THE MAN IN PARIS.
Having made up my mind what course to pursue, I returned to
Marshminster, took leave of my relatives, and left that evening for
London. There I remained two days reviewing the strange events in
which I had lately been an actor. At one moment it was in my mind to
abandon what certainly seemed to be a hopeless search, for I could not
but see it was a matter of great difficulty to lay my hand on the
assassin of Francis. It would be better, I thought, to place the
matter in the hands of the police, and let them thrash it out for
themselves. Two reasons prevented my taking this ignoble course.
One was that Francis Briarfield had been a college friend, and I was
unwilling that his death should go unavenged. The story of his love
for Olivia which he had told me at the inn contained the elements of a
strange romance, fitly capped by his tragic end. I felt certain that
Felix through his hired bravo--for I could call Strent by no other
name--had encompassed the death of his brother. Felix was passionately
in love with Olivia, and the unexpected return of Francis not only
threatened to take her away from him, but also to reveal the
scoundrelly fashion in which he had behaved. At one blow Felix would
lose her love and respect, therefore his motive for averting such a
catastrophe was a strong one. That he should determine on fratricide
was a terrible thought, but there was no other course left to him by
which to secure the woman he loved, and the respect he valued. It was
the mad action of a weak, passionate man such as I knew Felix to be.
Too cowardly himself to strike the fatal blow, he had hired Strent to
carry out his plans, and the death had been duly accomplished, though
in what way I was quite unable to say. It was sufficient for me to
know that Francis was dead, and I felt myself called upon to avenge
his death.
The other motive was perhaps the stronger one of detective fever. I
was a bachelor, I had a good income and nothing to do, therefore this
quest was one of great interest to me. I had often hunted beasts, but
this man hunt was a much more powerful incentive to excitement. I
could hardly sleep for thinking of the case, and was constantly
engaged in piecing together the puzzle. As yet I had no clear clew to
follow, but the first thing to be settled was the identity of Felix at
Marshminster with Felix at Paris. Once I established that point, and
proved conclusively that Felix had never left England, I would be in a
position to prosecute the search in the neighborhood of Marshminster.
I own that there was an additional reason in the pique I felt at the
scornful disbelief of Olivia. She evidently considered my story pure
fiction, and the strange disappearance of the corpse from the inn
confirmed her in this belief. Irritated by such contempt, I was
resolved to bring home the crime to Felix, and to prove conclusively
to her that he was masquerading as her lover, the dead Francis. It
would be a cruel blow when assured of the truth, but it was better
that she should suffer temporary pain to dragging out a lifelong agony
chained to a man whom I knew to be a profligate, a liar, and a
murderer.
At the end of two days I confirmed myself in the resolution to hunt
down the criminal, and decided as the first step to go to Paris.
Leaving Victoria by the night mail, I arrived in the French capital
next morning. Anxious to lose no further time, I hastened at once to
the Hôtel des Étrangers, in Rue de St. Honoré, and there took up my
quarters. Recovered from the fatigues of the journey, I partook of
luncheon, and then made inquiries about Felix Briarfield. To my
surprise I not only discovered that he was in Paris, but that he was
in the hotel at that moment.
"Has he been staying here for any length of time?" I asked the
manager.
"For six weeks, monsieur, and now talks of going to Italy," was the
astonishing reply.
To say that I was surprised would give but a faint idea of what I
felt. That the assertion of Olivia should thus prove true was almost
impossible of belief. If Felix were here, and had been here for the
past six weeks, it could not possibly be he whom I had met at
Marshminster. Assuming this to be the case, who was the man of the Fen
Inn who called himself Francis? My head was whirling with the endeavor
to grapple with these thoughts. Suddenly an idea flashed into my brain
which might possibly account for the mystery.
"Can it be," thought I, "that it was Felix whom I met at the inn?
Felix who tried to pass himself off as Francis, and then invented that
lying story? Perhaps he was not dead, as I thought, but merely plunged
into a trance. When he revived, seeing the uselessness of fighting
with Francis, he fled back to Paris."
All this time I stared hard at the manager. In reality I was puzzling
out the mystery, and not paying any attention to the man before me.
He, however, grew weary under my regard, and moved uneasily.
"Mr. Briarfield is now in his room, monsieur. Shall I take to him your
card?"
"If you please," I answered mechanically, and handed it to him. In a
few moments a waiter came with a message, stating that Mr. Briarfield
would be glad to see me. I followed the man, in a state of the utmost
bewilderment, and found myself in the presence of Felix before I knew
what to say or do. He was so like Francis, whom I thought was lying
dead at the Fen Inn, so like the man who passed as Olivia's lover,
that for the moment I could do nothing but stare at him. Yet he could
be neither of the two, for one was dead and the other I had left
behind at Marshminster.
"How are you, Denham?" he said, somewhat surprised at my strange
conduct. "And why do you stare so steadily at me?"
"Are you Felix Briarfield?" I gasped out.
"As you see," he answered, raising his eyebrows; "surely you know me
well enough to dispense with so foolish a question."
"And your brother?"
"He is at Marshminster, I believe, with Miss Bellin, to whom he is
engaged. Why do you ask so strange a question?"
I sat down on the sofa, and buried my face in my hands. Either I was
out of my mind or the victim of some horrible hallucination. I
certainly had met Francis at the inn, and beheld him dead under its
roof. As surely had I seen the man I believed to be Felix at
Marshminster. Yet here in Paris I beheld an individual who was neither
the dead friend nor the living lover, and he called himself Felix
Briarfield.
"I must be mad! I must be mad!" was all I could say for the moment.
"What is the matter, Denham?" asked Briarfield, touching my shoulder.
"Are you ill?"
For answer I seized first one hand and then the other. On neither
appeared the least scratch. Yet the man whom I believed to be Francis
had a ragged wound on the right hand. My theory of a trance vanished
into thin air at this proof that the men were distinct. Astounded by
my action, Felix drew back in some alarm.
"How strangely you act, Denham," he said uneasily. "Is there anything
wrong?"
"Do you think I am mad?" I asked irritably.
"Your action just now was scarcely the act of a sane person. Why did
you examine my hands?"
"To see if they were cut in any way."
He turned the palms of his hands toward me, and shook his head with a
slight laugh.
"You see," he said, smiling, "they are absolutely free from cut or
wound. Why do you expect them to be marred?"
I made no reply, but passed my hand across my brow. The situation in
which I found myself was so strange and embarrassing that I did not
know how to proceed. In the presence of facts I could not but admit
that my story would sound but a wild invention.
"Come, Denham," said Briarfield soothingly, "you are doubtless in some
trouble, and have come to me for help and advice. I'll give both to
the best of my ability."
"I want neither," I muttered in a low voice; "but if you will answer
some questions I wish to ask, you will oblige me greatly."
Briarfield drew back with a queer look in his eyes, as if he thought
my madness was increasing. However, he overcame the dread my actions
apparently caused him, and answered civilly enough.
"Certainly! If it will do you any good. What is it you wish to know?"
"Were you in England within the last seven days?"
"No! I have not been in England for at least six weeks."
"Do you know the Fen Inn?"
"Never heard of it in all my life."
"Are you acquainted with a girl named Rose Strent?"
"I don't even know her name."
"When did your brother Francis return to England from South America?"
"Three months ago."
"Have you seen him since his return?"
"Frequently in London, but he is now, I believe, at Marshminster."
"Do you know he is engaged to Miss Bellin?"
"Of course I do," said Briarfield; "the marriage takes place shortly,
and I am to be the best man--that is, if I return in time."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm going to Italy tomorrow," said the young man, shrugging his
shoulders, "and it is just--possible that I may prolong my tour to the
East. In that case I may be absent from England for at least six
months or more. During that time Francis will doubtless marry Olivia,
and I shall not be able to be at the wedding."
"You have not been to England within the last six weeks, you don't
know the Fen Inn, nor of the existence of Rose Strent," I summed up;
"then I am the victim of some extraordinary hallucination."
"You are very extraordinary altogether," retorted Briarfield. "Now I
have answered your questions, pray answer mine. Why do you ask all
these things?"
"It is a strange story, and one which you will scarcely believe."
"Let me hear it."
Thus adjured, I told him the story of my adventure at the inn, but
suppressed all mention of the belief I then entertained that the
brothers had changed names. He listened attentively and eyed me with
some concern. At the conclusion of the narrative he considered for a
few moments before making any reply.
"I hardly know what to say," he said at length. "Your story is very
circumstantial, yet you must have been deceived by the chance
resemblance."
"I swear that the man I met at the Fen Inn was your brother Francis."
"How can that be when Francis was at Bellin Hall, and Olivia said he
had not been out of the house? Besides, you say the man whom you
believed to be Francis was murdered, yet you left Francis alive and
well at Marshminster."
"I thought Francis was you."
"Ah! Deceived by our resemblance, no doubt."
"Yes! I think so," I replied, not wishing to tell him of my
suspicions.
"Well, you see, you made a mistake! Francis is at Marshminster, and I
am here, I suppose," he added jokingly. "You are quite convinced that
I am Felix?"
"I was quite convinced the other man was Francis."
"Great Heavens, man, you surely don't doubt that I am Felix
Briarfield?" he cried irritably, rising to his feet.
"I don't! I can't!"
"Perhaps you thought it was I whom you met at the inn?"
"No! because the man I met at the inn is dead. Besides, he had a wound
on his right hand, and you have not."
"It's a queer business altogether," said Briarfield, walking to and
fro. "I cannot but agree with your idea of hallucination."
"I tell you it is too real for hallucination."
"Then how can you explain it?" he demanded sharply, pausing before me.
"I can't explain it!" I replied helplessly.
"If you had discovered the corpse when you returned to the inn, there
might be some chance of solving the mystery. But you admit there was
no corpse there!"
"Not the vestige of one."
"Then that proves the thing to be hallucination," he said
triumphantly. "If the man was murdered, who would take the trouble to
remove the corpse?"
"Strent might have done so to conceal the evidence of his crime."
"He fled the previous night by your own acknowledgment. The whole
thing is ridiculous. If I were you, Denham, I would see a doctor. That
brain of yours is in a dangerous state."
"In spite of all you say, I am certain it was Francis I met at the
inn."
"How can that be when he whom you met is dead and Francis is alive? It
could not be Francis, and, as I have not been out of Paris, it could
not have been me."
"Then who was it?"
"Some stranger, no doubt, in whom you saw a facial resemblance to us."
"Impossible!"
"So I think," said Briarfield significantly; "for my part I think you
are subject to delusions. Do not pursue this case, my friend, or you
may find yourself in a lunatic asylum!"
"Will you come over to Marshminster and help me to solve the mystery?"
"Certainly not, Denham. My plans are all made for Italy, and I go
there to-morrow. I certainly don't intend to put them off for such a
wildgoose chase as you wish me to indulge in."
I took up my hat and prepared to go. The matter was beyond my
comprehension.
"There is nothing for me but to return to England."
"Do!" said Briarfield in a pitying tone; "and give up following this
Will-o'-the-wisp."
"It seems hopeless enough."
"Well, so far as I can see, it seems madness. Nothing more nor less.
My brother Francis is at Marshminster, you see me here, so it is
absolutely impossible you could have met either of us at that inn. The
more so as the man you met is dead, and we are both alive."
"Yes! Facts are too strong for me," I said, holding out my hand.
"Good-by, Briarfield. Many thanks for your kindness; but, oh, man!" I
added, with a burst of bitterness, "what does it all mean?"
"It's hallucination," said Briarfield; "place yourself at once in the
hands of a doctor."