"The object of my visit, your Excellency, is not to discuss the merits
of my chief or the policy of the Home Government, but to make a
suggestion which he has desired me to place before you with all
deference to your wide experience as Ambassador, and your unequalled
knowledge of the French people," I said gravely, and then, clearly and
succinctly, I placed before him the Earl's ideas, together with the
instructions he had entrusted me to deliver.
At first the Ambassador, resenting my interference with his actions,
seemed disinclined to entertain the suggestions; but using the arguments
my chief had advanced, I at length induced him to view the matter from
the same standpoint. I even obtained from him what was practically an
admission that the policy he had pursued in the past regarding the
question under discussion was not altogether sound, and once having
obtained that, I felt confident of gaining my point without any
unpleasant incident. From that moment, indeed, he recognised that I
bore a message from the chief, therefore he treated me pleasantly, and
announced his intention of seeking an audience with the President of the
Republic at the Elysee at four o'clock, to enter upon negotiations which
Her Majesty earnestly desired should be carried forward without delay.
Although the Marquis treated me with calm, unruffled dignity, as
befitted the Ambassador of the greatest nation on earth, I nevertheless
congratulated myself that my efforts had been eminently successful.
Aided by the promptings of the shrewd old Earl, I had, I flattered
myself, exercised a careful and even delicate tact in dealing with this
leader among diplomatists, and, as may be imagined, the knowledge that
my mission was successful caused me the utmost satisfaction.
When I had first approached the subject he had been inclined to
disregard my words, and grew so angry that I feared lest he might tender
his resignation, as the Earl had apprehended. But the Minister's clever
arguments, rather than my own tact, convinced him, for he saw that to
act at once was imperative; hence the success of my first secret
mission.
We sat together for nearly an hour calmly discussing the matter from
various standpoints, and when we rose his Excellency again congratulated
me upon the soundness of my views, laughingly declaring that, instead of
penning the Earl's impatient and irritating dispatches, he ought to
appoint me to a post abroad.
Full of elation, I descended the broad stairs, so thickly carpeted that
my feet fell noiselessly, and met unexpectedly, a few moments later, my
friend Captain Cargill, of the 2nd Life Guards, the junior Military
Attache, who greeted me with a hearty British hand-grip.
"Didn't expect to meet you here, old chap," he cried. "I thought you
were tied up in the chief's private room always, and never allowed out
of England."
"This is the first time I've been here officially," I replied, laughing.
"What's the trouble? Anything startling?" he inquired.
"No, nothing very extraordinary," I remarked, carelessly. "I've seen
the Marquis, and concluded my mission."
Continuing, I extracted from him a promise to dine with me at the
Continental that evening, as I intended to leave next day, and after a
brief conversation we parted. Along the shady side of the Rue du
Faubourg St Honore I strolled leisurely, turning into the Rue Royale,
passing the gloomy facade of the Madeleine, and continuing along the
boulevard to the Grand Cafe. Paris possessed but little attraction for
me in my gloomy frame of mind. Five years of my youth had been spent
there, and I knew the city in every mood, but to-day, plunged as I was
in a debauch of melancholy, its gay aspect under the warm sunshine
jarred upon me.
On leaving the Embassy it had occurred to me to call upon an old friend,
who, in my student days, had shared rooms with me, but who had been
returned as Deputy at the last election, and now lived in the Rue des
Petits-Champs. With that object I had walked along mechanically, and
instead of turning down the Rue des Capucines, as I should have done, I
had found myself in the Place de l'Opera. Then, seating myself at one
of the tables in front of the Grand Cafe, I ordered a "bock," and
contemplatively watched the crowd of passers-by.
When last I had sat at that spot it was with Ella, on the night before
we had returned to London from our honeymoon. Well I remembered how
happy and content she had then been; how she had enjoyed the light,
cosmopolitan chatter about her, and how fondly we had loved each other.
In those days she had mingled tender words with her kisses, which seemed
to bear my soul away. Yet how weary and full of terrible anxiety had
been the nine months that had elapsed since that delightful autumn
night, the last of our lazy tour through rural France. When I reflected
upon all the remarkable occurrences, they seemed like some hideous
nightmare, while she herself appeared striking, yet mysterious, as the
fair vision in some half-remembered dream.
Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into
space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether
she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding
all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before
my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar.
A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with
a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the cafe
when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him.
It was Ivan Renouf.
He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring
glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we
returned to the cafe, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently,
after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing's, I asked
him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service.
"What your wife told you was quite correct," he answered, with a
mysterious smile; "I was detected."
"You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are
keeping observation," I remarked.
Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly,
answered,--
"It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was
already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame's
service."
"She left London almost immediately," I said.
"Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her," he observed,
rather abruptly.
"My wife also fled on the same day," I exclaimed slowly. "I haven't
seen her since."
At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, "So I
have heard."
"Tell me," I urged earnestly, "do you know anything of her movements? I
am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair."
With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass,
raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing
it upon the table, he coldly answered,--
"I know nothing of your wife's whereabouts, m'sieur."
"Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?" I asked,
annoyed.
He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him
instinctively.
"Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary
manner?" I suggested. "Can you assign any motive whatever for their
flight?"
"I am really not good at conundrums," he replied indifferently. "But if
you took my advice, m'sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for
at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved
you."
"How do you know that?" I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly
truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time.
"From my own observations," he answered, looking straight at me across
the table. "Your marriage was, I am fully aware, an unhappy one;
therefore you should regard it entirely as of the past. She will never
trouble you again, I can assure you."
"Why?" I demanded. "Your words indicate that you are fully aware of
the true facts. Tell me all, Renouf, and set my mind at rest."
"I have told you all, m'sieur," he said, suddenly tossing his cigarette
away, glancing at his watch and rising. "That is, I have told you all
that I may. But I have an appointment," he added abruptly. "Adieu."
And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of
politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the
direction of the Boulevard des Italiens.
In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the
hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my
mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might
have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply
reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella's faithlessness. What motive
could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved
me?
That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and
liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed
crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out
along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool,
star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day.
Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or
American resident in Paris, the Hotel Chatham, and entering the American
bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one
of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender,
counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked
in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and
opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and
wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel--Monsieur Goron, the
well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and
as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft,
loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took up _Le Monde Illustre_, lying upon
the table, and opened it carelessly.
Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a
full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a
fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With
an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and
motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay.
The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words
printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound.