No one spoke for a moment or two after Margery had blurted out her
news. Then for the second time Karovsky said: "There is still one way
of escape open to you."
And that is?"----said Gerald again.
"For me to personate you."
"O monsieur!" cried Clara, a flash of hope leaping suddenly into her
eyes.
"Karovsky, are you mad?"
"Pardon; I think not; but one can never be quite sure. Listen! These
men who are coming to arrest you are strangers to you, or rather, you
are a stranger to them; they have never set eyes on you before. I will
answer to your name; I will go with them; and before they have time to
discover their mistake, you will be far away."
"And the consequences to yourself?"
"A few hours' detention--nothing more. Your English police know me
not." Then he added with a shrug: "At St. Petersburg or Berlin, ma
foi, it might be somewhat different."
"Karovsky, your offer is a noble one, and the risk to yourself might be
greater than you seem to think. In any case, I cannot accept it."
"Gerald, for my sake!" implored his wife.
"As I said before, I am tired of this life of perpetual hide-and-seek.
Let it end; I am ready to face the worst."
"No, no! Would you court a felon's doom, you whose innocence will one
day be proved to the world?"
"Vous avez raison, madame," said the Russian. Then placing his hands
on Gerald's shoulders, he said: "Go, Brooke, my friend; hide yourself
elsewhere for a little time, and leave me to face these bloodhounds."
Picot, who had been listening and watching in the background, now came
boldly forward. It was enough for the kind-hearted mountebank to know
that his friends were in trouble. "I have une petite chambre en haut,"
he said to Gerald. "Come with me, monsieur, and I will hide you."
"Yes, yes; go, dearest, with Monsieur Picot," urged his wife, her
beautiful eyes charged with anguished entreaty.
"For your sake, let it be as you wish," answered Gerald sadly.
At this juncture there came a loud knocking at some door below stairs.
"Venez, monsieur--vite, vite!" said Picot.
Gerald hastily kissed his wife, gripped the Russian's hand for a
moment, and then followed the mountebank.
"It will not be wise to keep our friends waiting," said Karovsky. Then
turning to Miss Primby: "Madame, will you oblige me by taking charge
of these trifles for a little while?" With that he handed her a
card-case, a pocket-book stuffed with papers, and a bunch of keys.
"They will be mighty clever if they get them out of here," muttered
Miss Primby as the articles disappeared in the capacious depths of
some hidden pocket.
The knocking was repeated in louder and more imperative terms than
before.
"Let the door be opened," said Karovsky to Margery; then he addressed
a few words hurriedly in a low tone to Mrs. Brooke.
The door at the foot of the stairs, which Margery in her alarm had
taken the precaution to fasten, had apparently been originally put
there with the view of more effectually separating the upper part of
the house from the lower, probably at a time when the domicile was
divided between two families. This door Margery now unbolted without a
word; and without a word, after flashing a bull's-eye in her face, a
sergeant of police and two men pushed past her and tramped heavily
upstairs.
"Mr. Gerald Brooke, commonly known by the name of Stewart?" said the
sergeant interrogatively as he advanced into the room, while his two
men took up positions close to the door.
The Russian turned--he had been in the act of lighting a cigarette at
the fireplace. "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you intrude
into this apartment?" he demanded haughtily.
The sergeant went a step or two nearer and laying a hand on his
shoulder, said: "Gerald Brook; you are charged on a warrant with the
wilful murder of the Baron Otto von Rosenberg on the 28th of June last
at Beaulieu, near King's Harold, and you will have to consider
yourself as my prisoner."
The Russian dropped his cigarette. "There is some strange mistake," he
said. "I never either saw or spoke to the Baron von Rosenberg on the
28th of last June."
"All right, sir; you can explain about that somewhere else; but I
should advise you to say as little as possible just now."
One of the men had advanced into the room, and now drew the officer's
attention. "I say, sergeant," he whispered, "the gent don't seem to
answer much to the printed description, does he?"
"Idiot!" whispered back the other; "as if a man couldn't dye his hair
and make his beard and moustache grow any shape he liked! Besides, we
knew beforehand that he was disguised, and this is the room where we
were told we should find him."
When the sergeant turned again, Clara was standing before Karovsky
with a hand resting on each of his shoulders.
"You see," whispered the sergeant to his subordinate. "We were told
his wife was living here with him, as well as an elderly lady--the
aunt. He's the gent we want, and no mistake."
"I shall only be away for a little while, cara mia," said Karovsky, as
he drew Clara to him. For a moment her head rested against his
shoulder, then his lips lightly touched her forehead.
She turned from him, and sinking on a couch, buried her face in her
hands.
Karovsky drew himself up to his full height "Now, sir, I am at your
service," he said to the sergeant.
A moment later, and the three women were left alone.
"They be clever uns, they be!" said Margery with a chuckle as the
sound of the retreating footsteps died away.
"How noble, how magnanimous of Monsieur Karovsky!" exclaimed Miss
Primby. "I shall never think ill of the Russians again."
"Now is the opportunity for Gerald to get away," said Clara. "The
police may discover their mistake at any moment." Her hand was on the
door, when suddenly there was a sound which caused all three to start
and stare at each other with eyes full of terror. It was the sound of
unfamiliar footsteps ascending the stairs. Mrs. Brooke shrank back as
the door opened and George Crofton entered the room. "You!" she
gasped.
"Even so," he answered as he glanced round the room. "It is long since
we met last."
"Not since the day you crushed my husband's portrait under your heel."
"As I have now crushed your husband himself."
"What do you mean?"
"Clara Brook; the hour of my revenge has struck. You slighted me once,
but now my turn has come. It was through my efforts that your husband
was tracked to this place. It was I who gave information to the
police. Never could there be a sweeter revenge than mine."
"Can such wickedness exist unsmitten by Heaven!"
After that first glance round, he had never taken his eyes from
Clara's blanched face. He spoke with a venomous intensity which lent
to every word an added sting.
"Don't I just wish I was a man, instead of a great hulking
good-for-nothing girl!" muttered Margery, half to Miss Primby and half
to herself, as she defiantly rolled up the sleeves of her cotton gown.
For a little space, the two stood gazing at each other in silence.
Clam's heart beat painfully, but her eyes blazed into his full of
scorn and defiance. Then she said: "George Crofton, believe me or not,
but my husband is as innocent of the crime laid to his charge as I am.
It is not he who is a murderer, but you who are one after this night's
work--in heart if not in deed."
A sneering laugh broke from his lips. "I was quite prepared to hear
that rigmarole," he said. "It was only to be expected that you should
swear to his innocence. It is possible you may believe in it--wives
will believe anything."
But Clara's ears, of late ever on the alert, had heard a certain
sound. With a low cry she sprang to the door; but before she could
reach it, it was opened from without, and Gerald, accompanied by
Picot, appeared on the threshold.
Crofton fell back as if he had seen a face from the tomb. "By what
fiend's trick have I been fooled?" he cried.
"There stands the villain who betrayed you," exclaimed the young wife,
pointing to Crofton with outstretched finger.
"He! My cousin! Impossible."
"It may not be too late yet," exclaimed Crofton as he sprang to one of
the windows and tore aside the curtain. But next instant, with a bound
like that of a tiger, Picot had flung himself on him and had gripped
his neck as in a vice with both his sinewy hands. The other was no
match in point of strength for the mountebank; and before he knew what
had happened he found himself on his back on the floor, half-choked,
with Picot kneeling on his chest and regarding him with a sardonic
grin.
Clara, with a natural impulse, had clung to her husband's arm. Miss
Primby and Margery were too startled to utter a word.
Picot's hand went to some inner pocket and drew from it a small
revolver; then rising to his feet, he said to Crofton: "Oblige me by
standing up, monsieur, and by taking a seat in that chair, or in one
leetle minute you are a dead man."
Crofton, with a snarl like that of some half-cowed wild animal, did as
he was bidden.
Gerald stepped quickly forward and laid a hand on Picot's arm. "What
would you do?" he asked.
"Shoot him like the dog he is, if he move but one finger. If he move
not--tie him up--gag him--and leave him here till you, monsieur, have
time to get away."
Then addressing himself to Margery, but without taking his eyes for an
instant off Crofton, he said: "My good Margot, in my room upstairs you
will find one piece of rope. Bring him here. Dépêchez-vous--quick."
Margery needed no second bidding.
Then the mountebank said to Gerald: "You must not stop here any
longer, monsieur; the police may come back at any moment."
"Yes--come, come," urged Clara. "Another minute, and it may be too
late."
"George, I did not deserve this at your hands," said Gerald with grave
sadness to his cousin. The only answer was a scowl and an execration
muttered between his teeth.
Gerald, his wife, and Miss Primby retired into the farther room and
closed the folding-doors. Margery was back by this time, carrying a
small coil of rope.
"Good child.--Now hold this--so," said Picot, as he placed the
revolver in Margery's hand and stationed her about a couple of yards
from Crofton. "If you see that man stir from his chair, press your
finger against this leetle thing, and--pouf--he will never stir again.
Hold him steady--so. You have no fear--hein?"
"Why, o' course not," laughed Margery. "It would do me good to shoot
the likes o' him."
With a dexterity that seemed as if it might have been derived from
long practice, Picot now proceeded to bind Crofton securely in his
chair.
"You scoundrel! you shall suffer for this," muttered the latter between
his teeth.
"A la bonne heure, monsieur," responded the mountebank airily. Then
perceiving a corner of a handkerchief protruding from his pocket, he
drew it forth, and tearing a narrow strip off it, he proceeded to
firmly bind the other's wrists; then making a bandage of the
remainder, he covered his mouth with it and tied it in a double knot
at the back of his neck. "Ah, ha! that do the trick," he laughed. "How
found you yourself? Very comfortable--hein?"
Margery, who had watched the operation with great glee gave back the
revolver and retired to the inner room. Picot sat down a little way
from his prisoner, but for the present took no further notice of him.
He had heard a footstep on the stairs a minute or two previously, and
rightly judged that Gerald was already gone.
From the first day of taking up their abode at No. 5 Pymm's Buildings,
Clara and her husband had prepared themselves for an emergency like
the present one. They were always ready for immediate flight, and had
arranged the means for communication in case of an enforced
separation.
At the end of a few minutes Margery returned, carrying a folded paper,
which she gave to Picot, at the same time whispering a few hurried
words in his ear. The mountebank nodded and smiled and kissed the tips
of his fingers. Then the girl went back, and the two men were left
alone. But presently both of them heard the footsteps of more persons
than one descending the stairs. Picot listened intently till the sound
had died away, and then proceeded to light a cigarette. Of Crofton,
sitting there, bound and gagged, he took not the slightest apparent
notice.
A quarter of an hour passed thus, and with the exception of a footfall
now and then in the court below no sound broke the silence. At the end
of that time, Picot's cigarette being finished, he rose, pushed back
his chair, clapped his hat on his head, and after a last examination
of his prisoner's bonds, he marched out of the room without a word,
and so downstairs and out of the house, first shutting behind him the
door which divided the upper rooms from the ground floor.
Left alone, George Crofton began at once to struggle desperately to
free himself, but all to no purpose. After a little time, however, he
discovered that the chair in which he was bound moved on casters, and
this discovery put an idea into his head such as would not have
entered it under other circumstances. The room was lighted by a lamp
on a low table, and to this table he managed by degrees to slide his
chair along the floor. Then setting his teeth hard, and stretching his
arms to the fullest extent his bonds would allow of his doing, he held
his wrists over the flame of the lamp, and kept them there
unflinchingly till the outermost coil of the ligature which bound them
was burnt through. When once his hands were at liberty, very few
minutes sufficed to make him a free man.
"My revenge is yet to come, Gerald Brooke," he said aloud as he paused
at the door and took a last glance round. "It is but delayed for a
little while, and every day's delay will serve but to make it sweeter
at the last."