Replacing the receiver he smiled rather than spoke to himself. "I
thought so. It's Malsano's work, and the man who took it was Lesigne.
I must find an excuse to arrest that fellow Lesigne. Malsano's been too
clever for me, up to now."
Mr Herrion took his hat, strolled along the boulevards, and made his
way to the Prefecture of Police. Here he described Lesigne, and put it,
tentatively, that he was a dangerous fellow, and that whereas he,
Herrion, could not actually prove anything criminal against him, at the
same time, he was satisfied that the man was an active agent among a
bunch of criminals. His arrest would serve a useful purpose. The
arrest was not made, for Doctor Malsano had other uses for Lesigne, and
he had left Paris.
The plans for the burglary in the Champs Elysees were progressing, but
they formed no part of Raife's work in the matter. He was to supply the
"agility, courage and daring" on the night, and he readily consented to
act such a part. In his present mood he was prepared with all those
qualities. In the meantime, he had leisure to enjoy Gilda's company.
After the fright when Gilda had seen Detective-Inspector Herrion, in his
disguise, at the Cafe Buonaventure, they avoided the boulevards, and
took trips into the country. They preferred the country that has been
made famous by the great French painters, Corot, Daubigny, and the other
founders of the Barbison school. Here, among a simple peasantry, in
wood and dale, they wandered together, this extraordinary couple, who,
starting with all that beauteous man and womanhood could endow them
with, were both involved in crime. The crime was not of their making,
yet they were almost unconsciously made the active agents.
It was evening time on one of these happy days, and the sun had set,
leaving the fierce glow of brilliant orange, merging into crimson and
carmine, flecked with lilac clouds, until high in the heavens, the azure
depth was tinged with emerald. Low in the foreground, subdued, yet
vivid siennas, with scarlet poppy blossom here and there, welded into
deep purples, silhouetted against the vivid sky. They sat on a knoll
among the wild flowers, hand in hand, and, as is often the wont of
lovers, they spoke little. Raife's past life was, for the present, a
closed book. He thrust thought from him, and appeared content as long
as he was in Gilda's company. She appeared to have no memory of the
past as long as he was with her. A tiny cabaret was generally to be
found conveniently near, and supplied all the refreshment they needed.
The mystery of this handsome couple, who seemed to be in a semi-trance,
caused speculation, as the worthy woman, or sometimes her husband,
brought the simple food and wine that made their meal. Then, outside
the cabaret, they would sit at a table, sipping coffee and liqueurs
until the moon shed her silver light and wrapped the world in the
subdued glow that has ever been the chosen accompaniment of lovers.
Then, late back to the flat, where Gilda sang French love-songs, until
the arrival of the braggadocio Denoir, or a missive from Malsano brought
them back from the quiet delights of their prolonged love-dream.
At night, away from the influence of Gilda's fascinating presence,
Raife's mind was subject to storms of emotion. Where was he trending?
To what further depths was he descending? His thoughts sometimes led to
Hilda--his wife whom he had deserted. His mother's dignified and
beautiful face would appear to him as in a vision. His happy boyhood
days at school, college, and Aldborough Park, crowded before him.
Then he remembered the fateful day when he had met Gilda, with his
friend Edward Mutimer, on the front, at Southport. The unexpected
reunion at Nice. Then the nightmare haunted him. The nightmare of that
night when he had discovered Gilda as a burglar in the library at
Aldborough Park. These and a score more of incidents rushed to his
mind. Surely no man's life in so short a time had been crowded with so
much incident. Through it all, he was compelled, by some fate, to act
against his convictions. What was this evil genius that haunted him?
He would break away whilst there yet was time.
On such a night he had retired early, and was restlessly tossing on his
bed when he heard a familiar voice outside the front door of the flat.
The concierge was talking to some one, who was enquiring for a Monsieur
Designe. The concierge said: "There is no one of that name living here,
sir, and I do not remember seeing any one such as you describe."
"Who lives in this flat?" asked the voice.
The concierge replied: "Monsieur Vachelle, sir, a very quiet gentleman,
sir. I think he is from Brittany, sir. He speaks French, but with a
slight provincial accent."
Monsieur Henri Vachelle was the assumed name under which Raife was
living in the Rue Lafayette.
Springing from his bed, he hastily pushed aside a sliding panel, by
means of which he was able to see, through a combination of mirrors, who
was in the passage. It was true. He was not mistaken. The concierge
was talking to Detective-inspector Herrion.