THE PERIL OF DICK JERVOISE
“You sent me no reply, therefore I feared lest you might not come,”
exclaimed the woman, speaking rapidly in French, with an accent purely
Parisian.
Her voice was soft and refined, yet so dark was it that her features
were scarcely distinguishable. That she was young and rather handsome,
with a somewhat oval face, was, however, apparent; and wearing a short
fur bolero and neat, felt travelling hat, she presented quite the
average _chic_ appearance of the Frenchwoman.
“Well,” he asked as he leaned upon the gate, “why do you wish to see me
so urgently after our last meeting in London?”
“To tell you something, _mon cher ami_—something curious which I have
discovered.”
“Well, and what’s your latest discovery, eh?” he asked in a half-mused
tone.
“That he is living in hiding in this neighbourhood.”
“Whom?”
“Bourtzeff.”
“Bourtzeff!” echoed Jervoise in amazement. “Bourtzeff here? Impossible!”
“I tell you he lives in Great Easton,” she responded calmly. “I’ve been
lodging near by for the past ten days—watching. Something serious is in
progress. Of that I am absolutely convinced.”
“But is it not dangerous for you, of all women, to be here, in the
vicinity, and alone? Remember he’s not a man to stick at trifles!”
“Bah! I do not fear him, monsieur,” laughed the young woman defiantly.
“But how did you trace him?”
“By patience,” she replied. “You know how he fled from Keppel Street
the instant the news became known. At that time we were not even aware
of his identity. We had no suspicion—nothing but a mere address in
London to guide us. We commenced investigations, you and I. I admired
your careful methods, but you relinquished the inquiry too early—you
were, my dear friend, just a trifle too impatient. I waited and
watched, day by day, week by week, for I knew that the landlord of that
house was a consummate liar, and that he was endeavouring to shield
some mysterious person whom he had sheltered. The matter was difficult,
because of your friend Doctor Odd’s constant inquisitiveness. I don’t
like that man, for he has, I feel confident, strong suspicions.”
“And surely not exactly unnaturally?” he remarked in a strained voice.
“Ah, yes!” she snapped impatiently. “I know you believe him to be your
friend. But mark me, M’sieur Dick, that man will prove your enemy.”
“You always say so, I know. But I venture to think you entertain a
rather unfair prejudice against him,” Jervoise said.
“Time will prove that,” replied his companion. “At present it is
sufficient to know that I waited in patience until, late one evening,
about a fortnight ago, I was watching the house in Keppel Street, more
out of curiosity than anything else, when a hansom drew up, and from
it alighted a man, who ascended to the door and quickly let himself in
with a latch-key. It was Nicholas Bourtzeff! From that moment until
now I have never lost sight of him.”
“And he does not suspect?”
“Not in the least.”
“You say he is in hiding over in Great Easton. I know the place quite
well—about a couple of miles from here.”
“He is the guest of a certain Doctor Larcombe, who lives in a house at
the extreme end of the village.”
“I know him,” Jervoise said, much surprised. “Larcombe rides to hounds
sometimes.”
“He is apparently living there as a paying guest in the name of
Siegler.”
“Are you sure it is Bourtzeff?”
“Absolutely. I have seen him a dozen times or more. I know him rather
too well, alas!” replied the woman.
“Bourtzeff! Bourtzeff!” he repeated to himself.
“Then what is your theory?” he asked.
“Theory!” she exclaimed, speaking still in French. “I have none, my
dear m’sieur. I regard his movements, as strange, very strange—that is
all. Paul Grinevitch telegraphed to Jorgen Berentsen that he intended
to leave Christiania at once, and go direct to 108, Keppel Street,
Russell Square. An hour later he was killed. Then when inquiries are
made at the address in question, a mysterious lodger, who only returned
that day, instantly disappears. Now this mysterious person turns out to
be Nicholas Bourtzeff who had gone into hiding in the name of Siegler.
Surely there is an object—and that object is fear of something. But
what it is, how can we tell?”
“Be careful that he doesn’t discover you, mademoiselle.”
“I shall take very good care of that,” was her reply. “I have taken
lodgings with a good woman in Middleton village, and am supposed to
be a governess waiting for a family to return from India. Yesterday I
had news from Christiania. The police have made an arrest—the fools!
They’ve thrown one of the hotel waiters into prison.”
Dick Jervoise was silent. What mademoiselle had told him caused him
the greatest surprise. Why had Nicholas Bourtzeff fled from one
hiding-place to the other on hearing the news of Paul’s death? What
connection, indeed, could the two men have had, except that they were
compatriots?
“But he was in London at the time of the affair?” remarked Dick, after
a long pause.
“Ah! That is just the point,” replied mademoiselle quickly. “He was not
at Keppel Street on that day, nor did he return there until four days
after the tragedy.”
Jervoise was again silent. The circumstance was suspicious.
The woman who stood there—a woman who was in many ways remarkable—had
become his friend. His acquaintance with her was a clandestine one, it
was true. She was not a person in whose company he would care to be
seen publicly; but though unscrupulous and full of clever subterfuge,
yet she was, nevertheless, acting in his interests.
More than a month ago she had called at his flat overlooking the river
beyond Hammersmith Bridge, and for several hours they had been engaged
in earnest conversation. It was then that Dick Jervoise had told the
young, dark-eyed, foreign lady, Alza Dresler, of the remarkable death
of Paul Grinevitch, and she had started to her feet on hearing the
amazing story.
She had placed her black-gloved hand in Dick’s as sign of friendship,
and from that moment to the present had, alone and quite unaided, been
pursuing a somewhat erratic course.
She was one of those women whose age it was quite impossible to
determine, and whose exact nationality was as equally uncertain.
In certain circles in London and in Paris she was well known as a
struggling artist, with sufficient private means to support herself.
In her own artistic set she was extremely popular. Until two years
before she had occupied a studio high up in the roof of one of those
old houses in the Rue Madame, in Paris, but of late her headquarters
had been in a shabby house in a mean street off the Tottenham Court
Road. She travelled a good deal, notwithstanding her limited means,
and outside her artistic set she had quite a wide acquaintance in both
capitals.
Good-looking, always neatly dressed, and quite ladylike and refined,
she was at home in almost any grade of society. Yet Dick Jervoise, who
in common with certain others who knew the truth concerning her, always
avoided being seen with her in public.
Owen Odd, on the other hand, had been attracted towards her from
the first moment of her introduction by Dick, and, notwithstanding
the latter’s veiled warnings, he had managed to snatch two or three
evenings away from his practice to take her to theatres. He found the
romance surrounding her particularly fascinating, for was she not to
the world a mystery?
“The affair becomes more complicated, Alza,” Dick exclaimed at last.
“Somehow I can’t quite conceive that Bourtzeff has ever had any
dealings with Paul.”
“That remains to be seen,” she said. “You know Bourtzeff almost as well
as I do.”
“And for that reason I do not think it wise for you to live here alone
and watch him. Remember he has spies ever about him.”
“My dear M’sieur Jervoise, I am quite capable of taking care of
myself,” she cried, laughing his fears to scorn. “Already I am trying
to ascertain why Grinevitch decided to come to London, and I hope soon
to learn something.”
“Ah! Yes. It will be interesting,” said the man. “But do you suspect
Bourtzeff?”
“At present I suspect nobody. First, let me discover the reason of Paul
Grinevitch’s sudden decision. Then, perhaps, we can form some theory.
At present, I can only watch.”
“Rather dull for you in Middleton,” he laughed. “The place is never
very exciting even in summer, but at this time of year it must be
pretty quiet.”
“As an artist, my dear m’sieur, I can adapt myself to any mode of
life,” she declared with a light laugh. “In this affair I have an
object, you will recollect—a personal interest.”
“A personal vengeance,” he said, correcting her, in a low, meaning
voice.
“Well, if you choose to put it so,” she said in a changed voice. Then
she added: “Though you were unaware of my presence, I’ve seen you in
the neighbourhood of Ingarsby on two or three occasions. I saw you
walking with two young ladies on the Bulwick road one afternoon, and
twice you’ve passed me in a motor car without recognising me.”
“Ah! you wore a veil, I suppose!”
“Certainly. Mourning always suits me well, you know!” she laughed.
“And how does this Siegler pass his time?” he inquired. “The doctor, of
course, has no idea of his identity?”
“No. Everyone believes him to be a German professor of botany. He is
friendly with several people in the neighbourhood. In fact, he’s dining
out this evening at a house about two miles from here. When I leave
you, I’m going across there to try and discover something concerning
these friends of his.”
“What’s their name?”
“Sedgwick, I believe it is. They are a father, mother, and two
daughters, and live in a big, old-fashioned, ivy-covered house lying
back from the road not far from a place called the Holy Well. Some fine
cedars stand on the lawn.”
“Sedgwick!” exclaimed Dick Jervoise. “I happen to know the Sedgwicks,
of Blaston! Does he know them?”
“He went there to dine this evening, I tell you. He and the doctor
drove over in the dog-cart. They passed me on this road.”
“My dear Alza, you’re a very remarkable woman!” he ejaculated. “By
Jove! nothing seems to escape you.”
“When my mind is set upon accomplishing something, no power on earth
turns me against it. You know me well enough,” was her answer. “In
this affair I have an object in view—a distinct object. Whether I
remain here for a day, or for a year, it is, to me, immaterial. I shall
accomplish it. You asked me for advice—you asked my assistance. As for
advice, I urge you once again to beware of that man who calls himself
your friend—Doctor Odd.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“I need not go into details, M’sieur Dick,” answered the woman,
standing there in the darkness. “Indeed, that is not my habit. I am
working in your interests—in those of Thyra; and also—well, I do
not deny it; why should I?—in my own. Since I saw you last, sixteen
days ago, I have again seen your friend the doctor. Oh! he was
very charming. He took me to the play, and to the Savoy to supper
afterwards. I accepted his invitation that evening for one reason
alone. I wanted to ascertain something.”
“Well?”
“I was successful. I discovered what I wanted to know. I discovered
that he was not your friend.”
“Not my friend? How can you tell that?”
“He has seen Thyra,” was her slow reply. “He slipped across the Channel
to meet her—to tell her of his suspicions, I expect.”
“You think so?” gasped Jervoise, standing rigid before her. “He
suspects me!”
“Yes. That is my surmise. But I had one truth—from his own lips—that he
loves her!”
“Loves her!” echoed her companion in a hollow voice. “Why, he has
always given me to understand——”
“My dear M’sieur Dick,” interrupted the mysterious woman, whose face he
could only indistinctly distinguish. “That’s just it! You are so very
confiding, so easily misled. It is your failing, if I may be forgiven
for saying so. That man loves Thyra; hence he is no longer your friend,
but rather your most bitter enemy! Ah! yes. You will discover the truth
ere long. He loves her—_loves her_!”