There are brief times of happiness in the careers of most people, and it
is a fortunate circumstance that, in the majority of instances, memory
reverts to happiness rather than to misery.
The gambler prefers to remember the times when he won. The joys of our
youth linger in our minds until we approach the border-line of dotage.
Among the joys of the youth of most of us are the joys of love. There
are few who cannot remember the thrill that accompanied the first kisses
with the girl we loved. The happy moments when the world was a vista of
promised pleasure! There is happiness in the quiet content of drab
surroundings, and there is the delirious happiness of forced gaiety.
The pleasure spots of this world are many and varied. "The Great White
Way" of New York has its thrills and excitements. Paris, Berlin,
Vienna, and the Riviera all possess their pleasure atmosphere and zones,
but the vast swing and swirl of London gaiety is a thing apart.
Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest came to London to enter into what they
determined should be the love zone of pleasure, which should complete
their lives. By a tacit understanding, now that the first and most
important stages of conquest had been acquired, the doctor did not
appear more than necessary. Raife was rich enough for a full indulgence
in the round of gaiety that London offers, especially to those who are
to the manner born. Raife was to the manner born, and he possessed the
gift of selecting those varied entertainments which appeal to most
youth, but more especially to young and beautiful women.
Gilda, now to a considerable extent away from the depressing and
exacting influence of her uncle, experienced, for the first time, the
joys of love and of comparative freedom. Her lightest whims were
gratified, and together, light-heartedly, they joined the gay whirl of
entertainment. Dressed in the richest attire and bejewelled, she was
the observed of all, and envied by most women. By men she was admired.
By the man to whom she had given her heart she was adored, and Raife had
acquired a wonderful skill in courtly admiration. He was living in his
old-world suite of rooms in Duke Street, St James's, and Gilda and her
uncle occupied a suite in a new Bloomsbury hotel.
September, and even October, are frequently the most kindly months in
England, in the matter of genial climate, and ate more suggestive of
perfect summer weather than that afforded by July.
On a night in September, Raife and Gilda were dining at the Savoy Hotel.
He had chosen a table, and, prior to dinner, they were overlooking the
river and the embankment, with the long sweep of lights that lead
mysteriously into gloom, whilst the flickering reflections of the murky
Surrey side sparkled in the swiftly-moving stream at high tide. He was
supremely happy. She appeared to be, but it was not possible to fathom
the depths of a heart and mind that had been subordinated to the
sinister workings of a hard and cruel disposition. There are few who
have looked upon that ancient waterway who have not been influenced by
its fascination. To-night its mystery entered into the spirit of Raife,
and for a brief while he was affected by the outlook. His had been a
great happiness for two weeks now, and he had chased away every grim
thought in connection with Doctor Malsano and Gilda. They whispered a
brief love-talk and then entered the salon, and crossed to the table
which was awaiting them. The waiters performed those mystic evolutions
which indicate the relative rank of the diners who are to occupy their
tables. It appeared evident that Raife was a person of importance.
Apart from this testimony from the waiters, he and she were evidently
the cynosure of the rest of the richly-clad diners. With a gay laugh he
spoke softly across the table.
"Gilda, that view of the river depressed me for a while. There was
something of gloom and hidden mystery about it. Shall we drink some
champagne to-night?"
"Yes, Raife, by all means. Don't let a horrid river depress you. I'm
never depressed now that you are mine."
The soft light from the shaded lamp fell on her lovely form. A pink
glow suffused her bare arms and heaving breast. The jewels that decked
her sparkled, and her wonderful, lustrous eyes looked at him with a
strange, tender look as she uttered those last words, "Now that you are
mine." He answered: "Yes, Gilda, I am yours." There seemed to be still
some sense of foreboding, in spite of all the happiness of the last two
weeks and the luxurious gaiety of their present surroundings. The
spirit of that ancient river had left a sense of sadness which Raife
could not alter. The waiter arrived opportunely with the wine, and they
both drank a glass of the sparkling champagne, the wine which has made
much merriment and led to much sadness.
The dinner progressed with all the stateliness of service, and the
exquisite choice of food which is associated with a restaurant whose
_chef_ receives the salary of a statesman.
Gilda said, during one of those intervals, when a _piece de resistance_,
which is to follow, has justified a delay:
"Oh, Raife, uncle said to-day--"
With a gesture of impatience he interrupted: "Don't tell me what your
uncle said. I don't want to know what he says. I only want to know
what you say."
Then he smiled, as many another lover has smiled, who was tempted into a
lapse of perfect and complete adoration of his loved one. Even in these
happy conditions, where everything seemed favourable to a perfect
courtship, love was on tenterhooks.
The dinner was finished, and those supplementary accompaniments to the
modern meal were in progress. Cigarettes--cigars--liqueurs, were in
course of leisurely consumption by some people. Others were leaving, to
continue their round of pleasure at theatre--revue--music-hall, or in
one of the hundreds of haunts where the leisured ones congregate at
night-time. Among those who were leaving were two men, both of whom
carried a distinction with them. One, who was the personification of
perfectly-dressed dandydom, with a drawl, nudged his companion's elbow
and indicated Raife and Gilda at their table. He whispered to his
companion "I will tell you something about them presently." The other
replied: "Do, old chap! They're a deuced handsome couple, whoever they
are." They passed out.
Others were moving, and some, as they passed, bowed to Gilda. Raife
could not get over the depression which had come over him as they had
leant over the balustrade and gazed at the sad-looking river before
dinner. He found an excuse quite early in the evening and accompanied
Gilda to her hotel in Bloomsbury. There was a strained manner which had
broken the chain of happiness that had lasted for two weeks. Having
bade adieu to Gilda he told his chauffeur to drive him to his rooms in
Duke Street. When he arrived, he hastily donned a dressing-gown, and,
calling his man, ordered a fire to be lit. A disturbed mind frequently
desires the solace of a fire, and Raife's mind was perturbed with a
sense of foreboding. A box of cigars, with a decanter of brandy and
some soda-water, completed his equipment for a moody contemplation of
affairs. As he reclined in the deep-set leather arm-chair, he appeared
a perfect paragon of manhood. He was clad in a thin Japanese silk
dressing-gown of many and bright-hued colours. The sombre black of his
evening clothes underneath, heightened by the dazzling brilliancy of a
broad expanse of shirt-front, completed the colour scheme, revealed in
the subdued light from a shaded lamp on the small oriental table at his
side. Trouble sat heavily on his handsome countenance, as he gazed into
the crackling flames of the fire that his man, Pulman, had recently lit.
"Anything more, sir?" asked that discreet person, a fine type of the
unrivalled English manservant.
"Nothing more, Pulman." And as the door was being softly closed, he
called out: "Oh, Pulman, I don't want to be disturbed."
"Very good, sir," and he retired. As he disappeared downstairs he said
to himself: "Ten to one there's a woman in the case. That ain't at all
like Sir Raife, leastways, not as I have known him all these years."
Pulman sighed a sigh of wisdom as he opened the door in the basement on
his way up the area-steps to a neighbouring hostelry.
Left to himself, and secure from intrusion, Raife rose from his chair
and crossed the room to a small black cabinet of exquisite design.
Producing a tiny bunch of keys he opened the door of the cabinet, and
from a small door within, which sprung open as he touched a spring, he
took forth a richly-chased and jewelled miniature frame. The miniature
portrait was of Gilda Tempest. He gazed at it, and, as is the wont of
young men who gaze at the portraits of their lady love in the seclusion
of their own room, he touched it lightly with his lips. Then a sudden
twinge seemed to attack him, and a pained expression pervaded his face.
He looked at it lovingly, and muttering: "Ah! If I only knew. What is
this unfathomable mystery?"--he replaced it in the drawer.
Raife sat long and moodily. He helped himself freely with the brandy
and soda, but the stimulant did not soothe his troubled mind.
After a certain hour the streets of St James's are silent, and Duke
Street, where Raife's rooms were situated, is not an exception.
To-night the very quietude, which is generally desirable, oppressed him
further. Rising again from his chair, he removed his dressing-gown and
donned a long overcoat and a golf-cap. Choosing a stout walking-stick,
he went out into the night. The streets of St James's are well guarded
by police, but the city nightbird is witty in his ways, at the same
time, evasive and elusive. As Raife swung into Jermyn Street, he was
conscious of a figure that slouched behind him. Stopping abruptly at
the corner of St James's Street, he wheeled around to find that the
figure was now walking in the other direction, or rather did he appear
to crawl. Raife walked down St James's Street, and at the bottom he
chartered a passing taxi. Chance enters largely into the movements of
the lovelorn mind, and chance impelled him to direct the driver to
Hammersmith. At the wide junction of streets called the Broadway, he
dismissed the taxi and wandered around for a while. He noticed another
taxi pull up almost immediately after his own, and a familiar figure in
a long coat and flowing tie, got out and crossed to a coffee-stall.
Curiosity prompted him to follow. Some heavy traffic impeded his
progress for about half a minute, and when he reached the coffee-stall
the figure had disappeared. He called for a cup of coffee which he did
not drink.
The trouble entered his mind again and he soliloquised: "Was he being
shadowed? If so, why? Who was this mysterious figure, and where had
they met before?"
"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud. "What do I care?" The coffee-stall keeper
looked at him, and, with a wide experience of such matters, assumed that
he had been drinking.
Raife sauntered away, leaving his coffee untouched, which more than ever
confirmed the coffee-man's view of the subject. Again a blind impulse
steered Raife, and he found himself wandering among the queer little
streets and alley-ways that fringe the riverside and lead to Hammersmith
Mall. The tide was high and the dull swish of the water, as it swung
past the moored barges, soothed his troubled mind for a while, and he
became engrossed in the strangeness of his weird surroundings. A slight
mist came off the river and added to the mystery. He had now reached
that part of the Mall made famous by William Morris, and those brilliant
men who founded the Kelmscott Press, and restored the merits of English
typography and printing. The houses of Chiswick Mall and Hammersmith
Mall are famous for their old-world charm, and many of them suggest,
from without, the wealth and comfort within.
Time flies quickly to the engrossed and contemplative mind. Raife had
seated himself on a sort of disused capstan, and was gazing at the river
as he smoked his pipe. At rare intervals, he heard footsteps in the
distance, and assumed they were bargees, or other workmen, going to
their nightly occupations. The rumble and clink of machinery proclaimed
the proximity of a brewery that does not distinguish between night and
day in its operations.
Once, looking round, as he imagined footsteps that were too stealthy for
those of a British workman, he fancied he saw the mysterious figure of
Jermyn Street and the Broadway. He chased away the thought as merely
fanciful and the result of his perturbed brain. The incident trended in
his thoughts, however, towards that persistent person. Presently, it
flashed through his mind and brought a crowd of recollections to him:
the curious meeting with Gilda at Nice; the message conveyed by the
little Italian girl among the orange groves by moonlight; the message
delivered at the entrance of the cafe!
Yes! He was sure now. It was that Apache fellow, who looked as though
he might be from the Latin quarter of Paris, and yet was not. But had
not Gilda told him that he was killed in the motor smash outside Cuneo?
Again he said: "Bah! What does it matter? Or, what do I care?"
With a suddenness that took him quite off his guard he was seized from
behind. His arms were pinioned in a firm grip, whilst another man,
holding a revolver, went through his pockets. As becomes an outraged
Englishman, whether he be plebeian or aristocrat, Raife swore violently,
and struggled viciously. At length, the man who searched his pockets,
said: "It's all right, sir, he's got no weapon or arms." Still holding
the pistol in front, his arms were released from behind. Raife turned
to face the man with the iron grip who had pinioned him so easily. Both
men gave a start and an exclamation of surprise.
"Good heavens! Herrion--Inspector--what's the meaning of this?"
demanded Raife.
"Well," said Inspector Herrion, for it was he, the immaculate Scarlet
Pimpernel of Scotland Yard, "we hardly expected, Sir Raife, to find you
here, at this hour of the night."