ANNETTE TELLS A STORY
Prince Peretori was a by no means unpopular figure with those who knew
him both personally and by reputation. He had in him that strain of wild
blood that seems peculiar to all the Balkan peninsula, where so many
extravagant things are done. In bygone days Peretori would have been a
romantic figure. As it was, Western civilization had gone far to spoil
his character. Audacious deeds and elaborate practical jokes filled up
the measure of his spare time. For some months under a pseudonym he was
a prominent figure at a Vienna theatre. It was only when his identity
became threatened that he had to abandon his latest fad.
But he was feeling deeply chagrined and mortified over his last
escapade. It never occurred to him at the time that he was doing any
real harm. The King of Asturia, his cousin, he had always disliked and
despised; for the king he had the highest admiration. And it looked as
if he had done the latter an incalculable injury.
That he had been touched on the raw of his vanity and made the catspaw
of others added fuel to his wrath. It would be no fault of his if he did
not get even the Countess Saens. He would take that money and pretend
that he enjoyed the joke. But it was going to be a costly business for
Countess Saens and her ally Prince Mazaroff.
Peretori had pretty well made up his mind what line to take by the time
he had reached the house of the countess. The place was all in darkness,
as if everybody had retired for the night; but Peretori had his own
reasons for believing that the countess had not returned home. If
necessary he would wait on the doorstep for her.
But perhaps the door was not fastened? With spies about, the countess
might feel inclined to keep the house in darkness. As a matter of fact
the door was not fastened, and Peretori slipped quietly into the hall.
He had no fear of being discovered, if he were discovered he had only to
say that he had come back for the reward of his latest exploit. To the
countess he had made no secret of the desperate nature of his pecuniary
affairs.
The house seemed absolutely at rest, there could be no doubt that the
servants had all gone to bed. Peretori stood in the hall a little
undecided what to do next. His sharp ears were listening intently. It
seemed to him presently that he could hear the sound of somebody
laughing in a subdued kind of way. As his eyes grew accustomed to the
gloom, a thread of light from under a distant door crossed his line of
vision. Then there was the smothered explosion that was unmistakably
made by a champagne cork.
Peretori crept along to the door under which the track of light peeped.
The door was pulled to, but the latch had not caught. Very quietly
Peretori pushed the door back so that he could look in. It was more or
less as he had expected. Seated at a table where a dainty supper had
been laid out was a man who had the unmistakable hall-mark of a
gentleman's servant written all over him. On the other side of the
table sat the countess's maid Annette.
"Another glass," the maid was saying. "It is a brand of the best.
Nothing comes into this house but the best, _ma foi_! And no questions
asked where things go to. So help yourself, _mon_ Robert! There is no
chance of being interrupted."
The man sat there grinning uneasily. There was no conspirator here,
Peretori decided. The man was no more than a shrewd cockney
servant--none too honest over trifles, perhaps, but he was not the class
of man that political conspirators are made of. It was a romance of the
kitchen on Robert's side.
"Bit risky, ain't it?" he said as he pulled at his champagne. "If your
mistress catches us----"
"There is no fear of that, Robert. She is in bed sound asleep long ago.
Nothing wakes or disturbs her. She undressed herself to-night; she
dispensed with my services. Oh, a good thing!"
"But risky sometimes, eh?" Robert said. "Lor, the trouble that some of
'em give!"
"Oh, they have no heart, no feeling. It is slave, slave, slave! But we
make them pay for it. I make _her_ pay for it. And when I am ready to go
back to Switzerland, I know that I have not worked in vain. And she
called me a liar and a thief to-night."
Robert muttered something sympathetic. He had no wish for Annette to go
back to Switzerland, he said. He had saved a little also. Did not
Annette think that a respectable boarding house or something select in
the licensed victualling line might do? The girl smiled coquettishly.
"And perhaps something better," she said, dropping her voice to a
whisper. "I am not dishonest, I do no more than other ladies in my
position. Not that the perquisites are not handsome. But sometimes one
has great good luck. She call me thief and liar to-night; she say I not
tell the truth when I say she was robbed to-night. I show her the real
thief, and still she is doubtful. The real thief took those papers. Mind
you, they were papers of great value. That is certain. Suppose those
papers came into my possession! Suppose I read them, and find them
immense importance! Suppose that they don't belong to the countess at
all, that she has got them by a trick!"
Peretori listened eagerly. Now that he was _au fait_ of the situation,
he knew exactly what Annette was talking about. He blessed his stars
that he had come here to-night. Without doubt Annette was talking of the
papers missing from the Foreign Office.
"Sounds good," Robert said. "Worth fifty or sixty pounds to somebody
else perhaps."
"Worth ten thousand pounds!" Annette went on in the same fierce whisper.
"That money with what we have saved, eh? We could take a boarding house
in Mount Street and make a fortune, you and I, my Robert. Look you,
these papers vanish, they are taken by a lady in a black dress. My
mistress she say the lady meet with an accident and is taken to a
hospital. The police come in and ask questions--_ma foi_! they ask
questions till my head ache. Then they go away again, and my mistress
leave the house again. My head ache so that I go and walk up and down
the pavement to get a breath of air."
"Sounds like a scene in a play," Robert said encouragingly. "Go on,
ducky!"
"As I stood there a policeman come up to me. I know that policeman; he
is young to his work--he admires me. You need not look so jealous, my
Robert, it is not the police where my eyes go. But he has heard of the
robbery. Not that he knows its importance--no, no! He can tell all about
the lady in Piccadilly who was run over. And behold he has picked up a
packet of papers!"
"Good business!" Robert exclaimed. "You're something like a
story-teller, Annette."
"That packet of papers he show me," Annette went on gaily. "There is an
elastic band round them, and under the band an envelope with the crest
of the countess upon it. Those papers were to be give up to Scotland
Yard, mark you. But not if Annette knows anything about her man. Behold
in a few minutes those papers are in my pocket. It is a smile, a little
kiss, and the thing is done! Frown not, Robert, I have no use for that
soft young policeman."
"You're a jolly deep one, that's what you are," Robert said with
profound admiration. "I should like to know what those papers are all
about. I suppose you've read 'em?"
"No; they are in French, the French used by the educated classes. The
language is very different to my Swiss. But I have a friend who will be
able to tell me what they are all about. Meanwhile, the papers are
carefully hidden away where they cannot be found. My policeman, he dare
not speak; even if he did, I could say that the papers were rubbish
which I had thrown away. But the countess she call me a liar and a
thief. She shall never see them again. What's that?"
A sudden violent ringing of the front door bell startled the supper
party and the listener in the hall. Robert rose and grabbed his hat as
if prepared for flight.
"No, no!" the fertile Annette whispered. "Don't go. I'll reply to that
bell. It is easy to say that I have not gone to bed, and that I came
down. Stay where you are. You are quite safe. It may be a cablegram,
they sometimes come quite late at night. Just turn down the light."
Peretori stepped into one of the darkened rooms and awaited events. He
saw Annette come into the hall and flick up the glaring electrics. In
her usual demure way she opened the front door and confronted a fussy
little man who stood on the step.
"Your mistress," he said hurriedly. "Your mistress. I must see her at
once--at once!"
"But my mistress has gone to bed," Annette protested. "She is asleep for
some time, and----"
"Then you must wake her up," the little man said. "At once. It is no use
to make a fuss, my good girl, I am bound to see the countess. Tell her
that Mr. Hunt is here--Mr. Hunt of the _Mercury_, whose business will
not brook delay."