THE BLOW.
With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the
sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had
disappeared.
Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes
a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly
into his jacket pocket.
His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when
suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking
together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone.
"What luck!" he murmured. "I wonder how she'll take it? To think that I
should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she
was living here. I've got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if
you are cute, Ralph Ansell," he said, addressing himself, "you won't
want to use that ticket."
He chuckled and smiled.
"The Countess of Bracondale!" he muttered. "I wonder what lie she told
the Earl? Perhaps she's changed--become unscrupulous--since we last met.
I wonder?"
And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to
the spot where he had located that she must be.
He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn
smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in
the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in
ignorance of any person being present.
It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low
lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning
light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her
favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw
that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish
charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed--different indeed to the
black gown and print apron of those Paris days.
He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a
beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring
with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such
things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his
brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in
English:
"Well, Jean!"
Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed.
The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell
from her hand.
"Yes, it's me--Ralph Ansell, your husband!"
"You!" she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. "I--I----The
papers said you were dead--that--that----"
"I know," he laughed. "The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he
is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California."
"Hoggan!" she echoed, looking about her in dismay.
"Yes--and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean."
She was silent. What could she say?
Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his
familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her
in all its evil hideousness--the past which she had put behind her for
ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.
And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!
Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!
She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.
"Well--speak! Tell me who and what you are."
The word "what" cut deeply into her.
He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard,
remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.
"It seems long ago since we last met, doesn't it?" he remarked, in a
hard voice. "You left me because I was poor."
"Not because you were poor, Ralph," she managed to reply; "but because
you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back."
"Adolphe!" he cried in disgust. "The swine is still in prison, I
suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river--the
safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned,
but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I've had a most
pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself
into the Seine."
She looked at him with a strange expression.
"True; but his deeds still remain."
"Deeds--what do you mean?"
"I mean this!" she cried, starting to her feet and facing him
determinedly. "I mean that you--Ralph Ansell, my husband--killed Richard
Harborne!"
His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.
He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:
"Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing?
Harborne--oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in
England."
"Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the
authorities know that he died by your hand," was her slow reply. "It is
known that you acted as the cats'-paw--that it was you who tampered
with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before
our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time--at the time when I,
in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!"
"Then you love me no longer--eh, Jean?" he asked, facing her, his brows
knit.
"How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?"
"Murderer!" he cried, in anger. "You must prove it! I'll compel you to
prove it, or by gad! I'll--I'll strangle you!"
"The facts are already proved."
"How do you know?"
"From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband's
possession--locked up in his safe."
"Your husband!" repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "I have married, believing that you were
dead."
"And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!" he
laughed, with a sneer.
She said nothing.
At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face
she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single
blow--that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last
fallen to crush her.
No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother,
but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an
assassin to boot.
Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark
hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at
that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her
breath.
The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.
"I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again," she said
simply.
"Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this
precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he
knows how you've deceived him."
"I have told him no lie!"
"No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes."
"Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes," she replied. "The
affair is not forgotten, I assure you. And a word from me will sentence
you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve."
"Good. Do it!" he laughed, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I wish you
would. You would be rid of me then--the widow of a murderer!"
"You killed Richard Harborne because you were paid to do so--paid by a
spy of Germany," she said, very slowly. "The report which my husband
possesses tells the truth. The British Secret Service has spared no
pains to elucidate the mystery of Harborne's death."
"Then they also know that I married you, I suppose? They know you are
wife of the guilty man--eh?"
She bit her lip. That thought had not recently occurred to her. Long
ago, when it had, she had quickly crushed it down, believing that Ralph
was dead. But, on the contrary, he was there, standing before her, the
grim vision of the long-buried past.
"Well," she asked suddenly, "what do you want with me now that you have
found me?"
"Not much. I dare say you and I can come to terms."
"What terms? I don't understand?"
"You are my wife," he said. "Well, that is your secret--and mine. You
want to close my mouth," he said roughly. "And of course you can do
so--at a price."
"You want money in return for your silence?"
"Exactly, my dear girl. I am very sorry, but I have been a trifle
unfortunate in my speculations of late. I'm a financier now."
She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated
that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne,
who had been such a platonic friend to her.
"I wish you to understand, now and at once," she said, "that you will
have nothing from me."
He smiled at her.
"Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean," was his
reply. "Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a
secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely--even for the sake
of your charming little girl."
"Yes," she said angrily. "You taunt me with my position--why? Because
you want money--you, a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I
will go to the police and have you arrested."
"Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true
position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P.
Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy
Countess of Bracondale. Say--what a sensation it would cause in the
halfpenny papers, wouldn't it?"
Jean shuddered, and shrank back.
"And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne--you, the
hired assassin of the Baron," she retorted. "Oh, yes, all is known, I
assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale's
papers, and read it--every word."
"And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?"
"Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and,
further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay's aeroplane.
You can't deny it!"
"Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at
Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with
one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same
time I was rid of a rival."
"He was not my lover!" she protested, her cheeks scarlet. "I loved you,
and only you."
"Then why don't you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to
me?"
"Return!" she gasped. "Never!"
"But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false
pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband."
"That I cannot deny," she said, her hands twitching nervously. "But I
read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true," she added
in despair.
"Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have
been living in London all the time?"
"Mostly."
"I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens
of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I
confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess
Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person."
She shrank at the word "wife." That surely was the most evil day in all
her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview--how
to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen--how best to hide
her dread secret from Bracondale.
"Well," she said at last, "though you married me, Ralph, you never had a
spark of affection for me. Do you recollect the last night that I was
beneath your roof--your confession that you were a thief, and how you
raised your hand against me because I begged you not to run into danger.
How----?"
"Enough!" he interrupted roughly. "The past is dead and gone. I was a
fool then."
"But I remember it all too well, alas!" she said. "I remember how I
loved you, and how full and bitter was my disillusionment."
"And what do you intend doing now?" he asked defiantly.
"Nothing," was her reply. Truth to tell, she was nonplussed. She saw no
solution of the ghastly problem.
"But I want money," he declared, fiercely.
"I have none--only what my husband gives me."
"Husband! I'm your husband, remember. I tell you, Jean, I don't intend
to starve. I may be well dressed, but that's only bluff. I've got only a
few pounds in the world."
"I see," she said. "You intend to blackmail me. But I warn you that if
those are your tactics, I shall simply tell Bracondale what I know
concerning Richard Harborne."
"You will--will you!" he cried, fiercely, advancing towards her
threateningly. "By Heaven, if you breathe a word about that, I--_I'll
kill you_!"
And in his eyes shone a bright, murderous light--a light that she had
seen there once before--on the night of her departure.
She recognised how determined he was, and drew back in fear.
Then, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, he drew forth a small
leather wallet, much worn, and from it took a soiled, crumpled but
carefully-preserved letter, which he opened and presented for her
inspection.
"Do you recognise this?" he asked, with a sinister grin.
She drew back and held her breath.
"I'll read it," he said with a triumphant laugh. "I kept it as a
souvenir. The man you call husband will no doubt be very pleased to see
it." Then he read the words:
"_In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer
longer. Certain hidden things in your life frighten me.
Farewell. Forget me._--JEAN."
For a few seconds she was silent. Her face was white as paper.
Then, with a sudden outburst, she gasped, in a low, terrified voice, and
putting up her arms with a wild gesture:
"No, no! You must not show that to him. You won't, Ralph--for my sake,
you won't. Will you?"