"THAT WOMAN!"
Sir Roland, whose appearance the cap pulled over his eyes had partly
disguised, made a motion with his hand, enjoining silence. Then, linking
Dulcie's arm in his, he walked slowly towards the saloon entrance. I
walked beside them, but for the moment nobody spoke.
We presently found ourselves in a small, deserted room, apparently a
card room. Here, after carefully shutting the door, Sir Roland seated
himself. Then he indicated the seats that he wished us each to occupy,
for he was rather deaf.
"It is unwise," he said, as he offered me a cigar, "ever to converse
privately on the deck of a steamer. Though I have travelled little by
sea, I know that on board ship, especially on a small boat like this,
voices carry in an extraordinary manner. Standing down wind of you, on
deck, some moments ago, I heard your remarks quite distinctly, in spite
of my deafness. I even recognized your voices—until then I did not know
you were on board."
"But why are you here, father?" Dulcie exclaimed. "When did you leave
England?"
"I crossed the night before last. Connie wired to me to come at
once—she said in her telegram 'most urgent,' though she gave no reason
for the urgency."
"And have you seen her? Where is she now?"
"I was to meet her in the lounge of the Hotel Bristol in Paris last
night. Punctually at nine o'clock, the time arranged, I arrived there. I
waited until nearly ten, and then a messenger arrived with a note. It
was from her. She said in it that she had been telegraphed for to return
to England, that she was leaving by the night boat. She expressed deep
regret, and said she hoped that I would come back to London as soon as
possible—and so here I am."
Again, for some moments, nobody spoke. Dulcie was the first to break the
silence.
"Father," she exclaimed impetuously, "are you really going to—are you
still determined to marry that woman?"
Sir Roland stared at her.
"'That woman'?" he said in surprised indignation. "Whom do you mean by
'that woman'?"
"Connie Stapleton, father," she answered, looking him full in the eyes.
"Have you the least idea who and what she is?"
Sir Roland gazed at her aghast. Then, obviously controlling himself:
"I know that she has done me the honour of accepting my offer of
marriage," he replied, with cold dignity. "More than that, I don't ask
to know; her circumstances don't interest me; my fortune is ample
for both."
Dulcie made a gesture of impatience.
"For goodness' sake, father," she exclaimed, "how can you talk like
that? Connie Stapleton is—"
She turned to me abruptly.
"Oh, Mike," she said in a tone of great vexation, "tell him
everything—I can't."
I cleared my throat to gain time to collect my thoughts. Sir Roland's
rather dull stare was set upon my face inquiringly, though his
expression betrayed astonishment and keen annoyance.
"It's just this, Sir Roland," I said at last, bracing myself to face an
unpleasant task. "You, Dulcie, and I too, have been completely taken in
by Mrs. Stapleton. We believed her to be as charming as she certainly is
beautiful, we thought she was a lady, we—"
"'Thought'!" Sir Roland interrupted, cold with anger. "I still consider
her to be—"
"Will you let me finish? I say we all thought that, I say we supposed
that Mrs. Stapleton was just one of ourselves, a lady, an ordinary
member of society. Then circumstances arose, events occurred which
aroused my suspicions. At first I tried to dispel those suspicions, not
only because I liked the woman personally, but because it seemed almost
incredible that such a woman, mixing with the right people, received
everywhere, could actually be what the circumstances and events I have
hinted at pointed to her being. But at last proof came along that Mrs.
Stapleton was—as she is still—a common adventuress, or rather an
uncommon adventuress, a prominent member of a gang of clever thieves, of
a clique of criminals—"
"Criminals!" Sir Roland stormed, bursting suddenly into passion. Often I
had seen him annoyed, but never until now had I seen him actually in an
ungovernable fury. "How dare you say the lady I am about to marry
is—is—"
"I have proofs, Sir Roland," I cut in as calmly as I could. "You may
doubt my word, you can hardly doubt the word of a famous Continental
detective. He is on board. I will bring him here now."
As I quietly rose to leave the room, I saw Sir Roland staring, half
stupidly, half in a passion still, from Dulcie to me, then back again at
Dulcie. Before he could speak, however, I had left the little room and
gone in search of Victor Albeury. He was not in his cabin, nor was he in
the smoking-room, where men still sat playing cards, nor was he in the
big saloon. On the forward deck I found him at last, a solitary figure
leaning against the stanchion rail, smoking his pipe, and gazing
abstractedly out across the smooth sea, his eyes apparently focussed
upon the black, far-distant horizon.
Gently I tapped him on the arm, as he seemed unaware of my approach.
"Well, Mr. Berrington," he said calmly, without looking round or moving,
"what can I do for you?"
"Please come at once," I exclaimed. "Sir Roland and Miss Challoner are
in the small saloon; we have been trying to explain to Sir Roland that
the woman Stapleton is an adventuress. Probably you don't know that she
is engaged to be married to Sir Roland. He won't believe a word we say.
We want you to come to him—to speak to him and open his eyes."
It was no easy matter, however, to get the old man to believe even
Albeury's calm and convincing assurance that Connie Stapleton belonged
to a gang of infamous people, some of whom we knew beyond question to be
cold-blooded assassins. It was due, indeed, largely to Albeury's
remarkable personality that in the end he succeeded in altering the
opinion Sir Roland had held concerning this woman of whom he was
evidently even more deeply enamoured than we already knew him to be.
"But she has been such a close friend of yours, Dulcie," he said at
last, in an altered tone. "If she is all that you now say she is, how
came you to remain so intimate with her all this time?"
"She has tricked me, father, just as she has hoodwinked you," she
answered, with self-assurance that astonished me. "And then she seemed
somehow to mesmerize me, to cast a sort of spell over me, so that I came
almost to love her, and to do almost everything she suggested. By
degrees she got me in her power, and then she began to make proposals
that alarmed me—and yet I was drawn to her still. Once or twice Mike
had warned me against her, but I had refused to believe his warnings. It
was only two days ago that the crisis came. She didn't ask me to do what
she wanted; she told me I _must_ do it—and then, all at once, the
scales seemed to fall from my eyes. At last her true nature was revealed
to me. It was an awful moment, father—awful!"
Far into the night the three of us remained talking. At last, when we
rose to separate, Albeury turned to me.
"I sleep with you in your cabin to-night, Mr. Berrington," he said
quietly. "And I have arranged that one of the stewardesses shall share
Miss Challoner's cabin. Nobody can tell what secret plans the members of
this gang may have made, and it's not safe, believe me it isn't, for
either of you to spend the night unprotected. Locks, sometimes even
bolts, form no barrier against these people, some of whom are almost
sure to be on board, though I haven't as yet identified any among the
passengers. You will remember that Lady Fitzgraham's cabin was ransacked
last week, though she was in it, and the door locked on the inside. And
poor Preston—we can't risk your sharing his fate."
These ominous warnings would assuredly have filled me with alarm, had
not Albeury's calmness and complete self-possession inspired me with a
strange confidence. Somehow it seemed to me that so long as he was near
no harm could befall either Dulcie or myself. Even Preston's presence
had never inspired such confidence as this clever and far-seeing
detective's presence had done ever since I had come to know him.
But nothing happened. When I woke next morning, after a night of sound
rest, the boat was steaming slowly into port.
Together the four of us journeyed back to town, and for the first time
for many weeks I had an opportunity of a lengthy talk with Dulcie.
Somehow her association with the woman Stapleton seemed to have
broadened her views of life, though in all other respects she was
absolutely unchanged. To me she seemed, if possible, more intensely
attractive and lovable than during the period of our temporary
estrangement—I realized now that we had during those past weeks been to
all intents estranged. Perhaps, after all, the singular adventures she
had experienced—some which she related to me were strange indeed—had
served some good purpose I did not know of. What most astonished me was
that, during those weeks which she had spent in close companionship with
Stapleton, Gastrell, Lorrimer, and other members of the criminal
organization, nothing had, until quite recently, been said that by any
possibility could have led her to suppose that these friends of hers, as
she had deemed them to be, were other than respectable members of
society. Certainly, I reflected as she talked away now with the utmost
candour and unconcern, these people must constitute one of the cleverest
gangs of criminals there had ever been; the bare fact that its members
were able to mix with such impunity in exclusive social circles
proved that.
Before the train left Newhaven I had bought a number of newspapers, but
not until we were half-way to London did it occur to me to look at any
of them. It was not long, then, before I came across an announcement
which, though I had half expected to see it, startled me a little. The
report of my supposed suicide was brief enough, and then came quite a
long account of my uneventful career—uneventful until recently. Turning
to Dulcie, who, seated beside me, was staring out at the flying scenery,
I handed her one of the papers, indicating the paragraph.
"Good heavens, Mike!" she exclaimed when she had read it. "How awful!
Supposing I had read that without knowing it to be untrue!"
She held out the paper to Sir Roland.
"Father, just read that," she said.
He had heard me relate to Dulcie the story of my narrow escape in the
forest near Martin d'Ablois, and I was pleased to see a smile at last
come into his eyes, for since his cruel disillusionment he had looked
terribly depressed.
"After all," I said as he put the paper down, "I am glad I returned to
Paris, if only because my doing so has saved you from this shock."
"If I had read that, believing it to be true," he answered quietly, "the
shock would probably have killed me."
"Killed you!" I exclaimed. "Oh, no, Sir Roland, a little thing like that
would not have killed you; a family like yours takes a lot of
killing—the records in history prove that."
He gazed at me with a strange seriousness for some moments. At last he
spoke.
"Michael," he said, and there was an odd catch in his voice, "I wonder
if you have the remotest conception of the strength of my attachment to
you. I don't believe you have. And yet I could hardly be more attached
to you than I am if you were my own son."
When, after parting from Sir Roland and Dulcie in London—they were to
return to Holt direct—I arrived with Albeury at my flat in South Molton
Street, I found a stack of letters awaiting me, also several telegrams.
Simon, my man, was expecting me—I had telegraphed from Newhaven—but
almost directly he opened the door I noticed a change in his expression,
and to some extent in his manner. Deferential, also curiously reserved,
he had always been, but now there was a "something" in his eyes, a look
which made me think he had something on his mind—something he wished to
say to me but dared not say.
I had sent Albeury into my study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of
wine while I went up to my room to have a bath. Simon was still busy
with my things when I came out of the bathroom, and, while I dressed, I
took the opportunity of questioning him.
"What's amiss, Simon?" I asked lightly.
He looked up with a start.
"Amiss, sir?" he repeated, with obvious embarrassment.
"I said 'amiss.' Out with it."
He seemed, for some moments, unable to meet my glance. Then suddenly he
faced me unflinchingly.
"Yes?" I said encouragingly, as he did not speak.
"I'll tell you what's amiss, sir," he answered abruptly, forcing himself
to speak. "The day after you'd left, a peculiar-looking man called here,
and asked to see you. When I told him you were not at home, he asked if
you were out of town. I didn't answer that, sir, but I asked him quite
politely if I couldn't give you any message. He answered No, that he
must see you himself. Then he started to question me, in a kind of
roundabout way, about you and your movements, sir."
"I hope you kept your counsel," I exclaimed quickly, for, excellent
servant though Simon, was, he occasionally lacked discretion.
"Indeed I did, sir. Though I was quite courteous, I was a bit short with
him. The next day he come again, about the same time—it was close on
dinner time—and with him this time was another man—a rather younger
man. They questioned me again, sir, quite friendly-like, but they didn't
get much change out of me. Yesterday they tried it on a third time—both
of them come again—and, well, sir, happing to put my hand into my
jacket pocket soon after they were gone, I found these in it."
As he spoke he dived into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope.
Opening the envelope, he withdrew from it what I saw at a glance were
bank-notes. Unfolding them with trembling hands, which made the notes
crackle noisily, he showed me that he had there ten five-pound notes.
"And they gave you those for nothing?" I asked, meaning to be ironical.
"Well, sir, they didn't get anything in return, though they expect
something in return—that's only natural. They said they'd come back
to see me."
"Did they say when they'd come back?"
"To-day, sir, about the same time as they come yesterday and the day
before." He pulled out his watch. "It's close on seven now. Perhaps you
will like to see them if they come presently, sir."
"On the other hand, perhaps I shall not," I said, and I lit a cigarette.
"At the same time, if they call, you can tell me."
"Certainly, sir—if anybody rings, I'll come at once and tell you."
He shuffled for a moment, then added:
"And these notes, sir; am I entitled to keep them?"
"Of course you are. Anybody has a right to accept and keep a gift. At
the same time, I would warn you not to be disappointed if, when you try
to cash them, you find the numbers have been stopped."
Downstairs, with Albeury, I began to look through my correspondence. The
third telegram I opened puzzled me.
"_Is it all right?—Dick."_
It had been awaiting me two days. Guessing that there must be a letter
from Dick which would throw light on this telegram, I glanced quickly
through the pile. I soon came to one addressed in his handwriting.
I had to read it through twice before I fully realized what it all
meant. Then I turned quickly to Albeury.
"Read that," I said, pushing the letter to him across the table.
He picked it up and adjusted his glasses. A few moments later he sprang
suddenly to his feet.
"My God! Mr. Berrington!" he exclaimed, "this is most serious! And it
was written"—he glanced at the date—"eight days ago—the very day
you left London."
"What is to be done?" I said quickly.
"You may well ask," he answered. He looked up at the clock. "The police
must be shown this at once, and, under the circumstances, told
everything that happened in France. I had hoped to be able to entrap the
gang without dealing with Scotland Yard direct."
For some moments he paced the room. Never since I had met him had I seen
him so perturbed—he was at all times singularly calm. I was not,
however, surprised at his anxiety, for it seemed more than likely that
quite unwittingly, and with the best intentions, Dick Challoner had not
merely landed us in a terrible mess, but that he had certainly turned
the tables upon us, leaving Dulcie and myself at the mercy of this
desperate gang. On board the boat I had mentioned Dick to the detective,
and told him about the cypher, and the part that Dick had played. He had
not seemed impressed, as I had expected him to be, and without a doubt
he had not been pleased. All he had said was, I now remembered: "It's a
bad thing to let a boy get meddling with a matter of this kind, Mr.
Berrington"—he had said it in a tone of some annoyance. And now, it
would seem, his view had been the right one. What Dick had done,
according to this letter just received from him, had been to start
advertising in the _Morning Post_ on his own account—in the cypher code
which he had discovered—serious messages intended for the gang and that
must assuredly have been read by them. With his letter two cuttings were
enclosed—his two messages already published. As I looked at them again
a thought flashed across me. Now I knew how it came about that my
impenetrable disguise had been discovered. Now I knew how it came about
that Alphonse Furneaux had been released from the room where Preston had
locked him in his flat. And now I knew why the members of the gang had
left the "Continental" so suddenly, scattering themselves probably in
all directions, and why the woman Stapleton had dashed back to London.
I caught my breath as my train of thought hurried on. Another thought
had struck me. I held my breath! Yes, it must be so. Try as I would I
could not possibly deceive myself.
Dick had unwittingly been responsible for the murder of George Preston!
This was the most awful blow of all. Unconsciously I looked up at the
detective, who still paced the room. Instantly my eyes met his. He may
have read in my eyes the horror that I felt, or the strength of my
feeling may have communicated my thought to him, for at once he stood
still, and, staring straight at me, said in a tone of considerable
emotion:
"That boy has done a fearful thing, Mr. Berrington. He has—"
"Stop! Stop!" I cried, raising my head. "I know what you are going to
say! But you mustn't blame him, Albeury—he did it without
knowing—absolutely without knowing! And only you and I know that he is
to blame. Dick must never know—never. Nobody else must ever know. If
his father ever finds it out, it will kill him."
For some moments Albeury remained quite still. His lip twitched—I had
seen it twitch like that before, when he was deeply moved. At last
he spoke.
"Nobody shall ever know," he said in the same strained tone. He paused,
then:
"I must talk on your telephone," he exclaimed suddenly, turning to leave
the room.
As he did so, Simon entered.
"The two men are here, sir," he said. "I have told them you are quite
alone. Shall I show them in?"