"Be Bold, Be Bold"
Lord Vernon, no doubt, would have spoken with less acerbity but for the
fact that his nerves were jangling badly. The lift was started promptly,
but it required all his self-control to remain seated in his chair
during the slow progress upward of the great machine of which Monsieur
Pelletan was so proud. Scarcely had the door of his apartment closed
behind him, when he threw aside the invalid wrappings with a perfect
fury, sprang from his chair, and hastened into the inner room. Collins
and Blake were seated at a table there, labouring with a telegram in
cipher.
"What's the matter now?" demanded Collins, sharply, as he looked up and
saw Vernon's disordered face.
For answer, Vernon took from his pocket a folded paper and tossed it on
the table.
Collins picked it up, opened it, and read its contents.
"Well?" he said, looking up with a sigh of relief. "If this is the note
you wrote those Rushford girls, I must say I think you've done a mighty
wise thing to get it back. It was a dangerous thing to have lying
around. Have you had a quarrel?" and he grinned a little maliciously.
"Collins," said Vernon, coldly, "you have the poorest conception of good
taste of any man I know, and I know some awful bounders. But I won't
quarrel with you now, for you'll be grinning on the other side of that
ugly mouth of yours anyway in about a minute. Will you kindly examine
this piece of paper?" and he tore a leaf from his notebook.
"Be Bold, Be Bold"
Collins, biting his lips until they bled, took it and looked it over
with frowning and puzzled countenance.
"Well?" he asked, at last.
"The note I sent the Misses Rushford," said Vernon, quietly, "was
written on a leaf from the notebook, which I tore out just as I did that
one you have in your hand," and he sat down and stared out the window,
across the gray dunes and the gray sea to the gray horizon.
Collins, with compressed lips, held the two pieces of paper up to the
light and compared their texture. Then he got out a small pocket
magnifying glass and examined through it the writing on the note.
"It's a tracing," he said, at last, "and a mighty clever piece of work.
The paper, too, is very like."
"But it's not the same," put in Vernon.
"Oh, no, it's not the same."
"Do you mean this is a forgery?" burst out Blake, hoarsely, snatching
up the note and staring at it.
"Undoubtedly," answered Collins, coolly, but his face was very dark.
"The forger, clever as he was, could scarcely expect to be so fortunate
as to duplicate the paper. And then, of course, he couldn't foresee that
it would be turned over to you. But he did very well. Now let's have the
story."
"Miss Rushford had the note in her desk," said Vernon, shortly. "She
missed it last night and went to tell her sister of the theft. When she
returned to her room and began a systematic search, she found it slipped
among some note-paper in the drawer where she had placed it. She
returned it to me this morning."
"Without suspecting that it was a forgery?"
"Certainly."
"And you didn't tell her?"
"No."
Collins sat for a moment staring down at the note.
"Which reminds me," he remarked, at last, "that Markeld spent the
evening with the Rushfords."
"Well, what of it?" demanded Vernon, sharply, wheeling around. "What is
it you mean to insinuate?"
"My dear sir," answered Collins, suavely, "I insinuate nothing. I was
merely remarking upon the coincidence. If I did not happen to know all
the circumstances, I might have been led to suggest that, as only one
Miss Rushford is devoted to you--"
Vernon sprang to his feet with such wrath in his face that Collins
stopped abruptly.
"It was well you stopped," said Vernon, savagely. "Another word, and by
heaven--"
"Don't be a fool!" Collins broke in. "I'm not afraid of you nor your
threats. This forgery, of course, is the work of that French spy--"
A servant tapped at the door and handed in a card.
Collins took it, glanced at it, and looked up with a little smile of
satisfaction.
"It's Tellier," he said. "I was expecting him; he was certain to come to
us. Leave him to me," and he went out, closing the door behind him.
Monsieur Tellier was even more effulgent than usual. There was upon his
face a smile of supreme self-satisfaction. He had reason to believe that
he had achieved a good stroke, and he was resolved to make the most of
it. He had dreamed dreams and seen visions--one vision in particular
which included within the same circumference himself and a certain frail
fairy of the Robinière who had always regarded him with disdain. Now all
that was to be changed! So he greeted Collins with a self-assurance and
aplomb quite removed from his ordinary manner.
Collins confronted him with the card still between his fingers, and
returned his greeting with the utmost coldness.
"You wished to see me?" he asked.
"Pardon," corrected Tellier, "it is Lord Vernon I wish to see."
"Lord Vernon is ill and sees no one."
Tellier gave his mustachios a supercilious twirl.
"You still maintain that farce?" he queried. "I assure you that for me
it has long since lost its novelty."
Collins took a step toward the door.
"Shall I show you out?" he asked.
"No--not yet," and Tellier smiled provokingly.
"You would really better let me show you out," said Collins, quietly.
"In another moment, I shall probably kick you out."
Tellier's face turned a deep purple and his white teeth gleamed behind
his moustache.
"Have a care!" he said, hoarsely. "That expression will cost you dear!"
Collins smiled contemptuously.
"Oh," he retorted; "so it's blackmail! I might have known from your
appearance. Well, my dear sir, you have mistaken your men. You have
nothing which we care to buy. You would better go."
A purple vein stood out across Tellier's forehead, as he came a step
nearer.
"Do not be too sure, monsieur," he said. "You play a bold game, but it
does not for an instant deceive me. Lord Vernon is no more ill than I.
It is useless to deny it--I have that here which proves it--written with
his own hand--yes, pardie, written in my presence!" and with trembling
fingers he took from his pocketbook a folded slip of paper.
"Indeed?" said Collins, with mild curiosity. "This is truly wonderful,"
and he held out his hand.
But Tellier drew back a step, unfolded the note and held it open between
his fingers.
"You may read it," he said, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But come no
nearer."
Collins leisurely got out his monocle, polished it with his
handkerchief, adjusted it, and scanned the note.
"Really," he said, "unless you can hold it a little steadier, I fear I
can't read it."
Tellier steadied his hand by a mighty effort, and watched him, his eyes
shining. But the face of the Englishman did not change--not in a single
line, not by the merest shadow.
"Very interesting, no doubt," said Collins, dropping his glass, "to
those who care for backstairs intrigue. Is it this note that you wish to
sell?"
"Oh, not that," corrected Tellier, with a little offended gesture, his
self-assurance back in an instant. "You mistake me--I am not of that
sort at all. On the other hand, it is friendship for you which has
brought me here. I have no wish to injure you, monsieur, and you
yourself, of course, perceive fully what a disaster it would be should
this note be placed in certain hands."
"To what adventure does the note refer?" queried Collins.
"It refers to the adventure of Lord Vernon with the two Americans on the
afternoon of his arrival. He has, no doubt, mentioned it to you."
"Lord Vernon has had no adventure since his arrival here," retorted
Collins, coldly. "But go ahead with your story."
"As I was saying," continued Tellier, "I am a poor man. I have my future
to consider--I cannot afford to throw away this opportunity which chance
has placed in my hands. I will be reasonable, however--I will not ask
too much--a hundred thousand francs--"
"Tellier," Collins interrupted, with a gesture of weariness, "I have not
the least idea what you mean. But I do know that you have been hoaxed,
that you are the victim of some deception, that somebody is making a
fool of you. A hundred thousand francs! And for that note! Why, man, you
are mad or very, very drunk! We don't want the note. We have no concern
in it!"
"No concern in it!" shrieked Tellier. "When it is written by Lord
Vernon!"
"Lord Vernon did not write it," retorted Collins, coolly.
"I saw it--with my own eyes I saw it!"
"Then your eyes deceived you. Evidently you are not acquainted with Lord
Vernon's writing, my friend. Shall I show you a sample? Wait."
He went to a desk, got out a despatch-box, unlocked it, and ran rapidly
through its contents, while Tellier watched him with bloodshot eyes.
"This will do," Collins said, at last. "A note to Monsieur Delcassé,
with which you are perhaps familiar, since it has recently been made
public. Look at it."
Tellier almost snatched it--one glance was enough. There was absolutely
no resemblance between that tall, angular hand and the writing of the
note. He looked at the signature, at the seal--there could be no
doubting them. His lips were quivering, his fat cheeks hanging flaccid,
as he handed the paper back.
"You are playing with me," he said, thickly. "What I have seen, I have
seen. What I know, I know. You cannot trick me. I will go to the Prince
of Markeld--to Prince Ferdinand himself--"
"To whomever you please," interrupted Collins, "only go at once," and
he snatched open the door.
Tellier hesitated an instant, glanced at the other's face, and went.
And Collins, closing the door behind him, mopped the perspiration from
his forehead.
"Well done, my friend," he said; "exceedingly well done!"
And with that, he turned back to the inner room.
* * * * *
"Dad," began Susie Rushford, that evening, gently but firmly taking away
the paper over which her father was engaged, "I wish you would devote
that massive brain of yours to this Schloshold-Markheim muddle for a few
moments, and give me the benefit. It's quite beyond me, and I'm nearly
worried to death over it. I want your advice. Now, in the first place,
why should Lord Vernon play off sick? It seems such a little thing to
do."
"'Tall oaks from little acorns grow,'" quoted her father. "This little
thing may have big consequences."
"I didn't mean little that way," explained Susie. "I meant little in a
moral way."
"Well, my dear," said her father, reflectively, "everything is fair in
love, war, and diplomacy. Your diplomat, when he is busy at his trade,
seems to lose sight of fine moral distinctions. Even the greatest of
them have sometimes stooped to acts decidedly small, and yet in private
life they were doubtless honourable men. It's a good deal like a
political campaign in the United States, where men who are usually
honest will lie about the other side, without any twinges of
conscience--there's even a loop-hole in the libel law for them to crawl
through, made, it would seem, especially for their benefit. So, I think,
we may pass up the moral objection."
"But what does he hope to accomplish, dad?" persisted Susie. "What
_can_ he accomplish by merely sitting still?"
"A great many things may be accomplished by sitting still," said her
father, puffing his cigar reflectively. "It is one of those simple
things which are sometimes very difficult to do. I've found that out,
more than once, in the course of my checkered career."
"Now that we are through with precept, let us pass on to example, you
dear old philosophical thing!" laughed Susie. "What should you say Lord
Vernon hoped to accomplish in this instance?"
"It seems very plain," said Rushford, "though, of course, I may be
mistaken. But I fancy he believes that while he is playing 'possum here,
Emperor William, who is not especially renowned for patience, will
settle the question of the succession without asking any one's
advice--as, I must say, he seems to have a perfect right to do. In that
case, it would, of course, be too late for England to interfere; she
could only express her regrets to Prince Ferdinand, and send her
congratulations to Prince George. So if Markeld doesn't get a chance to
say his little speech within the next two or three days, I don't believe
he'll ever get a chance."
Susie nodded thoughtfully.
"The Prince ought to be able to reason that out for himself, oughtn't
he?"
"I should think so, if he can see farther than his own nose. Were you
thinking of going to his assistance? Take my advice, my dear, and
refrain. You and Nell are altogether too deep in it, as it is."
Again Susie nodded.
"Thank you, dear," she said, and taking him by either ear, she kissed
him between the eyes. "Now, I think I'll go to bed. I've a mighty
knotty problem on hand and I've got to work it out right away."
"Can I help any more?"
"No," and she shook her head decidedly. "This is one of those odious
problems which a person has to work out alone. It reminds me of our
school examinations, where we were on honour not to ask any help. Only,"
she added, with a sigh, "this is far more serious. Good-night."
"Good-night," said her father, and watched her until the door closed
behind her. Then he turned again to his paper.
Susie, alone in her own room, sat with her head in her hands, staring
out across the moonlit beach. Away in the distance, she could see the
little breakers washing white upon the sand; to the left stretched the
long, brilliant promenade of the Digue, ending in the glare of light
which marked the Casino.
"The peace of Europe!" she murmured.
"The peace of Europe! I wonder if he was merely trying to frighten me?"
And she shivered a little at the remembrance of Lord Vernon's words, as
she arose to go to bed.