There were some facts which, when I clearly considered them, gave
color to this idea. First, for some unknown and inconceivable reason,
she had spared me the blindness which in her fury she had suggested.
Why? Was it because she had relented, or because her young man friend
had prevented her? Finding my brain in such a hopeless state owing to
loss of memory caused by the drug she had injected into my veins,
could she have married me pretending herself to be another person
called Illona?
If so, why had she sent me that strange warning concerning the blind
man? If she were my enemy, as she certainly had been, why, then,
should she pose as my friend?
And again, why had she sent me that curious folio of tuneless music?
And now, the thought of Joan’s disappearance, and the utter inability
of the whole police system of England to find the slightest trace of
her, drove me to distraction. I felt myself going mad.
My sole desire was to return to London. I did not undress, for I knew
I could not sleep. Instead, I went down to the night porter, and,
finding that a train left at three o’clock in the morning for London,
I flung my things into my bag, and left by it.
Just before eight o’clock I entered my rooms with my latch-key. Bruce
was about and got me a cup of tea, while I undressed and threw myself
upon my bed.
After drinking the tea I must have fallen asleep, for it was not till
nearly noon, by my little traveling clock at my bedside, that I woke
up in surprise.
Beside my bed were my letters, one of which, by the embossed stamp on
the back, I knew, was from the governor at the House of Commons.
“I am much worried about you, my dear boy,” he wrote. “Come down and
see me! Dine with me at the House to-morrow at eight.”
Dear old pater! I knew that his sole thoughts were of me, and of my
future. No man had ever had a better father than mine. My only regret
was the fierce enmity which existed between Joan’s father and him.
Two other letters I opened contained bills, but a third was in a
square envelope, the address written in a bold hand.
It was Illona’s. I opened it instantly in great expectation.
There was neither address nor date, but on a plain card was written:
“My Adored Husband,--Why did you not keep our appointment in
Kensington Gardens? I was, alas! half an hour late owing to the
motor-car breaking down. I thought you would await me. But I fear you
grew tired, as the rain came on.
“I have much to tell you. Be very careful of your dear self. You have
many enemies, just as I have. Ring me up at the club and let us meet
at the earliest possible instant.
“Your own Illona.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
ACROSS EUROPE
Then the message from Illona, delivered to me in Kensington Gardens,
had been a false one, sent by the Little Countess in order to mislead
me! Why? With what motive?
Angela, or whatever her true name was, evidently had been aware of
Illona’s appointment with me, and had sent the girl with that
cock-and-bull story so that we should be prevented from meeting.
Possibly the delay in Illona’s arrival was purposely brought about by
the woman who had been my enemy on that night in Camberwell.
Whither had she gone with her man friend who called himself Detmold?
She had driven to the Landing Stage at Liverpool, it was true; but,
she might easily have taken the train to London, instead of embarking
upon a boat.
I was to ring up Illona at her club. Again she had failed to give her
address. However, there seemed to be some object in withholding it.
And she evidently believed me to be well aware of it.
This constant strain had brought me well nigh to craziness. Everywhere
I turned some obstacle arose which prevented my learning the truth. My
memory had returned, but at what cost! Would that I had remained in
the state of mental unbalance in which I had existed until that
evening in Rome; for, now that I had lost Joan, my anxiety and grief
bordered on frenzy.
I spent that morning ringing up the many ladies’ clubs. I had never
believed they were so numerous. What name could I ask for save my
own--Hipwell?
From every one of the various feminine social centres came the same
regretful reply that they had no member of that name. When all that
failed, I rang up a number of bridge-clubs in the West End. But, from
several there came no reply as they were closed at that hour of the
day, and from the rest came the usual negative response.
Five minutes later, Bruce brought in a note that had just been
delivered by hand, the envelope of which bore the familiar words, “On
His Britannic Majesty’s Service.” With eager fingers I tore it open,
to find my orders to leave Victoria at two o’clock with dispatches for
Brussels, Berne, and Vienna.
How could I go, when at any moment Illona might ring me up, or call on
me?
I spoke over the telephone to my friend Gordon at the Foreign Office,
begging him to send somebody else.
“I’m really awfully sorry, old boy,” he replied. “But the whole staff
are traveling. Morton will be the first back, but he can’t be in till
Saturday night. He’s on his way home from Constantinople, by
Bucharest. So there’s nobody else to take your place. I’m so awfully
sorry, old chap. I’d do anything to arrange it for you, as you well
know. I’m afraid you really must do this trip. You’ll be back in five
days,” he added.
Five days! What might not happen in that period? Besides, the man
Dufour would be brought up again at Bow Street.
There was no alternative. Already it was past twelve o’clock; so, I
told Bruce to get out my small suit-case, which he always kept packed
with everything I required for a fortnight. Then, I sat down and wrote
a letter of explanation to Illona regarding the appointment in
Kensington Gardens, and what had occurred there. I asked for her
address, and, enclosing the piece of impossible music, I sealed the
envelope with my lapis-lazuli ring and addressed it: “To Illona.”
“Bruce,” I said very seriously. “While I am away, a lady may call--or
she may ring up. Tell her that I shall be back next Wednesday, and ask
her to kindly give you her Christian name. If the name is Illona, give
this letter to her. It is most urgent and important. Perhaps you may
have difficulty in inducing her to give her name, but use tact, and
tell her exactly what I’ve said to you.”
“Yes, sir. I quite understand,” my man replied in his well-trained
manner. “But what kind of lady will she be--old or young, sir?”
That question completely floored me.
“Well, as a matter of fact, Bruce”--I hesitated lamely--“I’ve never
seen the lady. I only know of her.”
“Very well, sir. I will exercise discretion,” he said. And I dashed
out to the Piccadilly, where I swallowed a hasty lunch in the
grill-room. And, just before two o’clock, I entered a _coupé_ of one
of the Pullmans of the first portion of the Continental train, which
had been reserved for me, and into which a porter placed six little
white canvas bags of dispatches. The Foreign Office bags carried by
King’s Messengers always intrigue the traveling public. They imagine
them to be full of State secrets, whereas their contents are mostly
dull, uninteresting Consular reports, Treasury accounts, memoranda,
and perhaps some private letters for Ambassadors to Downing Street,
marked “Per favour of Foreign Office bag.” If all were stolen they
would not amount to much.
Indeed, there is a tradition in the Foreign Office that before the war
a certain Captain Gordon Smith--that was not his real name--one of the
most cheery and most cosmopolitan of the corps of King’s Messengers,
one day discovered, in a locked cupboard in his rooms, a bag of
dispatches that had been there for four years! His man, who had long
since left his service, had found them among his kit on his return one
night from Madrid and had locked them up for safety! Now every bag is
minutely numbered and signed for, both by the messenger on receiving
it and by the secretary at the Embassy abroad, or the official in
charge of incoming dispatches at Downing Street. Hence it is
impossible for a bag to go astray. Yet in this instance somebody
carelessly signed a receipt for so many incoming bags, with the result
that Gordon Smith had one over. The story goes that rather than get
anybody hauled over the coals for negligence, he cut it open, and made
a bonfire in his sitting-room of the whole of the contents, including
the bag itself.
The “crossed dispatch,” as it is known--the secret instructions
intended only for the eye of the representative of His Majesty the
King abroad--is carried on the person of the messenger, who, like
myself, usually has a very serviceable Browning to defend it from any
possible pilferer.
As I settled myself with a magazine, Crawford, the conductor of the
car, looked in, and, wishing me good afternoon, asked if I were
comfortable, while several travelers glanced in with interest at
seeing my little white bags piled in front of me. I have been taken by
tourists to be of many professions. Some have whispered to each other
that I am a bank clerk taking bags of banknotes to Paris. Others think
I am employed by some bookmaker. Still others have thought me to be a
dress-designer, or the runner of an illegal lottery. Then there have
been those who have seen me piled with thirty or forty bags on the big
round which includes Vienna, the Balkan capitals, Athens,
Constantinople, Bucharest, and back. Those people have thought I was
traveling for some great advertising agency to boom American
corn-flakes, or perhaps a traveling circus!
At Dover Maritime, that ever-genial official of the Southern Railway,
Mr. Harvey Beresford--whom every King’s Messenger and most
distinguished travelers know--that energetic, untiring inspector who
is alert to see every outgoing or incoming boat from Calais, Boulogne,
or Ostend--catching sight of me, rushed up and gripped my hand.
“Hulloa, Beresford,” I exclaimed, greeting the smart, nautical-looking
man, who always wore his peaked cap at an angle.
“A long journey this time?” he asked, as we went through the little
side door and strode down to the boat, where a strong wind was
blowing.
My dispatch bags were locked in a deck cabin. And, I stood outside,
chatting with the cheery friend of King’s Messengers and distinguished
travelers. For, the popular Harvey Beresford is the friend of kings,
princes, diplomats, ministers, and the great ones who visit England.
It is his unique job to receive them or wish them God-speed.
The average traveler to and fro the Continent knows him not. He will
see a pleasant, round-faced naval-looking man, who is chatting with a
railway official, an obtrusive man. But he is perhaps the best-known
person to the great ones of our century.
The siren sounded that the mails were on board and had been duly
counted and checked. Electric cranes were still dumping luggage into
the nets. An invitation for a cocktail had been firmly refused by my
old friend, because he was on duty. The captain came along over the
gangway and passed the time of day with us both.
“Well, so long, Mr. Hipwell,” laughed Beresford. “I’m forever on this
quay, but I’m going over at the end of August on a little run round
Belgium; taking the wife. Just a little quiet trip to take me out of
the five-times-a-day cross-Channel traffic. Oh, the tourist rush which
we’re going to have this season! They tell me that Cook’s have over a
hundred guides with parties going to Switzerland alone this season!
But, my dear Mr. Hipwell, when you travel with that firm, you travel
under a master. People may jeer at tourist agencies; but neither of us
does. A ‘Cookite’ of the stage of the ’nineties with the saying,
‘Follow the man from Cook’s’ was humorous. But ‘Cookites’ who go over
by each boat for their holidays are properly fathered from the moment
they leave London till they’re back at Victoria. We can’t say that for
all the travel agencies, can we--eh?”
“I agree, Beresford--I entirely agree,” I said, laughing. He was
always bluff and outspoken, even though so tactful and courteous.
The warning siren blew again. All the baggage had been stowed, and the
steamer was ready to cast off. Only the one gangway remained down, and
crowded around it stood the usual mixed assortment of travelers, from
_chic_ French actresses in rich furs to the usual thin, be-spectacled
Indian civil servants on their return East, accompanied by their
wives.
“Well, good-bye, my dear Beresford,” I said, gripping his hand. Next
moment he nipped nimbly across the gangway just as it was drawn up,
and the vessel moved away.
It was near midnight when, on alighting at Brussels, I gave over two
of the bags and a special dispatch to Carew, the second secretary of
the Embassy, who had come down to the station in the car to meet me.
Until the Ostend-Bâle night express roared in, I stood on the
platform with him. Then, I entered the single berth that had been
reserved for me in the _wagon-lit_, which was to bear me south to
Bâle. There, again, I would be compelled to change for Berne, the
capital of the peaceful little Swiss confederation.
In that narrow little bed, as the train rocked and rolled throughout
the night, along the valleys of the Ardennes and down to Strasburg,
sleep refused to come to my eyes. My thoughts were ever of Joan, and
of my mysterious wife, who begged me to meet her, yet whose
whereabouts I had no means whatever of ascertaining.
My life had become so perplexing, so full of apprehension, with hourly
dread and a terror of dire disaster pending, that, sleeping or waking,
the mystery of Illona was my one concern.
I took my morning coffee in the big frescoed restaurant at Bâle
station, and presently took train with my bags to Berne. There I
delivered one of them at the Legation. Then, driving back to the
station, I went on to Zürich; and thence, that night, caught the
express to Vienna.
My only object was to fulfil my duties and get back to London with all
haste. On arrival at the big, echoing West Bahnhof at Vienna, I took a
taxi to our fine Embassy in the Metternichgasse, and there delivered
my bags and dispatches over to Charlie Denby, the first secretary.
He invited me to remain to dinner, but I declined, and, as a bag was
ready to go back, I flung it into the taxi. I found that I had time to
spare to catch the Orient Express for Paris, so I drove around the
Ring, that wonderful succession of the finest boulevards in all the
world.
I knew Vienna well. At other times I would have been glad of a couple
of days’ enjoyment and rest there after the dusty journey from London.
But that night I merely took a _capuziner_ outside the Prückel Café
in the Stuben-Ring, and then went along to the Stephans-Keller to have
my evening meal, an exquisitely-cooked _goulasch_ with _paprika_,
followed by deliciously thin _palatschinken_. Usually a King’s
Messenger is well versed in foreign dishes, and I fear I was no
exception.
Just after ten o’clock the great Orient Express thundered into the
station on its way from Constantinople to Calais, a dining-car and
four dusty sleeping-cars. The brown-uniformed conductor, who stepped
out, knew me. He saluted, and soon had me comfortably installed.
But hardly had he done so than Charlie Denby breathlessly entered the
car, saying:
“Glad I’ve caught you, Lionel. We’ve just had a wire from the Foreign
Office altering your route. You are to go by the Paris portion from
Wels instead of by Brussels and Ostend. There are dispatches waiting
for you in Paris.”
“Gosh!” I laughed. “What a life one leads on these gridirons of
railways!”
The express waited twenty minutes, therefore my kit and I were quickly
transferred into the _wagon-lit_ for Paris, and Charlie and I had
cocktails in the _wagon-restaurant_.
I looked around at my fellow-travelers. They were mostly commercial
and financial people from the near East, together with one or two
really nice American families, the sort that we Englishmen love to
meet--smart, well-behaved people, with the neatest luggage in the
world.
American travelers can be picked out of millions by reason of their
pleasant looks and the tidiness of their belongings.
As a constant traveler, wherever I go, I meet Americans fathered by
Cook’s, Raymond & Whitcomb, the American Express, and other tourist
firms, who always look after their clients well.
Only King’s Messengers can be true judges of tourist agencies, the
amazing wonders of their organization, and their few failures.
Modern travel is a most complicated affair. No one knows or sees more
of it than the unobtrusive man in a serviceable traveling-coat. It is
the man who invariably eats a modest sandwich in the smoking-room of a
cross-Channel steamer; the most trusted servant of the State; the
messenger who is directly in the service of his Sovereign.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
“A LADY TO SEE YOU, SIR!”
Fagged and weary, I slept until the conductor brought me my coffee
and biscuits.
“Laroche, m’sieur!” he said. And I knew we were fast approaching
Paris. I pulled aside the blind, and saw the familiar long lines of
poplars and the flat, uninteresting landscape.
I shaved and dressed leisurely, for I had no reason to go to the
Embassy. The dispatches would be brought to me; for the Orient Express
ended its long journey at Calais.
As we ran into Paris, I saw Pallant, one of the attachés, a tall,
well-set-up figure, waiting with his driver, carrying two little white
bags. Through the open window of my sleeping-berth I waved, perhaps
rather wearily. And, in a few moments he joined me, followed by the
chauffeur.
“Glad we got you, Hipwell,” he said. “There’s been a lot of trouble.
All you fellows seem to be traveling just now.”
“Why didn’t Farmer go over to London?” I asked. “He’s always ready for
a couple of days in town.”
“Got the ’flu, my dear fellow. If not, you bet Gerry would be the
first to run over. They told us over the ’phone from Downing Street
that you were in Vienna, so I wired to divert your journey here.”
“Thanks for nothing, my dear Pallant,” I laughed. “Anything special?”
I asked, looking at the two ordinary little white canvas bags.
“Oh! yes,” he said. “I quite forgot,” and from his pocket he took one
of the familiar narrow, blue envelopes with a cross printed on it. And
he presented an official form for my signature, which I scribbled off,
hurriedly.
“Nearly forgot what you came for!” I laughed.
The moment I entered my rooms that evening, Bruce met me on the
threshold, saying:
“Mr. Gell has just rung up. He wants you to go to Queen’s Gate the
moment you arrive.”
“And has the lady Illona called?”
“No, sir,” was his reply, and I saw the note still lying upon my
table.
After a hasty wash, I jumped into a taxi in Piccadilly and drove to
Joan’s father. Had he news of her, I wondered?
The moment we met, I saw that the whereabouts of my beloved was still
a mystery.
“That fellow Dufour has been brought up at Bow Street again this
afternoon,” he said. “The police know that he is an associate of
criminals, but he refused to disclose where his wife was, declaring
that she had left him and he did not know her whereabouts. The proper
course would be to commit him for trial, but I hear the police think
they can learn more if he were discharged. They could then watch his
movements.”
“And allow him to slip through their hands as the fellow Owen has
done?” I laughed.
“That’s just it! They hope to catch both in the end,” said the well
known barrister. “My own idea is, that Dufour shot the young scoundrel
Wilson out of revenge.”
“He surely didn’t run away with Dufour’s wife, eh?” I hazarded.
“By jove! I never thought of that,” he cried. “That might certainly
have been the motive.”
“Yet, in any case, it brings us no nearer the solution of the problem
of poor Joan,” I remarked.
“No,” he said, in a low, despondent tone. “Oh, if we could only find
some clue as to where she really is! The police seem to regard the
matter as hopeless.”
I remained silent. Was she dead, or did she still live? Of one thing I
felt more than ever convinced, that the decoying of her away had been
directed against me. My enemies, of whom Illona had warned me, had
executed a vile and subtle plot in which I felt confident the man Owen
was implicated. If he were the honest man he pretended to be, he would
not have been an associate of the young thief, Tuggy Wilson; nor,
finding himself watched, would he have so cleverly slipped away into
obscurity.
Again, what was his true connection with Lisely Hatten who, with such
amazing success, had imposed on me? And what could be the mysterious
significance of that beautiful piece of clear, blue aquamarine with
the double nought on it? Its receipt, no doubt, was some pre-arranged
signal. In any case, my beloved Joan had fallen helpless and
defenseless into the hands of my enemies.
Next day I heard from Mr. Gell that Dufour had been discharged from
custody, owing to the lack of sufficient evidence. I knew that
Scotland Yard would keep a very wary eye on him in the hope that he
might meet the fugitive Owen.
Two days later, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, I was seated
in my room with Teddy Day discussing the situation, when I heard a
ring, and Bruce entered, saying:
“There’s a lady to see you, sir. She objects to giving her name.”
I rose in quick surprise, whereat Teddy took up his hat, and, making
an excuse, left.
“Show her in,” I said, the instant my friend had gone.
Next moment I could scarce believe my eyes. Upon the threshold stood
Angela--the Little Countess!
In an instant I recovered myself, determined not to allow her to know
that my brain had returned to its normal balance. What could her visit
to me portend?
“My dear Contessina!” I cried, rushing forward to greet her
enthusiastically. “This is a surprise, indeed! Do come in and sit
down.”
She laughed merrily, a dainty figure, in a cool summer gown of
pearl-grey _crêpe-de-chine_.
“I thought I should surprise you, Signor Hipwell,” said the woman who
had successfully prevented me from meeting Illona, and whom I knew to
be my enemy.
It was strange, I could not help thinking, that from the first moment
of the recovery of my senses in Rome, I felt certain that I had met
her somewhere previously. It was strange, too, I contemplated, that
not until I had stood with Owen, had I actually awakened to the fact
that she and the City typist, whose associates were such desperate
criminals, were identical.
“I have first to thank you for carrying out your promise to me,” said
the slim, pretty girl who had so attracted me in Rome, and whose
movements were so suspicious. As she sat in my arm-chair she certainly
did not look like a criminal.
“I found Mr. Owen and delivered to him that pretty cut aquamarine.
What a delightful pendant it was!”
“Yes,” she said carelessly. “Rather pretty. But the reason I’ve dared
to call on you is because my friend Mr. Owen is missing. He
disappeared early one morning, his man tells me, and has not
returned.”
I pretended surprise, at the same time feeling that she was misleading
me with some purpose of her own. I did not forget that she was my
worst enemy. Nevertheless, it still seemed that, from the fact that I
had discovered her at that assembly in Camberwell, she feared lest I
should inform the police.
I remembered that it was she who had suggested that horrible
punishment of putting out my eyes, and yet she had not carried out her
brutal suggestion. Why? And why, instead, had she given me a drug that
had paralyzed certain cells of my brain?
“Is there any reason why Mr. Owen should have disappeared?” I asked,
with feigned ignorance.
“Not in the least, as far as I know,” she replied, unaware that I knew
of her visit to Liverpool, and how she had tricked me by sending the
young manicurist to Kensington Gardens. “Of course, he may have gone
to Turin, expecting to find me there.”
“He knew you were in Turin?” I asked.
“Yes. I let him know that. He had begged to see me,” she replied, with
her slight foreign accent.
Then, in order to change the subject, and to allow her to reveal the
true reason of her visit to me, I asked:
“And how are all our mutual friends in Rome? How did you leave them?”
She shifted uneasily. Did she suspect that I had recognized her? I
hoped not, for I strove to pretend ignorance; to pretend to know her
only as the Contessina Angela Ugostini.
“Oh! Most of them have left Rome--all who can. It is getting hot
there. But the staffs of the Embassies have to remain. Some of them
have gone to the Tuscan mountains, the French Ambassador and his wife
are at Vallombrosa, and the Spanish is at Montecatini for the cure,
while the Ruspolis are at the sea at Livorno, and my aunt is at Santa
Margherita.”
“And the political situation?” I asked, handing her a cigarette and
lighting it. I felt that she was hesitating to reveal the true object
of coming to me. Perhaps by putting her at her ease, I might yet
disarm her.
Through the rising tobacco smoke, she regarded me strangely, with
half-closed eyes. And, after a brief pause, she spoke:
“You know, Signor Hipwell, quite as much as I do of the seriousness of
the situation--much more, no doubt.”
Her manner had strangely changed, and it surprised me.
“It is growing worse, eh?” I asked.
“You have not been again to Italy since the morning we met in the
church?” she asked.
“No, Contessina,” I replied. “Had I been, I should surely have
endeavored to find you.”
She smiled contentedly, for my polite words made it appear that I
still believed her to be the aristocratic character she had assumed,
and that, even now, my mind remained sufficiently disordered not to
associate her with the virago in Camberwell.
“I should have been very delighted indeed to have met you again,
Signor Hipwell,” she said, looking at me lazily through the smoke of
her cigarette. “After Rome I went to the Lake of Garda, then back to
Florence and Venice. Then to Milan, and here.”
“And the Contessina is as well known and popular in all those places
as in Rome,” I added smiling.
“On the contrary,” she declared. “Only in Florence I went out once or
twice into society. But I found it not nearly such a nice,
cosmopolitan, and friendly circle as in the capital. I have an uncle
living up at Fiesole.”
“A delightful quarter,” I remarked. “I had a relative living there a
few years ago.”
“Ah, yes!” she sighed, as though in regret. “Italy is very beautiful
and full of charm. It is only one’s bitter memories that sometimes
rise to mar its recollections.”
“That can be said of all countries, Contessina,” I remarked.
“Yes. I suppose you, on your constant travels, meet with many amorous
adventures which cause you to ponder on your return, and sometimes
regret, eh?” she laughed.
“I don’t plead guilty to amorous adventures,” I said, fencing with
her, and wondering still if the object of her call was to satisfy
herself that my memory was not yet restored. “My whole life was
wrapped up in political aspirations until I got dumped into my present
official position.”
“A very responsible one--one of the most responsible surely,” said the
neat little lady who, in her Paris gown, looked so _chic_ and unlike
the skirted and bloused City typist, as I had first known her.
Two and a half years had wrought a marvelous change in her. The
chrysalis of a working-class world had evolved into a gay butterfly of
fashion. When I recalled our humble breakfasts together, and her rush
to the office, I could scarcely believe it possible that she was one
and the same.
Yet, as you may well imagine, it exercised all my tact and will power
still to make pretense of ignorance of the past.
The girl was my enemy--my bitterest enemy. Why then should she come
there to my rooms and pose as my friend? Why should she whine to me
over the disappearance of her lover of the euphonious name of Roddy
Owen--the name of a great and popular sportsman of the ’nineties?
I handed her another cigarette; for, she had settled herself
comfortably in my big bachelor chair. Her neat, silk-encased legs, and
smart, well-fitting shoes which so perfectly matched her stockings,
were stretched out in perfect relaxation.
I managed to keep my head, in the strained circumstances of knowing
full well that my pretty visitor was only posing as my friend.
It was nearly four o’clock; so, finding that I could discover nothing
further, I suggested that we should stroll round to the Carlton lounge
for tea. Together we went along Piccadilly, down the Haymarket, into
the palm court where we sat at one of the little well-known tables.
And she poured out tea for me.
The Carlton teas differ not at all from the teas served in other
_hôtels-de-luxe_ in any part of the world with their orchestras--the
_bêtes noires_ of every constant world-traveler.
At last, with trepidation, I ventured to say:
“Haven’t we had enough of this, Angela?”
“I agree. I hate these tea-dancings.” Then, after a few moments’
pause, in which she looked straight into my eyes--the first time she
had ever been straightforward to me--she added:
“Will you take me back to your rooms, Signor Hipwell? I--I--well, I
want to speak very confidentially and openly to you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
ANGELA IS FRANK
When we were back again at Sackville Street and she was reseated, I
stood upon the hearth-rug and gazed at her expectantly.
I knew well she was testing me in order to reassure herself that
memory of the past had not returned to me, that I still failed to
recognize her. By dint of great effort I had kept up the fiction. Yet
it was difficult to pretend friendship when I knew her to be my most
dangerous enemy.
I wanted to ask her why she had interfered with my meeting with
Illona, and why she had sent me that scrap of false music. Yet how
could I do so without disclosing what I knew?
“Well,” I said at last. “What have you to say to me, Angela?” And I
waited for lies to fall from her lips.
“I want to speak to you of something that closely concerns both of
us,” she said, in a quiet, changed voice. “You know that Roddy is
missing, and I am extremely anxious to find him. Have you the
slightest idea why he should be missing, or of the motive?”
And she fixed her eyes straight upon mine.
“How should I?” my surprise at her question was genuine, but at the
same time I realized her cleverness in trying to trick me into
admitting secret knowledge of her friend.
“I thought you were friendly with him.”
“Only in consequence of the interview I had with him on your behalf,”
was my reply.
“I thought he knew a lady friend of yours--a Miss Gell,” she said, as
though speaking to herself.
“Did he know her?” I cried, in quick anxiety.
“I have heard so,” she answered. “So I thought you might know
something concerning his mysterious disappearance. Has Miss Gell told
you nothing?”
“No, nothing.”
“Ah! That is curious,” my visitor said.
“No, not curious in the least,” I blurted forth. “Miss Gell is also
missing and cannot be found.”
The Little Countess started.
“Miss Gell also missing!” she gasped. “Then they might both have gone
away together, eh?”
“I think not, because Joan disappeared some time before Owen.”
The girl masquerading as daughter of an Italian count paused for some
time, her eyes upon the empty grate.
“Look here, Signor Hipwell,” she said at last. “Let us be frank with
each other.”
“I am entirely frank,” I ventured.
“I mean, let us act in each other’s interests. Each of us has a friend
who seems to have dissolved into space. Why cannot we help each other
and tell the truth as far as we know it?” Then, after another pause,
she looked at me strangely and added, “I can tell you something if you
tell me what you know concerning Roddy.”
“Do you know anything about Joan?” I asked eagerly. “Tell me.”
“When you have told me what you know about Roddy,” was her firm reply.
“That is a bargain.”
“But I know so little,” I declared with truth. “I only heard that
early one morning he left his flat and has not been seen since.”
“That I know. But who informed you?”
I hesitated a moment. There was an agreement between us that we should
each tell what we knew.
“I was told by the police,” I said.
“The police!” she cried, starting up in genuine alarm. “Are they after
him?”
“I think so.”
“For what reason?” she asked breathlessly. “Tell me all you know about
the affair. Remember our compact.”
“Your friend Owen, I believe, was on terms of friendship with a young
man known in certain circles as Tuggy Wilson.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, Owen and the latter were in Fulham one night when Wilson was
shot dead by somebody unknown.”
“Tuggy dead!” she cried, staring at me in astonishment.
“Yes. It was in the papers.”
“I was in Italy and saw nothing of it. Surely they didn’t suspect
Roddy of murdering him?”
“No. A man named Dufour, a foreign waiter, was arrested; but, there
being no evidence, he was discharged.”
“Dufour!” she echoed. “But of what did the police suspect Roddy?”
“Of being an accomplice of Wilson, whose finger-prints, taken after
death, proved him to be an expert thief, well known to the police.”
“Impossible that Roddy should be an associate of such people!”
declared the girl, whom I knew herself to be a member of a most
desperate international gang.
“Now Wilson was, to your knowledge, a thief?” I asked, whereupon she
replied:
“I have heard so. Do they suspect the man Dufour?”
“Yes. He tried to escape abroad from Southampton, but was arrested.”
“And he has been discharged,” she said, in a tone of relief.
“Yes. There was no evidence,” I replied, but I did not tell her that
his every movement was being carefully watched.
“I cannot understand why the police should suspect Roddy,” said the
pretty woman, seated with her hands lying idly in her lap.
“Because it was known that he was a friend of the dead man.”
“But he would never have slipped away from the police. There could be
no motive.”
“Not if he were innocent of any hand in the affair,” I ventured to
remark.
“Then you think he had a hand in Tuggy’s murder?” she exclaimed,
regarding me resentfully.
“Not at all,” I assured her. “I only follow the police views that he
discovered they were watching, and grew frightened.”
“But he might have fallen a victim of his enemies just as your girl
friend has done,” she said.
“What do you know about Joan?” I asked quickly. “Tell me. I have told
all I know about Owen.”
“What you have told me concerning him, Signor Hipwell, has made plain
to me many things that were mysterious. It has opened my eyes, and
given me a clue to much that was perplexing. I can only thank you for
it,” she said, in a quiet, strained voice. “I quite see what fear
would fall upon Roddy when young Wilson was killed by some unknown
person. The reason of his disappearance is now quite clear to me. I
only hope that the police will relax their vigilance in due course,
and that he will be able to escape abroad without further trouble. He
is, I am sure, quite innocent.”
“You mentioned that he was a friend of Joan’s; this is entirely new to
me. How did you know that?”
“He wrote me a long time ago, saying he had met her, and that she was
your fiancée.”
“How long ago?”
“Oh, quite a year now.”