“I suspected her from the first,” explained Anthony. “There was a
light in her room on the night of the murder. Afterwards, I wavered.
I made inquiries about her in Brittany, and came back satisfied that
she was what she represented herself to be. I was a fool. Because the
Comtesse de Breteuil had employed a Mademoiselle Brun and spoke highly
of her, it never occurred to me that the real Mademoiselle Brun might
have been kidnapped on her way to her new post, and that it might be
a substitute taking her place. Instead I shifted my suspicions to Mr.
Fish. It was not until he had followed me to Dover, and we had had a
mutual explanation that I began to see clearly. Once I knew that he was
a Pinkerton’s man, trailing King Victor, my suspicions swung back again
to their original object.
“The thing that worried me most was that Mrs. Revel had definitely
recognized the woman. Then I remembered that it was only _after_
I had mentioned her being Madame de Breteuil’s governess. And all
she had said was that that accounted for the fact that the woman’s
face was familiar to her. Superintendent Battle will tell you that a
deliberate plot was formed to keep Mrs. Revel from coming to Chimneys.
Nothing more nor less than a dead body, in fact. And though the murder
was the work of the Comrades of the Red Hand, punishing supposed
treachery on the part of the victim, the staging of it, and the absence
of the Comrades’ sign manual, pointed to some abler intelligence
directing operations. From the first, I suspected some connection
with Herzoslovakia. Mrs. Revel was the only member of the house party
who had been to the country. I suspected at first that some one was
impersonating Prince Michael, but that proved to be a totally erroneous
idea. When I realized the possibility of Mademoiselle Brun’s being an
impostor, and added to that the fact that her face was familiar to Mrs.
Revel, I began to see daylight. It was evidently very important that
she should not be recognized, and Mrs. Revel was the only person likely
to do so.”
“But who was she?” said Lord Caterham. “Some one Mrs. Revel had known
in Herzoslovakia?”
“I think the Baron might be able to tell us,” said Anthony.
“I?” The Baron stared at him, then down at the motionless figure.
“Look well,” said Anthony. “Don’t be put off by the make-up. She was an
actress once, remember.”
The Baron stared again. Suddenly he started.
“God in heaven,” he breathed, “it is not possible.”
“What is not possible?” asked George. “Who is the lady? You recognize
her, Baron?”
“No, no, it is not possible.” The Baron continued to mutter. “She was
killed. They were both killed. On the steps of the Palace. Her body was
recovered.”
“Mutilated and unrecognizable,” Anthony reminded him. “She managed to
put up a bluff. I think she escaped to America, and has spent a good
many years lying low in deadly terror of the Comrades of the Red Hand.
They promoted the Revolution, remember, and, to use an expressive
phrase, they always had it in for her. Then King Victor was released,
and they planned to recover the diamond together. She was searching
for it that night when she came suddenly upon Prince Michael, and
he recognized her. There was never much fear of her meeting him in
the ordinary way of things. Royal guests don’t come in contact with
governesses, and she could always retire with a convenient _migraine_,
as she did the day the Baron was here.
“However, she met Prince Michael face to face when she least expected
it. Exposure and disgrace stared her in the face. She shot him. It was
she who placed the revolver in Isaacstein’s suit-case, so as to confuse
the trail, and she who returned the letters.”
Lemoine moved forward.
“She was coming down to search for the jewel that night, you say,”
he said. “Might she not have been going to meet her accomplice, King
Victor, who was coming from outside? Eh? What do you say to that?”
Anthony sighed.
“Still at it, my dear Lemoine? How persistent you are! You won’t take
my hint that I’ve got a trump card up my sleeve?”
But George, whose mind worked slowly, now broke in.
“I am still completely at sea. Who was this lady, Baron? You recognize
her, it seems?”
But the Baron drew himself up and stood very straight and stiff.
“You are in error, Mr. Lomax. To my knowledge I have not this lady seen
before. A complete stranger she is to me.”
“But——”
George stared at him—bewildered.
The Baron took him into a corner of the room, and murmured something
into his ear. Anthony watched, with a good deal of enjoyment, George’s
face turning slowly purple, his eyes bulging, and all the incipient
symptoms of apoplexy. A murmur of George’s throaty voice came to him.
“Certainly ... certainly ... by all means ... no need at all ...
complicate situation ... utmost discretion.”
“Ah!” Lemoine hit the table sharply with his hand. “I do not care about
all this! The murder of Prince Michael—that was not my affair. I want
King Victor.”
Anthony shook his head gently.
“I’m sorry for you, Lemoine. You’re really a very able fellow. But, all
the same, you’re going to lose the trick. I’m about to play my trump
card.”
He stepped across the room and rang the bell. Tredwell answered it.
“A gentleman arrived with me this evening, Tredwell.”
“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”
“Quite so. Will you kindly ask him to join us here as soon as possible?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tredwell withdrew.
“Entry of the trump card, the mysterious Monsieur X,” remarked Anthony.
“_Who is he?_ Can anyone guess?”
“Putting two and two together,” said Herman Isaacstein, “what with your
mysterious hints this morning, and your attitude this afternoon, I
should say there was no doubt about it. Somehow or other you’ve managed
to get hold of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
“You think the same, Baron?”
“I do. Unless yet another impostor you have put forward. But that I
will not believe. With me, your dealings most honourable have been.”
“Thank you, Baron. I shan’t forget those words. So you are all agreed?”
His eyes swept round the circle of waiting faces. Only Lemoine did not
respond, but kept his eyes fixed sullenly on the table.
Anthony’s quick ears had caught the sound of footsteps outside in the
hall.
“And yet, you know,” he said with a queer smile, “you’re all wrong!”
He crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.
A man stood on the threshold—a man with a neat black beard,
eyeglasses, and a foppish appearance slightly marred by a bandage round
the head.
“_Allow me to present you to the real Monsieur Lemoine of the Sûreté._”
There was a rush and a scuffle, and then the nasal tones of Mr. Hiram
Fish rose bland and reassuring from the window.
“No, you don’t, Sonny—not this way. I have been stationed here this
whole evening for the particular purpose of preventing your escape. You
will observe that I have you covered well and good with this gun of
mine. I came over to get you, and I’ve got you—but you sure are some
lad!”
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