Avenger — Chapters 31 & 32
RETURNED FROM THE TOMB
The intervention which a few seconds later abruptly terminated an emotional crisis was in itself a very commonplace one.
Monsieur the proprietor deemed the moment advisable for solving a question which was beginning to distract his better half in the kitchen.
He advanced towards them, all smiles and bows and gestures.
"Monsieur would pardon his inquiring--would Monsieur and the ladies be taking _dejeuner?
_ A fowl of excellence unusual was then being roasted, the salad--Monsieur could see it growing!
And Madame had thought of an omelet!
There was no cooler place in all France on a day of heat so extraordinary as the table under the trees yonder.
And as for strawberries--well, Monsieur could see them grow for himself!
or if it was _fraises de Bois_ that Madame preferred, the children had brought in baskets full only that morning, fresh and juicy, and of a wonderful size."
Wrayson interrupted him at last.
"Let luncheon be served as you suggest," he directed.
"In the meantime--" Monsieur Jules understood and withdrew with more bows and smiles.
The significance of his brief appearance upon the lawn was a thing of which he had not the least idea.
Yet after his departure, the strain to a certain extent had passed away.
Only Madame de Melbain's eyes seemed scarcely to leave the face of the man who stood still by her chair.
"Alive!"
she murmured, grasping his hand in hers.
"You alive!"
Louise had taken his other hand.
He was imprisoned between the two.
"Yes!"
he said, "I made what they called a wonderful recovery.
I suppose it was almost a miracle."
"But your death," Louise declared, "was never contradicted."
"A good deal of news went astray about that time," he remarked grimly.
"I was left, and forgotten.
When I found what had been done, I let it go.
It seemed to me to be better.
I went up to Rhodesia, and of course I had the devil's luck.
I've come back to Europe simply because I couldn't stand it any longer.
I was not coming to England, and I had no idea of seeing you, Emilie!
I travelled here on a little pilgrimage."
"It was fate," she murmured.
"But since I am here," he continued, "and since we have met again, I must ask you this.
Your husband is trying to divorce you?"
"Yes!"
she murmured.
"And why?"
"Because he is a brute," she answered quietly.
"We have been separated for more than a year.
I think that he wants to marry again."
"And you permit this?"
he asked.
"No!"
she answered, "I contest it.
Up to now, the courts have been in my favour."
"Up to now!
They must always be in your favour!"
he declared vehemently.
"What can they say against a saint like you?"
She smiled up at him tenderly, a little wistfully.
"They would say a good deal," she whispered, "if they could see you here now."
He drew abruptly away.
"I am a thoughtless brute," he declared.
"It was for that that I decided to remain dead.
I will go away at once."
Her fingers closed over his.
She drew him a little nearer with glad recklessness.
"You shall not," she murmured.
"It is worth a little risk, this."
Wrayson touched Louise on the arm and they turned away.
He found her a seat in a quiet corner of the fruit garden, where a tall row of hollyhocks shielded them from observation.
She was very white, and in a semi-hysterical state.
"I can't believe," she said, "that that is really Duncan--Duncan himself.
It is too wonderful!"
"There is no doubt about it being your brother," he answered.
"What I don't quite understand is why he has kept away so long."
"It is because of her," she answered.
"If they had been on the same continent, I believe that nothing could have kept them apart!"
"And now?"
he asked.
"I cannot tell," she answered, "I, nor any one else!
God made them for one another, I am very sure!"
He took her hand and held it tightly in his.
"And you for me, dearest," he whispered.
"Shall I tell you why I am sure of it?"
She leaned back with half-closed eyes.
Endurance has its limits, and the mesmeric influence of the drowsy summer day was in her veins.
"If you like," she murmured, simply....
And only a few yards away, the man from the dead and the woman who had loved him seemed to have drifted into a summer day-dream.
The strangeness of this thing held them both--ordinary intercourse seemed impossible.
What they spoke about they scarcely knew!
There were days, golden days to be whispered about and lived again; treasured minutes to be recalled, looks and words remembered.
Of the future, of the actual present, save of their two selves, they scarcely spoke.
It was an hour snatched from Paradise for her!
She would not let it go lightly.
She would not suffer even a cloud to pass across it!
In time, Monsieur Jules found himself constrained to announce that _dejeuner_ was served.
He found it useless to try to attract the attention of either Madame de Melbain or Duncan, so he went in search of Wrayson.
"Monsieur is served," he announced, looking blandly upwards at a passing cloud.
"There remains the wine only."
"Chablis of the best, and ice, and mineral water," Wrayson ordered.
"Come, Louise."
She sighed a little as she rose and followed him along the narrow path, where the rose-bushes brushed against her skirt, and the air was fragrant with lavender.
It had been an interlude only, after all, though the man whose hand she still held would never have admitted it.
But--he did not know!
She prayed to Heaven that he never might.
Luncheon, after all, with a waiter within hearing, and Monsieur Jules hovering round, banished in a great measure the curious sense of unreality from which none of them were wholly free.
And when coffee came, Madame leaned a little towards Duncan, and with her hand upon his arm whispered a question.
"My letters, Duncan!
What became of them?"
He sighed.
"I was a little rash, perhaps," he said, "but--they were all I had left.
They were with me at Colenso, in an envelope, sealed and addressed, to be burnt unopened.
When I was hit, I got a Red Cross man to cut them out of my coat and destroy them."
Madame de Melbain looked at him for a moment, and her eyes were soft with unshed tears.
Then she turned away, though her hand still rested upon his.
"Duncan," she said quietly, "don't think that I mind.
You did all that you could, and indeed I would rather that you cared so much.
But the letters were not destroyed."
For a moment he failed to realize the import of her words.
"Not destroyed?"
he repeated, a little vaguely.
"No!"
she answered.
"They came into the hands of some one in London.
Terrible things have happened in connexion with them.
Duncan, if you will listen to me quietly, I will tell you about it.
Sit down, dear."
She saw the gathering storm.
The man's face was black with anger.
He was still a little dazed however.
"You mean--that the man to whom I trusted them--" "He kept them for his own purpose," she said softly.
"Don't look like that, Duncan.
He has paid his debt.
He is dead!"
"And the letters?"
"We do not know.
My husband's advisers are trying to get possession of them.
That is why the courts have not yet pronounced their judgment."
He had risen to his feet, but she drew him gently down again.
"Remember, Duncan, that the man is dead!
Be calm, and I will tell you all about it."
He looked at her wonderingly.
"You are not angry with me?"
"Angry!
Why should I be?
I am only happy to know that you never forgot--that you could not bear to destroy the only link that was left between us.
Do you know, I am almost sorry that I spoke to you about this!
We seem to have snatched an hour or two out of Paradise, and it is I who have stirred up the dark waters.
Let us forget it for a few more minutes!"
He drew her away with him towards their seat under the trees.
Wrayson looked across at Louise with a smile.
"You, too," he said.
"May we not forget a little longer?"
She smiled at him sadly, and shook her head.
"No!"
she answered.
"With them it is different.
I can scarcely yet realize that I have a brother: think what it must be to Emilie to have the man whom she loved come back from the grave.
Listen!"
Outside they heard the sound of galloping horses.
A moment later the Baron de Courcelles issued from the inn and crossed the lawn towards Madame de Melbain.
"Madame," he said, "the man who was caught in the park last night is, without doubt, a spy from Mexonia!
He can be charged with nothing more serious than trespass, and in a few minutes he will be free.
Should he return, this"--he glanced towards Duncan--"would be the end.
I have a carriage waiting for you."
Madame de Melbain rose at once.
With a little gesture of excuse she drew Duncan on one side.
"Wait here," she begged, "until you hear from me.
Baron de Courcelles is my one faithful friend at Court.
I am going to consult with him."
"I shall see you again?"
he asked.
She hesitated.
"Is it wise?"
she murmured.
"If my enemies knew that you were alive, that I had seen you here, what chance should I have, do you think, before the courts?"
He bent over her hands.
"I have brought enough trouble upon you," he said simply.
"I will wait!
Only I hope that there will be work for me to do!"
CHAPTER XXXII AT THE HÔTEL SPLENDIDE
"I asked you," the Baron remarked, helping himself to _hors d'oeuvres,_ "to dine with me here, because I fancy that the little inn at St. Étarpe is being closely watched.
Always when one has private matters to discuss, I believe in a certain amount of publicity.
Here we are in a quiet corner, it is true, but we are surrounded by several hundreds of other people.
They are far too occupied with their own affairs to watch us.
It is the last place, for instance, where our friend from Mexonia would dream of looking for us."
The three men were seated at a small round table in the great dining-room of the _Hôtel Splendide_ of Dinant-on-Sea.
The season was at its height, and the room was full.
On every side they were surrounded by chattering groups of English tourists and French holiday makers.
Outside on the promenade a band was playing, and a leisurely crowd was passing back and forth.
"The lady whom we will continue, if you please, to call Madame de Melbain," the Baron continued, "has desired me to take you two gentlemen into our entire confidence.
You are both aware that for eighteen months the suit for divorce brought by that lady's husband has been before a special court."
"One understands," Wrayson remarked, "that the sympathies of all Europe are with--the lady."
The Baron bowed.
"Entirely.
Her cause, too, is the popular one in Mexonia.
It is the ministry and the aristocracy who are on the other side.
These are anxious for an alliance which will safeguard Mexonia from certain dangers to which she is at present exposed.
Madame de Melbain, as you are both aware, comes from one of the oldest families of Europe, but it is a family without any political significance.
The betrothal was completed before Frederick stood so near to the throne.
If his accession had seemed even a likely thing at the time, it would not have been sanctioned.
I
speak as the staunch friend of the lady whose cause is so dear to us, but I wish you to grasp the facts."
There was a brief pause whilst a fresh course was served by an apologetic and breathless waiter.
The three men spoke together for a while on some chance subject.
Then, when they were alone, the Baron continued.
"The court, although powerful influences were at work, found itself unable to pronounce the decree which those in authority so much desired.
All that those who were behind the scenes could do was to keep the case open, hoping that while living apart from her husband some trifling indiscretion on the part of Madame would afford them a pretext for giving the desired verdict.
I need not say that, up to the present, no such indiscretion has occurred.
But all the time we have been on the brink of a volcano!"
"The letters!"
Duncan muttered.
The Baron nodded.
"About a year ago," he said, "Madame de Melbain received a terrifying letter from the miscreant into whose hands they had fallen.
Madame very wisely made a confidant of me, and, with the Baroness de Sturm, I left at once for London, and saw this man.
I very soon persuaded myself that he had the letters and that he knew their value.
He asked a sum for them which it was utterly unable for us to pay."
"Did he explain," Duncan asked, "how they came into his hands?"
"He said that they were picked up on the battlefield of Colenso at first," the Baron declared.
"Afterwards he was brutally frank.
You see your death was gazetted, a fact of which he was no doubt aware.
He admitted that they had been given to him to destroy."
Duncan leaned across the table.
"Baron," he said, "who killed that man?
He cheated me of my task, but I should like to know who it was."
"So would a great many more of us," the Baron answered.
"The fact is, we are in the curious position of having an unknown friend."
"An unknown friend?"
Duncan repeated.
The Baron nodded.
"We paid that man two thousand a year," he said, "but he was not satisfied.
He communicated secretly with the other side, and they agreed to buy the letters for ten thousand pounds.
We knew the very night when he had arranged to hand them over to a man named Bentham in London.
But we were powerless.
We could not have found the half of ten thousand pounds.
One thing only was tried, and that very nearly ended in disaster.
An attempt was made to steal the letters.
Mr. Wrayson will tell you about that--presently."
A _maître d'hôtel_ paused at their table to hope that messieurs were well served.
In a season so busy it was not possible to give the attention to every one they would like!
Was there anything he could do?
Messieurs were drinking, he noticed, the best wine in the cellars!
He trusted that they approved of it.
The young lady there with the diamond collar and the wonderful eyes?
He bent a little lower over the table.
That was Mademoiselle Diane, of the Folies Bergères!
And the gentleman?
He had registered under another name, but he was well known as the Baron X----, a great capitalist in Paris!
The _maître d'hôtel_ passed on, well satisfied that he had interested the three distinguished looking gentlemen who dined alone.
Wrayson, as soon as he was out of hearing, leaned over the table.
"It is on that night," he said to Duncan, "that I come into touch with the affairs of which our friend has spoken.
The man Barnes had a flat corresponding to mine on the floor above.
I returned home about midnight and found a young lady, who was a complete stranger to me, engaged in searching my desk.
I turned up the lights and demanded an explanation.
She was apparently quite as much surprised to see me as I was to see her.
It appeared that she had imagined herself in Barnes' flat.
Whilst I was talking to her, the telephone bell rang.
Some unknown person asked me to convey a message to Barnes.
When I had finished she was gone.
I sat down and tried to make head or tail of the affair.
I couldn't. Barnes was a disreputable little bounder!
This girl was a lady.
What connexion could there be between the two?
I fancied what might happen if she were surprised by Barnes, and I determined not to go to bed until I heard her come down.
I fell asleep over my fire, and I woke with a start to find her once more upon the threshold of my room.
She was fainting--almost on the point of collapse!
I gave her some brandy and helped her downstairs.
At the door of the flat was a cab, and in it was the man Barnes, dead--murdered!"
The breath came through Duncan's teeth with a little hiss.
One could fancy that he was wishing that his had been the hand to strike the blow.
The Baron glanced round casually.
He called a waiter and complained of the slow service, sent for another bottle of wine, and lit a cigarette.
"I think," he said, "that we will pause for a moment or so.
Mr. Wrayson's narrative is a little dramatic!
Ah!
Mademoiselle la danseuse goes!
What a toilet!"
Mademoiselle favoured their table with her particular regard as she passed out, and accepted with a delightful smile the fan which she dropped in passing, and which the Baron as speedily restored.
He resumed his seat, stroking his grey moustache.
"A very handsome young lady," he remarked.
"I think that now we may continue."
"The girl?"
Duncan asked quickly.
"Was your sister," Wrayson answered.
There was a moment's intense silence.
Duncan was doing his best to look unconcerned, but the hand which played with his wineglass shook.
"How--was he murdered?"
"Strangled with a fine cord," Wrayson answered.
"In the cab?"
"There or inside the building!
It is impossible to say."
"And no one was ever tried for the murder?"
"No one," Wrayson answered.
Duncan swallowed a glassful of wine.
"But my sister," he said, "was in his rooms--she might have seen him!"
"Your sister's name was never mentioned in the matter," Wrayson said.
"I was the only witness who knew anything about her--and--I said nothing."
Duncan drew a little breath.
"Why?"
he asked.
"An impulse," Wrayson answered.
"I felt that she could not have been concerned in such a deed, and I felt that if I told all that I knew, she would have been suspected.
So I said nothing.
I saved her a good deal of trouble and anxiety I dare say, and I do not believe that I interfered in any way with the course of justice."
Duncan looked across the table and raised his glass.
"I should like to shake hands with you, Mr. Wrayson," he said, "only the Baron would have fits.
You acted like a brick.
