CHAPTER IX
REVEALS A MYSTERIOUS BUSINESS
In the few days which followed, Lady Heyburn's attitude towardsGabrielle became one of marked affection. She even kissed her in thebreakfast-room each morning, called her "dear," and consulted her uponthe day's arrangements.
Poor Sir Henry was but a cipher in the household. He usually took allhis meals alone, except dinner, and was very seldom seen, save perhapswhen he would come out for an hour or so to walk in the park, led by hisdaughter, or else, alone, tapping before him with his stout stick. Onsuch occasions he would wear a pair of big blue spectacles to hide theunsightliness of his gray, filmy eyes. Sometimes he would sit on one ofthe garden seats on the south side of the house, enjoying the sunshine,and listening to the songs of the birds, the hum of the insects, and thesoft ripples of the burn far below. And on such occasions one of hiswife's guests would join him to chat and cheer him, for everyone feltpity for the lonely man living his life of darkness.
No one was more full of words of sympathy than James Flockart. Gabriellelonged to warn her father of that man, but dared not do so. There was areason--a strong reason--for her silence. Sir Henry had declared that hewas interested in the man's intellectual conversation, and that herather liked him, though he had never looked upon his face. In somethings the old gentleman was ever ready to adopt his daughter's adviceand rely upon her judgment; but in others he was quite obstinate andtreated her pointed remarks with calm indifference.
One day, at Lady Heyburn's suggestion, Gabrielle, accompanied byFlockart and another of the guests, a retired colonel, had driven overin the big car to Perth to make a call; and on their return she spentsome hours in the library with her father, attending to hiscorrespondence.
That morning a big packet of those typed reports in French had arrivedin the usual registered, orange-coloured envelope, and after she hadread them over to the Baronet, he had given her the key, and she had gotout the code-book. Then, at his instructions, she had written upon ayellow telegraph-form a cipher message addressed to the mysterious"Meteforos, Paris." It read, when decoded:--
"Arrange with amethyst. I agree the price of pearls. Have no fear ofSmithson, but watch Peters. If London refuses, then Mayfair. Expectreport of Bedford."
It was not signed by the Baronet's name, but by the signature he alwaysused on such telegraphic replies: "Senrab."
From such a despatch she could gather nothing. At his request she tookaway the little blue-covered book and relocked it in the safe. Then sherang for Hill, and told him to send the despatch by messenger down toAuchterarder village.
"Very well, miss," replied the man, bowing.
"The car is going down to take Mr. Seymour to the station in about aquarter of an hour, so Stokes will take it."
"And look here," exclaimed the blind man, who was standing before thewindow with his back to the crimson sunset, "you can tell her ladyship,Hill, that I'm very busy, and I shan't come in to dinner to-night. Justserve a snack here for me, will you?"
"Very well, Sir Henry," responded the smart footman; and, bowing again,he closed the door.
"May I dine with you, dad?" asked the girl. "There are two or threepeople invited to-night, and they don't interest me in the least."
"My dear child, what do you mean? Why, aren't Walter Murie and hismother dining here to-night? I know your mother invited them ten daysago."
"Oh, why, yes," replied the girl rather lamely; "I did not recollect.Then, I suppose, I must put in an appearance," she sighed.
"Suppose!" he echoed. "What would Walter think if you elected to dinewith me instead of meeting him at table?"
"Now, dad, it is really unkind of you!" she said reprovingly. "Walterand I thoroughly understand each other. He's not surprised at anything Ido."
"Ah!" laughed the sightless man, "he's already beginning to understandthe feminine perverseness, eh? Well, my child, dine here with me if youwish, by all means. Tell Hill to lay the table for two. We have lots ofwork to do afterwards."
So the bell was rung again and Hill was informed that Miss Gabriellewould dine with her father in the library.
Then they turned again to the Baronet's mysterious private affairs; andwhen she had seated herself at the typewriter and re-read thereports--confidential reports they were, but framed in a manner whichonly the old man himself could understand--he dictated to her crypticreplies, the true nature of which were to her a mystery.
The last of the reports, brief and unsigned, read as follows:--
"Mon petit garcon est tres gravement malade, et je supplie Dieu a genouxde ne pas me punir si severement, de ne pas me prendre mon enfant.
"D'apres le dernier bulletin du Professeur Knieberger, il a la fievrescarlatine, et l'issue de la maladie est incertaine. Je ne quitte plusson chevet. Et sans cesse je me dis, 'C'est une punition du Ciel.'"
Gabrielle saw that, to the outside world, it was a statement by afrantic mother that her child had caught scarlet-fever. "What could itreally mean?" she wondered.
Slowly she read it, and as she did so noticed the curious effect it hadupon her father, seated as he was in the deep saddle-bag chair. His facegrew very grave, his thin white hands clenched themselves, and there wasan unusually bitter expression about his mouth.
"Eh?" he asked, as though not quite certain of the words. "Read itagain, child, slower. I--I have to think."
She obeyed, wondering if the key to the cryptic message were containedin some conjunction of letters or words. It seemed as though, inimagination, he was setting it down before him as she pronounced thewords. This was often so. At times he would have reports repeated to himover and over again.
"Ah!" he gasped at last, drawing a long breath, his hands still tightlyclenched, his countenance haggard and drawn. "I--I expected that. And soit has come--at last!"
"What, dad?" asked the girl in surprise, staring at the crisptypewritten sheet before her.
"Oh, well, nothing child--nothing," he answered, bestirring himself.
"But the lady whoever she is, seems terribly concerned about her littleboy. The judgment of Heaven, she calls it."
"And well she may, Gabrielle," he answered in a hoarse strained voice."Well she may, my dear. It is a punishment sent upon the wicked."
"Is the mother wicked, then?" asked the girl in curiosity.
"No, dear," he urged. "Don't try to understand, for you can never dothat. These reports convey to me alone the truth. They are intended tomislead you, as they mislead other people."
"Then there is no little boy suffering from scarlet-fever?"
"Yes. Because it is written there," was his smiling reply. "But it onlyrefers to an imaginary child, and, by so doing, places a surprising andalarming truth before me."
"Is the matter so very serious, dad?" she asked, noticing the curiouseffect the words had had upon him.
"Serious!" he echoed, leaning forward in his chair. "Yes," he answeredin a low voice, "it is very serious, child, both to me and to you."
"I don't understand you, dad," she exclaimed, walking to his chairthrowing herself upon her knees, and placing her arms around his neck."Won't you be more explicit? Won't you tell me the truth? Surely you canrely upon my secrecy?"
"Yes, child," he said, groping until his hand fell upon her hair, andthen stroking it tenderly; "I trust you. You keep my affairs from thosepeople who seek to obtain knowledge of them. Without you, I would becompelled to employ a secretary; but he could be bought, without adoubt. Most secretaries can."
"Ford was very trustworthy, was he not?"
"Yes, poor Ford," he sighed. "When he died I lost my right hand. Butfortunately you were old enough to take his place."
"But in a case like this, when you are worried and excited, as you areat this moment, why not confide in me and allow me to help you?" shesuggested. "You see that, although I act as your secretary, dad, I knownothing of the nature of your business."
"And forgive me for speaking very plainly, child, I do not intend thatyou should," the old m
an said.
"Because you cannot trust me!" she pouted. "You think that because I'm awoman I cannot keep a secret."
"Not at all," he said. "I place every confidence in you, dear. You arethe only real friend left to me in the whole world. I know that youwould never willingly betray me to my enemies; but----"
"Well, but what?"
"But you might do so unknowingly. You might by one single chance-wordplace me within the power of those who seek my downfall."
"Who seeks your downfall, dad?" she asked very seriously.
"That's a matter which I desire to keep to myself. Unfortunately, I donot know the identity of my enemies; hence I am compelled to keep fromyou certain matters which, in other circumstances, you might know. But,"he added, "this is not the first time we've discussed this question,Gabrielle dear. You are my daughter, and I trust you. Do not, child,misjudge me by suspecting that I doubt your loyalty."
"I don't, dad; only sometimes I----"
"Sometimes you think," he said, still stroking her hair--"you think thatI ought to tell you the reason I receive all these reports from Paris,and their real significance. Well, to tell the truth, dear, it is bestthat you should not know. If you reflect for a moment," went on the oldman, tears welling slowly in his filmy, sightless eyes, "you willrealise my unhappy situation--how I am compelled to hide my affairs evenfrom Lady Heyburn herself. Does she ever question you regarding them?"
"She used to at one time; but she refrains nowadays, for I would tellher nothing."
"Has anyone else ever tried to glean information from you?" he inquired,after a long breath.
"Mr. Flockart has done so on several occasions of late. But I pleadedabsolute ignorance."
"Oh, Flockart has been asking you, has he?" remarked her father withsurprise. "Well, I suppose it is only natural. A blind man's doings arealways more or less a mystery to the world."
"I don't like Mr. Flockart, dad," she said.
"So you've remarked before, my dear," her father replied. "Of course youare right in withholding any information upon a subject which is my ownaffair; yet, on the other hand, you should always remember that he isyour mother's very good friend--and yours also."
"Mine!" gasped the girl, starting up. Would that she were free to tellthe poor, blind, helpless man the ghastly truth! "My friend, dad! Whatmakes you think that?"
"Because he is always singing your praises, both to me and your mother."
"Then I tell you that his expressions of opinion are false, dear dad."
"How?"
She was silent. She dared not tell her father the reason; therefore, inorder to turn the subject, she replied, with a forced laugh, "Oh, well,of course, I may be mistaken; but that's my opinion."
"A mere prejudice, child; I'm sure it is. As far as I know, Flockart isquite an excellent fellow, and is most kind both to your mother and tomyself."
Gabrielle's brow contracted. Disengaging herself, she rose to her feet,and, after a pause, asked, "What reply shall I send to the report, dad?"
"Ah, that report!" gasped the man, huddled up in his chair in seriousreflection. "That report!" he repeated, rising to straighten himself."Reply in these words: 'No effort is to be made to save the child'slife. On the contrary, it is to be so neglected as to produce a fataltermination.'"
The girl had seated herself at the typewriter and rapidly clicked outthe words in French--words that seemed ominous enough, and yet the truemeaning of which she never dreamed. She was thinking only of herfather's misplaced friendship in James Flockart. If she dared to tellhim the naked truth! Oh, if her poor, blind, afflicted father could onlysee!