SIXTH CHAPTER
FACING THE UNKNOWN
That the police were convinced that Hugh Henfrey had shot Mademoisellewas plain.
Wherever he went an agent of detective police followed him. At the Cafede Paris as he took his aperitif on the _terrasse_ the man sat at atable near, idly smoking a cigarette and glancing at an illustratedpaper on a wooden holder. In the gardens, in the Rooms, in the Galerie,everywhere the same insignificant little man haunted him.
Soon after luncheon he met Dorise and her mother in the Rooms. With themwere the Comte d'Autun, an elegant young Frenchman, well known at thetables, and Madame Tavera, a very chic person who was one of the mostadmired visitors of that season. They were only idling and watching theplayers at the end table, where a stout, bearded Russian was making somesensational coups _en plein_.
Presently Hugh succeeded in getting Dorise alone.
"It's awfully stuffy here," he said. "Let's go outside--eh?"
Together they descended the red-carpeted steps and out into thepalm-lined Place, at that hour thronged by the smartest crowd in Europe.Indeed, the war seemed to have led to increased extravagance and daringin the dress of those gay Parisiennes, those butterflies of fashion whowere everywhere along the Cote d'Azur.
They turned the corner by the Palais des Beaux Arts into the BoulevardPeirara.
"Let's walk out of the town," he suggested to the girl. "I'm tired ofthe place."
"So am I, Hugh," Dorise admitted. "For the first fortnight the unceasinground of gaiety and the novelty of the Rooms are most fascinating, but,after that, one seems cooped up in an atmosphere of vicious unreality.One longs for the open air and open country after this enervating,exotic life."
So when they arrived at the little church of Ste. Devote, the patronsaint of Monaco, that little building which everyone knows standing atthe entrance to that deep gorge the Vallon des Gaumates, they descendedthe steep, narrow path which runs beside the mountain torrent and weresoon alone in the beautiful little valley where the grey-green olivesoverhang the rippling stream. The little valley was delightfully quietand rural after the garish scenes in Monte Carlo, the cosmopolitanchatter, and the vulgar display of the war-rich. The old habitue ofpre-war days lifts his hands as he watches the post-war life around theCasino and listens to the loud uneducated chatter of the profiteer'swomenfolk.
As the pair went along in the welcome shadows, for the sun fell strongupon the tumbling stream, Hugh was remarking upon it.
He had been at Monte Carlo with his father before the war, and realizedthe change.
"I only wish mother would move on," Dorise exclaimed as they strolledslowly together.
She presented a dainty figure in cream gabardine and a broad-brimmedstraw hat which suited her admirably. Her clothes were made by a certainfamous _couturiere_ in Hanover Square, for Lady Ranscomb had the art ofdressing her daughter as well as she did herself. Gowns make the ladynowadays, or the fashionable dressmakers dare not make their exorbitantcharges.
"Then you also are tired of the place?" asked Hugh, as he strolledslowly at her side in a dark-blue suit and straw hat. They made ahandsome pair, and were indeed well suited to each other. Lady Ranscombliked Hugh, but she had no idea that the young people had fallen soviolently in love with each other.
"Yes," said the girl. "Mother promised to spend Easter in Florence.I've never been there and am looking forward to it so much. The MarchesaRuggeri, whom we met at Harrogate last summer, has a villa there,and has invited us for Easter. But mother said this morning that shepreferred to remain here."
"Why?"
"Oh! Somebody in the hotel has put her off. An old Englishwoman wholives in Florence told her that there's nothing to see beyond theGalleries, and that the place is very catty."
Hugh laughed and replied:
"All British colonies in Continental cities are catty, my dear Dorise.They say that for scandal Florence takes the palm. I went there for twoseasons in succession before the war, and found the place delightful."
"The Marchesa is a charming woman. Her husband was an attache at theItalian Embassy in Paris. But he has been transferred to Washington, soshe has gone back to Florence. I like her immensely, and I do so want tovisit her."
"Oh, you must persuade your mother to take you," he said. "She'll beeasily persuaded."
"I don't know. She doesn't like travelling in Italy. She once had herdressing-case stolen from the train between Milan and Genoa, so she'salways horribly bitter against all Italians."
"There are thieves also on English railways, Dorise," Hugh remarked."People are far too prone to exaggerate the shortcomings of foreigners,and close their eyes to the faults of the British."
"But everybody is not so cosmopolitan as you are, Hugh," the girllaughed, raising her eyes to those of her lover.
"No," he replied with a sigh.
"Why do you sigh?" asked the girl, having noticed a change in hercompanion ever since they had met in the Rooms. He seemed strangelythoughtful and preoccupied.
"Did I?" he asked, suddenly pulling himself together. "I didn't know,"he added with a forced laugh.
"You don't look yourself to-day, Hugh," she said.
"I've been told that once before," he replied. "The weather--I think!Are you going over to the _bal blanc_ at Nice to-night?"
"Of course. And you are coming also. Hasn't mother asked you?" sheinquired in surprise.
"No."
"How silly! She must have forgotten. She told me she intended to ask youto have a seat in the car. The Comte d'Autun is coming with us."
"Ah! He admires you, Dorise, hence I don't like him," Hugh blurtedforth.
"But, surely, you're not jealous, you dear old thing!" laughed the girl,tantalizing him. Perhaps she would not have uttered those words whichcut deeply into his heart had she known the truth concerning the tragedyat the Villa Amette.
"I don't like him because he seems to live by gambling," Hugh declared."I know your mother likes him very much--of course!"
"And she likes you, too, dear."
"She may like me, but I fear she begins to suspect that we love eachother, dearest," he said in a hard tone. "If she does, she will takecare in future to keep us apart, and I--I shall lose you, Dorise!"
"No--no, you won't."
"Ah! But I shall! Your mother will never allow you to marry a man whohas only just sufficient to rub along with, and who is already in debtto his tailor. What hope is there that we can ever marry?"
"My dear Hugh, you are awfully pessimistic to-day," the girl cried."What is up with you? Have you lost heavily at the tables--or what?"
"No. I have been thinking of the future," he said in a hard voice sovery unusual to him. "I am thinking of your mother's choice of a husbandfor you--George Sherrard."
"I hate him--the egotistical puppy!" exclaimed the girl, her fine eyesflashing with anger. "I'll never marry him--_never_!"
But Hugh Henfrey made no reply, and they went on together in silence.
"Cannot you trust me, Hugh?" asked the girl at last in a low earnesttone.
"Yes, dearest. I trust you, of course. But I feel certain that yourmother, when she knows our secret, will forbid your seeing me, and presson your marriage with Sherrard. Remember, he's a rich man, and yourmother adores the Golden Calf."
"I know she does. If people have money she wants to know them. Her firstinquiry is whether they have money."
It was on the tip of Hugh's tongue to remark with sarcasm that suchideals might well be expected of the wife of a jerry-builder in Golder'sgreen. But he hesitated. Lady Ranscomb was always well disposed towardshim, and he had had many good times at her house and on the grousemoor she rented in Scotland each year for the benefit of her intimatefriends. Though she had been the wife of a small builder and hadcommenced her married life in an eight-roomed house on the fringe ofHampstead Heath, yet she had picked up society manners marvellouslywell, being a woman of quick intelligence and considerable wit.Nevertheless, she had no soul above money, and gaiet
y was as life toher. She could not live without it. Dorise had been given an excellenteducation, and after three years at Versailles was now voted one of theprettiest and most charming girls in London society. Hence mother anddaughter were sought after everywhere, and their doings were constantlybeing chronicled in the newspapers.
"Yes," he said. "Your mother has not asked me over to Nice to-nightbecause she believes you and I have been too much together of late."
"No," declared Dorise. "I'm sure it's not that, Hugh--I'm quite sure!It's simply an oversight. I'll see about it when we get back. We leavethe hotel at half-past nine. It is the great White Ball of the Niceseason."
"Please don't mention it to her on any account, Dorise," Hugh urged. "Ifyou did it would at once show her that you preferred my company to thatof the Count. Go with him. I shan't be jealous! Besides, in view ofmy financial circumstances, what right have I to be jealous? You can'tmarry a fellow like myself, Dorise. It wouldn't be fair to you."
The girl halted. In her eyes shone the light of unshed tears.
"Hugh! What do you mean? What are you saying?" she asked in a low,faltering voice. "Have I not told you that whatever happens I shallnever love another man but yourself?"
He drew a long breath, and without replying placed his strong armsaround her and, drawing her to him, kissed her passionately upon thelips.
"Thank you, my darling," he murmured. "Thank you for those words. Theyput into me a fresh hope, a fresh determination, and a fearlessness--oh!you--you don't know!" he added in a low, earnest voice.
"All I know, Hugh, is that you love me," was the simple response as shereciprocated his fierce caress.
"Love you, darling!" he cried. "Yes. You are mine--mine!"
"True, Hugh. I love no other man. I hate that tailor's dummy, GeorgeSherrard, and as for the Count--well, he's an idiotic Frenchman--the'hardy annual of Monte Carlo' I heard him called the other day. No,Hugh, I assure you that you have no cause for jealousy."
And she smiled sweetly into his eyes.
They were standing together beneath a twisted old olive tree through thedark foliage of which the sun shone in patches, while by their feet themountain torrent from the high, snow-clad Alps rippled and splashed overthe great grey boulders towards the sea.
"I know it, darling! I know it," Hugh said in a stifled voice. He wasthinking of the tragedy of that night, but dare not disclose to her hisconnexion with it, because he knew the police suspected him of makingthat murderous attack upon the famous "Mademoiselle."
"Forgive me, Hugh," exclaimed the girl, still clasped in her lover'sarms. "But somehow you don't seem your old self to-day. What is thematter? Can't you tell me?"
He drew a long breath.
"No, darling. Excuse me. I--I'm a bit upset that's all."
"Why?"
"I'm upset because for the last day or two I have begun to realize thatour secret must very soon come out, and then--well, your mother willforbid me the house because I have no money. You know that she worshipsMammon always--just as your father did--forgive me for my words."
"I do forgive you because you speak the truth," Dorise replied. "I knowthat mother wants me to marry a rich man, and--"
"And she will compel you to do so, darling. I am convinced of that."
"She won't!" cried the girl. "I will never marry a man I do not love!"
"Your mother, if she doesn't suspect our compact, will soon do so," hesaid. "She's a clever woman. She is on the alert, because she intendsyou to marry soon, and to marry a rich man."
"Mother is far too fond of society, I admit. She lives only for her gayfriends now that father is dead. She spends lavishly upon luncheons anddinners at the Ritz, the Carlton, and Claridge's; and by doing so we getto know all the best people. But what does it matter to me? I hate itall because----"
And she looked straight into his eyes as she broke off.
"Because," she whispered, "because--because I love you, Hugh!"
"Ah! darling! You have never been so frank with me before," he saidsoftly. "You do not know how much those words of yours mean to me! Youdo not know how all my life, all my hopes, all my future, is centredin your own dear self!" and clasping her again tightly in his arms hepressed his lips fondly to hers in a long passionate embrace.
Yet within the stout heart of Hugh Henfrey, who was so straight, honestand upright a young fellow as ever trod the Broad at Oxford, lay thatghastly secret--indeed, a double secret--that of his revered father'smysterious end and the inexplicable attack upon Yvonne Ferad at the verymoment when he had been about to learn the truth.
They lingered there beside the mountain stream for a long time, untilthe sun sank and the light began to fail. Again and again he told her ofhis great love for her, but he said nothing of the strange clause in hisfather's will. She knew Louise Lambert, having met her once walking inthe park with her lover. Hugh had introduced them, and had afterwardsexplained that the girl was the adopted daughter of a great friend ofhis father.
Dorise little dreamed that if her lover married her he would inherit theremainder of old Mr. Henfrey's fortune.
"Do come over to the ball at Nice to-night," the girl urged presently asthey stood with hands clasped gazing into each other's eyes. "It will benothing without you."
"Ah! darling, that's very nice of you to say so, but I think we ought tobe discreet. Your mother has invited the Count to go with you."
"I hate him!" Dorise declared. "He's all elegance, bows and flattery. Hebores me to death."
"I can quite understand that. But your mother is fond of his society.She declares that he is so amusing, and in Paris he knows everyone worthknowing."
"Oh, yes. He gave us an awfully good time in Paris last season--took usto Longchamps, and we afterwards went to Deauville with him. He wins andloses big sums on the turf."
"A born gambler. Everyone knows that. I heard a lot about him in theTravellers' Club, in Paris."
"But if mother telephones to you, you'll come with us--won't you?"entreated the girl again.
The young man hesitated. His mind was full of the tragic affair ofthe previous night. He was wondering whether the end had come--whetherMademoiselle's lips were already sealed by Death.
He gave an evasive reply, whereupon Dorise, taking his hand in hers,said:
"What is your objection to going out with us to-night, Hugh? Do tell me.If you don't wish me to go, I'll make an excuse to mother and she cantake the Count."
"I have not the slightest objection," he declared at once. "Go,dearest--only leave me out of it. The _bal blanc_ is always good fun."
"I shall not go if you refuse to go," she said with a pout.
Therefore in order to please her he consented--providing Lady Ranscombinvited him.
They had wandered a long way up the narrow, secluded valley, but had metnot a soul. All was delightful and picturesque, the profusion of wildflowers, the huge grey moss-grown boulders, the overhanging ilexes andolives, and the music of the tumbling current through a crooked courseworn deep by the waters of primeval ages.
It was seldom that in the whirl of society the pair could get a coupleof hours together without interruption. And under the blue Riviera skythey were indeed fraught with bliss to both.
When they returned to the town the dusk was already falling, and thegreat arc lamps along the terrace in front of the Casino were alreadylit. Hugh took her as far as the entrance to the Metropole and then,after wishing her au revoir and promising to go with her to Nice ifinvited, he hastily retraced his steps to the Palmiers. Five minuteslater he was speaking to the old Italian at the Villa Amette.
"Mademoiselle is still unconscious, m'sieur," was the servant's reply tohis eager inquiry. "The doctors have been several times this afternoon,but they hold out no hope."
"I wonder if I can be of any assistance?" Hugh asked in French.
"I think not, m'sieur. What assistance can any of us give poorMademoiselle?"
Ah, what indeed, Hugh thought as he put down the receiver.
/> Yet while she lived, there was still a faint hope that he would beable to learn the secret which he anticipated would place him in such aposition that he might defy those who had raised their hands against hisfather and himself.
His marriage with Dorise, indeed his whole future, depended upon thedisclosure of the clever plot whereby Louise Lambert was to become hiswife.
His friend Brock was not in the hotel, so he went to his room todress for dinner. Ten minutes later a page brought a message from LadyRanscomb inviting him to go over to Nice to the ball.
He drew a long breath. He was in no mood for dancing that night, for hewas far too perturbed regarding the critical condition of the notoriouswoman who had turned his friend.
On every hand there were whispers and wild reports concerning thetragedy at the Villa Amette. He had heard about it from a dozen people,though not a word was in the papers. Yet nobody dreamed that he, of allmen, had been present when the mysterious shot was fired, or that hewas, indeed, the cause of the secret attack.
He dressed slowly, and having done so, descended to the _salle amanger_. The big white room was filled with a gay, reckless cosmopolitancrowd--the crowd of well-dressed moths of both sexes which eternallyflutters at night at Monte Carlo, attracted by the candle held by thegreat god Hazard.
Brock was not there, and he seated himself alone at their table nearthe long-curtained window. He was surprised at his friend's absence.Perhaps, however, he had met friends and gone over to Beaulieu, Nice, orMentone with them.
He had but little appetite. He ate a small portion of langouste with anexquisite salad, and drank a single glass of chablis. Then he roseand quitted the chattering, laughing crowd of diners, whose gossip wasmainly upon a sensational run on the red at five o'clock that evening.One woman, stout and of Hebrew type, sitting with three men, was wildlymerry, for she had won the equivalent to sixty thousand pounds.
All that recklessness jarred upon the young man's nerves. He tried toclose his ears to it all, and ascended again to his room, where hesat in silent despondency till it was time for him to go round to theMetropole to join Lady Ranscomb and Dorise.
He had brushed his hair and rearranged his tie, and was about to put onthe pierrot's costume of white satin with big buttons of black velvetwhich he had worn at the _bal blanc_ at Mentone about a week before,when the page handed him another note.
Written in a distinctly foreign hand, it read:
"Instantly you receive this get into a travelling-suit and put whatmoney and valuables you have into your pockets. Then go to a dark-greencar which will await you by the reservoir in the Boulevard du Midi.Trust the driver. You must get over the frontier into Italy at theearliest moment. Every second's delay is dangerous to you. Do nottrouble to find out who sends you this warning! _Bon voyage!_"
Hugh Henfrey read it and re-read it. The truth was plain. The policeof Monaco suspected him, and intended that he should be arrested onsuspicion of having committed the crime.
But who was his unknown friend?
He stood at the window reflecting. If he did not keep his appointmentwith Dorise she would reproach him for breaking his word to her. On theother hand, if he motored to Nice he would no doubt be arrested on theFrench frontier a few miles along the Corniche road.
Inspector Ogier suspected him, hence discretion was the better part ofvalour. So, after brief consideration, he threw off his dress clothesand assumed a suit of dark tweed. He put his money and a few articles ofjewellry in his pockets, and getting into his overcoat he slipped out ofthe hotel by the back entrance used by the staff.
Outside, he walked in the darkness along the Boulevard du Nord, past theTurbie station, until he came to the long blank wall behind which laythe reservoir.
At the kerb he saw the dim red rear-light of a car, and almost at thesame moment a rough-looking Italian chauffeur approached him.
"Quick, signore!" he whispered excitedly. "Every moment is full ofdanger. There is a warrant out for your arrest! The police know thatyou intended to go to Nice and they are watching for you on the Cornicheroad. But we will try to get into Italy. You are an invalid, remember!You'll find in the car a few things with which you can make up to lookthe part. You are an American subject and a cripple, who cannot leavethe car when the customs officers search it. Now, signore, let's be offand trust to our good fortune in getting away. I will tell the officersof the _dogana_ at Ventimiglia a good story--trust me! I haven't beensmuggling backwards and forwards for ten years without knowing theropes!"
"But where are we going?" asked Hugh bewildered.
"You, signore, are going to prison if we fail on this venture, I fear,"was the rough-looking driver's reply.
So urged by him Hugh got into the car, and then they drove swiftly alongthe sea-road of the littoral towards the rugged Italian frontier.
Hugh Henfrey was going forth to face the unknown.