STRANGE HAPPENINGS
“By order of the Czar!”
Westerham repeated the words, and his face was blank in its amazement.
Lady Kathleen caught his expression and her own face changed. She saw
that Westerham's surprise was entirely genuine. She saw that he did not
know!
“By order of the Czar!”
Westerham repeated the words again, groping for some explanation of
this extraordinary statement. He could find none. This, indeed, was the
greatest mystery of all.
When he had slightly collected himself he drew a chair to the table and
sat down heavily, facing Lady Kathleen.
“Don't you think,” he asked, “that we had better be plain with each
other?”
Lady Kathleen's face was now a blank, as his own had been two minutes
ago.
Almost roughly she brushed away the tears from her cheeks with the back
of her hand, and set her mouth and squared her shoulders as though
about to do battle.
“I cannot understand it,” she said. “I cannot understand it at all.
I had to distrust you, and so, though you declared you knew nothing,
I did not believe you. But even if you know nothing it does not help
us in the least. I am not able to disclose anything at all. It's my
father's secret—not mine.”
Gently and persuasively Westerham urged her to tell him how the matter
affected herself. But she declined, and remained obdurate to the close
of the interview.
Before he ceased his pleading, however, Westerham counselled her to
tell her father all that had passed, and begged her to urge Lord
Penshurst to send for him the moment she arrived back in London.
This Kathleen consented to do, although she pointed out that her father
would in all probability decline to believe in Westerham's _bona fides_.
He countered that argument by asserting that Lord Dunton would of a
certainty establish his identity beyond all doubt. But still Lady
Kathleen demurred.
“In any case,” she said, “it would be exceedingly difficult to arrange
a meeting. Frankly, I don't see how you can help us, and there is only
a week left.”
As she said this her eyes again filled with tears, and she clasped her
hands with a despairing gesture.
“That there is only a week left,” persisted Westerham, “is all the more
reason why I should be made acquainted with the facts at once.”
Kathleen, however, only shook her head and moaned a little to herself.
Westerham did his best to console her, and she then told him that she
proposed to return to London by the afternoon's mail. Immediately on
arriving in town, however, she would have to set out for Trant Hall,
as the Premier was giving a dance there on the following night.
“I trust,” said Westerham, “that you will at least permit me to see you
safely home. It is not at all advisable that you should travel without
an escort. I have every reason to be fearful on your account.”
Kathleen thanked him, but declined his offer of help.
“There is nothing,” she said, “to prevent your travelling in the same
train or the same boat; and if you think it advisable, I shall be
grateful to you for doing so. But I must implore you not to speak to me
or to make any sign that you know me between here and London.
“Matters have grown doubly bad since this morning. I have not only to
fear the spies of Melun, but the agents of the Russian Government.
Between the two I am afraid I shall have but little peace.”
Having said this, she rose and held out her hand to bid Westerham
good-bye.
“I can no longer refuse to believe in you,” she said, “though I fear
I shall have a harder task to convince my father than you had to
convince me. Good-bye, and thank you. I really feel that you would be a
powerful ally, and if I can possibly persuade him to take you into his
confidence I will.”
“That, of course, would be the better way,” said Westerham. “I assure
you that I must have a great deal of knowledge of Melun which would be
invaluable to your father. Still, if he declines to tell me anything,
remember that I am quite prepared to serve him blindly and in all good
faith. I shall be quite content to wait for an explanation.”
On this he took his departure, and presently made his way to the
station, where he waited for the afternoon mail. Long before the train
was due he saw Kathleen enter the railway station carrying a black bag.
He gave no sign, and she, for her part, steadily ignored his presence.
At Dieppe he watched her go on board the mail-boat, and then followed
her to the saloon deck. There he kept her under surveillance, but made
no attempt to communicate with her in any way.
Thus quietly watchful, he guarded her progress to London, where,
at Victoria, he saw her enter a hansom and drive rapidly away. His
thoughts had been so busy with the things of the immediate present that
until he found himself alone at the London terminus he took no thought
of what he should next do.
He then decided that he would go to his greatly-neglected rooms in
Bruton Street in order to obtain some additions to his all-too-scanty
wardrobe, for, with the exception of a few things he had purchased when
he left Walter's Hotel, he practically had nothing but the clothes
he stood up in; and these were the clothes with which he had been so
mysteriously furnished while he lay chloroformed at Mme. Estelle's.
On arriving at Bruton Street the doorkeeper surveyed him with
astonishment.
“Why, sir! I was told that you had gone abroad.”
“Gone abroad!” exclaimed Westerham. “Gone abroad! Nothing of the kind.”
He denied the suggestion flatly, and, indeed, was so taken aback by the
man's manner that for the moment he quite forgot he had in reality not
only been abroad but had returned again from abroad in the space of
twenty-four hours.
The man stared at him steadily, and for all his self-possession,
Westerham felt himself colour a little. But he reflected that it was no
business of the man's whether he went abroad or not. He requested him
to take him up to his rooms in the lift.
The man stared at him in greater astonishment than ever.
“But they are empty, sir,” he said.
“Empty!” cried Westerham. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean, sir,” said the man, in an excited voice, “that your furniture
has been taken away. I understood that it was warehoused. A gentleman
called here this afternoon, paid your valet and dismissed him, and this
afternoon a pantechnicon came and took away your things. The gentleman
gave his card to the manager of the flat and told him that he was a
solicitor. It all seemed fair and square, and as we knew—begging
your pardon, sir—that you were an eccentric gentleman, we were not
surprised to hear that you were not coming back. As a matter of fact,
sir,” the man concluded lamely, “we thought that you had been a little
put out by the affair here a few days ago.”
“Do you really mean to tell me,” said Westerham, slowly, as though he
could not believe his ears, “that everything has been taken away, even
my clothes?”
“Even your clothes, sir. Your valet packed them himself.”
“Good gracious!” said Westerham, more to himself than to the man, “and
I have nothing but what I stand up in?”
Then it struck him that he must take immediate action in the matter. He
suspected Melun was at the bottom of this too, but could not conceive
what motive the captain could possibly have for this last extraordinary
move.
“Have you any idea,” he asked, “where my valet went?”
The man shook his head.
“Nor where my things have been stored?”
Again the man shook his head.
“It was a big pantechnicon, sir,” he said, “but to the best of my
knowledge there was no name on it. I believe it did strike me as being
rather funny at the time, but I was busy and didn't take much account
of it. It is a most unaccountable thing, sir—most unaccountable. I
cannot understand it at all. Have you any idea, sir, who your friend
might be?”
Westerham shook his head, though in his own mind he had little doubt.
“Well,” he said briskly, “I must inform the police at once. This is
a very serious matter. It is not so much the loss of the things that
annoys me, but the inconvenience to which I am put.”
He looked at the man sharply, and endeavoured to ascertain whether he
could trust him. He decided that the man looked honest, and slipped a
half-sovereign into his hand.
“In the meantime,” he said to him, “say nothing to anyone. I will deal
with this matter in my own way.”
Deciding to take the bull by the horns at once, Westerham hailed
a passing hansom and drove to Melun's rooms, only, however, to be
informed that the captain was out of town. He tried threats, cajolery
and even bribery to extort information as to the captain's whereabouts;
but the housekeeper was proof against all his efforts.
It seemed as if she really did not know where the captain was.
As he turned away, wondering in which direction he could next inquire,
it suddenly occurred to him that he should ascertain if anything had
happened to his motor car. He therefore took a second cab and drove to
Rupert Street, in which the garage was situated.
As he entered the yard the manager stepped forward; and the
astonishment on his face was even greater than that exhibited by the
doorkeeper at Westerham's flat.
“I am afraid, sir,” he said before Westerham had time to speak, “that
we have made some terrible blunder. A gentleman called here this
afternoon and said that he had been asked to see me on your behalf. He
said that he had received a telegram from Holyhead asking him to see
that your car was sent up to Chester, as you would be staying there for
some days. Your man was to wait for you at the Blossoms Hotel.”
Westerham could scarcely disguise his anger.
“What was this—gentleman like?” he demanded.
“Well, sir,” said the manager of the garage, eyeing him anxiously, “I
didn't take much account of him, though he appeared a very pleasant
gentleman indeed. He was, I should say, tall and dark.”
“Hook nose and black eyes?” suggested Westerham, helpfully.
“Just so, sir, just so.”
Westerham ground his teeth with rage. “Of course,” he said to the man,
“I do not blame you—I cannot—but you've been hoaxed. I sent no orders
about my car. I intended it to remain here until I sent for it. I may
want it at any moment now, and the inconvenience and the loss of it may
be great. You'd better wire to Chester for the man to return at once.”
The manager of the garage was by this time greatly alarmed. His own
suspicions led in the direction of theft, and the prospect of a
considerable loss in reputation, if not a considerable loss in pocket,
scared him very much.
“Certainly, sir, certainly. And if in the meantime I can place any
other car at your service I shall be pleased to do so.”
“I'll let you know,” said Westerham, and he walked abruptly away.
He went rapidly westward and reached the park. There he sat down in
the darkness and made a further effort to understand the drastic and
impudent measures which Melun was taking.
If he could have come across that person at that particular moment
there is little doubt but that he would have shaken the life out of
him. Westerham's anger was seldom roused, but when it mastered him it
was terrible, and the effects were apt to be disastrous to the object
of his wrath.
Now, turn things over in his mind as he might he could see little
chance of coming to any conclusion until he could obtain the truth from
Melun himself. But where was Melun? It would be ridiculous to make any
further inquiries at his house. Crow, too, would certainly know little,
and Bagley less.
True, there was Mme. Estelle. He would see her.
Leaping to his feet, he almost ran to the cab-rank at Hyde Park corner,
and, hiring a taxicab, ordered the man to make the best speed possible
to Laburnum Road.
The man did his best, and in some twenty minutes' time the taxicab
entered the little _cul-de-sac_, the features of which Westerham was
now beginning to know too well.
He rang the bell impatiently, but the door in the wall failed to open.
He rang again and again, but there was no response.
The driver of the taxicab surveyed his fare with some distrust.
“It seems to me, sir,” he said, “that your friends are not at home.”
Westerham's answer sounded very much like an oath.
He gave one final pull to the bell, and finding even that last rough
summons ineffectual, turned to the man.
“Look here,” he said, “this may seem a rather curious business to you,
but if you will help me I will pay you well. I am not at all sure that
this house is as empty as it seems. Put your cab alongside the wall so
that I can climb over the top. I want to go investigating.”
The man grumbled something to the effect that it was not his business,
but the sight of the magnificent inducement which Westerham immediately
offered him silenced his objections.
Westerham climbed to the top of the cab and dropped over the wall into
the garden. He walked round the house and found it shuttered, dark and
silent.
He whistled a long whistle to himself. “I wonder,” he thought, “if
the birds have flown. I wonder if they have chucked up the sponge. I
wonder——”
A second thought, however, which occurred to him, as he proceeded to
climb over the garden wall again, was that it was much more likely that
the house had been closed that evening in order that he might be cut
off from all sources of information.
On further reflection, indeed, he came to the conclusion that this was
certainly the case. “But perhaps you imagine,” he thought, mentally
addressing Melun, “perhaps you imagine that I shall not come back. We
will see.”
It was then nearly eleven o'clock, and Westerham had no course but
to return to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, out of which he had rushed
without bag or baggage on the night before.
There he was greeted civilly, but by no means with effusion. Lord
Dunton's visit on the previous afternoon had set a certain cachet on
his respectability, but at the same time his erratic movements did not
meet with the managerial approval.
On the following morning he sought out Dunton, who told him that for
the moment Lord Cuckfield and Mendip would be silent.
Unfortunately, Westerham's promise to Lady Kathleen prevented his
telling Dunton over much. But fortunately Dunton, in spite of his
apparent vacuity, had both the good sense and the good manners never to
be over curious.
Twice during the afternoon Westerham took a cab to Laburnum Road, and
on the second occasion his peal at the bell was answered by the maid he
had seen on his previous visit.
In reply to his queries the girl stated that Mme. Estelle, having
occasion to go out of town the day before, had closed up the house
because she did not like to leave the maids by themselves. Madame
however, she told him, was expected back in the course of the evening;
she thought about nine o'clock.
The sense of coming action prompted Westerham to dine well. Unlike
other men, his senses and capacities were always at their best after
dinner.
At nine o'clock he went back to Laburnum Road and was told that Madame
was at home. As he entered the pretty drawing-room Mme. Estelle came
forward to greet him with outstretched hand. But he kept his own behind
him.
“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “but before I meet you on terms of
friendship there are certain things which I want to know.”
Madame raised her eyebrows at him and smiled.
“Indeed,” she said, “what are they?”
“In the first place, who stole my furniture and my belongings from my
flat?” demanded Westerham.
“Why should you ask me?” answered Madame, evasively.
“Because,” said Westerham, “I have not the slightest doubt in the world
that Melun was the man who ordered their removal, and if Melun is
responsible then you are probably acquainted with the fact.”
“Very well,” said Madame, quietly, “and I expect that it will do no
harm for me to confirm your suspicions. Melun did order your things to
be removed.”
“But why?”
Madame smiled again. “It was at my suggestion. It is impossible for me
to give the reason; but I must ask you to believe that such a step was
necessary for the greater security of your life.”
Westerham stared at her; the matter was entirely beyond his
comprehension.
“And the car,” he demanded, “what of that? Was it you also who
suggested it should be sent on a bogus mission to Holyhead?”
“It was. That step was also necessary in the interests of your safety.”
Utterly regardless of Madame's presence, Westerham paced angrily up and
down the room for some minutes before he spoke again. Finally he turned
upon the woman and asked almost roughly where Melun was to be found.
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
“Do you decline to tell me?” asked Westerham.
Madame shrugged her shoulders again.
By this time Westerham had made up his mind as to how he should
deal with this woman. There had been ample time since he had left
Lady Kathleen to reason out what she meant by the words that, as she
preferred death to dishonour, her death-warrant had been sealed. For
some strange reason, still to be unearthed, the Czar's emissary had
ordered that Kathleen must marry Melun and thereby ensure silence.
How did Mme. Estelle stand in this matter? Westerham determined to
ascertain for himself at once.
“Listen,” he said almost gently. “Let us for a few moments try to talk
as friends. It is imperative that I should see Melun at once. You are
the only person who can tell me where I can find him. And if you will
come to a bargain with me it may be to our mutual advantage.
“If I tell you something which I think it is to your interest to know,
and if you think the knowledge, when I have given it you, is worth it,
will you in return tell me where Melun is?”
“I will see,” answered Mme. Estelle.
“Are you acquainted with the fact,” he asked suddenly, “that in a
week's time Melun will have arranged to marry the Lady Kathleen?”
Madame went pale to the lips.
“It's a lie!” she almost screamed. “It's a lie! It's impossible! He has
promised himself to me!”
Westerham nodded thoughtfully. It was precisely as he had thought.
“What I tell you,” he said, “I believe to be absolutely true.”
Watching her closely, Westerham saw that Mme. Estelle was greatly
agitated.
“To-night,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, “to-night it
could be proved, if only I had a witness here whom I could trust.”
“Surely,” suggested Westerham, “though we are on opposite sides in this
struggle, you can take my word on a matter of this sort.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Mme. Estelle, eagerly, “you are a gentleman. I can
trust you. Oh, how I wish I could trust Melun!”
Her voice trailed away and she lapsed into thought.
Presently she roused herself as though with an effort and looked
Westerham in the face.
“I will tell you how you can meet Melun if you will give me your word
of honour on two points. First, that you will return and tell me all
that passes, and, secondly, that you will not, whatever happens, do any
harm to Melun.”
“You have my word,” said Westerham.
Mme. Estelle sighed as though with relief, and after a few seconds
spoke again.
“What I am going to tell you now,” she said, “will sound so incredible
that you may possibly not believe me. I can scarcely believe it myself,
except that there is practically no piece of folly which Melun will not
commit when he has one of his mad fits upon him. I sometimes think he
is half-crazy.
“To-night Lord Penshurst gives a ball at Trant Hall. The place will be
crowded, and the women will be wearing jewels worth a king's ransom.
“More, I think, out of bravado, and with a foolish notion of bringing
matters to a head, Melun is taking down half a score of masked men. It
will be what I think you call in America ‘a hold-up.’
“Melun says that there is no risk in the business, that he and the
others are bound to get away, and even if he is caught he knows the
Prime Minister will have to contrive his release. The hour planned for
this business is midnight.”
Without a second's hesitation Westerham leapt up from his chair and
took out his watch.
“I have just an hour and a half to get there,” he said.