If you are a constant reader of the newspapers, as probably you are,
you will no doubt recollect the great sensation caused next day on the
publication of the news of the gruesome find in that, one of the most
aristocratic thoroughfares of Bayswater.
The metropolitan police were very reticent regarding the affair, but
many of the papers published photographs of the scene of the
exhumations, the exterior of the long-closed house, and photographs of
the various police officials. That of Guertin, however, was not
included. The famous investigator of crime had no wish for the picture
of his face, with its eyes beaming benignly through his gold glasses,
to be disseminated broadcast.
The police refused to make any statement; hence the wildest
conjectures were afloat concerning the series of tragedies which must
have taken place within that dark house, with its secluded, tangled
garden.
As the days went by, the public excitement did not abate, for yet more
remains were found--the body of a young, fair-haired man who had been
identified as Mr. Cyril Wilson, a member of the Travellers' Club, who
had been missing for nearly nine months. The police, impelled by this
fresh discovery, cut down the trees in the garden and laid the whole
place waste, while crowds of the curious waited about in the
neighbourhood, trying to catch a glimpse of the operations.
And as time wore on I waited in daily expectation of some sign from
the woman I so dearly loved.
Guertin, who still remained in London, assured me that she was safe in
hiding with her father, Phil Poland.
"And you will, of course, arrest him when you can discover him," I
remarked, as I sat with the famous detective in his room at the Grand
Hotel in Trafalgar Square.
"I do not wish to discover him, my dear Monsieur Biddulph," was his
kind reply. "I happen to know that he has deeply repented of his
wrongdoing, and even on his sudden reappearance at Stamford with the
remaining portion of his once invulnerable gang, he urged them to turn
aside from evil, and become honest citizens. He has, by his wrongful
conviction of murder, expiated his crimes, and hence I feel that he
may be allowed a certain leniency, providing he does not offend in
future."
"But a warrant is out for him, of course?"
"Certainly. His arrest is demanded for breaking from prison. His
escape is one of the most daring on record. He swam for five miles in
the sea on a dark night, and met with most extraordinary adventures
before a Dutch captain allowed him to work his passage to Rotterdam."
"But he will not dare to put foot in London, I suppose. He would be
liable to extradition to France."
"Who knows? He is one of the most fearless and ingenious men I have
ever known. He can so alter his appearance as to deceive even me."
"But the metropolitan police, knowing that Sylvia--I mean Sonia--is
his daughter, may be watching my house!" I exclaimed in alarm.
"That is more than likely," he admitted. "Hence, if you want to allow
madame, your wife, an opportunity to approach you, you should go
abroad somewhere--to some quiet place where you would not be
suspected. Let me know where you go, and perhaps I can manage to
convey to them the fact that you are waiting there."
The hotel at Gardone--that fine lake-side hotel where I had first seen
Sonia--occurred to me. And I told him.
"Very well," he said cheerfully. "I shall return to Paris to-morrow,
and if I can obtain any information from either of the prisoners, I
will manage to let Poland know that his son-in-law awaits him."
Then I thanked the great detective, and, shaking hands warmly, we
parted.
What Guertin had told me regarding the strange discovery of a man who
closely resembled him outside Poland's house on the night of the
latter's arrest held me much puzzled. Even he, the all-powerful chief
of the _sûreté_, had failed to solve the enigma.
Next afternoon Shuttleworth called upon me in Wilton Street, and for a
long time sat chatting.