After Kaye had left, I sat for a long time pondering over his words.
The assertion that Edith was a spy helping Paolo Bertini staggered me.
At first I could not believe it, but what he had told me left no room
for doubt. I recalled the man's face as he had passed down the inn
passage and out into the village street, and with the clue that Kaye had
furnished recognised him. Without doubt all that the chief of the
secret service had told me was true, for had not Edith herself refused
to disclose the man's name or the character of their friendship? Had
she not at the same time acknowledged that he held power over her,
invisible but complete, and that the betrayal of her secret would mean
her ruin--perhaps even her death?
I saw it all now, as I sat deep in doubt and perplexity. Edith was
staying at the Grand. Should I call upon her aunt, and dine with them?
My first impulse was to do this, for I felt anxious to obtain from her
some further proof of her actual association with this adventurer; but,
on reflection, I saw that such a course was not commendable, inasmuch as
by calling I should perhaps arouse Aunt Hetty's suspicion that her niece
had visited me. Therefore, I resolved to send a petit bleu to Miss
Foskett, stating that I had seen her name in the visitors' list and
hoped to do myself the pleasure of calling on the following day after
dejeuner. This formality, which I at once proceeded to put in
operation, would, I knew, greatly please the punctilious old spinster.
That evening I dined at the Brasserie Nationale, in the Avenue de
l'Opera, an establishment German in style, but one widely patronised of
late. Among other things, it is famous for its wonderful hors
d'oeuvres; the wines, too, are always excellent and the cuisine not
expensive. Below is a beer-hall, always crowded during afternoon and
evening; but above, in a salon decorated in the ancient German style,
one finds a crowd of gaily dressed diners, Parisian in all respects.
The foreign tourist happily never goes there, for he patronises the
Gazal, a little farther along the avenue, where the dinner is prix-fixe,
"two francs fifty, vin compris."
At the tables sat several persons whom I knew, for it chanced to be a
premiere at the Opera, and all Paris was dining in the vicinity.
Mariani, a well-known journalist on the staff of the _Figaro_, lounged
in and took a seat with me. He was a thin-faced, middle-aged man of
typical Parisian appearance. He had only that afternoon returned from
Brussels, and presently, when we began to speak of the political
situation, he paused with his wine-glass in his hand, saying, in that
precise manner which was his chief characteristic:
"The _Patrie_, the _Libre Parole_, the _Gaulois_, the _Petit Journal_,
and the _Autorite_ repeat that war with England is inevitable; that it
is always there, ready to break out at any hour of any day. Their
object is clear: it is revenge for the High Court trials. They have
realised that, despite all its efforts, they cannot overthrow the
Republic in times of peace. They must, then, have war. And these
miserables are preparing it in order to overthrow the Republic! They
prepare war with England not only because they hate England, as a free
country, but because they know that war with England would be a naval
Sedan. Unless the Republicans abandon their blindness and their torpor,
they will let the Republic and France be lost by means of these
miserables."
I agreed with him, but breathed a trifle more freely, for the _Figaro_
was the organ of the French Government, and he was always well-informed.
Nevertheless, it appeared that he had no idea of the exact direction of
the political wind.
Near midnight, having attended a reception given by a smart
Englishwoman, the wife of a peer resident in Paris, I was strolling
along the Avenue de Neuilly on my way home. The night was cold but
bright, and there were many people still about. A garde-de-ville, in
his short cape, stood like a statue on the kerb at the Porte Maillott;
the electric globes illuminated the Rond Point brightly, and a couple of
harmless roysterers of the lower class lurched past me, singing the
latest patriotic jingle of the cafes, a song inspired by the prevalent
Anglophobia in Paris. They were singing the last verse:
Sous les eclats de la foudre
On vit tomber, noir de poudre,
Le dernier de ces vaillants,
Il cria: Vive la France!
Et l'echo repondit: France!...
En avant!... Serrez vos rangs!...
I paused for a moment to glance at them. Truly the public spirit in
Paris was everywhere anti-English. Fashoda had never been forgotten,
and out of our difficulties with the Transvaal much capital was being
made by the rabid organs of the Press.
Then I walked on until, at the corner of the Avenue de la Grande Armee
and the Rue des Acacias, I suddenly became aware of two men walking
slowly in front of me in earnest conversation. They were speaking in
Italian, a language which I knew well, and it was a sentence I overheard
which attracted my attention and caused me to glance at them.
Both were shabbily attired, and presented the signs of those hungry
night-birds who creep forth at set of sun and slink about the
boulevards. One wore a grey, soft felt hat stuck a trifle askew, as if
its owner aimed at a rakish appearance, while the other wore a crumpled
silk hat with a flat brim, the headgear typically Parisian.
Together, walking arm-in-arm, absorbed in their conversation, they
passed beneath the big electric lamp which lit the street-refuge, and as
the light fell upon them I drew back quickly in order to escape
observation.
Those words in Italian had attracted me, and I now saw in front of me
the two men whom I most desired to meet. The man who wore the high silk
hat was none other than Rodolphe Wolf, while the other was that
ingenious adventurer whom I had discovered at Ryburgh, Paolo Bertini.
They strolled along in a casual manner, as though well aware that out of
doors they could talk freely. The fact that they spoke in Italian
proved their desire to escape eavesdroppers. At the moment of
recognition I had drawn back and allowed them to advance some distance
in front; then, lounging along slowly, I followed them across the Avenue
des Termes, up the narrow Rue Poncelet, and, traversing the Avenue
Wagram, passed through a number of small streets until they suddenly
halted before a small and uninviting-looking little cafe in the Rue
Legendre, a few doors from the Mairie of Batignolles.
I was surprised to discover that Wolf was actually in Paris, while the
presence of Bertini seemed to bear out all that Kaye had told me earlier
in the evening. During the walk the Italian had pulled from his pocket
a paper, which he handed to his companion, who stood for a moment
beneath a street lamp reading it. Then he laughed lightly, folded it,
and handed it back with an air of satisfaction. As neither of the
interesting pair had once turned back, I had followed them entirely
unnoticed.
Fortunately for me I was wearing a new overcoat, the astrakhan collar of
which was turned up, the wind being chilly, so that my features were
half-concealed. But the shabby appearance of the pair was in itself
suspicious. Wolf had always been something of a fop, and it was
scarcely possible that if he were a secret agent he could have fallen
upon evil days.
I glanced at their boots. Those worn by Bertini were good ones of
russet leather, while those of his companion were a smart pair of
"patents." This fact told me that for some unknown reason they had
assumed the garb of loungers rapidly, and had not had time to change
their boots. They had been, or were going, to some place where to be
dressed well would arouse undue attention. That seemed certain.
I was standing back in the shadow of a doorway watching them, when
suddenly, after some consultation, as it seemed, they entered the little
cafe.
It was a frowsy, dirty place, at the window of which hung faded red
blinds, much stained and fly-blown. From where I stood I could see that
the ceiling, once white, was brown and discoloured by the gas, and the
gilt decorations blackened and smoke-begrimed. It was called the Cafe
de l'Etoile.
Dare I enter and risk detection?
Now that I had discovered them I intended to watch and find out where
they were staying, so that Kaye and his staff might keep them under
observation. The reason for their presence in Paris was without doubt a
sinister one. Of all the men in the whole world who were my enemies the
man Wolf was the bitterest; and next to him was this dark-faced Italian,
with whom he had been walking so confidentially arm-in-arm.
As I stood in hesitation, an ill-dressed, unkempt fellow reeled out of
the cafe, singing in a husky voice a vagabond song. His hat was askew,
and he beat time with his finger:
Qu' ca peut vous faire ou qu' nous allons?
Ca vous r'garde pas, que j' suppose.
D'abord, j'allons ou qu' nous voulons...
... Ou qu' vous voulez... c'est la mem' chose.
Vous etes d' ceux qu'ont des etats?
Ben! que qu' vous voulez qu' ca nous foute?
Des etats!... j'en connaissons pas...
Nous, not' metier, c'est d'marcher su' la route.
I strolled past the place and peered inside. A quick scrutiny sufficed
to show that the two men were not visible; therefore, I concluded that
they were at a table close behind the door. Thrice I passed and
repassed, until I became convinced of the fact. The red blinds were
drawn, and, although the door was half open, I could not, from the
pavement, see who was sitting at the table behind it. In Paris,
however, it is often a trick of those who lounge in cafes and desire to
pass unnoticed to sit close behind the door with their backs to it, thus
occupying a position which does not in the least expose them to
passers-by.
Presently, emboldened by the fact that the little place seemed sleepy
and half-deserted, I lit a cigarette, and, slipping into the doorway,
stood with my ears open to catch every sound. Yes, they were there, as
I had supposed. I heard words in Italian spoken rather low and
confidentially. I distinctly heard my own name mentioned, together with
that of the Princess von Leutenberg. Wolf it was who spoke of her
sneeringly.
"I've seen her of late in Vienna," he laughed. "Retirement at
Rudolstadt did not suit her."
"Is there any truth in what is said regarding the reason of her stay at
Chantoiseau?"
"Certainly," replied Wolf.
"Serious for her--eh?" remarked his companion.
"Very. She will be taught a lesson," was the response.
"And at the British Embassy, what do they know?" asked Bertini.
"They are, as usual, utterly unsuspecting, and will remain so until the
mine explodes. We have laid it cleverly this time, and it cannot fail."
"I wonder whether the Princess told Ingram anything while he was a guest
at Chantoiseau?" asked Bertini.
"She dare not. But what of the English girl? It is said she loves
him."
"No," replied the Italian quickly, "I have her completely in my power.
She cannot utter a word."
"She's a useful agent, I suppose?"
"Yes, at times. A girl of her character and appearance is never
suspected."
"And of Yolande? She was in London a month ago assisting me. Where is
she now?"
"In Rome, I think; but I am not certain," was the response. "Some
little time ago I met Lord Barmouth's daughter, with a view to bringing
them together as friends, for by so doing I saw that we might gain some
valuable information," Wolf said. "The project, however, unfortunately
failed, because of Ingram."
"May an accident occur to him!" exclaimed Bertini, using an Italian
oath. "He stands in our way at all times. I have not forgotten how
cleverly he tricked me in Brussels and obtained the negatives of half a
dozen documents from other embassies."
"He is more dangerous to our plans than Kaye and the whole British
secret service put together," Wolf remarked. I could hear that, by way
of emphasis, he struck the table heavily as he spoke these words. "If
we could only contrive to suppress him!"
"Ah, but how?"
A silence fell between the pair.
"In some countries," remarked Wolf in a low voice, "he would die
suddenly. Here, in Paris, it would be dangerous."
These men were actually plotting to take my life; I stood there
motionless, my ears strained to catch every word, my feet rooted to the
spot. "Why so dangerous?" asked the Italian.
"Because the English girl might betray us, or, failing her, there is the
Princess."
"The Princess! Bah!" ejaculated Bertini.
"She would never utter a syllable. She has too much to gain by
silence."
"But the girl Austin? What of her?"
"I admit that she might instantly give us away if one of these days her
lover was found mysteriously dead. Nevertheless, if the situation
becomes acute, well, we must resort to a desperate remedy, that's all."
I smiled within myself. Happily I had overheard this extremely
interesting conversation, and should now be on my guard against both
spies and assassins. It was lucky for me that they feared Edith;
otherwise murder would have been a mere nothing to them. That they were
not discussing an impossibility I well knew, for during my career as a
diplomatist I had known of at least half a dozen cases where persons had
been found dead under mysterious circumstances; and also that the crime
of murder had actually been brought home to the members of the secret
service of the various Powers. They are unscrupulous gentlemen, these
spies, and hesitate at nothing in their feverish desire to do the
bidding of their masters and obtain the rewards so temptingly offered to
them.
The men dropped their voices so low that for a few minutes I could
distinguish nothing, while another vulgar-looking, ruffianly fellow
opened the door suddenly and emerged. As long as I heard their voices
in consultation I felt secure from discovery. I determined to remain
there in the doorway calmly smoking, as though awaiting the arrival of a
friend.
"And how is everything at Feltham?" I heard Wolf inquire presently.
"All works splendidly. Everything is complete." To what did they
refer? I wondered. Where was Feltham? and what were the arrangements
which worked so satisfactorily?
Again the Italian spoke, laughing low and contentedly, but I could not
catch what he said, for my attention at that moment was distracted by
the approach of a fiacre, which pulled up before the door of the cafe.
The hood was up, and within the vehicle I saw the figure of a woman, who
at once descended, and, as I moved into the shadow, walked straight into
the place with the air of one who had entered there before. She was
well-dressed in a dark tailor-made gown, and wore a close-fitting hat
with a veil. She passed me by within a few feet, but, standing as I was
in the deep shadow beyond the lamps of the cab, which, no doubt, dazzled
her, she did not recognise me. But no second glance was necessary to
tell me that the woman who had come there at midnight to meet the two
spies was their associate and assistant, Edith Austin.