the interest he takes in you, though you do not know him,” said Lisette.
“I have known Il Passero perform many kindly acts to persons in distress
who have never dreamed that they have received money from a notorious
international thief.”
“Well, in my case he has, no doubt, done me signal service,” young
Henfrey replied. “But,” he added, “why cannot you tell me something
more concerning Mademoiselle? What did you mean by saying that she was
a _marque de ce_? I know it is your slang, but won’t you explain what it
means? You have explained most of your other expressions.”
But the girl thief was obdurate. She was certainly a _chic_ and engaging
little person, apparently well educated and refined, but she was as sly
as her notorious employer, whom she served so faithfully. She was, she
had already told Hugh, the daughter of a man who had made jewel thefts
his speciality and after many convictions was now serving ten years at
the convict prison at Toulon. She had been bred in the Montmartre, and
trained and educated to a criminal life. Il Passero had found her, and,
after several times successfully “indicating” where coups could be made,
she had been taken into his employment as a decoy, frequently travelling
on the international _wagon-lits_ and restaurants, where she succeeded
in attracting the attention of men and holding them in conversation
with a mild flirtation while other members of the gang investigated the
contents of their valises. From one well-known diamond dealer travelling
between Paris and Amsterdam, she and the man working with her had
stolen a packet containing diamonds of the value of two hundred thousand
francs, while from an English business man travelling from Boulogne to
Paris, two days later, she had herself taken a wallet containing nearly
four thousand pounds in English bank-notes. It was her share of the
recent robbery that Il Passero had paid her three days before at the
Concordia Restaurant in the Via Garibaldi, in Genoa.
Hugh pressed her many times to tell him something concerning the
mysterious Mademoiselle, but he failed to elicit any further information
of interest.
“Her fortune at the Rooms is wonderful, they say,” Lisette said. “She
must be very rich.”
“But she is one of Il Passero’s assistants--eh?”
The girl laughed lightly.
“Perhaps,” was her enigmatical reply. “Who knows? It is, however,
evident that Il Passero is seriously concerned at the tragic affair at
the Villa Amette.”
“Have you ever been there?”
She hesitated a few moments, then said: “Yes, once.”
“And you know the old Italian servant Cataldi?”
She replied in the affirmative. Then she added:
“I know him, but I do not like him. She trusts him, but----”
“But what?”
“I would not. I should be afraid, for to my knowledge he is a _saigneur
a musique_.”
“And what is that?”
“An assassin.”
“What?” cried Henfrey. “Is he guilty of murder--and Mademoiselle knows
it?”
“Mademoiselle may not know about it. She is probably in ignorance, or
she would not employ him.”
Her remark was of considerable interest, inasmuch as old Cataldi had
seemed to be most devoted to his mistress, and entirely trusted by her.
“Do you know the circumstances?” asked Hugh.
“Yes. But it is not our habit to speak of another’s--well,
shortcomings,” was her reply.
“Surely, Mademoiselle should have been told the truth! Does not Il
Passero know?” he asked.
There flitted across his mind at that moment the recollection of Dorise.
What could she think of his disappearance? He longed to write to her,
but The Sparrow’s chauffeur had impressed upon him the serious danger he
would be running if he wrote to her while she was at Monte Carlo.
“I question whether he does know. But if he does he would say nothing.”
“Ah!” sighed Hugh. “Yours is indeed a queer world, mademoiselle. And not
without interest.”
“It is full of adventure and excitement, of ups and downs, of constant
travel and change, and of eternal apprehension of arrest,” replied the
girl, with a laugh.
“I wish you would tell me something about Yvonne Ferad,” he repeated.
“Alas! m’sieur, I am not permitted,” was her obdurate reply. “I am truly
sorry to hear of the dastardly attack upon her. She once did me a
very kind and friendly action at a moment when I was in sore need of a
friend.”
“Who could have fired the shot, do you think?” Henfrey asked. “You know
her friends. Perhaps you know her enemies?”
Mademoiselle Lisette was silent for some moments.
“Yes,” she replied reflectively. “She has enemies, I know. But who has
not?”
“Is there any person who, to your knowledge, would have any motive to
kill her?”
Again she was silent.
“There are several people who hate her. One of them might have done it
out of revenge. You say you saw nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“Why did you go and see her at that hour?” asked the girl.
“Because I wanted her to tell me something--something of greatest
importance to me.”
“And she refused, of course? She keeps her own secrets.”
“No. On the other hand, she was about to disclose to me the information
I sought when someone fired through the open window.”
“The shot might have been intended for you--eh?”
Hugh paused.
“It certainly might,” he admitted. “But with what motive?”
“To prevent you from learning the truth.”
“She was on the point of telling me what I wanted to know.”
“Exactly. And what more likely than someone outside, realizing that
Mademoiselle was about to make a disclosure, fired at you.”
“But you said that Mademoiselle had enemies.”
“So she has. But I think my theory is the correct one,” replied the
girl. “What was it that you asked her to reveal to you?”
“Well,” he replied, after a brief hesitation, “my father died
mysteriously in London some time ago, and I have reason to believe that
she knows the truth concerning the sad affair.”
“Where did it happen?”
“My father was found in the early morning lying in a doorway in
Albemarle Street, close to Piccadilly. The only wound found was a slight
scratch in the palm of the hand. The police constable at first thought
he was intoxicated, but the doctor, on being called, declared that my
father was suffering from poison. He was at once taken to St. George’s
Hospital, but an hour later he died without recovering consciousness.”
“And what was your father’s name?” asked Lisette in a strangely altered
voice.
“Henfrey.”
“Henfrey!” gasped the girl, starting up at mention of the name.
“_Henfrey_! And--and are--you--_his son_?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. “Why? You know about the affair, mademoiselle! Tell
me all you know,” he cried. “I--the son of the dead man--have a right to
demand the truth.”
“Henfrey!” repeated the girl hoarsely in a state of intense agitation.
“Monsieur Henfrey! And--and to think that I am here--with you--_his
son_! Ah! forgive me!” she gasped. “I--I----Let us return.”
“But you shall tell me the truth!” cried Hugh excitedly. “You know it!
You cannot deny that you know it!”
All, however, he could get from her were the words:
“You--Monsieur Henfrey’s son! _Surely Il Passero does not know this_!”
ELEVENTH CHAPTER
MORE ABOUT THE SPARROW
A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by.
Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the
brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of
the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and
expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason.
It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much
bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the
newspapers.
The evening after Hugh’s disappearance, Monsieur Ogier had called upon
Dorise Ranscomb--her mother happily being away at the Rooms at the time.
In one of the sitting-rooms of the hotel the official of police closely
questioned the girl, but she, of course made pretense of complete
ignorance. Naturally Ogier was annoyed at being unable to obtain the
slightest information, and after being very rude, he told the girl the
charge against her lover and then left the hotel in undisguised anger.
Lady Ranscomb was very much mystified at Hugh’s disappearance, though
secretly she was very glad. She questioned Brock, but he, on his part,
expressed himself very much puzzled. A week later, however, Walter
returned to London, and on the following night Lady Ranscomb and her
daughter took the train-de-luxe for Boulogne, and duly arrived home.
As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious
concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three
times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already
under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of
the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had
told her of her lover’s escape.
In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled
to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious
George Sherrard.
Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of
expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.
“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she
remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done
something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”
“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl
bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a
delightful man!”
“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?”
queried the widow of the great contractor.
“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s
positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”
“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.
Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what
he’s done?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting
about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”
“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily.
“He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”
“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People
were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”
“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”
“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last
of the fellow.”
“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and
leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped
from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du
Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa,
whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of
Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his
father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about
it--something she dared not tell.
On the day following their midnight stroll, he had done all in his power
to induce her to reveal something at least of the affair, but, alas! to
no avail. Then, two days later, she had suddenly left--at orders of The
Sparrow, she said.
Before Hugh left Ravecca had given him eighty pounds in English notes,
saying that he acted at Il Passero’s orders, for Hugh would no doubt
need the money, and it would be most dangerous for him to write to his
bankers.
At first Henfrey protested, but, as his funds were nearly exhausted, he
had accepted the money.
As he left the station in Brussels on that bright spring morning and
crossed the busy Place, he was wondering to what hotel he should go. He
had left his scanty luggage in the _consigne_, intending to go out on
foot and search for some cheap and obscure hotel, there being many such
in the vicinity of the station. After half an hour he chose a small
and apparently clean little place in a narrow street off the Place de
Brouckere, and there, later on, he carried his handbag. Then, after a
wash, he set out for the Central Post Office in the Place de la Monnaie.
He had not gone far along the busy boulevard when he was startled to
hear his name uttered from behind, and, turning, encountered a short,
thick-set little man wearing a brown overcoat.
The man, noticing the effect his words had upon him, smiled
reassuringly, and said in broken English: “It is all right! I am not
a police officer, Monsieur Henfrey. Cross the road and walk down that
street yonder. I will follow in a few moments.”
And then the man walked on, leaving Hugh alone.
Much surprised, Hugh did as he was bid, and a few minutes later the
Belgian met him again.
“It is very dangerous for us to be seen together,” he said quickly,
scarcely pausing as he walked. “Do not go near the Post Office, but go
straight to 14 Rue Beyaert, first floor. I shall be there awaiting you.
I have a message for you from a friend. You will find the street close
to the Porte de Hal.”
And the man continued on his way, leaving Hugh in wonder. He had been on
the point of turning from the boulevard into the Place de la Monnaie to
obtain Dorise’s long looked for letter. Indeed, he had been hastening
his footsteps full of keen apprehension when the stranger had accosted
him.
But in accordance with the man’s suggestion, he turned back towards the
station, where he entered a taxi and drove across the city to the corner
of Rue Beyaert, a highly respectable thoroughfare. He experienced no
difficulty in finding the house indicated, and on ascending the stairs,
found the stranger awaiting him.
“Ah!” he cried. “Come in! I am glad that I discovered you! I have been
awaiting your arrival from Italy for the past fortnight. It is indeed
fortunate that I found you in time to warn you not to go to the Poste
Restante.” He spoke in French, and had shown his visitor into a small
but well furnished room.
“Why?” asked Hugh. “Is there danger in that quarter?”
“Yes, Monsieur Henfrey. The French police have, by some unknown means,
discovered that you were coming here, and a strict watch is being kept
for anyone calling for letters addressed to Godfrey Brown.”
“But how could they know?” asked Hugh.
“Ah! That is the mystery! Perhaps your lady friend has been indiscreet.
She was told in strict confidence, and was warned that your safety was
in her hands.”
“Surely, Dorise would be most careful not to betray me!” cried the young
Englishman.
“Well, somebody undoubtedly has.”
“I presume you are one of Il Passero’s friends?” Hugh said with a smile.
“Yes. Hence I am your friend,” was the reply.
“Have you heard of late how Mademoiselle Yvonne is progressing?”
The man, who told his visitor his name was Jules Vervoort, shook his
head.
“She is no better. I heard last week that the doctors have said that she
will never recover her mental balance.”
“What! Is she demented?”
“Yes. The report I had was that she recognized nobody, except at
intervals she knows her Italian manservant and calls him by name. I was
ordered to tell you this.”
“Ordered by Il Passero--eh?”
The man Vervoort nodded in the affirmative. Then he went on to warn
his visitor that the Brussels police were on the eager watch for his
arrival. “It is fortunate that you were not recognized when you came
this morning,” he said. “I had secret warning and was at the station,
but I dared not approach you. You passed under the very nose of two
detectives, but luckily for you, their attention had been diverted to a
woman who is a well-known pickpocket. I followed you to your hotel and
then waited for you to go to the Poste Restante.”
“But I want my letters,” said Hugh.
“Naturally, but it is far too dangerous to go near there. You, of
course, want news of your lady friend. That you will have by special
messenger very soon. Therefore remain patient.”
“Why are all these precautions being taken to prevent my arrest?” Hugh
asked. “I confess I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. But when Il Passero commands we all obey.”
“You are, I presume, his agent in Brussels?”
“His friend--not his agent,” Vervoort replied with a smile.
“Do you know Mademoiselle Lisette?” Hugh asked. “She was with me in
Genoa.”
“Yes. We have met. A very clever little person. Il Passero thinks very
highly of her. She has been educated in the higher schools, and is
perhaps one of our cleverest decoys.”
Hugh Henfrey paused.
“Now look here, Monsieur Vervoort,” he exclaimed at last, “I’m very
much in the dark about all this curious business. Lisette knows a lot
concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”
“Admitted. She acted once as her maid, I believe, in some big affair.
But I don’t know much about it.”
“Well, you know what happened at the Villa Amette that night? Have you
any idea of the identity of the person who shot poor Mademoiselle--the
lady they call Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”
“Not in the least,” was the reply. “All I know is that Il Passero has
some very keen and personal interest in the affair. He has sent further
orders to you. It is imperative, he says, that you should get away from
Brussels. The police are too keen here.”
“Where shall I go?”
“I suggest that you go at once to Malines. Go to Madame Maupoil, 208 Rue
de Stassart, opposite the Military Hospital. It is far too dangerous
for you to remain here in Brussels. I have already written that you
are coming. Her house is one of the sanctuaries of the friends of Il
Passero. Remember the name and address.”
“The Sparrow seems to be ubiquitous,” Hugh remarked.
“He is. No really great robbery can be accomplished unless he plans and
finances it.”
“I cannot think why he takes so keen an interest in me.”
“He often does in persons who are quite ignorant of his existence.”
“That is my own case. I never heard of him until I was in Genoa, a
fugitive,” said Hugh. “But you told me I shall receive a message from
Miss Ranscomb by special messenger. When?”
“When you are in Malines.”
“But all this is very strange. Will the mysterious messenger call upon
Miss Ranscomb in London?”
“Of course. Il Passero has several messengers who travel to and fro in
secret. Mademoiselle Lisette was once one of them. She has travelled
many times the length and breadth of Europe. But nowadays she is an
indicator--and a very clever one indeed,” he added with a laugh.
“I suppose I had better get away to Malines without delay?” Hugh
remarked.
“Yes. Go to your hotel, pay them for your room and get your valise. I
shall be waiting for you at noon in a car in the Rue Gretry, close to
the Palais d’Ete. Then we can slip away to Malines. Have you sufficient
money? If not, I can give you some. Il Passero has ordered me to do so.”
“Thanks,” replied Hugh. “I have enough for the present. My only desire
is to be back again in London.”
“Ah! I am afraid that is not possible for some time to come.”
“But I shall hear from Miss Ranscomb?”
“Oh, yes. The messenger will come to you in Malines.”
“Who is the messenger?”
“Of that I have no knowledge,” was Vervoort’s reply. He seemed a very
refined man, and was no doubt an extremely clever crook. He said little
of himself, but sufficient to cause Hugh to realize that his was one of
the master minds of underground Europe.
The young Englishman was naturally eager to further penetrate the veil
of mystery surrounding Mademoiselle Yvonne, but he learned little or
nothing. Vervoort either knew nothing, or else refused to disclose what
he knew. Which, Hugh could not exactly decide.
Therefore, in accordance with the Belgian’s instructions, he left the
house and at noon carried his valise to the Rue Gretry, where he found
his friend awaiting him in a closed car, which quickly moved off out
of the city by the Laeken road. Travelling by way of Vilvorde they
were within an hour in old-world Malines, famous for its magnificent
cathedral and its musical carillon. Crossing the Louvain Canal and
entering by the Porte de Bruxelles, they were soon in an inartistic
cobbled street under the shadow of St. Rombold, and a few minutes later
Hugh was introduced to a short, stout Belgian woman, Madame Maupoil. The
place was meagrely furnished, but scrupulously clean. The floor of the
room to which Hugh was shown shone with beeswax, and the walls were
whitewashed.
“I hope monsieur will make himself quite comfortable,” madame said, a
broad smile of welcome upon her round face.
“You will be comfortable enough under madame’s care,” Vervoort assured
him. “She has had some well-known guests before now.”
“True, monsieur. More than one of them have been world-famous
and--well--believed to be perfectly honest and upright.”
“Yes,” laughed Vervoort. “Do you remember the English ex-member of
Parliament?”
“Ah! He was with me nearly four months when supposed to be in South
America. There was a warrant out for him on account of some great
financial frauds--all of which was, of course, hushed up. But he stayed
here in strict concealment and his friends managed to get the warrant
withdrawn. He was known to Il Passero, and the latter aided him--in
return for certain facilities regarding the English police.”
“What do you think of the English police, madame?” Hugh asked. The fat
woman grinned expressively and shrugged her broad shoulders.
“Since the war they have been effete as regards serious crime. At least,
that is what Il Passero told me when he was here a month ago.”
“Someone is coming here to meet Monsieur Henfrey,” Vervoort said. “Who
is it?”
“I don’t know. I only received word of it the day before yesterday. A
messenger from London, I believe.”
“Well, each day I become more and more mystified,” Hugh declared. “Why
Il Passero, whom I do not know, should take all this interest in me, I
cannot imagine.”
“Il Passero very often assists those against whom a false charge is
laid,” the woman remarked. “There is no better friend when one is in
trouble, for so clever and ubiquitous is he, and so many friends in high
quarters does he possess, that he can usually work his will. His is the
master-mind, and we obey without question.”
TWELFTH CHAPTER
THE STRANGER IN BOND STREET
As Dorise walked up Bond Street, smartly dressed, next afternoon, on her
way to her dressmaker’s, she was followed by a well-dressed young girl
in black, dark-eyed, with well-cut, refined features, and apparently a
lady.
From Piccadilly the stranger had followed Dorise unseen, until at the
corner of Maddox Street she overtook her, and smiling, uttered her name.
“Yes,” responded Doris in surprise. “But I regret--you have the
advantage of me?”
“Probably,” replied the stranger. “Do you recollect the _bal blanc_ at
Nice and a certain white cavalier? I have a message from him to give you
in secret.”
“Why in secret?” Dorise asked rather defiantly.
“Well--for certain reasons which I think you can guess,” answered the
girl in black, as she strolled at Dorise’s side.
“Why did not you call on me at home?”
“Because of your mother. She would probably have been a little
inquisitive. Let us go into some place--a tea-room--where we can talk,”
she suggested. “I have come to see you concerning Mr. Henfrey.”
“Where is he?” asked Dorise, in an instant anxious.
“Quite safe. He arrived in Malines yesterday--and is with friends.”
“Has he had my letters?”
“Unfortunately, no. But do not let us talk here. Let’s go in yonder,”
and she indicated the Laurel Tea Rooms, which, the hour being early,
they found, to their satisfaction, practically deserted.
At a table in the far corner they resumed their conversation.
“Why has he not received my letters?” asked Dorise. “It is nearly a
month ago since I first wrote.”
“By some mysterious means the police got to know of your friend’s
intended visit to Brussels to obtain his letters. Therefore, it was too
dangerous for him to go to the Poste Restante, or even to send anyone
there. The Brussels police were watching constantly. How they have
gained their knowledge is a complete mystery.”
“Who sent you to me?”
“A friend of Mr. Henfrey. My instructions are to see you, and to
convey any message you may wish to send to Mr. Henfrey to him direct in
Malines.”
“I’m sure it’s awfully good of you,” Dorise replied. “Does he know you
are here?”
“Yes. But I have not met him. I am simply a messenger. In fact, I travel
far and wide for those who employ me.”
“And who are they?”
“I regret, but they must remain nameless,” said the girl, with a smile.