THE ARROW POISON
I
When the secret agent of His Majesty's Minister of Police selected
Hippolyte Darnier to be his messenger for the occasion, he knew he
had a man whom he could trust.
Darnier was married: he was a man of middle age, who had served the
Republic first, then the Consulate and finally the Emperor with
unswerving loyalty, in circumstances which more often than not
entailed grave personal risks. He had always extricated himself from
difficult and dangerous positions with marvellous coolness and
acumen, and it was but natural that when the autograph letter signed
by M. de Trévargan--which implicated the noble Marquis and his family
in the late abortive conspiracy against the life of the Emperor--had
to be sent to M. le Duc d'Otrante, the latter's secret agent should
choose a man of proven courage and address for the purpose.
The Man in Grey took leave of his messenger at his lodgings in the
Rue de Bras, and at the very last moment of the leave-taking gave him
the precious letter, which Darnier immediately secreted in the inside
breast pocket of his coat. Then he was ready for the journey.
In those days the Paris diligence started from the Hôtel du Portugal
in Caen every morning at eight o'clock, reaching Lisieux--the first
stage--at five in the afternoon. Darnier had secured his seat on the
banquette by the side of the driver, for although the day was cold,
he felt that he would be safer there than huddled up between other
passengers in the interior, some of whom might be unpleasantly
light-fingered. There was a fair number of travellers that morning.
An elderly pair of bourgeois on their way to Evreux and a well-to-do
shopkeeper's wife going to Paris to visit her son, who was employed
in the new aerial telegraphs, had secured the _coupé_ in front. Two
or three commercial travellers, a couple of young officers on leave
from the war, a portly fishwife from Caen and a round-cheeked country
wench occupied the interior. At the small posting inn of the "Mouton
Noir," just outside the city, another woman got in. She had no
luggage and apparently she had not booked her place, for she had to
be content with one on the narrow back seat of the inside, wedged in
between the round-faced country wench and the fishwife from Caen.
However, the newcomer seemed quite satisfied with her surroundings:
she sat down placidly and, pulling her hood well over her face, took
up a book and thereafter remained absorbed in reading, looking
neither to right nor left, and taking no part in the vapid
conversation, engendered by boredom, which was carried on around her.
Her fellow-travellers put her down as belonging to some sort of
religious community, for she wore a voluminous black cloak with a
hood which only allowed the point of her chin to peep out below it.
At Mézidon, where halt was made for dinner, everyone trooped into the
coffee-room of the "Cheval Blanc." Hippolyte Darnier asked to have
his meal served in a private room, and as he was provided with
special credentials bearing the seal of the Ministry of Police, his
wishes were at once acceded to, and he was served both promptly and
obsequiously, in a small room adjoining the one where the other
passengers were dining together.
The woman in the black cloak had been the last to leave the
diligence. She had remained in her seat, immersed in her book till
everyone had scrambled out of the coach. Then she, too, got out, and
walked very slowly in the wake of the jovial party ahead. But she
did not appear to be in any hurry to join her fellow-travellers, for
while they settled down with noise and bustle at the well-spread
table, she strolled away in the direction of the river.
The dinner was over and coffee had been handed round when she entered
the coffee-room. The wine had been good, and everyone was hilarious.
As she closed the door behind her, she was greeted with jovial calls.
"Here, reverend sister, come and sit down."
"You must be famished!"
"This roasted gigot is positively excellent!"
But the woman paid no heed to these well-meant suggestions, beyond a
few whispered "Thank you's." Her hood still covered her face, all
but the point of her chin, after the manner adopted by professed nuns
of cloistered orders when men are about. She crossed the coffee-room
rapidly to the door of the private room beyond, where Hippolyte
Darnier was having his solitary dinner.
The serving-maid tried to stop her.
"There's a gentleman in there," she said, "who wishes to be alone."
"Oh!" said the woman quietly, "that is quite all right. I am
travelling in his company."
With that she opened the door and went into the inner room.
There was so much noise going on in the coffee-room at the time that
no one was able to state positively afterwards how Darnier greeted
the intruder, and whether or no her statement was true that she was
travelling in his company. Certain it is that, after a quarter of an
hour or so, she came out again, as quietly, as silently as she had
come, re-crossed the coffee-room, and went out, leaving this time a
curious, almost uncanny air of mystery behind her.
"I have never been fond of these female _callotins_ myself," said one
of the young officers after a while.
"I cannot stand people who make no noise when they walk," asserted
the worthy bourgeois of Evreux.
The well-to-do farmer's wife, conscious of undisputed respectability,
added with some acidity:
"Strange that a professed nun should be travelling alone in a man's
company."
After that comments on the occurrence became freer and more ribald,
and very soon the absentee had not a shred of reputation left in the
minds of the worthy but intensely bored people congregated around the
festive board of the "Cheval Blanc."
At two o'clock the ostler in charge announced that the diligence was
ready to start. Jean Baptiste, the jocund host of the "Cheval
Blanc," was going round the table, collecting payment for the good
déjeuner which had been served to his well-satisfied clients.
"What shall I do about the gentleman in there?" asked the serving
maid, pointing to the door of the private room. "He was asleep the
last time I went in."
"Wake him up," replied Jean Baptiste.
"I have done all I could to wake him," answered the wench. "He
doesn't seem inclined to move."
"He'll have to move," rejoined Jean Baptiste with a laugh; "or the
diligence will go without him."
With that he strode across to the door of the private room, kicked it
open with his foot, and called out in his lusty voice which, as
someone remarked, was loud enough to wake the dead:
"Now then, Monsieur, 'tis time to wake up! The diligence is about to
start. You'll never get to Paris at this rate."
The door had remained wide open. The travellers in the coffee-room
could see the figure of M. Darnier sitting huddled in a chair, and
half-leaning against the table, like one who is in a drunken sleep.
"Give him a good shake, papa Baptiste!" called one of the young
officers waggishly. "Your good wine has been too much for him."
Jean Baptiste stooped and gave the huddled figure a good shake. Then
suddenly he uttered a horrified "Oh, mon Dieu!"
"What is it?" queried the travellers anxiously.
"The man is dead!"
II
Never had the Paris diligence been so late in starting from Mézidon;
and when finally, with much cracking of whip and rattling of chains,
it thundered along the cobblestones of the Grande Rue, it was without
its full complement of passengers.
M. le Commissaire de Police had ordered the detention of most of them
as witnesses of the occurrences which culminated in the death of
Hippolyte Darnier, who was known to the commissaire as an employé on
the police staff at Caen.
It was no use grumbling. No one who had seen or spoken to the woman
in the black cloak could be allowed to leave the city until M. le
Procureur Imperial in Caen had granted them leave to do so.
In the meanwhile M. le Sous-Préfet, who was quite hopelessly out of
his depth, interrogated the witnesses without eliciting more than a
noisy and confused account of the events of the past few hours
wherein the weather, the bad state of the roads, and the good wines
of the "Cheval Blanc" vied in importance with the doings of a
so-called mysterious nun, of whom nothing had been seen by anybody
save the point of a chin and a voluminous black cloak and hood. By
the time that the sous-préfet had jotted down these miscellaneous
depositions, it was discovered that the mysterious personage in
question had disappeared. Whereupon search parties were sent abroad
in every direction, with strict orders to bring any woman who was
seen wearing any kind of a black cloak forthwith before M. le
Commissaire, whilst the sous-préfet, freely perspiring under the
effort, wrote out a detailed and wholly unintelligible report of the
incidents, which he dispatched by mounted courier to his chief at
Caen.
The search parties, after two or three hours' diligent scouring of
the neighbourhood, brought back an inoffensive farm servant, who was
trudging home from her milking, wrapped in a black shawl; the kitchen
wench from the Hôtel de Madrid, who had gone out to meet her
sweetheart and had borrowed her mistress's black cloak for the
occasion; and old Madame Durand, the caretaker at the church of St.
Pierre, who always wore a black gown as an outward symbol of her
official position and responsible calling.
One lad, more intelligent than the rest, while wandering along the
tow-path of the river, had espied a black cloak and hood floating
down-stream until its progress was arrested by a clump of rushes.
The lad fished for the cloak with a barge-pole and succeeded in
landing it. He brought it in triumph to Mézidon, where he became the
hero of the hour.
Late in the evening M. Laurens, préfet of Caen, received his
subordinate's report. At once he communicated with M. Carteret, the
chief commissary of police. The two, fearing that the officious
secret agent would keep them out of their beds for the next two
hours, with God knows what orders to proceed to Mézidon in the middle
of the night, decided to say nothing to him until the morning. After
all, the matter was not of such paramount importance. Darnier, they
argued, had had too much to drink and had a fit of apoplexy in an
overheated room.
But next morning, when the chief commissary did present himself
before the Minister's agent with the Mézidon report, he for one felt
that he would far sooner have sacrificed a night's rest than endure
the icy reprimand and the coolly worded threats wherewith the
insufferable little man had greeted his news.
"By your culpable negligence," the Minister's agent had said in his
quiet monotone which made every official conscious of some unavowed
peccadillo shiver, "you have given the murderer an added chance of
escape."
"The murderer!" protested M. Carteret, with a feeble attempt at
swagger. "What in the world makes you think that Darnier has been
murdered? Why, the leech----"
"Because an ignorant country apothecary finds no sign of violence
upon a dead body," retorted the Man in Grey coldly, "unanswerable
logic must not be deemed at fault."
"But what motive could anyone have for murdering poor Darnier?"
argued the commissary with a shrug of his wide shoulders.
"You forget that he was the bearer of an important report from me to
the Minister," replied the Man in Grey.
The commissary gave a long, low whistle. He certainly had forgotten
that all-important fact for the moment.
"And you think," he said, "that the woman in the black cloak was an
emissary of those cursed Chouans, and that she murdered Darnier in
order to steal that report----"
"Together with the autograph letter of Monsieur le Marquis de
Trévargan which implicates him and his family in the plot against the
Emperor," broke in the secret agent. "I should have thought it was
self-evident."
He wasted no further argument on the commissary, who, bewildered and
helpless, solemnly scratched his head, as if to extricate therefrom a
solution of the weird mystery.
An hour or so later Madame Darnier, the widow of the murdered man,
called at the prefecture in answer to a hurried summons. As someone
must break the terrible news to her, the Man in Grey undertook the
task, speaking as sympathetically and as gently as he could. She was
a delicate-looking woman, still in the prime of life, and with
justified pretensions to good looks. She took the news badly, for,
as she explained later when she was calmer, she had been devoted to
her husband and he to her, and they had only been married five years.
She had no children, she said, in answer to the secret agent's kindly
inquiries, and her dear husband's death left her practically without
means of support. The assurance that His Majesty's Minister of
Police would provide generously for the widow of a man who had died
in the service of the State gave her some small measure of comfort,
and when she finally took her leave, she appeared, if not more
consoled, at any rate more tranquil.
Madame Darnier had been unable to furnish the police with any clue
which might guide them in their investigations. She was quite sure
that her husband had no enemies, and whilst she had been aware that
his work often entailed grave personal risks, she knew nothing about
the work itself, nor, in this case, had he told her anything beyond
the fact that he was going to Paris and would be absent about ten
days. She repudiated with indignation the suggestion that he had
been travelling in the company of some woman unknown to herself, and
of her own accord threw out the suggestion that some of those
_méchant_ Chouans--knowing her husband's connection with the
police--had not scrupled to slay him.
III
The Château de Trévargan, situated upon a lonely piece of coast
midway between the mouths of the Orne and the Dives and about ten or
a dozen miles from Caen, had remained one of the beauty spots of the
neighbourhood. Though its owners had emigrated at the outbreak of
the Revolution and their domain had become the property of the State,
it had been bought nominally by a man named Leclerc, who had been the
Marquis's agent, and who held it thenceforward and administered it
with unswerving loyalty, in the name of his former master. Leclerc
with his wife and family had settled down in the château, and
together they looked after the house, the park and the estate during
the Marquis's prolonged absence abroad. They always appeared
plentifully supplied with money, which no doubt came to them through
one of the many agencies in Jersey, and when M. le Marquis returned
to France some five years ago he found his house in perfect order;
and it is supposed that he rewarded his faithful steward generously,
for the latter retired with his family to a little estate close by,
where they continued to live in undiminished affluence.
M. le Marquis de Trévargan had obviously not brought a fortune back
from exile; nevertheless, he and Madame la Marquise kept up a good
deal of style at the château. They also went to Paris and made their
obeisance to the Emperor at Versailles, and hitherto not the
slightest suspicion of disloyalty to the new régime had attached to
them.
The discovery of the outrageous plot against the life of the Emperor
during the latter's visit to Caen the previous month, had left the
Trévargans unscathed, even though close upon a score of their
personal friends were implicated in the affair. It was only three
weeks later that M. le Marquis learned that the one foolish letter he
had written in the whole course of his cautious career had fallen
into the hands of the police. He had written to his friend the Comte
de Romorantin, urging him to keep aloof from the conspirators until
he was sure that the Corsican had really been sent to Hades.
"Madame la Marquise and myself do not intend to appear at Caen until
we know for certain that the coup has been successful. We have done
our share in the matter of providing funds, but we prefer to let
Blue-Heart, White-Beak and the other ruffians do the work for us. We
shall be ready to proclaim His Majesty King Louis XVIII in the Hôtel
de Ville as soon as we know that all fear of failure or discovery is
at an end. I entreat you to do likewise and to destroy this letter
as soon as read."
Unfortunately, M. de Romorantin had not destroyed the letter. He had
it in his pocket at the very moment when the police made the raid on
the house in the Rue aux Juifs and arrested the Chouan conspirators
red-handed. The letter was seized, together with every other paper
which happened to be in the possession of the prisoners, and it was
that same highly compromising letter which Hippolyte Darnier was
taking to Paris when he died so mysteriously in the private room of
the "Cheval Blanc" at Mézidon.
Investigation at the château on the day following the discovery of
the plot had led to no result. M. le Marquis watched with lofty
indifference and disdain the turning over of his private papers and
belongings by the heedless hands of the police. Except for that one
letter, he had never committed an indiscretion or written an
unguarded word in his life. But there was the letter! And it was
this very search which, coming as a bolt from the blue, had assured
him that he was no longer immune from suspicion.
The day following the death of Hippolyte Darnier, M. le Marquis de
Trévargan received another visit from the police, this time in the
person of M. Carteret, the commissary, whom he knew personally, and
who came accompanied by a small, insignificant-looking personage
dressed in grey. Once more, secure in the knowledge that nothing
that could in any way compromise him existed inside his château, the
Marquis received his visitors with condescending hauteur.
"Ah, ça, my good Carteret," he said to the commissary somewhat
tartly, "when am I and Madame la Marquise to be free from this
insolent interference? Since when are the loyal subjects of His
Majesty to be treated as if they were criminals?"
The worthy M. Carteret felt hot and cold all over. He had an
enormous regard for M. le Marquis de Trévargan and a wholesome terror
of the Minister's secret agent, and between the two he did not know
to which saint he should pray for protection.
"Loyalty is a matter of degree," here interposed the Man in Grey in
his usual monotone; "as Monsieur le Marquis well knows."
"I only know, Monsieur," retorted the Marquis haughtily, "that
certain aspersions have been cast upon my good name, chiefly on the
strength of a forged letter----"
"A forged letter, Monsieur le Marquis?" interposed the Man in Grey
with a smile. "Monsieur de Romorantin has owned to its authenticity."
"Monsieur de Romorantin was scared out of his wits," rejoined the
Marquis, "or he never would have been taken in by such a clumsy
forgery. And," he added haughtily, "I challenge you to produce it,
so that at least I might have a chance of proving the truth of what I
say."
"It is just because the letter has been stolen," stammered M.
Carteret, "and the messenger murdered that we are here to-day,
Monsieur le Marquis."
While he spoke a door at the farther end of the room opened, and a
tall, handsome woman appeared upon the threshold. When the
commissary finished speaking, she broke into a ringing laugh.
"A pretty story indeed!" she said harshly. "A monstrous accusation
hurled at Monsieur le Marquis de Trévargan! And when he demands to
be confronted with proofs of his guilt, these proofs are said to be
destroyed, whilst a vague hint of murder goes to swell the iniquitous
charge. A pretty pass, indeed!" she continued, as with stately steps
she advanced into the room. "Fortunately His Majesty has some
friendship for Monsieur le Marquis and myself, and we can appeal to
him to punish those who have put this affront upon us."
"Your pardon, Madame la Marquise," answered the Man in Grey, as soon
as she had finished her impassioned tirade. "Monsieur le Commissaire
said that the letter had been stolen; he did not say that it had been
destroyed."
An almost imperceptible shadow seemed to pass as in a flash over the
Marquise's handsome face; but the very next second she shrugged her
handsome shoulders and said flippantly:
"The same thing, my good man."
"I trust not, Madame la Marquise," rejoined the Man in Grey.
"Oh, we all know," here interrupted M. le Marquis with a sneer, "that
in your unavowable profession, Monsieur, you are bound to send a
certain number of unfortunates to what you call justice, whether they
are guilty or not, or you would lose your highly lucrative
employment. Isn't that so?"
"Our employment, Monsieur le Marquis," replied the Man in Grey
imperturbably, "is not likely to find favour in your sight."
"Well!" rejoined Madame with a harsh laugh, "so long as you don't
trump up a charge of murder against some poor innocent this time----"
"Murder, Madame la Marquise!" queried the secret agent with a look of
mild astonishment in his colourless eyes. "Who spoke of murder?"
"I thought," parried the Marquise airily, "that some spy or other of
yours was murdered and robbed of the forged letter, which was
supposed to convict Monsieur le Marquis de Trévargan and myself of
disloyalty."
"One of our men was certainly robbed of a letter written by Monsieur
le Marquis de Trévargan to Monsieur de Romorantin on the eve of the
conspiracy against the Emperor," said the Man in Grey, "but I am
happy to say that he is alive at the present moment----"
A terrific crash of broken china drowned the rest of his speech. The
table against which Madame la Marquise had been leaning fell over,
scattering precious _bibelots_ in every direction.
"How clumsy of me!" exclaimed Madame in some confusion, whilst the
commissary of police, agitated and obsequious, crawled about on his
hands and knees, trying to collect the fragments of priceless china
which littered the carpet. "Do not trouble, I pray you, Monsieur le
Commissaire," said the Marquise with affable condescension. "The
servant will clear away the rubbish."
She sank into a chair, as if tired out with the interminable
interview, and put her aristocratic hand up to her mouth, smothering
a yawn.
"As you were saying, Monsieur--er----" she drawled wearily.
"I was not saying anything, Madame la Marquise," rejoined the Man in
Grey, smiling.
"Your spy or messenger, whatever he was----" interposed the Marquis
impatiently. "You were saying something about him."
"Oh! nothing that would interest Monsieur le Marquis," replied the
secret agent. "He was stabbed in the hand with a pin steeped in a
deadly arrow poison, which in ordinary circumstances would have
killed him in less than five minutes. Fortunately for him the
assassin was either inexperienced or clumsy, or perhaps the poison
had become stale by keeping. At any rate, poor Hippolyte Darnier was
nearly killed--but not quite. He is still very ill--half paralysed;
but the leech assures me that he will recover."
This time there was no mistaking the shadow which once more passed
across the Marquise's handsome face, whilst for the space of a second
or two the somewhat high colour of her cheeks changed to a leaden
hue. The Marquis instinctively came forward a few steps, obtruding
his stately figure between the police agent and his wife. Next
moment, however, Madame had regained her composure. She rose from
her chair, tall, dignified, unspeakably haughty.
"So much the better for your friend, Monsieur--er--I forget your
name," she said coldly. "And now," she added as she walked
majestically towards the door, "if you or Monsieur le Commissaire
have any more senseless questions to ask, you must be content with
the information Monsieur le Marquis condescends to give you. I
confess to being weary of this folly."
She pushed open the door and sailed out of the room, as arrogant as
any Queen of the old régime dismissing an importunate courtier. Then
the door fell to behind her and her firm step soon died away along
the marble corridor.
IV
The commissary of police was pining to take his leave, and much to
his relief the Man in Grey put no further questions to M. le Marquis,
and after a few seconds declared himself ready to go. M. de
Trévargan was quite pleasant to poor M. Carteret, who obviously
greatly disapproved of this intrusion on the privacy of the stately
château.
"The man is a veritable pest!" he contrived to whisper in the
Marquis's ear, behind the back of the secret agent. "I would wish to
assure Monsieur le Marquis----"
"Do not trouble to do that, my good Monsieur Carteret," interrupted
M. de Trévargan impatiently. "Your assurances are unnecessary. You
were obeying orders: and the man, I suppose, was fulfilling what he
believed to be his duty."
Somewhat comforted, the commissary went downstairs in the wake of the
Man in Grey, who was waiting for him in the vast entrance hall below,
and was gazing in rapt admiration at the pictures and statuary which
would not have shamed a royal residence.
"It is a rare treat," he was saying to the pompous majordomo who was
waiting to usher the visitors out, "for art-lovers to have the
opportunity of seeing these priceless treasures. Are they not
sometimes shown to the public?"
"Oh, no, Monsieur," replied the majordomo sententiously. "As
Monsieur and Madame de Trévargan are in residence, it would not be
seemly to allow strangers to wander about the château."
"Ah!" said the Man in Grey, "then my sister was lucky indeed. She
saw all these beautiful pictures and statues yesterday!"
"Yesterday, Monsieur?" queried the man, as haughtily as his master
and mistress would have done. "I do not understand."
"It's quite simple," rejoined the secret agent. "My sister is the
intimate friend of one of the maids here, and yesterday, as Madame la
Marquise was away all day, this friend smuggled my sister into this
part of the château and showed her all these marvellous art
treasures----"
"This would be a pretty story, Monsieur," here broke in the majordomo
impatiently, "if it were based on some semblance of truth. Madame la
Marquise did not happen to be away all day yesterday."
"But surely----" protested the Man in Grey.
"Madame la Marquise was indeed very much at home," continued the
other with becoming sternness, "seeing that she entertained the
children of the Convent School here to déjeuner at midday and games
all the afternoon."
The secret agent now appeared overwhelmed with confusion at his
stupid blunder.
"I am very sorry," he murmured haltingly. "There's some mistake on
my part--I understood my sister to say that she was here
yesterday--it must have been some other day----"
"Very likely!" retorted the majordomo with a sneer; and giving the
plebeian police agent the supercilious stare which so much
impertinence deserved, he finally closed the monumental doors of the
château upon the unwelcome visitors.
"Another snub!" remarked the commissary of police as he descended the
steps beside his silent colleague. "And why you trumped up that
story about your sister and a maid, I cannot imagine!" he added with
withering contempt.
But the Man in Grey apparently did not hear him, He was murmuring
under his breath:
"Clever enough to have secured an alibi! I might have guessed it!
And such an actress! But, then, how in Heaven's name was it done?
How? And by whom?"
V
The Man in Grey had allowed the commissary of police to return to
Caen, but he seemed to find it impossible to tear himself away from
the neighbourhood of Trévargan. He felt that the lordly château held
a grim secret within its walls, and he could not rest until he had
wrung it from them.
All day he hung about the approaches of the park and, as soon as
night fell, managed to creep into the depths of the shrubberies
before the gates were closed. Here he remained on the watch, peering
through the thicket at the stately pile, the windows of which soon
became lighted from within, one by one. What he expected to see he
could not have told you, but Night is the great guardian of dark
mysteries and unavowable deeds, and the secret agent hoped that the
gloom would mayhap give him the key to that riddle which had baffled
him in broad light of day.
From where he was crouching he commanded a view both of the front of
the house and of the path which led to the back. He had been lying
in wait for nearly two hours, and a neighbouring church clock had
just struck ten, when through the darkness he perceived the figure of
a woman, wrapped in a cloak, walking quickly towards the château. At
first he thought it might be one of the maids returning from a walk,
but as the figure passed close to him, something vaguely familiar in
the poise of the head and the shape of the cloak, caused him suddenly
to crawl out of his hiding-place as noiselessly as he could, and to
follow the woman until a bend in the avenue afforded him the
opportunity which he sought. In one second he had taken off his
mantle and, springing on her from behind, he caught her in his arms
and threw the mantle over her head, smothering the cry which had
risen to her lips. Though he was short and slight, he had uncommon
strength, and the woman was small and slender. He lifted her off the
ground and carried her along the avenue and down a side-path, until
he had reached a secluded portion of the park.
Here he laid his burden down and unwound the mantle which was
stifling her. Then he turned the light of his dark lantern upon her.
"Madame Darnier!" he murmured. "Just as I thought!"
Then, as the woman was still lying there almost unconscious, he threw
back her cloak and looked at her hands. There was nothing in them.
He felt for the pockets in her cloak and in her dress; his hands
wandered over the folds of her gown; his ears, attuned to the
slightest sound, listened for the crackling that would reveal the
presence of papers concealed about her person. But there was
nothing, and he frowned in deep puzzlement as he encountered her
large, melancholy eyes, which were following his every movement with
the look of a trapped animal watching its captor.
"What are you doing here in Trévargan?" he asked sternly.
"Help me to get up," she replied almost fiercely, "and I may tell
you."
More puzzled than before, he raised her to her feet.
"You remember me?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied. "How could I forget the man who first held
the cup of such bitter sorrow to my lips?"
"Someone had to tell you," he rejoined more gently, "and your husband
was in my employ."
"And died in your employ," she answered roughly.
"Will you believe me," he retorted, "that, had I known of the
terrible risk which he was running, I would have undertaken the
errand myself?"
"Yes," she said dully, "I know that you are not a coward."
"Will you tell me why you are here?" he reiterated firmly.
She looked round her, right into the gloom in the direction where the
lights of the château glimmered feebly through the trees. Then,
turning to the Man in Grey, she said calmly:
"There was a suspicion gnawing at my heart. I came to see if I could
confirm it, or lull it for ever to rest."
"You suspect the Trévargans of having had a hand in the outrage
against your husband?"
"Don't you?" she retorted.
He made no reply and even through the darkness she could see that he
appeared deeply buried in thought. He had turned off the light of
his lantern, and by the dim light of the moon, partly hidden behind a
veil of clouds, they could only distinguish one another's outline
against the dense background of the shrubberies.
"Will you allow me to escort you home?" he asked abruptly.
She nodded in assent, and he, knowing the way, guided her along the
less frequented paths of the park till he came to a locked postern
gate. Asking her to wait a moment and, drawing a small tool from his
pocket, he coolly picked the lock, and a moment or two later he and
Mme. Darnier were walking rapidly down the main road in the direction
of the city.
VI
Next morning, when the Man in Grey arrived at the commissariat of
police, he was greeted with sneers and acid reproaches by M. Carteret
and M. le Préfet.
"I must say," said the latter with becoming pomposity, "that your
attitude with regard to Monsieur and Madame de Trévargan is
exceedingly reprehensible. You have placed my colleague and myself
in a very awkward position. Monsieur le Marquis is one of the most
influential, as he has always been one of the most loyal, personages
in the province, and I have no doubt that he will visit his
displeasure upon us both, though, Heaven knows! we have done nothing
but follow your foolish lead in the matter."
"I pray you have patience, my good Monsieur Laurens," said the Man in
Grey with unruffled calm. "The matter to which you refer is on the
point of reaching its culmination."
"I was alluding to the affair of Hippolyte Darnier," said the préfet.
"So was I," retorted the Man in Grey.
"Are you about to discover who murdered him?" queried M. Carteret,
with a touch of taunt.
"Yes," replied the secret agent. "With the help of Madame Darnier,
whom I have summoned hither."
The préfet shrugged his shoulders with marked impatience.
"And I must ask you," added the Man in Grey in his blandest tones
which admitted of no argument, "not to interfere in anything I may
say to Madame Darnier in the course of our interview; to express no
surprise and, above all, not to attempt to contradict. And you know,
Monsieur Laurens, and you, too, Monsieur le Commissaire," he added
sternly, "that when I give an order I intend it to be obeyed."
Hardly had this peremptory command fallen from his lips than Madame
Darnier was announced.
She came in, looking even more fragile and more delicate in her deep
mourning than she had done before. Her large, melancholy eyes
sought, as if appealingly, those of the three men who had half-risen
to greet her. The Man in Grey offered her a chair, into which she
sank.
"You sent for me, Monsieur?" she asked, as she pressed a
black-bordered handkerchief to her quivering lips.
"Only to give you the best of news, Madame," the secret agent said
cheerily.
"The best of news?" she murmured. "I do not understand."
"My friend Hippolyte Darnier," he exclaimed, "your husband, Madame,
is out of danger----"
She rose suddenly, as if some hidden spring had projected her to her
feet, and stood rigid and tense, her cheeks the colour of yellow wax,
her eyes so dilated that they seemed as black as coal. The préfet
and the commissaire had, indeed, the greatest difficulty to maintain
the attitude of impassivity which the Minister's agent had so rigidly
prescribed.
"Out of danger," murmured Mme. Darnier after a while. "What do you
mean?"
"No wonder you are overcome with emotion, Madame," rejoined the
secret agent. "I myself did not dare breathe a word to you of my
hopes at Trévargan last night, for I had not had the leech's final
pronouncement. But I have had hopes all along. We transported your
dear husband's inanimate body to my lodgings after his--er--accident
the other day. He was totally unconscious; it almost seemed as if
_rigor mortis_ had already set in. But I suppose the deadly arrow
poison, which a murderous hand had injected with the aid of a pin,
was either stale or ineffectual. Certain it is that my dear friend
Darnier rallied, that he is alive at this moment, and that I shall
have the pleasure of conducting you to his bedside immediately."
While he spoke the Man in Grey had kept his eyes fixed steadily upon
the woman. She was still standing as rigid as before and clinging
with one hand to the back of the chair, whilst with the other she
continued to press her handkerchief to her lips. Nor could the other
two men detach their eyes from her face, which appeared like a
petrified presentation of abject and nameless horror.
"Darnier," continued the Man in Grey relentlessly, "is slowly
regaining consciousness now. The leech desires that the first sight
which greets his eyes should be that of his beloved wife. Come,
Madame, it is a short walk to my lodgings. Let me conduct you----
Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed, as with his usual agility he literally
threw himself upon the staggering woman. "Drop that, now! Drop it,
I say!"
But he was too late. Madame Darnier had fallen back into her chair.
From a deep scratch across her hand drops of blood were oozing
freely. The commissaire and the préfet were gazing, horror-stricken
and helpless, upon her face, which was slowly becoming distorted. A
curious, jerky quiver shook her limbs from time to time.
"She has killed herself with the same poison wherewith she sent her
unfortunate husband to his death," said the secret agent quietly.
"To his death?" gasped the préfet. "Then the story of Hippolyte
Darnier's recovery----"
"Was false," broke in the Man in Grey. "It was a trap set to wring
an avowal from the murderer. And we must own," he added earnestly,
"that the avowal has been both full and conclusive."
He threw his mantle over the wretched woman, who was already past
help. But he dispatched one of the servants of the prefecture for
the nearest leech.
"But what made you guess----?" queried the commissary, who was
gasping with astonishment.
"The fact that Madame Darnier was the daughter of the man Leclerc,
who for years devoted himself to the fortunes of the Trévargans. He
and his family are devoted heart and soul to the Marquis and his
cause. The daughter has proved herself a fanatic, a madwoman, I
should say. She killed her husband to save the family she loved."
"But those accursed Trévargans----" said the préfet.
"Their punishment will not long be delayed. I sent a copy of the
compromising letter to the Minister--the original is still in my
keeping."