THE MYSTERIOUS M'SIEUR SMITH
Weeks dragged by.
From Constantinople I was suddenly ordered to Berlin, thence to Warsaw
and St Petersburg, where I was kept busy describing the reign of
terror, and had little time for reflection. At Moscow I was eye-witness
of a terrible bomb outrage, in which the chief of police and half a
dozen other persons were blown to atoms, and very quickly I found that
as special correspondent on the Continent my life was to be as full of
adventure as it had been when I was the "Murder-Monger" of the evening
edition of the _Herald_.
No word had come to me from Daisy, or indeed from anyone at home
except my father, who constantly wrote to me from our dear old home in
Suffolk, kindly encouraging and giving me good advice. Now and then a
brief telegram of instruction came from Wakeley, and one day in our
embassy in St Petersburg, I chanced to pick up a copy of the _Daily
Herald_, and there saw a signed telegram of Julian Little's, dated from
Chicago. He had, therefore, emerged from his retreat, and was again on
one of his erratic journeys.
It was nearly seven weeks since I had left Charing Cross, and I
was already tired of the strenuous work in towns with which I was
unacquainted and amid people who spoke a tongue which I could not
understand. True, my knowledge of French and the smattering of German
I knew stood me in good stead, but there was nevertheless always a
difficulty in getting at the root of a matter, and I was always liable
to be misled by any unscrupulous informant who might wish to make the
_Daily Herald_ the laughing-stock of Europe.
A special correspondent abroad experiences far more difficulties
than the public even suppose. Every influential journal has its
enemies as well as its partisans, and the former are ever scheming to
bring it into ridicule by furnishing false intelligence. It is the
correspondent's first qualification to be able to sift the truth from
the fiction, and be ever wary not to be "had" for purposes of the
Bourse.
Full of change and excitement as my life was, I had, nevertheless,
already grown homesick because of the woman I so fondly loved. I used
to sit in my hotel in the evening, smoking, reflecting, and trying to
discern the reason why Scotland Yard, having discovered a clue to the
strange affair at Barnes, had suddenly dropped it. What could be the
reason of Whitlock's evasive responses?
The last letter I had received from him was dated from the Adelphi, at
Liverpool, where, he told me, he was inquiring into a big jewel robbery
on the American Boat Express between Euston and that port. A well-known
woman in New York society had lost nearly forty thousand pounds' worth,
and it had been taken, it was believed, by certain American "crooks."
He made no mention of the Barnes affair, and merely concluded his
letter with an expression of belief that I must be having a better time
in Russia than in London.
By that same post came something which caused me the greatest
gratification--three scribbled lines from the Chief, and
initialled--lines of satisfaction at the work I was doing. At anyrate,
I was not disappointing them at home, even though I had been thrown so
suddenly upon my own resources without any old hand to guide me.
Yet, nevertheless, I was anxious to continue that inquiry in London,
and to search out the truth regarding Daisy and the life she led. The
man Drayton--the well-dressed idler who had stolen her heart--had
aroused within me a perfect volcano of jealousy. I was anxious to
follow him and to see with my own eyes the depth of his perfidy.
Ah! when I thought of my lost love I was beside myself. In all the
faith my innocence could give me, and with all the duty of my soul,
I had served her. And now in my bitterness it became impressed upon
me that to doubt is safer than to be secure. Friendship is but a word
after all; in this life of ours love is everything. Happy the man who
is a stranger to love's enemy, jealousy. Yet fortune rules everything,
and as far as my affection was concerned, she had jilted me. Was it not
Massinger who wrote _Nil ultra_ to his proudest hopes?
There is no venom like that of the tongue, and it was certain that
to advance his own interests Drayton had lied to her concerning me.
What had he said? I knew that she suspected me to be implicated in
the affair at Barnes, and yet was it not curious that she should also
suspect Julian Little? Did it not appear as though some portion of what
had been told her was the truth?
From St Petersburg I was sent to Berlin and thence to Hanover, hoping
soon to be recalled to London. Unfortunately, however, a political
crisis arose in Germany and I was compelled to return to the Kaiserhof
Hotel in Berlin, and remain day after day reporting the progress of
events, at that moment of great interest to England.
Just two months after leaving London I found myself in Paris, at the
Grand Hotel. An automobile show was about to open, and I had been
sent to do a special column of descriptive. I had dined, and upon the
telephone I had just talked to Wakeley and extracted a promise that I
should return to London as soon as the show in question had opened.
I was passing through the big winter garden, intending to go down to
the Paris office of the _Herald_, where an old friend of mine named
Dunn was in charge, when, amid the smart, chattering crowd sipping
their coffee at the little tables, I caught sight of a familiar figure
in a plain black evening dress, with a pretty hat of the latest mode,
and a dark wrap about her shoulders.
She was leaning back in her chair, laughing merrily.
It was Daisy Marvin!
And the man with her--the good-looking idler in dinner jacket and black
tie--was Francis Drayton!
I halted in amazement. Then, in fear lest they should detect my
presence, I turned upon my heel and managed to conceal myself at a
table behind one of the pillars, where I could watch unseen.
She was dressed with her characteristic neatness, except that her hat
was of striking design and betrayed the hand of the Parisian _modiste_.
That they were both on pleasure bent was apparent. They had evidently
dined in the restaurant, and were now taking their coffee prior to
going forth to some place of entertainment. The winter garden of the
Grand is always crowded just after the dinner-hour, and is perhaps the
most cosmopolitan spot in all Paris. The _monde_ and the _demi-monde_
rub shoulders, and the scene is usually full of gaiety and brilliance.
Daisy was chatting with her cavalier vivaciously, and appeared loth
to go forth from the pleasant surroundings. Therefore I rose, and,
slipping out to the hall, made some inquiries.
A Mlle. Marvin was certainly among the guests, but the name of Drayton
did not appear on the list. He was not staying there.
So it seemed as though the fellow was a visitor. She had invited him to
dine.
I wondered whether Daisy had an engagement at the Jardin de Paris, the
Marigny, Olympian, the Folies Bergère, or one of the other variety
theatres; but although I searched the lists I could not discover her
name.
Returning to the table, where they were unable to see me, I took a
newspaper and, pretending to read, still watched them. The expression
in her eyes when they met his was sufficient to reveal to me how
entirely and completely the fellow had fascinated her. He was "wanted"
by the police, therefore I would, at the earliest moment, wire to
Whitlock and tell him of the whereabouts of the man who was believed to
have died in Peru.
That she was beneath his influence was undoubted. Her whole attitude
was that of a woman devoted to her secret lover, hanging upon his every
word; while he, blowing the cigarette-smoke from his lips, basked in
her smiles.
And this was the woman in whom I had so foolishly believed, the woman
whom I had known as so sweet, modest, and unassuming.
The steel of a poignant bitterness pierced my soul. I could have risen,
gone over to them, and denounced the man before her. Sorely was I
tempted to do that, yet after all, I reflected, it would be sheer folly
to create a scene. The onlookers would only jeer at me as a jealous
idiot.
No, I could only watch as I had watched before. That Drayton was
possessed of a guilty knowledge regarding the mystery at Barnes
I had all along been convinced. Was it possible that he--the man
whose existence we had discovered by means of that anonymous Press
message--was the actual assassin of poor Louise Lorimer?
For fully half an hour they remained there, still laughing and
chatting. In those well-remembered eyes of hers was a love-look
unmistakable. Her companion, with his airy graces, held her enthralled.
She was bending across to him, speaking very earnestly, laying her
white-gloved fingers upon his arm in order to emphasise her words, but
he on his part treated her with coolest unconcern. He merely smiled
with veiled sarcasm and utterly disregarded what was, most evidently,
an appeal.
What would I not have given at that moment to have overheard her words?
Though she had forsaken me in favour of this man, whom Whitlock himself
had denounced as a criminal, I, nevertheless, still regarded her as
mine--mine by right of my intense and all-consuming love. I was still
her champion, and he that harmed her would have to answer to me.
From my place of concealment I watched the superior airs the fellow had
assumed towards the woman who had so unfortunately fallen beneath his
influence, and surely if ever the thought of murder entered my heart it
was at that moment. All the savage instincts of my wild ancestry were
aroused within me, and I felt as though I could rise and strike him
dead where he sat.
Yet I remained watchful, chuckling within myself at the thought of
their utter ignorance of my presence, and determined to ascertain the
reason of their meeting in Paris. She was staying alone in the hotel;
therefore, if I wished, I might on the morrow meet her accidentally and
demand of her the truth. Yet was such a course judicious? Would it not
frighten Drayton into flight? I had no desire to do this until I knew
what action Whitlock intended to take.
Indeed, it occurred to me that, as I had been on the telephone to
Wakeley, I could speak to Scotland Yard and leave an urgent message for
him, which he would receive in the morning.
At last Drayton drained his liqueur glass and put his cigarette-end in
the ash-tray. By this I saw their intention to depart, therefore I rose
and went out to the main entrance, where at a point where I should be
unobserved, I awaited their exit.
In a few moments they came and, entering a motor-cab, drove away.
Inquiry of a porter, and a five-franc tip, elicited the fact that they
had gone to Rue Pierre Charron, No. 105, in the Champs Elysées quarter.
I had believed, by their dress, that they were about to go to a variety
theatre, for Daisy was ever anxious to witness the "turns" of other
artistes, but it seemed that they had gone to a private house--to pay a
call upon some mutual friend, no doubt.
My duty was to discover that friend's identity; therefore I took
another motor-cab, and told the man to put me down at the corner of
the rather aristocratic thoroughfare in question. No. 105 differed in
no way from dozens of other high houses in the same wide thoroughfare,
and a difficulty arose from the fact that the whole house was a series
of flats, and that it was impossible to discover into which the pair
had entered. The _concierge_, whom I found in his little den, was,
after the application of a little palm oil, quite communicative. The
English young lady and gentleman had ascended to the second floor--the
right-hand door--the apartment of an eccentric Englishman who had only
taken it furnished a week before, and who seemed a very eccentric
person.
He was, according to the _concierge_, a certain "Meester Sme-eth."
Without a moment's hesitation I resolved to ascertain more of that
interesting tenant, but such resolve was destined to cause me more
adventures than I ever contemplated--adventures which were, to say the
least, most exciting and extraordinary.