SURPRISES MR. FLOCKART
"Well, you and your friend Felix have placed me in a very pleasant
position, haven't you?" asked Lady Heyburn of Flockart, who had just
entered the green-and-white morning-room at Park Street. "I hope now
that you're satisfied with your blunder!"
The man addressed, in a well-cut suit of grey, a fancy vest, and
patent-leather boots, still carrying his hat and stick in his hand,
turned to her in surprise.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "I arrived from Paris at five this
morning, and I've brought you good news."
"Nonsense!" cried the woman, starting from her chair in anger. "You
can't deceive me any longer."
"Krail has discovered the whole game. The syndicate held a meeting at
the office in Paris. He and I watched the arrivals. We now know who they
are, and exactly what they are doing. By Jove! we never dreamed that
your husband, blind though he is, is head of such a smart and
influential group. Why, they're the first in Europe."
"What does that matter? Krail wants money, so do we; but even with all
your wonderful schemes we get none!"
"Wait, my dear Winnie, remain patient, and we shall obtain plenty."
It was indeed strange for a woman within that smart town-house, and with
her electric brougham at the door, to complain of poverty. The house had
been a centre of political activity in the days before Sir Henry met
with that terrible affliction. The room in which the pair stood had been
the scene of many a private and momentous conference, and in the big
drawing-room upstairs many a Cabinet Minister had bent over the hand of
the fair Lady Heyburn.
Into the newly decorated room, with its original Adams ceiling, its
dead-white panelling and antique overmantel, shone the morning sun, weak
and yellow as it always is in London in the spring-time.
Lady Heyburn, dressed in a smart walking-gown of grey, pushed her fluffy
fair hair from her brow, while upon her face was an expression which
told of combined fear and anger.
Her visitor was surprised. After that watchful afternoon in the
Boulevard des Capucines, he had sat in a corner of the Café Terminus
listening to Krail, who rubbed his hands with delight and declared that
he now held the most powerful group in Europe in the hollow of his hand.
For the past six years or so gigantic _coups_ had been secured by that
unassuming and apparently third-rate financial house of Lénard et
Morellet. From a struggling firm they had within a year grown into one
whose wealth seemed inexhaustible, and whose balances at the Credit
Lyonnais, the Société Générale, and the Comptoir d'Escompte were
possibly the largest of any of the customers of those great
corporations. The financial world of Europe had wondered. It was a
mystery who was behind Lénard et Morellet, the pair of steady-going,
highly respectable business men who lived in unostentatious comfort, the
former at Enghien, just outside Paris, and the latter out in the country
at Melum. The mystery was so well and so carefully preserved that not
even the bankers themselves could obtain knowledge of the truth.
Krail had, however, after nearly two years of clever watching and
ingenious subterfuge, succeeded, by placing the group in a "hole" in
calling them together. That they met, and often, was undoubted. But
where they met, and how, was still a complete mystery.
As Flockart had sat that previous afternoon listening to Krail's
unscrupulous and self-confident proposals, he had remained in silent
wonder at the man's audacious attitude. Nothing deterred him, nothing
daunted him.
Flockart had returned that night from Paris, gone to his chambers in
Half-Moon Street, breakfasted, dressed, and had now called upon her
ladyship in order to impart to her the good news. Yet, instead of
welcoming him, she only treated him with resentment and scorn. He knew
the quick flash of those eyes, he had seen it before on other occasions.
This was not the first time they had quarrelled, yet he, keen-witted and
cunning, had always held her powerless to elude him, had always
compelled her to give him the sums he so constantly demanded. That
morning, however, she was distinctly resentful, distinctly defiant.
For an instant he turned from her, biting his lip in annoyance. When
facing her again, he smiled, asking, "Tell me, Winnie, what does all
this mean?"
"Mean!" echoed the Baronet's wife. "Mean! How can you ask me that
question? Look at me--a ruined woman! And you----"
"Speak out!" he cried. "What has happened?"
"You surely know what has happened. You have treated me like the cur you
are--and that is speaking plainly. You've sacrificed me in order to save
yourself."
"From what?"
"From exposure. To me, ruin is not a matter of days, but of hours."
"You're speaking in enigmas. I don't understand you," he cried
impatiently. "Krail and I have at last been successful. We know now the
true source of your husband's huge income, and in order to prevent
exposure he must pay--and pay us well too."
"Yes," she laughed hysterically. "You tell me all this after you've
blundered."
"Blundered! How?" he asked, surprised at her demeanour.
"What's the use of beating about the bush?" asked her ladyship. "The
girl is back at Glencardine. She knows everything, thanks to your
foolish self-confidence."
"Back at Glencardine!" gasped Flockart. "But she dare not speak. By
heaven! if she does--then--then--"
"And what, pray, can you do?" inquired the woman harshly. "It is I who
have to suffer, I who am crushed, humiliated, ruined, while you and your
precious friend shield yourselves behind your cloaks of honesty. You are
Sir Henry's friend. He believes you as such--you!" And she laughed the
hollow laugh of a woman who was staring death in the face. She was
haggard and drawn, and her hands trembled with nervousness which she
strove in vain to repress. Lady Heyburn was desperate.
"He still believes in me, eh?" asked the man, thinking deeply, for his
clever brain was already active to devise some means of escape from what
appeared to be a distinctly awkward dilemma. He had never calculated the
chances of Gabrielle's return to her father's side. He had believed that
impossible.
"I understand that my husband will hear no word against you," replied
the tall, fair-haired woman. "But when I speak he will listen, depend
upon it."
"You dare!" he cried, turning upon her in threatening attitude. "You
dare utter a single word against me, and, by Heaven! I'll tell what I
know. The country shall ring with a scandal--the shame of your attitude
towards the girl, and a crime for which you will be arraigned, with me,
before an assize-court. Remember!"
The woman shrank from him. Her face had blanched. She saw that he was
equally as determined as she was desperate. James Flockart always kept
his threats. He was by no means a man to trifle with.
For a moment she was thoughtful, then she laughed defiantly in his face.
"Speak! Say what you will. But if you do, you suffer with me."
"You say that exposure is imminent," he remarked. "How did the girl
manage to return to Glencardine?"
"With Walter's aid. He went down to Woodnewton. What passed between them
I have no idea. I only returned the day before yesterday from the South.
All I know is that the girl is back with her father, and that he knows
much more than he ought to know."
"Murie could not have assisted her," Flockart declared decisively. "The
old man suspects him of taking those Russian papers from the safe."
"How do you know he hasn't cleared himself of the suspicion? He may have
done. The old man dotes upon the girl."
"I know all that."
"And she may have turned upon you, and told the truth about the safe
incident. That's more than likely."
"She dare not utter a word."
"You're far too self-confident. It is your failing."
"And when, pray, has it failed? Tell me."
"Never, until the present moment. Your bluff is perfect, yet there are
moments when it cannot aid you, depend upon it. She told me one night
long ago, in my own room, when she had disobeyed, defied, and annoyed
me, that she would never rest until Sir Henry knew the truth, and that
she would place before him proofs of the other affair. She has long
intended to do this; and now, thanks to your attitude of passive
inertness, she has accomplished her intentions."
"What!" he gasped in distinct alarm, "has she told her father the
truth?"
"A telegram I received from Sir Henry late last night makes it only too
plain that he knows something," responded the unhappy woman, staring
straight before her. "It is your fault--your fault!" she went on,
turning suddenly upon her companion again. "I warned you of the danger
long ago."
Flockart stood motionless. The announcement which the woman had made
staggered him.
Felix Krail had come to him in Paris, and after some hesitation, and
with some reluctance, had described how he had followed the girl along
the Nene bank and thrown her into the deepest part of the river, knowing
that she would be hampered by her skirts and that she could not swim.
"She will not trouble us further. Never fear!" he had said. "It will be
thought a case of suicide through love. Her mental depression is the
common talk of the neighbourhood."
And yet the girl was safe and now home again at Glencardine! He
reflected upon the ugly facts of "the other affair" to which her
ladyship sometimes referred, and his face went ashen pale.
Just at the moment when success had come to them after all their
ingenuity and all their endeavours--just at a moment when they could
demand and obtain what terms they liked from Sir Henry to preserve the
secret of the financial combine--came this catastrophe.
"Felix was a fool to have left his work only half-done," he remarked
aloud, as though speaking to himself.
"What work?" asked the hollow-eyed woman eagerly. But he did not satisfy
her. To explain would only increase her alarm and render her even more
desperate than she was.
"Did I not tell you often that, from her, we had all to fear?" cried the
woman frantically. "But you would not listen. And now I am--I'm face to
face with the inevitable. Disaster is before me. No power can avert it.
The girl will have a bitter and terrible revenge."
"No," he cried quickly, with fierce determination. "No, I'll save you,
Winnie. The girl shall not speak. I'll go up to Glencardine to-night and
face it out. You will come with me."
"I!" gasped the shrinking woman. "Ah, no. I--I couldn't. I dare not face
him. You know too well I dare not!"