[NOTE] (continued 7)

Silence and another endless wait. Would nothing ever happen?

Then suddenly out of the soft night rose the thin notes of a violin. The tune, charged with poignant associations, clutched at Geoffrey’s heart. It was the Albeniz Tango.…

He shut his eyes. Across velvet blackness swayed two white figures like glittering frost-flowers, accented here and there with spots that were crimson as drops of blood.

Then the vision melted kaleidoscopically into another, and he sensed around him a different darkness, with the odour of lilies of the valley filling his nostrils. He could all but feel the pliant body close against him and the pressure of those lips which for two weeks had been a constant memory. Acute anguish shot through him. His nails dug into his palms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Catherine opened her eyes.

What was this red glow round her, sending forth waves of pulsing heat? Was she still dreaming?

The night had been one long jumble of phantasmas, sucking her back like quicksands whenever she seemed on the point of waking. In most of them fire had figured, thick foggy smoke, pierced by flashes of murky flame. It must be a repetition of her fevered delusions, this furnace-like atmosphere which caused her head to throb and her parched throat to ache from dryness.

Incapable of analysing her impressions, she lay surveying the crimson haze through eyelids drooping of their own weight. Meanwhile, her languid brain recalled the visions sleep had conjured up to torment her, reviewing them one by one.

A waxen face—whose was it?—tear-stained and lit by tall white candles, which as she watched, grew, lengthening into rockets which shot off through space. Then another face, sallow and hard, with round, close-set eyes, which stared steadily at her with venomous hatred. Curiously enough, this face showed crossed and recrossed by an iron grille, as though it were seen through prison bars. Wherever she turned it was there, watching her, baleful and livid. She could not get away from it. Indeed, she had been possessed by the familiar nightmare of paralysis, feeling herself bound, unable to move. Finally in her dream she had made a sickening discovery. She was trapped in a huge web, legs and arms imprisoned by pitiless meshes, which cut into her when she turned and twisted to escape.

Next, periodically recurring, had been an impression surely culled from the Arabian Nights of her childhood. A crack in the ground at her feet had yawned wide, while out of it poured dun-coloured smoke, assuming to her fascinated eyes the form of a demon. Rapidly it swelled to gigantic size, its swart features horribly magnified, one upraised hand brandishing a cudgel with which to strike her. There was no eluding that certain doom. Inexorably the arm descended, she reeled with the shock of pain, and sank again into oblivion.…

Now the faces had vanished, leaving her to wander with leaden feet in a desert of dazzling sand. On every side stretched the hot waste, upon which the copper disc of a sun beat down through waves of quivering heat. The sand itself suffocated her, filling her eyes, her teeth, her throat with its clogging particles. She longed for water, with a thirst more devastating than any she had ever known. Water—water! Was there none in the world? She scanned the horizon in search of some spring where she could throw herself down and drink to repletion, but although a faint shimmer appeared in the distance, she knew she could never attain it, for at every step she sank into the yielding mass of sand.

Even now, though her head ached blindingly and she was conscious of a dire sickness in her stomach, every other sensation was dwarfed by appalling thirst. She could drink a well dry. The thought came to her that she was ill once more and had wakened early after a night of fever. The red light must be that of early morning.

Opening her eyes wide, she glanced curiously round, wonder growing to find her room so strangely altered. What was this thick material hanging beside her, cutting off the air? Why, it was a curtain—heavy, red damask. Her bed had no curtains. The windows, too, were covered in red, and so were the walls—crimson damask, all alike. With the light showing through the cracks the entire place had the look of being suffused in blood.

All at once it dawned on her that this was not her room at all, nor yet the one she had occupied at Fontainebleau. No, it was some new bed-chamber she had never seen before. In the hot glow she spied a walnut dressing-table, its oblong mirror touched by a shaft of sun, which by reflection threw a brilliant patch upon the opposite wall. There were chairs with red cushions, a stool, and a stand filled with books in yellow paper covers. On the stand stood a vase containing a bunch of dead anemones, withered and dried into the mere ghosts of flowers. The air between danced with sparkling motes.

Where was she then? Had she been here a long time, and had her memory gone?

Her baffled cogitations occupied but the fraction of a second. Almost immediately recollection rushed upon her, and in a vivid flash of horror she saw again the picture last witnessed with her waking eyes—Jeanne’s dark face close to her own, Eduardo’s swarthy, furious features, the glitter of the candle-stick in his lifted hand, and round her swirls of grey smoke.

She tried to scream, but there was a tight gag between her teeth; to spring up from the bed, only to find herself securely bound so that she could stir neither hand nor foot. All she could do was to struggle into a sitting posture, an achievement which tore her hair away from the material beneath with a sensation of pain. Turning she saw that she had been lying upon a folded bath-towel, on which were dark stains. That meant she had been wounded. This stickiness contracting her forehead and brows was blood, dried into a cake. How badly was she hurt? She could not loose her hands to explore the injury.

At a little distance lay her new green hat, crushed and blood-smeared. It came to her that it was probably due to that protective covering that she was alive at all, the felt having deadened the blow which struck her down. The hat had saved her—but for what? Yet surely someone would discover her, help would come soon.

Then, even as hope crossed her mind she noticed again the withered anemones, the dust thick upon the furniture, and grasped the fact that wherever she was, the room had not been entered for days, perhaps longer. No one was likely to look for her here. The place was unoccupied.…

Where was she? There was nothing to guide her. She might be near Mme. Bender’s apartment, or miles away in some distant quarter of Paris. At least she was reasonably sure that this room was not one of the locked ones in her cousin’s flat. These red damask walls spoke of an alien taste in decoration.

Terror gripped her, sweat burst from every pore and streamed down into her eyes. She felt she must not waste a minute, but make a desperate effort to free her hands, get the choking gag out of her mouth so that she could shout till someone heard her. For a short time she fought with might and main, but presently, forced by exhaustion to give up the attempt, fell back limp and panting. Not only were her wrists tied, but the bands, which seemed to be strips of linen, encircled her body layer after layer, up to her elbows. Similarly her legs were swathed in mummy-like wrappings, while the knot which fastened the gag was so well contrived that without the use of her fingers it was hopeless to think of removing it. The struggle had left her weak and dizzy. Nausea overcame her, the room swam before her in a red haze.

At last she mustered her faculties. Round her was unbroken stillness, and such sounds as came from out-of-doors were muffled and faint—only distant motor-horns, nothing to indicate whether she was in the neighbourhood she knew or another locality altogether. However, the street noises were so far away that she concluded the room must be at the rear of a building. Beyond this she could decide nothing at all. Who owned the place, why it was deserted, remained a mystery.

She must have been faint from loss of blood, for every now and then the scene clouded over and she was unable to concentrate. When, after one of these intervals of semi-stupor, fear roused her afresh, she noticed with a shock that the light, instead of increasing, was fading rapidly away. The glow was gone, swallowed up in a deepening twilight. Night was coming on. In a little while she would be in total darkness. She shuddered as with ague at the thought.

It was Saturday evening then. A swift calculation told her she must have been here about seventeen hours. What had happened about the fire? Germaine was dead. There could be no doubt of that. The memory of the still face lit by flickering flames came before her poignantly. Well then, the thing could not be hushed up, the news by now must be in the papers. Did Geoffrey know? Then she remembered that he had planned to drive to Fontainebleau soon after lunch, consequently if he did not hear what had happened before that time there would be nothing to stop him. Perhaps even now he was ignorant, asking himself why she had not telephoned to save him a useless journey. As likely as not he was feeling annoyed with her for her thoughtlessness. The Hardwickes, too—what had they thought when she failed to meet them this morning? They were on their way to Italy hours ago. In all Paris there was not one person who would miss her till it was too late.

Her brain recoiled from the obvious conclusion. Shivering in every benumbed muscle, she lay still and strove to pray.…

It was darker now. She could just make out the shapes of the furniture, with the pale rectangle of the mirror dimly visible. Alone, powerless to move or cry out, here she would have to lie like a rabbit in a snare and wait—how long? Perhaps till reason deserted her. As to her ultimate fate she harboured no delusions. Since last night she was a dangerous witness, and as such must be suppressed. Those murderers could not afford to let her live. To save their own skins they must do away with her completely before anyone could guess the truth.

How did one dispose of bodies? Safest and surest way—the Seine, that swift-flowing tide which yearly carried away a toll of victims! Or would they carry her to some remote corner of the Bois de Boulogne, or the Bois de Vincennes, there to leave her for the police to find? No, they would hardly attempt that. Drowning was so much simpler.

Thus she lay with cramped body and tortured brain, freezing and burning alternately, till a merciful coma engulfed her senses. Hours passed and she knew nothing.

What was this new sound penetrating her consciousness, calling her back persistently to reality? Music—a violin playing, not far away. She listened, straining her ears to catch the high, pure notes. Silvery and fine they soared, above a faint piano accompaniment, and with a measured rhythm she knew at once for that of the Albeniz Tango. Where had she heard it played like that, with that identical phrasing, and with the lilting ritardando just where she knew it would come?

Then she remembered.

Tears sprang to her eyes, her dry throat contracted as a voice whispered that this was probably the last time she would listen to music, and that never again would she feel the embrace of strong arms. At the same time another portion of her brain registered the knowledge that she was still within close range of the unseen violinist, consequently not far removed from her former dwelling.

Oh! If only she could make a noise, break a window, knock over a piece of furniture—anything! As the tango drifted on to its final cadence she began a renewed struggle, battling hard to shift her body towards the edge of the bed. It was worse than useless. She was far too weak, nor could she move her elbows to get sufficient leverage.

The playing continued. Now it was the Caprice Viennois, with its wooing double-thirds and its fantastic interlude, making her picture masked figures flitting along a dark alley, mysterious moths moon-lit under a sky dappled with inky clouds. Carnaval, a spring night, all the thrilling aspects of life which she was about to leave for ever. Then followed the César Franck sonata, graceful and delicate as a spray of apple-blossoms. The agony of it now seemed more than she could endure.

The recital ceased. How quiet it was! Only those distant staccato motor-horns, stabbing the stillness, reminding her that all around free and careless pleasure-seekers went their various ways, little dreaming what torment existed within this locked and airless room. For perhaps ten minutes she lay and listened to the pounding of her heart, thump after thump, quick, regular blows of a hammer. She counted the strokes mechanically, to keep from thinking.

Suddenly she stiffened as another noise reached her ears. Without warning a door was opened stealthily, and muffled footfalls approached. Instantly she sat up again, bathed in sweat. Someone had entered the flat, was coming softly and without hesitation towards her hiding-place. Before she could do more than brace her pinioned body against the wall, a key grated in the lock and the invisible intruder entered. In the dense darkness she caught the quick inhalation of a hurried breath, and for an instant thought that her heart would burst.

A hand fumbled along the wainscoting, as though feeling for a switch, then close by a man’s voice whispered peremptorily:

“Touche pas la lumière. J’apporte une bougie, moi…”

At the same moment there was a scratch of a match, followed by a dazzling glare, and in the light of a candle-end sheltered by a broad palm, two dark figures emerged from obscurity. The smaller of them came near on tiptoe, bent down and peered into her face.

It was Jeanne. Behind her rose the shadowy mass of the Portuguese, his bloodshot eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Both servants wore coats and hats, and the woman carried a bundle under her arm. Her hands were bandaged.

For a second Catherine stared back at her with fascinated eyes. Again she tried to scream, her voice ending in a gurgle.

Eduardo spoke in an undertone:

“She has come to herself, then? That is good. Now! Be quick about it. Do you need any help?”

“No. Better keep watch at the outer door.”

“Well, sharp work then. Here’s the knife.…”

They were going to kill her outright! She cowered away with a suddenness which sent her toppling.

“None of that!” commanded the woman’s voice sibilantly.

At the same time she felt herself rudely grasped and thrown upon her back. The sallow face leaned over her, the eyes boring into hers.

“You can hear, I suppose? Well, then, listen carefully. You are to obey me, everything I say—and if you make one sound you will find this between your ribs!”

At the word “this” a sharp point pressed into her side. The yellow light shone upon the polished blade of a long carving-knife, clutched in murderous fingers.

“C’est entendu, n’est-ce pas?”

Although the girl could make no sign, her jailer was apparently satisfied. She withdrew the weapon, bent over the prisoner’s feet, and with a quick ripping noise severed the strips confining the helpless ankles. Next she dragged her body into an upright position, slid it to the edge of the bed so that the feet touched the floor, and unrolling the bundle, which proved to be Catherine’s tweed coat, produced a package of medical gauze.

What was this for? The victim was not long in doubt. Even as she asked herself the question swift, expert fingers began to wrap her face and head in bandages, covering the gag and leaving nothing free save nose and eyes. She was swathed like a cocoon in surgical wrappings, fastened here and there with safety-pins. A dive behind her back, and with a spasm of unbearable pain she felt her hat thrust upon her head, pulled well down to hide the upper part of her face. For a second she swayed, the candle was blotted out, and she grazed the borders of unconsciousness.

When she recovered it was to hear the words brusquely uttered: “You are able to walk, I hope? Stand on your feet.…”

She was lifted bodily, an arm steadying her to prevent her falling. When the darkness cleared, she was aware that her coat had been thrown round her shoulders, dangling loose over her bound arms. The woman was saying with hard emphasis, driving home her meaning:

“You have got to walk as far as the car. You will be able to manage. Stay where you are—there is a chair beside you to lean against.”

By the smoking flame of the candle, stuck on a chest of drawers, she could see the maid busy herself rapidly with the disordered bed, smoothing down the red damask cover and wadding the blood-stained towel and linen strips into a ball, which she placed in her coat pocket. Hardly had she finished when Eduardo reappeared in the doorway, his distorted shadow rising behind him.

“Ready? She can stand upright?” he whispered.

“With us to help her.”

The ironic laugh accompanying the reply sent a chill down the girl’s spine.

“Well, then”—impatiently—“what are you waiting for?”

Catherine, too, sensed an ominous pause which at first she did not understand. Then she felt her left hand grasped from underneath her coat and pulled as far as it would go towards the flaring candle, while the woman stooped over it, her breath audible through compressed nostrils. Simultaneously the Portuguese moved a step closer.

“Ah, that! It is a good stone, too. A pity to let it go.”

Then Catherine knew that Jeanne was examining her ruby ring.

Another pause.

“Suppose I take it off her. He will never know.…”

“No, but the police will, when they fish her up. It’s suicide, remember, not robbery. A little thing like that might make all the difference.…”

A sigh, charged with baffled cupidity, then her hand was released.

When they fished her up! Now, with sickening certainty, she knew what her end was going to be.

With a strong smell of smouldering wick the candle was put out. She felt herself seized on both sides and hurried across a second room, along a tiled hall-way, and thence to a lighted landing where a lift waited. The door was shut behind them.

“Better leave the key in the lock,” muttered Jeanne. “The old fool will think he left it there. Have you got the bags?”

“Here, beside you. Look sharp now—in with her.”

She was pushed roughly into the lift while a bag and hat-box she recognized for her own were jammed alongside of her. Evidently no trace was to be left. Her captors followed, the metal doors closed with a click, and the cage sank, slowly, past three landings to the ground floor. As it came to rest, a final ray of hope shot through the speechless girl. It could not be very late. Perhaps the concierge might see her and question her identity. She must be on the alert to attract his attention.

Then, as if in answer to her unspoken thought, Jeanne bent towards her, hissing in her ear, “You have not forgotten what I showed you just now? One attempt to escape and you will feel it! I have it ready in my sleeve.”

The following instant she was supported down a flight of shallow steps into a court, which had a tiny garden in the centre, bordered with hyacinths, pale in the moonlight. No one was in sight, but above, on the first floor, the casements were open, and through them issued laughter and the babble of clamorous voices. A party was in progress. Someone struck a few chords of a popular song on a piano and began to sing, only to be silenced by a feminine voice raised in mock annoyance, shrilling the words, “Qui a versé la Benedictine sur ma broderie Perse? Cochon, va!”

As she was led forward on tottering feet she glanced desperately towards the loge. Now she was abreast of the lighted window, through which she could see every detail of the room within—the stickily bright, machine-carved dresser, the blue cover on the table, the clock upon the wall, and beside it a lurid oleograph of Maréchal Foch. She was past it in a second, but not before her eager eye had taken in the rear view of two seated figures, one that of a little elderly man whose head was encircled by a half-hoop of steel terminating in head-phones pressed tightly against his ears. In that instant hope perished. The concierge, a devotee to the sans fils, was dead to the outer world, intent upon his evening’s enjoyment.

Now they were in the street crossing the familiar avenue of chestnuts. As they set foot on the opposite pavement a man in evening dress brushed by them, casting a curious glance at Catherine’s bandaged face. With all her strength she tried to move in his direction, only to find the grip on her arms tightened and to feel a sharp prod in her side. At the same time Jeanne’s voice spoke soothingly, but loud enough for the passer to hear:

“Courage, madame! Only one little step farther. Lean on me.”

Crushed by despair, the prisoner felt her legs give beneath her, but she was borne up strongly and propelled with haste to an adjacent turning, where in the shelter of overhanging trees stood an empty car. Almost before she could grasp what was happening, she found herself upon the deep seat inside, with Jeanne whispering in a tone of triumph:

“There, mademoiselle, that was neatly done, I think!”

A few seconds passed, while Eduardo placed the bag and hat-box on the floor at their feet and climbed into the driver’s place. The engine started, but they did not move. Instead, in the darkness, Catherine felt rather than saw the two servants straining round to look behind them, their attitude full of alert expectancy.

From out the gloom rapid steps sounded, coming towards the car. The girl’s heart gave a wild leap. Someone was approaching, a possible rescuer, perhaps. Oh! if only she could scream, or at least make some sign to attract attention! With a mad effort she threw herself forward, her head colliding with the glass in front. Immediately she was violently seized and thrust back again.

“Ah, you would, would you?” There was a smothered imprecation.

The next instant the door at her side was flung open and a man, out of breath from hurrying, got in. There was just sufficient light to discern a dead-white face close to hers beneath the brim of a wide hat, and two eyes fixed upon her with a cold, unwinking stare.

She shuddered with sudden nausea. They were the eyes of Adolph Blom.

Simultaneously the car lurched forward. They were off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Eleven o’clock sounded.

The watchers at the Commandant’s study window sat in almost unbroken silence, their eyes glued to the building across the way. In the window opposite a glow still showed, suggesting that at least one of the occupants of the flat was yet awake. The street noises had partially subsided in the lull between the dinner hour and midnight when the theatres close, and the real night life of the city begins.

Suddenly a peal from the telephone ripped the stillness in two. Geoffrey jumped, while the inspector reached his hand towards the instrument. Almost his first words showed that the call was for him.

“You have lost him? Where? How long ago?” Then a pause, followed by an exclamation of mingled annoyance and resignation. “Zut! Well, he is gone, now. No telling where he has got to by now.”

He replaced the receiver, and in reply to his companion’s glance whispered: “It is one of my men who has been covering the entrance to the notaire’s bureau. Half an hour ago Blom went out, got into the Métro at the Place Clichy, took a train and made two or three changes. At the Concorde he disappeared in the crowd, so all our vigilance is gone for nothing.”

“Do you think he is up to anything in connection with this business?”

Bazin shrugged. “Who knows? The repeated correspondance looks as though he suspected he was being followed. If our conclusions are right, he is in a very nasty position. However, we can be very sure of one thing—he did not take any part in getting the young lady away last night. I have proved that he spent the entire evening up till two, at the apartment of Mme. Baron, who was giving a party; consequently, if anything was done, it was those people over there who managed it. That is why I am concentrating on the house itself, for in the extremely short time at their disposal they could not possibly have removed her any distance. If the butler left the apartment at all, it must have been while the locataire from the third floor was out giving the alarm, for he was there when the man returned five or at most ten minutes later.”

Geoffrey grasped his meaning. Alive or dead Catherine must at this moment be somewhere in the immediate vicinity. His harassed eyes explored the façade opposite, vainly striving to fathom the secret of her hiding-place.

“Ah, that is the question,” remarked the inspector in answer to his unuttered query. “There is not an inch of those premises which has been overlooked. We have searched all the apartments and the servants’ quarters above. There is no sign of her or of the bags she brought home.”

“Yet she must be there!” muttered Geoffrey. “What about the space between the flooring? There is a gap where the fire burned through.”

“I examined it myself.”

“And the roof itself? Is it easy to get out on to it?”

“Simple enough, by means of the usual trap-door, but it, too, has been inspected.”

Leaning forward, Geoffrey studied the parapet. It extended along a group of five houses, the line varying in height and shape, but continuous. After the fifth house came a break before a second group began.

“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “if there are any vacant apartments in that row?”

“Not one. I am informed there has not been an apartment to let in any of those houses for three years.”

A groan escaped Geoffrey. In spite of himself, it began to look as though they were on the wrong tack after all. Perhaps it was true that, distracted by grief and shock, Catherine had wandered off and found some means of leaving the city. Then the telegram recurred to him and he rejected the idea. Much as he longed to believe that it had come from her, the evidence against the supposition was overpowering. No, the message was patently false, and as obviously contrived to serve a definite purpose. Bazin must be right. The words “but will telephone to-morrow” surely meant that something was planned to take place before that time. Seven hours at most remained. Meanwhile the minutes were slipping away.…

His reflections were broken by a touch on his arm.

“Look!”

Following the direction of the pointing finger, he saw that the light opposite had been extinguished. What did it mean? Were the two over there going harmlessly to bed, or did they merely wish the outside world to believe they were doing so?

“They can’t do anything without getting out first,” muttered Geoffrey to himself.

“Exactly—and the house is well guarded. There are two others watching as well as ourselves.”

Ten minutes passed, then Geoffrey knew that he could no longer support the maddening inaction.

“I am going out,” he said abruptly. “Not far. If you want me, tie your handkerchief to the knob of the casement. I shall be able to see it.”

“Very well, monsieur,” assented his companion. “But use the back exit, and if you cross the street let it be farther along, out of range of those windows. For all we know they are watching to see if the coast is clear.”

It took but a few seconds to descend the dimly lighted stairs and emerge into the side-street. With his hat low over his eyes and the collar of his Burberry well up, Geoffrey set out at a brisk pace to make a tour of the neighbourhood. Without stopping he inspected the darkened windows along the turning, then after a brief détour came back again, recrossed the avenue lower down and, pursuing an idea that had come to him during the recent conversation, walked boldly into the loge of the house adjoining the corner one.

He was met by a yawning concierge who, by the look of him, was at that moment revolving in his mind the suitability of closing up for the night. Apologizing for the lateness of his call, Geoffrey inquired if any of the locataires wished to sublet his flat. He was answered by a supercilious negative. No, these apartments were seldom sublet; all the locataires were in residence now, and not one of them had any intention of leaving. Yes, he would take the gentleman’s address, but there was nothing to be gained by it. Monsieur would do better to go to an agent.

“You say they are all here now?” persisted Geoffrey, undaunted by the man’s arrogant manner.

“Certainly, monsieur—but it would be the same if they were not.”

Geoffrey thanked him and departed, to repeat the questions in the house next door, where the result, framed with less discourtesy, was similar. Again in the fourth building he received a like response.

He was beginning to think there was nothing in his theory after all, but he did not mean to give up without trying the last of the five. He was in the act of entering the wide opening, through which issued sounds of laughter and high-pitched voices, when a man’s figure detached itself from the shadow of the chestnuts and took a step towards him. To his amazement he heard his name called in an undertone:

“Monsieur Macadam! A word with you, please!”

The subdued voice was charged with excitement. Turning, Geoffrey made out the lugubrious features of Bernard, whom since midday he had entirely forgotten.

“You! What are you doing here?”

Instead of replying the agent stalked away under the shelter of the trees, where, after a glance round, Geoffrey followed him. In the darkness the man’s cavernous eyes appeared mere sockets of gloom beneath the hard rim of his bowler hat.

“Monsieur! It is fortunate you have come! Who do you suppose at this moment is with the concierge in that loge you were about to enter?”

Geoffrey shook his head, his eyes fixed on the other’s face.

“It is Adolph Blom. I have been watching this house, because it is the one to which the butler went this morning, and I have had an idea that that fact might mean something to us. A quarter of an hour ago I saw the notaire go in. He is with the concierge now, chatting as though he were an old friend.”

Blom—here, in this neighbourhood!

“What do you think it indicates?” demanded Geoffrey quickly.

“I do not know. I glanced in the window and saw them tinkering with the sans fils, but I cannot believe it is merely a social call. It is my opinion he is waiting for someone, that the loge there is a rendezvous—but for what I cannot say. Perhaps…” He stopped and let his gaze wander slowly over the lighted doorway, but though the listener waited eagerly he did not complete the sentence.

Meanwhile the young man was cursing his stupidity for allowing this particular house to escape his calculations. Surely he ought to have guessed that Eduardo’s visit here to-day must have had some significance, yet because he could see nothing in it he had all but dismissed it from his mind. Hurriedly taking stock of the situation, he explained his own presence, pointing out the window a hundred yards along the street where till recently he had been stationed.

“The police inspector is there now. Stay here while I tell him what has happened. Only a little while ago Blom gave one of his men the slip, so that may lead us to some clue. We have been assuming that Mademoiselle West is hidden in the corner building, but now——” He hesitated, looking round.

“I understand, monsieur. I am asking myself the same question. I will remain on guard while Blom is here.”

Three minutes later, panting from his dash up the stairs, Geoffrey opened the study door. A few yards away the red tip of a cigarette told him the inspector was still at his post.

“Well, monsieur?” came the expectant whisper.

“Blom!” burst out Geoffrey. “He’s turned up in this street, in the loge of that last house there. It’s the house the butler visited this morning. What do you make of it?”

Accustomed now to the gloom, he could see the inspector’s glaring at him with incredulity. Then he caught a smothered expletive as the man leaped to his feet and fixed his gaze on the long line of the opposite roofs.

“Sacré! What fools we are! That house below there is the one we should be watching—not this! How did you find this out? You have seen the fellow?”

Geoffrey related briefly what had happened. As he listened intently, Bazin consulted the luminous dial of his watch, the glimmering hands of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past eleven.

“It is getting late, but that concierge yonder will not close up till his visitor has gone. If they have got mademoiselle hidden somewhere in that building——”

Even as he spoke they saw the fat old porter over the way amble forth and begin swinging the heavy doors together.

“You think she may be there—that they have carried her across the——”

The sentence died in his throat as he leaned suddenly out the window, staring intently at a man who came running toward them between the lines of chestnuts. The swiftly padding steps reached the pavement beneath, and at the same instant a hoarse voice called Geoffrey’s name.

“Monsieur, come down again—not a moment to lose! I have just seen the Portuguese together with two women cross to the Square Lamartine and get into a car. I do not know, but I believe one of the woman may be your friend!”

The warning acted on the listeners like a galvanic shock. With a single impetus the two men sprang for the door, made a plunge down the broad stairway and breathlessly confronted the excited agent.

“A car? What sort of car? When?”

“It is a large black Rolls-Royce, standing in the Square. I watched the three of them come out of the house—a man and a woman leading an invalid lady between them, her face covered in bandages, so I could not see who she was. As they reached the car I thought I recognized the butler.”

Geoffrey’s blazing eyes met the inspector’s.

“It is they! I’m sure of it! Quick—we’ll follow them! Like hell!”—and not pausing for a reply he led the way at top speed round the corner into the turning where showed the lights of the inspector’s car.

No time to consider how the pair whom they had believed safely confined in the flat opposite had emerged from another building two hundred yards farther along the street. Besides, there was but one way in which such a trick could have been managed—a passage over the roofs. The invalid lady must be Catherine, and at the thought Geoffrey’s heart gave a great leap. She was alive still, but in imminent peril. At this moment she was being conveyed to her death, of that he felt horribly certain.

Within less than a minute Bazin was at the wheel with Geoffrey beside him and Bernard on the seat behind. Swiftly the car moved forward into the avenue, now empty as far as the eye could see. The Square Lamartine lay ahead of them on the right-hand side.

“It has not been more than a few minutes,” the agent assured them. “If we are lucky we can catch them up. Here we are! Look sharp!”

They had entered the Square Lamartine, a secluded spot comprising a group of detached houses, each surrounded with its own patch of walled garden. Geoffrey leaned out, scanning the darkened roadway in every direction, then struck his knee with his clenched fist and swore aloud.

The entire place was deserted.

“My God, they’ve given us the slip!”

It was true. Short as the interval had been, the trio, car and all, had completely vanished.

CHAPTER FORTY

The chill of utter blackness descended. The inspector spoke first, glancing behind as he backed out into the avenue again.

“They cannot have more than a few minutes’ start of us. The point is, in which direction have they gone?”

Before either of his companions could answer, a man-servant in livery entered the square, turning into it from the lower end of the street. Geoffrey called out to him.

“Have you seen anything of a black Rolls-Royce which was here a little while ago?”

The man stopped in the act of pushing open the nearest gate, and eyed the party with slight surprise.

“As a matter of fact, I did see such a car, monsieur,” he returned civilly. “It was standing along there, empty, twenty minutes ago, and just now it passed me as I crossed the Avenue Victor Hugo.”

“Which way was it heading?”

“Towards the Bois, monsieur.”

The inspector gave a grunt.

“As I thought—the Porte Maillot,” he muttered.

In another second they were out of the square and hastening towards the Bois, which they entered at the Large Henri Martin, at once turning to the right along the Allée des Fortifications. Not a word was uttered as they whizzed past the Pavillion Dauphine and the Porte of the same name, their three pairs of eyes riveted upon the gleaming roadway in front. A few minutes brought them to the Porte Maillot, where they were obliged to halt. As the gabelou handed them the ticket of exit Bazin fired a terse inquiry at him.

“A Rolls, monsieur? Black, you say?” The man thought for a moment, while the three men hung upon his reply. “Yes, a large black car came through not very long ago. Six or seven minutes, I should say. Three passengers and a chauffeur in ordinary clothes—a foreigner, I think. They were taking an ill lady to a hospital somewhere out there,” and he jerked his head in the direction of Neuilly. “I fancy she’s had an operation on her face, for she was covered in bandages. Is that the party you mean?”

“M. l’Inspecteur, it is they!” cried Bernard.

“Ah!” exclaimed Bazin. “We are on the right track so far,” and driving down the accelerator, he plunged ahead into the broad Avenue de Neuilly.

At the second mention of bandages Geoffrey’s heart missed a beat. Still, Catherine was undoubtedly alive, had managed to walk a couple of hundred yards to the car. He must not allow himself to dwell upon gruesome possibilities, but try to think that the covering of her face was merely an attempt at disguise. The whole business before them now was to overtake her before any further harm could be done, a proceeding which challenged to the utmost their powers of ingenuity and speed. The Commissariat car possessed a good engine, but with a six or seven minutes’ handicap it seemed a hopeless matter to out-distance a Rolls, besides which at any moment the prey might elude them altogether by some unexpected turn. He voiced his fear to his companion.

Intent on the road in front, the inspector answered with a shake of the head.

“It is true they have a fair start of us, but that does not necessarily mean we shall not be able to catch them. Remember, they can as yet have no idea that they are being followed, consequently they will not risk a hold-up by excessive speed. They have several hours before them, ample time to cover a considerable distance and yet be back by morning.”

“You think they intend to return, then?”

“But of course, monsieur! When they have accomplished their purpose. Unless I am totally misled, those servants mean to slip into the apartment by the private door before anyone is stirring—say at four or five o’clock.”

“And their destination?”

“I am afraid there can be little doubt, monsieur. Some lonely point along the river.”

Geoffrey controlled a shudder. It was what his own belief had told him, and with a sick mind he visualized those head-lines unfortunately so familiar in the daily press: “Body of Young Woman Found in the Seine.…”

“Have you any idea what spot they will choose?”

“Ah, that is difficult to say. They will scarcely venture anything too close to the city, but whatever place they have in mind they will make straight for it, you can depend upon that. From their point of view the sooner the thing is done the better for them. That is why I dare not risk telephoning ahead to have them stopped. It seems to me our wisest course to keep hot on their trail.”

Geoffrey said no more. With gaze fixed on the vista stretching before him, he leaned forward, every muscle in his body rigid as steel. No sound reached him save the engine’s hum and the tense, slightly asthmatic breathing of Bernard behind.

The Pont de Neuilly loomed in sight. They crossed it, then slowed down in doubt as to which way to take. A sleepy sergent de ville emerging into view, they shouted to him a question which after a stupid stare he managed to answer.

“A Rolls-Royce? I believe one passed five minutes or so ago, but I was talking to a motor-cyclist at the time, and did not notice.… Wait a moment, though. A large black car, going pretty fast? Yes, I recall it now. It was making in the direction of La Défense.”

With a cry of triumph Bazin shot forward.

“I believe we are gaining a little,” he commented. “At all events we have not gone astray.”

They reached the monument to the Defence of Paris, inquired again with less certain results, and hesitatingly chose the road to Nanterre, from thence pressing on to Rueil. Here they met with further encouragement. A motorist changing a tyre informed them that he had seen a car corresponding to the Rolls’ description only a few minutes before.

“Good! Then we are still right. Unless something turns up to upset our calculations, I propose going through Malmaison to Bougival and see what we hear when we reach there. I begin to have an idea.…”

Geoffrey looked at him eagerly, but he shut his mouth with a snap and kept it closed for another mile or so.

There were now short stretches of open country. The smell of pavements had yielded to the fragrance of fields, while an occasional flowering fruit-tree showed white in the moonlight. As they rushed past the Château at Malmaison, that tranquil dwelling filled to the brim with the intimate memories of the great Napoleon, Geoffrey recalled with a stab of pain how only three weeks ago he had set with Catherine in the garden and listened while somewhat shyly she had for the first time spoken to him of her broken engagement. He could see now the colour in her cheeks that was like a stain of claret, the liquid brightness welling up in her eyes, her delicate nervous fingers as she played with a stem of grass.

For the hundredth time he cursed his stupidity in not foreseeing the trap into which she had walked. If only the knowledge of Blom’s intentions had come to him a day sooner! It seemed to him incredible that not until this very day had he grasped the monstrous truth, although the affair had been going on steadily under his eyes for over two months.

The agony of suspense continued. At Bougival they learned nothing fresh, so that it was only the inspector’s instinct to guide them that they pushed on to St. Germain, hoping there to obtain tidings.

Soon they were within sight of the Château’s gloomy mass, with the dim glow of Paris behind them and the dark hills of Montmorency cutting off the view. Below them the Seine wound like a serpent, its shining surface marked with splashes of golden light.

The town was almost deserted. In the principal boulevard a sergent, blinking in the glare of their head-lamps, considered their unvarying question with a stolid face. A Rolls? No, he had noticed no such car. He had been at this very spot for the past quarter of an hour.

The pursuers exchanged blank looks. The thought came to them that the Rolls must have taken a side-turning the other side of St. Germaine, in which case it was now miles away in another direction.

“Yet this is the direct route,” muttered Bazin obstinately. “Unless I am totally misled, this is the road they would have taken.”

What was to be done? Geoffrey began to think that perhaps they were wrong in assuming the river to be the objective. In any case the quarry had vanished. They had tracked the Rolls for many miles only to lose it now when another twenty minutes might have brought it in sight. Every second’s delay lessened their chances.

With a hopeless feeling they prowled along the quiet streets of the town until they came to the outskirts, where they met face to face a belated market-wagon wending its way towards Paris with a load of vegetables for the Halle. The driver dozed in his seat, but the woman beside him, brawny and moustachioed, stared hard at them from beneath a battered hat.

Had she seen the car in question? She surveyed them coolly and spat into the dust. Yes—diable!—they had just encountered a car like that, scarcely half a kilometre back, going towards Aubergenville. The chauffeur had taken the middle of the road, pig that he was, and had nearly run over them. The horses had shied, she had had to take the reins herself to avoid a mishap. If monsieur would put on a little speed he might overtake the road-hogs—bad luck to them and theirs!

Before she had stopped speaking the Commissariat car had leaped ahead in the direction of Aubergenville. Again the faint glimmer of hope—yet Geoffrey was far from being convinced that their course was the right one. Somehow he feared that they were now trailing some other car. However, the inspector seemed satisfied.

“Listen, monsieur,” he said, without removing his eyes from the road in front. “From Aubergenville there is a lonely stretch leading directly to the Seine. It is the first suitable spot this side of Paris, and I would have gone straight for it if that sergent had not confused me. I believe that our friends skirted St. Germain for fear of being identified later on. If, as I think, they are nearing their goal, they do not want to take chances, but their little détour may have lost time for them. If that is the case, we may catch sight of them at any moment.”

Three kilometres farther along Geoffrey gave a sudden shout. Far ahead a tail-light was just visible, moving at high speed. Occasionally it vanished at the dip of a hill, only to reappear upon the approaching brow. Like this always the same distance in the rear, they went on for some minutes, Geoffrey upon the edge of the seat, his eyes straining to keep in view the faint point of light.

Before them swept the long road, straight as a length of ribbon, nothing to be seen except the recurrent gleam of the tail-light. They were going at a terrific rate now, and presently their efforts were rewarded by seeing a quarter of a mile in advance the dark shape of a car emerge from the surrounding shadow. A cry of triumph burst from three pairs of lips.

“Shall we overtake them?”

“That will depend on whether or not they suspect we are following them. Still, they must slacken when they come to the town.”

A few straggling lights now appeared, marking the limits of Aubergenville. At the same moment they realized that the distance between the two cars was gradually diminishing. At last in a brilliant patch of moonlight they could plainly make out the swiftly-moving black body.

“Ah, good! Now if we are lucky we shall catch them!”

A few seconds of supreme tension, then to Geoffrey’s dismay the car ahead, instead of slowing as they expected, put on a sudden spurt, and in another instant had completely disappeared.

“What does it mean? They have seen us?”

“I am afraid so. It looks as though they were trying to give us the slip.”

One minute more brought them to the centre of the small town, but although they had wasted no time the black car was not to be seen. How in so short an interval it had contrived to disappear was a mystery; perhaps even now it was close at hand, concealed by one of the obscure turnings; but as far as the trackers were concerned it might have been leagues away. The empty market-place showed not a sign of life as they purred along its cobbled stones, the darkened buildings offered no assistance.

At last they came upon a solitary sergent de ville, sauntering languidly along the pavement. To him Bazin shouted the inevitable query, to be rewarded by the information that a Rolls-Royce had passed only a few moments ago, stopping long enough for the driver to inquire the road to Poissy.

“Poissy!”

The inspector’s tone was furiously amazed, while his two companions reflected his sentiments. Were their conclusions entirely wrong?

“You are sure it was Poissy he asked for?”

“But absolutely, M. l’Inspecteur. I showed them which turning to take—the second along there,”—and he pointed ahead. “They set off at once in that direction, and must be well on their way by now.”

“Eh bien!” the inspector muttered with a shrug.

There was nothing for it but to press on towards the turning indicated and trust to increased speed to bring them once more within sight of their prey. Soon they were shooting along the highway headed for Poissy, uncertain now as to the miscreants’ intentions, and maddened by the minutes lost in the town.

“It’s odd, that,” fumed the inspector, watching the road between narrowed lids. “If they really mean to make for Poissy they have something different in mind from what I thought. I half believe they are playing a trick upon us, that they suspect we are after them and want to throw dust in our eyes.… Here! What is this ahead of us? Do you see those tyre tracks just in front?”

He had jammed on his brakes so suddenly that the other two were thrown out of their seats. In answer to his question Geoffrey sprang out and examined the roadway immediately before them. The fine white dust revealed an imprint of wide tyres curving first to the extreme right, then making a horseshoe bend till finally they went off, twin streaks, in the direction from which they had come.

“My God, you’ve hit it! These are recent tracks. They’ve doubled on their traces and gone back. We must have missed them by about a couple of minutes.”

In a trice they had repeated the manœuvre of the other car and were facing back towards the town.

“What a chance!” murmured Bazin excitedly, as Geoffrey flung himself back beside him. “If I had not suspected that ruse, we should have gone on without noticing. We shall have to look sharp now if we are to catch them. I could take a right-hand turning I know of and attempt to cut them off, but at this stage I dare not risk it. The river lies just down there, only a short distance,”—and he nodded his head towards the declining ground. “Another moment and we come to the lonely road I spoke of.”

Already the car was rushing ahead like a rocket. Dusty hedges flashed past; as far as the eye could reach there was no impediment. Watching breathlessly, Geoffrey could discern no glimmer of a light, nor were his ears able to detect any sound save their own regular drumming on the hard surface of the road. If a tyre should go now—but no, one must not think of accidents. Every second brought them closer to the Seine, flowing silent at the bottom of the slope, far removed from habitation. Perhaps already the Rolls had reached it by some adjacent route. Certainly at this speed it seemed incredible not to overtake the car, if it had indeed come this way.

They dashed through the heart of a wooded expanse, out again into the open, then back into the shadow of a group of pine trees. Still no lights. Now in the distance appeared the thin line of poplars bordering the river. Three seconds more and they would be in sight of the banks. A horrible conviction assailed Geoffrey. They were too late. That parley in the streets at Aubergenville, brief though it had been, had dished their hopes. By now the villains were probably homeward bound, one passenger the less.…

“Look out! My God, don’t you——”

The warning came an instant too late. Intent on the prospect in front, neither of the two men had seen the concealed lane on the right till they were full upon it. There was a confused vision of a whirling black monster on wheels hurling itself upon them, and before Bazin had had time to do more than swerve abruptly to the left a smashing blow struck them broadside, driving them with a terrific impact into the opposite hedge. The door beside Geoffrey was burst open and he was pitched headlong on to the ground. In the same moment sounded a mingling of curses, shouts, grinding of brakes and splintering of glass. Leaping to his feet, half-stunned, he beheld, three yards away, the dark mass of the Rolls they had been chasing poise tottering for a second, to crash over ponderously upon its side.

There was no time to wonder how this final débâcle had happened. Already Geoffrey’s two companions had leaped out of their battered car and were standing beside him, uninjured save for small cuts. Bazin, his set face glistening with blood and sweat, grasped a revolver in one hand. The three men faced the prostrate Rolls in strained expectancy. All was silent. Did this mean that the occupants were stunned, dead perhaps? If any of them had been thrown out, the immense weight of the falling body must have crushed them utterly. Geoffrey’s heart stood still. Catherine—inside that death-trap! Was this the end of it all?

During what seemed an infinite age he remained rooted to the spot staring with starting eyes at the tomb-like car, round which clouds of powdery dust still swirled. Then with a feeling of grotesque unreality he beheld two figures emerge, clambering out of the exposed windows—first the Portuguese, hatless, his swart features streaming with rivulets of blood, while the lobe of one ear dangled from a shred of skin; then Jeanne, her hair dragged back from a face of ghastly pallor, out of which her close-set eyes glared with a dreadful fixity. Hardly had she grasped the sill to hoist herself clear, when from behind came a man’s hand shoving her aside and pawing the air in the manner of a drowning person. Then a dead-white face was thrust out of the aperture and a pair of pale, red-rimmed eyes surveyed the scene.

Events now followed one another so rapidly that it was impossible to sort them out. Eduardo, alighting on the ground cast a single glance at the group close to him and made a headlong dash towards the bottom of the slope. Instantly Bernard sprang upon him, there was a short tussle, the noise of a pistol-shot, then the agent was thrown to the earth, while the flying figure of the Portuguese sped onward. He had covered twenty yards when a second shot crashed, this time from the inspector’s weapon, and the entire party saw the thick-set body reel, sway and collapse face downward in the middle of the road, a smoking revolver clutched in his hand. One, at least, of the scoundrels was accounted for.

“Attention! Ah, crapaud!”

Geoffrey wheeled at the inspector’s sharp cry in time to see the mean figure of Blom backed against the Rolls’ mudguard, pale eyes glittering in the moonlight, a revolver raised in the act of taking aim. A third resounding shot. Geoffrey felt a hot flame sear his shoulder as he flung himself upon his assailant, closing with him in a death-grip. In that moment he realized that his left arm was useless, broken above the elbow by his recent fall. Undeterred by the mishap he wound the fingers of his right hand round the lean throat, felt the twist of muscles as the imprisoned man bent double to free himself, displaying an unexpected force. A red haze blotted out everything. With a foot round the notaire’s leg he threw his victim to the ground, fell atop him, aware of nothing save a rapidly purpling face and a tongue beginning to protrude horribly…

A voice panted in his ear, “That will do beautifully, monsieur!” At the same instant there was a click of handcuffs, and he was dragged away.

Blinking and coughing from the dust, he rose to see close at hand a second scene of violence. Jeanne, her muscles rigid as those of a maniac, a long murderous knife in her hand, was hurling herself on Bernard, who in the nick of time managed to pinion her wrists in his bony grasp.

“Ah—the she-devil! She would have that in his heart!”

There was a swift blow from Bazin’s fist across the taut knuckles, the knife clattered to earth, and another click sounded as a second pair of handcuffs slipped into place. Even then the woman made a dive to bury her teeth in the agent’s hand, but the other two shook her off and dragged her towards the Commissariat car.

A minute more and the maid and Blom were both securely trussed with a rope abstracted from the tool-box. As he tightened the last knot the inspector cast an inquiring glance towards the still figure lying a little distance off.

“That one will give us no trouble,” he remarked with meaning. “Now! That business is finished. Shall we turn our attention to mademoiselle?”

Geoffrey drew a long breath. Since the three plotters had climbed out into the open, no sound or movement had come from the Rolls. Did that indicate that the black cavern was empty? A devastating dread seized him as he went slowly towards it, fearing to look through the window.

She was there. He saw at the bottom a huddled mass, of which in the darkness he could discern nothing more than a heap of clothing.

“Permit me, monsieur. You can do little with that arm of yours. She has probably fainted.”

It was a matter of extreme difficulty to extricate the inert body, but at length they did so, laying it gently upon the ground. With shaking fingers Geoffrey removed the shapeless green hat, revealing, above thick bandages which concealed all the lower portion of her face, a forehead greyish-white and sunken, closed eyes. Not a flicker of an eyelash altered her complete immobility as, heavy and limp, she rested in the roadway. A lock of dark hair matted with blood clung to her brow, accentuating her dreadful pallor.

Geoffrey uttered a groan.

Fainted? She was dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The inspector was cutting away the encircling bands of gauze. Kneeling beside him, Geoffrey watched with a stony expression, fatalistically certain that rescue had come too late. Either the poor girl’s jailers had slain her outright during the long drive, or death had come five minutes ago when the car overturned. The heavy sag of her head made him believe her neck was broken.

As the last fold of material came away, the two men bent forward, dreading the disfigurement which threatened to meet their eyes. None appeared. Only the tight gag was revealed, together with sundry creases where the skin had been long compressed.

“Look what has been done to her!” murmured the officer with a savage click of the tongue. “Now we begin to see.… They have much to answer for, those two!”

So saying he severed the gag, and drew it cautiously from between the swollen lips. Beyond the head wound there was no visible mark of injury, yet the cheek which Geoffrey touched remained cold as ice.

“The hands, too—bound to her body! See how the strips have cut into the flesh! Those bruises would have told a story.…”

The loosened hands dropped upon the ground, like two weights.

“She is dead, of course?”

Geoffrey expected no reply to his toneless utterance, which was less a question than a statement. For a moment he looked on while the inspector, without replying, pressed his ear over the girl’s heart.

All at once, with the movements of an automaton, the young man rose, picked up the revolver which lay in the road, and took a step towards the two bound figures propped against the dusty hedge. He scarcely heard the astonished cry which burst from Bernard.

“Monsieur! Are you mad?”

He stared stupidly as a lean hand shot out and wrested the weapon from his grasp.

Perhaps he was mad. At any rate it was not a self he knew which had yielded to that instinctive urge towards revenge. He came slowly to his senses to hear Bazin calling to him sharply:

“Monsieur—quick! There is a flask in the flap-pocket of the car. And bring a cushion, so we can raise her head.”

He complied, sure that no stimulant could bring back the spark of life to that senseless form. All hope was dead as mechanically he lifted the limp body and watched while the inspector tried to force a few drops of brandy into the mouth.

“It’s no use,” he heard himself muttering.

Seconds passed. He saw both the other onlookers shake their heads, then no longer able to bear the sight before him, he closed his eyes.…

A cry roused him.

“Monsieur! Look!”

He obeyed in time to catch the faintest discernible twitch of the eyelids. Only a mere trace of movement, but it was sufficient.

“Catherine!” he cried in a frenzy of love and longing. “Catherine——!” and seizing her cold hands he began to chafe them vigorously.

For a single second the eyes opened, gazed blankly at him. Then the lids drooped again before there had been any sign of recognition.

“She is not dead, monsieur, but we must lose not an instant in getting her to a doctor. That wound has probably bled a great deal, besides which she has suffered terribly from shock.”

Leaving the young man to continue the work of resuscitation, the inspector hastened to inspect his damaged car, which by a miracle was still fit for service. Finding this to be the case, he then held a hurried consultation with the agent, as a result of which it was decided that the latter should remain behind with the prisoners while the injured girl was conveyed to Aubergenville as quickly as possible in search of medical aid.

As they had supposed, the Portuguese was dead—shot through the back. They dragged his body to the road-side, then returning to the unconscious victim, gently raised her and placed her within the car.

Geoffrey’s last glimpse of the scene of wreckage showed him the butler’s glazed eyes and blood-stained features upturned to the moonlit sky, and a few yards off the two living accomplices, glaring and livid, while Bernard, mounting guard, leaned against the hedge, a vulture-like figure etched in black, his bony fingers philosophically extracting a cigarette from a battered yellow packet.

After her brief flicker of animation Catherine had sunk back into a state of coma. As her head rested heavily against Geoffrey’s shoulder, it seemed certain that she was in no degree aware of her surroundings. Indeed, she scarcely appeared to breathe, but she had given proof that she was alive, and at that knowledge a passion of thanksgiving welled up in her lover’s heart. She was here, in his arms, her hair brushing his lips at a time when but for the most extraordinary good fortune, she would have been at the bottom of the cold whirling stream. Perhaps she had been unconscious all the latter part of her terrible drive. The wound on her head was no recent one by the look of it, nor had any fresh injury, beyond a few bruises, resulted from the collision. Wedged between Jeanne and Blom and with her face thickly covered, she had even escaped cuts from the shattered window.

In the sleeping village they managed to knock up a doctor, who quickly attended to the gash in her scalp and made her as comfortable as possible on a couch in his dispensary. She was suffering from slight concussion, which, combined with shock and exhaustion, had reduced her to a fairly serious state. He shook his head gravely over her as he applied restoratives, but offered no objection when Geoffrey suggested sending for an ambulance to take her to the American Hospital at Neuilly, merely stipulating that she should not be moved till the following day. He then set the young man’s broken arm, dressed the bullet wound in his shoulder—luckily no more than a graze—and, providing him with a glass of cognac, left him to get what rest he could.

Meanwhile the inspector returned to pick up his prisoners, after promising to communicate with the elder Macadam as soon as he reached Paris.

Geoffrey spent the rest of the night in acute anxiety. During long hours the poor girl remained dead to the world, now wholly unconscious, now raving with delirium. Visions of brain fever filled the watcher’s mind, and for a time he seriously feared that her reason would suffer as a result of what had happened in the past forty-eight hours. However, by seven o’clock in the morning she had drifted into a more or less normal slumber, and when the doctor entered bringing hot coffee and the news that the ambulance was on the way, Geoffrey himself had succumbed to exhaustion and, his head fallen forward upon the couch, was sleeping soundly.

Catherine opened her eyes upon a tiny bare room, overlooking a walled garden. Birds were singing in the trees outside, a nurse in uniform was bending over her with a keen but kindly scrutiny. For the moment she had not the remotest idea where she was, and while a thermometer was inserted into her mouth, lay examining her new surroundings with slight curiosity.

“That’s better,” she heard her guardian say in an honest middle-western voice as she shook down the little tube and placed it in its case. “That’s decidedly better.… By the way, there’s a young man walking up and down the corridor begging for a look at you. Shall I let him in for one minute? He’s feeling rather badly used.”

Catherine stared. By an ironic twist her thoughts leaped back to Miles Waring, her former fiancé. Who but he could think himself badly used? Then realizing the absurdity of this, she gropingly came a little nearer the present situation.

“Why, of course,” she replied weakly. “Let him come in.…”

The next instant Geoffrey stood beside her. He was ghastly pale, she thought, and had his left arm in a sling.

“What’s happened to you?” she whispered wonderingly. “Have you hurt yourself?”—and she stretched out a hand which he grasped in a hungry clutch.

“Only a fractured arm. Nothing at all,” he replied awkwardly, his gaze devouring her. “It’s you I want to know about. How do you feel?”

“Rather groggy,” she murmured. “I’ve just waked up. Have I been ill long?”

As she spoke she raised her other hand to her head uncertainly and encountered the rim of a bandage. Astonishment overspread her face.

“Why—am I hurt, too? What is all this?”

For a second she was completely bewildered. Then recollection began to dawn on her.

“Of course! Now I remember!”—and the pupils of her eyes dilated. “It was that beast Eduardo. He banged me over the head with a candlestick last night—or was it last night?”

He did not tell her that the thing she mentioned had happened four days ago.

“Eduardo is dead,” he said shortly. “He’s paid for his sins.”

“Eduardo dead?” She stared at him. “And the others?” she ventured fearfully.

“Locked up, waiting for their trial. There’s nothing for you to bother about now.”

She struggled to take it in.

“Germaine,” she whispered faintly. “She’s dead, too. They killed her, you know. They set fire to her room and locked her in. I tried to stop them, but they were too much for me. They——”

“S’sh—don’t talk,” he commanded soothingly, stroking her hand.

“Better go now,” cautioned the nurse, coming forward. “She’s run on like that for hours, ever since she was brought here. We mustn’t let her excite herself.”

But Catherine’s hand stayed her with an imploring gesture.

“Don’t send him away just yet,” she begged, while tears started to her eyes and spilled over her dark lashes. “I won’t say any more if you’d rather I didn’t.”

And so, without speaking, they sat hand in hand during a long interval of perfect peace.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Ten days passed before Catherine was considered well enough to discuss recent events without undue agitation, and while Geoffrey saw her each afternoon for a short time, their conversation was limited to commonplaces. At the end of that period, however, she showed a definite improvement. Her nerves calmed down, she was able to sleep the night through without a sedative, and exactly a fortnight from the memorable Saturday night she described to Geoffrey all that had happened, from her arrival at the flat till the shock of the collision, when she lost consciousness for the final time.

Geoffrey in turn related his experiences during the corresponding interval—the sudden knowledge of Blom’s motive, his discovery that she was missing, his suspicion of the servants, the false telegram which had thrown him off the scent, his vigil in the room across the street, and last of all, the wild race with death, when every moment had been torture, lest she should be consigned to the river before the pursuers could overtake her.

She listened absorbedly. All this time she had been completely ignorant as to the mainspring of the plot, and she could scarcely contain her astonishment when she heard of Blom’s intended marriage to the woman he planned by his villainy to turn into an heiress.

“Honorine!” she gasped. “That poor, middle-aged, downtrodden woman? I feel quite sure she never dreamed of the relationship any more than Mme. Bender did. I don’t suppose they ever heard of one another. I can’t believe she was a party to any wrongdoing.”

“I am sure she was not. Well, in all probability she will inherit your cousin’s money, though she still is ignorant of the fact; and the outcome of this has spared her tying herself up with a scoundrel who would have used her fortune and neglected her for the first pretty face that came his way.”

She mused a little over this, then turned back to the night which had so nearly ended everything for her. It seemed that the drive had taken place in almost total silence, Blom, who had evidently studied a road-map, only speaking to issue commands, and every few minutes pushing her aside to peer through the window at the back to see if they were being followed.

“It was only a precaution, though, for they all believed they had come away unobserved. However, on the bit of road before we came to that last town——”

“Aubergenville,” he told her.

“He remained looking out for some time, then swore horribly in German and called through the tube, to Eduardo, telling him to drive like hell.”

“That was when he saw us.”

“You may imagine my feelings when I knew that rescue was close at hand and heard the loathsome creature beside me scheming to throw you off the track. We pulled up in the town to ask a direction, then tore off again, only to double back and take two or three turnings till finally we got into a sort of narrow lane, very rough.”

He explained what must have happened, how her captors had made the detour in order to avoid returning to Aubergenville, and how they were in the act of entering the lonely road leading to the Seine when they ran headlong into the very car they were endeavouring to escape.

“I never knew what hit us,” she said. “I felt a terrific jolt which made me see stars, but if there was any thought in my brain it was that it was better to die that way than by drowning.”

She repressed a shudder, and yielding her hand to his seeking one, lay back among her pillows.

“I forgot to tell you,” she remarked presently when the nurse had brought tea and retired again tactfully, “that I had a visit from Hermione this morning. Poor thing, she is quite broken up, and has positively lost weight. Her clothes hung on her. Do you know, she never mentioned Germaine’s money, nor the pearls, though surely she knows they are gone?”

“My father had a talk with her after the safety-box was opened. It must have been a great blow to her, but she was quite dignified about it.”

“She seemed to me rather stunned. I don’t believe she has grasped it all yet. The only comment she made about Honorine’s getting the fortune was that heaven knows where she would go now to have her old hats made over!”

They laughed a little at this.

“The wretched part about it is that I am positive Germaine would have left her something if she had not been interfered with by Jeanne. Isn’t it damnable? I am afraid the poor creature has almost no money.”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “things won’t turn out for her at all badly. It is she, after all, who will furnish us with particulars regarding Mme. Bender’s family, and the commission she will receive for her services will be quite enough to provide for her comfortably.”

Her eyes brightened.

“Is that true? I’m glad you told me. I’ve been bothering about her. She is miserably unhappy, you know. She told me she has not slept since the night of the murder, thinking of Germaine and her awful end.”

Her voice trembled as she whispered the last words. Geoffrey set down his cup and sat upon the bed beside her, raising her chin with his hand so that he could look into her troubled eyes.

“Catherine,” he said. “I can see you are letting that dwell on your mind, too. Isn’t that so?”

“It haunts me,” she admitted. “Every time I close my eyes I can see that flaming room and poor Germaine lying in the midst of it. I wish I could forget it.”

He thought for a moment.

“But at the time you were pretty certain she was already dead?”

“I believed she was. I had only a glimpse, though, before I was dragged away.”

“Well, you may take it for granted that she not only did not suffer, but that she was never even aware of the fire. She simply went to sleep as usual and died before anything happened.”

She looked at him with painful eagerness.

“Oh! If only I could believe that!” she cried with intense longing. “Do you think it is possible?”

“More than that. Since the post-mortem we are quite sure of it. Her organs were found to contain sufficient veronal to have killed her quietly and without pain. The fire was merely to cover things up. If the doors were locked it was only because Jeanne, having failed in her previous attempts, was unwilling to take any chances.”

A sigh of thankfulness escaped her.

“Then there will be no difficulty about proving it was murder?”

“They will put up a fight, of course, you may depend on that. You see, veronal happens to be a drug which accumulates in the system, and it is undoubtedly true that your cousin had taken considerable quantities of it for months on end. They will swear that death was due to heart failure.”

Her face fell a little.

“But do you think the courts will accept their theory?”

He hesitated slightly. Up till now he had not mentioned the part she would be obliged to play in the trial.

“Not when they have heard your evidence,” he answered. “But don’t let’s talk of that now.”

Watching, he saw a stoical light come into her eyes.

“I shall be equal to it when the time comes,” she said intrepidly. “When I think of what those two have done, I could go through fire myself to bring them to justice.”

“One tremendous point in our favour is their attempt to do away with you,” he reminded her. “They’ll find it pretty hard to explain that away.”

“That was Eduardo’s stupidity,” she replied. “When he came in and saw me struggling with Jeanne, he lost his head and let go at me. But for that they might have pretended they were merely anxious to prevent my harming myself by going into the burning room. I shouldn’t wonder if they could have got away with it, too—Jeanne is so abominably clever! By the way,” as a sudden thought struck her, “what was the hammering on the front door which I heard just before I lost consciousness?”

He told her it must have been the locataire from the third floor, trying to wake up the servants.

“But for that interruption they would probably have allowed the fire to go on much longer. In fact, it was probably their plan to let the whole apartment be consumed, just managing to escape with their lives. In that way Mme. Bender’s body would have virtually disappeared, as well as every trace of their various thefts.”

“I see. So it was that unexpected hitch which altered things for them. It must have been an awkward moment. What did they do with me, I wonder?”

“I should say they moved you into one of the back rooms for the time being, then while the man ran out to give the alarm, Eduardo must have carried you up in the lift and through the trap-door on to the roof. Certainly there was only a short interval before the place was inundated with people, so they had to work quickly. It was probably Jeanne’s shadow I saw on the blind in your room. She must have been busy putting your things back into the bags ready for removal. By the time the engines arrived she and Eduardo were both back at the scene of action, making a great pretence of rescuing their mistress’s body.”

She stared in blank amazement at this arrangement of facts.

“Then I spent the remainder of the night on the roof?” she said wonderingly.

“With your luggage,” he replied. “It’s the only solution I can think of. You were not in the apartment next day when we searched it, and except for that possible quarter of an hour of which I speak, Eduardo had no free moment to get you out.”

“Then how did I come to be in the other flat?”

“The inspector has been investigating that. The flat belongs to a Chilian family, who went off to Rome, leaving their butler in charge. The butler took the week-end off, leaving the key with the concierge, whom he had sworn to secrecy. But the concierge mentioned the fact to Blom, who it seems was his man of business, as well as Eduardo’s. He admits all this now.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Our theory is that when Eduardo told Blom what had happened to you and the danger they were in, Blom, knowing the Bender apartment would be searched, advised him to steal the key to the empty flat, which he must have done during the time Bernard found him with the concierge. After this he came home, took the lift straight to the top of the building, climbed on to the roof, carried you across and down into the other house, and returned by the same route. Previously he had garaged the car elsewhere in Blom’s name, so that all the latter had to do was to claim it, drive to the Square Lamartine, and drop in for a friendly call on the concierge at the right moment to engage the old man’s attention while you were being brought out. The whole thing was timed to a second, and would have gone off without a hitch if Bernard had not been watching the premises. So you see,” he added, “you owe your life to Bernard.”

“Only partly. What about your finding out that the telegram was faked? But for that you wouldn’t have been on the spot at all.”

“There was a good deal of luck about it. If I had not felt I could not sit still in the Commandant’s study another instant I should never have seen Bernard at all, and alone he could hardly have accomplished much. If he had set upon the scoundrels single-handed in that quiet square, they would probably have stuck Jeanne’s knife into him and left him in the gutter.”

The trial of Jeanne Laborie and Adolph Blom became within the next few weeks a cause célèbre. Both prisoners stuck woodenly to their plea of not guilty, and throughout a rigorous cross-examination preserved an unbroken stolidity of bearing. Their avocat, a sharp if somewhat shady lawyer from Montmartre, displayed diabolical cunning on their behalf, so that only after a prolonged tussle did his defence break down under the weight of accumulated evidence. In the end, as Geoffrey had foreseen, it was the attempt to remove Catherine which turned the balance.

The truth, when all was known, may be summed up in this wise:

Shortly after Mme. Bender’s return from America, Jeanne, hitherto an irreproachable servant, realized the extent to which her mistress’s will had become weakened, and resolved to profit by it. At first she did not venture beyond petty thefts—juggling with household accounts, the occasional sale of some small article of value—but emboldened by success she soon began operations on a more extensive scale. She dismissed the other servants, engaged the stupid cook, who in exchange for liberal outings and a minimum of work fell in blindly with her plans, and by dint of many ruses was speedily putting away a substantial sum of money. At this period she probably thought of nothing worse than keeping Mme. Bender in a helpless state so that she could continue her pilfering. However, after nearly a year of this, Blom forced his way into the game, and the whole scheme was materially altered.

The notaire, through whose hands the stolen money passed, began eventually to wonder at the large sums which the maid regularly brought to him for investment. It did not take him long to discover the source of this surprising wealth, and, once sure of his facts, he pounced upon Jeanne and her fellow-thief, Eduardo, and informed them brutally that either they must admit him to a share of their gains or else he would lose no time in reporting them to the police. It was useless for the two to protest innocence; he had them in a cleft stick. From that time on both servants were reluctantly obliged to submit to his terms.

Now entered the sinister element in the plot. Some months previous Jeanne, in one of her talks with the notaire, had happened to mention her mistress’s maiden name, in conjunction with the fact that Mme. Bender possessed no known heir. Blom had said nothing, but had noted that by a curious coincidence the name had also been formerly borne by one of his humble clients—Mme. Baron, known to her customers as Honorine. He resolved quietly to ascertain if a blood relationship might exist between the two Dieulefits, made the visit to Bordeaux, and hit on the astounding truth that the milliner was indeed not merely a connection of the wealthy woman, but actually her sole heir—a cousin in the seventeenth degree!

This gave him his cue, and he forthwith prepared his plans with cold-blooded thoroughness. He offered Jeanne and Eduardo a definite choice—prison, or conniving with him at the murder of the invalid, at whose death he, as Mme. Baron’s husband, would be in a position to recompense them amply for their services. At this stage it is probable that Jeanne, the master-mind of the two servants, while hating to submit her will to another, yet realized that it served her best interests to do so. She began to think that her mistress might not have long to live, in which case her income was likely to be cut off at any moment. Better, from her point of view, make certain of a single large sum and have done with it. That she was quite conscienceless and devoured by avarice was only too apparent.

The decision made, Blom lost no time in making sure of his widow, who, regarding him as a desirable partner, accepted his proposal with astonished alacrity. It now remained to prevent Mme. Bender’s making a will, and to bring about her death, in such a manner as to suggest accident or suicide. Jeanne’s gradual instillation of the insanity idea—begun to serve her private ends—was an admirable aid to both these projects. It discouraged the invalid from venturing a disposition of her property which the courts might set aside, and at the same time hoodwinked the outside world into believing her capable of self-destruction. The one annoying obstacle was Miss Cushing. However, that unfortunate lady, by displaying anxiety as to her own inheritance, played into the crafty maid’s hand, with the result already seen.

The train was carefully laid when the plotters were thrown into confusion by Catherine’s approaching visit. Deeming it best to hasten things, they arranged the first known attempt on the victim’s life by substituting the extra strong solution of disinfectant—actually the dangerous Burnett’s Fluid—for the glass of water with which she was about to take her veronal tablet. The plan failed, was interpreted as a foiled effort at suicide, and for the time being nothing further was done, Catherine’s presence acting as a deterrent. The truth about Mme. Bender’s trying to jump out of the window was never revealed, but it was almost certainly an invention of Jeanne’s to lend colour to her assertions. Here again she killed two birds with one stone. She influenced public opinion, deceiving even the doctor, and by placing the bars across the window shook her mistress’s faith in herself to a terrifying extent. Indeed, her cunning foresaw and allowed for every contingency. In but one respect did she err, and even here her stupidity would have passed unremarked had it not been for Catherine’s arrival on the scene. However, her ruling passion, greed, was too strong to withstand, and it was greed which indirectly brought about her ruin, even though it confused the issues and argued potently against a motive for murder.

Knowing that, once her mistress was dead, she and Eduardo would have to content themselves with what Blom was willing to pay them, she resolved to make the most of her present opportunity, and from the moment she agreed to the notaire’s terms, set about quietly stripping the apartment of saleable objects. Bibelots, antique silver, tapestries and finally paintings, disappeared. Catherine’s suspicion regarding the thefts gave her a bad fright, but she had a worse adversary to reckon with. Blom himself was incensed at the loss of what he now regarded as his own belongings, the scene in the lower hall being due to his discovery of what was going on. At this stage he could do little but threaten; the trio were in it now up to the neck, and stood or fell together; but he managed to insist that Mme. Bender’s death should no longer be postponed, ordering his tools to proceed with the business of dispatching her quickly.

The conspirators were now faced with an embarrassing situation. Catherine had become a positive menace. She was resolved to make an indefinite stay, and showed signs of her intention to oust the servants from their positions. Drastic action must be taken without delay, consequently the maid hit on the idea of making her enemy ill so that she would either be confined to her room or else forced to go away. Thereupon she administered to the unsuspecting girl small daily doses of a drug which brought on the attack, later supposed to be ptomaine poisoning, throwing the young doctor off the track by hinting that the patient had given herself some violent medicine. The drug employed was in all likelihood the digitalis kept for Mme. Bender’s occasional heart seizures. It was the one noxious substance at the woman’s disposal, it could be partially disguised in coffee and tilleul, and the result was calculated to produce precisely the symptoms noticed in Catherine’s illness—acute nausea, cramps, and fainting. Mrs. Baxter’s invitation happily came at the right moment, as did Geoffrey’s insistence on its acceptance. The field was cleared, and all went smoothly up to the moment of the visitor’s untimely return.

Geoffrey’s theory regarding the fire was probably correct. Having got all she could hope to obtain, Jeanne did not in the least care if the whole building was destroyed. It meant safety for her, and although Blom might be furious over the needless loss he could not say anything. Indeed, his only possible course was to remain steadfastly behind the curtains, go ahead with his humble marriage, which would have included the customary drive in the Bois in a char à banc, accompanied by his friends, and then subside until the moment when more than anyone else he would express amazed gratification at his wife’s stupendous luck.

The pearls, disposed of piecemeal, were never recovered, nor were the Aubusson carpet and tapestries; but when Jeanne was taken to the prison a packet of bank-notes, representing many thousand francs, was found strapped around her waist, no doubt the proceeds of various sales. The Manet was eventually traced to South America, whence it had been smuggled by an obscure dealer, and a Claude Monet, a Dégas and a small Renoir turned up finally in the French provinces, where the same person was holding them till a safe time.

The two criminals received the death sentence.

Catherine’s sister knew nothing of what was happening till the excitement was past. Even then, for an anxious day or so Catherine feared that the zealous Barbara would dash across the ocean to take charge of her—an event she particularly dreaded. However, a series of reassuring cables set matters right, and she breathed again, secure in her independence. It required but little persuasion on the Baxters’ part to induce her to spend her convalescence at Fontainebleau, where she rapidly gained strength, soothed by a sense of blessed security, and happy in the knowledge that almost every evening would bring Geoffrey to her side.

One afternoon towards the end of May, when Catherine was well enough to walk and Geoffrey’s arm was free of its sling, the two strolled out into the forest and sat down upon a fallen beech-trunk in an open glade. The slanting sun-rays streamed through a canopy of leaves, dappling the ground with shadows and playing on the tender green of the girl’s frock. The hush of the hour held them spellbound, and they were silent so long that a thrush in the nearest thicket resumed its interrupted song.

Catherine for her part was feeling curiously shy. During the past weeks she had thought of her lover with a calm and steady affection, but somehow this evening she was disturbingly aware of his masculinity, which all at once struck her as a force to be reckoned with. As she watched him poking among the dead leaves with a stick, and noticed once more the dark hairs upon the backs of his muscular hands, a tremor of nervousness seized her. Tension was in the still air, the approach of a crisis which she longed for, yet dimly dreaded.

Presently it came.

“Catherine,” he began abruptly, “do you remember what you said to me that evening after the cabaret? That you’d never consent to be engaged again, but that one day you’d make up your mind to marry quite suddenly?”

“I remember.…”

“Do you still mean it?”

She coloured with confusion.

“I—I suppose I do,” she faltered uncertainly. “Only I’d have liked to let my hair grow to a more decent length first. I’m such a fright like this!”—and she rubbed her fingers ruefully over the ruffled crop she had spent hours trying to train into subjection.

“As if that mattered!” he cried impatiently. “Besides, it will take just over a fortnight to comply with the French regulations. That ought to be long enough, surely. What do you say? I could start the process to-morrow.”

The practical firmness of his tone startled her a little. It was some moments before she could meet his gaze, and when she did so she was still unable to frame a response.

Suddenly she uttered a cry.

“Speaking of hair,” she gasped, “did you know you have got a patch of grey over each ear? Geoffrey! To think I never noticed it!”

“Have I?”—indifferently. “It doesn’t matter. You haven’t answered my question.”

“But it does matter,” she replied obstinately. “You hadn’t them before. Tell me—is it because of—me?”

Evading her importunity, he lifted her two hands in his and kissed the open palms.

“At any rate,” he said half-seriously, “you realize now what you are able to do to me if you like. For instance, if ever you should change your mind——”

Through a sudden mist fire flamed in her eyes.

“I shan’t,” she murmured quickly. “I——”

But whatever she might have added was stifled by the pressure of his lips.

[The End]