MAKES A STARTLING DISCLOSURE
He crossed Holborn, walking leisurely, and smoking a cigar, and
continued down St. Andrew Street and along towards Shoe Lane, I
strolling after him at some distance behind.
At that hour the thoroughfare was practically deserted, therefore
concealment was extremely difficult. Yet by his leisurely walk I felt
convinced that in passing he had, fortunately, not recognized me.
Behind me came Rayner to see, as he swiftly put it, "that no harm came"
to me.
The old man in the full enjoyment of his cigar, and apparently quite
happy that if his offices were watched his two confederates would have
taken off the watchers, strolled along St. Bride Street as far as the
corner of Ludgate Hill, when he hailed a taxi and drove westward. His
example I quickly followed, leaving Rayner standing on the kerb, unable
to follow, as no third cab was in sight.
Up Fleet Street we drove quickly and along the Strand as far as Charing
Cross, when the taxi I was pursuing turned into Northumberland Avenue
and pulled up before the _Hôtel Metropole_.
I drew up further along, at the corner of the Embankment, at the same
time watching the old man pay the driver and enter, being saluted by
the uniformed porter, who evidently knew him.
For about five minutes I waited. Then I entered the hotel, where I also
was well known, having very often stayed there.
Of the porter at the door, who touched his hat as I went in, I asked the
name of the old gentleman who had just entered.
"I don't know his name, sir. He often stays here. They'll tell you at
the key-office."
So I ascended the stairs into the hall, and made inquiry of the
sharp-eyed, dark-faced man at the key-counter.
"Oh, Mr. Vernon, you mean, sir? Been in about five minutes. He's just
gone up in the lift--Room 139_a_, first-floor--shall I send your name
up, Mr. Vidal?"
"No, I'll go up," I said. "You're sure he is up in his room?"
"Quite sure, sir. He took his key about five minutes ago."
"Is he often here?"
"Every month," was the reply. "He usually spends about a week with us,
and always has the same room."
"What is he? Have you any idea?"
"I've heard that he's a diamond-broker. Lives in Paris, I fancy."
"Has he many callers?"
"One or two business men sometimes; but only one lady."
"A lady!" I echoed. "Who?"
"Oh, a very pretty young French girl who comes sometimes to see him,"
replied the clerk. Then, after reflection, he added: "I think the name
is Sorel--Mademoiselle Sorel."
I started at mention of the name.
"Does she come alone?" I asked. "Excuse me making these inquiries," I
added apologetically, "but I have strong reasons for doing so."
"Once she came alone, I think about six weeks ago. But she generally
comes with a tall, rather ugly, but well-dressed Frenchman of about
forty-five, a man who seems to be Mr. Vernon's most intimate friend."
I asked for a further description of her companion, and decided that it
was Jules Jeanjean.
"Is the hotel detective about?" I asked.
"Yes. He's somewhere down on the smoking-room floor. Do you want him?"
he asked, surprised.
I replied in the affirmative. Whereupon a page was at once dispatched,
and returned with an insignificant-looking man, an ex-sergeant of
Scotland Yard, engaged by the hotel as its private inquiry agent.
He knew me well, therefore I said--
"Will you come up with me to 139_a_. I want to see a Mr. Vernon, and
there may be a little trouble. I may have to call in the police."
"What's the trouble, sir?" he asked in surprise, though he knew me to be
an investigator of crime.
"Only a little difference between us," I said. "He may have a revolver.
Have you got one?"
The detective smiled, and produced a serviceable-looking Colt from his
hip-pocket, while I drew a long, plated, hammerless Smith & Wesson,
which has been my constant companion throughout my adventurous life.
Then together we ascended in the lift, and passed along the corridor
till we found the room which the clerk had indicated.
I tapped loudly at the door, at the same moment summoning all my
self-possession. I was about to secure one of the most cunning and
clever criminals on earth.
There was no answer. Yet I distinctly heard some one within the room.
Again I knocked loudly.
Then I heard footsteps advancing to the door, which was thrown open, and
a chambermaid stood there.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said apologetically.
I drew back in dismay.
"Is Mr. Vernon in here?" I asked breathlessly.
"Mr. Vernon--the gentleman in this room, sir?"
"Yes. He has come up here, I know."
"He did come in a few minutes ago, and took a small leather case, but he
went out again at once."
"Went out? You saw him?"
"Yes. He was coming out just as I came in, sir," replied the girl.
"Gone!" I gasped, turning to the ex-sergeant.
"He must have gone down the stairs, sir," the man suggested.
With a glance round the room, which only contained a suit-case, I dashed
down the stairs and into the hall.
Of the porter at the door I asked a quick question.
"No, sir," he replied. "Mr. Vernon hasn't gone out this way. He may have
gone out by the door in Whitehall Place."
I rushed through the hotel and, at the door indicated, the man in
uniform told me that Mr. Vernon had left on foot five minutes before,
going towards Whitehall.
I hurried after him, but alas! I was too late.
Again, he had evaded me!
So I returned to my rooms utterly fagged by the long vigil, and feeling
thoroughly ill. Indeed, in my weak state, it had been a somewhat
injudicious proceeding, yet I felt anxious and impatient, eager to
strike a crushing blow against the daring band who held poor Lola so
completely in their power.
The result of my imprudence, however, was another whole week in bed, and
a further confinement to my room for a second week. Meanwhile Rayner was
active and watchful.
Observation upon the offices of Loicq Frères showed that only an English
clerk was left in charge, and that neither Vernon, Jeanjean nor Bertini
had since been there. Vigilance upon Merton Lodge, in Hampstead, also
resulted in nothing. It was clear, therefore, that the trio had become
alarmed at my visit to Hatton Garden, even though I had exercised every
precaution to avoid recognition.
As I sat in my big arm-chair, day after day, unable to go out, I
carefully reviewed all the events of the past, just as I have set them
down in these pages. Somehow--how it came to pass, I cannot tell--I
found myself thinking more than ever of Lola Sorel, the sweet-faced,
innocent-looking girl whose career had been fraught with so much
tragedy, apprehension and bitterness.
Every day, nay, every hour, her pretty, fair face arose before my
vision--that pale, delicately-moulded countenance, with the big, blue,
wondering eyes, larger and more perfect than the eyes of any woman I had
ever before met in the course of my adventurous career.
Time after time I asked myself why my thoughts should so constantly
revert to her. Sleeping or waking, I dreamed ever of that dainty little
figure with its sweet, rather sad face, the pathetic countenance of the
pretty Parisienne who had so gradually fascinated and entranced me.
Within myself, I laughed at my own feelings of sympathy towards her. Why
should I entertain any regard for a girl who, after all, was only a
thief--a girl whose innocence had decoyed men, and caused women to
betray the whereabouts of their jewels, so that her associates could rob
them with impunity?
From the moment when I had seized her in my bedroom at Balmaclellan I
had pitied her, and that pity had now deepened into keen sympathy for
her, held, as she was, in those bonds of guilt, yet struggling always to
free herself, like a poor frightened bird beating its wings against the
bars.
Had I fallen in love with her? Time after time I asked myself that
question. But time after time did I scout the very idea and laughed
myself to ridicule.
The thought that I loved Lola Sorel, beautiful as she was, seemed
utterly absurd.
Yes. During that fortnight of forced inactivity I had plenty of time to
carefully analyse the whole situation, to examine every detail of the
mystery surrounding the death of Edward Craig and, also, to formulate
fresh plans.
One fact was evident--that Vernon and his friends intended that Lola
should die. In addition, so subtle were they, I knew not when some
secret and desperate attack might not be made upon myself.
Foul play was intended. Of that I had no doubt.
The autumn days were passing. Business London had returned from the
country and the sea, and even the blinds of houses in Berkeley Square
were, one after another, being raised, indicative of the fact that many
people in Society were already again in town.
I exchanged letters with Lola almost daily. She was very happy and had
greatly improved, she said, and also expressed a hope that we should
soon meet, a hope which I devoutly reciprocated.
My one great fear, however, was that some dastardly attack might be made
upon her if any of the bandits succeeded in discovering her
hiding-place. For that reason I sent Rayner to Bournemouth in secret to
watch the house, and to ascertain whether any signs of intended evil
were apparent.
He remained there a week, until one morning in October I received an
urgent telegram from him asking me, if I were well enough, to lose no
time in coming to Bournemouth. He gave no reason for the urgency of his
message, but gravely apprehensive, I took the next train from Waterloo,
arriving in Bournemouth about four o'clock. Rayner refused to meet me
openly, so I drove to the _Grand Hotel_, where he was staying, and found
him in his room awaiting me.
"There's something up, sir," he said very seriously, when I had closed
the door. "But I can't exactly make out what is intended. Mademoiselle
does not, of course, know I'm here. She went to the Winter Gardens with
two young ladies last night, and they were followed by a man--a
stranger. He went behind them to the concert, and sat in the back seats
watching them, and when they walked home, he followed."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"Never, sir."
"Is he young or old?"
"Young, and looks like a gentleman."
"A foreigner?"
"No, an Englishman, sir," was my man's reply. "I dare say if we go along
to Boscombe to-night, and watch the house, we might see him. He's up to
no good, I believe."
I readily adopted Rayner's suggestion.
As soon as darkness fell, we took the tram eastward, and at length
alighted at the end of a quiet road of comfortable red-brick villas, in
one of which Lola was residing, a road which ran from the highway
towards the sea.
Separating, I passed up the road, while my man waited at the corner. The
house of my friends stood in its own small garden, a neat, artistic
little red-and-white place with a long verandah in front and a pleasant
garden full of dahlias. As I passed it I saw that many of the rooms were
lit, and I was eager to go and ring at the door and meet Lola, after our
long separation.
But I remembered I was there to watch and to ward off any danger that
might threaten. Therefore I turned upon my heel, and finding a hedge,
behind which lay some vacant land, I hid myself behind it and waited,
wondering what had become of Rayner.
All was quiet, save for the rumble of electric trams passing along the
main road to Bournemouth. From where I lurked, smoking a cigarette, I
could hear a woman's sweet contralto voice singing gaily one of the
latest songs of the Paris Café concerts, which ran--
"_C'est la femme aux bijoux,
Celle qui rend fou,
C'est une enjôleuse,
Tous ceux qui l'ont aimée,
Ont souffert, ont pleuré._
_Ell' n'aime que l'argent,
Se rit des serments,
Prends garde à la gueuse!
Le coeur n'est qu'un joujou,
Pour la femme aux bijoux!_"
_La femme aux bijoux!_ The words fell upon my ears, causing me to
ponder. Was she not herself "_La femme aux bijoux_"! How strangely
appropriate was that merry _chanson_ which I had so often heard in
Paris, Brussels, and elsewhere.
Suddenly the train of my reflections was interrupted by the sound of a
light footstep coming in my direction, and, peering eagerly forth, I
discerned the figure of a rather smart-looking man advancing towards me.
I watched him come forward, tall and erect, into the light of the
street-lamp a little to my left. He was well dressed in a smart suit of
dark brown with well-creased trousers, and wore a soft Hungarian hat of
dark-brown plush. On his hands were wash-leather gloves and he carried a
gold-mounted stick.
As he came nearer I saw his face, and my heart gave a great leap. I
stared again, not being able to believe my own eyes!
Was it, indeed, any wonder? How would you, my reader, have felt in
similar circumstances? I ask, for the man who came past me, within a
couple of feet from where I stood concealed, all unconscious of my
presence, was no stranger.
It was Edward Craig--Edward Craig, risen from the dead!