William Le Queux (continued 5)

“Sent by whom?”

“By the signore’s friend—a signorina inglese.”

“Her name?”

“The Signorina Mortimer.”

Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face.

“She has sent you. Why?”

“To deliver to you an urgent message,” was the man’s response. “I have here a credential.” And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm.

From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully.

What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment.

The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead—the little curl he had so faithfully treasured.

The woman into whose hands he had so irretrievably given himself had stolen it. She had secured it by stealth on that night when, conversing with him in the library, she had confessed her knowledge of his secret, so that he had been forced by overwhelming circumstances to make the unholy compact which was driving him to despair. Time after time he had risked his life against fearful odds, snatched it from savage treachery, fought for it in open fight in wild regions where the foot of a white man had never before trod, plucked it from the heart of battle; but never had he cast it so recklessly upon the dice-board of Fate as on that night when she, the Devil’s angel, had appeared to him in the guise of a saviour.

His mouth grew hard as he thought of it. What did it matter? Life was sweet after all, and she had rescued him from suicide. Impulse rode rough-shod over reason, as it so often does with impetuous men of Dudley Chisholm’s stamp; his inborn love of adventure, which had carried him far afield into remote corners of the earth, was up in arms against sober thought.

Upon the paper in which the lock of hair was wrapped were a few words, written in ink in a firm feminine hand.

He spread the paper out and read them. The message was very brief, but very pointed:

“The bearer, Francesco Marucci, is to be trusted implicitly.—Muriel Mortimer.”

That was all. Surely no better credential could there be than the return of the treasured love-token which she had so ingeniously secured.

“Well?” he inquired, refolding the paper and replacing it in its envelope. “And your message? What is it?”

“A confidential one,” replied the Tuscan. “The Signorina ordered me to find you at once, the instant that I reached London. I left Florence the day before yesterday and travelled straight through, by way of Milan and Bâle. She gave me the address of that palazzo where you have been visiting, and I waited in the street until you came out.”

“But you have told me that I am watched,” said Dudley. “Who is taking an interest in my movements?”

“That is the reason why I am in London. As the signore is watched by the most practised and experienced secret agents, it was with difficulty that I succeeded in approaching him. If those men track me down and discover who I am, then all will be lost—everything.”

The paper he held in his hand told him that this stranger could be trusted. He was essentially a man of the world, and was not in the habit of trusting those whom he did not know. And yet, what credential could be more convincing than that innocent-looking love-token of the past?

“But why are these men, whoever they are, watching me? What interest can they possibly have in my movements? The day of the Irish agitation is over,” he said in a somewhat incredulous tone.

“The signorina in her message wishes to give you warning that you are in the deadliest peril,” the man said in a low voice, bending towards him so that none should overhear.

“Speak in Italian, if you wish,” Dudley suggested. “I can understand, and it will be safer.”

The eyes of Francesco Marucci sparkled for a moment at this announcement, and he exclaimed in that soft Tuscan tongue which is so musical to English ears:

“Benissimo! I had no idea the signore knew Italian. The signorina did not tell me so.”

It chanced that Chisholm knew Italian far better than French. As he had learnt it when, in his youth, he had spent two years in Siena, he spoke good Italian without that curious aspiration of the “c’s” which is so characteristically Tuscan.

“Perhaps the signorina did not know,” he said in response.

“The signore is to be congratulated on speaking so well our language!” the stranger exclaimed. “It makes things so much easier. Your English is so very difficult with its ‘w’s’ and its Greek ‘i’s’, and all the rest of the puzzles. We Italians can never speak it properly.”

“But the message,” demanded Dudley rather impatiently. “Tell me quickly, for in five minutes or so this place will be closed, and we shall be turned out into the street.”

“The message of the signorina is a simple one,” answered Marucci in Italian. “It is to warn you to leave England secretly and at once. To fly instantly—to-morrow—because the truth is known.”

“The truth known!” he gasped, half rising from his seat, then dropping back and glaring fixedly at the stranger.

“Yes,” the man replied. “It is unfortunately so.”

“How do you know that?”

“How?” repeated the thin-faced Tuscan, bending towards Chisholm in a confidential manner. “Because I chance to be in the service of your enemies.”

“What? You are in the British Secret Service?” cried the Under-Secretary, amazed by this revelation.

“Si, signore. I am under the Signor Capitano Cator.”

“And you are also in the service of the Signorina Mortimer?”

“That is so,” answered the man, smiling.

“You are actually one of Cator’s agents?”

“The signore is correct,” he answered. “I am an agent in the service of the British Government, mainly employed in France and Belgium. Indeed, if the Signor Sotto-Secretario reflects, he will remember a report upon the Toulon defences which reached the Intelligence Department a few months ago, and about which a rather awkward question was asked in the House of Commons.”

“Yes, I recollect. The elaborate report, which was produced confidentially, I myself saw at the time. It was by one Cuillini, if I remember right.”

“Exactly! Benvenuto Cuillini and Francesco Marucci are one and the same person.”

The young statesman sat speechless. This man Marucci was the most ingenious and faithful of all Cator’s secret agents, and the manner in which he had obtained the plans of the defences of Toulon was, he knew, considered by the Intelligence Department to be little short of miraculous. The report was a most detailed and elaborate one, actually accompanied by snapshot photographs and a mass of information which would be of the greatest service if ever England fought France in the Mediterranean.

“Then you, Signor Marucci, are really my friend?” he exclaimed at last.

“I am the friend of the Signorina Mortimer,” he replied, correcting him.

“And who is the Signorina Mortimer,” Chisholm demanded. “Who and what is she that you should be her intimate friend? Tell me.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

Shows Signori of the Suburbs.

The wiry Italian with the bristly moustache glanced at him half suspiciously; then a smile lit up his face for an instant.

“The Signorina Mortimer is an English signorina whom I have known a long time. Francesco Marucci is a friend of all the English.”

“I know. But in this matter you are actually working against the efforts of your own department.”

“As I have already explained to the signore, I am but the signorina’s messenger,” he declared, in a tone which showed him to be a past-master in the art of evasion. “She urges you to pay an immediate visit to a certain person here in London, and to leave for the Continent to-morrow morning—for Italy.”

“To go to her? Why cannot she come to England?”

“Because just at present that is impossible,” the man replied.

“And this visit you speak of. To whom is it?” The Italian drew from his pocket a small and shabby wallet, about six inches square, of the kind used in Italy to carry the paper money. From this he took a card, on which was written an address at Penge.

“She asks you to call at the house indicated immediately this card comes into your possession,” he said. “As your visit is expected, you had better go to-night.”

“For what reason?”

“For reasons known to her alone,” replied the messenger. “I am not in the possession of the motives of the signorina in this affair.”

“Speak candidly, Marucci,” said Chisholm. “You, as confidential agent of the British Government, know all about this matter. You cannot deny that?”

“I know the facts only so far as it is necessary for me to know them,” answered the Italian warily. He was still much impressed by the manner in which the Signor Sotto-Secretario had pronounced his nationality.

“You know the object of my visit to Penge, eh?”

“No, signore, I assure you that I do not. I am merely obeying orders given me by the signorina, and I hope to leave Charing Cross at nine o’clock to-morrow morning on my return to Italy.”

“Did she explain to you the manner in which the truth had been revealed?” he inquired eagerly.

“No, but I can guess,” was his companion’s answer, given in a low voice. “Some one has denounced you, and consequently your English police have received information which necessitates your flying the country and remaining hidden until you can prove an unshakeable alibi.”

Dudley was silent, thoughtfully polishing the silver handle of his cane with his glove.

“Were no instructions given you as to the mode in which I should escape? If I am watched, as you allege, then the ordinary routes to the Continent are under observation and the Channel ports closed to me.”

“No instructions were given me,” he replied. “You are to pay a visit to that address, and afterwards to leave for Florence, where I am to meet you at the Hotel Savoy. To-day is Thursday; I shall call for you at the hotel at midday on Monday.”

The hunted man reflected, for the position was both embarrassing and serious. Here were peremptory orders from the woman to whom he had sold himself as the price of his secret, to the effect that he should renounce everything, leave England, and become known at Scotland Yard as a criminal fugitive. He was to part from Claudia, whom he loved, and who loved him with all her soul; to leave her without farewell and without any words breathing patience and courage. And this, after his solemn declarations of an hour before!

What would she think of him—she who had been just as much a part of his life as he of hers?

In those brief moments he remembered the wild, uncurbed passion of her love; how that she had exalted him as her idol, as the one person who held her future in his hands, the one person whose kiss gave life to her. She was wealthy, almost beyond the wildest dreams of her youth; but riches availed her not. Her heart was bursting with the great and boundless love she bore him. He knew this; knew it all, and sighed as he faced the inevitable.

What an ignominious ending to a brief and brilliant career! It had been a thousand times better if he had cast the offer of the temptress aside, and swallowed the fatal draught he had prepared! The jury would have pronounced him to be the victim of temporary insanity, and all the ugly story that was now in possession of Scotland Yard would have been hushed for ever, and the high honour of the Chisholms saved from public blemish.

Bah! He had been weak, he told himself, and for his lack of courage he must now suffer. His thoughts turned again to suicide, but on reflection he saw that to take his own life was now unavailing. The truth was known at the Home Office, and the police would reveal it at the inquiry into the cause of his decease.

He was helpless, utterly helpless, in the hands of a clever adventuress.

Long and steadily he looked at the Italian. This man with the thin, haggard face, grey moustache and deeply furrowed brow, was actually the most daring and ingenious of all the confidential agents employed by the British Intelligence Department on the Continent. Known to the Department as Benvenuto Cuillini, it was owing to his astuteness, indomitable energy, and patient inquiry that the British Government were often put in possession of information of the highest possible value in the conduct of diplomacy or of war. There is, of course, in the Englishman’s mind an emphatic dislike of the employment of spies, but we have nowadays to face hard facts, and must pander to no sentimentalities in dealing with avowed enemies. The recent Transvaal war has shown the hopeless inefficiency of our secret service in South Africa, and has taught every Englishman the lesson that, even though he may be disinclined to employ spies, he must keep pace with other nations. Furthermore, it has proved to him that knowledge is power and that it may often be the means of saving many valuable lives.

The barman, feeling thankful that the end of his day’s work was at last reached, shouted in a stentorian voice:

“Time, gentlemen! Time!”

This announcement caused every one to drain his glass and rise.

“You will lose no time in visiting the house indicated upon the card, will you?” urged the secret agent. “And I shall meet you at the Savoy in Florence on Monday next at noon. That is a definite appointment.”

“If you wish,” Chisholm replied mechanically. And both went out, walking slowly down the court.

Before turning into Piccadilly, the Italian halted, declaring it was best that they should not be seen in company. He therefore wished Dudley good-night, and “buon viaggio.”

Should he return to Albert Gate and speak with Claudia for the last time? Ah! if only he dared to tell her the ghastly truth; to lay bare his innermost consciousness and expose to her the secret of his sin! Ah! if he only could! If he only dared to ask for her guidance, as he had so often done at the other crises of his life! She loved him; but would she love him any longer when she knew the appalling truth?

No. It was quite impossible. Even to the passionate love of a woman there is a limit.

He stood in hesitation on the crowded pavement, under the portico of the St. James’s Restaurant. To go down to the House was out of the question. Should he return to Claudia? He glanced at his watch. No. It was too late. What excuse could he make for seeking an interview with her after she had retired for the night and the great house was closed. If he went there he must perforce tell her of his intended flight—that they must, in future, be apart. This would result in a scene; and he hated scenes.

He would write to her. It was the only way. After to-morrow he, whose career had been so brilliant and full of promise, whose life was supposed by all to be so free from any cares, save those belonging to his political office, would be a fugitive upon whose track the police would raise a hue and cry throughout all the various countries which had treaties of extradition with England.

“It is God’s justice,” he murmured. “I have sinned, and this is my punishment.”

Two rough-voiced women jostled him, making some silly remarks about his star-gazing.

This roused him, and he permitted himself to drift with the crowd along to the Circus, where, having glanced at the address upon the card the spy had given him, he hailed one of the hansoms which were slowly filing past.

When the man received orders to drive to Worthington Road, Penge, he was sarcastic, and seemed disinclined to take the fare.

“It’s a long way, gov’nor,” said the driver, when Dudley had announced his intention of paying well.

“I can’t go there and back under a couple o’ quid.”

“Very well, that’s agreed,” Chisholm said. He stepped into the cab, threw himself into a corner, and gave himself up to a long and serious train of thought.

He loved Claudia, and hated the mysterious woman, who had in a manner so remarkable learned the truth regarding the one tragic event in his past. Muriel’s innocent-looking face utterly belied her crafty and avaricious nature. Gifted with the countenance of a child, her active brain was that of an adventuress. A dangerous woman for any man to associate with. And he, Dudley Chisholm, who had so long prided himself upon his shrewd observance of men and women and his quick perception, had been utterly and completely deceived.

The long drive across Westminster Bridge and along the wide and apparently endless thoroughfares with their rows of gas-lamps, through the suburbs of Walworth, Camberwell, Denmark Hill, and Sydenham, passed unnoticed. He was so much preoccupied that he did not realise his whereabouts until they were descending the hill past Sydenham Station, where they turned to the right by Venney Road, thus heading for Penge. The suburban roads were quiet and deserted; the horse’s hoofs and the tinkling of the bell were the sole disturbers of the night.

Presently the cabman pulled up to ask the solitary policeman the direction of the road which Dudley had mentioned; then he drove on again. At last, after making several turns, they passed down Green Lane and entered a road of small detached villas, rather artistically built, with red and white exteriors. Apparently they were only just finished, for in front of some there still were piles of bricks and building rubbish, while before others boards stood announcing that this or that “desirable residence” was “to be let or sold.”

The road was a cul-de-sac which terminated in a newly worked brickfield. When nearly at the end of it, the cab suddenly pulled up before a house of exactly the same appearance as its unlet neighbour, save for the fact that the Venetian blinds were down, and that a gas-jet was burning behind the fan-light of the door.

“This is it, sir,” announced the cabman through the trap-door in the roof. Dudley left the cab and passed through the newly painted iron gate and up the short path to the door, at which he knocked with a firm and sounding rat-tat.

There were signs of scuttling within. His quick eye noticed that one of the slats of the Venetian blind in the bay window of the parlour had been lifted for an instant by some person who had evidently been watching for him, and then dropped again quickly.

The low-pitched voices of men sounded ominously within, but the door was not opened.

He waited fully five minutes, listening attentively the while; he clearly heard a sound which was suspiciously like the despairing cry of a woman.

Then he knocked loudly again.

Dudley Chisholm was by no means a timid man. A dozen times he had faced death during his erratic wanderings in the almost unknown regions of the far east. He was of the type of athletic Englishman that prefers the fist as a weapon at close quarters to any knife or revolver. That whispering within, however, unnerved him; while the woman’s ejaculation was also distinctly uncanny. The cabman was awaiting him, it was true, and could be relied upon to raise an alarm if there should be any attempt at foul play. The remembrance of this, to a certain degree, reassured him.

He had come there in obedience to the orders of the woman who held his future in her hands, but he did not like the situation in the least.

His second summons was answered tardily by an old woman, withered and bent, who came shuffling down the little hall grumbling to herself, and who, on throwing open the door, inquired what he wanted.

“I think I am expected here,” was all he could reply, handing her the card which the Italian had given him.

The old hag took it in her claw-like fingers and examined it suspiciously.

“Are you Mr Chisholm?” she inquired.

Dudley nodded in the affirmative.

“Then come in—come in. They’ve been expecting you these two days.” She closed the door behind and led the way through the barely furnished hall into a back sitting-room on the left, which contained a little furniture of a kind to suggest that it had been purchased on the instalment system.

He seated himself, wondering who were the persons by whom he was expected. When his guide had gone he strained his ears to catch any sound of the woman’s voice which he had heard raised in distress after his first knock at the door. But all was silent. Only the paraffin lamp on the table with its shade of crimson paper spluttered as it burned low, for it was now about half-past two in the morning.

The association of ideas caused him to recollect all he had ever heard about strange nocturnal adventures met with by men in unknown houses in the suburbs; and as he sat awaiting the arrival of the persons who apparently took such a deep interest in his welfare he could not help becoming a prey to misgivings.

Suddenly he heard low whisperings out in the hall, and some words, distinct and ominous reached him.

“Well, if it must be, I suppose it must,” he heard a voice say. “But recollect I am no party to such a thing.”

A low, sarcastic laugh was the sole answer to this protest. The next instant the door opened, and there entered two men, one young, tall, and muscular, with an ugly scar across his lower jaw, and the other very old, feeble, and white-haired. Both were foreigners. Chisholm knew they were Italians before either of them spoke.

“Buona sera!” exclaimed the elder man, greeting the visitor in a squeaky voice. “You are the Signor Chisholm, and the English signorina in Florence has sent you to us. Benissimo! We have been awaiting you these two days. I presume our friend Marucci has only just arrived in London.”

“He arrived this evening,” said Chisholm. “But before we go further may I not know who it is I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Sisto Bernini. Our friend here,” he added, indicating his companion, “is Tonio Rocchi.” The younger man, a dark-eyed, black-haired, rather handsome fellow grinned with satisfaction. Chisholm glanced at him, but was not reassured. There was a strange mystery about the whole affair.

“You have been sent to us because you desire to avoid the police, and escape from England,” the old man continued. “To get you away is difficult, very difficult, because you are a man so extremely well-known. We often assist our own countrymen to get, safely back to Italy after any little fracas, but with you it is very different.”

“And by what means are you able to get them secretly out of the country?” inquired Chisholm, much interested in this newly discovered traffic.

“By various means. Sometimes as stowaways; at others, in our own fishing-smack from one or other of the villages along the south coast. There are a dozen different ways.”

“And are none safe for me?”

The old man shook his head dubiously.

“For you, all are dangerous.”

“All, save one,” chimed in the younger man, exchanging glances with his companion.

“And what is that?” Chisholm asked.

“It is our secret,” the old man replied, shutting his thin lips tightly with a grin of self-satisfaction.

“I was informed by Marucci that you were prepared to assist me!” exclaimed Chisholm in a tone of annoyance; “but if you are not, then I may as well wish you good-night.”

“If the signore will exercise a little patience, he shall hear our plan,” the old man Bernini assured him. “I am all attention.”

“Then let us speak quite frankly,” squeaked the old fellow. “You desire to escape from the police who, for all we know, are now watching you. That you have been watched during the past few days is evident. Tonio, here, has himself seen detectives following you. Well, we are prepared to undertake the risk—in exchange, of course, for a certain consideration.”

“To speak quite candidly you intend to blackmail me—eh? It isn’t at all difficult to see your drift.”

“If the signore desires a service rendered, he must be prepared to pay,” declared the younger man. “Sisto has a plan, but it is expensive.”

“And how much would it cost me?” inquired Chisholm, still preserving his outward calm, although he saw that he had fallen among a very undesirable and unscrupulous set.

“Ten thousand pounds sterling,” was the old man’s prompt reply.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Which asks a Question.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Under-Secretary with affected nonchalance, “I merely asked out of curiosity. I have no intention whatever of paying such a sum.”

“For the amount I have named we will guarantee to place you ashore in Greece, or in any other of the few countries that remain open to fugitives from justice.”

“I have no doubt,” Dudley answered with distinct sarcasm. “But as I have no intention of being blackmailed, or even of employing any of your efforts on my behalf, we may as well end this interview.” He rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full height.

The two men exchanged glances full of sinister meaning.

“Our aid has been invoked by your friend, the English signorina,” the young man exclaimed in a bullying tone, for the first time revealing his true character. “We have told you our terms—high, we admit, but not too exorbitant when you recollect the many bribes that have to be paid.”

“Ten thousand pounds, eh?”

“That is the sum.”

“Well, I’ll make a confession to you both,” declared Chisholm defiantly. “It is this. My life isn’t worth to me ten thousand pence. Now you can at once relinquish all hope of bleeding me in the manner you have arranged.”

“The signore is frank,” remarked the old man. “Frankness saves so much argument in such matters. I will be frank also, and say that there is still another, and perhaps more pleasant mode of escape.”

“I shall be interested to hear it,” said Dudley, folding his arms, and leaning carelessly back against the table.

The man was silent for a moment, as though hesitating whether to tell his visitor the truth. At last he spoke, compressing his scheme into a couple of words.

“By marriage.”

“With whom?”

At that instant the door was flung open suddenly, and there advanced into the room the woman he believed to be far away in Italy—the woman who held his future in her hands, Muriel Mortimer.

“Marriage with me,” she said, answering his question.

“You!” he cried, thoroughly taken aback at her sudden appearance. “What do you mean? Kindly explain all this.”

“It requires no explanation, Mr Chisholm,” she replied, her pale face hard-set and determined. “You are in the gravest peril, and I have come to you prepared to rescue you from the punishment which must otherwise fall upon you. To-night you have been with the woman who loves you—the witch-like woman who has half London at her feet. I know it all. You love her, and intend to marry her. But you will marry me—me!” and she struck her breast with her hand to emphasise her words. “Or,” she added,—“or to-night you will be arrested as a common criminal.”

He looked her straight in the face without flinching. She was dressed plainly, even shabbily, in rusty black, as though, when out of doors, to avoid attention. Her countenance, pallid and drawn, showed how desperate she was. He, for his part, perceived that he had been tricked by her, and the thought lashed him to fury.

“Listen!” he cried indignantly; “I have been enticed here to this place as part of a plot formed to obtain ten thousand pounds by blackmail, or else to drive me into becoming your husband, you well knowing that I should be prepared to pay any sum to be rid of the danger that threatens me. You promise me freedom if I consent to one or the other. The affection you pretended to feel for me was a sham of the worst kind. You and your precious myrmidons want money—only money. But from me you won’t obtain a single halfpenny. Understand that, all three of you!”

“You intend to marry her!” she said between her teeth. “But you shall never do that. She shall know the truth.”

“Tell her. To me, it is quite immaterial, I assure you,” he declared in defiance.

He saw that this woman, whom he had once believed so innocent, even childish in her simplicity, was an associate of an unscrupulous gang that, no doubt, existed by blackmailing those who desired to escape from England. He had heard vague rumours of the existence of this strange association, for it had long ago been a puzzle to the London police why so many foreigners were able to evade them and fly successfully from the country, while Englishmen, who knew well the various outlets, usually failed.

“You made a solemn compact with me that night at Wroxeter,” she said. “And you have broken it. On my part I have done all that was possible. Cator would have known the truth long ago had it not been for my presence in Italy, and for the counteracting efforts of his own lieutenant, Francesco Marucci. To my foresight all this is due, yet now you decline to save yourself!”

“I refuse to be blackmailed.”

“You hope to escape and marry her,” laughed the fair-haired woman defiantly.

“I hope for nothing. My life is, to me, just as precious as it was that bitter night at Wroxeter.”

“And you absolutely refuse to accept the alternative?”

“I will accept nothing either from you, or from your associates,” he replied.

“Then we are to be enemies?”

“If you so desire.”

“You prefer the revelations that I intend to make?”

“I do, most certainly,” he answered with a forced laugh.

“Shall I tell you one thing?”

“Do, by all means.”

“Well, you shall never marry her. To-morrow she will hate the very mention of your name,” she cried wildly.

“My memory, you mean.”

“Why?”

“Because to-morrow I shall be dead, and your chance of plucking the pigeon will have disappeared,” he answered bitterly.

She looked at him with a maddened and fiery glance, as though his defiance had aroused the spirit of murder within her. She saw that his determination to carry out his previous intention of suicide checkmated her. All her ingenious wiles had been conceived and operated in vain.

While he still lived, there was a hope of securing the prize which an hour ago had seemed to be so well within her grasp.

“So you refuse!” she cried in a frenzy of anger. “You intend to escape by self-destruction, miserable coward that you are!”

“I am no coward!” he replied with fierce indignation. “If I were a coward I would accept the offer of your associates and pay willingly to be placed beyond the possibility of arrest. But I prefer to face the inevitable, and shall do so without flinching.” Then, turning to the others, he added: “I wish all three of you more success in your next attempt to squeeze money from an unfortunate criminal—that is all.”

He turned to leave, but Tonio, the hot-headed young bully, instantly sprang forward and drew from his belt a glittering knife, one of those long, narrow-bladed weapons which the Italian of the South usually carries out of sight on his person, although his paternal government forbids him so to do. Quick as thought Dudley divined the Italian wished to prevent him from leaving the house, and, seeing the knife held down threateningly before him, he raised his fist and with a rapid, well-directed drive from the shoulder struck the fellow beneath the jaw with such force that he was lifted up and fell backwards upon the table, overturning the cheap paraffin lamp standing there.

In an instant the place burst into flames. During the confusion that followed, while the woman rushed from the room screaming “Fire!” Dudley dashed out of the house, expecting, of course, to find his cab waiting for him.

But it was not there. While he had been arguing, the old hag had evidently paid the fare and dismissed the conveyance, a fact which was in itself sufficient evidence that they had not intended him to leave the house.

For a moment he hesitated. Then, recognising how narrowly he had escaped being struck down by an assassin, he turned and hurried away across the rough brickfield to which the unfinished road gave entrance.

Shouts of alarm, and loud cries of “Fire!” sounded behind him, but without turning to look he continued on his way, stumbling along in the darkness, utterly dumbfounded at his strange adventure and the remarkable revelation of the true character of the pretty young woman known in West End drawing-rooms as Muriel Mortimer.

For most of the remainder of the night Dudley Chisholm, unnerved by the strange affair and haunted by the constant dread that he was already under police surveillance, wandered through the deserted streets of Penge and Lower Sydenham. He feared to inquire the way from any of the constables he met, lest he should be recognised. As he was entirely unacquainted with the district, he knew his position was hopeless till there should be light enough to show him the Crystal Palace. Once arrived there, he could easily make his way back to London, for in days gone by he had often driven down in his tandem from Westminster, once or twice with Claudia at his side.

The night was dark, starless, and intensely cold. But he heeded not fatigue, for his mind was full of the gravest reflections. That the woman Mortimer, the mysterious ward of the Meldrums, had laid a very clever plot, into which he had fallen, was plainly apparent. But he had refused her demands, and she was now, of course, his most bitter enemy. That she would seek vengeance he had no doubt, for she had already shown herself to be a woman not to be thwarted.

And what was worse than all—she knew his secret.

Through the ill-lit suburban roads he wandered on and on, reflecting bitterly that with this woman as his enemy there only remained for him suicide, if he wished to avoid arrest and a criminal’s trial. He came at last to a railway line running on a low embankment, through market gardens, and it occurred to him to climb up there and wait in patience for the approach of a train. All this time Dudley Chisholm was not in the least distraught; and yet of all his wishes none was so powerful as the wish to end his life.

But Claudia’s beautiful face arose before him. Her dear eyes, with that familiar expression of tenderness, a little sad, but sweet with a love-look not to be mistaken, seemed to gaze upon him just as they had done during that blissful hour before midnight, when he had held her in his arms and breathed into her ear the declaration of his love.

Ah, how passionately he loved her!

No, he could not take farewell of life without once again beholding her! He descended the embankment and walked along what seemed interminable miles of streets, until he met at last a bricklayer on his way to work, carrying his tin tea-bottle in his hand. This man proved communicative, and informed him that he was at Rushey Green, on the main road which led through Lewisham and Deptford, where it entered one of the arteries of London, the Old Kent Road.

He glanced at his watch and found that it was close upon five o’clock. Roused by this discovery, he pushed forward at a quicker pace, at length finding a belated cab in front of a coffee-stall, at which its driver was refreshing himself. Then, thoroughly worn out, he got into the conveyance and was driven back to his chambers.

Old Parsons had a message for him when he reached home.

“A man called to see you during the night, master Dudley. He wished to see you very particularly, but would leave no card.”

“What kind of man?” inquired his master suspiciously.

“I think he was a gentleman. At least he spoke like one. I had never seen him before. He wanted to know whether he would find you down at the House, and I said that it was most probable you were there.”

“He wasn’t a foreigner?”

“Oh no,” the old man answered. “Some papers have also been brought by a messenger. They are on your table.”

Dudley passed through into his study, put down his hat, and broke open the usual sealed packet of Parliamentary papers which reached him each night, and which contained among others, the draft of the questions to be addressed to him on the following day in his capacity of Foreign Under-Secretary in the House.

Without seating himself he took out the question paper and looked at it.

He glanced rapidly from paragraph to paragraph. Suddenly his gaze became fixed, and he held his breath. He read in the precise handwriting of Wrey, the following words:

“Mr Gerald Oldfield (Antrim West) to ask the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs whether it is true that a certain member of this House, now a Member of Her Majesty’s Government, has sold to the representative of a Foreign Power a copy of certain confidential diplomatic correspondence, and further whether it is not a fact that the Member of Her Majesty’s Government referred to is guilty of the crime of wilful murder.”

The blue official paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers and fell to the ground.

“My God!” he gasped, his jaws rigid, his eyes staring and fixed. “My secret is already known to my enemies!”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Confesses the Truth.

The wintry dawn had scarcely broken; he would have to wait several hours before paying his last visit to Albert Gate. He threw off his great-coat and cast himself wearily into the big armchair, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. Despair had gripped his heart. It was hard that his career should thus be suddenly cut off, harder still that he must leave the sweet and tender woman whom he had loved so fondly for so many years. But he was guilty—yes, guilty; he must suffer the penalty exacted from all those who sin against their Maker.

Parsons entered to inquire if he wanted anything; but he dismissed him, telling him to go and snatch some rest for an hour or two. The faithful old retainer never went to bed before the return of his master, no matter to what hour he might be detained in the House.

When he had gone, Chisholm opened the heavy curtains, drew up the blind and watched the yellow London dawn slowly dispersing the mists over St. James’s Park. Standing at the window he gazed out upon St. James’s Street, dismal and deserted, with its strip of dull sky above. It was the last dawn that he would see, he told himself bitterly, From him all the attractions of the world would very soon be taken away. Well, he left them with only a single regret—Claudia.

He fondly whispered her name. It sounded to him strange, almost unearthly, in that silent room.

Yes, he must see her again for the last time, and confess to her the whole terrible truth. She would hate and despise him, for from the man whose hands are stained with the blood of a fellow-creature it would only be natural for her to shrink. The awful truth he had to confront was—that he was a murderer.

The remembrance of the narrow path in the patch of forest near Godalming came back to him. In a single instant he lived again those terrible moments of his madness—the death-cry rang in his ears. He remembered how quickly he had slipped away through the wood; how at last he found himself standing on the high-road; how he reached a railway station and returned to London.

Then, two days later, the papers were full of it. He recollected all the theories that had been put forward; the many mysterious facts that were produced at the inquest, and the grave suspicion that fell upon another. It was all like some horrible nightmare, so horrible, indeed, that he found himself wondering if he had really lived through it—if he were really an assassin.

Alas! it was only too true. Cator had discovered the real facts, and the crime was now fixed upon him.

He tried to rid himself of these hideous recollections of the past, to brace himself up boldly, and to face his condemnation and self-destruction. But it was too difficult; his strength failed him.

Not only was his secret known to the Intelligence Department, but one, at least, of his fiercest political opponents, a wild-haired demagogue, knew the truth and intended to explode that question in the House, as if it were an infernal machine, in the hope of upsetting the Government by his action.

From his breast pocket he took the tiny talisman, the lock of hair which Muriel Mortimer had so ingeniously stolen, and at last returned to him. When he had opened the paper, he looked at the curl, long and wistfully.

He was thinking—thinking deeply, while the yellow dawn struggled through the canopy of London fog and the hands of the clock before him were slowly creeping forward to mark the hour of his doom.

There were several letters, which had been delivered by the last post on the previous night, awaiting his attention. Out of curiosity he took them up and one by one opened them, throwing them into the waste-paper basket when read, for, as he bitterly reflected, they would need no reply.

One of the letters gave him pause. He re-read it several times, with brows knit and a puzzled expression upon his countenance. Dated from Boodle’s it ran as follows:

“Dear Sir,—I have twice during the past two days endeavoured to see you, once at the House of Commons, and again at the Foreign Office, but have on both occasions been unsuccessful. I shall to-morrow do myself the honour of calling upon you at your chambers, and if you are not in, I shall esteem it a favour if you will kindly leave word with your servant at what hour you will return.

“Yours truly.

“Ralph Brodie.”

His features relaxed into a hard smile. What a curious freak of Fate it was that caused this man, of all others, to write and ask for an appointment! He was a person with whom he had never before held any communication—the husband of the woman who, years before her marriage, had given him that lock of hair as a love-token. She had been one of the loves of his youth, and since her marriage he had never seen her. He knew that she had married a wealthy Anglo-Indian named Brodie, and that he had taken her back with him to India. When he was in that country, after his journey across Bhutan, he had been told they were living on their great estate at Kapurthala, near Jalandhar, in the Punjab; and there were whispers to the effect that the marriage had been anything but a happy one. Brodie neglected her, it was said, and at Simla she was flattered, so went the report, by a host of admirers, mostly military, in the usual manner. It was for that reason that he did not visit Simla. She had never once written to him after her marriage. Although he held her memory sacred, he had no wish to meet her and risk the chance of becoming disillusioned in regard to her character.

He had always suspected that Brodie was aware of the affection which had nearly resulted in their engagement. Hence, he had entertained no desire to meet him. Strange, indeed, that he should so persistently seek him, just at the most critical moment in his life.

“Well,” he laughed at last, tearing up the letter and tossing it into the fire, “I’ve never met the fellow in all my life, and I don’t see why I should put myself out to do so now. The brute treated May badly, infernally badly. If we met I couldn’t be civil to the cad.”

He had loved May—the daughter of a retired colonel—in the days after he and Claudia had drifted apart, he to indulge his cynicism, she to marry Dick Nevill. But his love for her was not that passionate worship of the ideal which had marked his affection for the charming little friend of his youth. It was a mere midsummer madness, the pleasant memory of which lingered always in his mind.

He thought over it all, and smiled bitterly when he recollected the past.

Presently Parsons brought him a cup of black coffee. It was a habit of his, acquired abroad, to take it each morning in bed. When the old servitor, true to his clock-work precision, entered with the tiny Nankin cup upon the tray, Dudley was astonished.

“What? Eight o’clock already?” he exclaimed, starting up.

“Yes, Master Dudley,” the old man replied. “Aren’t you going to bed, sir?”

“No. Well—at least, I don’t know, Parsons,” said the Under-Secretary. “I have several early appointments.”

At that moment the electric bell in the hall rang sharply, and the old man went out to answer the summons.

“There’s a gentleman, Master Dudley,” was Parson’s announcement. “He wishes to see you at once very particularly. He will give no card.”

“Well, show him in,” his master answered with every sign of reluctance, swallowing his coffee at a gulp. As his doom was fixed, what did it matter who called upon him now? He smiled bitterly.

Parsons disappeared for a moment. A few seconds later the heavy portico was drawn aside, and there stood before Dudley the tall, rather well-dressed, figure of a man, who halted upon the threshold without uttering a word.

“You!” gasped Chisholm, springing from his chair. “You! Archibald Cator!”

“Yes,” answered the other gravely, closing the door behind him. “We have met before, and, doubtless, you know my errand.”

“I do,” groaned the despairing man. “Alas! I do.”

“The truth is out, Mr Chisholm!” exclaimed his visitor, in slow, deep tones. “Our inquiries are complete, and there has been discovered against you evidence so plain as to be altogether indisputable. There need be no ceremony between us. You, esteemed by the world, and held in high honour by the Government, are both a traitor and a murderer. Do you deny it?”

There was a silence, deep and painful.

“No, I do not,” was the low, harsh rejoinder of the wretched man, who had sunk back into his chair with his chin upon his breast.

His visitor deliberately drew from the inner pocket of his overcoat a big, official-looking envelope, out of which he took several unmounted photographs.

These he spread before the man whose brilliant career had thus been so suddenly ended.

“Do you recognise these as reproductions of documents handed by you to a certain friend of yours—copies of confidential despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty’s Ambassador at Constantinople?”

Chisholm, his face livid, nodded in the affirmative. Denials were, he knew, utterly useless. The whole ingenious network of the British Intelligence Department on the Continent had been diligently at work piecing together the evidence against him, and had, under the active direction of that prince of spies, Archibald Cator, at last succeeded in unravelling what had for years remained a profound mystery.

His grave-faced, unwelcome visitor, well-satisfied by this admission, next drew a mounted cabinet photograph from his pocket, and, holding it out before his eyes, asked, in a low, distinct voice whether he knew the original.

Chisholm’s countenance turned ashen grey the instant his haggard eyes fell upon the pictured face.

“God!” he cried, wildly starting up, “my God! Cator, spare me that! Hide it from my sight! hide it! I cannot bear it! It’s his portrait—his!”

The clock of St. Anne’s, in Wilton Place, had just chimed eleven, and the yellow sun had now succeeded in struggling through the wintry mist.

Claudia’s carriage with its handsome pair of bays and her powdered footman, with the bearskin rug over his arm, stood awaiting her beneath the dark portico.

As, warmly wrapped in her sables, she descended the wide marble staircase slowly, buttoning her glove, Jackson met her.

“Mr Chisholm has just called, m’lady. He has been shown into the morning-room.”

Her heart gave a quick bound. She dismissed the servant with a nod and walked to the apartment indicated.

Dudley turned quickly from the window as she entered, and greeted her, raising her ungloved hand to his lips with infinite courtliness. In an instant, however, she detected the change in him, for his face was blanched to the lips, his voice hoarse and tremulous.

“My dear Dudley!” she cried in alarm. “Why, whatever is the matter? You are ill.”

He closed the door behind her; then, still holding her hand, looked straight into her dark eyes, and said:

“I have come to you, Claudia, to bid you farewell—to see you for the last time.”

“What do you mean?” she gasped, her cheeks turning pale in an instant at his announcement.

“I mean that our love must end to-day. That in future, instead of entertaining affection for me, you must hate me, as one guilty and unworthy.”

“I really don’t understand, dear,” she answered, bewildered. “You are not yourself to-day.”

“Alas! I am too much myself,” he answered in a low hoarse voice. “I am here, Claudia, to make confession to you. I would, indeed, crave your forgiveness, but I know that that is impossible.” He was holding her hand in his convulsive grasp, and his eyes were riveted on hers in a fierce look full of a passionate devotion.

“Confession?” she asked quickly. “What secrets have you from me? Has some other woman usurped my place in your heart? If so, tell me, Dudley. Do not hesitate.”

“No,” he answered, trying to preserve an outward calm, “it is not that. I love no woman but your own dear self. Surely you do not doubt me?”

“I have never doubted you. Sometimes I have been jealous—madly jealous, I confess—but always without reason, for you have always been loyal to me.”

“I was loyal because I loved no other woman save yourself,” he cried, kissing her passionately upon the lips. “But all the joy must wither. I am here to make confession, to reveal a ghastly chapter in my life, and to take leave of you—and of life.”

She saw how terribly agitated he was, and her woman’s solicitude for his welfare calmed her. “Come,” she said tenderly, leading him towards a chair. “Sit down and remain quiet for a little. You are nervous and overworked.” She placed her small, soft hand upon his hot brow, and brushed back the dark hair from his forehead.

Refusing to sit, he stood before her, grasping the chair to steady himself.

“No, Claudia; do not trouble about me. It is all useless now. The end has come. Let me confess all to you. I know that what I am about to disclose will turn your love to hatred; that my very memory will become repugnant to you, and that mere mention of my name will fill you with indignation and disgust. But hear the secret chapter of my life’s history before you judge. Let me tell you all,” he added hoarsely. “Let me lay bare the terrible secret that I have carried these six years buried within my heart. Let me confess to you, the woman I love.”

His words filled her with amazement. Her brows contracted, and her breath came and went in short, quick gasps. Was she actually to lose him? It seemed impossible.

“I am all attention, Dudley,” she replied in a low, mechanical voice. “Your confession, whatever its nature, shall find in me a safe guardian.”

“I cannot ask you to forgive, Claudia,” he said, “I can only beg of you to think that I have hidden the truth from you because I dearly loved you and knew that exposure must result in the abrupt termination of our love-dream.”

“Tell me all,” she urged. “Have no secrets from me.”

“Then hear me,” he said, his hard face white and drawn, while with his strong hands he gripped the chair, striving valiantly to remain calm. “I will relate to you all the hideous facts in their proper sequence; you will see what a canker-worm of guilt has existed within me all these years. For me, there is now no life, no hope, no love—”

“Except mine,” she interrupted quickly.

“Ah! yours must turn to hatred, Claudia! I cannot hope for the pardon of man or woman. I have suffered; I have repented deeply on my knees before my Maker. But God’s judgment is upon me, and the end is near. My story is a tragic one indeed. I think you will recollect that, long ago, after I had come down from Oxford, it was our custom to take happy walks round Winchester, over to King’s Worthy, across the Down to Hursley, or through the Crab Wood to Sparsholt—do you remember those still summer evenings in the golden sun-down, dearest, when youth was buoyant and careless, and our love was perfect?”

“Remember them?” she cried. “Ah! yes. I live those happy hours over again very often in my day-dreams, when I am alone. They are the tenderest memories of all my past,” she answered in a deep voice, tremulous with an emotion which stirred her to the very depths of her being.

“Your marriage came as a natural sequence, Claudia, for as the old adage has it, the course of true love never did run smooth. We separated, and you carried my farewell kiss of benediction upon your brow. I became lonely and melancholy when you, the sun of my life, had gone out. In order to occupy myself, as you had urged me to do, I obtained by family influence the appointment of private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, Her Majesty’s Foreign Minister. You were abroad with Dick, spending the winter at Cannes, when I became acquainted with a girl named May Lennox, the daughter of a retired officer who had spent much of the latter part of his life on the Continent. I missed you as my constant companion, and it was merely for the sake of her bright companionship that I allowed myself to become attracted by her. Father and daughter were devoted to each other, and as the colonel was a widower, the pair lived in furnished lodgings, a drawing-room floor in Hereford Road, which turns out of Westbourne Grove, close to Whiteley’s. I rather liked the colonel. By reason of my frequent visits, we became very friendly. During the hot days of August they moved down to Hastings, taking up their quarters at the Queen’s, to which place I often ran down to see them, for I must here confess that a midsummer madness grew upon me, and I at last found myself in love with her. From the first, however, I had been quick to perceive that although the colonel was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan and a lighthearted fellow whose only occupation seemed to be the study of foreign politics from the newspapers—for knowing my official position he often discussed and criticised with me points in Lord Stockbridge’s policy—yet he was nevertheless entirely opposed to my suit. I did my utmost to ingratiate myself with him, for at the time I believed myself to be hopelessly in love with May.”

He paused in hesitation, for he knew that his confession must be a cruel and terrible disillusionment for Claudia.

But he had taken the initial step, and was now compelled to describe to the bitter end his downfall, and thus to lose the treasure of her esteem.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Confides a Motive and a Mystery.

“One Sunday evening early in September,” Chisholm continued at last, in a hoarse, strained voice, low and yet distinct, “May had retired immediately after dinner, owing to a headache, and I agreed to accompany the colonel for a turn along the Esplanade, to smoke a cigar. The night was hot and close, prophetic of a thunderstorm. As we sat together on a seat close to the St. Leonard’s Pier, chatting in the semi-darkness, he suddenly broached a subject and made a suggestion, the astounding audacity of which struck me absolutely dumb with horror. He explained to me in confidence that he knew there had arrived at the Foreign Office from Constantinople certain cipher despatches from Sir Henry Lygon, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Porte, and that he was prepared to pay almost any price for copies of these documents. He pointed how easy it would be for me, as private secretary to Lord Stockbridge, to photograph them. He tempted me, saying that for such photographs I might name my own price. Wild indignation seized me; but he only laughed and calmly lit a fresh cigar, at the same time dropping a hint that my reward for this suggested service would be his daughter’s hand. May was in ignorance of all this. She never knew that her father was a mean and despicable spy who had constant relations with a foreign Power. I refused, and we argued, he and I, until, what with his persuasions and his promise that May should be my wife, he induced me to comply with his audacious demand. He tempted me, and I fell. Next day, after the exercise of not a little ingenuity, I succeeded in obtaining possession of the despatches in question, took them to my rooms, and secured photographs of each, returning the originals to their place within half an hour. I developed the negatives in secret, made some hasty prints, and delivered them to Lennox at Hastings three days later. By aid of the powerful reading-glass which he had bought at an optician’s in Robertson Street, the cipher of the confidential despatches could be distinctly read, a result which gave him the utmost satisfaction. I was young, inexperienced, and did not then fully appreciate the gravity of my offence. It was, However, certain that those into whose hands the photographs eventually passed possessed a copy of the decipher used by the British Foreign Office, for subsequent events proved that Tewfik Pasha, the Turkish Minister of Foreign Affairs, successfully used the information in his diplomatic juggling with Russia. I never dreamed that this untimely exposure of Britain’s policy in the near East would result in such a serious crisis as eventually came to pass; for my theft was the cause of a grave misunderstanding between England, the Porte, and the Triple Alliance; so serious, indeed, that a European war was only narrowly averted by the tact of Lord Stockbridge, combined with that of Count Murieff, the Russian Foreign Minister.” Chisholm paused again, with eyes downcast.

“Go on,” she said brokenly. “Tell me all, Dudley—everything.”

“I had believed that by doing this scoundrel Lennox a service I had ingratiated myself with him,” the despairing man continued after a pause; “but, so far from this being the case, he told me on the following day that it would be better if I remained apart from them, as my too frequent visits might be suspected by the Foreign Office, especially after what had transpired. May was still my unsophisticated friend, and was quite unaware of the theft I had committed at her father’s bidding; but even in her I fancied I detected a change. It required only this to tear down the last barrier between myself and my conscience; the knowledge that I was a traitor to my Queen and country began to pierce me like sword. Of a sudden, a fortnight after the photographs had passed into the possession of Lennox, the spy settled his daughter as a paying guest with a family living in Christchurch Road, Tulse Hill, and then disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him; but not before he had written me a stiff letter formally refusing his consent to my marriage with May. Then I saw how cleverly I had been entrapped by the adventurer, who knew well that I dared not expose him, for the sake of my own reputation. Soon afterwards the general election was held, and, as a reward for my services, which were believed, of course, to have been faithfully rendered, I was given a safe seat at Albury. Then May and I drifted apart, for she went to live with an aunt up at Berwick-on-Tweed, while I entered enthusiastically upon a political career. The manner in which Sir Henry Lygon’s despatches had leaked out to England’s enemies was a puzzle to the Foreign Office and to the world; but as I possessed the entire confidence of my chief I remained unsuspected, although my treachery had cost the country dearly, for by it I had betrayed my benefactor, Lord Stockbridge, and given to the wily Turk the whip hand over Europe, enabling the Sultan to defy both England and Russia. England had held the trump card in the diplomatic game, but by the premature exposure of her hand all had been lost. Searching inquiries were, of course, made by the cleverest detectives and agents of the Intelligence Department, but the result was absolutely nil.”

“There was considerable comment in the papers at the time,” remarked Claudia slowly. “I recollect Dick speaking of it as a mystery, and condemning the apparent laxity of Foreign Office rules.”

“Some months had gone by, and May’s letters, which had been growing perceptibly colder, at last ceased altogether,” he continued, heedless of her remark. “In order to become acquainted with my constituents I had taken up my residence in my Parliamentary Division, at Godalming to be exact, and it was my habit each afternoon to take long walks alone through the woods and over the hills of that delightful neighbourhood. The sequel to what I have already confessed to you,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “occurred one autumn day when the trees were almost bare and the woodland paths were covered with acorns and withered leaves. I had been for a long stretch over the Hog’s Back, having paid a visit to my friend Machray, at Wanborough, and was returning by way of Compton, and then across the meadows and up the hill towards the Charterhouse at Godalming. The gusty wind was chilly and the wintry twilight was fading as I passed Field Place and struck across the wide grass-lands to a corner where the path was divided by a stile from a dense belt of wood, the most lonely and secluded spot in the neighbourhood, and a popular resort of rustic couples. As I leaped over the stile into the dark pathway which led up a very steep incline through the wood, I was startled by being suddenly confronted by a man whom, in an instant, I recognised as Lennox. He had evidently been awaiting me there, for he put his hand upon my shoulder, saying that he desired a few words with me. With disgust and hatred I shook him off; but he resolutely placed himself before me, saying that he desired of me one other service, namely, that I should secure for him a copy of a certain document which had that morning reached the Foreign Office by Queen’s messenger from the British Embassy in Paris. This I flatly refused; whereupon this enemy of England, who had once held Her Majesty’s commission, threatened me with exposure and ruin if I did not at once comply with his demand. My blood rose, and, by way of retort, I gave him to understand that I would inform the police of his presence in England. High words and bitter recriminations ensued. Suddenly, without the least warning, his hand went swiftly to his hip, and I saw him draw a gleaming knife with which next moment he rushed at me. The wild look in his face was sufficient to show his evil intent, and in a second I drew from my pocket the small revolver that I always carried. In the fierce and desperate struggle we were well matched, and for some minutes we fought for life. With wild and fearful oaths he tried time after time to plunge his weapon into my heart, but only succeeded in twice gashing my wrist. I carry the scars to this very day.”

He drew up his shirt-cuff and showed her where his assailant’s knife had wounded him.

“Suddenly I felt my strength failing,” he went on in a low, hard tone, a wild look in his eyes. “Then, in a fury of hatred, I twisted my arm from his sinewy grasp, and fired my revolver full at him. I must, I think have emptied two, or even three, chambers. He fell forward dead—with a curse upon his lips. I—I murdered him—in order to seal his lips!”

“You, Dudley!” cried the pale, bewildered woman, swaying forward as though she had received a blow. “You?—you killed him!”

“Yes, Claudia,” said the guilty man, not daring to look her in the face, “I have confessed to you my double crime. The truth now stands revealed to you in all its naked hideousness. I, the man whom you have trusted and loved for all these years, am a traitor, and worse—a murderer!”

She could not speak, her heart was too full of grief and suffering. She covered her white face with her hands; low sobs escaped her, the bitterest lamentations of a broken heart.

“And now let me conclude my story,” he went on, his own heart almost breaking because of her agony. “How I got away I cannot tell. I remember but little, save that I rushed from the spot, tore across the fields to Farncombe station, whence I took train to Waterloo. From the accounts in the papers it appears that an hour later the body, stiff and cold, was discovered by a pair of lovers walking together, and information was given to the county constabulary. Nothing was found upon the man to lead to his identification, and although the greatest sensation was caused by the tragedy, Scotland Yard was utterly puzzled. One miserable wretch, a tramp who had been seen loitering in the neighbourhood, was arrested on suspicion, but was afterwards released. Detectives searched diligently for some clue, but found nothing to help them in regard to the identity of the murderer or to that of his victim, who was buried in a nameless grave in Godalming Cemetery at the expense of the parish. Imagine the awful remorse I suffered! For a few weeks I remained in London with this terrible guilt weighing upon me, feverishly scanning the papers, and preparing for a journey to the Far East. You will recollect that you were in Pau, when I wrote announcing my sudden departure.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I remember. Dick’s illness had then begun, and the doctors had ordered him abroad.”

“I feared to remain longer in England, and desired to place as great a distance as possible between myself and the scene of my crime. I, belauded by the newspapers as a coming man, was a traitor to my country and a murderer. My conscience drove me to madness. I could not get rid of the ever-recurring recollections of my crime. And so it has been during these later years, whether I have travelled through the eternal snows of the Himalayas, explored the forbidden lands of Bhutan or Nepal, or sat on the Treasury Bench of the House. I have lived in constant dread of denunciation and exposure. While in Calcutta, as the guest of the Viceroy on my return from Chinese Turkestan, I learnt that May Lennox had married a wealthy man named Brodie, and had gone to live up at Kapurthala, in the Punjab. Since that day I have heard nothing of her. Four years have passed since my return, years of awful anxiety and mental strain that have made me old before my time; yet at last Archibald Cator, the man from whom no state secret is safe—that midnight visitor at Wroxeter—has discovered the truth. His secret agents have penetrated to the archives of the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Constantinople, and from them have secured those photographs, to which is attached a docket written in Turkish stating by what channel they were secured. Thus from the carefully-guarded storehouse of the Sultan’s secrets has the evidence of my crime been exposed, and my accusation is now at hand. Guilty of treason and of murder I have lost your love, Claudia—I can hope for nothing, nothing. My very name will become a reproach, and the very people who have so often applauded me will now hate my memory as that of a betrayer. My punishment is complete!” he cried wildly, in hoarse despair. “I have sinned, and this is God’s judgment!”

Chapter Thirty.

Tells a Strange Tale.

“And your secret is known,” said the pale, agitated woman despairingly, her dark eyes still fixed upon the guilty man before her. Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper, for the wounded heart made it difficult for her to speak.

He nodded in the affirmative.

“To whom?” she asked.

“To Cator, of the Secret Service; to many of his agents, no doubt; to one, at least, of my political opponents, and to a woman who is your friend—Muriel Mortimer!”

“To Muriel?” she gasped in abject amazement.

“Yes,” he answered; “the woman who, if report speaks correctly, was suggested by you to Lady Meldrum as a fitting person to become my wife.”

“Ah, forgive me!” Claudia cried quickly. “I threw you into one another’s society in order to test your love for me. I was, not certain whether you really loved me, or whether this younger and prettier woman might not attract you. Believe me, I invited her to the house-party at Wroxeter for the same purpose that I allowed my name to be associated with that of the Grand-Duke and others—to test the extent of your affection. I was foolish—very foolish, I know. But forgive me, Dudley, I was jealous.”

In answer to her request he related the ingenious manner in which he had been entrapped, precisely as in the foregoing pages it has already been described.

“She wished to marry you in order to obtain money,” declared the angry woman, upon whom these revelations had fallen as a crushing blow. “I never suspected her; yet now I see it all. Her ingenuity has been simply marvellous. She intended that you should buy from her a freedom which it was not within her power to sell. If you had become her husband she would, no doubt, either have tempted you to commit suicide rather than face arrest—first, of course, having induced you to make a will in her favour—or else have expected you to pay heavily for release from a woman of her stamp.”

“But who is she?” he demanded. “What do you know of her?”

“Nothing, except what you already know, Dudley, that, although the ward of a respectable family, she is now proved to be an unscrupulous adventuress. But I myself will attempt to solve the mystery. She was abroad for about a year, she once told me, and she often goes to the Continent to visit friends there. There are many facts about her that are mysterious, and yet Lady Meldrum absolutely adores her. She cannot, however, know the truth of her association with these foreign ruffians who have attempted your life. Now that I recollect,” she added, “I found one morning, concealed behind one of the cushions in the cosy-corner of the library, a piece of crumpled paper, which, when opened, I discovered to be the commencement of a letter in a woman’s hand. It was in Italian, and began, ‘Mio adorato Tonio.’ She must have gone there to write to the man, and, being interrupted, had evidently crushed the paper in her hand and hid it, and then forgotten it.”

“Yes,” he said, “I recollect finding her alone there one evening, and that my entrance seemed to confuse her somewhat. But,” he went on despondently, “had the scoundrels been successful it would perhaps have been better for me.” He was no coward, but he saw that for him all life, all happiness, all love had ended.

“No, Dudley,” she answered in a sweet and tender voice, looking straight at him. “You are guilty, but both you and I have been the victims of this ingenious trickster. She first tried to rob me of your love, and then, finding herself unsuccessful, resorted to a foul and cunning strategy.”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, his chin still upon his breast. “I am guilty, and must suffer. But,” he added, raising his head slowly until his eyes met hers, “promise me one thing, Claudia—promise that after to-day you will give no further thought to me. I have deceived you, and am unworthy; put me out of your mind for ever.”

“But you loved me, Dudley,” she cried with a mournful tenderness. “How can I allow your memory to pass from me when for so many years you have been my all in all?”

“In the future we must be parted,” he answered huskily. “From the consequences of my crime there is no escape—none. But if I thought that you had forgotten the grave wrong I have done you, my mind would at least be easier.”

She did not answer for a few moments. Then, with the passion begotten of a changeless and profound affection she rushed towards him, threw her arms about his neck, and cried out:

“No, Dudley, you are mine—mine! we must not part. I love you—you know that I do! You shall not leave me—you hear! you shall not!”

“But I must,” he replied gravely, a hardness appearing at the corners of his mouth as he slowly disengaged himself from her embrace. “I have given my word of honour to return to my chambers before midday.”

“To whom?”

“To Archibald Cator. The man who, in the exercise of his profession as chief of our Secret Service, has discovered my secret.” Chisholm, whatever might have been his follies in the past, was now a man of unflinching principle. He had given his word not to attempt to escape.

“Then I will go with you,” she said with resolution. “It is half-past eleven, and my carriage is outside. We will drive down to St. James’s Street together.”

But in all earnestness he begged her not to accompany him. He did not desire that she should be a witness of his degradation and arrest. He could not bear the thought. He knew that the matter would be placed before Lord Stockbridge himself, and that, in company with Cator, he would be called into the presence of the grave-eyed Chief in whose confidence and regard he had for long held so high a place.

“I shall go with you,” she said decisively, now calm and composed after her agitation and flood of tears. She had braced herself up with what was, under the circumstances, a remarkable effort. By way of explanation she added, half breathlessly: “I love you, Dudley, and my place in the hour of trial is at your side.”

He raised her bejewelled hand tremblingly to his lips, and thanked her in a husky voice. He, the Discrowned, dared not kiss her lips.

“Patience and courage,” she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder tenderly, just as she had been wont to do in those early days of his career when she had so often given him advice.

He shook his head sadly before answering.

“Both are unavailing against the vengeance of Heaven!”

She was silent. This man, whom she had loved as her own life, was a murderer. A gulf had opened between them, his arrest and denunciation were imminent. They could no longer be lovers. All was of the past.

Her tender woman’s sympathy for him in his hopeless despair was too deep for tears. Her countenance, usually so sweet and smiling, had grown hard, and her eyes large and serious. The caprice of her broken heart was that this last drive to his chambers should be taken in his company. Many and many a time he had driven with her hither and thither in London, but this was the last occasion. After that, then she would be alone, friendless, unloved—the queen of the silent kingdom, as she had so often termed the stately mansion, one of the finest in London, where the servants moved in silence and the huge marble hall and corridors echoed to the slightest whisper.

They drove together past Apsley House and along Piccadilly without exchanging a single word. Once or twice Dudley raised his hat mechanically to passers-by who, now that the yellow sunlight had struggled through the clouds, were enjoying a stroll in London’s gayest thoroughfare. Whenever there is any sunshine in the metropolis, it is always in Piccadilly. But the unwonted brightness of that morning jarred upon Dudley and Claudia. Few who passed the pair driving in that handsome carriage would ever have dreamed that the light of that beautiful woman’s heart was extinguished, and that the well-groomed man at her side was going deliberately to his doom.

Beneath the bearskin rug their hands met—and clasped. Their hearts beat quickly, their eyes met, but no word passed between them. Both understood that all words were empty in face of the horrible truth.

Archibald Cator, who had been sitting beside the fire in Chisholm’s sitting-room, rose and bowed when they entered. He recognised Claudia at once, and darted a look of inquiry at the accused man.

“Captain Cator, I believe?” she exclaimed, addressing him. “To apologise is quite unnecessary. I know everything. Mr Chisholm has told me the whole terrible story. You have but done your duty in the service of your country, and as far as I am concerned your just behaviour will receive a just verdict.”

The tall, thin-faced man was expressing his regrets, when Claudia, turning to him again, asked:

“In this affair there is still an element of mystery which should be at once cleared up. Through my own unpardonable folly in accepting as friend a woman whom I did not know, Mr Chisholm has fallen the victim of a curious conspiracy. Do you chance to know in Italy a man named Marucci?”

“Marucci?” repeated the captain; “Francesco Marruci, I presume you mean? Yes, I know him and have employed him in Rome, and elsewhere, to make confidential inquiries.”

“And do you chance to be acquainted with a woman named Mortimer—a young woman, Muriel Mortimer?”

“Certainly,” he replied quite frankly. “She is a fair-headed young person who poses as the ward of an English family named Meldrum. A couple of years ago, however, she married secretly an Italian named Biancheri, then a lieutenant of Artillery stationed at Florence, and she and her husband are now generally supposed to be agents employed in the secret service of Italy. This good-looking woman has been a successful spy. Her husband is a black-haired, evil-looking fellow with an ugly scar across his lower jaw.”

“His description is exact. He was the man who attempted to take my life last night!” exclaimed Chisholm, astonished at this revelation. “He called himself Tonio Rocchi.”

When Dudley had briefly described his adventure, Cator said:

“I knew the woman Mortimer was a guest at Wroxeter, and that was the reason why I wished nobody to know of my visit there. We are acquainted, but at that moment I had no wish to meet her.”

“Then this woman, her husband, and the Italian Marucci have by some means learnt my secret, and are actually in agreement as regards this scheme of attempted blackmail?”

“Most certainly,” was Cator’s response. “Biancheri, or Rocchi, as he calls himself, and his wife are as smart a pair of adventurers as any on the Continent, and it is well-known to us that they have on several occasions levied huge sums in blackmail when diplomatic and family secrets have leaked out.”

“But the Meldrums!” exclaimed Claudia in astonishment. “Is it possible that they, a most respectable family, can actually be aware of this woman’s fraud?”

“I think not,” was the captain’s reply. “Muriel Mortimer, the daughter of a deceased station-master employed on the Great Northern Railway, is of age, and therefore, of course, her own mistress. In England she is still the ward of Sir Henry Meldrum—who had taken her out of charity—and passes as a single woman, but she secretly married Biancheri while they were wintering in Florence, and her frequent journeys abroad have not been undertaken for the purpose of visiting friends, as she pretends but, in reality, to assist her husband in his ingenious and daring schemes of espionage and blackmail. She is an adventuress of the very worst type.”

“But how can she have learnt my secret?” demanded the melancholy man upon whom the all-reaching hand of justice had so heavily fallen.

“Ah, that is utterly impossible to tell,” answered Cator. “All that is certain is that she, together with her husband and confederates, will quickly clear out of England now that you have so determinedly withstood their efforts and defied their threats.”

Archibald Cator had turned away, and was making a pretence of examining the titles of the books in the bookcase on the opposite side of the room while Claudia and Dudley stood silently hand in hand. The captain had an appointment to see the Marquess of Stockbridge in company with the Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office at one o’clock, when the serious charges were to be privately investigated. The hour was drawing near, and the white-faced, tearful woman was taking leave of the guilty man, whom she had so fondly and so truly loved.

There was in her eyes an inexpressible sadness, and the quivering lips he had so often kissed with tender passion showed plainly the agony she was suffering.

“Forgive me, Claudia, forgive me for the sake of the love of old!” he implored, whispering in her ear. “With your forgiveness I can face my fate unflinchingly, knowing that my punishment is just.”

“Dudley,” she answered in a voice broken by emotion, as she uttered what was to her the dearest of all names, “I forgive you everything. A cruel, an inexorable fate tears us apart, but I shall never forget you—never. May God forgive you as I forgive you.”

“Thank you, my heart, for those encouraging words,” he cried, snatching up her hand and imprinting upon it a lingering kiss of farewell.

As their eyes met for a single instant, in hers he saw a look of blank despair and mingled sympathy more expressive than any words could possibly be.

“Farewell, Dudley!” was all she said. “I shall pray to Him for you.”

She turned slowly from him and walked across to the door, while Cator drew back the velvet portière and bowed in silence.

At this moment the door was thrown open by Parsons, who carried a rather bulky letter and a card upon his salver.

“The gentleman who called in the night has called again, sir,” announced the old man. “I told him you were engaged, but he said he could not possibly wait, as he was sailing from London almost immediately. He regretted missing you, and left this letter.”

His master glanced at the card, and saw that it bore the name “Ralph Brodie,” with the word “Boodle’s” in the corner.

With nervous fingers he quickly tore open the envelope and drew from it a note, together with a smaller envelope, rather soiled, sealed with black wax, and addressed to him in a woman’s pointed hand.

Claudia, who had halted, stood watching him.

The note was a brief one, written by Brodie from his club, stating with regret that his wife had died of consumption a month ago. Among the papers which he found after her death was the enclosed, together with instructions that he should deliver it personally and unopened. This he did. As he had only been in London a few hours on urgent business, and was compelled to return to India by the Caledonia that afternoon, he had written this note of explanation in case they could not meet.

He broke the brittle wax of the dead woman’s letter, and drew forth a sheet of thin foreign note-paper, the ink on which was somewhat faded.

Swiftly he scanned the lines of brown ink; then, while looking for May Brodie’s signature, he saw in addition to this another name at the bottom of of the document—“Muriel Mortimer.”

“Impossible!” he gasped. “Surely this is not a dream! Look! Read this!” He handed the missive to Cator, who, together with the woman who had just bidden him a last farewell, read it through eagerly.

“It is the truth!” cried Claudia wildly, a moment later, rushing towards him, throwing her clinging arms about his neck, kissing him passionately, and shedding tears of joy. “You are innocent, Dudley! innocent! Think, think! The truth is written there in the presence of a witness. You are innocent!”

Some time elapsed before Dudley could grasp the whole of the facts. What he held in his trembling fingers was a statement written by May Lennox three years before. It began in a somewhat rambling manner, was dated from Kapurthala, and had been written after the doctors had pronounced her to be suffering from incurable consumption. The important paragraph, however, penned in an unsteady hand and rather smeared, read as follows:

“And now, as I know that before very long I must die, I have resolved to confess to you the whole truth. I knew too well of my father’s relations with the Turkish and Italian Governments, and I knew how he induced you to procure for him photographs of the Anglo-Russian agreement in the East, offering myself to you as a bribe. I was helpless in his hands; he used me as his decoy in the various capitals, and often accomplished important coups of espionage with my assistance. But the photographs you furnished to him proved to be those of quite unimportant despatches, and utterly valueless. The photographs of the actual despatches wanted by Tewfik were procured by a person named Peynton in the employ of the Foreign Office, who has since died. My father, however, believed that you wilfully endeavoured to mislead him and intended to expose him; hence his fierce antagonism, which caused him to lay in wait for you in that lonely path near Godalming. As I had gained knowledge of his intention to harm you, I went down there and watched his movements. I was present, hidden in the shadow behind a rail only a few paces from the spot—at the point where, you will remember, the police found the weeds down-trodden and other signs of the presence of a third person. I overheard his suggestion to you, and your refusal; I saw him draw his knife with intent to strike you. I watched your struggle, and in the course of the fracas his revolver fell unnoticed from his pocket. As you were both close to me at that moment I was enabled to reach the weapon. Then I saw that your strength was failing, and you fired at him. You missed. I believe I know the very tree in which your bullet lodged. Seeing your imminent peril, I also fired—and he fell. I saved you, but I killed the man whom I was compelled to call father, though I had good reasons to hate his memory. He killed my poor mother by sheer brutality and neglect, and made me his puppet and decoy in his nefarious schemes. When he fell, you rushed from the spot, believing that you had killed him, but if you will refer to the medical evidence you will find that he was struck by a single bullet beneath the left shoulder-blade. That shot was the one I fired, and could not possibly have been fired by you. In order to tell you the truth, and yet not commit myself, I sent you anonymously, a few weeks after the occurrence, a piece of tracing-paper with a diagram upon it, and a few words, which were purposely rather vague, hoping that the plan of the spot would show you that you were innocent, and that in case you were afterwards charged with the crime you would be able to use the plan in your defence. Confession I make calmly and of my own free will, in order that it may be signed by the woman who is my companion and my most intimate friend, and that it may be opened by your own hand when I am dead and beyond the reach of man’s justice.”

There was nothing else. Only the signature, “May Beatrice Brodie,” together with that of Muriel Mortimer.

“This clearly explains how the woman Mortimer, or Biancheri, obtained possession of your secret,” observed Cator in surprise, after he had read it through aloud. “My inquiries, I recollect, showed that she entered Mrs Brodie’s employ as companion and was in India for six months, but that she returned, owing to the climate, and again took up her abode with the Meldrums. The explanation given by the Meldrums to friends was that she had been out to India on a visit. Having obtained knowledge of your secret, she imparted it to Biancheri after her marriage, with the result that he and his associates made the clever attempt to blackmail you. She, no doubt, felt herself safe as long as her late employer was living, and is, of course, in ignorance of her death and the passing of this confession into your hands.”

An hour later Dudley Chisholm was closeted alone with the Marquess of Stockbridge in the latter’s private room at the Foreign Office, where he related the whole story. That any man enjoying the confidence of Her Majesty’s Government in any capacity should have endeavoured to betray its secrets was a most heinous and unpardonable offence in the eyes of the stern old politician who was Her Majesty’s chief adviser. Nevertheless, on carefully weighing all the facts, his lordship came to the conclusion that the man who had been his private secretary, and who now held responsible office, had proved himself deeply penitent, and had, during the intervening years, endeavoured to make every reparation in his power. The actual documents Chisholm had photographed were quite unimportant. It was manifest that from first to last he had been the victim of a cleverly arranged conspiracy. The interview was a long one, and all that passed between them will never be recorded. But at last the Marquess rose and generously extended to Dudley his thin, bony hand in forgiveness. He summed up the case as follows:

“It is true that you photographed the despatches with intent to hand them to the man Lennox, and it is true that the present complications in Europe are the outcome of the betrayal of our policy, but it is not true, Chisholm, that you are a traitor. Your career has encouraged me to prophesy (and the indiscretion of which I am to-day aware for the first time has not caused me to alter my opinion) that you are one of the men who will rise after me to safeguard your country’s interests. The question placed on the paper by the member for West Antrim must be expunged at once. I will see to that matter personally, for it is apparent that the member in question has either received information, or is himself associated with the unscrupulous persons who endeavoured to profit by their knowledge of your secret. Leave it to me. That question will never be printed in the paper nor asked in the House. Only a traitor in association with the representative of some foreign Power dare endeavour to create a political crisis at this moment by asking such a question.”

“Then I am actually forgiven?” Dudley asked in a low voice, scarcely realising the truth.

“Yes, Chisholm,” replied the Marquess gravely, pressing the hand of the younger man, “you are forgiven, and what is more, my confidence in you is not shaken, for you have been proved a man of sterling worth, and the unfortunate victim of as vile and ingenious a conspiracy as ever was formed against us by dastardly spies from across the Channel. You come of an ancient and honourable race, Chisholm. Recollect, therefore, that throughout the remainder of your life your first duty is always to your God, and the second to your country and your Queen.”

Chapter Thirty One.

Contains the Conclusion.

The greyness of the short winter’s afternoon was steadily growing darker and darker, and the lights were already beginning to appear in the shops and the vehicles in busy Knightsbridge; but within the pretty boudoir, where an old punch-bowl full of flowers poured sweetness into the air, two hearts beat in unison, full of new-found joy, full of hope, full of perfect confidence and love.

Holding his queen in his strong arms, Dudley had asked her a question, to which she had made answer with all the fervour of her being:

“Yes, I will gladly be your wife, Dudley,” she said, in a tender voice. “As you well know, my heart has ever been yours, and ever will be—until the end.”

In the dim light, which had now become so dark that he could scarcely distinguish her face, he pressed her closely to him in a wild ecstasy of love, and as he kissed her on the lips, his heart full of gladness inexpressible, she fancied that she felt a tear-drop upon his hollow cheek.

To recount facts already known to every reader of these pages would serve no purpose, but it will interest some to learn that Marucci subsequently confessed to Captain Cator that the plot against the Under-Secretary, devised by Biancheri and his wife, had long been in progress. It was certainly at the instigation of this woman that Marucci had succeeded in obtaining the incriminating documents from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Constantinople, which he had passed on to his employer, Archibald Cator; while she at the same time sent an anonymous letter to Mr Gerald Oldfield, the Member for Antrim West, one of Dudley’s bitterest political opponents, preferring against him a charge of murder. The Grand-Duke Stanislas knew the truth, of course, from what was told him at his own Embassy. The Meldrums, a worthy pair, had always remained in ignorance of the true character of the station-master’s daughter, whom they had adopted out of charity. They were first told the truth by Claudia herself, and the blow was a terrible disillusion, for they had always treated her as their own child. To Colonel Murray-Kerr, while he was still attach in Rome, the secret of the marriage of Muriel Mortimer with Biancheri was imparted by Marucci, who explained that there was some deep and mysterious conspiracy on foot against Dudley Chisholm, that Biancheri had left the Italian army, and that he was undoubtedly a spy. For that reason the colonel had uttered his strange warning when shooting with Dudley, but he had unfortunately not taken Marucci’s statement very seriously.