BY THE MEDITERRANEAN
It was February--not the foggy, muddy February of dear, damp Old
England, but winter beside the bright blue Mediterranean, the winter of
the Côte d'Azur.
At the Villa Heyburn--that big, square, white house with the green
sun-shutters, surrounded by its great garden full of spreading palms,
sweet-smelling mimosa, orange-trees laden with golden fruit, and bright
geraniums, up on the Berigo at San Remo--Lady Heyburn had that afternoon
given a big luncheon-party. The smartest people wintering in that most
sheltered nook of the Italian Riviera had eaten and gossiped and
flirted, and gone back to their villas and hotels. Dull persons found no
place in Lady Heyburn's circle. Most of the people were those she knew
in London or in Paris, including a sprinkling of cosmopolitans, a
Russian prince notorious for his losses over at the new _cercle_ at
Cannes, a divorced Austrian Archduchess, and two or three well-known
diplomats.
"Dear old Henry" remained, of course, at Glencardine, as he always did.
Lady Heyburn looked upon her winter visit to that beautiful villa
overlooking the calm sapphire sea as her annual emancipation. Henry was
a dear old fellow, she openly confided to her friends, but his
affliction made him terribly trying.
But Jimmy Flockart, the good-looking, amusing, well-dressed idler, was
living down at the "Savoy," and was daily in her company, driving,
motoring, picnicking, making excursions in the mountains, or taking
trips over to "Monte" by the _train-de-luxe_. He had left the villa
early in the afternoon, returned to his hotel, changed his smart
flannels for a tweed suit, and, taking a stout stick, had set off alone
for his daily constitutional along the sea-road in the direction of that
pretty but half-deserted little watering-place, Ospedaletti.
Straight before him, into the unruffled, tideless sea, the sun was
sinking in all its blood-red glory as he went at swinging pace along the
white, dusty road, past the _octroi_ barrier, and out into the country
where, on the left, the waves lazily lapped the grey rocks, while upon
the right the fertile slopes were covered with carnations and violets
growing for the markets of Paris and London. In the air was a delightful
perfume, the freshness of the sea in combination with the sweetness of
the flowers.
A big red motor-car dashed suddenly round a corner, raising a cloud of
dust. An American party were on their way from Genoa to the frontier
along the Corniche, one of the most picturesque routes in all the world.
James Flockart had no eyes for beauty. He was too occupied by certain
grave apprehensions. That morning he had walked in the garden with Lady
Heyburn, and had a long chat with her. Her attitude had been peculiar.
He could not make her out. She had begged him to promise to leave San
Remo, and when asked to tell the reason of this sudden demand she had
firmly refused.
"You must leave here, Jimmy," she had said quite calmly. "Go down to
Rome, to Palermo, to Ragusa, or somewhere where you can put in a month
or so in comfort. The Villa Igiea at Palermo would suit you quite
well--lots of smart people, and very decent cooking."
"Well," he laughed, "as far as hotels go, nothing could be worse than
this place. I'd never put my nose into this hole if it were not for the
fact that you come here. There isn't a hotel worth the name. When one
goes to Monte, or Cannes, or even decaying Nice, one can get decent
cooking. But here--ugh!" and he shrugged his shoulders. "Price higher
than the 'Ritz' in Paris, food fourth-rate, rooms cheaply decorated, and
a dullness unequalled."
"My dear Jimmy," laughed her ladyship, "you're such a cosmopolitan that
you're incorrigible. I know you don't like this place. You've been here
six weeks, so go."
"You've had a letter from the old man, eh?"
"Yes, I have," she replied, and he saw that her countenance changed; but
she would say nothing more. She had decided that he must leave San Remo,
and would hear no argument to the contrary.
The southern sun sank slowly into the sea, now grey but waveless. On the
horizon lay the long smoke-trail of a passing steamer eastward bound. He
had rounded the steep, rocky headland, and in the hollow before him
nestled the little village of Ospedaletti, with its closed casino, its
rows of small villas, and its palm-lined _passeggiata_.
A hundred yards farther on he saw the figure of a rather shabby,
middle-aged man, in a faded grey overcoat and grey soft felt-hat of the
mode usual on the Riviera, but discoloured by long wear, leaning upon
the low sea-wall and smoking a cigarette. No other person was in the
vicinity, and it was quickly evident from the manner in which the
wayfarer recognised him and came forward to meet him with outstretched
hand that they had met by appointment. Short of stature as he was, with
fair hair, colourless eyes, and a fair moustache, his slouching
appearance was that of one who had seen better days, even though there
still remained about him a vestige of dandyism. The close observer
would, however, detect that his clothes, shabby though they were, were
of foreign cut, and that his greeting was of that demonstrative
character that betrayed his foreign birth.
"Well, my dear Krail," exclaimed Flockart, after they had shaken hands
and stood together leaning upon the sea-wall, "you got my wire in
Huntingdon? I was uncertain whether you were at the 'George' or at the
'Fountain,' so I sent a message to both."
"I was at the 'George,' and left an hour after receipt of your wire."
"Well, tell me what has happened. How are things up at Glencardine?"
"Goslin is with the old fellow. He has taken the girl's place as his
confidential secretary," was the shabby man's reply, speaking with a
foreign accent. "Walter Murie was at home for Christmas, but went to
Cairo."
"And how are matters in Paris?"
"They are working hard, but it's an uphill pull. The old man is a crafty
old bird. Those papers you got from the safe had been cunningly prepared
for anybody who sought to obtain information. The consequence is that
we've shown our hand, and heavily handicapped ourselves thereby."
"You told me all that when you were down here a month ago," Flockart
said impatiently.
"You didn't believe me then. You do now, I suppose?"
"I've never denied it," Flockart declared, offering the stranger a
Russian cigarette from his gold case. "I was completely misled, and by
the girl also."
"The girl's influence with her father is happily quite at an end,"
remarked the shabby man. "I saw her last week in Woodnewton. The change
from Glencardine to an eight-roomed cottage in a village street must be
rather severe."
"Only what she deserves," snapped Flockart. "She defied us."
"Granted. But I cannot help thinking that we haven't played a very fair
game," said the man. "Remember, she's only a girl."
"But dangerous to us and to our plans, my dear Krail. She knows a lot."
"Because--well, forgive me for saying so, my dear Flockart--because
you've been a fool, and have allowed her to know."
"It wasn't I; it was the woman."
"Lady Heyburn! Why, I always believed her to be the soul of discretion."
"She's been too defiant of consequences. A dozen times I've warned her;
but she will not heed."
"Then she'll land herself in a deep hole if she isn't careful," replied
the foreigner, speaking very fair English. "Does she know I'm here?"
"Of course not. If we're to play the game she must know nothing. She's
already inclined to throw prudence to the winds, and to confess all to
her husband."
"Confess!" gasped the stranger, paling beneath his rather sallow skin.
"_Per Bacco!_ she's not going to be such an idiot, surely?"
"We were run so close, and so narrowly escaped discovery after I got at
those papers at Glencardine, that she seems to have lost heart,"
Flockart remarked.
"But if she acted the fool and told Sir Henry, it would mean ruin for
us, and that would also mean----"
"It would mean exposure for Gabrielle," interrupted Flockart. "The old
man dare not lift his voice for his daughter's sake."
"Ah," exclaimed Krail, "that's just where you've acted injudiciously!
You've set him against her; therefore he wouldn't spare her."
"It was imperative. I couldn't afford to be found prying into the old
man's papers, could I? I got impressions of his key while walking in the
park one day. He's never suspected it."
"Of course not. He believes in you," laughed his friend, "as one of the
few upright men who are his friends! But," he added, "you've done wrong,
my dear fellow, to trust a woman with a secret. Depend upon it, her
ladyship will let you down."
"Well, if she does," remarked Flockart, with a shrug of the shoulders,
"she'll have to suffer with me. You know where we should all find
ourselves."
The man pulled a wry face and puffed at his cigarette in silence.
"What does the girl do?" asked Flockart a few moments later.
"Well, she seems to have a pretty dull time with the old lady. I stayed
at the 'Cardigan Arms' at Woodnewton for two days--a miserable little
place--and watched her pretty closely. She's out a good deal, rambling
alone across the country with a collie belonging to a neighbouring
farmer. She's the very picture of sadness, poor little girl!"
"You seem to sympathise with her, Krail. Why, does she not stand between
us and fortune?"
"She'll stand between us and a court of assize if that woman acts the
fool!" declared the shabby stranger, who moved so rapidly and whose
vigilance seemed unequalled.
"If we go, she shall go also," Flockart declared in a threatening voice.
"But you must prevent such a _contretemps_," Krail urged.
"Ah, it's all very well to talk like that! But you know enough of her
ladyship to be aware that she acts on her own initiative."
"That shows that she's no fool," remarked the foreigner quickly. "You
who hold her in the hollow of your hand must prevent her from opening up
to her husband. The whole future lies with you."
"And what is the future without money? We want a few thousands for
immediate necessities, both of us. The woman's allowance from her
husband is nowadays a mere bagatelle."
"Because he probably knows that some of her money has gone into your
pockets, my dear boy."
"No; he's completely in ignorance of that. How, indeed, could he know?
She takes very good care there's no possibility of his finding out."
"Well," remarked the stranger, "that's what I fear has happened, or may
one day happen. The fact is, _caro mio_, we are in a quandary at the
present moment. You were a bit too confident in dealing with those
documents you found at Glencardine. You should have taken her ladyship
into your confidence and got her to pump her husband concerning them. If
you had, we shouldn't have made the mess of it that we have done."
"I must admit, Krail, that what you say is true," declared the
well-dressed man. "You are such a philosopher always! I asked you to
come here in secret to explain the exact position."
"It is one of peril. We are checkmated. Goslin holds the whole position
in his hands, and will keep it."
"Very fortunately for you he doesn't, though we were very near exposure
when I went out to Athens and made a fool of myself upon the report
furnished by you."
"I believed it to be a genuine one. I had no idea that the old man was
so crafty."
"Exactly. And if he displayed such clever ingenuity and forethought in
laying a trap for the inquisitive, is it not more than likely that there
may be other traps baited with equal craft and cunning?"
"Then how are we to make the _coup_?" Flockart asked, looking into the
colourless eyes of his friend.
"We shall, I fear, never make it, unless----"
"Unless what?" he asked.
"Unless the old man meets with an accident," replied the other, in a
low, distinct voice. "_Blind men sometimes do, you know!_"