a shrewd girl. Besides, we don't know who this inquisitive Frenchman
may be."
"You'll soon discover all about him, no doubt. Just put on your
thinking-cap on the way over to Paris, and doubtless before you arrive,
you'll hit upon some plan which will be just as successful as the
attitude you adopted towards old Daniel Fleming." Then he added: "I
wish you'd order breakfast to be served up here, for I'm ravenously
hungry."
She rose, rang the bell, and ordered breakfast for two.
While it was being prepared, Boyne went along the corridor to wash,
while Ena retired to her room, and packed her trunk ready for her
departure south at ten o'clock.
Afterwards she saw the head porter and got him to secure her a place on
the train, and also in the restaurant-car, which is usually crowded.
They breakfasted _tete-a-tete_, after which she paid her bill, and at
ten o'clock left him standing upon the platform to idle away three hours
wandering about the crowded Glasgow streets before his departure at one
o'clock.
Next morning Ena Pollen took her dejeuner at half-past eleven in the
elegant table d'hote room of the aristocratic Hotel Bristol, in Paris, a
big white salon which overlooks the Place Vendome. Afterwards she took
a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, whence she travelled to Melun, thirty miles
distant--that town from which come the Brie cheeses. On arrival, she
inquired for the Boulevard Victor Hugo, and an open cab drove her away
across the little island in the Seine, past the old church of St.
Aspais, to a point where, in the boulevard, stood a monument to the
great savant, Pasteur. The cab pulled up opposite the monument, where,
alighting, Ena found herself before a large four-storied house, the
ground floor of which was occupied by a tobacconist and a shop which
sold comestibles.
Of the old bespectacled concierge who was cobbling boots in the entrance
she inquired for Madame Tenot, and his gruff reply was:
"Au troisieme, a gauche."
So, mounting the stone steps, she found the left-hand door on the third
floor, and rang the bell.
The door opened, and the good-looking young French girl, who had been
her maid for six months at Brighton, confronted her.
"Well, Celine!" exclaimed Ena merrily in French. "You didn't expect to
see me--did you?"
The girl stood aghast and open-mouthed.
"_Dieu_! Madame!" she gasped. "I--I certainly did not!"
"Well, I chanced to be passing through Melun, and I thought I would call
upon you."
The girl stood in the doorway, apparently disinclined to invite her late
mistress into the small flat which she and her mother, the widow of the
local postmaster, occupied.
"I wrote to you, Madame, two months ago--but you never replied!"
"I have never had any letter from you, Celine," Ena declared. "But may
I not come in for a moment to have a chat with you? Ah! but perhaps you
have visitors?"
"No, Madame," was her reply; "I am alone. My mother went to my aunt's,
at Provins, this morning."
"Good! Then I may come in?"
"If Madame wishes," she said, still with some reluctance, and led the
way to a small, rather sparsely-furnished salon, which overlooked the
cobbled street below.
"I have been staying a few days at Marlotte, and am now on my way back
to Paris," said her former mistress, seating herself in a chair.
"Besides, I wanted particularly to see you, Celine, for several reasons.
I feel somehow that--well, that I have not treated you as I really ought
to have done. I dismissed you abruptly after poor Mr. Martin's death.
But I was so very upset--I was not actually myself. I know I ought not
to have done what I did. Please forgive me."
The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in well-cut black skirt and
cotton blouse merely shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. She uttered no
word. Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise at the sudden
appearance of her former mistress.
"I don't know what you must have thought of me, Celine," Ena added.
"I thought many things of Madame," the girl admitted.
"Naturally. You must have thought me most ungrateful, after all the
services you had rendered me, often without reward," remarked the
red-haired widow. "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful."
The girl only smiled. She recollected the manner in which she had been
suddenly dismissed and sent out from the house at five minutes'
notice--and for no fault that she could discover.
She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and
a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor,
living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame,
who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next
day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room.
That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true
import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had
summarily dismissed her, giving her a month's wages, and requesting her
to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in
France.
It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim
truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them,
utterly staggered her.
And now this woman's sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity.
"Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not
betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly.
"No, no, Celine! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very
old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me."
Celine, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence
expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died.
Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation
the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite
certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite
another reason--in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship
between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Celine
was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger.
Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and
as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl
was in her service.
"Now look here, Celine," she said at last. "I'll be perfectly frank
with you. I've come to ask you if you'll let bygones be bygones, and
return to me?"
The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then
replied:
"I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."
That was exactly the reply for which the clever woman wished.
"Why not, pray?" she asked the girl in a tone of regret.
"Because the man to whom I am betrothed would not allow me," was her
reply.
"Oh! Then you are engaged, Celine! Happy girl! I congratulate you
most heartily. And who is the happy man?"
"Henri Galtier."
"And what is his profession?"
"He is employed in the Mairie, at Chantilly," was her reply.
"He is at Chantilly now?"
The girl again hesitated. Then she replied:
"No--he is in London."
Ena held her breath. It was evidently the man to whom Celine was
engaged who was in London in search of Richard Bennett. Next second she
recovered from her excitement at her success in making the discovery.
"In London? Is he employed there?"
"Yes--temporarily," she answered.
"And when are you to marry?"
"In December--we hope."
"Ah! Then, much as I regret it, I quite understand that you cannot
return to me, Celine," exclaimed Ena. "Does Monsieur Galtier speak
English?"
"Yes; very well, Madame. He was born in London, and lived there until
he was eighteen."
"Oh, well, of course he would speak our language excellently. But
though you will no doubt both be happy in the near future, I myself am
not at all satisfied with my own conduct towards you. I've treated you
badly; I feel that in some way or other I ought to put myself right with
you. I never like a servant to speak badly of me."
"I do not speak badly of Madame," responded the girl, wondering whether,
after all, her late mistress suspected her of overhearing that startling
conversation late on the night following Mr. Martin's death.
Ena hesitated a moment, and then determined to act boldly, and said:
"Now Celine, let us be quite frank. I happen know that you have said
some very nasty and things about me--wicked things, indeed. I heard
that you have made a very serious allegation against me, and----"
"But, Madame! I----!" cried the girl, interrupting.
"Now you cannot deny it, Celine. You have said those things because you
have sadly misjudged me. But I know it is my own fault, and the reason I
am here in Melun is to put matters right--and to show you that I bear
you no ill will."
"I know that, Madame," she said. "Your words are sufficient proof of
it."
"But, on the contrary, you are antagonistic--bitterly antagonistic
towards myself--and"--she added slowly, looking straight into the girl's
face--"and also towards Mr. Bennett."
She started, looking sharply at the red-haired widow.
"Yes, I repeat it, Celine!" Ena went on. "You see I know the truth!
Yet your feeling against Mr. Bennett does not matter to him in the
least, because he died a month ago--of influenza."
"Mr. Bennett dead!" echoed the girl, standing aghast, for, as a matter
of fact, her lover, Henri Galtier, was searching for him in London.
"Yes; the poor fellow went to Birmingham on business, took influenza,
and died there a week later. Is it not sad?"
"Very," the girl agreed, staring straight before her. If Bennett were
dead, then of what avail would be all her efforts to probe the mystery
of Mr. Martin's death?
"Mr. Bennett was always generous to you--was he not?" asked Ena.
"Always," replied the girl. "I am very sorry he is dead!"
"Well, he is, and therefore whatever hatred you may have conceived for
him is of no importance," she replied; and then adroitly turned the
conversation to another subject.
At length, however, she returned to Celine's approaching marriage,
expressing a hope that she would be very comfortably off.
"Has Monsieur Galtier money?"
"Not very much," she replied. "But we shall be quite happy
nevertheless."
"Of course. Money does not always mean happiness. I am glad you view
matters in that light, Celine," Ena said. "Yet, on the other hand,
money contributes to luxury, and luxury, in most cases, means
happiness."
"True, Madame, I believe so," replied the ex-maid, whose thoughts were,
however, filled by what her late mistress had, apparently in all
innocence, told her, namely, that Bennett, the man her lover meant to
hunt down, was dead. She had no reason to doubt what Mrs. Pollen had
said, for only on the previous day Henri had written her to say that his
inquiries had had no result, and that he believed that the man Bennett
must be dead, as he could obtain no trace of him. The reward which they
hoped to gain from the insurance company when they had established
Bennett's identity had therefore vanished into air.
Celine Tenot sat bewildered and disappointed, and the clever woman
seated with her read her thoughts as she would have read a book.
"Now let's come to the point," she said, after a pause. "I want to make
amends, Celine. I want you to think better of me, and for that purpose,
I want to render you some little service, now that you are to marry. My
desire is to remove from your mind any antagonism you may entertain
towards myself. The best way in which I can do that is to make you a
little wedding-present--something useful."
"Oh, Madame!" she cried. "I--I really want nothing!"
"But I insist, Celine!" replied the wealthy widow. "Poor Mr. Bennett
remarked that I was very harsh in dismissing you. At the time I did not
think so, but I now realise that the fault was on my side, therefore I
shall give you thirty thousand francs to put by as a little nest-egg."
"But, Madame, I could not really accept it!" declared the girl,
exhibiting her palms.
"I have an account at the Credit Lyonnais, and to-morrow I shall place
the thirty thousand francs there in your name," said Mrs. Pollen. "I
shall want you to come to Paris--to the Hotel Bristol--so that we can go
to the bank together, and you can there open an account and give them
your signature. If I were you, I would say nothing whatever to Monsieur
Galtier about it--or even tell him of my visit. Just keep the money for
yourself--as a little present from one who, after all, greatly valued
your services."
Though the girl pretended to be entirely against receiving any present,
yet she realised that possession of such a respectable sum would be able
to assist in preparing her new home. After all, it was most generous of
Madame. Yes! she had sadly misjudged her, she reflected, after Mrs.
Pollen had left. So, adopting her late mistress's suggestion, she
refrained from telling her mother of the unexpected visit.
That night she wrote to Galtier, who was staying in a boarding-house in
Bloomsbury, telling him that she had heard of the death of Bennett, but
not revealing the source of her information. She therefore suggested
that he should spend no further time or money on the inquiry, but return
at once to his duties at Chantilly.
Next day Celine called at the Hotel Bristol, when mistress and maid went
together to the bank in the Boulevard des Italians, and there the girl
received the handsome present. After this, she returned much gratified
to Melun, while her late mistress left Paris that same night for London.
She had cleverly gained the girl's complete confidence, thereby
preventing any further inquiry into the curious circumstances attending
the death of Mr. Martin, of Chiswick.
*CHAPTER VI*
*THE LOCKED ROOM IN HAMMERSMITH*
"I'll go in first, and see if Mr. Boyne is at home," said Marigold
Ramsay excitedly to her companion, Gerald Durrant, as they turned into
Bridge Place, Hammersmith, about half-past nine one night ten days
later.
"Yes. If he's there I won't come in. We'll wait till another evening,"
the young fellow said.
"If he's out, I shall tell auntie that you are here, and ask whether I
can bring you in," said the girl, and leaving him idling at the corner,
she hurried to the house, and went down the basement steps.
What Marigold had told Durrant had aroused his curiosity concerning the
occupier of that creeper-covered house, and after much deliberation, he
had, after his return from Newcastle, decided to make an investigation.
Certainly the exterior of the place presented nothing unusual, for the
house was exactly the same as its neighbours, save for the dusty creeper
which hung untrimmed around the windows. Yet the fact that the man who
lived there disguised himself when he went to a locked attic was
certainly mysterious.
After a few moments, the girl emerged, and hastening towards him, said
eagerly:
"It's all right. Mr. Boyne is not expected home before half-past ten.
I'll introduce you to my aunt, and before she goes to bed--as she always
does at ten--I'll manage to unbolt the basement door. Then we'll go
out, and return without her being any the wiser."
"Excellent!" he replied, as they walked to the front door which Marigold
had left ajar.
In the hall Mrs. Felmore met them fussily.
"Very pleased to know you, Mr. Durrant," declared the deaf old lady
without, of course, having heard Gerald's greeting as he shook her hand.
"My aunt is very deaf," the girl said. "She can read what I say by my
lips, but it will be useless for you to try and converse with her. Mr.
Boyne can just manage to do so."
"Then I'll do the same," said Gerald, glancing around the front parlour,
into which Mrs. Felmore had then ushered them.
He noted the cheapness of the furniture, combined with scrupulous
cleanliness, as Mrs. Felmore, turning to him, said in that loud voice in
which the deaf usually converse:
"I hope you'll make yourself at home, Mr. Durrant! Any friend of my
niece is welcome here. Would you like a cup of tea? I know Marigold
will have one."
He thanked her, and she went below to prepare it, leaving the pair in
Mr. Boyne's room.
Quickly Gerald rose, remarking:
"There's nothing very curious about this, is there?" He made a critical
tour of the apartment.
He noticed the cupboards on either side of the fireplace, and on trying
the handle of one, found it locked.
"He keeps his insurance papers in there," said his companion in a low
voice.
"What? More insurance papers! I thought he kept them in the locked
room upstairs!" exclaimed Durrant.
"So he does, but there are some others here," she said. "This cupboard
is open. He keeps Nibby here."
"Nibby--who's that?"
"Here he is!" replied the girl, opening the door and taking out the cage
containing the tame rat.
"Is that his pet?" asked the young man, bending to examine the little
animal, whose beady eyes regarded him with considerable apprehension.
"Yes. Nibby always feeds off his master's plate after he has finished.
A sweet little thing, isn't he?"
Durrant agreed, but the possession of such a pet showed him that Boyne
was a man of some eccentricity.
"Would you like to see the door of the locked room?" Marigold asked.
"If so, I'll go downstairs and keep my aunt there while you run up to
the top floor."
"Excellent! I've brought my electric torch with me."
So while Marigold descended to the kitchen to talk to her aunt and help
to prepare the cup of tea, young Durrant switched on his light and
rushed up the stairs, half fearing lest the front door should suddenly
open and Boyne appear.
Arrived at the top of the stairs, he was confronted by the door which
led into the attic, a stout one of oak, he noted. The doors of all the
other rooms were of deal, painted and grained. This, however, was
heavy, and of oiled oak.
After careful examination, he came to the conclusion that the particular
door was much more modern than the others, and the circular brass
keyhole of the Yale latch gave it the appearance of the front door of a
house, rather than that of a room.
Some strange secret, no doubt, lay behind that locked door.
If it had an occupant he would, in all probability, have a light,
therefore he switched off his torch and tried to discover any ray of
light shining through a crack.
Carefully he went around the whole door, until he drew away the mat
before it, when, sure enough, _a light showed from within_!
With bated breath he listened. He could, however, distinguish no sound,
even though he placed his ear to the floor. Then, raising himself, much
gratified at his discovery, but nevertheless increasingly puzzled, he
recollected that the occupant, whoever he might be, would no doubt have
heard his footsteps and was now remaining quiet, little dreaming that
his light had betrayed his presence.
Suddenly, as he stood there straining his ears, he heard the sound of
low ticking--the ticking of a clock. Again he bent his ear to the
bottom of the door, and then at once established the fact that the clock
was inside that locked room.
He heard Marigold coming up from below, and at once slipped down again,
meeting her in the hall. When within the sitting-room, he said to her in
a low, tense voice:
"There's somebody in that room! There's a light there!"
"Your first surmise is correct then, Gerald!" she exclaimed. "Who can
it possibly be?"
"Ah! that we have to discover!" he said. "Let's be patient. I wonder,
however, who can be living up there in secret. At any rate, he has both
light and the time of day. In this weather he only wants food and
water."
"But it's extraordinary that somebody should live here without my aunt's
knowledge."
"It is. But there are dozens of people hidden away in London--people
believed by their friends to be dead, or abroad," he said. "In a great
city like ours it is quite easy to hide, providing that one is concealed
by a trusty friend. I wonder," he added, "how many people whose
obituary notices have appeared in the papers are living in secret in
upstairs rooms or down in cellars, dragging out their lives in
self-imprisonment, yet buoyed by the hope that one day they may, when
changed in appearance by years, reappear among their fellow-men and
laugh up their sleeves because nobody recognises them."
"Really, do you honestly think that Mr. Boyne is concealing somebody
here?" asked the girl anxiously.
"Everything points to it--a light in the room, and a clock."
"But why should he pay visits to him in disguise?"
"Ah! That's quite another matter. We have yet to discover the motive.
And we can only do so by watching vigilantly."
Then he described to her how he had pulled away the mat from before the
door, and how the light had been revealed.
"Well," exclaimed the girl. "I'm greatly puzzled over the whole affair.
May I not be frank with auntie, and tell her what we suspect?"
"By no means," he answered. "It would be most injudicious. It would
only alarm her, and upset any plans we may make."
"I wonder who can really be up there?"
"Some very close friend of this Mr. Boyne, without a doubt. He must
have some strange motive for concealing him."
"But if he's a friend, why does he disguise himself when he visits him?"
queried the girl.
"Yes, that's just the point. There's something very curious about the
whole affair," declared the young man. "When your aunt is in bed, he
goes up, evidently to take his friend food and drink. And yet he puts
on a gown which makes him look--as you have described it--like a Spanish
Inquisitor."
"Only all in white. Why white?"
"Can it be that the person upstairs is not self-imprisoned?" suggested
the young man, as a sudden thought occurred to him. "Can it be that
whoever is confined there is without proper mental balance? Solitary
confinement produces madness, remember. In Italy, where solitary
confinement for life takes the place of capital punishment for murder,
the criminal always ends his days as a lunatic--driven mad by that
terrible loneliness which even a dog could not suffer."
"That's certainly quite another point of view," she remarked. "I hadn't
thought of that!"
"Well, it is one to bear in mind," he said. "Your aunt, a most worthy
lady, is devoted to Mr. Boyne and serves him well. For the present let
her hold him in high esteem. In the meantime we will watch, and
endeavour to solve this mystery, Marigold."
Hardly had the words left his mouth, when the old lady entered the room
with two cups of tea upon a brass tray.
"There!" she said, addressing Marigold. "I know you like a cup o' tea
at this hour of the evening, and I hope, Mr. Durrant, it will be to your
liking. Mr. Boyne often has a cup out of my teapot if he gets home
before I go to bed."
"It's awfully good of you, auntie," the girl declared. "I know Mr.
Durrant highly appreciates it."
"That's all right," laughed the old lady. "I'll soon be going to bed.
It's near ten o'clock now."
Gerald glanced at his wrist-watch and saw that it was just ten.
Then, when Mrs. Felmore had gone, he said to the girl:
"Hadn't we better be going? Boyne will be back soon."
"Right," she said, drinking her tea daintily. "I'll go down and unfasten
the basement door. Auntie has no doubt bolted it. Then, when she's gone
to bed, we can get in again."
And a few moments later she left him. Five minutes later she reappeared,
followed by Mrs. Felmore.
"Auntie is going to bed," she said. "We must be off, Gerald."
The young man rose, smiled pleasantly, and shook the deaf woman's hand
in farewell. Then, a few moments later, the young pair descended the
front steps and left the house.
About ten minutes later, however, they returned to it, slipping
unobserved down the area steps. Marigold turned the handle of the door,
and in the darkness they both entered the kitchen, where they waited
eagerly, without lighting the gas, and conversing only in whispers.
Mrs. Felmore had gone upstairs, and stone-deaf that she was, would hear
no noise below.
She had left the gas turned low in the hall in readiness for her
master's return, retiring fully satisfied with the appearance and
manners of the young man to whom her niece had that night introduced
her.
The pair, waiting below in the darkness, remained eagerly on the alert.
It was a quarter past ten, and Bernard Boyne might return at any time.
But each minute which passed seemed an hour, so anxious and puzzled were
they, and at every noise they held their breath and waited.