In less than a week after her interview with Picot, Mrs. Brooke, her
husband, and Miss Primby were settled in their new home. The rooms
recommended by the Frenchman had proved more to Clara's liking than
any she had seen elsewhere, and she at once engaged them. The
furniture and fittings were to a great extent after the cheap
and tawdry style so much affected by the inferior class of French
lodging-house keepers; but as the whole place was pervaded by an air
of cleanliness, such little _désagréments_ as existed in other
respects Clara was prepared to overlook.
No. 5 Pymm's Buildings was one of a row of half-a-dozen houses similar
to itself in size and outward aspect, situated in a quiet court
abutting on a main thoroughfare in the busy and populous district of
Soho. All the houses in Pymm's Buildings accommodated a more or less
numerous tribe of lodgers, the lower floors being generally arranged
in suites of rooms for the convenience of families, while the top
floors were usually divided into separate sleeping apartments. And it
was in this place and amid such sordid surroundings that the whilom
owner of Beechley Towers hoped to find for a little time a secure
shelter from the hue and cry of the ten thousand hounds of policedom,
each and all of whom were doing their utmost to run him to earth. His
idea had been to bury himself in the heart of some densely populated
district where one man is but as a grain of sand among ten thousand
others, and in so far it may be surmised that he had been successful.
When Mrs. Brooke quitted Beechley Towers secretly and by night to join
her husband in London, Margery, faithful Margery, was the only one who
was made aware of her departure. The girl pleaded so hard to be
allowed to accompany her, that at last Clara was fain to make her a
promise that she would send for her as soon as she was settled in her
new home. Thus it fell out that Margery was now here, and her mistress
found the value of her services in a score different ways. For
instance, Margery did all the marketing, and did it for little more
than half what it had cost before her arrival. Poor simple-minded
Clara, who believed everybody to be as honest as herself, had been
imposed upon at every turn; but the shopman or peripatetic vendor who
succeeded in "besting" Margery, as she termed it, must have been very
wide-awake indeed. The girl would haggle for half an hour over a
penny, and her powers of vituperation always rose to the level of the
occasion.
What was Mrs. Brooke's surprise about the third day after her arrival
at Pymm's Buildings, as she was on her way downstairs, to encounter M.
Picot on his way up! Then it came out that the mountebank rented a
room at the top of the house which he looked upon as a permanent home,
and occupied as such when his avocations did not take him elsewhere.
Had Mrs. Brooke been aware of this fact at the time, she might perhaps
have hesitated before deciding to take the rooms. And yet, somehow,
she had an instinctive feeling of trust in the mountebank--the same
sort of trust, although in a lesser degree, that she had in Margery;
and after the first tremor of alarm which shot through her when she
encountered him on the staircase, she never felt a moment's doubt that
her secret, or as much of it as he might know or suspect, was safe in
his keeping. It became, of course, necessary to explain to him that it
was she and her husband, and not any one else, whose fortunes had
changed so woefully. But Picot was one of the most incurious of
mortals outside the range of his own affairs. He only remembered Clara
as "la belle madame" who had kissed his boy and spoken kindly to him
and had laden him with gifts, and about whom Henri often spoke when
his father and he were alone. He had never thought of asking any one
what her name was; and even now, when he understood from Clara how
terribly the circumstances of herself and her husband were changed, he
expressed neither curiosity nor surprise in the matter. He was
_vraiment désolé_--he was heart-broken to think that such should be
the case; but that was all. He did indeed, a little later, ask the
landlord the name of his new lodgers; and when he was told that they
were known as Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, he repeated the name to himself
two or three times over, so as to impress it on his memory, and then
went contentedly on his way.
The furnished lodgings rented by Mr. and Mrs. "Stewart" comprised
three rooms on the first floor and two on the second. As it chanced,
the rooms on the ground-floor were at present untenanted. The
sitting-room had two windows and was a tolerably sized apartment In
it, about eight o'clock on a certain autumn evening, were seated Miss
Primby and Margery. The former, as usual, was engaged on some kind of
delicate embroidery; while the latter was trying her hand at a little
plain sewing, the result being that on an average she pricked her
finger once every three or four minutes. But, indeed, the girl was
somewhat nervous this evening, or what she herself would have termed
"in a pucker." She had had the ill-fortune to break a cup while
washing up the tea-things.
"O mum, do you think Mrs. Stewart will let me stay when I tell her?
She won't turn me away, will she?"
"Why, of course not, Margery. It was an accident; it cannot be
helped."
"Oh, thank you for saying that, mum. Sometimes my fingers seem as if
they were all thumbs, and I lets everything drop. But I wants no
wages, mum, and I ain't a big eater--leastways, I think not; and I'll
eat less than ever now, so as to help to pay for the cup. A crust o'
bread and drippin', a few cold taters, and the teapot after everybody
else has done with it--that'll do me."
"You must not talk like that, Margery; your mistress would not like
it."
"Oh, but you don't know how sorry I am, mum. Mariar--her on the
boat--always used to say as I was a great awk'ard lout of a girl; and
she was about right there."
The two went on with their work for a little while in silence, and
then Margery said: "You'll excuse me, mum, for saying so, but I've
often wondered why such a nice lady as you never got married."
The spinster could not help bridling a little. "Married! How absurd of
you, Margery," she exclaimed. "From what I have seen of married life,
I'm sure I am far better off as I am." Then, as if by way of
afterthought: "Not but what I have had several most eligible offers at
various times."
"Lor! mum, didn't it make you feel all-overish-like when they went
flop on their knees and asked you to marry 'em?"
"Gentlemen don't often go on their knees nowadays. Still, I have had
them do that to me more than once. I remember that when Mr. Tubbins,
the eminent brewer, did so, he was so very stout that he could not get
up again without assistance."
"My! I'd have stuck a pin into him; that would have made him jump,"
cried the girl with her strange laugh.
At this juncture the door opened and Mrs. Brooke came in. She was
plainly dressed in black, and was closely veiled. Since Margery's
arrival she rarely ventured out of doors till dusk, and then only when
she wanted to do a little shopping such as the girl could not do for
her. Any one who had not seen her since that April evening when M.
Karovsky's ill-omened shadow first darkened the terrace at Beechley
Towers, might have been excused for failing to recognise her again. It
was not merely that she looked older by more years than the months
which had elapsed since that day--anguish, anxiety, and the dread
which never ceased to haunt her of what the next hour might bring
forth, had marked their cruel lines on her features in a way that
Time's gentle if inexorable graver never does when left to labour
alone. The clear dancing light had died out of her eyes long ago; they
looked larger and shone with a deeper and more intense lustre than in
the days gone by; but a sudden knock at the door, an unusual footfall
on the stairs, or the voices of strange men talking in the court
below, would fill them on a sudden with a sort of startled terror,
just as the eyes of a deer may fill when first it hears the baying of
the far-away hounds.
She took off her bonnet with an air of weariness and sat down. "Has
not Gerald returned yet?" she said to her aunt "What can have become
of him?"
"The evening is so fine that he has probably gone for a longer walk
than ordinary."
"It makes me wretched when he stays out longer than usual. And yet,
poor fellow! what a life is his. To be shut up in one miserable room
from morning till night; never to venture out till after dark, and
then only with the haunting dread, that he may be recognised and
arrested at any moment! How will it all end?" She sighed and went into
the other room. Presently she returned, and a few moments later a
knock at the door made every one start. Margery hastened to open it.
Outside stood Picot carrying a bunch of flowers. "Bon soir, madame,"
he said, addressing himself to Clara with a low bow, and then
favouring Miss Primby with another.
"Bon soir, Monsieur Picot. Entrez, s'il vous plait."
"Merci, madame," lie answered as he advanced into the room. "I have
here a petit bouquet--a few flowers--which Henri has sent for madame,
if she will have the bonté to accept them."
"I shall be charmed to do so," answered Clara as she took the flowers.
"How fresh and sweet they smell! I am much obliged to Henri, and to
you also, monsieur."--The mountebank made another low sweeping
bow.--"I hope that Henri is quite well?"
"Parfaitement bien, madame."
"The first time he has a holiday, he must come and take tea with me; I
will not forget to have a nice cake for the occasion."
"He will be enchanté, madame.--Ah! if madame could see him on the
trapeze--could but see him jumpez from one bar to another--it is
splendid, magnifique!"
"I think I would rather not see Henri go through any of his
performances, monsieur."
"Mais, madame!" with an expressive shrug; "there is no danger,
nothings to be afraid of. Oh, the grand artiste that Henri will be one
day! He is twice so clevare as I was at his age. He will be what you
call in England great man--big fellow."
"I am very glad to hear it. Meanwhile, you will not forget that he is
to come some afternoon and take tea with me."
"Ah, madame, he talk about you every day.--But I go now. I hope that
monsieur your husband finds himself quite well?"
"Quite well, thank you, monsieur."
With that the mountebank made his adieus and bowed himself out.
It here becomes needful to explain that just then Henri was engaged at
a certain hippodrome as one of a troupe of juvenile acrobats who,
under the pseudonym of "les frères Donati," and under the tuition of a
celebrated "Professor," were performing a number of well-nigh
incredible feats before crowded and enthusiastic houses.
"Ain't he polite!" said Margery as Picot closed the door. "But what a
pity the poor man talks such a lot of gibberish."
"What can have become of Gerald?" said Clara for the second time, as
she went to the window and drawing aside the curtain peered into the
darkness. "I never knew him to be so late before. I cannot help
feeling dreadfully uneasy." Then turning to Margery, she said: "Here
is a list of things I want you to fetch from the grocer's in Medwin
Street. Do you think you can find your way in the dark?"
"Why, of course, mum. I never gets lost, I don't." Half a minute later
she ran downstairs, whistling as she went.
The minutes dragged themselves slowly away, and Clara was working
herself into a fever of apprehension, when a well-known footfall on
the stairs caused a cry of gladness to burst from her lips. "At last!"
she exclaimed as she started to her feet and hurried to the door. "How
glad I am that you are safely back," she added, as her husband entered
the room. "You were away so long that I grew quite frightened."
"The evening was so pleasant, that I extended my walk farther than I
intended. I must be a caged bird now for the next four-and-twenty
hours. Heigh-ho!"
"Will you not have something to eat?"
"Thanks; nothing at present," he answered as he proceeded to lay aside
his slouched hat, his overcoat, and the muffler which had shrouded the
lower part of his face. Then he took up a book and sat down in an
easy-chair near the fire.
His wife's eyes brimmed with tears as they rested on him. "My poor
boy!" she said softly to herself. "This life is killing him. When, oh,
when will it end!" She sat down to her needlework.
Miss Primby was the first to break the silence. "Do you know, my
dear," she said to her niece, "that Monsieur Picot puts me greatly in
mind of the Count de Bonnechose, a French nobleman who once made me an
offer of marriage. He used to speak just the same delightful broken
English--and then he had such great black eyes, which seemed to pierce
right through you, and the loveliest waxed moustaches; so that when he
clasped his hands and turned up his eyes till nothing but the whites
of them were visible, and murmured 'Mon ange,' and called me his
'beautiful Engleesh mees,' can you wonder that my heart used to thrill
responsively?"
Clara could not repress a smile. "I am by no means sure that I should
have cared to call that count my uncle."
"It was a mercy that I sent him about his business. He turned out to
be no nobleman at all, but only a hairdresser's assistant whose father
had left him a little money. But certainly he had remarkably fine
eyes."
Again there was a brief space of silence. This time it was broken by a
knock which sounded all the more startling because no one had heard
the faintest sound of footsteps on the stairs. All three started to
their feet and looked at each other. Then, at a sign from Clara, Miss
Primby crossed to the door and opened it.
Framed by the doorway and shone upon by the lamplight from within,
they beheld the black-clothed figure, the statuesque, colourless face
and the inscrutable eyes of M. Karovsky.
"Karovsky--you!" cried Gerald as he sprang forward.
"Yes, I--why not?" said the Russian with a smile, as he raised his hat
and came forward.--"Ladies, your servant." Then to Gerald: "You stare
at me, mon ami, as if I had just come back from Hades. But this is
scarcely the hand of a _revenant_, if I may be allowed an opinion in
the matter."
"It seems incredible that you should have found me out in this place,"
answered Gerald as the two shook hands.
"Incredible? Peuh! I had need to see you; and I am here."
"Will you not be seated?"
As Karovsky drew up a chair, Clara made a sign to her aunt, and the
two ladies passed out through the folding-doors into the room beyond.
"Pardon," said the Russian as he glanced around, "but this place seems
scarcely a fit home either for madame or yourself."
"You know that I am in hiding; you doubtless also know that a large
reward is offered for my capture?"--The other nodded.--"While such is
the case, it is impossible for me to touch a penny of my income. My
wife's aunt has lost her property by a bank failure. We are very poor,
Karovsky; but there are worse ills in life than poverty."
"Part of my errand to-night is to tell you that I have instructions to
place certain funds at your disposal. You can leave this place
tomorrow, if it please you so to do."
"Thanks, Karovsky; but I cannot accept a penny of the money you offer
me."
"How! Not accept! But this is folly."
"It may seem so to you; but that does not alter the matter."
"It is unaccountable," said the Russian with a lifting of his black
eyebrows. "But why remain in these wretched apartments? Why not go
abroad--on the Continent--to America--anywhere? The world is wide, and
there are places where you would be far safer than here."
"I doubt it One reason why I am here is because I believe this
spot--in the heart of one of the most populous quarters of London--to
be as safe a hiding-place as any I could find. My other reason is that
were I to go abroad, I feel as if I should be throwing away my last
faint hope of ever being able to prove my innocence to the world."
Karovsky stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. "How! Your"----
"My innocence of the murder of Baron von Rosenberg."
"Pardon; I fail to comprehend."
"When we parted last, I told you clearly and emphatically that, let
the consequences to myself be whatever they might, mine should not be
the hand to strike the fatal blow; but when you left me, you evidently
did so in the belief that in a little while I should change my mind,
and that of the two alternatives you had placed before me, I should
choose the one which you yourself would in all probability have chosen
had you been in my place. Time went on, and, within the period you had
prescribed, Von Rosenberg was found dead, shot through the heart. Such
being the case, it was perhaps a not unnatural conclusion for you to
arrive at that it was I, Gerald Brooke, who was the assassin.--But I
ask you, Karovsky, to believe in the truth of what I am now going to
tell you. I had no more to do with the death of Von Rosenberg than you
yourself had."
"Est-il possible!" exclaimed the Russian in a voice scarcely raised
above a whisper. For a few moments he sat staring silently at Gerald;
then he went on: "Not often am I astonished at anything I hear; but
you, Gerald Brooke, have astonished me to-night The evidence against
you seemed so conclusive, that I never doubted Von Rosenberg fell by
your hand. Yet more than once I said to myself:'What an imbecile
Brook must have been to leave behind him such a condemnatory piece of
evidence as the weapon with which he did the deed!'--But who, then,
was the individual who so kindly spared you a necessity so painful?"
"That I know no more than you do."
"C'est un vrai mystère."
"From day to day I live in hope that the real criminal will be
discovered and brought to justice; but with each day that passes that
hope grows fainter within me."
"I know not what to say.--When I remember the past, and when I look
round and think that this is now the home of you and madame"----He
spread out his hands with a gesture more expressive than words.
Before more could be said, there came a peculiar knock at the
door--three taps in quick succession, followed by a fourth after a
longer interval. At the sound, Clara and Miss Primby emerged from the
other room.
"That summons is intended for me," said Karovsky quickly as he rose
and opened the door.
Then those inside saw that a man, a stranger, was standing on the
landing, who seemed to retire further into the shade the moment the
light fell on him. He said something rapidly in a low voice to
Karovsky, to which the latter replied in the same language. Then the
Russian gave a nod as of dismissal, and closing the door, turned and
confronted Gerald with a grave face and distended eyes. "That man is
one of _us_," he said. "When I entered the house, I left him on watch
outside. He now comes to tell me that a policeman in plain clothes is
on guard outside the court, and that another is stationed inside, so
that no one can pass in or out without being observed. He also tells
me that there are two more constables in uniform patrolling the street
close by; and that from what he can gather, they are waiting the
arrival of some one, probably a superior officer. Is it possible,
Brooke, that you can be the quarry on which they intend presently to
swoop?"
"There can be little doubt of it," answered Gerald, who had risen to
his feet while Karovsky was speaking. He had turned very pale; but his
lips were firm-set, and the expression which shone out of his eyes
was something far removed from craven fear.
Clara stood with one hand resting on the table, her frame trembling
slightly. Was the blow she had dreaded so long about to fall at last?
Miss Primby sat down with a gasp.
"Well, let them come," went on Gerald after a moment's pause. "It will
be better so. I am tired of this life of hide-and-seek. Why not end it
here and now?"
"No, no!" cried his wife. "Even at this, the eleventh hour, there must
surely be some way of escape."
"Even if I were eager to escape, which I am not, I know of none."
"Madame is right," said the Russian in his impressive tones. "There is
still one way of escape."
"And that is?"----said Gerald interrogatively.
But before Karovsky could reply, Margery, breathless and dishevelled,
burst into the room. "O Muster Geril!--O mum," she exclaimed, "the
polis is in the court--four or five of 'em, and I believe they're
coming here. But I shut and bolted the door at the bottom of the
stairs; and it'll take 'em some time to break that down," added the
girl with a chuckle.
Picot, who was on his way downstairs as Margery rushed up, had
overheard her words, and he could now be seen dimly outlined on the
landing, his eyes piercing the obscurity like two points of flame; but
for the moment no one observed him.