is no need to fly into a passion," said Nevill. "We can at least
be friends. I cherish no ill-feeling--I pity you sincerely. And yet you
are still beautiful enough to turn some men's heads. How are you off for
money?"
The woman opened a purse and dashed a handful of silver to the floor.
"That is my all!" she cried, hoarsely.
"Then you must find a way out of your difficulties. I am going to have
a serious talk with you."
Nevill drew a chair up to the couch, and his first words roused the
woman's interest. He spoke for ten minutes or more, now in whispers, now
with a rising inflection; now persuasively, now with well-feigned
indignation and scorn. The effect which his argument had on his
companion was shown by the swift changes that passed over her face; she
interrupted him frequently, asking questions and making comments. At the
end the woman rustled her silken skirts disdainfully, and rose to her
feet.
"Why do you suggest this, Victor?" she demanded. "Where do _you_ come
in?"
Nevill seemed slightly disconcerted.
"I am foolish enough to feel an interest in a person I once cared for,"
he replied. "I want to save you from ruin that is inevitable if you
continue in your present course."
"It is kind of you, Victor Nevill," the woman answered sneeringly. "He
has a personal motive," she thought. "What can it be?"
"The thing is so simple, so natural," said Nevill, "that I wonder you
hesitate. Of course you will fall in with it."
"Suppose I refuse?"
"I can't credit you with such madness."
"But what if--" She leaned toward him and whispered a short sentence in
his ear. His face turned the color of ashes, and he clutched her wrist
so tightly that she winced with pain.
"It is a lie!" he cried, brutally. "By heavens, if I believed--"
The woman laughed--a laugh that was not pleasant to hear.
"Fool! do you think I would tell you if it was true?" she said. "I was
only jesting."
"It is not a subject to jest about," Nevill answered stiffly. "I came
here to do you a good turn, and--"
"You had better have kept away. You are a fiend--you are a Satan
himself! Why do you tempt me? Do you think that I have no conscience,
no shame left? I am bad enough, Victor Nevill, but by the memory of the
past--of what I threw away--I can't stoop so low as to--"
"Your heroics are out of place," he interrupted. "Go to the devil your
own way, if you like."
"You shall have an answer to-morrow--to-morrow! Give me time to think
about it."
The woman sank down on the couch again; her over-wrought nerves gave
way, and burying her face in the cushions she sobbed hysterically.
Nevill looked at her for a moment. Then he put a couple of sovereigns on
the table and quietly left the room.