The door in front of which Gerald was standing was suddenly opened.

A dark-visaged, corpulent woman, dressed apparently in nothing but a

petticoat and shawl, thrust out her head. Gerald handed her a card, on

which, through the friendly offices of the hotel porter, was inscribed

his desire to see Madame Francks. The woman turned it over, looked

Gerald up and down with wide-mouthed astonishment, and finally motioned

him to enter. As soon as he had done so and stepped into the little

cobbled courtyard, she drew the bolt and muttered something which he

understood as an invitation to follow her. She pushed open a heavy door

on the right, and they ascended a gloomy staircase. The atmosphere was

close, almost stifling. There seemed to be no window, or any means of

giving light or ventilation. Arrived on the first floor, she threw open

the door of a room and departed, with a wholly incomprehensible grunt.

Outside, she began to shout, apparently through the door of another

apartment. There was a vigorous duet, the other voice shriller but

scarcely more pleasant. Then there was silence, followed by the sound

of some one moving about in the adjoining room.

Gerald took a seat upon a couch, upholstered in stained purple velvet,

over which several soiled coverings of imitation lace had been thrown.

The room itself was large and lofty, but scantily furnished. There was

a huge undecorated stove in one corner, which, notwithstanding the

heat of the day, already exuded fumes of burning coke. The polished

floor was innocent of any rug or carpet, and covered with stains

and fragments of cigarettes and cigars. There was a piano, littered

with soiled and torn copies of music, in a distant corner, a small

gramophone with black enamel mouthpiece, blistered by the continual

heat of the room. The walls were hung with the faded remains of some

former attempt at decoration. The windows were covered with a sort of

wire netting, which kept out alike light and air. There was everywhere

an odour of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with a strange smell of cheap

incense or crude perfume of some sort. Gerald, exceedingly sensitive to

surroundings, felt a momentary faintness as he sat and waited for the

woman whom he had come to visit. He began to fidget in his place. He

walked up and down. He was even meditating an attack upon one of the

window fastenings, when he was aware of the sound of heavy footsteps

outside. The door was opened. A woman entered and came towards him with

an enquiring expression upon her face.

It seemed to Gerald that the newcomer alone was needed to complete the

squalour of his surroundings. She was a big woman, coarsely built,

and with indications of obesity. She wore a dressing gown of some

red material, trimmed with soiled white fur and fastened round her

waist with a girdle. Her hair was a bright yellow, abundant but badly

arranged. It lay in loose coils upon the top of her head, fastened

with some flamboyant ornament. Her features were not ill-shaped, but

were partly concealed under a thick coating of powder. She had eyes of

a peculiarly light blue shade, large and saucer-like when she first

entered the room, but with a habit of narrowing at intervals. She spoke

in English, with a strong German accent.

“You wish to see me, sir? I am Elsa Francks.”

Gerald rose to his feet and bowed.

“Madame,” he said, “I have found my way here under the name of Harmon

P. Cross. I have told every one that I am an American, looking for an

opportunity to invest money. That story is not true. It is my wish, if

you will allow me, to be perfectly candid with you?”

“You can sit down,” she invited, regarding Gerald with suspicion not

unmixed with favour. “I will hear what you have to say.”

She threw herself in a lump at the far end of the sofa, and pointed to

a battered horsehair easy-chair.

“Bring that to the side of me,” she continued. “I do not hear very well

and it is some time since I listened to English. Tell me what you want?”

“I have a further confession to make,” Gerald began. “I am an

Englishman.”

“There are Englishmen and Englishmen,” she said indulgently. “Some are

different from others. You are not like those whom our officers have

had to correct in the streets and cafés of Berlin. Now what is your

business, please?”

“It is very difficult to state,” Gerald admitted frankly, “and I am

only emboldened to approach you because in these difficult times, and

in Russia especially, one needs money. If you will do me a service, I

can find you a great deal of money.”

Gerald’s methods had at any rate succeeded in exciting the interest of

the woman he had come to visit. Her becarmined lips were parted; her

pale eyes were filled with the light of cupidity.

“There is not much we would not do for money, nowadays, over here,” she

declared, laughing hardly. “You are a very interesting man. Go on.”

“Major Ivan Krossneys is a friend of yours,” Gerald said.

“Ho, ho!” the woman laughed. “So you dabble in politics, eh? Never

mind, Krossneys is my friend. What of it?”

“He is the Governor of the fortress here,” Gerald went on. “He has a

great number of prisoners under his care.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven,” Elsa Francks replied promptly. “I see

some of them exercising when I am at the fortress. What he keeps them

alive for, I cannot imagine. They crawl about the yard like lice. What

about these prisoners?”

Gerald moved his chair a little nearer. The woman smiled at him

graciously.

“If one of them should escape,” he remarked significantly, “there would

be a great deal of money.”

“What do you call a great deal of money?” she asked.

“I do not bargain,” Gerald replied. “I know very well that the escape

of a prisoner is a serious thing. I have at my disposal the sum of ten

thousand pounds.”

The woman started so that she nearly rolled off the sofa. She sat

suddenly upright. She was too stupefied for emotion.

“Ten thousand pounds?” she almost shrieked. “Why, it is two million

roubles! Ivan Krossneys would sell you his whole batch of prisoners

for that, and throw the fortress in! Why, if it rested with me,” she

went on, “you could have Krossneys as well, for a quarter of that. Talk

sense, please! There is not an Englishman there. Of that I am certain.”

“The prisoner whose liberty I desire to buy,” Gerald confided, “is a

Russian. I do not know under what name he passes, but his number is

twenty-nine.”

Elsa Francks rose to her feet, opened the door and shouted to her maid

in Russian. Then she took up a battered telephone instrument.

“I will speak with the Major,” she said. “I am the only civilian in

the town with a telephone. It is a great favour. You can wait whilst I

speak with him.”

There was a good deal of delay before she was connected, and a further

delay before the person with whom she desired to speak arrived. In

time, however, the conversation was finished, apparently to her

satisfaction. She set down the instrument.

“The Governor is on his way down,” she announced triumphantly. “Come,

we will see to this little affair quickly. You can remain.”

The maid entered the room, carrying a tray on which were bottles of

beer and glasses. The woman eyed them with satisfaction.

“You are not Russian,” she said, “so I do not offer you the samovar.

Beer every one drinks--the English especially. That is so, is it not?”

“That is so,” Gerald admitted. “I shall drink to your good health,

Madame.”

“You may call me Elsa,” she invited graciously, coming over to his

side with a glass in her hand. “We will drink to the success of our

enterprise.”

Gerald accepted the glass and exchanged courteous amenities with his

hostess. She eyed him with growing favour.

“It is a pity that you are not staying longer,” she observed. “We might

become friends. Who knows?”

“In that case,” Gerald replied gallantly, “I might have to quarrel with

Major Krossneys, and that would not do at all.”

She snapped her pudgy fingers. A man who had ten thousand pounds to

dispose of! What was Krossneys!

“Do you think,” she scoffed, “that I shall stay here with him if I

can get hold of half that sum you spoke of? Not I! I shall choose a

different companion. I shall go to Monte Carlo. I shall never enter

this accursed country again. Even to think of leaving it makes me

giddy with happiness. It will be you who will be my deliverer. Let us

drink again together.”

“Perhaps,” Gerald suggested, “the Governor will not give up his

prisoner.”

Her exclamation of contempt was almost a shout. The very idea, while

she scouted it as ridiculous, seemed to infuriate her.

“Give him up? Of course he will give him up!” she declared. “If he

refused--why, I would take him by the beard--I would kill him!”

Her eyes were lit with cruelty. The snarl of an animal of prey twisted

her lips. Then she burst into a fit of laughter.

“Why do I make myself furious?” she exclaimed. “Why, Ivan would sell

every one of his hundred and thirty-seven prisoners for a tenth part of

the money you speak of! Come, let us be gay. I will put something on

the gramophone. You shall dance with me, yes?”

“What about His Excellency the Governor?” Gerald asked.

The woman made a little grimace.

“You are perhaps right,” she acquiesced. “One must wait--wait until

everything is arranged. After that I shall snap my fingers at Ivan. He

wearies me, and he is an old man. Will you take me out of the country,

my friend? We might go into Poland--I have friends at Warsaw.”

There were heavy steps outside. She held up her hand as though to warn

him.

“It is the Governor,” she announced. “It is Ivan Krossneys who arrives.

Mind, he is very jealous. Be careful.”

Gerald, with all his nerves on edge, was yet able to indulge for a

moment in a grim smile. The door was opened. The maid poked her head

in and muttered something unintelligible. Close behind her entered the

Governor of the fortress.

CHAPTER IX

The Governor was a large, corpulent, untidy-looking man in an

ill-fitting uniform, with coarse features and a straggling beard. He

clicked his heels together and made some pretence at a military salute,

as Elsa introduced her visitor. She whispered a word or two apart

with him in Russian, and then continued in French, which she spoke

apparently with less ease than English.

“This gentleman,” she declared, “has a great affair of business to

discuss with you. He was sent here by a friend of mine whose name I

may not give. He is an Englishman pretending to be an American, but

that makes for little. He is entrusted with a great sum of money for a

certain purpose.”

Into the Governor’s eyes flashed for a moment some reflection of the

cupidity which had gleamed in the woman’s. Money was scarce in Russia;

pay was small and irregular in coming. The thought of money whetted his

interest.

“Let me hear what this gentleman has to say,” he invited.

“I have come with a very bold proposition,” Gerald began, “but it is

one which I hope you will consider carefully. You have many prisoners

in your fortress who are detained largely through misfortune. There are

many there whose offences are trivial, who will probably be released

shortly in any case, and who might just as well be free as remain a

charge upon the Government.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my prisoners,” the Governor

remarked ungraciously. “Many of them are criminals of the worst order.”

“It is not one of these whom I wish to discuss with you,” Gerald

assured him. “It happens that you have a young man there who is not of

the criminal class at all. He has very wealthy friends.”

“Ha!” the Governor exclaimed. “How wealthy?”

The woman broke into the conversation. She gripped her friend by the

arm.

“Ivan,” she cried, “it is incredible! Do you know the sum which

monsieur speaks of? It takes one’s breath away! He speaks of ten

thousand pounds! It is two million roubles! What do you think of that?”

“Holy mother of God!” Krossneys muttered. “A prisoner of mine?”

“A prisoner of yours,” Gerald repeated. “I will be quite frank with

you, sir. I speak, I know, to a man of honour, but I will ask you to

remember that this young man is unconvicted of any crime, and that the

Government by whom he was sent to you is tottering. This is not a bribe

which I am offering you. It is the price of an act of justice. The

money is to be paid in cash.”

Krossneys was showing now as much agitation as the woman had displayed.

Mingled with his emotion, however, was a fear, signs of which were at

once manifested in the anxiety which distorted his face, the eagerness

of his demand.

“The number?” he cried. “Tell me the name or the number of the prisoner

you desire?”

“Number twenty-nine,” Gerald replied.

The Governor struck the table with his clenched fist, so that the

glasses rattled.

“A million devils curse and blast you both!” he shouted.

He kicked a footstool which was close at hand across the room. Then he

flung himself into an easy-chair and sat there with his arms crossed,

glowering at Elsa. The woman gazed at him as though he had suddenly

gone mad.

“Are you out of your senses, Ivan?” she asked. “Twenty-nine or

thirty-nine--what does it matter? Is not one prisoner like another? Who

comes to visit them? Who knows which cell is empty? Bah!”

“So you thought you were rich for life, did you, Elsa?” the man in the

chair muttered. “Well, you can just rid yourself of the idea. And as

for you, sir,” he went on, with a malicious glance at Gerald, “you may

think yourself fortunate if you leave this country as easily as you

entered it.”

The woman drew a little nearer to him. There was the look of a wild

animal in her face.

“Listen, Ivan!” she cried. “Are you mad? It is a fortune which this

man carries in his hand! What is there amongst the scum that infests

your prisons of account against that? You terrify me. The money is for

us, to be divided. Cash, Ivan! Money to spend--to-morrow--the next

day--every day!”

“You fool!” the Governor retorted. “Of what use is money when your feet

dangle in the air and your neck is broken? That for you, and a dozen

rifle bullets in my heart! You are a bold man who came to Russia on

such a mission,” he added, glowering at Gerald.

She turned to her visitor.

“What does this madman mean?” she demanded. “Who is this prisoner whose

freedom you seek?”

“I do not know,” Gerald replied. “I am only an emissary.”

The Governor sat up in his chair.

“I will tell you,” he declared hoarsely. “Number twenty-nine is all

the fortress records say of him, but his name is Paul, Grand Duke of

Volostok, Prince of Tamboff, hereditary Grand Duke and Ruler of all

the provinces of the Dvina, nephew of Nicholas, the late Tsar, head

of the House of Romanoff,--himself, if the people changed their fancy

to-morrow, Tsar of all the Russias! There, my woman, now you know the

secret of my fortress! You can guess where we might be if I traded with

this lunatic!”

The woman flopped upon the sofa. She was pale through all her rouge and

powder. Her yellow hair had broken loose from its band of ribbon. Her

dressing gown had fallen away a little from her ample bust. She sat

breathing heavily for several moments. Gerald, of the three, was the

only one who kept his head.

“All that makes for nothing,” he said calmly. “You excite yourself

greatly for nothing. The Romanoff dynasty is past. There will never be

another Tsar in Russia. This young man has rich friends and they want

him out of the country. I should think your Government would be glad to

be rid of him.”

Gerald’s words were not without their effect, especially upon the woman.

“After all,” she muttered, “this man speaks sense. Who cares about

Grand Dukes, nowadays? There are plenty of them who have already

escaped. What does one more or less matter?”

“But this one--I have told you who he is!” the man growled.

The woman was beginning to pluck up spirit. She scoffed at him openly.

“When the people of Russia want the days of Tsardom back again,” she

said, “they will find one of the brood fast enough. But that day will

not come yet. This young man in your fortress is of no account. You

are a fool, Ivan. You cannot see the truth. You have not thought to

yourself what ten thousand pounds may mean.”

Krossneys sat back in his chair, biting his finger nails.

“Who are you?” he demanded suddenly. “And where does this money come

from?”

“My name is Dombey,” Gerald replied. “I have admitted to Madame Francks

that I am an Englishman. This money has been collected in London by

friends and relatives of the young man. The desire for his release has

not the slightest political significance.”

“And what the devil excuse can I make for letting him go?”

“I should put one of your less important prisoners into his cell and

say nothing about it,” Gerald suggested.

“There is an inspector of State prisons,” Krossneys muttered. “He does

not often come, but who knows when he might take it into his head to

pay us a visit?”

“The last time he was here,” Elsa Francks reminded him, “you met him at

the station and took him to the hotel. Afterwards, you brought him on

here and he was so drunk that he had to stay for two days. He did not

even go near the fortress. Your papers and books were brought down here

for him to sign.”

“It is true,” Krossneys assented, “yet next time another man might

come. And again, how will this number twenty-nine get safely out of

Russia?”

“Think less of these difficulties and more of what one could do with

ten thousand pounds,” the woman insisted. “You are not asked, Ivan, to

run a risk for nothing. I say that it is worth it.”

“For you, yes,” Krossneys sneered, “because you risk nothing and you

have the spending of the money. For me it is different. I have an

official position. I am Governor of the fortress; I wear the uniform of

the Russian Republic.”

Elsa Francks laughed loudly and scornfully. She pointed jeeringly at

Krossneys.

“Uniform of the Russian Republic!” she exclaimed. “A pity they didn’t

make it to fit you! Official position, indeed! What do you get out of

it, I should like to know? Would you not starve if it were not for the

contributions of the prisoners themselves?”

“It is true,” Krossneys assented gloomily. “It is a dog’s life.”

“And a dog’s country to live it in!” the woman proclaimed. “Listen to

me, Ivan.”

She sat upon the arm of his chair and talked to him in Russian. Soon it

was evident that he was yielding. She fetched him beer and then spirits

of some sort from a cupboard. Once or twice she turned and winked

stealthily at Gerald. At last she turned towards him in triumph.

“It is arranged,” she announced.

“Not so fast,” Krossneys intervened. “Let us hear how this money is to

be paid?”

“In cash,” Gerald replied. “I have drafts upon your own banks.”

“Well, well,” Krossneys muttered, “the money is right enough, then. At

ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” he went on, “present yourself at the

fortress. Enquire for me. I shall give you an audience. The affair may

be concluded at once. Get back to your hotel now and be careful not to

speak of your real business.”

Gerald rose blithely to his feet. The idea of leaving the horrible

atmosphere of that room was undiluted joy to him. He bowed to the

Governor. Elsa took him to the door and, under pretext of calling the

servant, passed out with him into the passage.

“You can come back later if you like to talk with me again,” she

whispered. “Be careful, though, for he is very jealous.”

She shouted something to the Russian maid and stepped back into the

room with a meaning smile. Gerald put money into the hand of the woman

who opened the postern gate and stepped into the street with a gasp of

relief. The clear air was wonderful. He drew in great gulps of it as he

made his way along the uneven pavements, stared at by every passer-by.

He could scarcely believe that his task was coming so easily to an end.

If all went well, in twenty-four hours he might be on his way back to

England.

CHAPTER X

Gerald, after a weary climb out of the town, stood at last, at the

appointed hour on the following morning, before the rusty iron gates

of the fortress. Untidy and neglected though the whole place seemed,

there was still something sinister about the various crude precautions

against the escape of a prisoner. For a quarter of a mile, on the

outside of the walls, not in themselves formidable, everything in the

shape of trees, shrubs or dwellings had been razed to the ground, and

every fifty paces around the walls, on the top of a buttress, was

mounted a machine gun, from which an iron ladder led to the ground.

The walls themselves were about eight feet high, of stone covered with

white plaster. The fortress itself was built of a kind of grey-coloured

brick, a square, solid building, with a curiously unexpected pointed

top. The barred windows were no more than slits. The space of open

ground by which the main building was surrounded was inches deep in

dust.

A porter in stained and ill-fitting uniform admitted Gerald to the

building, escorted him across the yard, and passed him on to a

duplicate of himself, to whom Gerald once more presented the card which

had obtained him admittance. He was led down a stone passage, which had

apparently neither been cleaned nor swept for months, into a lofty but

bare apartment at the farther end. Krossneys, who was sitting before

a wooden table, apparently expecting him, dismissed the attendant and

motioned Gerald to sit down. He looked at his visitor in unfriendly

fashion.

“Why did you not come to me direct instead of going to Elsa Francks?”

he demanded.

Gerald was not unprepared for the question.

“I knew your reputation as a soldier and a man of honour,” he replied.

“I feared that unless this matter was put to you in the proper light,

tactfully, as a woman can put it, you would have nothing to say to me.”

The Governor grunted.

“It was a mistake,” he declared sourly. “The woman is greedy. She will

demand her full share of the money. It is scarcely justice.”

“I am sorry,” Gerald said. “I acted as I was advised.”

“Supposing I accede,” Krossneys went on, after a short pause, “how do

you propose to get Number Twenty-nine out of the country?”

“I was hoping,” Gerald admitted, “that you might have been able to help

with some suggestion.”

The Governor stroked his beard.

“Suggestions,” he muttered, “are worth money.”

Gerald acquiesced.

“I have not command of much more than the amount I spoke of,” he

said, “but if you can show me how to get our friend safely out of the

country, I will add a thousand pounds to your share.”

“Which sum,” the Governor insisted quickly, “will not be mentioned to

Elsa Francks and will belong to me alone.”

“Agreed,” Gerald acquiesced.

“Show me your papers,” the Governor demanded.

Gerald produced them without hesitation,--his passport, an urgent

letter of recommendation by the one statesman who was in good odour in

both countries, banker’s drafts, which needed only his signature to

produce a never-ending flow of cash. The Governor’s eyes glittered as

he turned them over in his hand. It was horrible that a share of these

treasures must go to the woman! She was well enough under his thumb,

the slave of his command, but with money in her pocket--they were

neither of them in their first youth, but, so far as looks went, in his

eyes she still had charm--if she were independent of him, all sorts of

things might happen. He threw down the documents with a little oath.

The passport, however, he kept in his hand. His manner, as he looked at

Gerald, changed. He became almost servile.

“You, too, are an aristocrat, then,” he remarked.

“I am of the English aristocracy,” Gerald admitted. “I have another

passport in my pocket, which proclaims me an American citizen.”

The Governor nodded. He pushed a box of black cigars across to his

visitor. The latter contented himself, however, with accepting a

cigarette. Then he touched a bell. The attendant brought in beer, which

was poured into two glasses. As soon as they were alone, Krossneys

motioned Gerald to draw his chair close to the desk.

“Now here is my scheme,” he said. “Number Twenty-nine is of your height

and build. You shall see him for yourself and judge. Number One Hundred

and One, also a young man, died yesterday afternoon of malarial fever.

His death has not yet been officially reported. Very good! I take you

to the cell of Number Twenty-nine. You exchange clothes with him. You

give him your American passport. You go in with me to his cell. He

comes out with me. You remain.”

“The devil I do!” Gerald muttered.

“Do not be a fool!” the Governor exclaimed impatiently. “I beg your

pardon, Excellency,” he added a moment later, as he remembered his

visitor’s identity. “Your stay there will not be long. I shall explain

in a moment. I drive Number Twenty-nine to a small station on the

line, eleven miles off. I take leave of him there. He is an American

who has bought my oil concessions. The station is in the middle of the

district. My presence with him will remove all suspicions and prevent

their examining the passport too closely. He will travel through to

Petrograd. There, I take it, you have made arrangements.”

“I have a ship waiting,” Gerald replied.

“That is my scheme, then.”

“So far, I approve of it,” Gerald declared, “but what about me?”

“You will bore yourself for twenty-four hours,” the Governor replied.

“I will see, though, that you have beer and newspapers. If you will,

Elsa can come and see you.”

“For heaven’s sake, no!” Gerald begged. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I

shall need no society. I am very tired. I shall sleep.”

“As you will,” the Governor acquiesced. “In the morning, Number One

Hundred and One--I should say his remains--will be carried secretly

down to your cell. You will be moved up to the cell of Number

One Hundred and One. I shall at once report the death of Number

Twenty-nine. He will be buried in the cemetery here before intervention

is possible. Now the question comes how to dispose of you.”

“I was getting interested in that myself,” Gerald admitted.

“Number One Hundred and One’s time was up,” the Governor explained.

“He could have gone home last week if he had been strong enough. I

have his papers of release here, signed by myself. To-morrow morning

early, I shall provide you with suitable clothing, and I shall drive

you to the railway station. I myself have leave of absence in my

pocket, granted to me a fortnight ago, but, to be honest with you,

I have not used it because I have had no money with which to enjoy

myself. I shall travel with you myself to Petrograd. You will have

acted as my clerk in the prison, and I take some interest in you. In my

company you are absolutely secure. No one will venture even a question.

Arrived at Petrograd, I will drive with you to the docks, you shall

take me on board your ship, and we will drink a bottle of champagne

together.--What do you think of my plan?”

“Capital!” Gerald replied.

“I will conduct you now,” the Governor announced, “to Number

Twenty-nine. We will lock ourselves in his cell. You shall explain

the scheme to him and change clothes. I will bring pen and ink with

me, also the deeds which will put Harmon P. Cross in possession of my

oil properties. You shall pay over the drafts. After that you must be

patient.”

“I am ready,” Gerald declared, rising to his feet.

Krossneys unlocked a drawer and took out a bunch of keys which shone

like silver,--the only clean thing, it seemed to Gerald, that he had

seen in the prison. They tramped up two flights of stone steps.

“I am a humane man,” the Governor said, “and it does not please me to

turn my prisoners into vermin. I have cells underground, without light

or air, which were used by my predecessors. I have had them blocked up.

You will find it not so terrible here.”

They had reached a long, whitewashed passage with arched roof. The

Governor dismissed the attendant who had followed them, inserted the

key into the lock of the door over which “29” was painted in black

letters, and entered himself, motioning Gerald to follow him.

In the sudden sombre twilight of the cell, Gerald’s first impressions

were that a man opposite had hanged himself against the wall. At their

entrance, however, the figure dropped to the ground, releasing his

clutch of the rusty bars to which he had been clinging. A tall, thin

young man, with sunken cheeks, long, unkempt hair, and eyes a little

more than ordinarily bright, stood gazing at them. His clothes seemed

to be the remains of a prison uniform. The trousers, always too short,

had worn away at the bottom of the legs, and he wore neither socks nor

shoes. He stared at the two men--at Gerald especially--in wonder, but

remained silent.

“You speak English?” Gerald enquired.

Number Twenty-nine shook his head.

“I speak French better,” he replied.

“What were you doing when we came in?” the Governor asked.

Number Twenty-nine smiled wanly.

“For an hour every day,” he told them, “sometimes for more, I spring

till I catch those bars, and I hang on until I am tired. I can always

see the sky; sometimes, if I am feeling strong, I can lift myself so

that I see a little of the country.”

“Well, you have something better to do now,” the Governor declared.

“You were a man when you were brought in. I have seen you play a

man’s part. Remember, if you faint or do anything foolish, you spoil

everything. Set your teeth and take off your clothes. You are going to

be set at liberty.”

Number Twenty-nine scarcely faltered.

“I am to be shot, I suppose,” he said coolly. “I trust that your

warders are better marksmen than they are soldiers.”

“There is a long story,” Gerald intervened, “of which the Governor

will tell you as much as he chooses. I am an Englishman, sent here by

relatives of yours. I have been able to arrange for your freedom. In a

few days’ time, you will be steaming for England.”

“Cut it short,” the Governor interrupted. “I will do all the

explaining.”

Gerald took a letter from his pocketbook.

“Read that letter,” he invited. “It is from Pauline. She is my friend.

I am Lord Dombey, an Englishman. We shall meet at Petrograd later.

On the steamer I will explain everything. Meanwhile, take off your

clothes. You will have to wear mine for a couple of days.”

The young man took off his coat almost mechanically. His shirt was

ragged. He had apparently no underclothes. His fingers began to shake.

“I cannot,” he faltered.

“But it is necessary,” Gerald assured him. “See, I am half undressed

myself.”

He took off his coat and waistcoat. At the sight of his silk

underclothes, the other man began suddenly to sob.

“I--I have had no water here for a fortnight,” he groaned.

Gerald looked him in the eyes.

“We’ve done campaigning, both of us,” he said. “I read of you when you

led your regiment into Germany. I was in a trench myself for five days

at a stretch. Those things don’t really matter. Five days was quite

long enough there in the mud. We didn’t worry about soap then. Get on

with it, please.”

Number Twenty-nine closed his eyes as he shed his last garments. Then

he drew on Gerald’s. Presently the Governor laughed.

“Upon my word,” he declared, “it is better than I thought. I have

ordered the barber into the next cell. He is a prisoner himself, so

there is not much chance of his blabbing. Come along. We will be back

in five minutes,” he added, turning to Gerald. “In time to take your

orders for lunch, eh? Give you time to settle down.”

They passed out. Gerald felt a queer sense of loneliness as the door

closed behind him. He looked around him half fearfully. Everything was

worse than he had feared. The floor was of concrete, and there was not

a single article of furniture of any description in the room except

a straw mattress already full of holes. The floor had apparently not

been swept for weeks. While he sat there, however, there was the click

of a key in the door and a burly Russian entered. Without a word he

commenced some effort at cleansing the place. When he had finished,

he threw in a rug and disappeared. Gerald breathed a little more

freely. Then he heard footsteps outside again. The Governor and Number

Twenty-nine entered, the latter curiously changed in appearance.

“By all the Saints,” the Governor chuckled, “I never realised that the

barber was so wonderful a person! This little scheme of mine marches

well. Now, then, for your share.”

He handed a fountain pen to Gerald, who endorsed the drafts he had

brought, wrote out a further cheque for a thousand pounds, and handed

them, together with his American passport, to Krossneys. The latter

thrust a document into Number Twenty-nine’s pocket.

“You may not know it,” he said, “but you are now the owner of five

hundred acres of forest where oil may some day be found.”

He roared with laughter. Neither of the young men moved a muscle.

“Now, listen, both of you,” he went on, “the only automobile in the

town awaits me outside. We depart in a minute. Say your farewells,

you two. At one o’clock to-morrow morning,” he concluded, turning to

Gerald, “you will be moved into cell ‘101,’ and later you will go to

attend your own funeral. From now until one or perhaps half-past one

to-morrow morning, you will have to make the best of it. I will come

and superintend your removal myself and let you know that all is well.”

“I shall try to sleep until then,” Gerald announced. “I am very tired.”

“You shall have a little meal in my office in the intervals of being

changed,” the Governor promised him. “I shall lock the door and no one

will know.--Now, Mr. Harmon P. Cross, please, American speculator who

has bought my oil fields, come with me. I am going to drive you to the

train.”

Number Twenty-nine held out both his hands to his deliverer. There was

a simple dignity in his few words.

“Sir,” he said, “I know nothing of you, but my life will not be long

enough for me to express my gratitude. The day after to-morrow----”

“The day after to-morrow there will be much for us to talk about,”

Gerald interrupted. “What I have done, I have done joyfully. So far,

it has been much easier than I expected.”

The Governor and his charge took their leave. The door closed behind

them. Gerald heard their footsteps die away on the paved floor. He

threw himself down on the mattress and tried to sleep. It was an

impossible task but there was plenty to think about.--At one o’clock

the same burly Russian entered, bearing a bowl of something which was

half stew, half soup. Gerald smelt it, looked at it, and set it in a

distant corner of the room. Then he walked back and forth, counting

how many paces it took him from wall to wall. Presently, with a throb

of joy, he remembered his cigarette case. He smoked two cigarettes.

Afterwards, he dozed for a little time. Towards evening, he amused

himself trying to make his predecessor’s daily jump. It was not until

the seventh attempt that he succeeded, and then the rust of the bars

cut so deeply into his palms that he let go almost at once. At eight

o’clock, the Russian appeared again with a bowl of soup similar to the

last. Gerald waved it away.

“Not hungry?” the man asked in German.

Gerald shook his head. Somehow or other, it was a relief to find that

he was not shut out altogether from communication with the outside

world.

“You speak German, eh?” he asked.

The man shook his head.

“Few words.”

“Bring me something better to eat,” Gerald begged. “Can’t I have some

beer?”

The man held out his hand and Gerald filled it with silver. He

disappeared and returned presently with two bottles of beer concealed

in his baggy trousers, and a loaf of bread.

“Not understand this,” he said, shaking his head. “Where Number

Twenty-nine gone?”

Gerald shook his head.

“Better ask no questions until the Governor comes back,” he enjoined.

“No fear talk,” the man declared with a laugh. “Governor given me

twenty marks. If talk, I get twenty lashes instead. Good night!”

He departed finally, closing and locking the door behind him. Gerald

ate some bread hungrily and drank the beer. Then for a time he dozed.

When he woke up and looked at his watch, it was twelve o’clock. Very

soon he would begin to expect the Governor. He sat up on the mattress

with his back to the wall. Between twelve and one o’clock he looked

at his watch twenty times. One o’clock came and passed; half-past

one. Then he rose to his feet and began pacing the cell restlessly.

Two o’clock came; half-past. He held his watch in his hand now, to

save himself the continual dragging it out from his pocket. Every few

minutes he stopped to listen. The great fortress apparently slept.

There was no sound anywhere. Only time went on. Three o’clock arrived

and passed--four!--five! Presently streaks of daylight began to appear.

At six o’clock at last there were footsteps outside. The warder entered

once more. This time he carried a jug of hot liquid.

“Tea,” he announced, “from kitchen. Give me something.”

Gerald gave him more silver. The tea was the colour of straw and water,

but the faint smell of it was refreshing.

“Where is the Governor?” he asked.

The warder shook his head.

“Not ask questions,” he begged. “Governor not here.”

Gerald pulled himself together and dismissed the man. He drank the

tea slowly. Once more he sat down on the mattress. The room now was a

little lighter. He could see as far as the opposite wall. He sat down

and waited. Every nerve in his body seemed tingling. He tried to keep

his mind off the subject of what could have happened to detain the

Governor, to turn his thoughts back to England.--He suddenly found

himself by the roadside, watching the mending of the puncture, looking

impatiently along the white ribbon of road which led to Cannes, and,

beyond, to Monte Carlo, where the lights were burning and the violins

were playing their pagan overture. He saw Myrtile’s pale, terrified

face gleaming out against the background of the cypress trees, heard

her pathetic story throbbing in the pine-sweetened stillness. He

remembered their drive. All those things seemed part of another world.

He remembered those few furious moments when Christopher had taken her

from his arms. A faint feeling of shame crept over him as he sat there,

huddled up. Then, with a rush, came the memory which swept everything

else out of his mind. He saw Pauline, felt the disturbance of her

presence, remembered the slow ebbing away of her pride, her first few

kind words, the half-spoken promise. What was there about her, he

wondered vaguely, which had brought him, with all his experience, so

completely to her feet? She had shown him no kindness. She had not even

been gracious. He had read dislike in her eyes more often than any

other feeling. There remained, too, the pitiless truth that all the

favours he had won from her he had bought, indirectly if not directly.

Yet there she was, ruling over his life, the one sweet, dominant

figure, for whose sake he sat in these miserable clothes, a forgotten

figure,--perhaps, even, in danger.--He took out his watch with

trembling fingers. It was ten o’clock. His thoughts mocked him now. He

could find no escape by means of them. He could think of nothing but

the present. Something had gone wrong with their plans. What would it

mean for him? Not a soul in the world knew where he was. If he had a

name at all here, it was the name of the man whom the people of Russia

had once threatened to tear limb from limb.

At last there came a little stir, an unaccustomed sound of voices.

Presently he heard footsteps outside, the key turned in the lock.

His heart turned sick with disappointment--it was the warder alone!

Gerald dug his hand once more into his pocket. This time he brought

out a note. For some reason or other he was terrified. Even the stolid

features of his visitor seemed disturbed.

“Where is the Governor?” Gerald demanded. “See, there is this note if

you will go and fetch him.”

The man returned to the door and shook it to be sure that it was

fastened. Then he came back to Gerald.

“A strange thing has happened,” he said. “There is a German woman in

the town. Last night the Governor spent at her house. They were both

drunk. They quarrelled. Elsa killed him. The Governor is dead.”

CHAPTER XI

The telegram was brought in to Lady Mary as she sat alone in her little

sitting room, in the hours between tea and the dressing bell,--hours

which, so far as possible, especially during the last few months, she

tried to keep to herself. It had been handed in at a branch office

in the north of London and contained the news for which she had been

waiting:

Elected majority two thousand heartiest thanks for good wishes.

CHRISTOPHER.

Her first impulse was one of genuine pleasure. She started to her

feet, meaning to take it to her father, who was with Myrtile in the

library. Then she stopped short and slowly resumed her seat. That

little orange-coloured form might have meant so much more, so much

food for her ambitions, her natural and proper ambitions for the man

she loved. It might have been such a pledge for the interest of their

life together, such a wonderful life, brimful of movement and colour

in which she, too, might well hope to take a part. In her quiet way,

she had for years looked upon her marriage with Christopher, sooner

or later, as a certainty. Without the slightest desire in any way to

mislead her, Christopher had subconsciously encouraged the idea. She

knew perfectly well that, as soon as his position was a little more

assured, he had intended to ask her to be his wife. It was one of

those pleasant yet wonderful arrangements which seemed to develop

automatically. Christopher was well-born, his friends were her friends,

his disposition accorded with hers. She could never have married an

idle man. Christopher had many a worthy ambition. She was precisely

the wife to further them. Her money and her social influence would

save him years of fruitless labour. He could leave the Bar whenever he

liked, and turn his whole attention to politics.--And now the dream

had crumbled. This slip of paper was nothing but a friendly message,

telling her of the success of a friend with whose career she had no

intimate concern. Her disposition was too kindly not to feel a certain

amount of pleasure at his success, but that very pleasure brought its

shadow of personal grief. She sat looking into the fire, twisting

the little slip of paper in her hands. She knew very well that she

was cursed with that one terrible and self-mortifying virtue, the

unalterable fidelity of the woman who permits in her mind the thought

of one man only and who can never replace him. The very thought of

marriage with any one but Christopher was revolting. It seemed to her,

as she sat there, that she was doomed to a career of lovelessness and

inutility. She might labour in good works till her hair was streaked

with grey and her face lined, and she knew very well the fruitlessness

of all that she would accomplish. The best work of a woman, as she well

knew, is the work done for the man she loves.

It was perhaps natural that her thoughts should turn to Myrtile. She

wondered for a moment, slowly and painfully, at the instinct which

had warned her of coming trouble when the two young men had told her

of their adventure. She had felt it when first she had seen the

frightened child, whose unspoken appeal for protection had met with so

cold a response from her. She had been conscious of a cruelty wholly

foreign to her nature, in those days at Monte Carlo, whenever the name

of Myrtile was mentioned. She had puzzled Christopher and her brother

alike by her lack of sympathy. Well, she was punished now. The child

had justified all that she had felt. She had robbed her, unconsciously

and unwillingly, of the greatest thing in life. As she sat there, the

telegram crumpled up in her fingers, all that old hardness came back

to her. It seemed to her a bitter thing that this unknown child should

have been brought into the august household in which her own serene

days had been spent, to rob her, the benefactress, of the crown of her

life, to draw the sunshine from her days and send her down to a joyless

grave. For a moment she was on the verge of a passion. She hated

Myrtile, hated the sight of her gentle movements, the thought of her

and all to do with her. She rose to her feet with an unaccustomed fire

in her eyes and swung round--to find that the slight noise which had

disturbed her meditations had been caused by the entrance of Myrtile

herself.

There are moments when revelation is self-illuminative. This was

one of them. Myrtile, gazing almost in terror into the face of her

benefactress, knew that she was hated, and, with an extraordinary

insight, she knew why. She saw the crumpled up telegraph form; she

guessed at everything which had lain unspoken between them. She closed

the door firmly behind her, came across to Lady Mary’s chair, fell on

her knees and struggled with her sobs.

“I know! I know!” she cried. “I am very miserable!”

Mary looked at her coldly and critically. All the natural impulses of

her heart seemed dried up. Even her pride refused to come to her aid.

The truth lay naked between the two.

“I was a fool not to realise what bringing you here meant,” she said.

“It is too late now. Here is the telegram. Christopher is elected.”

Myrtile brushed it away. It was a thing of no account.

“I care nothing for Christopher and you know it,” she declared

passionately. “I do not care whether he is elected or not. Nothing

about him makes any difference to me, or ever will.”

Myrtile was speaking the truth. To Mary it seemed amazing, but she knew

that it was the truth.

“It is only a fancy which Christopher has for me,” Myrtile went on. “It

will pass--oh, I am sure that it will pass! Deep down in his heart I

know that there is another feeling.”

“There was,” Mary agreed. “But for your coming, he would have known it

himself before now.”

Myrtile shook with the pain of it.

“But for my coming!” she repeated. “And I have prayed that I might

bring a little happiness to you who have been so good to me!”

Her anguish was apparent. There was something almost unearthly in the

sorrow which shone out of her eyes. Mary’s heart began to fail her. Her

fingers rested on the top of the other girl’s head. A gleam of coming

kindness shone mistily in her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“It is my fault that I am alive!” Myrtile moaned. “But listen, please.

I have my plans. I am going away.”

“What good would that do?” Mary asked doubtfully.

“It would do great good,” Myrtile declared. “I shall remove myself

altogether. Christopher’s fancy will pass. And besides--I must go.”

“My father would never spare you,” Mary said, ashamed of the joy with

which the thought filled her.

“I have thought of everything,” Myrtile insisted. “Lord Hinterleys

has been very kind to me, but he will forget. If he chooses to see me

sometimes, it will be possible. Let me tell you, please. I have a plan.

Only yesterday I heard from the curé. He is back again in the valley.

He is at the church there now. He says, if I need ever to go back, I

can teach at the school. All my people have gone away many, many miles.

My stepfather has a larger farm. I shall go back. I should never have

come away.”

Mary looked at her searchingly. All the suffering in the world seemed

to be quivering in Myrtile’s sensitive face. She leaned a little

forward towards the kneeling girl.

“Myrtile,” she whispered, “there is pain in your heart, too.”

“Oh, God knows it!” Myrtile sobbed. “There will be for ever and ever.

It is for my own sake that I must leave. I thought that love was a

toy, and I laughed to find it in my heart. And now I know that it is a

torment. I want to go back along the road I have come and hide.”

“We have both been a little foolish,” Mary said kindly. “You looked out

into life, expecting to find happiness, just as children go into the

meadows to pick flowers. And I, too, forgot that happiness only comes

when it is earned.--Now let us try and be sensible. I think that yours

is a very good idea. We shall miss you very much here, but perhaps it

will be best for you to go away for a little time.”

“I must go,” Myrtile insisted fervently.

“But teaching?”

“There is no need for me to teach,” Myrtile declared. “This letter

that I have from the curé, it was written to tell me that my mother’s

brother, who went to Geneva many years ago, has died and left me some

money. An _avocat_ at Toulon has it for me. It is quite a great deal.

I thought that I would buy a small farm and work in the fields there,

work and work until I got brown and hard and grew like those other

peasant girls there, lumps of the earth to which they stoop all the

time. In a way I used to love the farm,” she went on, “when I was

alone--those first few mornings when the fields began to show purple

with the budding violets, and the still evenings when the cypress trees

looked as though they had come out of a box of children’s toys--and the

colours the sunset used to draw out of the mountains, the magentas and

purples, and the pink glow coming in such unexpected places.”

“Why, you’re positively homesick!” Mary exclaimed.

“No, I am not homesick,” Myrtile assured her gravely, “but I am like an

animal that has been hurt and wants to limp back to its home. A little

time ago it was different. Every fibre of me longed for escape, to be

where life was. Now I would like to go where I can forget it.”

Mary sighed.

“Fortunately,” she said, “you are very young. You will learn soon that

there are many men of Gerald’s type, and that they are not to be taken

too seriously. They have the trick of making you believe what they

want you to believe, and they use it because they must. They are never

quite honest. They are never quite bad. They certainly are not worth a

broken heart.--Now we must take this message down to my father and send

a reply. He does not altogether approve of Christopher’s politics, but

he will be glad to know that he is elected. Afterwards, I will talk to

him about you. I shall have to be very eloquent, for I know he will

hate your going.”

“If it could be before Gerald comes back,” Myrtile pleaded.

Mary had even more trouble with her father than she had expected. At

the first mention of Gerald’s name in connection with Myrtile’s desire

to return to France, he stiffened.

“Mary,” he insisted, “I shall require you to tell me the exact truth as

to this matter.”

“I will do so,” Mary promised.

“How much blame is to be attached to Gerald, and precisely what are his

relations with Myrtile?” Lord Hinterleys asked sternly.

“Gerald is to blame only for thoughtlessness,” she assured him. “He

is a born philanderer, just as Myrtile was born to be a ready victim.

Myrtile loves him, and I am afraid she will never care for any one

else. Other women have to bear their hurts, though, and I dare say she

will get over it.”

“Gerald is a fool,” his father declared. “Marrying in one’s own class

is well enough in an ordinary way, but--well, there isn’t another woman

like Myrtile in the world. Gerald is an ass not to realise it instead

of going to Russia, risking his life and liberty for the sake of this

Russian girl. I don’t like Russians--never did. You are a person of

common sense, Mary. If you say Myrtile must go, go she must, but I’d

much rather Gerald came to his senses and married her.”

“Men are rather difficult in that way,” Mary rejoined, a little

bitterly.

CHAPTER XII

The butler made his announcement to his mistress a little doubtfully.

“There is a person here, your ladyship, who desires to see you.”

“What sort of a person?” Lady Mary enquired.

The butler coughed.

“A woman, your ladyship. She struck me as being some sort of a

foreigner. She assured me that her business was urgent. I have shown

her into the morning room.”

Mary rose to her feet at once.

“A foreigner?” she repeated, with suddenly aroused interest. “Perhaps

she has news of Lord Dombey.”

Nevertheless, when she entered the little room where Elsa Francks was

waiting, it scarcely seemed likely that news of so fastidious a person

as her brother could come from such a source. Her doubts, however, were

soon set at rest.

“Are you Lord Dombey’s sister?” the woman asked bluntly, without

offering to move from her chair.

“I am,” Lady Mary acknowledged at once. “Have you brought news of him?”

“I have brought him home,” was the unexpected reply.

“You?” Lady Mary exclaimed.

The woman laughed coarsely.

“Yes, me!” she declared. “I have saved his life a dozen times over, as

I dare say he will tell you some day. Even now I do not know why.”

“But where is he?” Lady Mary demanded.

“He is safe in the Charing Cross Hospital,” the woman replied, “and if

you want to know all about him, you will give me some wine quickly.”

Mary, scarcely conscious of what she did, rang the bell. This woman was

certainly the strangest visitor who had ever penetrated the portals of

Hinterleys House. She seemed larger and coarser than ever. Her clothes

were showy, but unbrushed and crumpled as though she had slept in them

for nights; her hair was yellow but untidy. The rouge and powder were

distributed upon her face in ungainly daubs. She breathed an atmosphere

of stale scent. Notwithstanding all these things, she had news of

Gerald, Gerald who for seven months had been lost! Lady Mary waited

eagerly for the butler, who entered the room, full of the confident

anticipation that he would be asked to remove this incongruous visitor.

“This lady would like some wine,” Lady Mary announced. “Do tell me what

you would prefer?” she added, turning towards her guest.

“Champagne, if you have it,” was the prompt reply.

“Bring champagne, Richards,” his mistress directed. “Perhaps you had

better tell his lordship. This lady has brought us news of Lord Dombey.”

The woman held out her hand.

“Don’t bring any lordships here,” she begged. “I will tell my story to

you, ma’am. I am very near hysterics myself. To reach here from Sokar

has taken us a month. We tried at seven places on the frontier before

we could get into Poland.”

“Poland?” Mary exclaimed. “But here is the wine. Do, please, help

yourself.”

The woman was served with champagne and dry biscuits, which latter she

scornfully rejected. She drank three glasses of champagne, however.

Then she filled a fourth glass for herself and began to talk.

“How much do you know of your brother’s visit to Russia?” she asked.

“Only that he went there on some mysterious errand at the instigation

of two ladies, who are, I believe, Russians.”

“One of them was called Pauline--his sweetheart, eh?”

“I suppose so,” Mary admitted.

“Well, here is my story,” Elsa Francks said, draining the contents of

her glass and refilling it. “Remember it, for I shall never tell it

again. It is a story I would like to forget.”

“I will certainly remember it,” Mary promised.

“Twelve months ago I went to live at Sokar,” Elsa Francks began. “It

is a miserable place, but I went there to be near my friend Ivan

Krossneys, the Governor of the fortress. In that fortress was confined

a man whom your brother went to Russia to rescue. He came to me to ask

me to help him bribe the Governor. That was in the month of October

last year. He was a very different person then, and I thought that I

liked him very much.”

The woman sipped her champagne. The warmth of the room, and the wine,

had moistened her face. A little streak of rouge had spread upon her

left cheek. There were black lines under her eyes. Her voice, however,

was stronger.

“He offered a great deal of money and I agreed to help. I sent for Ivan

and, although he made difficulties, he was easy to persuade. It was

all arranged. The prisoner--Number Twenty-nine, we called him--walked

out of the fortress in your brother’s clothes and with his American

passport. Your brother was to take his place for twenty-four hours.

Then he was to leave the prison in the funeral coach of another

prisoner who had died.”

“This was seven months ago,” Mary faltered.

The woman wiped her lips, shivered at the sight of the colour upon her

handkerchief, closed her eyes for a moment and recovered herself.

“That seven months,” she said deliberately, “has seemed like seven

years, and each year like a lifetime in hell!--Listen. I go on with the

story. Your brother entered the fortress as arranged, changed clothes

with Number Twenty-nine, who walked out of the place and came, without

doubt, to London. Your brother was to spend that night in the fortress.

Krossneys came down to me. We were both excited. It was a great sum of

money which we had been paid, and life in Russia is a horrible burden.

We drank a great deal of wine. The more we drank, the more quarrelsome

Ivan became. He resented having to part with so large a share of the

money to me. We quarrelled. Once or twice we made it up. Then Ivan’s

anger flared out again. In the end, he declared that he would take away

a part of my share. We had a struggle. Somehow or other, his revolver

went off. He went backwards with a groan. He was dead.”

The woman dabbed at her face. Mary could find no word of any sort. Her

visitor’s eyes seemed fixed in a rigid stare. It was as though she were

living through the scene again.

“The police came,” she went on. “I was arrested. I told my story. There

were no witnesses. After four days they had to let me go. The moment I

was free I went to the fortress. Ivan’s deputy was taking his place.

He was a man of a different type, a politician, a Bolshevist from

conviction. Every time he mentioned Number Twenty-nine, he spat. I had

much trouble with him.”

“Go on,” Mary begged, glancing at the clock.

“You need not worry about your brother,” Elsa Francks said. “He

will not know you when you go to see him. He has forgotten most

things.--This man’s name was Ahrensein. I told him the whole truth. I

am quite sure that if he had come into charge of the prison whilst the

real Number Twenty-nine had been there, he would have found some excuse

for having him shot within twenty-four hours. He even told me so. He

was furious at the trick which had been played,--‘But,’ he declared,

‘the Englishman who has put himself in Number Twenty-nine’s place shall

suffer for him!’ I was allowed to see your brother. He had got over

the first shock of what had happened and I found him full of courage.

We discussed several plans for his escape, which, however, we never

carried into effect. I do not believe that any one could have bought

the life of Number Twenty-nine from Ahrensein for a million pounds.

With your brother, however, it was different. In the end, I made

over to him one of your brother’s drafts--one I took back from Ivan

Krossneys after he was dead--cashed one of the smaller ones, and one

dark night we drove away from the fortress.”

“But this is all so long ago!” Mary exclaimed wonderingly.

The woman nodded.

“We were in the train for Petrograd,” she went on, “when I had a

message from Ahrensein, telling me that he was superseded. His

successor had arrived, and was holding an enquiry into the escape of

Number Twenty-nine. He advised me not to go near Petrograd. We left the

train just as a company of soldiers from the fortress arrived on the

platform. The train was held up and searched. We took a carriage and

drove away, anywhere, away into the plains. We had money but nothing

else. We bought the carriage and horses, bought the driver, body and

soul. Driving by night, resting the horses and hiding ourselves by day,

we travelled a hundred miles southeastwards.”

“You must tell me the rest another time,” Lady Mary suggested.

“What I am going to tell you, I shall tell you now or never,” Elsa

Francks answered fiercely. “It won’t be much, I can promise you. When I

leave this house, the story of these months is coming out of my mind,

whether I have to dull it by drink, or even cut it out of my brain.--We

were always in danger, always being tracked. We went short distances by

train. Sometimes we hired carriages. We even travelled for the whole of

one day in an electric car which crawled between two small towns. Seven

times we tried to cross the frontier into Poland, and each time we were

turned back. Once they had heard of us and we were placed under arrest.

Your brother shot two of the guard and we escaped. After that it was

life or death with us. We were passed across the frontier at last in

a spot where the war zone had been. We were scarcely in Poland before

half a regiment of Russians was after us. We were in Poland, however.

We left them fighting. We heard afterwards that the Russians who had

crossed the frontier were wiped out.--We got across Poland, somehow

or other, into Germany. The rest was all discomfort and misery, but

most of the danger was past. Your brother fell ill in Warsaw. Since

then he has been dazed and weak, with a high temperature, and with

fits of unconsciousness. How I got him here, I don’t know. We arrived

at Fenchurch Street this morning. I drove to Charing Cross Hospital

and they took him at once. He was shouting like a madman. Then I drove

here.”

She poured out the last glass of wine from the bottle and drank it.

Then she rose to her feet.

“It is a wonderful story, this!” Mary exclaimed. “You must not go away

yet, or, if you do, you must come back again. My father will want to

thank you.”

“I do not want thanks,” the woman scoffed. “I started out on this

adventure because your brother had paid a great sum of money and

because I had a fancy for him. I have lost that fancy, but I made up my

mind that I would bring your brother home, and I have done it. I do not

wish for any further payment. I have spent your brother’s money freely,

but I have enough left to give me all that I need in life. I do not

like England and I am going away to-day. Is there any further question

you wish to ask?”

“None that I can think of for the moment,” Lady Mary admitted. “I think

that it was very wonderful of you to run all these risks. You might

have left my brother there and gone away with the money.”

“I very nearly did,” the woman confessed bluntly. “Many a time, on the

way home, I wished that I had done it. Your brother has a fine courage

at times, but he is a weakling in the ugly places of life. Often when

I dragged him along through the mud, and he had to sleep on a stone

floor, with coarse food to eat, and no wine, he would rather have come

out into the open and fought for his life and ended it. I dare say,

when he recovers, he will be grateful to me. There have been many

times when he has hated me.--Now I will go.”

She rose to her feet, dabbed more powder on her face and looked at her

hostess a little defiantly. Lady Mary rang the bell. Then she held out

her hand.

“Thank you very much for bringing Gerald home,” she said.

Elsa Francks laughed hardly. She refused the hand.

“You have no need for gratitude,” she said. “I started on the job

because I had a fancy for your brother. When I lost that, I went on

because I am an obstinate woman. As for recompense, I still have a

fortune, but I am glad that these months are over. You can tell your

brother that I took Krossneys’ share of the money as well as my own.

When he comes to think it over, I think he will say I earned it.”

She followed the butler out of the room. Mary watched her from the

window with fascinated eyes, saw her hail a passing taxicab with her

outstretched umbrella, watched her fling herself into it, put up her

feet on the opposite seat and light a cigarette. She had the air of a

woman who has accomplished a great task.

Lady Mary rang the bell.

“The car at once, Richards,” she ordered. “Lord Dombey is in London. I

am going to fetch him home.”

CHAPTER XIII

Christopher had taken his seat--had already, indeed, made his maiden

speech--when Gerald left the nursing home into which he had been moved

from the hospital. The doctors, however, were far from satisfied with

his condition. He was still thin, listless in manner, with long periods

of absent-mindedness. He seemed, in a way, to have lost self-control.

Mary, as they drove home together to Hinterleys House, made up her mind

to break the long silence which had existed between them on the subject

of Pauline.

“Gerald,” she asked, “have you seen or heard anything of the De

Ponières?”

Gerald turned and looked at her out of his hollow eyes.

“Nothing,” he confessed. “I wrote from the nursing home six times. I

have had no reply. They must have left the hotel in South Kensington.”

“Would you like me to try and find out?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I have made up my mind to go there

myself this afternoon.”

“May I come with you?” she begged.

“If you like,” he answered half-heartedly. “They won’t be there,

though. I am just hoping that I may hear of them.”

The hope, however, was not realised. Madame and Mademoiselle had left

the hotel many months ago, and had left no address behind. The hall

porter, encouraged to tell what he knew by Gerald’s liberal tip, showed

a great sheaf of letters which he had been unable to forward.

“Can’t understand their leaving no address, sir,” he confided. “They

paid their accounts well and regular, gave notice in the usual way, and

just drove off. I asked if they wouldn’t leave an address in case there

should be any letters, but the young lady replied that she would call

round for them when she was in town again.”

“And she hasn’t been here since?” Lady Mary enquired.

“Never a sign of her,” the hall porter replied.

Gerald handed the man his card.

“It will be worth a five-pound note to you at any time if you should

discover their address,” he said.

“I’ll let you know within ten minutes, if I can get hold of it, sir,”

the man promised. “I’ve a sort of an idea, though, that we shan’t set

eyes on those two ladies again. The manageress,” he went on, dropping

his voice to a confidential whisper, “wasn’t too sorry to see them go.”

“Why?” Gerald asked.

“Well, she don’t like foreigners, to start with,” he explained,

“besides which we were always getting queer sorts of people here asking

about them. Might have been detectives or anything. I’m not saying a

word against them--they always paid their way right and generously--but

there was a queer lot of people watching them all the time.”

Gerald and his sister drove away from the hotel in silence.

“You are disappointed?” Mary asked him anxiously.

“I thought they might have left a message for me,” he admitted.

“You’ll come down to Hinterleys to-morrow?”

He shook his head.

“I must find her,” he announced, in a tone curiously devoid of

enthusiasm or hope.

Mary said nothing then, but she took him to task that evening. They

had dined tête-à-tête, Lord Hinterleys having already gone down to the

country. For the first time Gerald showed some interest in Myrtile’s

absence.

“What did you say had become of Myrtile?” he enquired.

“She has gone back to France,” his sister told him. “She had a little

money left to her, and she wanted to go. I had a letter from her this

morning. She has bought the old farm where you first saw her and is

growing violets.”

“Why did she want to go back?” Gerald persisted. “You were all kind to

her, I hope?”

“We all tried to be,” Mary answered. “Dad misses her terribly.--Why,

here’s Christopher!” she broke off suddenly. “Whatever are you doing,

neglecting your duties in this manner?” she asked, as Christopher,

still in morning clothes, was shown in by the butler.

“I’ve come to beg for some dinner,” was the smiling reply, “and

incidentally to welcome Gerald back.”

Mary coloured a little with pleasure. The butler was already arranging

another place.

“It’s awfully nice of you, Christopher,” she said.

“Very good of you to take me in like this,” he replied. “There’s

nothing doing at the House, and I felt sure you two would be alone. I

should think you must have been about fed up with that nursing home,

Gerald.”

“I’m fed up with everything,” Gerald replied, a little wearily. “The

doctors say I’m all right again, but I don’t know. I can’t sleep, and

there seems to be an empty place in my head, somehow. If I begin to

think, I get the jim-jams. Give me some champagne, Richards.”

“The country for you, my boy,” Christopher declared. “If I were Mary,

I’d take you down to-morrow.”

Gerald shook his head.

“I’ve something to do first,” he said. “By the bye, you know about

Myrtile, I suppose? She’s gone back to the little farm.”

Christopher nodded. Mary, who was watching him closely, fancied that

his indifference was almost natural.

“Queer thing,” he observed, “to think that she should end up there,

after all. I wonder whether she blesses or curses us, Gerald, for

taking her to the end of the road.”

Gerald sighed a little wearily.

“Curses us, I should think,” he replied. “All knowledge is pain; so is

memory. Last night I woke up suddenly and I remembered fighting with

that great brute on the Polish frontier.--Did Elsa tell you about the

man I killed there?” he asked, frowning.

Mary rose abruptly to her feet.

“Remember the doctor’s orders,” she insisted. “The last twelve

months are taboo. There are worse things in the world than killing

Bolshevists, anyhow.”

“The chap had some one who was fond of him, I suppose,” Gerald said

gloomily. “You ought to have seen that woman who brought me home,

Christopher. I can’t get the thought of her out of my brain. The first

time I saw her, I went to persuade her to bribe her lover, Krossneys. I

thought her the coarsest, most brutal, most ungainly creature who ever

abused the name of Woman. Then I saw her month after month, playing

a man’s part. She lied, she swore, she fought,--fought with her fists

if there was nothing else handy; she drank; once she almost carried me

over a mile of marshland, with some outpost sentries sniping at us all

the time. She was a hideous, glorious, epic figure. There was a man

whom we both knew to be a spy and on my tracks. I saw her wheedle him

into her room. Two minutes afterwards, his blood was streaming out from

under the door.”

“Gerald!” his sister entreated.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that it doesn’t do me good to

talk of these things. They’ve been a silent horror with me for so long.”

Later, the doctor called to see Gerald, and Christopher led Mary across

the hall into the billiard room.

“Mary,” he confided, as soon as he had closed the door, “I had a reason

for coming round to-night. I have seen the girl.”

“Where?” Mary asked breathlessly.

“Here in London. They were opening the gates of Marlborough House as I

came along Pall Mall, and I was stopped for a moment on the pavement.

A small brougham came out. The windows were closed, but I was within a

few feet of it. The girl was inside with a young man.”

“If only you could have found out where they went to!” Mary exclaimed.

“Gerald will never be better until he has seen her.”

“He can do that when he likes, then,” Christopher replied. “I jumped

into a taxi and followed the carriage. It drew up before quite a small,

detached house at the back of Roehampton Lane. I jumped out of my taxi

quickly, and I was just in time to stop her as she was entering the

gate.”

“Go on,” Mary begged. “This is exciting.”

“She recognised me at once,” Christopher went on, “and she made no

attempt to get away. I told her that I was Gerald’s friend and that he

was looking for her. ‘You can tell him,’ she replied, ‘that he can find

me here.’”

“What did the young man say?”

“Nothing at all. He was very good-looking in his way, a great strong

fellow, but he looked as though he had been ill.--What are you going to

do about this? Are you going to tell Gerald?”

She nodded.

“I think so. I don’t believe this girl means to marry him. It is much

better, however, that he knows the exact position.”

“I wrote down the address and here it is,” Christopher said, handing

her a card. “If I can be of any use----”

“You dear man!” she exclaimed. “We must leave it to Gerald. I hope that

he will let me go with him. I think he ought to find out just where he

stands at once.”

“I am not going back to the House,” Christopher remarked. “Could we

have one game of billiards?”

“I should love it,” she answered. “Gerald will come and look for us as

soon as he has finished with the doctor. You used to give me fifteen,

wasn’t it?”

Gerald came in presently and sat watching them a little listlessly.

When the game, which Mary won with some ease, came to an end, she went

over and seated herself by her brother’s side.

“Gerald,” she said, “Christopher has discovered Pauline’s address. It

is quite close by here. You must go and see her to-morrow. Would you

like either of us to come with you?”

Gerald began to tremble.

“She is here--in London--all right?” he demanded.

“Absolutely,” Christopher declared. “She was looking quite well. Her

brother was with her.”

“I will go alone,” Gerald decided. “I will go to-morrow. Now you have

told me something worth hearing. Perhaps to-night I shall sleep.”

CHAPTER XIV

Gerald, after all, derived small satisfaction from his visit on

the following day. He found his destination easily,--a small,

detached house in a retired back street, with a bell at the front

gate and spiked railings. He was admitted without undue delay by an

ordinary-looking parlour maid and conducted into a small sitting room.

After waiting a minute or two, the door was opened and Madame de

Ponière entered.

“You have come to see my niece, Lord Dombey?” she enquired, after a

word of conventional greeting.

“Is it very surprising that I should come?” Gerald rejoined, a little

bitterly.

“Perhaps not from your point of view,” was the equable reply. “My niece

has, in fact, been anticipating your visit.”

“It would have been kinder of her,” Gerald ventured, “if she had let me

know her whereabouts. I have been in the hospital and afterwards in a

nursing home for some time.”

“My niece had other matters to consider,” Madame de Ponière declared

drily. “She is living in the utmost retirement, through force of

circumstances.”

“Can I see her now?” Gerald asked bluntly.

“She will grant you an audience,” Madame de Ponière replied. “I have

her permission to disclose her whereabouts, on one condition.”

“She is not here, then?” Gerald exclaimed.

“She is not here.”

“But she was here yesterday.”

“She was forced to come to London on a certain matter,” her aunt

explained. “She left at nightfall. If you wish to make the journey, you

can go and see her.”

“Where is she?” Gerald asked.

“I shall require,” Madame de Ponière said, “your word of honour that

you will not divulge her whereabouts to any living person.”

“I think that the dangers you conjure up are entirely imaginary,”

Gerald remarked, a little impatiently, “but I will give you that

promise.”

“My niece is to be found at Duvenny Castle in Scotland,” Madame de

Ponière announced. “It is a somewhat inaccessible place. Particulars of

how to reach it are here.”

She handed him a slip of paper.

“In Scotland?” Gerald repeated, a little wearily. “But she was here

yesterday.”

“She left at night,” Madame de Ponière reminded him.

Gerald folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.

“Very well,” he said, “I will go to Scotland.”

Madame de Ponière looked at him through her lorgnettes for a moment

thoughtfully.

“You have been ill,” she remarked.

“I have been ill,” he assented.

Madame de Ponière lowered her lorgnettes and closed them with a little

snap.

“If I thought that you would accept it,” she said, “I would give you a

word of advice.”

“I can at least hear it,” he suggested.

“Go back to the manner of life you were living before you met

Pauline--and forget her. Your visit to Scotland will be of no service

to you. It will only end in disappointment.”

Gerald shook his head.

“That,” he said obstinately, “I must discover for myself.”

Gerald, following in the main the directions on the slip of paper given

him by Madame de Ponière, reached his destination on the afternoon of

the third day. He was in the car which he had hired at the last town on

the railway route, a town which seemed to him, unacquainted with this

corner of Scotland, almost an outpost of civilisation. After miles of

moorland, unbroken except for huge boulders, the way had led around a

range of smaller mountains until he had suddenly encountered, when he

had been least expecting it, the tang of the sea. Many hundreds of feet

below, he saw at last his destination, a dwelling of stone as ancient

and rudely fashioned, it seemed, as the massed-up boulders on every

side. The road by which it was approached was precipitous, in places

almost impassable. The last quarter of a mile was along a narrow bank,

unprotected on either side, with the spray from the waves leaping up

into his face. The road ended in a circular sweep, surrounded by a

high wall. In front of him was a massive gate, closed and barred. The

porter who appeared in answer to the bell kept him waiting while he

communicated with the house. Finally the gates were pushed open and the

car allowed to proceed up a steep, stone-paved ascent to a courtyard

also flagged with stones and also surrounded by a high wall. In front

was another massive door, which, however, already stood open. Two

men servants, both foreigners, awaited his arrival. One attended to

the closing of the door and remained with the chauffeur; the other

silently beckoned Gerald to follow him across the stone floor of the

bare, circular hall into a room at the further end. He stood aside to

let Gerald precede him.

“The gentleman will please be seated,” he said.

Gerald found himself alone in an apartment not unduly large but

exceedingly lofty. It was simply but magnificently furnished, but only

a single rug lay upon the floor. The windows looked sheer over the sea,

and the thunder of the waves against the jagged rocks seemed almost

at his feet. The windows themselves were narrow--the windows of a

fortress--and the depth of the window seat showed the thickness of the

walls. Gerald had little time to take note of these things, however.

Within a moment or two of his being left alone, the door opened and

Pauline entered.

Speech of any sort, it seemed to Gerald, must be pitifully inadequate.

He stood looking at her, wondering if anything in her expression

would give him the clue to her mysterious behaviour. She came towards

him, however, as composed and unresponsive as ever. There was nothing

whatever in her manner to indicate the fact that she was greeting the

man who had risked his life in a mad enterprise for her sake.

“You have had a long journey, Lord Dombey,” she said.

He bowed over the hand which she had extended to him.

“A long journey, indeed,” he assented, “a journey down into hell and

back.”

“Sit down,” she invited, “and I will give you the explanation I owe

you.”

“Thank you,” he answered, “I do not feel at home in this house. Let me

remain standing until after you have told me what it all means. I have

done your bidding. I have come to beg for my reward.”

Her eyes looked at him coldly.

“I promised no reward,” she reminded him.

“Not in words,” he admitted, “yet you know what I desire.”

“What you desire is absurd,” she declared. “That is what I wish to

explain. You have discovered, perhaps, who I am.”

“I learned who your brother was.”

“My brother!” she smiled. “Well,” she went on, “listen. I am the Grand

Duchess Pauline of Russia, Princess and hereditary ruler of the Caspian

Provinces, and nearest in kin amongst living women to Nicholas, who was

murdered by the people. The man whom you rescued is Paul, Grand Duke of

Volostok, hereditary ruler of seventeen provinces, and nearest in the

male line to the Crown of Russia. He is my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Gerald exclaimed.

“And my husband,” she answered calmly.

Gerald was extraordinarily cool. The situation began slowly to shape

itself in his mind.

“It has been the province of royalty,” Pauline continued, “to make

use of their courtiers, without explanation, in whatever way may seem

good to them. I have made use of you. I did not seek your acquaintance

or your friendship. I have made you no promises. I have kept you

much farther away even from hope than would many of my illustrious

ancestresses. Yet, in these days, you will probably think that you have

been ill-treated. I cannot help it. I and others of my race have been

ill and mercilessly treated. Yours has been a small wrong. I made use

of you and your devotion to free my cousin, to whom I was affianced.

So far as my thanks can satisfy you, I tender them.”

“You are very gracious,” Gerald acknowledged, forgetting all his

weariness and holding himself like a man. “May I ask, were you married

to the Grand Duke when I fetched him from his prison?”

“I was not,” Pauline assured him. “I was married a month after his

return to England, with the consent and the approbation of my relatives

here. Paul and I have but one hope and one desire--to live until the

time when the people of Russia return to their allegiance, and to

reëstablish the Romanoff dynasty in Russia, either through ourselves or

our children. For that reason we are living here with an unseen guard

provided by the English Government. When you first met us, we lived in

seclusion because already four times my life had been attempted. There

are still men pledged to destroy us root and branch. Here they will

not succeed. We are surrounded by faithful guards, and our lives are

consecrate. Not until the children live and flourish who shall carry on

our name, will I or my husband take the slightest risk. The world may

see something of us later. For the present we have only one thought.”

Gerald stood amongst the wreck of his dreams. He seemed to be listening

to the thunder of the sea, to be watching the queer-shaped shaft of

sunlight which stretched across the floor. He found speech almost

impossible. The silence lasted so long, however, that he was compelled

to break it.

“Your Highness’ explanation is complete?” he asked.

“It is complete,” she replied. “You will understand that your--shall

I call it admiration?--was, in a sense, an offence to me. In Monte

Carlo I will admit that through sheer weariness I was perhaps a little

indiscreet. The situation then seemed hopeless.”

“I understand,” Gerald murmured.

“The Grand Duke, my husband, will wish to offer you some hospitality,”

she said, touching a bell.

“It is quite unnecessary,” Gerald replied.

“Be so good as to await his coming,” she enjoined.

Prince Paul entered the room a moment or two later, a touch of sunburn

on his cheeks, erect and handsome, a very different person from the

broken prisoner of a few months ago. He advanced towards Gerald with

outstretched hand.

“It gives me great pleasure,” he said, “to welcome you in my very bad

English to our home. You see, I reached England safely.”

“I was glad to hear of it,” Gerald remarked.

“Some day you must tell me your own adventures,” the young man

continued. “Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company to

dinner to-night?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I have promised the owner of the car which I hired,” he said, “to

return it to him to-night. I must, in fact, be leaving at once.”

A servant entered with a tray bearing wine and whisky. Paul served his

guest himself.

“They tell me that this is the most hospitable country of the world,”

he observed. “Even in Russia we should not let you depart without a

toast. You will wish us those things for which Her Highness and I live.”

Gerald bowed and raised his glass to his lips.

“I shall drink to you and to your country,” he said, “and to the good

of both.”

He set down his glass empty. Pauline smiled her good-by, but

they handed him over to the care of servants with the air of

royalty.--Gerald drove through the opened gates, heard the bars grind

behind him, and, looking around for a last view, was dimly conscious

of men who watched. Years afterwards, this strange visit, with all

its trifling events, assumed its proper proportions in his mind. That

night, however, he drove over the moors and around the mountains

absolutely without any direct emotions. It was impossible to believe

that his visit had not been the phantasy of an afternoon’s slumber.

CHAPTER XV

After they had left Toulon, the two men seemed almost to change

places. Gerald, who for the last four days had been in much the same

mentally comatose state as he had been since his return from Scotland,

sat up and for the first time began to look about him with interest.

Christopher, on the other hand, who during the whole of their journey

had been continually endeavouring to amuse and entertain his companion,

gradually relapsed into a rare fit of thoughtfulness. They had passed

through Hyères, however, and were winding their way around the Forêt

du Dom, before any direct allusion was made to the subject which in

varying degrees was foremost in the minds of both of them.

“About an hour and a half beyond this, wasn’t it?” Gerald asked.

Christopher nodded. It was significant that he made no comment upon the

fact that Gerald had caught up with his own train of thought.

“Just about this time of the year, too,” Gerald went on, ruminatingly.

“I remember these orchards were just showing a little pink. And you say

she’s back again there, Chris. I wonder why? There wasn’t any trouble

at home, was there?”

“Not the slightest,” Christopher assured him. “In fact, all the time

you were in Russia your father seemed to rely upon her absolutely. It

was a great blow to him when she made up her mind to go back.”

“But what made her want to leave?” Gerald persisted.

Christopher did not hesitate for a moment. He meant to take every

possible advantage of this, the first sign of any real interest in life

which Gerald had shown for months.

“Because she is very finely strung,” he said, “and the situation was

becoming impossible for her. She was very much in love with you, and

you were crazy about some one else. I was very much in love with her,

as I always had been, and I was ass enough to try and persuade her

to marry me. Of course,” he went on, “I ought to have realised the

unconquerable fidelity of a nature like hers. An ordinary woman,” he

went on, leaning back in his corner and discussing the matter very much

as he would have done a legal point presented for his opinion, “might

select and prefer one man to all others, but if, for some reason or

other, he did not return her affection, she would be able, in course of

time, to feel practically the same thing for another man. Myrtile could

never do that. She has that saint-like fidelity which is the joy and

the curse of the best women. You are a very dear fellow, Gerald, and I

am very fond of you, but I sometimes get fed up with your nerves, your

blindness, your Grand Duchesses and your stark idiocy.”

Gerald sat up in his place and stared at his friend in amazement.

“How long have you been keeping that bottled up, Chris?” he asked.

“Ever since Myrtile turned me down,” was the prompt reply. “She was as

kind as she could be about it, but she did her job like a surgeon. She

hurt, but I knew it was no use ever thinking about her again that way.

I am a dispassionate observer now and I can see the truth.”

“I suppose I have been rather an ass,” Gerald acknowledged, “but you

must remember, Chris, I didn’t quite know what I was in for when I took

on that visit to Russia, and I don’t think any one could go through

what I had to go through without getting bowled over. Fancy being taken

care of like a baby by that amazing woman, Elsa Francks!--Having to

owe her your life half a dozen times over! Seeing that great coarse

creature, with her hank of yellow hair, and her breath smelling of

drink and patchouli, standing up one moment and defying death, and

lying the next without a tremor to guards who would have set us up

against the wall and shot us on sight if they had known the truth!”

“She was an epic figure,” Christopher declared. “I wonder what has

become of her.”

“Heaven knows!” Gerald answered. “We may meet her queening it at Monte

Carlo, or she may have married a respectable German tradesman and

buried the past. She is wealthy enough. She got that fellow Krossneys’

share of the money I took out, as well as her own.--How these pine

trees smell, Chris! And what sunshine! One could sleep here.”

Gerald leaned back in his place with half-closed eyes, and Christopher

was well content to leave him alone. This was the first time he had

spoken naturally of his journey to Russia and the terrible experience

through which he had passed. All through the summer months he had

lain about the gardens at Hinterleys, accepting life as an inevitable

burden, gaining no strength, sleeping little, all the time engaged

in a morbid struggle with the tyranny of his nerves. Nothing had

moved or interested him. These last few sentences of his were the

first evidences of his return to a natural outlook. Physically he had

shrunken almost to a shadow. There was very little left of the gay and

debonair young man who had passed his arm round Myrtile’s waist and

drawn her into the car, mocked at Christopher’s remonstrances, and,

with a few careless words, built up in Myrtile’s heart the fairyland at

the end of the road. Yet, as they drew near the place where they had

found her, he seemed to shake off some of his torpor. He sat up and

looked about him with reminiscent eyes. One more bend and they would

see the gate!

“Would you like to stop for a moment?” Christopher asked. “Myrtile is

almost certain to be here.”

This was most assuredly a changed Gerald. He was almost diffident.

“If you think she would like to see us,” he assented.

He sat upright now, leaning a little forward. They were round the

corner, in sight of the little grove of cypresses. And there at the

gate--Myrtile!--Gerald gave a little exclamation which sounded almost

like a sob. His incredulous stare had something in it alike of pain and

fear.

“I wrote her days ago and said that we should be passing,” Christopher

hastily explained.

She stepped out into the road to greet them. Even to Christopher, her

coming was almost like a vision. The small differences of clothing and

circumstance seemed scarcely to exist. It was Myrtile who welcomed

them, shyly but joyfully. Her eyes were fixed upon Gerald, and there

was a touch of sublime pity in them as she realised the change. But

from her face shone the same things.

“You will come in and see my home?” she begged. “The car can turn in

here. The road is better than it used to be.”

“I am tired of the car,” Gerald said. “I would rather walk.”

They moved slowly down through the cypress avenue, Gerald leaning a

little on Myrtile’s arm, Christopher loitering behind. On one side were

the formal lines of the closely pruned vines, protruding from the rich

brown earth; on the other a flush of purple from the field of violets.

Myrtile answered some half intelligible question from Gerald.

“I am very happy here,” she assured him. “There is so much to do. I

have broken up some more of the land for growing violets, and presently

I will show you my carnations. The vineyards, too, needed a lot of

attention; they had been very much neglected. I hope you like the

colour of the house? I had it painted pink because of the background.

And you see what a lovely verandah I have had built? By moving a few

yards one gets the sun all day.”

“It is the most restful and the most beautiful place I have ever been

in,” Gerald murmured. “Tell me, Myrtile,” he added, “do you know all

that has happened to me?”

“Everything! Christopher has written, and I had a long letter, too,

from your father. Please do not speak of those things which are

finished. You are here to forget.”

Involuntarily he looked away towards the road and turned back with

a shiver. Whatever his thoughts might have been, he said nothing. A

little French maid, in spotless white cap and apron, came out on to the

verandah in reply to Myrtile’s call.

“A bottle of our own wine and glasses,” Myrtile ordered, “some fruit,

and the sandwiches I told you to have ready, Marie. Come, we have

another half-hour of sunshine. Gerald, you must take the sofa chair.”

Gerald sank into a sea of cushions. Myrtile, bending over him, arranged

them more comfortably. Her eyes were soft with the shadow of tears.

Gerald, more weary than he had confessed, seemed for a moment almost to

doze.

“He is very weak,” Myrtile whispered, looking anxiously across towards

Christopher.

Christopher nodded.

“It is the journey,” he answered. “I wish that it were over.”

The wine was brought, but Gerald was now in a deep sleep. Christopher

and Myrtile sat at the other end of the verandah and talked in an

undertone. Presently the sun began to sink behind the forest-crowned

hills, westwards. A cool breeze came stealing across the valley.

Myrtile rose suddenly to her feet.

“He must not sleep any longer,” she said firmly. “He ought not to be

out at all as late as this.”

They tried to rouse him. Three times Christopher laid his hand upon

his shoulder and called him by name. There was no response. Gerald was

sleeping heavily, his breathing was regular, the lines seemed to have

faded from his face.

“It is the first time he has slept like this for weeks,” Christopher

declared. “It seems a shame to wake him.”

“Don’t,” she begged eagerly. “You see the chair has castors. Wheel it

into the sitting room, and if he doesn’t wake, leave him here. Marie

and I can look after him, and Pierre, my head man, is a treasure. He

could carry him upstairs if it were necessary.”

“We’ll move him in and see if he wakes, anyhow,” Christopher agreed.

They wheeled him into Myrtile’s sitting room, sweet and flower-scented,

without his showing the slightest sign of being disturbed. Myrtile

closed the outer doors and lit the fire of pine logs and cones which

was already prepared upon the hearth. Then she and Christopher stole

from the room.

“This may be his salvation,” Christopher declared hopefully.

There were tears in Myrtile’s eyes. All the time she seemed to be

listening.

“Leave him with me, Christopher,” she begged. “He needs rest.”

Christopher nodded.

“I’ll send two of his bags down from the car,” he proposed, “and some

of us will come and have a look at him in a few days. His servant can

stay here if you like, so that you have help if you want it.”

She smiled through her tears.

“I shall need no help,” she promised. “I will cure Gerald. Tell Lady

Mary and Lord Hinterleys that I promise it. Only leave him alone with

me. Do not come, any of you, until I send. If he wishes to leave, I can

hire a car from San Raphael--he can be with you in a few hours. But I

think he will be content. I think he will get better here.”

CHAPTER XVI

“And now,” Christopher said, as their car crawled up the last ascent,

“to see if Myrtile has kept her word!”

“Personally,” Lord Hinterleys declared, “I am confident. That young

woman has powers beyond the ordinary human being’s. Besides, our

telegrams every day have assured us that all is well.”

“It seems curious to me that Gerald should have been so content,” Mary

remarked. “Is this the place, Christopher?”

Christopher nodded. The car was slowing up. On their right was the

little grove of cypress trees and the gate.

“Here they are!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, just look at Gerald!”

The two young people came down the cypress grove, arm in arm. Gerald

was walking with much of his old swagger. Once more his head was thrown

back; once more there was all the joy of wild spirits in the abandon of

his enthusiastic greeting. Myrtile, on the other hand, seemed quieter

than usual.

“Something deuced odd about the look of both of them,” Lord Hinterleys

remarked. “Gerald, you rascal, how are you?”

“Sane and sound, sir,” Gerald answered, stretching out his hand,

“thanks to Myrtile.”

Lord Hinterleys looked at her curiously. Her eyes suddenly fell. She

had been laughing a little hysterically a moment before. Now a fit of

trembling seemed to have seized her.

“Gerald, what have you been up to?” his father demanded.

Gerald laughed.

“Listen to that, dad,” he said, “and see if you can’t guess.”

The bell from the little white church was tinkling away crazily. Gerald

passed his arm around Myrtile.

“She’s terrified to death,” he declared. “Please every one tell her

that they’re glad.”

Myrtile was easily persuaded. Her father-in-law dispossessed Gerald as

they turned towards the house. Mary walked on the other side.

“You have now arrived in time for the celebrations,” Gerald continued.

“The feasting tenantry are in view on the far side of the house. You

will presently have the opportunity of hearing me make a little speech

in my most perfect French, which I have just learnt by heart.”

“So you are really married!” Mary exclaimed incredulously.

“Gerald--Myrtile--how wonderful it all seems!”

“Amazing!” Gerald agreed. “Matrimony was evidently my predestined

Mecca. I am no longer ill. I have never been so happy in my life. I

was ploughing for four hours yesterday, and practising approach shots

over the road to get rid of a little superfluous energy after tea. What

I really covet is the job of Pierre, the head man, but Myrtile won’t

listen to it. She says I don’t understand the soil.”

As they reached the house, the old curé came shuffling out, beaming

with smiles, delighted to find that every one spoke his own language

and that he could talk to them about Myrtile.--Luncheon was spread

out on the verandah, and Marie and a young friend from the village,

with great bunches of white carnations fastened to their frocks, were

waiting to serve. Gerald himself uncorked the wine.

“I propose to make a speech,” Lord Hinterleys announced, holding out

his foaming glass.

“It must be a short one,” Gerald insisted. “The omelette won’t wait.”

“Then, as an omelette is my favourite dish and that one appears to be a

_chef-d’oeuvre_, I drop the speech,” his father assented. “I will only

say, Gerald, that you have made Mary and me very happy, and that no

bride in the world was ever more welcome than Myrtile to our home and

lives.”

Every one began to talk at once. By and by, that curious sense of

unreality, the feeling that the whole thing was a scene out of an

old-fashioned comedy, passed away. Gerald, who was shamelessly holding

Myrtile’s hand under the tablecloth, raised his glass and looked into

her eyes.

“It was I, after all,” he whispered, “who had no idea what lay at the

end of the road. You were the wise lady and I the fool. You climbed, I

pushed my way through the slough--but we found out.”

All through the afternoon the villagers came and went, and the young

people danced in the field at the back of the farm. Many toasts were

exchanged. Every one was extraordinarily happy. Then the time came for

Christopher, who was on his way back to England, to leave. Mary, who

was spending the night with her father at Cannes, walked with him to

the road. They paused for a moment at the gate.

“And it was really here that you found Myrtile?” Mary remarked,

looking around her with interest.

“We found her on this very spot,” Christopher answered, “gazing along

the road to the hills. All her life she had wondered what lay on the

other side. Many of us never find out. I think that Gerald has been

very fortunate.”

“I am glad that you are happy about it,” she said, with quiet but

tactful significance.

“It is because I am happy about it,” Christopher rejoined, turning

towards her, “that I am going to venture--that, Mary--well, I think I

feel a little like the man who walked for a few minutes of his life in

the moonlight and fancied that it was day. I honestly thought that I

was in love with Myrtile. I know now that there is no one I ever really

cared for but you, Mary.”

She raised her head and looked at him, yielding unresistingly to the

arm which was drawn around her.

“I am quite sure,” she murmured, “that this is an enchanted land.”

THE END

NOVELS _by_ E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

“He is past master of the art of telling a story. He has humor, a keen

sense of the dramatic, and a knack of turning out a happy ending just

when the complications of the plot threaten worse disasters.”--_The New

York Times._

“Mr. Oppenheim has few equals among modern novelists. He is prolific,

he is untiring in the invention of mysterious plots, he is a clever

weaver of the plausible with the sensational, and he has the necessary

gift of facile narrative.”--_The Boston Transcript._

A Prince of Sinners The Way of These Women

A Maker of History The Kingdom of the Blind

The Man and His Kingdom The Pawns Count

The Yellow Crayon The Zeppelin’s Passenger

A Sleeping Memory The Curious Quest

The Great Secret The Wicked Marquis

Jeanne of the Marshes The Box with Broken Seals

The Lost Ambassador The Great Impersonation

A Daughter of the Marionis The Devil’s Paw

Havoc Jacob’s Ladder

The Lighted Way The Profiteers

The Survivor Nobody’s Man

A People’s Man The Great Prince Shan

The Vanished Messenger The Evil Shepherd

The Seven Conundrums The Mystery Road

Boston LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY Publishers

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.