BY ORDER OF THE CZAR
Swift as the cab was, Westerham only caught the boat-train by a minute,
and at that without a ticket.
He had then two hours for calm reflection, and to some extent
self-reproach. Never in his life before had he been so unnerved, and
the expressions of irritation which he had made at the Buckingham
Palace Hotel before Dunton did not seem to him good.
He saw that his was not a fit state of mind to be in if he intended to
steer safely through the troubled waters ahead of him.
Some things were growing clearer to his mind. More and more he was
coming to realise the clever, if circuitous, means by which Melun was
seeking to break down Lady Kathleen's resistance and render his own
task harder.
But this new move disturbed him more than any which had yet been made.
He could find no reason for the scene of the conflict being suddenly
transferred from England to France, unless, indeed, Melun had at last
come to the conclusion that Westerham was too dangerous a man to play
with.
Soon he saw, however, that speculation was utterly useless. All his
efforts must be concentrated upon his finding Lady Kathleen, and if
necessary compelling her by sheer force to capitulate and take him into
her confidence.
He set his heart upon this so strongly that he persuaded himself that
there were no difficulties in his way. It would be strange indeed if,
when the moment came, he would not be able to induce Lady Kathleen
to reveal those things which up to then she had so obstinately and
persistently hid.
The night was calm, and the passage to Dieppe a smooth one, but on the
quay Westerham received a sharp demonstration that the difficulties
which he had mentally brushed aside nevertheless remained to be
grappled with in actual fact.
To begin with, he had no luggage. He did not even possess an overcoat,
and as it had come on to rain, and for the sake of greater freedom of
thought he had remained on deck, his appearance was already travel-worn
and bedraggled.
Small wonder, therefore, that as he presented the ticket with which he
had been provided at Newhaven the officials of the _douane_ regarded
him with keen suspicion.
“Monsieur has nothing to declare?” they asked.
He could only shrug his shoulders and say:
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
To avoid further questionings he added: “I have not even an overcoat.”
They looked him up and down, and his appearance inspired a certain
amount of respect. None the less, they took counsel together, and with
an ever-watchful eye Westerham saw them approach a portly person of an
intensely British aspect.
Presently this individual came up to him and asked in most unmistakably
English terms what Westerham's destination might be.
Westerham told the man shortly that his destination was Rouen.
“You must excuse me, sir,” said the man, whom Westerham guessed to be a
Scotland Yard representative at the port of Dieppe, “but it is rather
unusual for gentlemen to travel without luggage and without even so
much as an overcoat. It is even more curious,” he added, “when they
start on a journey without first taking a ticket.”
Westerham surveyed the man coolly with a faintly insolent air. He was
coming to realise that whereas in ordinary times the consciousness
of his own good faith enabled him to pass every barrier with the
superiority born of an easy conscience, it required some brazenness to
face obstructions of this sort when he had a desire for secrecy.
And the fat man was evidently shrewd. He might take life easily on the
quay, and watch with thoughtful and even drowsy eyes the coming and
going of innumerable English voyagers, but for all that his alertness
only slept, and though he had an instinctive trust of Westerham's face
and manner, still he could not deny that appearances were against the
Englishman who travelled so unprovided for a journey and with such
evident haste.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “you will excuse my being
persistent in making inquiries, for, after all, that is only my duty.”
“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a genial smile, “and how can I help
you to do it?”
With some pomposity of manner the English detective produced a fat
note-book.
“I'm afraid,” he said, “that I must ask you to give me your name.”
Westerham smiled a little to himself to think how futile was such a
precaution on the man's part. He was at liberty to give him what name
he chose; he could give him the first name that came into his head.
“I think,” he laughed, “that for safety's sake you had better call me
Charles Grey, though how on earth you are to ascertain whether that is
my real name or not I confess I cannot see.”
The fat detective sucked in his lips and wrote the name laboriously in
his book.
“After all,” he said, with some asperity, “people who give wrong names
and addresses seldom come to any good.”
“I suppose not,” said Westerham, and walked a little moodily towards
the train. He paid the guard handsomely enough to warrant the man's not
forgetting to call him at Rouen. But still Westerham felt that he had
so much at stake that he could leave nothing to chance, and so he sat
upright, wakeful and watchful, while the train rushed through the apple
trees of Normandy to the old cathedral city.
When he arrived there it was raining hard, and he was conscious that
he was again an object of suspicion as he stood on the steps of the
station looking about him in search of a _fiacre_.
No vehicle was in sight, and Westerham set himself to tramp up the
hill to the Hôtel de la Cloche, at which he had stayed long years
before, and of which he still entertained a lively recollection of its
cleanness and its quaintness.
The hotel slept, and Westerham heard the bell pealing through the
silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.
Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a
shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp morning air.
The sight of Westerham's tall figure drew his immediate attention.
“What does Monsieur require?” he asked in accents which were at once
civil and surprised.
“Let me in,” said Westerham, “and I will do my best to explain.”
The man switched on the electric light, and Westerham, treading warily
on the polished parquet floor, made his way to a seat. He was feeling
fatigued and not a little miserable.
First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from
his pocket and slipping them into the man's hand.
“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” he said. “I am not a
fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost
his friends and who is in search of them.
“Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a very tall young English
lady with dark hair and dark eyes? It is possible that she is
travelling _incognito_, but if she has given her right name it will be
the Lady Kathleen Carfax.”
The man scratched his head and looked worried.
“I would help Monsieur if I could,” he said, “but I can only assure him
that there is no English lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the
season is very bad, and we have few English visitors.”
That Lady Kathleen was not at the Hôtel de la Cloche did not disconcert
Westerham very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly likely to
stay in the most prominent hotel in the town. He had merely called
there because he knew that if one wishes to make one's path smooth in
a foreign city it is just as well first to win the confidence of some
hotel porter.
“It is many years,” he said to the man, “since I stayed here. In fact,
I have practically no recollection of Rouen except of this hotel and
the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could
furnish me with a complete list of all the hotels where English people
are likely to be found.”
“Why now,” said the man, “that is an exceedingly simple affair.” And he
rattled off a list of hotels.
Westerham repeated them after him, but found he could not remember so
many. Therefore he wrote them down.
“And you think,” he asked, “that this is a complete list?”
“Quite complete, I should say,” said the man, “for Monsieur's purpose.”
With a weary air Westerham rose from the cane-backed chair on which he
was seated.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said to the porter, “but I must
go in search of this lady at once.”
The man spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture. “It is still
very dark,” he said, “and Monsieur will find the hotels closed.
Moreover, I do not wish to be rude to Monsieur, all the night porters
may not be so accommodating as myself.
“Permit me to help Monsieur,” he went on. “Monsieur will pardon me, but
possibly this may be some romance.”
He shrugged his shoulders again, but with such an air of civility and
respect that Westerham could not quarrel with him.
“At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is
merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a little while
I make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur
against the damp air.”
Laughing a little, Westerham sat down again, and suffered the man to
bustle about. The fellow was deft indeed, and soon Westerham was glad
that he had listened to his counsel.
The dawn came up, and the porter turned the lights out, and Westerham
sat in the twilight of the early morning smoking more or less
contentedly cigarettes of the Caporal brand.
Shortly after six the man, who had been busy cleaning boots, returned
and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming into the
room.
“If Monsieur is in haste,” he said, “I will not seek to detain him.
By this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur's mission is
urgent he should continue his search.”
His air was so friendly and so charming that Westerham resorted to the
only expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave
the man another five shillings, and pledged him to silence. None the
less, he had little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. The
Frenchman must talk.
Thereafter Westerham went out into the fresh morning air and began
his search. In turn he visited the Hôtel de la Poste, the Grand, the
Europe, and the rest of them.
It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious
and still sleepy porters, but by the time he had worked through the
list of hotels with which the man at the Hôtel de la Cloche had
provided him he had come to the conclusion that Lady Kathleen was of a
certainty not in one of these hostelries.
Was she still in Rouen? The doubt troubled Westerham greatly, but he
reflected that she might have elected to put up at a more humble hotel
than any of those at which he had called. So with the assistance of a
fairly friendly policeman he secured a second and much longer list of
minor inns.
The search, too, was successful. In a small and narrow street he
discovered a small hotel which went by the name of the République.
Here his question put to the plump Madame who opened the door at once
kindled interest.
“Yes, there was most decidedly an English lady staying there—a young
English lady of most distinguished appearance. She had arrived about
noon on the day before, and said she intended to stay there for a
couple of days, as she expected friends.”
“Had the friends arrived?”
“No, not as yet. Perhaps Monsieur was the friend for whom she waited?”
Westerham doubted that, and found the situation a trifle awkward to
explain.
“No,” he said to the fat Madame, he was not the friend whom
Mademoiselle had come to meet. He was, however, an acquaintance, and
would call later in the day.
Contenting himself with this, he lifted his hat and strolled down the
street, followed by the shrewd eyes of the landlady.
He walked on until he felt sure he was no longer observed; then he
walked back again.
On the opposite side of the street to the République, a few doors up,
he discovered a _café_ of humble aspect, provided with tables beneath
an awning at which the thirsty could sit and refresh themselves.
At one of these tables Westerham took a chair, and at the risk of
violent indigestion called for more coffee. He sat and sipped the sweet
and chicory-flavoured liquid and turned about in his mind the best
means of discovering the reason of Lady Kathleen's visit to Rouen.
He debated with himself whether it would not be better to go boldly
over to the hotel and make his presence known; but he reflected that
such a course might be unwise, more especially as Kathleen might still
elect to remain silent on the mystery which still so much perplexed
him. Indeed, his presence might result in her abandoning the business
which had called her so suddenly from London.
As time went on he glanced up and down the street, watching everyone's
approach with interest. Westerham half expected to see the face of
Melun. Instead, however, towards half-past eight his attention was
aroused by the appearance of a man whose aspect was out of keeping with
the little street.
The stranger was above middle height, and bore himself with a certain
air of quiet dignity. He was dressed in black, his clothes being well
cut, though of obviously foreign tailoring.
It was the man's face, however, which riveted Westerham's attention.
It was very dark, and the nose was somewhat flat. Yet it was a face of
great refinement and a distinction accentuated in a strange way by a
long, black, and well-trimmed beard.
The man was not a Frenchman, nor, Westerham decided, was he a German;
certainly he was not an Italian nor an Austrian. A subtle something
about the man's whole appearance, indeed, brought Westerham to the
conclusion that he was a Russian.
Yet why he fixed his nationality this way he could not tell, and then
that intuition which was Westerham's great aid in times of trouble
told him that this dignified and daintily-walking stranger was in some
manner connected with Lady Kathleen's presence at the Hôtel de la
République.
So certain of this did he become that he took the precaution of drawing
further back into the _café_, where he could sit in the shadows and
watch the passage of the stranger without arousing any interest himself.
Twice the black-bearded man walked up the street, glancing sharply at
the République, and twice he walked back with the same meditative and
dilatory air. Then he turned the corner and disappeared.
The patron of the inn busied himself about the _café_, and, seemingly
curious about the visitor's long sojourn, Westerham ordered a further
supply of the chicory-like coffee.
As the morning wore on so the sunshine became stronger, till the
cobbles in the little streets shone hard and bright in the glare.
At ten Westerham's glance was attracted by some bustle about the door
of the inn, and he saw the fat landlady bowing and scraping on the
white doorstep, and then out of the shadows into the sunshine came the
girl he had come to find.
Dressed all in black and thickly veiled, Lady Kathleen came quickly out
of the doorway and walked down the street.
Westerham, who had taken the precaution to previously settle his score,
immediately rose and walked after her.
The street was so narrow and there were so many people about that he
had to follow Kathleen pretty closely in order to avoid losing her. He
noted with some surprise that she walked straight ahead, as though of
prearranged purpose, never faltering and never so much as glancing to
the right or to the left.
He followed her down the hill, and so into the space about the
cathedral, where busy women were setting out their wares—poultry,
pottery, vegetables and the like.
More than one head was turned to note the quick, silent passage of Lady
Kathleen. Hers, indeed, was a physique which could not have escaped
notice, no matter what its surroundings.
On the market-square, having a clearer view before him, Westerham
slackened his pace and allowed Lady Kathleen to increase the distance
between them.
Still she walked straight ahead, as one who follows an oft-trodden path
and knows full well whither that path leads.
She moved up the cathedral steps, and as she did so Westerham saw
approaching the sombre figure of the black-bearded man whose presence
in the little street by the Hôtel de la République had aroused his
interest earlier in the morning.
But though their steps were evidently leading them to the same spot,
neither the black-bearded man nor Lady Kathleen made the least sign.
The girl passed into the cathedral, the man following closely on her
heels.
In fear of losing sight of them Westerham almost ran across the square
and darted up the cathedral steps. But for all his speed his feet fell
silently, so that neither the girl nor the man, who now walked by her
side, heard his quick pursuit.
Once in the cathedral, Westerham paused to accustom his eyes to the
dimness of the light.
Far up the nave he could see the man and the girl walking side by side.
Then they turned from the nave into the north aisle and made their way
thence into one of the dark recesses of a side chapel.
As he watched them vanish into the shadows Westerham paused.
He felt that he was spying, and the task was an uncongenial one, but he
comforted himself with the reflection that, after all, he played the
spy out of a desire to serve Lady Kathleen, and he walked on.
He saw that it would be impossible for him to approach the side chapel
by the same way as Lady Kathleen had if he wished to remain unobserved.
So he turned aside and drew near to the chapel by another way,
sheltering himself behind the pillars, which cast black shadows on the
floor.
Westerham was following his old stalking habit, which he had acquired
when in pursuit of big game among the giant pines of the Rockies. Yet
with all his care he almost blundered into his quarry. For, as he moved
silently round a pillar, he became conscious that he was so near to
Lady Kathleen that he could have stretched out his hand and touched her.
In an instant he drew back and stood still behind a massive column. He
could see nothing, but he could hear the voices of the girl and her
companion in low and earnest conversation.
At first it was the man who did most of the talking, and from what
scraps of his words he could catch Westerham judged him to be speaking
in French. He droned on for some minutes, and then his voice died away.
Lady Kathleen now asked several questions in quiet, low tones. The man
answered sharply and incisively, and it seemed to Westerham that there
was command in his voice.
For a while there was a complete silence, which at last was broken by
long, choking sobs. Edging a little nearer round the pillar, Westerham
saw Kathleen kneeling upon a _prie-dieu_ as though in an abandonment of
grief. She was crying as though her heart would break, her face buried
in her hands.
The sombre man stood by like some tall shadow, silent and unmoving.
A quick and great desire to go to Kathleen's aid, to gather her into
his arms and comfort her, took possession of Westerham. But great as
his desire was, he forced it down, recognising that the moment had not
come for him to intervene.
Presently the sombre man moved closer to Lady Kathleen's side, and,
putting out a gloved hand, touched her lightly, and with the air of one
offering silent sympathy, on the shoulder.
Westerham heard him murmuring what must have been words of comfort,
and before long Kathleen lifted her face and resolutely wiped away her
tears. Then she rose and went forward to the altar, on the steps of
which she knelt and prayed.
Finally she came back to the black-bearded man and held out her hand,
and Westerham saw with still growing wonder that the man bent over it
as though with great respect and brushed Kathleen's fingers with his
lips. Without any further word Kathleen walked quickly and quietly
away, making for the door through which she had entered the cathedral.
The man, with a little sigh, picked up his hat and followed her,
Westerham hard upon his heels.
Outside in the sunshine, Westerham watched Kathleen make across the
square by the way which she had come. Her companion turned abruptly to
the right and walked rapidly away.
Westerham followed Kathleen back till she came to the Hôtel de la
République, when she disappeared through the doorway.
Once again Westerham took his seat at a table underneath the awning of
the _café_ that he might watch developments.
And if on the night before he had been completely unable to understand
the reasons which had taken Lady Kathleen to Rouen, he was infinitely
more out of his mental depths now. This sombrely-attired, black-bearded
man could not possibly be any tool of Melun's. Melun did not employ
gentlemen, and that this man was one Westerham did not doubt. For two
hours he sat and watched the doorway and the street; but no one either
came or went whom Westerham could even distantly connect with Lady
Kathleen.
All the while he sat there he suffered great agony of mind. It was
torture to him to think that not a score of yards away Kathleen sat
alone and in great distress, and that he was powerless to comfort her.
Yet was he powerless? He could at least make one more attempt to help
her. With this resolve he crossed the road and asked to see the English
lady staying there.
He sent up no name, deeming it wiser not to do so. He recognised that
Kathleen was of that type of woman who, if danger threatens, must know
the worst at once. She would be curious to discover the identity of the
stranger who sought an audience with her, and would ask him to go up.
In this opinion he was justified, for the fat landlady came down and
said that the English mademoiselle would be pleased to see him. He went
quietly up the stairs, and without so much as knocking at the door
walked into the little sitting-room which Kathleen had engaged.
As she beheld him she started back with a quick cry of terror. “Even
here!” she exclaimed. “Must you follow me even here?”
Westerham bowed his head. Now that he found himself in her presence
explanation became difficult. For a few minutes he could say nothing
but stood watching Kathleen, who had sunk down into a chair as if
utterly worn out in body and in spirit.
Westerham gathered himself together and came to the conclusion that the
time had now come when he at any rate should no longer continue to make
mysteries.
“Lady Kathleen,” he said, “I owe you a deep apology for following you
here. I learnt of your visit to Rouen quite by accident from my friend,
Lord Dunton.”
“Your friend, Lord Dunton!” exclaimed Kathleen with wide-open eyes.
“Your friend, Lord Dunton! What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Westerham, simply, “that Lord Dunton is my friend. You
know me as James Robinson, a man who, in order to secure acquaintance
with yourself, had to indulge in the very questionable privilege of a
friendship with Melun.
“It was, believe me, quite by accident I discovered that Melun in some
way held your father in his grasp. I was sorry for Lord Penshurst, but
infinitely more sorry for you. I offered you my help, but you refused
it. It was, perhaps, impertinent on my part, and I cannot blame you for
doubting the genuineness of my offer. I was not then in a position to
explain either my motives or my identity.
“‘James Robinson’ is not my name. I am, as a matter of fact, the
Sir Paul Westerham who was reported to have disappeared from the
_Gigantic_.”
Lady Kathleen was staring at him in greater astonishment than before.
“It was my whim—possibly a foolish whim—to vanish as I did. I cannot
possibly regret it, because I think it has really placed me in a
position to help you out of your difficulties. I want you to treat me
with that confidence which, I assure you, I really deserve. I stand in
no fear of Melun, nor, indeed, of any man. Melun is simply in my pay. I
bought his services for my own ends, and I can equally buy his services
for yours.”
He paused and watched Lady Kathleen closely. She appeared utterly
unstrung, and clasped her head tightly with both hands.
“I can hardly understand what it all means,” she said at last in a dull
voice.
“It simply means this,” urged Westerham, quietly, “that I am an honest
man and a gentleman; and if you could only tell me what it is of which
you and your father are so much afraid, I feel perfectly certain that
with the hold I have over Melun I could free you from your trouble.”
Kathleen searched his face with her eyes eagerly and yet fearfully.
“You must forgive me,” she said, “but I have no reason to believe any
man. I am sorry, but it is impossible for me to believe you even now.”
She paused and then cried out again: “No, no! it is quite impossible!
Besides, surely if you have been with Melun so much, and seen so much,
you must know what this dreadful thing is all about.”
“I give you my word,” said Westerham, “that I do not know.”
Again Kathleen answered: “I am sorry, but I cannot believe you.”
Suddenly her face was flooded with colour. “You followed me here,” she
cried, “and saw the man who spoke to me, and yet you still tell me that
you do not know! Do not know that while I can save my father I am lost!
“Don't you know,” she cried again hysterically, “that in the cathedral
I received my sentence of death? For it means death to me! I cannot
face dishonour!”
Wild and uncontrolled as the girl's words were, there was a convincing
ring of truth in them, and Westerham for the first time in his life
knew what fear meant.
“But who,” he asked with dry lips, “who in this world could possibly
have the power to order you such a fate?”
“You know!” cried Kathleen, fiercely, her eyes starting from their
sockets in terror, “you must know that it is by order of the Czar!”