William Le Queux (continued 4)

The complete spontaneity of her action, and the earnestness of her conduct, immediately softened his rage. For a while he said nothing. She lingered with her arms still clinging to him, and appealed: “Raife, why, I verily believe you are angry with me. Don’t, dear Raife. It will break my heart if you, my hero, my own true love, should be angry with me.”

Then, as the cloud gradually removed from his stern countenance, she continued, pleadingly: “What have I done, Raife? Was it only that stupid talk about Mr Brookman’s American voice? Why, we always talk that way over there. If you had been away for a long time, wouldn’t you like to hear an English voice, even if it was only dear old Edgson’s, or one of your grooms’ or gardeners’?”

The conquest was nearly complete. Raife’s smile was only half-hearted as yet, however, as he said, in a tone of remonstrance: “Yes, but they tell me you have been riding in that fellow’s aeroplane.”

Hilda laughed merrily as she said: “Of course I have. You dear heart, you don’t have to be jealous about that. You great, big, brave darling. You go up in one, and you will find there’s no time for courting when you are chug-chugging through the air at sixty to seventy miles an hour. You only want to court the sky, or else the clouds, then!”

He stopped and gazed into her eyes, and a gradual feeling of shame came over him, as it dawned upon him that his jealousy had savoured far more of the plebeian than the patrician. He was receiving a lesson from this pure-spirited, ingenuous American girl. She might be impulsive, but she was frank and pure-spirited. She had given up her love to her hero and she would be true to him.

He stooped lower and kissed her, saying: “Forgive me, Hilda. I was jealous, and I was a veritable fool. There seems to be a kink in my character somewhere, and you have made me ashamed of myself.”

The reconciliation was nearly complete, and the first quarrel of the lovers had ended. Would there be any further rifts in the lute, or was there to be perfect peace after this ill-considered hurricane of jealousy?

Harold Brookman sailed through the clouds on his northward journey to Hendon aerodrome. He arrived without further mishap, and was received with acclamation by his comrades of the air. He was not aware of how imminent had been the quarrel between himself and his host, Sir Raife Remington. Nor was he aware of the unreasoning ferocity of the other man’s jealousy.

The two lovers wandered, arm in arm, through the gardens. Their happiness was apparently restored, but Hilda Muirhead had received the first shock to her ideals. The wound was there. Would it be allowed to heal for ever, or would the malignant curse of the long years ago enter into her young life also?

Their progress was slow, and there was little conversation between them. Here and there a gardener saluted them, and inwardly envied the young master and his bride “that was to be.” Lady Remington watched them from the library window as, occasionally, they came into view. To her, also, happiness had, in part, returned after the distressing incidents of the morning. Her heart ached for her wayward son, and the future was fraught with danger. She loved Hilda already with a mother’s love, and she was very anxious lest Raife’s vagaries should destroy the peace of the young girl’s life. She descended the broad staircase and met them as they sauntered along the terrace. She was the first to speak, with the intuitive knowledge that, by doing so, she might save embarrassment. She addressed herself to Raife:

“Wasn’t it strange, Raife, that Mr Brookman should come from Cincinnati, and be married to Hilda’s old college friend? What was her name, Hilda?”

Raife winced, blushed, and stammered: “You didn’t tell me he was married.”

Hilda replied, with some show of spirit: “No, Raife, you didn’t give me a chance. In any case, I don’t see that need make any difference. If Mr Brookman, or any other fellow countryman in distress, were unmarried, I should feel it my duty to be civil to them.”

Every word, uttered with an accentuated intonation, was a stab to Raife, who cursed himself for his foolish impetuosity.

Hilda concluded: “Yes, Harold Brookman married my college chum, Lottie Devine. They’ve been married about four years. They have two children and are very happy. Lottie wouldn’t be my chum if she were not a nice girl, and if Harold Brookman were not a nice man, he wouldn’t have married Lottie. He’s over here training for a Transatlantic air race, and I hope he’ll win.”

Raife Remington’s discomfiture was complete.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Another Mysterious Visitor in the Night.

Long after Hilda had retired to bed one night, Raife and Mr Muirhead having put on their heavy motor coats, sat enjoying the moonlight, and chatting over the events of the day. There was much to talk of, for there were many questions of settlements, entailing long consultations with lawyers. No reference was made between the two men to Raife’s jealousy of the last few days. An interview was arranged with Mr Kellaway, the family solicitor, and the late Sir Henry Remington’s old friend. The services of Messrs Gordon and Gordon, the solicitors of Edinburgh, whom the late Sir Henry Remington had chosen to make his will, would have to be enlisted.

Mr Muirhead explained that, whereas, he did not own valuable estates like Aldborough Park, his financial interests in American securities were extensive and sound. He proposed to endow Hilda with enough of his worldly wealth to enable her to play the Lady Bountiful among Raife’s peasantry and elsewhere, and, at the same time, support herself in those directions in which every independent-minded American girl is accustomed.

They were talking earnestly in this manner, when Mr Muirhead remarked, “Your servants are about late, to-night. I suppose that’s a gamekeeper. I haven’t much knowledge of such things. We don’t preserve game in the United States—at least,” he added, “not to the extent that you appear to do.”

Raife glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a figure creeping stealthily in the dark shadows of the clump of cedars and pines. “That is not a gamekeeper,” he said.

He rose, followed by Mr Muirhead, and started in the direction of the retreating figure, which immediately commenced to run. Raife threw off his motor coat, exclaiming: “Heavens! I wish I had my revolver.”

Mr Muirhead, as is the practice of many Americans, had his. It was an old-fashioned Deringer. He handed it to Raife, saying: “Take mine.”

Then began a chase, but the retreating figure had, by now, a good start. Down the beech avenue for a hundred yards, then through a gap into a croft, skirting a hedgerow and over a gate at the end, Raife arrived in time to see his quarry jump into a grey car. There were two shots, one at Raife as he clambered over the gate, and one from Raife as the car sped down a side lane that led to the main road. Raife was near enough to see that the figure he had hunted was the omnipresent phantom Apache, who had haunted him half-way over Europe and Egypt.

In the morning Hilda appeared fresh and bright, garbed in a gown of grey tweed. She and Raife were strolling down a long, straight path, where nectarines and peaches were trained against a high, grey-red brick wall, buttressed and lichen-covered on top. On the other side were espalier apple-trees and all those things which go to make an old English garden. They passed through an arch in the wall into an orchard. The blossom of an orchard in springtime is the most inspiring sight that humanity can wish for. There is hope in every petal.

They had talked lightly of many things. Most of their conversation pertained to the beauty of everything around. Hilda had thrown away the paper that she had found under the window of her bedroom, but in spite of her determination to forget the incident, some strange impulse impelled her to allude to it now, although many days had passed. So she said: “Oh, I say, Raife! In my room, the first night I was here, I picked up a piece of paper. On it was typewritten something like this: ‘It is dangerous to rob.’ It was placed under the window that opens on to the balcony. I suppose some one who stayed there before me was fond of texts and that sort of thing, but it struck me as strange.”

Raife’s face clouded. The supreme happiness of that spring morning, with its exquisite environment, had vanished. He had practically forgotten his chase after the elusive Apache the night before. He had been happy for a brief period while among his own on a superb spring morning—and he now counted Hilda among his own. Why should he be persistently pursued by a malevolent fate? He laughed at the incident, and said: “Yes, I expect that is so. You see, I have been away so long. I expect mother has had some dear old lady staying here, and she dropped one of her texts, and the maid did not notice it.”

Doctor Malsano sat in his den. It might be called a studio, a library, a laboratory, for he was a master of many crafts. A maid knocked at his door and announced, “There is a man named Lesigne wishes to see you, sir.”

“Ask him in,” snapped the doctor.

A pale-faced young man, whose features resembled a combination of cunning and all that is decadent in human physiognomy, entered deferentially. The doctor glared at him.

“Have you bungled again?” the doctor asked.

“No, monsieur! I have not bungled. I left the note, as you told me, under the young lady’s window—the window of the young lady at Aldborough Park. Since then I visited the place again and the man, Sir Remington, he chased me across the park. I escaped and I fired at him. He fired at me. It was difficult. I enter the car. I get away. I am here. I await instructions. I am at your service, sir!” Doctor Malsano took this narration of an exciting incident, as he would have cracked an egg at breakfast-time. The young man stood deferentially, as the old man spoke. “Lesigne, you are a bungler, but you seem to have done this rather well. Go to your room and sleep. I may want you at any moment.”

The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under the control of this Machiavelli—the person whose evil influence controlled the fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.

They were merry days at Aldborough Park on the occasion of the wedding of Hilda Muirhead to Sir Raife Remington. Again the church bells pealed, and the tenants and retainers met for a feast, at which there was much rejoicing. Edgson, the old butler, was not there. It was his privilege to be at the house in Mayfair, and there he took his place, honoured in the rank of servitors, which had been swelled from those at Aldborough Park.

Mr Muirhead, with an aptitude which belongs to the aristocrats of the United States, took his part remarkably well. Lady Remington was gracious and kindly to all. These were Raife’s happiest moments. His innate modesty made him the more attractive to every one, for there was the dominating personality of a strong, active man pervading the whole situation. Hilda had no doubts. There was no sense of perturbation. She was radiant, happy, and beautiful. She accepted everything. Lady Remington tendered every loving service to her, personally, and she was not allowed time to reflect on the “other woman.” The “other woman” was only known to herself and Raife. The others knew not of her. Raife and herself did not speak of this dread apparition which had by some mysterious means crossed the path of their perfect love several times.

A wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, is frequently an impressive ceremony. On the day of Raife’s wedding there was more than the usual crowd of bystanders. The church was filled with a smartly-dressed number of society women and men. There were no white horses, but a Rolls-Royce and a Mercedes car took their place. The pages, dressed in the Tudor costume of the period of Edward the Sixth, were there, and a throng of people who represented many grades of the peerage. Hilda was dressed as the best Court dressmakers of London, alone, can dress a woman for an occasion. Raife, with the help of a Cork Street tailor, was immaculate, and his best man was Edward Mutimer, his old college chum, who was with him on the front at Southport when he met Gilda Tempest for the first time.

The ceremony of marriage was complete. The choir had sung. The organist had played the Bridal March from “Lohengrin.” It was not an occasion for Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The rice had been thrown and the gaping crowd of onlookers were satisfied. Raife and Hilda were alone, for a few moments, in the Rolls-Royce car. They were the briefest moments of his short lifetime. They did not talk, for there was too much cause for thought.

Smartest among the well-dressed women in St. George’s, Hanover Square, was Gilda Tempest. It was not hard, with the confidence and skill which had served her on so many occasions, for Gilda to join the guests who were invited to the reception that followed the wedding. The occasion was quite conventional, and Hilda had left to prepare for departure on the honeymoon. Every one was chatting merrily and Raife was leaving the room, when, to his intense surprise, he was confronted by Gilda.

“You here?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, Raife. I am here. I must talk to you, I am so sad—so alone. Let me talk to you. It will probably be the last time. Let me talk to you—”

Unobserved by the merry crowd of guests who were bandying commonplaces to the sipping of champagne and various wines, Raife led Gilda into a conservatory which overlooked a drab old London garden—or backyard, with a lilac bush in full blossom.

Raife spoke harshly: “What do you want? Why do you come here, to-day?—to-day of all days! Why do you come here?”

Gilda Tempest spoke. In short, staccato accents she said: “Raife! Raife, I must speak to you. You are the only person in this wide world, to whom I can speak. Let me speak to you. Raife! I must talk, just for the briefest while.”

All the old and strange fascination of this extraordinary girl returned. Raife stood entranced by this absorbing figure. The scene that followed was unparalleled in the history of a wedding-day. Her beauty had returned to her. She was no longer haggard, and there were no lines to mar her face. Her whole soul appealed to him, and, in spite of all the conventions, he responded.

Raife Remington fell—and fell in a most inconceivable manner.

The time drew near for the departure of the wedded couple. Hilda, looking charming in her travelling-dress, was going round and saying good-bye to the guests. The last farewell spoken, she looked round for her husband. A sudden premonition of something disastrous, something awful, assailed her and communicated itself to the others. Where was Raife? A dozen voices cried out. There was a hurried search in every room where he could possibly be. A few moments of agonised suspense and wonder, and then the horrible truth was revealed.

The bridegroom had disappeared!

On the cliffs of Cromer were a hat and coat. The local police had been duly informed of the event, and the inspector, with a sergeant, were investigating the circumstances.

“Looks like suicide,” said the inspector. “It’s a good coat, too. Well, let’s get to work. What’s in the pockets? We shall have the newspaper men round presently, and we must be ready for them when they get here. Curse the newspapers! Our job would be much easier if it were not for them. They smell out a tragedy like a fly finds treacle.”

First came a silver card-case, with coronet and initials in multi-coloured jewels, “R.R.” The cards were inscribed “Sir Raife Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells.” This was a card-case presented by Hilda Muirhead in the happy days of courtship, which ended in marriage.

A letter, in brief, rasping sentences, was the next discovery. “Kismet! Allah wills it. It was not to be. There is a curse in my life, and now I abandon my life.” The letter was not signed.

The inspector tossed the letter to the sergeant, who, having read it, remarked, laconically: “Ten to one, there’s a woman in the case.”

The newspapers were very busy for many days after Raife’s coat and hat had been found on the cliffs at Cromer.

Again Doctor Malsano sat in his den, and there was an expression of triumph on his face. Gilda Tempest was there, and the doctor spoke soothingly.

“Gilda, we are approaching the end. You played your part very well the other day at the wedding ceremony.”

Gilda shuddered. The full force of the crime that she had been compelled to commit, confronted her.

Case-hardened, and soaked in the jaundiced atmosphere of criminality, the doctor continued to smile.

“Ha! ha! Remington thought he would escape. Your father killed him and he killed your father. But I am here, and his son shall not escape. Gilda, you must complete the ruin of that young fool. The vendetta is not complete.”

Gilda writhed as the old man murmured these hateful words. She loved Raife, and, in her sane moments, would have given more than her life for him. The baneful influence of her uncle had led her to wield a fateful power over the man she loved.

The scene that followed the disappearance of the bridegroom on the wedding-day in Mayfair does not admit of description.

Lady Remington, chastened by a sequence of sad events, remained stately, and carried off the situation with a grace that softened the difficulties of those trying moments.

The pride of Hilda Muirhead—Lady Remington—had been sorely tried. Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead would have, unhesitatingly, shot Raife Remington if they had met.

Easy is the Avernian descent, and Raife had yielded to the malignant control of Doctor Malsano.

A newspaper sensation does not last very long, and the disappearance of Sir Raife Remington no longer occupied the space that would be given to a Cabinet crisis.

The newspaper man on “a crime story” is not easily set aside. The intelligence of the police is far beyond that which they are paid for. There were certain discrepancies in the circumstantial evidence which went to show that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide.

A paragraph appeared in the daily papers to the effect that: “It is reported that Sir Raife Remington, who so mysteriously disappeared on the day of his wedding, has been seen in Paris.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

On the Trail. The Finding of the Reticule.

In the few minutes that Raife talked with Gilda Tempest in the conservatory in Mayfair, he had made his plans. They were quite discreditable to him, but he was no longer a free agent. Gilda’s influence had captured him completely, and it was an influence for evil. Gilda, in turn, was entirely controlled by Doctor Malsano. They met in Paris, and theirs was the abandon of a crazy infatuation, over which Doctor Malsano exercised his cunning. The wayward Raife Remington had fallen very low indeed. Hidden away in the Rue Lafayette was a small flat. It was the scene of many ugly situations; but, throughout all, the relationship of Raife and Gilda was purely platonic. He had left his wife on her wedding-day. He had abandoned himself to a scandalous life.

Doctor Malsano’s gang of continental crooks worked in varying directions, and there was very little in the way of villainy that did not come within the scope of their operations, and Raife was entangled in them. Malsano, through Gilda, controlled Raife’s actions. Only on one point was he firm. He refused to allow Gilda to remain the decoy, and his unconquerable firmness brought him into antagonism with the doctor, who vowed to complete the revenge that was being carried out on the son of the man who had offended forty years previously.

It seemed incredible that a young aristocrat of ancient lineage, endowed with high moral and intellectual courage, could be dragged down to such depths. A crazy infatuation for a woman, who carried trouble in her train, for a woman who had displayed all the traits of inherent criminality, had brought Raife to a moral standard beneath contempt. It is not to be supposed that Raife had surrendered to his downfall without long and bitter struggles. Time and again he endeavoured to emerge from this fearful debacle. On each occasion the pleading of this fascinating woman held him in a closer grip, and the triumph of Malsano was complete.

The Dowager Lady Remington and the new Lady Remington did not believe the newspaper paragraph that stated that Raife had been seen in Paris. In the midst of the overwhelming trouble, the crushing blow to their pride, these two women solaced one another, and hoped against hope. Neither could believe that the man who possessed such amiable and loving qualities could have destroyed himself, or wantonly disappeared in such cruel circumstances.

A week or more after the disappearance, a maid brought to Raife’s mother a reticule which had been picked up in the conservatory in Mayfair. It was very handsome, and contained some visiting-cards on which were engraved, “Miss Gilda Tempest.” There was no address, nor did the reticule contain any indication of an address.

The old lady at once sent for Hilda and when she entered the room exclaimed, “Hilda! at last here is some news, although I fear it is not of the best.” She then told of the finding of the reticule and the cards contained therein. She quickly added, “We met this young person at Nice, and she has an uncle, a rather evil-looking person. But he can be quite charming on occasions, in spite of an extraordinary swivel eye that produces a most mystifying effect. I always mistrusted them, and now I feel confident they are at the bottom of this mystery.”

Hilda at once thought of “the other woman” that Raife had spoken about in Cairo—the woman that had made him a woman-hater. Had she returned and recaptured her lost fancy? It could not be love. Hilda was the only woman, in her own estimation, who could love Raife. The terrifying thoughts that haunted her made her courageous mind act very quickly. Her father’s business had compelled his return to the United States, and she was alone in so far as initiative was concerned. Taking possession of the reticule, she left the room, and, in the next few minutes was talking on the telephone to Scotland Yard. It is not to be expected that a detective-inspector should be at the other end of a telephone every time he is wanted. Hilda had heard Raife speak of Herrion, and, with the extraordinary gift possessed by most Americans, she remembered his name and all about him.

“Is Detective-inspector Herrion there?” The reply came softly back, “No, he is not. Who is speaking?”

The title came strangely to Hilda’s lips as she spoke into the receiver: “I am Lady Remington. You may remember something about the disappearance of Sir Raife Remington some time ago.” Then she added, and again the title sounded strange: “Sir Raife Remington is my husband, you know. Well, I have got some news, what you call a clue, and I would like very much to see Mr Herrion, if possible. I shall be at the house in Green Street, Mayfair, all day. I wonder if he could call?” Then, as the receiver clicked into its position, she leant back and thought very hard.

It was late that evening when Mr Herrion was announced. Hilda received him in a small writing-room. The lithe, powerful little man was, for the occasion, immaculately clad, and there was more than a suggestion of the society lisp that deceived so many unsuspecting criminals. Hilda Remington was brief and business-like. She came to the point at once, producing the reticule and telling all she knew about “the other woman.” It was not much, but it was quite enough for Detective-Inspector Herrion. Too well he knew the full importance of that name, “Miss Gilda Tempest.”

Then, in a low tone, he spoke. “Lady Remington, you have, indeed, found a useful clue. I know altogether too much about this mysterious woman, who has entered so much into the life of Sir Raife. Her so-called uncle is one of the most desperate criminals in Europe! He is so clever, and veils his operations under the more active work of his dupes in such a manner that it is very hard to run him to earth. This unfortunate woman is completely under his control, and acts as a decoy in a score of directions. I have never been able to fathom the matter completely, but there seems to be some sort of a feud—a vendetta—between this arch-fiend Malsano and Sir Raife’s family. Malsano leaves no stone unturned to bring about his ruin. He seems to be afraid of murder, but he lays clever plans to entrap Sir Raife and smirch his name. You will excuse me saying so, Lady Remington, but I have a great admiration for Sir Raife. He is a magnificent man, and he holds a name respected in his country. I tried to help him some time ago, and thought I had succeeded when I persuaded him to go away on a big-game shooting expedition on the Blue Nile. Somehow, these fiendish people track him down and cause trouble.”

Hilda Remington had never met a detective-inspector before, and Herrion was in no sense the type of man she had expected to meet. His charming manner and graceful speech gave her confidence. This man—this dainty Scarlet Pimpernel—was a friend, not a policeman. She felt he should, at least, be an Attaché at a Court in Europe. She gazed at him with a combination of admiration and appreciation. Herrion was human, and he could not fail to be influenced by the beauty of this stricken woman, who gazed at him, seeking sympathy and help in her trouble.

With her eloquent eyes she appealed to him as she spoke: “Mr Herrion. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. Do help me to find my husband.” Herrion rose from his seat, saying: “Lady Remington, if that blackguard, Malsano, is to be found in Europe, I will find him. If I can trace your husband, I will do so for his sake, and for your sake, and for the sake of his mother. I will go now and, look up the last records of the gang. Will you give me the number of your telephone? It may save time. And please hold yourself in readiness, as one never knows how long or how soon it may take to unearth a criminal fox in his burrow.” When Mr Herrion left Green Street, he took a taxicab to Scotland Yard, and promptly set in motion all the machinery that was possible, in order to find out the whereabouts of Doctor Malsano. His active mind was hard at work, and, under the influence of this beautiful, frank American girl with the pleading eyes and soft voice, he was determined to find Raife and restore him to his bride of a day or so. He was satisfied that Raife was not in his sound mind, or he could not have acted in so scandalous a manner. What ruse had been adopted to lure him away? What fresh devilment was this master of crime at? This should be a matter of international importance. Apart from all these considerations, the pride of his craft had been stirred, and that was not a light matter.

Hilda and Raife’s mother sat late talking of the only subject possible to them in the trying circumstances. Hilda had narrated the gist of her interview with Detective-Inspector Herrion. For the first time Raife’s mother learnt a very bare outline of Raife’s intrigue with Gilda Tempest. It explained many of his moods that had appeared strange. It reminded her of the conversation she had thought she had overheard as she climbed the staircase to the old white room of the “Blue Boar” Inn at Tunbridge Wells. She recalled the fact that the room had appeared empty, yet she felt confident she had heard voices barely a moment before. A rumour had spread, somehow, from somewhere, concerning the silk rope that had been found under the library window, on the night when the old butler, with a fine sense of strategy, had arranged for the house to be surrounded. All these rumours and speculations were disturbing the old lady’s mind. Now, there was something almost tangible in what Hilda had learnt about Gilda Tempest, her uncle, and the reticule that had been picked up in the conservatory.

Now that there was a prospect of something definite being accomplished, Hilda’s bravery redoubled, and she supported the old lady with her courage. Raife’s mother had at length retired, and Hilda sat alone. It was late and she rang for her maid. When the girl appeared she rather startled her with a request for tea. Tea is an unconventional drink when it is nearly midnight, in an English household. All the conventions had been broken since Raife disappeared, and Hilda cared naught for convention. She was anxious for news that should at least help her to straighten out a situation that had become intolerable. It was impossible to return home to the United States and face the “sympathy” of friends. It was equally intolerable to endure the uncertainties of her present life.

At length the telephone rang. Hilda clutched the receiver. “Yes, this is Lady Remington. Who am I speaking to? Oh, yes, Mr Herrion! Any news? What’s that? You think I’d better go to Paris, and you’ll try and meet me there. Sure, I’ll start right away, to-morrow. I have a house on the Champs Elysées! It won’t be hard for you to find me, and I’ll take Lady Remington, Sir Raife’s mother, with me.”

Here, at last, was action. There was hope in action, and she had suffered from inertia.

Chapter Twenty Four.

How the Grand Coup was Planned.

Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Paris, was, like most things in which Doctor Malsano was concerned, cunningly contrived. Two adjacent flats had been converted into one in such a manner that it was easy to enter by one door and leave by another, each out of view of the other. The people who foregathered there were not of the type that would have been welcome at Aldborough Park or Green Street, Mayfair. Here, for the first time, Raife met the Apache fellow at close quarters. His impulse was to thrash him, but Mr Lesigne had most ingratiating manners, and quickly assured Raife that he was on his side now, and, if it were necessary to do any spying, it would be in Raife’s interests, and not on him. For diplomatic reasons, to avoid suspicion, Malsano lived by himself, and rarely appeared in public, as was his custom, preferring to direct operations rather than participate in them. For the same reason it was considered advisable that Gilda Tempest should occupy an apartment by herself.

Raife and Gilda found time to make many excursions together, to Versailles, and various rural spots where there was, relatively, a small chance of being recognised. On these occasions there was a certain charm in Gilda’s companionship which enthralled the young man, and he was quite content to suffer the ill-effects of her pernicious society. At night, in varying disguises, they spent much time at cafés, sitting at the tables of the boulevards, sipping wine and liqueurs. That waywardness, that Raife’s mother had been afraid of, asserted itself, and his love of adventure led him to participate in some of the minor divertissements that the doctor planned for his own profit. In no circumstances did Raife share in the plunder of these coups, nor would he allow Gilda to act as decoy, or take active part in them. What he did was with a sense of abandoned devilment. The restraint that Raife was exercising over Gilda was weakening the doctor’s power over her, and he determined that it was time for him to bring about a still more complete downfall of his enemy.

Among the members of the gang who called at Raife’s flat when occasion required, was an ex-officer of dragoons, who had seen some service along the north coast of Africa. He was an extraordinary mixture of braggadocio, and a certain suavity of manner which had considerable charm until it was discovered that, whereas he could swear like a trooper, he did lie like a pickpocket. In the natural sequence of events he and Raife fell foul of one another. The quarrel culminated when Raife discovered him at the flat paying court to Gilda, who resented the attentions that were being forced upon her. The combat did not last long, for Monsieur Denoir was not versed in boxing, and his incompetence was soon made evident to him. It was a dangerous thing for Raife to quarrel with a man of this type, but the whole conditions of his recent life had made him quite reckless of consequences. Monsieur Denoir, with a fine exhibition of graciousness, made amends, and awaited time and opportunity. He did not have to wait long, for he found a ready ally in the doctor.

Gilda and Raife were seated at their favourite table at the Café Buonaventure, on a fine warm evening. Through a mirror Gilda’s keen and practised eyes saw a little old gentleman with grey hair and spectacles surveying the tables. He was at the far end of the room. They were seated among a crowd of merry, talkative folk, outside the café.

“Quick, Raife, we must go at once,” she said, suddenly. With an exhibition of that cat-like speed that she displayed when she slid down the silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, she threw a coin on the table, and slid around a corner, half dragging him with her.

“What’s the matter, Gilda?” he asked.

“That little ‘old gentleman’ at the end of the room was Herrion, and I expect he’s looking for you.”

It had not occurred to Raife before, that he was being hunted, not by an “Apache fellow,” but by the smartest detective on the Continent. His pride returned to him for a while, and he felt inclined to go and shake Herrion by the hand—if Herrion would let him. That was indeed a question. Who would shake him by the hand now?

By a devious route they returned to the flat. Raife was very silent. Gilda played and sang to him, but it was of no avail, his moodiness lasted for the rest of the evening. She rallied him on his silence and, crossing the room to where he sat on a lounge, said: “Raife, tell me why you are so silent. Did that man Herrion upset you?”

He answered, wearily: “Yes, he did. It has set me thinking, Gilda. I fear I have not done the right thing. It is not right that I should be ‘wanted’ by a man like Herrion.”

Then Gilda was alarmed. This man was all she wanted to atone for a life of misery. He must not be allowed to reflect. He was hers and must remain hers.

A knock at the door terminated the scene for a time. Lesigne entered and presented a note to Raife from Doctor Malsano. Whilst he was reading the note, which was lengthy and called for a reply, she beckoned Lesigne into another room. She spoke hurriedly, and with authority.

“Lesigne, you must get this notice into the New York Herald, Paris edition. I don’t know how, but you must do it—pay for it—do it, somehow.”

The little Lesigne bowed and smiled. “Mams’elle Gilda, what you tell me, that I will do, if it cost me—yes, if it cost me my life. I am devoted to your service.”

Gilda was well aware of the little man’s devotion. Whilst he was speaking, she was writing:

“Sir Raife Remington and party left Marseilles to-day, en route for the United States.”

She smiled as she handed it to Lesigne, and gave him some money to meet any contingent expense. Herrion would not miss this announcement, and it would serve to put him on a wrong trail.

Doctor Malsano’s letter was important. It planned a big coup at a house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. Paris is a city of fine streets and avenues, and amongst the finest is the Avenue des Champs Elysées. With a clever mixture of flattery and badinage, Malsano lured his victim into taking a leading part in this crowning work of his folly. The houses of the Champs Elysées are rich, and this brave stroke called for all the organisation and resource of the band. Malsano himself would direct operations. Denoir would be there, and to complete—Gilda would be there. It was difficult and called for agility, courage and daring. Raife, who possessed all these qualities, was to take the leading and more active part, but he would be well supported.

Detective-Inspector Herrion was in his room in the obscure little Hôtel Villon. He was reading the Paris edition of the New York Herald, and his face wore a puzzled expression. The notice that attracted his attention read as follows:

“Sir Raife Remington and party left Marseilles to-day, en route for the United States.”

He reflected: “It’s fifty to one Remington didn’t put that notice in. I wonder who did. It would take a lot of people in. It’s clever enough for that blackguard, Malsano. After that note on the cliffs, at Cromer, he isn’t going to tell us he’s alive, at least, not in that way.” He took the telephone and rang up the New York Herald office. He told them who he was. Then he read the notice and asked: “Where did you get that notice from?”

An American voice replied asking him to hold the wire. “The man who took it in is not on duty, but the office-boy describes him as a little man, dark, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a big, black necktie. He looked like an artist from the Quartier Latin.”

Herrion answered: “Thanks, that will do. I think I know the man.”

Replacing the receiver he smiled rather than spoke to himself. “I thought so. It’s Malsano’s work, and the man who took it was Lesigne. I must find an excuse to arrest that fellow Lesigne. Malsano’s been too clever for me, up to now.”

Mr Herrion took his hat, strolled along the boulevards, and made his way to the Prefecture of Police. Here he described Lesigne, and put it, tentatively, that he was a dangerous fellow, and that whereas he, Herrion, could not actually prove anything criminal against him, at the same time, he was satisfied that the man was an active agent among a bunch of criminals. His arrest would serve a useful purpose. The arrest was not made, for Doctor Malsano had other uses for Lesigne, and he had left Paris.

The plans for the burglary in the Champs Elysées were progressing, but they formed no part of Raife’s work in the matter. He was to supply the “agility, courage and daring” on the night, and he readily consented to act such a part. In his present mood he was prepared with all those qualities. In the meantime, he had leisure to enjoy Gilda’s company. After the fright when Gilda had seen Detective-Inspector Herrion, in his disguise, at the Café Buonaventure, they avoided the boulevards, and took trips into the country. They preferred the country that has been made famous by the great French painters, Corot, Daubigny, and the other founders of the Barbison school. Here, among a simple peasantry, in wood and dale, they wandered together, this extraordinary couple, who, starting with all that beauteous man and womanhood could endow them with, were both involved in crime. The crime was not of their making, yet they were almost unconsciously made the active agents.

It was evening time on one of these happy days, and the sun had set, leaving the fierce glow of brilliant orange, merging into crimson and carmine, flecked with lilac clouds, until high in the heavens, the azure depth was tinged with emerald. Low in the foreground, subdued, yet vivid siennas, with scarlet poppy blossom here and there, welded into deep purples, silhouetted against the vivid sky. They sat on a knoll among the wild flowers, hand in hand, and, as is often the wont of lovers, they spoke little. Raife’s past life was, for the present, a closed book. He thrust thought from him, and appeared content as long as he was in Gilda’s company. She appeared to have no memory of the past as long as he was with her. A tiny cabaret was generally to be found conveniently near, and supplied all the refreshment they needed. The mystery of this handsome couple, who seemed to be in a semi-trance, caused speculation, as the worthy woman, or sometimes her husband, brought the simple food and wine that made their meal. Then, outside the cabaret, they would sit at a table, sipping coffee and liqueurs until the moon shed her silver light and wrapped the world in the subdued glow that has ever been the chosen accompaniment of lovers. Then, late back to the flat, where Gilda sang French love-songs, until the arrival of the braggadocio Denoir, or a missive from Malsano brought them back from the quiet delights of their prolonged love-dream.

At night, away from the influence of Gilda’s fascinating presence, Raife’s mind was subject to storms of emotion. Where was he trending? To what further depths was he descending? His thoughts sometimes led to Hilda—his wife whom he had deserted. His mother’s dignified and beautiful face would appear to him as in a vision. His happy boyhood days at school, college, and Aldborough Park, crowded before him.

Then he remembered the fateful day when he had met Gilda, with his friend Edward Mutimer, on the front, at Southport. The unexpected reunion at Nice. Then the nightmare haunted him. The nightmare of that night when he had discovered Gilda as a burglar in the library at Aldborough Park. These and a score more of incidents rushed to his mind. Surely no man’s life in so short a time had been crowded with so much incident. Through it all, he was compelled, by some fate, to act against his convictions. What was this evil genius that haunted him? He would break away whilst there yet was time.

On such a night he had retired early, and was restlessly tossing on his bed when he heard a familiar voice outside the front door of the flat. The concierge was talking to some one, who was enquiring for a Monsieur Désigné. The concierge said: “There is no one of that name living here, sir, and I do not remember seeing any one such as you describe.”

“Who lives in this flat?” asked the voice.

The concierge replied: “Monsieur Vachelle, sir, a very quiet gentleman, sir. I think he is from Brittany, sir. He speaks French, but with a slight provincial accent.”

Monsieur Henri Vachelle was the assumed name under which Raife was living in the Rue Lafayette.

Springing from his bed, he hastily pushed aside a sliding panel, by means of which he was able to see, through a combination of mirrors, who was in the passage. It was true. He was not mistaken. The concierge was talking to Detective-inspector Herrion.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Beginning of the Revenge.

Raife’s mind was already perturbed by the reflections it had undergone. The thought of Herrion searching for Lesigne outside his flat was more than he could tolerate. Hastily dressing, he let himself out of the door of the second flat, and, calling a taxi, drove to Doctor Malsano’s rooms.

No one can, for long, be the associate of thieves without acquiring their cunning. To play eavesdropper is a common precaution on the part of thieves. Raife overheard the doctor talking to Denoir, and the words had a sinister sound in his ears. It was the doctor speaking. “You shall have your revenge all right. I will see to that.”

Denoir’s high-pitched voice responded. “Yes, doctor, that big brute of an Englishman hit me. Hit me with his fists. I would like to shoot him.” Raife rang a bell, and the doctor opened the door. There was surprise on the face of the ex-officer when Raife confronted them. To show surprise was not part of the doctor’s stock-in-trade. So, with urbanity, he greeted his guest. “Ah, Mr Vachelle! You are a late visitor. Come in. To what do I owe the honour?”

Rather curtly, Raife replied: “I must talk to you to-night, doctor. Something has occurred.”

“Does it concern Mr Denoir?”

“No. It does not concern him.”

“Very well, I bid you good-night, Mr Denoir,” said the doctor, turning to that gentleman.

Mr Denoir retired, bowing low to both the other men.

“Come in, Mr Vachelle, or, as I may call you in here, Sir Raife,” added the doctor.

Raife was not in the mood to be trifled with and snapped out: “I’m not so sure of that. I heard what you said to that fellow Denoir just now.”

“Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re” was the doctor’s motto in business, and unctuously he replied: “Ah! that was nothing. The fellow was in a rage. You thrashed him and, naturally, he doesn’t like it. I only said that to soothe him. He knows a good deal, and can be dangerous, you know. So I thought it best to soothe him. You quite understand, don’t you, Sir Raife?”

Somehow, when the doctor undertook to explain a thing away, it all seemed so reasonable. Raife’s anger vanished in a smile. When they were seated and some of the doctor’s best cognac had been produced, Raife told how he had heard and seen the detective, Herrion, outside his door, and overheard him ask for Lesigne.

The doctor raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Raife continued: “I must give it up. I can’t have that clever little fellow hounding me down. It will never do. You can bet he’s been hunting for me all over Europe. He’ll find me, too.”

The doctor soothed the young man, as he would soothe a child. “Now, Sir Raife, don’t you fear. They call him a Scarlet Pimpernel, don’t they? He’s been trying to catch me for a dozen years. He hasn’t succeeded, and he won’t. Ha! ha!” Raife left late and returned in a taxi to his flat. Once he was in his room his spirit returned to him, and he determined, at all costs, to abandon his hateful life and return to his own form of civilisation.

In the morning he was busy packing a bag, and the floor was strewn with articles of clothing, when Gilda entered, exclaiming: “Hullo, Raife! Packing up? Where are you going?”

His mood remained determined, and he almost snarled: “Going? I’ve gone, it seems to me. Gone clean to the devil! I’m going away.”

Then came the appeal from Gilda. The appeal that he never could resist, and to which he had fallen so many times. She did not use many words. Her utter helplessness was the strong point of it all, and her complete love and trust in him. He sat in a huge chair with his head between his hands gazing vacantly in front of him. She knelt and looked up into those eyes that could glare with the fierce hate of passion, or shed the soft lovelight. She looked for the lovelight she had met there before, and she did not look in vain.

What Doctor Malsano had, for once, failed to accomplish, Gilda had again achieved. Raife was again conquered by the mysterious influence of this beautiful girl. He sprang to his feet and caught her in his arms, showering kisses on her forehead. “Gilda! Gilda! It’s got to be. Whilst you live I am yours. Yours to live and die for—to sink or swim for you.”

Then, hysterically, he almost shouted: “To hell with Herrion! I have started, and I will finish.” He slung each article of clothing back in its receptacle, and, turning to Gilda, said more restrainedly, “We will go into the country to-day, and revel in our flowers and trees, our sky and clouds. I am giving you my life. It is yours. My reason tells me that it can only end in trouble. I don’t care. Life is only possible to me when you are around. Now let us hie into the country and ‘make the most of what we yet may have to spend, before we, too’—”

Gilda threw herself into his arms and closed his lips with her hands—those clever, skilful hands, clever in crime, yet dainty as the hands of a queen of beauty. “Don’t quote those lines. They make me sad, and I want to be so happy with you to-day, Raife. Where shall we go?”

Raife considered for a moment and then said: “It will be running a risk, but I feel like running risks to-day. Let us go to Versailles. Let us watch all the splendour of those glorious days when men and women were brave in love and war, and dared to fight for honour.”

A pang went through him as he made this last allusion to “honour.” What was honour to him now? He had surrendered to a code, that did not count for honour among his equals, or those even who once might have been his inferiors. Quick disguise was a part of the craft of the career he had entered upon. He felt that he was less a buccaneer than a privateer. He was plundering the enemy, less for his personal profit than from the spirit of sheer devilment and adventure. There was no profit to him outside Gilda’s companionship.

On the brightest day of early summer they walked in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The most perfect palace of the days when regal prodigality made France at the same time the most luxurious and the most poverty-stricken country in Europe, displayed its splendour in the full flood of warm sunshine. The fountains played and sparkled in a torrent of spray that suggested myriads of tiny precious stones. The air was perfumed with thousands of blossoms from the ornamental flower beds. The groups of statuary stood in bold relief, here against the warm blue sky or silver cloud, there against a bank of stately trees, rich in luxuriant foliage. Gay throngs of smartly-dressed women and children, mingled with the more sombre-clad men, who promenaded with all “la joie de vivre” that belongs to the Parisian on his own happy hunting ground.

Raife and Gilda, safe in their skilled disguises, mixed with the crowd, and revelled in the beauty and movement around them.

The day of the grand coup was approaching, when the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was to be plundered. This was to be the day when Raife was to exhibit those qualities of “agility, courage and daring” for which, in the language of Malsano’s insidious flattery, his countrymen were famous. Both Raife and Gilda felt that their next adventure was fraught with danger, and Raife had consented that Gilda on this occasion should assist in the operations. They therefore made the most of this joyous day at Versailles. It was evening when they decided to seek one of the more obscure little cabarets for their dinner. They were sauntering down an avenue with the long line of trees throwing shadows across the close-cropped grass, when a motor-car passed slowly by in the heavy rows of traffic. Raife looked at the occupant and recognised the Baroness von Sassniltz, his mother’s friend, whose jewels Gilda almost succeeded in stealing from the safe in the library at Aldborough Park. The baroness looked hard at Raife, but apparently did not see through his disguise.

The conflict of emotions which had disturbed him during the night and morning were now renewed. Gilda did not notice the car which carried the Baroness von Sassniltz, but, with the intuition of a lover, she did notice that Raife’s manner had drifted into an abstracted mood. He was thinking of his own anomalous position. He was worshipping at the shrine of a woman, whom he had detected in the act of “burgling” the jewels of his mother’s friend. This took place in his own house, and not only had he allowed her to escape, but he was here to-day with her expecting to participate with her in a crime of a similar nature. The situation was hideous, and all the glory of the day in Versailles had departed.

They walked along in silence for a while, until a passing taxicab arrested his attention, and he responded to the interrogative look of the driver by hailing it. They entered the taxi, and in response to the driver’s query, “Where shall I drive, monsieur?” he said: “Drive to the cabaret of ‘Le Sans Souci,’ at the end of the avenue, then to the left and about three miles along the main road. You will see it by a group of poplars, with a garden and a small lake in front.”

They had been to this little inn before, many times, and the blue-skirted and white-aproned old landlady was accustomed to their visits, and understood not only their simple requirements, but their desire for quietude. They sat in the simple, clean little room, with its dainty curtains, white napery and shining cutlery. The old lady fussed around for a while, chatting gaily, as is the wont of French landladies, whilst the bouillabaisse, cutlets, and superlative omelette were being prepared.

An old punt lay moored at the foot of some moss-covered steps leading to the lake. Pond lilies and chickweed covered the surface of the shallows that led from the steps to the deeper waters, which flickered in the moonlight. Clumps of willows and ash threw their shadows and reflected in the silent pool. Raife took the pole of this ancient, dilapidated punt and steered Gilda, who sat on a narrow seat of rough wood that constituted the only seat. Her neat, grey costume, rich in material but unobtrusive, contrasted with the ashen grey-greens of the old roughly-hewn punt. Thus, he standing up piloting the strange craft, took her over the warm waters, until reaching a deep pool which his pole failed to fathom they came to a rest. Here and there a ghostly bat, after the manner of a miniature vampire, flickered through the air, chasing the lesser night insects whose hum harmonised with the rest of that which was silence.

It was sylvan and, to an extent, idyllic, but it is dangerous to be associated with crime. The convert to crime, religion or politics, is ever the more impressionable, and his actions are liable to outstrip the prudence of those who have inherited the traditions of their creed. The gloom of the situation and the memory of his lost hopes and ambitions attacked Raife, and, in a despairing mood, he perceived the ease with which all could be ended by a quick death in this silent pool. He and Gilda together could complete the tragedy of their lives. He had no doubt that she would consent to suicide, but why should he consult her in the matter? To overturn the punt would be easy, for it was a crazy old craft, and thus, entwined, they would sink to the depths, to oblivion.

A voice came across the water. It travelled clearly, as sound will travel across still water on a quiet night. “Monsieur, votre dîner! C’est servi!” It was a cheery, pleasant voice, and it announced that dinner was served.

Neither seemed to hear the call. Gilda was in one off her trance moods, and Raife was contemplating his last crime. Again the voice floated over the lake. “Sir, your dinner is served.” Raife awakened from his own trance and leisurely paddled the punt from the deep pool to shallow water. From the depths of his determination to the shallows of the commonplace he was aroused by the old landlady of the cabaret, who was calling him back to life. His resonant voice responded, as he poled the punt vigorously to the moss and lichen-covered steps. “Eh bien, madame, nous arriverons au moment.” His voice was quite cheery now, and he hailed her again. “All right, we shall be there in a moment.” He moored the punt to the rusty iron ring attached to the steps. Gilda seemed to be still in a trance mood. Raife answered the old lady’s pleasant railleries. The taxi-driver, who had been ordered to wait, peeped into the room unobserved from the kitchen. His wants had been served. To himself he reflected: “Queer couple. They’re handsome enough, but there’s some trouble, I wager.”

Dinner was served, and death was forgotten.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Sir Raife Remington, Baronet and Burglar.

The joy day of Versailles and all the phantom pleasures had passed. There was only one thing which confronted the gang. It was a momentous occasion. Raife had sold his soul, his very being, and a crime was to be committed. He was to take the leading part—although he did not really realise it—in the burglary in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. They were sitting in the flat in the Rue Lafayette. Gilda was at the piano. Raife was reading some English newspapers. Malsano was present, and Denoir occupied a chair. To-morrow was the day, or rather the night, that had been decided upon for the great event. To-morrow Raife was to descend to the depths of complete crime. It was idiotic. There was no reason for this thing; but he was impelled by a super-dominant fate, which led him to a doom that he could not avoid. They talked together and discussed all the details of the affair.

Gilda left the piano and sat silently in a chair. Her mind was not her own. Simply obedient to the will of Malsano, she sat there and looked at Raife, the one person who could carry her from the throes of her present situation. Raife was inert. He, in turn, was influenced by the environment that had dragged him down from a high position to that of a common criminal. Malsano smiled with the confidence of a practised criminal. He and Denoir had made their compact, which Raife had overheard at the doctor’s rooms in the Rue Malmaison. With the completeness that accompanied all his plans, Raife Remington’s sacrifice was assured. A paragraph in the newspaper arrested his attention. It read: “The mysterious disappearance of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., about a year ago has led to curious complications. It will be remembered that his hat and coat were found on the cliffs at Cromer. In a pocket was a letter apparently written by the demented man, from which it was inferred that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide. A paragraph appeared in the Paris edition of the New York Herald some time ago to the effect that Sir Raife had left Marseilles for the United States. Detective-Inspector Herrion ascertained that this paragraph had been inserted by a member of a gang of continental thieves, and there seems little doubt that either the baronet has committed suicide or had been made away with. His estates are extensive, and there are complications as to the disposition of affairs. It is rumoured that Aldborough Park, which has been the residence of the Remingtons—or Reymingtounes—since the days of the Tudors, will be placed on the market for sale, as the ancient baronetage becomes extinct with the death of Sir Raife Remington.”

This paragraph brought consternation to, his mind, and he realised, for a while, the madness of his present actions. Malsano’s presence was sufficient to alter the trend of his mind, and the result was a volte-face. He crossed the room, and, taking a number of liqueur glasses and a decanter from a sideboard, he filled the glasses. Having handed one to each person, he drank in a debonair manner, “Success to the crime to be committed.”

Malsano smiled, Denoir sneered, and Gilda winced. There were four rings of an electric bell in the room in which they sat. They were sudden, sharp, and in rapid succession. The three men leapt to their feet and made for the extra exit of the flat, which gave no indication from the outside as to the nature of the door. This danger signal had been well-planned by Malsano for emergencies, and all details of their actions had been rehearsed.

Gilda was left alone, and in the briefest while was transformed from a beautiful, smartly-clad girl into an aged old crony, wearing the blue cotton frock and white apron of female servitude. She had barely completed the transformation when the outside bell rang three times. Snatching up a broom she went to the door. Lesigne was there, breathless. In hurried accents he gasped: “Are they here, or have they gone? That fellow, Herrion, the English detective, has chased me. Let me get through and away quickly, Mams’elle. I hope I have not frightened you, but it is serious.”

Gilda had closed the door quickly and accompanied Lesigne to the second exit. As he went out, leaving Gilda alone again “to face the music,” he bowed gracefully, and, with his hand on his heart, whispered: “Mams’elle, your disguise is perfect. Even so you still look beautiful—charmante!”

’Twas thus that Gilda fascinated all whom she met. Alone in the flat, and with danger threatened and imminent, she remained cool. Quickly she disturbed the furniture and made it evident that she was sweeping and dusting the room. Within a minute there was a ring of the bell. It was the ring she had expected and prepared for. The “old crony” opened the door and was confronted by Detective-Inspector Herrion and another man.

The other man announced brusquely: “I am an agent of the police. You have a man here—a man named Lesigne. Never mind what his other names are. I must enter. Where is he? Tell me at once, or it will be the worse for you. Yes, understand me, for you!”

Gilda trembled with well-simulated apprehension, stammering: “Mais non, monsieur. There is no one here, sir. This is the flat, the apartment of Monsieur Vachelle. I am alone cleaning things up. But enter, sir, and you shall see.”

The two police officers entered, and searched each room. In the front room Herrion noticed the four liqueur glasses and the decanter of cognac. Approaching the table on which they stood, he held one of the glasses in his hand and remarked: “So, so! Monsieur Vachelle has had company. Who has been visiting Monsieur Vachelle? Tell me.”

Gilda protested. “Indeed, sir, I do not know. Monsieur Vachelle left early this morning. I think he has gone to the country, but I do not know for certain. Why should he tell me? I am only here to clean and tidy his rooms. Monsieur is a gentleman. I am only a servant.”

Herrion stared hard at her, saying: “So, Monsieur Vachelle is a gentleman, is he, and you are only a servant?”

Gilda felt the force of that penetrating glance and stooped to dust a chair. The two police officers were eventually satisfied that Lesigne was not there, and as for Monsieur Vachelle, they knew nothing of him, good or evil. So they departed. When they were gone, Gilda collapsed and wept bitterly.

The pleasures of Paris continue through the day and night. London is almost a silent city at night, except for the traffic of Fleet Street, the Post Office, and the Markets. Paris is the pleasure city of the world, and it does not attract notice that people should be wandering about in the small hours of the morning. There are not many dark hours in a June night in Paris. The Avenue of the Champs Elysées is wide, and well lit. On the night of the contemplated burglary there seemed to be more than the usual number of people about, and the four persons who sauntered up and down, awaiting opportunity, were kept on the tenterhooks of expectancy rather longer than they had expected. At length there was a lull in the traffic, and Raife entered the basement and prepared a scaling ladder that was to take him to the window immediately over the great front door of the mansion. It was a corner house, and Raife’s objective point could only be reached by means of a gutter-pipe which would lead him to a second window around the corner. It was a dangerous undertaking and called for all those qualities that Doctor Malsano had flatteringly endowed Raife with. Hand over hand he crept, swaying to and fro from the insecure and creaking pipe, which threatened to give way under the weight of twelve stone of lithe and living humanity. As he progressed bit by bit, foot by foot, his mind reverted to Gilda’s dexterous descent by the silk rope from the library at Aldborough Park into the shadow of the rhododendron bushes. Beneath him were spiked railings and stone pavement. The thought of Gilda, at that moment, unsteadied his nerve, and his grip of the pipe, loosened. He glanced round, and, across the road, he descried Gilda, with hands clasped and a look of terror which was plain to him under the flickering light, in spite of the disguise she wore. Almost at his feet were Malsano and Denoir, and the expression on their upturned faces was even more manifest. It was malevolent, a cynical sneer. With a final effort Raife reached the window and lowered himself to the balcony outside. By a well considered arrangement the window yielded easily. The bolt slid aside and he entered.

This, then, was the situation. The owner of Aldborough Park and 20,000 pounds a year, had entered the mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, in the dead of night as a common burglar, impelled by the fascination of a woman who exercised a mysterious: and baneful influence over his career.

Always in the background was the malevolent figure of Doctor Malsano, that evil-omened person, who thrived on villainy and lived on crime.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Origin of the Vendetta.

There are few institutions or customs more difficult for the Anglo-Saxon to understand than the vendetta, or blood feud. Southern blood and gipsy blood are hot, fierce, and passionate to an extent inconceivable to those of the north. The “dour” Scotchman may be vindictive, but he is not guilty of the vendetta, which pursues its revenge for an injury or insult through the generations, until one or other of the parties has completed the vengeance. The cause of the vendetta is frequently slight, and it is safe to assert that women are frequently the prime cause of the “blood feud.”

That Raife Remington should have been pursued by the malevolent Malsano on account of an indiscretion of his father in his youthful days, would seem incredible to the northerner living in these enlightened days.

By an extraordinary coincidence, the causes that led to the series of calamities that destroyed the career of the handsome and otherwise brilliant young baronet, dated from a visit paid by his father to Egypt, the land of antiquity and mystery.

Raife’s father, Sir Henry Remington, in the days of his youth, paid a visit, with his college friend, Mr Mountjoy, to Egypt. They were the wild, joyous days of youth, and adventure took them at night to a section of Alexandria, which, at that time, was dangerous to strangers. There remain to-day in most southern and eastern towns and cities, certain quarters where the hated “feringhee” or foreigner, can only intrude with grave risk to himself.

In a house of questionable repute, Sir Henry and Mr Mountjoy encountered an Oriental girl. With the impetuosity of youth, Sir Henry was immediately enamoured of this beautiful gipsy, with the large, oval, lustrous eyes, the olive skin tinged with a colour that alternated between a rosy pink, and a flush of scarlet.

Seated apart in the reeking apartment, lit by oil lamps, where a midnight entertainment was in full swing, this lovely gipsy and young Sir Henry courted one another with the play of eyes instead of words, for neither could understand the language of the other. The sensuous beauty of the girl enthralled the young English aristocrat, and the blood in his veins, already heated by the unwonted liquors that he had consumed, coursed rapidly. The girl’s responsive glances told him plainly that his advances were not unwelcome. Around the girl’s neck was a silver chain of fine and delicate workmanship. Attached to the chain was a small Egyptian charm, in the form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head the royal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side. On the back, from head to foot, were inscribed the tiny hieroglyphics, which recorded certain cryptic words associated with the worship of that mythical deity of thousands of years ago. Sir Henry noticed the trinket, and, raising it in his hands, examined it. The gipsy snatched it away with angry gesture, a fierce light entering her large oval eyes, whilst the rosy pink that had suffused her olive cheeks swelled to the flush of scarlet that betrayed her savage nature.

The azure blue of a young, handsome Anglo-Saxon’s eyes, that look steadfastly, fearlessly, yet passionately, into the dark and sparkling depths of an untutored gipsy girl, are a proper antidote to that girl’s flash of anger. Sir Henry gazed at her, and the girl’s eyes fell beneath his searching, passionate gaze.

With an impulse, as rapid as was her sudden rage, she took the chain and charm from her neck, and, with a motion signifying secrecy, handed it to him. Sir Henry kissed it, and, in doing so, kissed her hand.

At intervals around this central, circular apartment, were several doorways, covered by rich and heavy curtains, of that rare oriental colour, which our manufacturers strive, with mixed success, to imitate, at prices that suit the varying purses of a bank clerk or a greengrocer, a stockbroker or an art student.

Before each doorway stood two huge Nubian Arabs, robed in kaftans of yellow ochre-coloured silk, and wearing fezes of that deep, luscious red, the colour of which does not find a name in the student’s paint box. The dark skins of their countenances were marked by the long slashes, which formed the cicatrices on each left cheek, and denoted their tribal marks. Scarlet slippers contrasted vividly with the dark brown of their huge sinewy legs. Stolidly and impassively they stood sentinels at these doorways, which led to passages, open to the sky between high walls of mud and plaster, above which the stars twinkled brilliantly in the deep-blue unfathomable vault above. The illimitable space, and all that is unknown of eternity, suggested that these stars were a countless myriad of eyes, looking down on this weird collection of humanity.

Gambling in various forms was one of the allurements of the place, whilst music, more or less barbaric, and Oriental dancing added to the supposed attractions. The whole scene would appear as a page from the Arabian Nights, with the added incongruity of a few people in European costume.

At one of these doorways appeared a tall, swarthy woman, of lighter colour than any of these Arabs, yet betraying her southern blood. She was accompanied by a weak but good-looking young man, and a tall, dark man, with extraordinary eyes and a sinister appearance. The woman nudged the sinister man, and both saw Sir Henry kiss the girl’s hand. The trio crossed the apartment, and the woman seized the gipsy girl roughly by the hair, and hauled her through one of the doorways, whilst the two dusky Nubians held the curtains aside. The hitherto impassive blacks momentarily relapsed, and their stolid faces were lightened by a broad smile, revealing glittering white teeth, and their yellowish white eyeballs rolled in a fiendish manner.

Who shall say what was the fate of the beautiful gipsy girl, who had lightly parted with the treasured talisman of the goddess Isis to the blue-eyed and fair-haired English aristocrat? The English were at that time, in Egypt, the most hated of all feringhees.

Thus, in a gay and innocent spirit of youthful courtship, commenced the feud, the vendetta, that was to lead to such a tragic influence on two generations of the “Reymingtounes.”

From this apparently trivial incident there followed the events that led to the murder of Sir Henry, and the degradation of his son, pursued and attacked by the unrelenting hatred of the denizens of this Oriental inferno.

In harsh but cultured tones, with a slight foreign accent, the sinister man said to Sir Henry:

“Return to me, at once, the charm that young woman handed to you.”

Sir Henry reclined on the richly-covered divan among the silken cushions, and leisurely surveyed the two men who confronted him. Slowly, and with the aggravated drawl of the period, he said: “By what right do you make that request?”

The retort came fiercely.

“Give me the charm at once, or it will be the worse for you, sir.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” and, rising from the divan, Sir Henry displayed the full six feet of his athletic frame, asking: “What do you propose to do?”

With an oath, the sinister man with the weird eyes, muttered: “Sacré! These Englishmen, with all their arrogant pride, are curs!”

He said no more for a while, for Sir Henry’s straight left shot between those mysterious eyes and the sinister man fell back on the floor senseless. The debauched but still good-looking Englishman exclaimed weakly: “Oh, I say! That won’t do, you know.”

Two of the Nubians rushed from their sentinel posts, and a white-bearded old Arab, who appeared to spring from nowhere, gesticulated wildly. Sir Henry was seized from behind—but for the briefest while.

The art of boxing may be world-wide in its present application, but the English taught the world this and many other sports. At the period under consideration offence and defence were mostly conducted with lethal weapons. The rapidity of a straight left, followed by a swift upper cut, therefore had its advantage at the outset of a contest. Two burly Nubians lay sprawling, from the process, over the body of the sinister white man. The debauched Englishman, knowing more of the game, and realising his own incapacity against this young giant, skirmished at a safe distance in the rear.

The game was too hot to last long, for “the English arrogant pride” to which the sinister white man had alluded, would not allow Sir Henry to run away. Instead, he drawled: “Are there any more?”

Yes, indeed, there were many more, and this time he was more securely seized, and the struggle appeared hopeless. These Orientals and debauched Europeans hunted in packs. An Englishman on a spree needs only a companion to join in the fun, and does not want a bodyguard.

Sir Henry was tiring, and almost overpowered, when the thought of his chum, Mountjoy, flashed through the brain that lay behind his bruised and half-battered head. For the first time in that inferno, there rose from lusty lungs, a hearty “Yoicks! Tally ho?” the musical call of the English hunting field.

The effect was immediate. Through one of those curtained doorways, past a Nubian who had been left in charge by those more actively engaged in the fray, there rushed a whirling ball of lithe humanity, charging for his goal as he had never charged before on the Rugby football field.

It was Mountjoy, late half-back of his school—Marlborough.

Staggered by the impetus of this fierce and sudden onslaught, the Nubians relaxed their hold on Sir Henry for a moment. “Back to back, Harry,” called Mountjoy. “Now, then, both together! There may be some more of our fellows here!”

Then their two voices rose in approximate unison, “Yoicks! Tally ho!” and the unequal fight began again.

At this period the tactics of boxing were unfamiliar and quite disconcerting for a while.

“Make for the door, Harry,” shouted Mountjoy, and bit by bit they reached the exit, as, in response to a “view hallo” two more Englishmen rushed through to the rescue.

The mixed gang of Arabs, Nubians, and European scallawags did not want to kill at first, but these reinforcements of hated “Ingleesi” struck panic into them, and, in a flash, four or five knives were buried into these last two men, who had so bravely responded to the call of their countrymen in these hideous surroundings.

During the lull, Sir Henry and Mountjoy staggered through the exit, and fell to the ground unconscious, some distance away from the scene, to which they had been lured from their hotel by a wily denizen of the quarter—“to see some fun.” As they lay there, safe from further molestation from the satellites of the “casino,” for these people did not pursue their victims beyond their own portals, a lithe figure crept stealthily up to them. It was Thomas Tempest, the father of Gilda, the man who had skirmished safely in the rear during the fierce fight. Bending over Sir Henry, he felt in his pockets and extracted the talisman of the goddess Isis. He would have taken more, but footsteps on the plank walk scared him, and he faded away into the darkness.

The man with the weird eyes, whom Sir Henry had knocked senseless, was Doctor Malsano, then in early middle age. The gipsy girl was his daughter, and the gipsy woman was his wife. Gilda Tempest had no relationship to him. Her father, Thomas Tempest, had fallen low in the social scale, and was entirely under the influence and control of Malsano, who utilised his services for his own ends and profit. He proved to be the means of carrying out the first portion of the vendetta, by shooting Sir Henry at the time of the burglary at Aldborough Park. The bitterness of the feud was increased by the youthful folly of Sir Henry, who, in a spirit of devilment, and with the aid of a native, succeeded in meeting the gipsy girl again. The gipsy mother discovered them, and there was a frenzied scene of rage, the woman cursing the young man with all the fierceness of her race.

Sir Henry treated the matter lightly, until, years afterwards, he was made aware of the fact that the incident had not closed, and that vengeance was on his track. The woman, on her death-bed, had extracted a willing vow from her husband, Malsano, that he would continue the vendetta to the bitter end.

The tortuous workings of the mind of this abnormal man led him to carry out his purpose in his own strange way. In his fiendish efforts, he had dragged down a girl, Gilda Tempest, the daughter of another victim of his criminal nature. Noble by nature, and beautiful by disposition, this handsome young woman was doomed to a life of degradation and crime. Her last act was to sacrifice her life for the man she loved with the strange passion of a warm nature.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Conclusion.

Malsano’s revenge was nearly complete. Raife was now hopelessly compromised. Creeping stealthily along a wide corridor, he entered the library, and, with all the skill of a practised hand, proceeded to rifle a bureau, from which he extracted notes and gold. Revelling in the weird excitement of the debasing act, he ascended the staircase and opened the door of a bedroom. It was a large room, and he was confronted by a subtle perfume which was familiar to him. Where had he met that perfume before? He stood on the threshold and hesitated to perpetrate a further dastardly deed by entering the room. It was evidently a woman’s room. Raife was not acting of his own volition. A strange impulse controlled him, and he was not master of his actions. There was a soft light diffused, revealing a large, four-poster bed, curtained in pale-tinted dimity. He would have thrashed another man to the point of death for such an action as he was now guilty of. He approached the bed, and pulling aside the curtain, was stricken with horror to behold his wife—Hilda—sleeping peacefully. He stood spellbound, unable to move. A ghastly look of terror and remorse spread over his face. His handsome features were distorted, and his athletic frame convulsed with emotion. The events of the last year crowded his mind in a tornado of shame. Each second was an eternity of mental suffering. Hilda lay there sleeping, her beautiful cheeks suffused with a delicate glow. Her soft brown hair fell in clusters, enhancing the charm of this picture of exquisite innocence. Raife’s mind was in a state of hideous torture. Slowly and softly he withdrew from the room, and descended the staircase to the library. He approached the bureau—his wife’s bureau—that he had ransacked and restored the stolen money. With bowed head he crossed the big hall, dazed and scarcely realising his actions. Softly he opened the front door and passed out into the night.

Before Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead returned to the United States he fulfilled his compact, and Hilda was endowed with a substantial fortune. The stress of events had told heavily on her and Raife’s mother, and, yielding to Hilda’s persuasion, she had rented the furnished mansion in the Avenue des Champs Elysées. She had hoped by means of such a distraction to take their minds off the great trouble.

Detective-Inspector Herrion was a forceful man, and he had set himself the task of finding Sir Raife, the missing baronet, and he had determined to run Malsano to earth. On the day when he had let Lesigne slip through his fingers at Raife’s flat in the Rue Lafayette, Herrion had a suspicion that he had been tricked by the innocent-looking old lady, who appeared to be so busy dusting out the apartment. The flat of Monsieur Henri Vachelle was, therefore, kept under observation, but Malsano was far too wily a criminal to be trapped easily, and the flat was deserted, and the gang found fresh quarters. Herrion was sitting in his room at the obscure little hotel that he affected, when the telephone bell rang, and, removing the receiver, he took a message to the effect that, if he would call at the prefecture, there was important news awaiting him.

Hastily seizing his cap he started off. He was met at the entrance by a sergeant, who said: “Quick, Mr Herrion, I think we have found your missing ‘Baron.’ Will you come with me to the Avenue des Champs Elysées?”

A taxi was in waiting, and they entered together. As the car sped towards the famous avenue, the sergeant told Herrion: “We have received a letter, an anonymous letter, saying that a burglary will be committed to-night. The house is surrounded, and it is believed that it is the gang of that old scoundrel, Malsano. The gang is in force, and the cunning old reprobate has chosen the house of the Lady Remington, who is the wife of your missing ‘Baron.’”

Herrion was agitated, a weakness the astute detective-inspector seldom allowed himself to indulge in. With a smile of satisfaction the little man remarked: “If that man Malsano is in this affair, for heaven’s sake don’t let him escape. It looks as if we are in for a breezy time. I have no power here, and I can only look on. Mind, the men of Malsano’s gang do not hesitate to shoot. Shoot on the least suspicion. Shoot first, not to kill, only to maim.”

The gendarme looked at Herrion, raising his eyebrows as he said: “Monsieur Herrion, we shall not be unprepared, and we are not so tender with our criminals as you gentlemen across the Channel. We, too, have a score to settle with this Malsano. And there is that mysterious woman, who seems to be all over Europe at the same time. I have seen her. Ma foi! She is clever and beautiful, too.”

Herrion replied: “Yes, that is the woman who is responsible for Sir Raife Remington’s downfall. She is dangerous, but she is the decoy and the tool of that doctor fellow Malsano.”

The taxi stopped at a corner of a street, and they alighted. Seven or eight men were secreted in doorways, and the sergeant approached each one separately and gave them whispered instructions. Herrion’s position was quite unofficial, but his popularity with the police of Paris had made it possible for him to be present and to participate in the “round-up,” or coup.

The author of the anonymous letter to the Paris police was Doctor Malsano. Raife had ceased to be useful, and his influence over Gilda was conflicting with the doctor’s plans, and he must be sacrificed. Murder was only resorted to by this criminal scoundrel when all else failed. It would be a triumph to secure Raife’s conviction and sentence to a long term of imprisonment. The terms of the vendetta would be carried out when this hated British aristocrat was a convicted felon.

In a dazed state Raife left the mansion and walked into the night. Gilda, from her point of vantage, had watched and waited in a state of anxiety from the time when her lover had made his perilous climb along the gutter-pipe to the window through which he had effected his entry. She had felt, during the long wait until he reappeared, that she would willingly have changed places. She was accustomed to these hazardous undertakings, and was inured to the disgrace of it.

Malsano and Denoir watched at a distance, each malignantly confident of their revenge.

A green light flickered in the Avenue, and two cars from opposite directions dashed up to the house that Raife had just left. Four gendarmes alighted from each car. At the same time the front door of the mansion was opened, and two men-servants en deshabille appeared. Raife was called to his senses, alert after the dazed condition which followed the sight of his wife, lying asleep on the bed in the room which he had entered as a common burglar. Two gendarmes made a dash at him. He drew his revolver, but hesitated to fire. He was a burglar, but some sense that remained in him prevented him from shooting a gendarme who was only doing his duty. A piercing shriek rang through the night. The gendarme, who felt he was threatened and in danger, fired at Raife. From a doorway where Gilda had watched the commotion, she rushed with an astounding swiftness, and was in front of Raife before that shot was fired. Two gendarmes had thrown themselves upon Raife, but, with a violent effort, he threw them off and flung his revolver far into the roadway. He dashed to Gilda and caught her in his arms, kissing her with a fierce passion. “Gilda! Speak to me, Gilda! Why did you try to save me? My life is of no account and yours is so precious.”

The police stood around, inert, as the dying girl, in short sentences, gasped her last message. She told him of the doctor’s treachery. How he had betrayed Raife to the police, and that she had only learnt of the plot when it was too late to stave off the disaster. “They did not tell me until you had entered the house. It was then too late.”

Gilda’s last words were: “Raife, I—I was not altogether bad. I loved you dearly, Raife. Your father killed my father. There was the feud—the vendetta, and we were made to suffer. I should have made you a good and honest wife if we could have escaped the evil influence. God has willed it otherwise. Good-bye, dearest. Kiss me. Then, then—go to Hilda. Forget me. Go—go to Hilda and be happy. If you think of me, Raife—pity me!” Gilda Tempest, the mysterious, beautiful girl, trained to crime, with the nature of an angel, collapsed and died in the arms of the man into whose life she had entered with such disastrous effect.

In the presence of this pathetic scene the agents of police stood in silence, and with what appeared to be respect. At length the sergeant approached Raife, saying: “This is indeed a tragedy, monsieur, but it remains my duty to arrest you. Monsieur Vachelle, you are under arrest.”

Three gendarmes approached. Raife bowed. A silent figure had been an onlooker at this scene until now. Detective-Inspector Herrion approached the group and, speaking to the sergeant, said: “This gentleman is Sir Raife Remington, the missing baronet of whom I have spoken to you. This is the house of his wife, Lady Remington. I don’t think there can be any charge. A man is not a burglar in his own house. With deference may I suggest that we enter the house. Lady Remington will make the necessary explanations.”

The scared men-servants were still there and, acting on Herrion’s instructions, they carried the lifeless form of Gilda Tempest into the hall that was now brilliantly-lit. Raife re-entered the house where, a short while before, he had stealthily entered as a burglar. The crowd of people which had collected outside in answer to the revolver shot and general commotion, were dispersed, and the Avenue des Champs Elysées resumed a more normal aspect.

Detective-inspector Herrion approached the sergeant and whispered: “I will be responsible for Sir Raife Remington. You may trust me. Don’t let that fellow Malsano escape you. He is not far away you may be sure.”

The sergeant smote his chest, exclaiming: “That will be all right, Mr Herrion. I have arranged for that. You may be sure he is safely with us by now.”

The arrest of Doctor Malsano was not effected without trouble. He and Denoir, when they heard the revolver shot and Gilda’s piercing shriek, made their way down the side street to the motor-car that was waiting for them. They were too late, however, for the doctor was, in a sense, hoist with his own petard. In his anxiety to complete the downfall of Raife and secure his arrest, he had given the police such warning that their plans had been skilfully laid with a view to capturing a gang, not an individual. There was a fight before the two desperadoes were secured, and the old man fought with the fury of a wild cat. Denoir was more easily overcome. Malsano was at last secured, but his resource almost served him to the end. Producing a phial he nearly succeeded in swallowing its contents of poison. A quick upward blow sent it flying in the air. It fell to the pavement and broke in a hundred pieces. The long life of crime had told on the man. Wanted in half the cities of Europe, his conviction was assured. He did not long survive. The life of a gaol broke his nerve, and within a few months he was dead, but before he breathed his last he confessed the story of the vendetta. Soon after the tragic events that led to his return to normal life, for which his distinguished lineage had intended him, Sir Raife heard in silence the account of Malsano’s extraordinary villainy. By instinct a criminal, Malsano had exerted all his talents in the direction of grievous harm to every one with whom he came in contact.

Unforgivable, unforgettable, was the crime of sacrificing the life of a beautiful, sweet-dispositioned girl to his cruel desire for ill-gotten gain. Equally cruel was the malignant spirit in which he carried on the brutal vendetta against a man who had not harmed anybody, and was not born at the time when the crazy curse was made.

Hilda had been disturbed by the commotion in the house. She donned a dressing-gown and descended the staircase with all the courage of her highly-strung, self-reliant nature. The scene that confronted her was calculated to try the nerves of the strongest. The dead girl, Gilda Tempest, was lying on a lounge in the centre of the brilliantly-lit hall. Her upturned face was of marble whiteness, and its beauty was intensified by an expression of perfect peace. Raife, Hilda’s husband, knelt before the lifeless figure. Two gendarmes stood silently by. Herrion crossed the hall and advanced to receive Lady Remington and addressed her.

“Lady Remington, there has been a terrible tragedy. Will you allow me to talk to you somewhere, and explain matters to you? I think I can make a difficult situation more easy.”

Hilda was quite calm and, addressing one of the men-servants, said: “Turn on the lights in this room. Come in, Mr Herrion, and tell me.”

With all the grace of manner that belonged to this wonderful detective, Herrion told the story, as he had unearthed it. He pleaded for Raife, and told of the extraordinary influence of the man Malsano. He explained that Raife had not been responsible for his actions, and that a mad, uncontrollable passion had led him into the most dangerous situations. He added: “Lady Remington, in the interests of all, let me most earnestly beg of you to try and overlook these distressing occurrences. Sir Raife has not been conscious of the happenings of the past year. He will be very ill. Slowly he will recover, and let me hope that the sadness of these events will be forgotten. If you will leave it to me I think I can hush matters, and smooth things over. The woman, Gilda Tempest, gave her life for Sir Raife. I hope, Lady Remington, you will not think I exceed my privilege, when I beg of you to forget the past.”

Lady Remington looked at this extraordinary little man. Then she held out her hand to him, saying: “Yes, Mr Herrion, I will do as you suggest. You have done me a great service, and I will never forget.”

Seated on the terrace at Aldborough Park were two people, Raife’s mother and Hilda. Playing on the lawn was a flaxen-haired little boy, with three puppy dogs. They were rolling over one another after the manner of puppy dogs and children, with that complete abandon and understanding that belong to them. A tall, handsome man, with white hair and slightly bent shoulders, surveyed the scene with a satisfied smile, smoking a pipe the while. The events of that terrible year when Raife Remington was dragged from his high estate to that of a common criminal were forgotten. The fever that followed the last scene of the tragedy had left him white-haired and slightly bent, but he was still a fine and aristocratic figure. The child who played with the puppies on the lawn was the heir to the baronetcy and Aldborough Park.