AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
Among the passengers on board the Cunard steamer which made its way
up to its moorings in the Mersey on a misty and stormy morning three
months after the tragedy which had taken place at Niagara Falls were
Count Frederick de Vaugelade and his two English fellow-travelers, Mr.
Harcourt and Lord Arthur Fitzjames. The intimacy between the three
young men had become very much closer, and Frederick was under promise
to visit each of them at his father's country-seat as soon as the
London season was over.
On the day after their arrival in London Lord Arthur called at
Frederick's hotel in Piccadilly, and after taking him for a lounge in
the Row, and thence to lunch at his club, proceeded to his father's
house in Park lane and introduced his friend to his mother and sisters.
From that time forth Frederick became almost a daily visitor at the
Marquis of Kingsbury's house.
His great attraction there was Lady Margaret, familiarly called “Pearl”
in the family, a charming little brunette, with large, mischievous gray
eyes and a joyful, light-hearted disposition which made her a general
favorite. She set up a desperate flirtation with Frederick, and the
latter began to believe that luck was decidedly with him, and that it
only depended on himself to become a member of one of the greatest
families of the United Kingdom.
Lady Margaret's elder sister, Lady Alice, appeared, however, from
the first to be prejudiced against the young man, and showed him by
her marked coldness that she at least was not following the general
example of admiring everything that he did or said. Indeed, he soon
realized that she might become in an emergency a very serious obstacle
to his matrimonial projects.
The marquis himself took an immense fancy to Frederick, and introduced
him everywhere with such marked favor that the hopes of the young man
began to grow into certitude.
One evening Frederick called toward 10 o'clock at the mansion in
Park lane, and was ushered by the groom of the chambers into the
drawing-room. The ladies had not yet left the dining-room, and he sat
down on an ottoman to wait for them, taking up an album to while away
the time.
As he was idly turning over the leaves he suddenly uttered an
exclamation of surprise as he caught sight of a portrait of his old
enemy, Capt. Clery.
“By Jove, this is unfortunate,” muttered he. “I hope the man is not in
London, for if he is we may meet any day here and I shall be in a fine
hole.”
He was so absorbed in the contemplation of the pictures that he did
not hear the door open. A tall, soldierly figure entered the room and
walked slowly toward where Frederick was sitting. As he laid his opera
hat down on the table Frederick looked up, and could not help starting
to his feet as he saw the original of the picture standing before him.
Frederick's first thought was to effect his escape without delay. But
while he hesitated for a moment as to the means of doing so without
attracting Captain Clery's attention, the drawing-room doors were
thrown open, and Lady Kingsbury, followed by her daughters and two
other ladies in full evening dress, entered the room. Baffled in his
purpose, Frederick now determined to put the best face on the matter
that he could. Of one thing he was certain, namely, that there had been
no gleam of recognition in Clery's eye when the latter had cursorily
glanced at him on entering. The drawing-rooms were but dimly lighted
by several shaded lamps, and the great change which had taken place in
Frederick's appearance during the years which had elapsed since he left
India encouraged him to hope that he might possibly escape detection,
even on closer inspection. He therefore advanced toward the lady of the
house, and, bowing low, kissed her outstretched hand with the graceful
and never-failing courtesy that was habitual to him in his relations
with the fair sex.
“How are you, my dear count? so glad to see you!” exclaimed the
marchioness; then, as she caught sight of Captain Clery, who had
meanwhile approached, she added: “Why, Charlie, is that you? I did
not know you were back in town. Let me introduce you to the Comte de
Vaugelade, a new but already very dear friend of ours.”
The two men bowed to each other, and Frederick began to feel more sure
of his ground as Clery gave no token of ever having met him before.
The conversation soon became general, and Frederick, always a brilliant
talker, surpassed himself that evening and kept them all interested and
amused by his witty sallies and repartees until a late hour.
He noticed that on two or three occasions the colonel—for such Clery
had now become—fixed his piercing blue eyes somewhat inquiringly on
him, as if trying to place him. It was evident that he was rather
puzzled.
At midnight they left the house together and strolled toward
Piccadilly, chatting rather pleasantly on various topics. As they were
about to take leave of each other, Colonel Clery suddenly exclaimed:
“I don't know why, but I have an impression that I have had the
pleasure of meeting you once before, count. Your face seems familiar,
although your name was until to-night unknown to me.”
“I fear that you must be mistaken, colonel,” quietly rejoined
Frederick, taking out his match-box to light a cigarette. “I am quite
sure that I have never had the honor of an introduction to you before—a
circumstance which I certainly could not have forgotten had it taken
place,” added he, with a bow.
Thereupon the two men shook hands cordially, and Frederick made his way
back to his hotel, leaving Colonel Clery to hail a passing hansom and
to drive home.
As the cab rattled up Piccadilly toward St. James, the colonel
thoughtfully twirled his mustache as he muttered to himself:
“Dashed if I can make it out! Where on earth did I meet that French
fellow before? It seems to me as if he were connected with some
disagreeable incident of my past life, but I will be blessed if I
can remember when or how. I must try to find it out, however. The
Kingsburys are making such a friend of him; and I am afraid that little
Pearl is fast losing her heart to him. I must have a talk with Alice
about the matter, and ask her where Arthur picked him up.”
On the following day, meeting Lord Arthur in the Row, Colonel Clery
questioned him about Frederick.
“Oh, Vaugelade is a capital fellow!” exclaimed the young lord. “Tommy
Harcourt and I traveled with him all over America. Lots of money, you
know; good form and all that. The girls at Ottawa and New York were all
crazy about him. We thought we should never be able to get him away.
Awfully good fellow, and the most agreeable traveling companion I have
ever met!”
“Well, but, my dear boy, do you know anything more definite about him?
You see, one can never know too much about these blasted foreigners.
Wasn't it somewhat imprudent to introduce him to your mother and
sisters? I am afraid that Pearl is becoming rather infatuated with him.”
“Oh, hang it, Clery, you croak like an old parson. Pearl is a desperate
flirt, and is always going it with some fellow or other. What would
be the harm anyhow? I don't think the pater would object very much.
Vaugelade has fortune, birth, position, good looks, talents.”
“What on earth do you know about his birth, position, or fortune beyond
what he tells you himself?” remonstrated the colonel.
A look of real annoyance passed over Lord Arthur's good-humored face,
as he exclaimed, with unusual asperity:
“Now, see here, Charlie, I think you have said enough. Vaugelade is a
friend of mine, and I won't hear another word against him. Why, man
alive, he is not poaching on your preserves. On the contrary, I am
rather inclined to believe that he and Alice don't hit it off well
together.”
“Shows her good sense,” interrupted Colonel Clery.
“Well, that is neither here nor there. Don't let us quarrel about it,
there's a good fellow. By Jove, when you and Alice are married your
house will be difficult of approach. I have never seen such people as
you both are for always picking holes in everybody.”
Nothing more was said about the matter, and Colonel Clery decided to
keep his own counsel in future.
A week later the colonel and Frederick both dined in Park lane, and
as nobody was going out that night, the party assembled after dinner
in Lady Kingsbury's boudoir and began looking over some magnificent
photographs which Clery had given to Lady Alice on his return from
India.
“Oh, by the by, my dear count,” said Lady Kingsbury to Frederick,
who was sitting near her, “you must tell me all about that horrible
story of the elephant execution which you told Pearl the other day.
She has been talking so much to me about it that I am quite anxious to
hear from you if it is really true. Surely it is impossible that such
barbarous cruelty should still be practiced in a country over which her
majesty's power extends!”
“I don't believe a word of it!” exclaimed Lady Alice, in very decided
tones. “The count, as we all know, is a great hand at oriental
embroidery, no matter how flimsy the fabric on which it reposes.”
“My dear,” remonstrated her mother, “how can you say such a rude thing
when Monsieur de Vaugelade has assured your sister that he himself has
witnessed the ghastly scene with his own eyes!”
Colonel Clery, who was turning over the photographs, quickly looked up
at this moment and cast a searching look on Frederick.
“Now, Charlie,” said Lady Alice, crossing over to him, “you have been
in India. Do tell us if you have ever heard of this mode of execution?”
“Yes,” replied the colonel, slowly, “I have. It is, however, a very
rare occurrence, and during the whole of my long stay in the East I
have only known it to be applied on two occasions, both of which, as
far as I can remember, took place at Baroda, a God-forsaken spot, ruled
by a cruel and tyrannical man, who snaps his fingers at English laws. I
particularly remember the last of these two executions, for the victim
was a poor devil whose innocence was discovered some weeks after his
having been put to death.”
“Oh, now, you must tell us all about it,” cried Lady Margaret, whose
love of the horrible was a standing joke in the family. “It positively
sounds like a story out of a novel.”
Colonel Clery, who had risen and was now standing before the
fire-place, turned his eyes full upon Frederick and remarked:
“You really ought to ask Count de Vaugelade to tell you all about it,
instead of me. Having been present on one of these occasions, he is
certainly in a better position to satisfy your curiosity than I am.”
“Not at all, my dear colonel. If the ladies insist on hearing about
this _vilaine affaire_, I had much rather that you would tell them.
But,” he added, in a somewhat agitated voice, “is it not rather a
dismal subject to discuss? Let us talk of something else.”
“No, no,” urged Lady Margaret. “We are in for the horrible! Don't
disappoint us, I beg of you.”
“Well, then, as the count is so modest and declines to give us another
proof of his talents as a narrator, I will tell you what I know about
the matter,” said Colonel Clery, as he resumed his seat.
“It was about eight or nine years ago, and I had only recently
returned to India from a long furlough in England, when all Baroda
and Bombay society were startled by the announcement of the murder
of a very prominent and well-known Hindoo widow, whose body had been
discovered among the ruins of a temple in the outskirts of Baroda. A
poor, half-witted beggar had been found removing some jewels from the
corpse as it lay in the long grass, and it was immediately taken for
granted that it was he who had killed her. He was immediately seized
and dragged before the guicowar or king, who lost no time in sentencing
him to suffer death by the elephant. This most atrocious punishment,
as Monsieur de Vaugelade will doubtless have informed you, consists in
tying the culprit, who is securely bound hand and foot and unable to
stir, by a long rope to the hind leg of the monster. The latter is then
urged to a sharp trot, and at each movement of its leg the helpless
body of the victim is jerked with a bound over the stone pavement.
This is kept up for about the space of half a mile or so, after which
the poor wretch's sufferings are brought to a close, his head being
placed on a stone block and crushed flat by the ponderous foot of the
elephant.”
There was a murmur of horror among those present, in which even Lord
Arthur joined, and Frederick, who had been sitting motionless on
the sofa with Lady Kingsbury's toy terrier lying across his knees,
unconsciously twisted the little dog's ear so violently that it gave
a suppressed howl, and, reproachfully looking at him, retired to its
mistress' skirts in high dudgeon.
“Remember, please,” remarked the colonel, “that you insisted that I
should tell you all this, and that I did so against my own inclination.”
“Yes, of course, of course, my dear Charlie. But do go on, please,”
exclaimed Lady Margaret, impatiently.
“All right, Pearl. You are really the most blood-thirsty little woman I
have ever met. I suppose I shall have to spin you the remainder of the
yarn,” replied the colonel, as he laughed somewhat constrainedly.
“I forgot to tell you that a man of the name of Count von Waldberg, a
Prussian nobleman, with whom we had become acquainted on our passage
out to Bombay, was at the time staying at Baroda with a Colonel
Fitzpatrick. This young man never took my fancy, and I had had occasion
to believe him to be a rather shady character.”
“Just like you. You always manage to see the dark side of everybody,”
interrupted Lord Arthur, who was lounging on a pile of cushions.
“Please, Arthur, spare us your remarks. Do, there's a good fellow,”
cried the irrepressible Pearl.
“When you have quite finished fighting there I will resume my story,”
exclaimed Colonel Clery.
“Don't mind them, Charlie. We are all very anxious to hear the end,”
rejoined Lady Kingsbury, smiling.
“Very well. I was just telling you about this man Waldberg. He was
invited by the Guicowar of Baroda to be present at the execution which
I have just described, and created quite a sensation by fainting away
at the most crucial moment thereof. Some days later he disappeared
from Baroda, leaving a letter for Colonel Fitzpatrick, in which he
stated that he had been called away on pressing business, and he has
never been heard of since. However, it was ascertained soon after
his departure that he was the last person who had been seen with the
murdered woman before her death, and that he had been noticed within a
short time of the crime near the very spot where the body was found. It
was also discovered that he had been on terms of considerable intimacy
with her, and that half an hour before the body was found he had called
at the house, and, under pretext of waiting for her, had spent some
time alone in her boudoir. As a considerable sum of money and some
very valuable jewels were afterward found by the widow's executors to
be missing from a desk in this particular room, the theft, as well
as the murder, was immediately laid at Count von Waldberg's door. It
was too late, however, for the bird had flown, and all efforts of the
police were powerless even to trace him out of India. I must add that
there were some very distressing circumstances with regard to Colonel
Fitzpatrick's lovely daughter, who, on hearing of the count's sudden
departure, committed suicide by drowning herself in the river.”
“How horrible!” exclaimed Lady Margaret. “Why, the man must have been a
perfect monster!”
“Not in appearance, at any rate. He was a very good-looking
fellow—remarkably handsome—not very tall, but of aristocratic bearing,
with small hands and feet, large, soft black eyes, and a black
mustache. Yes, I remember him perfectly now!”
At this juncture Frederick, who had risen, glanced at the clock, and,
addressing Lady Kingsbury, said, apologetically:
“I am afraid that this interesting story has made me forget how late
the hour is. I must pray you to excuse me and to permit me to take my
leave.”
“Why, it is actually 2 o'clock!” exclaimed the marchioness. “I had no
idea it was so late. Good-night, my dear count. Do come to luncheon
to-morrow. You know that you promised to accompany us to the exhibition
of water-colors in the afternoon. I am so anxious to hear your opinion
about our English pictures.”
After duly expressing his thanks and acceptance of the invitation, and,
after bidding adieu, Frederick was moving toward the door, accompanied
by Lord Arthur, when Colonel Clery called out to him:
“Wait a moment for me, count. I will walk part of the way with you, if
you will allow it. I have got to go, too.”
Frederick bowed his assent, and the two men went down stairs together,
Lord Arthur calling after them over the balustrades.
“_Dolce repose_, Charlie; don't dream of all these blood-and-thunder
stories, and don't treat poor Vaugelade to any more of them on his way
home. You are enough to give a fellow the creeps.”
For a minute after they had left the house Colonel Clery and Frederick
walked on in silence. The night was very dark, and a fine drizzling
rain was beginning to fall.
Suddenly Colonel Clery stopped short in front of Frederick, and laying
his hand on the latter's arm said, quietly:
“I know you now—you are Count von Waldberg!”
The light of a street lamp was shining full on Frederick's face,
and Colonel Clery remarked, with surprise, that not a muscle of his
features moved.
“May I inquire, Colonel Clery, what on earth you mean by this
astounding piece of insolence; for I can scarcely regard it in any
other light after what you have told us to-night about the gentleman
whose name you are attempting to father on me in such a preposterous
fashion. Had I not spent the entire evening in your company I should be
tempted to believe that you had been drinking.”
“I am perfectly aware of what I am saying,” replied the colonel, “and
I should not have ventured to make such an assertion had I not been
sure of my ground. Ever since I first met you here in London I have
been seeking to recall your face. I knew that I had seen you before,
but could not remember where. To-night, however, the conversation about
the Baroda executions has brought the whole thing back to me, and I
recognize you perfectly now. I cannot be mistaken.”
“It is to be regretted, for your own sake, that you are,” replied
Frederick, “and very much so, too. I will hold you accountable for
this deliberate calumny, Colonel Clery. A man should have proper proof
before daring to accuse a gentleman of such crimes as those which your
Count Waldberg or Walderburg seems, according to your story, to have
committed.”
Colonel Clery was fairly staggered by Frederick's extraordinary
coolness and self-possession. He began to ask himself whether he
had not been committing some awful blunder in asserting that M. de
Vaugelade and Count Waldberg were one and the same person.
“Of course,” faltered he, at length, “if you can give me any proof to
show that you are not the man I believe you to be, I shall be only too
happy to beg your pardon for what I have said, and attribute it all to
a most remarkable resemblance.
“I am quite ready to give you any proof you may desire,” replied
Frederick, very stiffly. “I may add, however, that were it not for
the peculiar and privileged position which you hold with regard to the
Kingsburys I should not dream of taking the trouble to exculpate myself
in your eyes. It is for their sake alone that I consent to lower myself
to answer your ridiculous insinuations.”
During this conversation they had walked on, and had passed Frederick's
hotel without noticing it. They were now very near Colonel Clery's
rooms, in St. James.
“Have you got any—any papers about you which could convince me of my
mistake and prove your identity?” inquired Clery, somewhat hesitatingly.
“Well, I have my passport, which is attached to my pocket-book,
and some cards and letters besides, if that will suffice,” replied
Frederick with a sneer; “but I do not suppose that you wish me to sit
down here on the curbstone in the rain and let you examine them by the
light of the street lamps.”
“Certainly not. Come up to my room—that is, if you don't object. It
will be best for both of us to have this matter settled once and for
all.”
“All right; show the way. But I must acknowledge that you English are
an infernally queer lot, and well deserve to be called ‘originals.’”
Colonel Clery, taking a latch-key from his pocket, opened the house
door and preceded Frederick up a broad flight of steps. Opening another
door on the first floor he ushered him into a large but cozy-looking
sitting-room. The heavy Turkish curtains were drawn before the windows,
and a reading lamp, shaded by a crimson silk screen, was burning on
a low side table, leaving part of the room in semi-darkness. Here
and there on the tapestried walls were trophies of remarkably fine
Damascened Indian swords and inlaid matchlocks. A few good water-colors
hung over the sofa, and on the chimney was a large photograph of Lady
Alice, in a splendid enameled frame, standing between two old Satsuma
vases filled with cut flowers.
Colonel Clery mechanically motioned Frederick to the sofa, but the
latter, taking from his pocket a small portefeuille and three or four
letters, handed them to him, saying:
“Look at these first, colonel, so as to convince yourself before
anything else that you are not now harboring a thief and assassin under
your roof.”
Colonel Clery, throwing his hat and overcoat on a chair, and taking the
documents from Frederick, sat down on a low arm-chair in front of the
table for the purpose of examining them by the light of the lamp.
Had he been able to glance behind his chair he would scarcely have been
reassured by the expression which came over Frederick's features as
soon as he felt that he was no longer observed. But the colonel was so
absorbed in the perusal of one of the letters handed to him that he did
not even notice that Frederick had softly approached and was bending
over him as if to read over his shoulder.
[Illustration: FREDERICK KILLS COLONEL CLERY.]
Noiselessly Frederick removed from his collar a long and slender
pearl-headed platinum pin with a very sharp point, which he habitually
wore in the evening to keep his white tie in place. After a rapid
glance at the nape of the colonel's neck, which was fully exposed
to view as he bent over the latter, Frederick, with a swift downward
motion of his hand, buried this novel kind of a stiletto to the very
head between the first and second vertebræ of the spinal column.
Without a cry, without a sound, the unfortunate officer fell forward
on the table as if he had been struck by lightning. Death had been
instantaneous, the spinal marrow having been touched by the unerring
and steady prick of the tiny weapon.
This was but another instance of the dangerous knowledge which
Frederick had acquired from the natives during his sojourn in Java. All
the more dangerous, as when death has been brought about in this way no
trace of violence remains except the minute puncture at the back of the
neck produced by the pin. This is almost certain to escape observation
unless specially looked for, and the death is attributed to a sudden
failure of the action of the heart.
Frederick, having ascertained that the colonel was quite dead, took
from his contracted hand the letter he had been reading, replaced it in
the portefeuille with the others, and then restored it to his pocket.
Bending once more over the lifeless form of the colonel he drew the pin
from the almost invisible wound, which had not even bled, and replaced
it in his tie. Then, taking the body in his arms, he dragged it to the
lounge, on which he carefully laid it, closing the wide-open eyes and
arranging the pillows under the head. Lowering the lamp, he went softly
to the door, and, after listening intently for some minutes to hear if
any one was about, he stepped out of the room, and closing the door
after him, walked down stairs and into the quiet, lonely street.