Late one evening in the cafe beneath the Elysee Palace Hotel, a tall
man of something like thirty-five, though aged to the seeming of a bit
more, sat over his brandy and soda and the perusal of a packet of
letters. He wore traveling dress, and, though the weather had hardly
the bitterness to warrant it, a fur-trimmed great-coat fell across the
empty chair at his side. It was not yet late enough for the gayety
that begins with midnight, and the place was consequently uncrowded.
The stranger had left a taxicab at the door a few minutes before, and,
without following his luggage into the office, he had gone directly to
the cafe, to glance over his mail before being assigned to a room.
The man was tall and almost lean. Had Steele entered the cafe at that
moment, he would have rushed over to the seated figure, and grasped a
hand with a feeling that his quest had ended, then, on second sight,
he would have drawn back, incredulous and mystified. This guest
lacked no feature that Robert Saxon possessed. His eyes held the same
trace of the dreamer, though a close scrutiny showed also a hard
glitter--his dreams were different. The hand that held the letter was
marked front and back, though a narrow inspection would have shown the
scar to be a bit more aggravated, more marked with streaked wrinkles
about the palm. He and the American painter were as identical as
models struck from one die in the lines and angles that make face and
figure. Yet, in this man, there was something foreign and alien to
Saxon, a difference of soul-texture. Saxon was a being of flesh, this
man a statue of chilled steel.
The envelope he had just cast upon the table fell face upward, and the
waiting _garcon_ could hardly help observing that it was addressed to
Senor George Carter, care of a steamship agency in the _Rue Scribe_.
As Carter read the letter it had contained, his brows gathered first
in great interest, then in surprise, then in greater interest and
greater surprise.
"There has been a most strange occurrence here," said the writer, who
dated his communication from Puerto Frio, and wrote in Spanish. "Just
before the revolution broke, a man arrived who was called Robert A.
Saxon. He was obviously mistaken for you by the government and was
taken into custody, but released on the interference of his minister.
The likeness was so remarkable that I was myself deceived and
consequently astounded you should make so bold as to return. He,
however, established a clean bill of health and that very fact has
suggested to me an idea which I think will likewise commend itself to
you, _amigo mio_. That I am speaking only from my sincere interest in
you, you need not question when you consider that I have kept you
advised through these years of matters here and have divulged to no
soul your whereabouts. This man left at once, but the talk spread
rapidly in confidential circles than an _Americano_ had come who was
the double of yourself. Some men even contended that it was really
you, and that it was you also who betrayed the plans of Vegas to the
government, but that scandal is not credited. Most of those who are
well informed know that the traitor was one whom we trusted, a man
who in your day was on the side of the established government. That
man is now in high influence by reason of playing the Judas, and it
may be that he will make an effort to secure your extradition.
Embezzlement, you know, is not a political offense, and he still holds
a score against you. You know to whom I refer. That is why I warn you.
You have a double and your double has a clean record. For a time if
there is no danger of crossing tracks with him, I should advise that
you be Senor Saxon instead of Senor Carter. This should be safe enough
since Senor Saxon sailed on the day after his arrival for North
America. I have the felicity to inscribe myself," etc., etc. ---- A
dash served as a signature, but Carter knew the writing, and was
satisfied. For a time, he sat in deep reverie, then, rising, took up
his coat, and went to the door. His stride was precisely the stride of
Robert Saxon.
At the desk above, he discussed apartments. Having found one that
suited his taste, he signed the guest-card with the name of Robert
Saxon, and inquired as to the hour of departure of trains for Calais
on the following morning. He volunteered the information that he was
leaving then for London. True to his word, on the next day he left the
hotel in a taximeter cab which turned down the _Champs Elysees_.
* * * * *
When it was definitely settled that Duska and her aunt were to go to
Europe, Steele conceived a modification of the plans, to which only
after much argument and persuasion and even a touch of deception he
won the girl's consent. The object of his amendment was secretly to
give him a chance to arrive first on the scene, accomplish what he
could of search, and be prepared with fore-knowledge to stand as a
buffer between Duska and the first shock of any ill tidings. Despite
his persistent optimism of argument, the man was far from confident.
The plan was that the two ladies should embark for Genoa, and go from
there to Paris by rail, while he should economize days by hurrying
over the northern ocean track. Duska chafed at the delay involved, but
Steele found ingenious arguments. The tramp steamer, he declared, with
its roundabout course, would be slow, and it would be better for him
to be armed against their coming with such facts as he could gather,
in order that he might be a more effective guide.
Possibly, he argued, the tramp ship had gone by way of the Madeiras,
and might soon be in the harbor of Funchal. If she took the southerly
track, she could go at once by a steamer that would give her a day
there, and, armed with letters he would send to the consulate, this
contingency could be probed, leaving him free to work at the other
end. If he learned anything first, she would learn of it at once by
wireless.
So, at last, he stood on a North River pier, and saw the girl waving
her good-by across the rail, until the gap of churning water had
widened and blurred the faces on the deck. Then, he turned and
hastened to make his own final arrangements for sailing by the
_Mauretania_ on the following day.
In Havre, he found himself utterly baffled. He haunted the
water-front, and browbeat the agents, all to no successful end.
In Paris, matters seemed to bode no better results. He first exhausted
the more probable points. Saxon's agent, the _commissaire de police_,
the consulate, the hospitals--he even made a melancholy visit to the
grewsome building where the morgue squats behind _Notre Dame_. Then he
began the almost endless round of hotels. His "taxi" sped about
through the swift, seemingly fluid currents of traffic, as a man in a
hurry can go only in Paris, the frictionless. The town was familiar to
him in most of its aspects, and he was able to work with the readiness
and certainty of one operating in accustomed haunts, commanding the
tongue and the methods. At last, he learned of the registry at the
Elysee Palace Hotel. He questioned the clerk, and that functionary
readily enough gave him the description of the gentleman who had so
inscribed himself. It was a description of the man he sought. Steele
fell into one grave error. He did not ask to see the signature itself.
"Where had Monsieur Saxon gone? To London. _Certainment_, he had taken
all his luggage with him. No, he had not spoken of returning to Paris.
Yes, monsieur seemed in excellent health."
So, Steele turned his search to London, and in London found himself
even more hopelessly mixed in baffling perplexity. He had learned only
one thing, and that one thing filled him with vague alarm. Saxon had
apparently been here. He had been to all seeming sane and well, and
had given his own name. His conduct was inexplicable. It was
inconceivable that he should have failed to communicate with Duska.
Steele cabled to America, thinking Saxon might have done so since
their departure. Nothing had been heard at home.
Late in the afternoon on the day of his arrival in London, Steele went
for a walk, hoping that before he returned some clew would occur to
him, upon which he could concentrate his efforts. His steps wandered
aimlessly along Pall Mall, and, after the usage of former habit,
carried him to a club, where past experience told him he would meet
old friends. But, at the club door, he halted, realizing that he did
not want to meet men. He could think better alone. So, with his foot
on the stone stairs, he wheeled abruptly, and went on to Trafalgar
Square, where once more he halted, under the lions of the Nelson
Column, and racked his brain for any thought or hint that might be
followed to a definite end.
He stood with the perplexed air of a man without definite objective.
The square was well-nigh empty except for a few loiterers about the
basins, and the view was clear to the elevation on the side where, at
the cab-stand, waited a row of motor "taxis" and hansoms. The
afternoon was bleak, and the solemn monotone of London was graver and
more forbidding than usual.
Suddenly, his heart pounded with a violence that made his chest feel
like a drum. With a sudden start, he called loudly, "Saxon! Hold on,
Saxon!" then went at a run toward the cab-stand.
He had caught a fleeting and astounding vision. A man, with the poise
and face that he sought, had just stepped into one of the waiting
vehicles, and given an order to the driver. Even in his haste, Steele
was too late to do anything more than take a second cab, and shout to
the man on the box to follow the vehicle that had just left the curb.
As his "taxi" turned into the Strand, and slurred through the mud
past the Cecil and the Savoy, he kept his eyes strained on the cab
ahead, threading its way through the congested traffic, disappearing,
dodging, reappearing, and taxing his gaze to the utmost. For a moment
after they had both crowded into Fleet Street, he lost it, and, as he
leaned forward, searching the jumble of traffic, his own vehicle came
to a halt just opposite the Law Courts. He looked hastily out, to see
the familiar shoulders of the man he followed disappearing beyond a
street-door, under the swinging "Sign of the Cock."
Tossing a half-crown to the cabman, he followed up the stairs, and
entered the room, where the tables were almost deserted. A group of
men was sitting in one of the stalls, deep in converse, and, though
two were hidden by the dividing partitions, Steele saw the one figure
he sought at the head of the table. The figure bent forward in
conversation, and, while his voice was low and his words inaudible,
the Kentuckian saw that the eyes were glittering with a hard, almost
malevolent keenness. As he came hastily forward, he caught the voice:
it was Saxon's voice, yet infinitely harder. The two companions were
strangers of foreign aspect, and they were listening attentively,
though one face wore a sullen scowl.
Steele came over, and dropped his hand on the shoulder of the man he
had pursued.
"Bob!" he exclaimed, then halted.
The three faces looked up simultaneously, and in all was displeasure
for the abrupt interruption of a conversation evidently intended for
no outside ears. Each expression was blank and devoid of recognition,
and, as the tall man rose to his feet, his face was blanker than the
others.
Then, with the greater leisure for scrutiny, Steele realized his
mistake. For a time, he stood dumfounded at the marvelous resemblance.
He knew without asking that this man was the double who had brought
such a tangle into his friend's life. He bowed coldly.
"I apologize," he explained, shortly. "I mistook this gentleman for
someone else."
The three men inclined their heads stiffly, and the Kentuckian,
dejected by his sudden reverse from apparent success to failure,
turned on his heel, and left the place. It had not, of course,
occurred to him to connect the appearance of his snarler of Saxon's
affairs with the name on the Paris hotel-list, and he was left more
baffled than if he had known only the truth, in that he had been
thrown upon a false trail.
The Kentuckian joined Mrs. Horton and her niece in Genoa on their
arrival. As he met the hunger in the girl's questioning eyes, his
heart sickened at the meagerness of his news. He could only say that
Paris had divulged nothing, and that a trip to London had been equally
fruitless of result. He did not mention the fact that Saxon had
registered at the hotel. That detail he wished to spare her.
She listened to his report, and at its end said only, "Thank you," but
he knew that something must be done. A woman who could let herself be
storm-tossed by grief might ride safely out of such an affair when the
tempest had beaten itself out, but she, who merely smiled more sadly,
would not have even the relief that comes of surrender to tears.
At Milan, there was a wait of several hours. Steele insisted on the
girl's going with him for a drive. At a picture-exhibition, they
stopped.
"Somehow," said Steele, "I feel that where there are paintings there
may be clews. Shall we go in?"
The girl listlessly assented, and they entered a gallery, which they
found already well filled. Steele was the artist, and, once in the
presence of great pictures, he must gnaw his way along a gallery wall
as a rat gnaws its way through cheese, devouring as he went, seeing
only that which was directly before him. The girl's eyes ranged more
restlessly.
Suddenly, Steele felt her clutch his arm.
"George!" she breathed in a tense whisper. "George!"
He followed her impulsively pointed finger, and further along, as the
crowd of spectators opened, he saw, smiling from a frame on the wall,
the eyes and lips of the girl herself. Under the well-arranged lights,
the figure stood out as though it would leave its fixed place on the
canvas and mingle with the human beings below, hardly more lifelike
than itself.
"The portrait!" exclaimed Steele, breathlessly. "Come, Duska; that may
develop something."
As they anxiously approached, they saw above the portrait another
familiar canvas; a landscape presenting a stretch of valley and
checkered flat, with hills beyond, and a sky tuneful with the spirit
of a Kentucky June.
Then, as they came near enough to read the labels, Steele drew back,
startled, and his brows darkened with anger.
"My God!" he breathed.
The girl standing at his elbow read on a brass tablet under each
frame, "Frederick Marston, pnxt."
"What does it mean?" she indignantly demanded, looking at the man
whose face had become rigid and unreadable.
"It means they have stolen his pictures!" he replied, shortly. "It
means infamous thievery at least, and I'm afraid--" In his anger and
surprise, he had almost forgotten to whom he was speaking. Now, with
realization, he bit off his utterance.
She was standing very straight.
"You needn't be afraid to tell me," she said quietly; "I want to
know."
"I'm afraid," said Steele, "it means foul play. Of course," he added
in a moment, "Marston himself is not a party to the fraud. It's
conceivable that his agent, this man St. John, has done this in
Marston's absence. I must get to Paris and see."