William Le Queux (continued 5)

I remembered that Gedge had shown me some official parchment which he had explained were concessions obtained from Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria. That this woman had been the means of securing to me the greater part of the enormous profits which I had apparently made within the past five years was certainly surprising.

“On the day I recovered consciousness—the day of my departure from Denbury—I was shown some documents, but took but little heed of them,” I said.

“You admit, however, that the employment of British capital in Bulgaria has realised a very handsome profit, and that the greater part of it has gone into your own pockets?”

“I suppose that is so,” I responded. “Is it to you that I am indebted for those concessions?”

“Certainly.”

“Are you, then, an ambassadress of the Principality of Bulgaria?”

“Well, yes—if you choose to put it so.”

“Then, as I understand, it is with some further financial object that you have sought me this evening?”

“Exactly.”

This latest development of the affair was certainly most remarkable. I had never dreamed that to this hitherto unknown woman I had been indebted for the unparalleled success which had attended my career during those past six years. Yet, from the facts she subsequently placed before me, it would seem that it was at her instigation that I first dabbled in finance. She, or rather her agents, had obtained for me the negotiation of a substantial loan to Prince Ferdinand, and this had been followed by all sorts of concessions, not one of which had tuned out badly.

The mysterious Edna, whom I had always believed to be a typical blouse-and-bicycle girl of the true Kensington type, was actually a political agent of that most turbulent of all the European States.

I sat looking at her in wonderment. She possessed a superb carriage, a smart, well-dressed figure, a smiling, intelligent face, white, even teeth, a complexion just a trifle dark, but betraying no trace of foreign birth. Her English was perfect, her manner purely that of the patrician, while her surprising tact possessed all the finesse of an accomplished diplomatist.

“I confess that I have all along been in entire ignorance of my indebtedness to you,” I said, after listening to her while she explained how obediently I had followed the instructions contained in the letters signed “Avel,” and how I had so materially advanced the interests of the Principality that the thanks of the Bulgarian Parliament, or Sobranje had been tendered to me, and the Prince himself had a couple of years ago conferred upon me the highest distinction within his power.

Yet it was more than strange that while this shrewd grey-eyed woman, the possessor of the secret of that puzzling crime, held aloof from me, she had ingeniously contrived that I should become the unwitting catspaw of an unstable State.

I was thinking of Mabel—my thoughts were always of my lost love—and I was wondering how I might obtain from this woman the secret of her whereabouts.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Edna Makes a Proposal.

“Well,” I inquired at last; “and your reason for seeing me this evening?”

She hesitated, as though uncertain in what manner to place her project before me. She moved uneasily, and, rising, drew forth a large dispatch-box from its leathern case and placed it upon the table. I noticed that the outer case bore a count’s coronet with a cipher beneath.

Having opened the box with a tiny gold master-key which hung upon her bracelet, she drew forth some official-looking papers, and with them returned to her chair.

“You have already been entrusted with a secret, which you have not betrayed—the secret of that unfortunate occurrence on the evening when accident first brought us together,” she commenced gravely. “Therefore I feel convinced that any further confidence placed in you will not be abused.”

“I am honoured to think, madam, that you should entertain such an opinion of me,” I said, not, however, without the slightest touch of sarcasm.

I did not forget that she had only rescued me from my enemies in return for my silence. She was not a woman to act without strong motives. Moreover, she had admitted knowledge of that strange midnight crime at The Boltons, and was, therefore, an accessory after the fact.

“You are the Prince’s confidential agent here, in London, and I come to you on a mission direct from His Serene Highness.”

“From Bulgaria?” I inquired.

“Yes. I left Sofia a week ago,” she answered. “It was at first proposed to place the matter in the hands of Guéchoff, our diplomatic representative at the Court of St. James’s, but, on consideration, His Serene Highness, knowing that with the present state of high feeling in the Sobranje a single hint leaking out might prove disastrous, to the dynasty, and perhaps to the nation, resolved to place the matter unreservedly in my hands. The Prince did me the honour of referring in terms of praise to my previous dealings with you, and instructed me to lose no time in seeing you and invoking your aid.”

“In what direction?” Was it not amazing that I should awake from my years of unconsciousness to find myself so powerful in the world of finance that reigning princes sought my assistance?

“I have here a letter from His Serene Highness;” and she handed me a note which bore the Bulgarian royal arms, and had apparently been written by the Prince’s own hand. It was merely a formal note asking me to consider the secret proposals which would be placed before me by the bearer.

“Well?” I inquired, when I had read it. “Explain.”

“Briefly,” she said, “the facts are as follows: The throne of Bulgaria, never very safe owing to the eternal bickering between St. Petersburg and the Porte, is at this moment in imminent danger. The People’s Party in the Sobranje have been defeated, and the police have learnt of a projected popular uprising against His Highness in favour of a republic, the agitation being, of course, caused by paid agents of Russia. It is an open secret that Russia, at the first sign of an outbreak, would endeavour to annex the country, hence the position of the throne grows each moment more perilous. Fear of giving offence to Russia prevents orders being issued for the arrest of the secret agitators, and it seems therefore as though a revolution cannot long be delayed. It is your aid His Serene Highness seeks—your aid to negotiate a loan of half a million sterling.”

“Half a million!” I ejaculated. “A large sum! It seems incredible that I should be a dealer in millions.”

“A large sum, certainly, but you can easily obtain it,” she quickly assured me. “I have all the necessary preliminaries of the securities here;” and she pointed to the pile of papers at her side.

“I take it that the money is required for the Prince’s private purse?”

“No; solely for defence—to purchase arms and ammunition; to pay the army the arrears due, so as to secure their support in case of an outbreak, and to pay certain heavy sums as secret-service money. All this is imperative in order to save the country from falling into the hands of Russia. But it must be done, of course, in strictest secrecy, His Highness, as I have already explained, hesitated to entrust the matter to his recognised minister here because the spies of Russia are everywhere, and if any knowledge of his intentions leaked out it would be fatal to his plans.”

“And so he trusts me!” I said, smiling.

“He does, absolutely.”

“And where does His Highness think that I am going to get half a million of money from at a moment’s notice, pray?” I asked with a smile.

“With these in your possession there will be no difficulty,” she responded coolly, indicating the papers. “There is not a financial agent in the City of London who would not be only too delighted to, without its intentions being known.”

“But you say it is all a secret,” I observed. “How do you think it possible that I can raise such a loan without its intentions being known?”

She laughed outright.

“The money, you will find from the documents here, is ostensibly for the construction of a new railway from Philippopolis, by the Shipka to Rustchuk. The plans are here, properly prepared, so that you need have no hesitation in showing them to any railway engineer.”

I saw that she had been trained in a school of clever diplomacy.

“And you say that security will be given?”

“Certainly. The proposal is to give the customs receipts. They would be ample. Failing that, it is probable that the Princess’s jewels, which, as you know, include some of the finest pearls in Europe, might be available. Of the latter, however, I am not sure.”

I remained silent, turning over the papers she had passed across to me. They were mostly in French, and, therefore, easily understood. The documents related to “the long projected scheme of constructing a railway from Philippopolis to Eski Saghra, thence across the Shipka to Rasgrad, joining the line already in operation between Varna and Rustchuk.” Appended were official declarations from the Bulgarian Minister of Finance, countersigned by the Prince himself.

The documents were certainly very ingeniously contrived so as to conceal the real purpose of the loan. I remarked this, and my companion, laughing lightly, said—

“Deception, to some extent, is always necessary in delicate diplomacy.”

The discovery that the mysterious woman—whose name she had withheld from me—was actually a secret agent of the autonomous Principality created by the Berlin Treaty—that turbulent State mostly notable for the assassination of its Ministers—was entirely unlooked for. On the night when accident had thrown us together, and she had smoothed my brow with her cool hand, I had believed her to be a young girl who had taken pity upon me in my helplessness; but the revelations she had made during that half-hour showed that there had been some firm purpose underlying it all.

She alone knew the truth of that tragic occurrence at The Boltons, and I saw that in this matter I had to deal with a very clever and ingenious woman.

I had now a double purpose in life—to discover Mabel, and to elucidate the mystery of the crime. Towards that end I intended to strive, and as I sat with my glance fixed upon those mysterious grey eyes, I endeavoured to form some plan of action.

“Madam,” I said gravely, at last, “as you appear not to place sufficient confidence in me to tell me your name, I regret that I can place no confidence in these documents.”

“My name!” she laughed. “Ah, of course; I had quite forgotten. There is no secret about it;” and from her purse she drew forth a folded, much-worn blue paper, which she handed to me.

It was an English passport, bearing the name of “Lucy Edna Grainger.”

“Grainger?” I repeated. “Then you are English?”

“Yes, I am legally a British subject, because my father was English. I was, however, born abroad.”

A silence fell between us. The roar of the traffic in Piccadilly came up from below; the summer night was warm, and the window stood open. At last I determined upon a bold course.

“Now that we have met,” I said, “I wish to ask you one or two questions. First, I am desirous of knowing the whereabouts of Mrs Anson and her daughter.”

I was watching her narrowly, and saw her give a distinct start at my mention of the same. Next instant, however, she recovered herself, and with marvellous tact repeated—

“Anson? Anson? I have no acquaintance with any person of that name.”

I smiled.

“I think it unnecessary that you should deny this, when the truth is so very plain,” I observed sarcastically. “You will, perhaps, next deny that a young man was foully murdered within that house in The Boltons; that you were present, and that you are aware of the identity of those who committed the crime?”

The pallor of her cheeks showed plainly that I had recalled unwelcome memories.

“The unfortunate affair is all of the past,” she said hoarsely. “Why need we discuss it?”

“In the interests of justice,” I answered, with firm determination.

“Have you not agreed to remain silent? Have you not, as recompense, received back your sight, and become enriched beyond your wildest dreams? Surely you, at least, should not complain.”

“I complain of the manner in which the secret of the crime has been preserved,” I said. “I have determined, however, that it shall remain secret no longer.”

“You would inform the police!” she gasped, for the moment unable to conceal her alarm.

“If you have no knowledge of Mrs Anson, then I intend to invoke the aid of Scotland Yard in order to discover her.”

My words perplexed her. That she was acquainted with the Ansons I had no doubt, and I was likewise certain that she would never risk information being given to the police. More than once in the days long past I had entertained a shrewd suspicion that she herself was the actual murderer of that young unknown man. I looked at her pale face, and vaguely wondered again whether such were the truth.

The fact that she had secured my silence in return for my life as an outcome of that most ingenious conspiracy had seemed to me proof conclusive of her guilt, and now that we had met in those strange circumstances the idea became impressed upon me more forcibly than ever.

What might be her real position in the secret diplomacy of Bulgaria I knew not. It was evident that considerable confidence was reposed in her. She had come to me with a cool demand to raise a loan of half a million sterling, and it was plain from what she had explained that the money was urgently needed for the protection of the State against enemies both internal and external. My own position was unique. Had not Gedge shown me those official documents, which gave me concessions in the Principality of Bulgaria, I should have laughed this woman’s curious story to scorn as a piece of impossible fiction. But I had glanced over some of those papers at Denbury, and was satisfied that I had actually had many dealings with that State during the six years of my unconscious but prosperous existence. There seemed every truth in her statement that to her had been due my success in the City in the first instance.

“And supposing you broke your promise and went to Scotland Yard?” she suggested at length, her eyes still fixed upon me. “What would you expect to find?”

“To find?” I echoed. “I should find traces of the crime within that room.”

She nodded. I had expected my words to have some confusing effect upon her, nevertheless, on the contrary, she remained perfectly calm. Her self-control was extraordinary.

“And what would it profit you, pray?” she asked.

“I should at least know that I had endeavoured to bring to justice those responsible for the poor fellow’s death.”

“It would only be an endeavour—a vain one, I assure you.”

“You mean that the secret is too well concealed ever to be revealed,” I observed quickly.

“Yes,” she said; “you have guessed aright.”

“And, in other words, you defy me to discover the truth?”

“I have not said so. The word defy is scarcely one which should be used between us, I think, considering that our interests are to-day mutual—just as they were on the night of the crime.”

“I fail to see that,” I answered. “I have no interest whatever in keeping this terrible secret hidden, for while I do so I am acting the part of accessory.”

“But surely you have an interest in preserving your own life?” she urged.

“Then you imply that if I were to lay information at Scotland Yard I should be in peril of my life?” I asked, looking straight into those calm eyes that ever and anon seemed full of mystery.

“Of that I cannot speak with any degree of certainty,” she responded. “I would only warn you that in this matter continued silence is by far the best.”

“But you have uttered a veiled threat!” I cried. “You are aware of the whole facts, and yet refuse to impart to me the simple information of the whereabouts of Mrs Anson. Do you think it possible in such a case that I can entertain any confidence in you, or in your extraordinary story regarding the affairs of Bulgaria and its Prince?”

“I am unable to give you any information regarding the lady you mention,” she replied, with a slight frown of annoyance.

“But you are acquainted with her?”

“I may be—what then?”

“I demand to know where she is.”

“And in reply I tell you that I am in ignorance.”

“In that case,” I said angrily, “I refuse to have any further dealings whatsoever with you. From the first I became drawn into a trap by you, bound down and for six years held silent by your threats. But, madam, I now tell you plainly of my intentions. I mean to-morrow to lay the whole facts before the Director of Criminal Investigations, including this story of yours regarding the Prince and his people.”

She rose slowly from her chair, perfectly calm, her dignity unruffled. Her manner was absolutely perfect. Had she been a princess herself she could not have treated my sudden ebullition of anger with greater disdain.

She gathered up the papers she had put before me, and, replacing them in the dispatch-box, locked it with the golden master-key upon her bangle.

Afterwards, she turned to me and said, in a hard distinct voice—

“Then I understand that I have to inform His Serene Highness that you refuse to assist him further?”

“Tell him whatever you choose, madam,” I answered, rising and taking up my hat and cane. “I shall, in future, act according to my own inclinations.”

“And at your own risk!” she added, in a harsh voice, as, bowing stiffly before her, I turned towards the door.

“Yes, madam,” I answered; “I accept your challenge—at my own risk.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

More Scheming.

The mellow summer twilight was fast deepening into night as I strode along Piccadilly towards the Circus, after leaving the grey-eyed woman who held the secret.

What she had revealed to me was startling, yet the one fact which caused me more apprehension than all others was the curious means by which she had discovered my whereabouts. If she had been enabled to do this, then the police would, no doubt, very soon find me and return me to my so-called “friends.”

In despair I thought of Mabel. Long ago I had surrendered my whole heart to her. She had at first placed a strong and high-minded confidence in me, judging me by her own lofty spirit, but that unaccountable rupture had occurred, and she had gone from me crushed and heart-broken. In my pocket I carried her letter, and the more I thought over it the more puzzled I became. Daily, hourly, I lamented over the broken and shattered fragments of all that was fairest on earth; I had been borne at once from calm, lofty, and delighted speculations into the very heart of fear and tribulations. My love for her was now ranked by myself as a fond record which I must erase for ever from my heart and brain. Once I had thought to link my destiny with hers; but, alas! I could not now marry her, nor could I reveal to her, knowing them not, the mysterious influences which had changed the whole current of my life and purposes. My secret burden was that of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief.

The whole of the events swept past me like a torrent which hurried along in its dark and restless course all those about me towards some overwhelming catastrophe. Tormented by remorseful doubts and pursued by distraction, I felt assured that Mabel, in her unresisting tenderness, her mournful sweetness, her virgin innocence, was doomed to perish by that relentless power which had linked her destiny with crime and contest in which she had no part but as a sufferer. It is, alas! the property of crime to extend its mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessing over many that deserve them not.

Plunged in that sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, and of terrors, I reflected upon all that the woman Edna had told me. It seemed inconceivable that Bulgaria’s ruler should demand assistance of me—and yet it was undoubtedly true.

Presently I turned down the Haymarket, still walking slowly, deep in reflection.

Should I inform the police? Very calmly I thought it over. My first impulse was to go to Scotland Yard and make a plain statement of the whole facts, laying stress upon the suspicion against the woman Grainger as an accessory. Yet when I came to consider the result of such action I saw with dismay that my lips were sealed. Such statement could only reflect upon myself. First, I should, by going to Scotland Yard, be compelled to reveal my own identity, which would mean my return to Denbury; secondly, I could give no account of those six lost years of my life; and, thirdly, the statement of one believed not to be exactly responsible for his actions must be regarded with but little credence.

No, circumstances themselves had conspired to hold me to silence.

I went on in blind despair towards my hotel.

Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from which her letter had been dated.

After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until June 5, when they paid their bill and left suddenly.

I glanced at Mabel’s letter. It was dated June 4. She had left on the following day. I could learn nothing further.

In an excited, unsettled state of mind, unable to decide how to act, I returned to London, and then, out of sheer want of something to do, I travelled down to Heaton. The old place was the same: neglected and deserted, but full of memories of days bygone. Old Baxter and his wife were both dead, and the caretakers were fresh servants whom my agent had apparently engaged. I also learnt that Parker, the faithful old woman who had tended to my wants in Essex Street, had also passed away more than two years before.

I spent a dismal day wandering through the house and park, then drove back to Tewkesbury, and on the following morning returned to London. In the six years that had elapsed since my last visit to the Manor nothing had changed save, perhaps, that the grass had grown more luxuriantly over the gravelled drive, and the stone exterior was being gradually rendered grey by the lichen which in those parts overgrows everything.

The mystery of the crime, and of the singular events which had followed, formed an enigma which seemed utterly beyond solution.

My nerves were shattered. As the days went by an increasing desire possessed me to ascertain more of that woman who called herself Grainger and was the confidential emissary of a reigning prince. She alone knew the truth, therefore why should I not carefully watch her movements, and endeavour to discover her intentions? From the veiled threat she had muttered, it was evident that although she did not fear any revelations that I might make, yet she regarded me as a person detrimental to her interests. As long as I had acted as her agent in negotiating loans for the Principality, she had secured for me high favour in the eyes of Prince Ferdinand. But the fact that I had gained consciousness and refused to assist her further had taken her completely by surprise.

That same evening I called at the Bath Hotel, and ascertained that “Mrs Grainger” had left some days before. She had not, it appeared, given any address where letters might be forwarded, but a judicious tip administered to a hall-porter caused him suddenly to recollect that a couple of days before her departure she had sent a dressing-bag to a trunk-maker’s a little further down Piccadilly, to be repaired. This bag had not been returned to the hotel, therefore it was quite probable, thought the hall-porter, that the trunk-maker had forwarded it to her.

“You know the people at the trunk-maker’s, of course?” I said.

“Yes, sir. Many visitors here want repairs done to their boxes and bags.”

“The Bath Hotel is therefore a good customer?” I remarked. “They would certainly give you her address if you asked for it.”

He seemed a trifle dubious, but at my request went along to the shop, and a quarter of an hour later returned with an address.

She had not moved far, it appeared. Only to the Midland Hotel at St. Pancras.

Late that night I myself left the Grand, and, assuming a name that was not my own, took a room at the Midland, in order to commence my observations upon her movements. It was certainly a risky business, for I knew not when I might encounter her in the vestibule, in the lift, or in the public rooms. As soon as my room was assigned to me, I glanced through the list eagerly, but it was evident that if she were there she, too, had changed her name. In the long list of visitors was one, that of Mrs Slade. Slade? The name was familiar. It was that of the doctor who had given me back my sight. That name struck me as being the most probable. She occupied a room on the same floor as mine, numbered 406. The door of that room I intended to watch.

My vigilance on the morrow was rewarded, for about eleven o’clock in the morning I saw Edna emerge from the room dressed to go out. She passed my door and descended by the stairs, while I took my hat and swiftly followed her at a safe distance from observation.

The porter called her a hansom, and I saw her neat, black-robed figure mount into the conveyance. She had a letter in her hand, and read the address to the porter, who in turn repeated it to the driver.

Meanwhile, I had entered another cab, and telling the man to keep Edna’s cab in sight, we drove along King’s Cross Road and Farringdon Street to the City, passing along Gresham Street and Lothbury. Suddenly the cab I was following turned into Austin Friars, while my driver, an intelligent young fellow, pulled up at the corner of Throgmorton Street and said—

“We’d better wait here, sir, if you don’t want the lady to notice us. She’s going into an office at number 14, opposite the Dutch Church.”

“Get down,” I said, “and try and find out whose office she’s gone into,” and I added a promise to give him an extra gratuity for so doing.

“Very well, sir,” he answered. I sat back, hiding my face in a newspaper for fear of being recognised in that great highway of business, while he went along Austin Friars to endeavour to discover whose offices she had entered.

Some ten minutes later he returned with the information that the lady had entered the office of a moneylender named Morrison.

The thought occurred to me that she was perhaps still endeavouring to raise the loan for Prince Ferdinand. If so, however, why had she left the Bath Hotel and endeavoured to conceal her identity under another name?

After twenty minutes or so she came out rather flushed and excited, stood for a moment in hesitation upon the kerb, and then giving her cabman an address was driven off. I, of course, followed, but judge my astonishment when the cab pulled up in Old Broad Street and she alighted at Winchester House. After a few moments she found the brass plate bearing my name, and ascending to my office, for what purpose I knew not, and, fearing to reveal my presence in London, I could not ascertain.

I sat there in the cab in full view of that row of windows, with their wire blinds bearing my name, an exile and a fugitive, wondering what might be the object of her visit. It was not, however, of long duration, but when she descended again she was accompanied by my secretary Gedge, who handed her into her cab and afterwards took his seat beside her. By his manner it was evident they were not strangers, and it became impressed upon me that, in those lost days of mine, I must have had considerable dealings with her and her princely employer.

They drove to the Liverpool Street Railway-Station, where she dispatched a telegram; then they lunched at Crosby Hall.

I feared, of courser to approach them sufficiently near to overhear their conversation, but I peered into the restaurant and saw them sitting at a table in earnest conversation, the subject of which was evidently myself.

It was a wearisome task waiting for her in Bishopsgate Street, but I lunched in a neighbouring public-house off a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while my cabman partook gladly of the homely “half-pint” at my expense, until at length they both came forth.

Gedge called her a cab, and then took leave of her, while I followed her back to the Midland, having successfully accomplished my first essay at watching her movements.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Two Words.

For two days the woman I was watching did not go out. I learnt from the chambermaid who, like all her class, was amenable to half a sovereign in her palm, that she was unwell, suffering from a slight cold. Then I took the servant into my confidence, and told her that I was in the hotel in order to watch Mrs Slade’s movements, giving her to understand that any assistance she rendered me would be well paid for.

I had an object in view, namely, to enter her room in her absence, and ascertain the nature of any letters or papers which might be in her possession. This I managed to effect, with the connivance of the chambermaid, on the following afternoon. Indeed, the chambermaid assisted me in my eager search, but beyond a few tradesmen’s bills and one or two unimportant private letters from friends addressed to her at the Royal Hotel at Ryde, I found nothing. The dispatch-box with the coronet was locked, and she carried the key upon her bangle. I made careful search through all her belongings, the chambermaid standing guard at the door the while, and in the pocket of one of her dresses hanging in the wardrobe I discovered a crumpled telegram.

I smoothed it out, and saw that it had been dispatched from Philippopolis, in Bulgaria, about three weeks before, and was addressed to “Mrs Grainger, Royal Hotel, Ryde.” Its purport, however, I was unable to learn, for it was either in cipher, or in the Slav language, of which I had no knowledge whatever.

Again baffled, I was about to relinquish my search, when, in the pocket of a long driving-coat of a light drab cloth, I found a letter addressed to her at Ryde, and evidently forwarded by the hotel-clerk.

I caught sight of my own name, and read it through with interest.

“I suppose you have already heard from your friend Gedge, who keeps you in touch with everything, all the most recent news of Heaton,” the letter ran. “It appears that he was found on the floor of one of the rooms at Denbury, with a wound in his head. He had suddenly gone out of his mind. The doctor said that the case was a serious one, but before arrangements could be made for placing him under restraint he had escaped, and nothing since has been heard of him. The common idea is that he has committed suicide owing to business complications. They are, to tell the truth, beginning to smell a rat in the City. The Prince’s concessions have not turned out all that they were supposed to be, and by a side wind I hear that your friend’s financial status, considerably weakened during the past few weeks, has, owing to his sudden and unaccountable disappearance, dropped down to zero. If you can find him, lose no time in doing so. Remember that he must not be allowed to open his mouth. He may, however, be still of use, for his credit has not altogether gone, and I hear he has a very satisfactory balance at his bankers. But find out all from Gedge, and then write to me.”

There was neither signature nor address.

The words, “he must not be allowed to open his mouth,” were, in themselves, ominous. Who, I wondered, was the writer of that letter? The postmark was that of “London, E.C.,” showing that it had been posted in the City.

I read it through a second time, then replaced it, and after some further search returned to my own room.

When the maid brought my hot water next morning she told me that Mrs Slade had announced her intention to leave at eleven o’clock; therefore I packed, and leaving slightly earlier, was enabled to follow her cab to Victoria Station, whence she travelled to Brighton, putting up at the Métropole. I pursued similar tactics to those I had adopted in London, staying in the same hotel and yet contriving never to be seen by her. She went out but seldom. Sometimes in the morning she would stroll beneath her pale mauve sunshade along the King’s Road, or at evening take an airing on the pier, but she apparently lived an aimless life, spending her time in reading novels in her own apartment. As far as I could learn, she met no one there, and only appeared to be killing time and waiting. After a fortnight she moved along to Hastings, thence to Ilfracombe, and afterwards to Hull.

We arrived at the North-Eastern Hotel at Hull one evening towards the end of August, having travelled by the express from London. Through nearly a month I had kept close watch upon her, yet none of her movements had been in the least suspicious. She lived well, always having her own sitting-room, although she had no maid. Those days of watchfulness were full of anxiety, and I had to resort to all sorts of ingenious devices to prevent observation and recognition.

The station hotel at Hull is comfortable, but by no means a gay place of residence, and for several days I wondered what might be her object in visiting that Yorkshire port. The room adjoining her sitting-room on the second floor became vacant on the third day after our arrival, and I fortunately succeeded in obtaining it. She entertained no suspicion that I was following her, although I dogged her movements everywhere.

In Hull she only went out twice, once to a stationer’s in Whitefriar-gate, and on the other occasion to the telegraph office. As at Brighton and Ilfracombe, she still appeared to be waiting in patience for the arrival of some one whom she expected.

About nine o’clock one evening, after she had remained nearly a week in Hull, always taking her meals in her own room and passing her time in reading, I had returned from the coffee-room, and was about to go forth for a stroll, when suddenly I heard a waiter rap at her door and announce a visitor.

A locked door separated her sitting-room from mine, and standing by it, listening eagerly, I heard the sound of rustling paper, the hurried closing of a box, and her permission to show the visitor up.

A few minutes passed in silence. Then I heard some one enter, and a man’s voice exclaimed with a distinctly foreign accent—

“Ah, my dear Edna! At last! I feared that you would have left before my arrival.”

“I expected you days ago,” she answered, and I knew from the man’s sigh that he had sunk wearily into a chair.

“I was delayed,” he explained. “I had a narrow escape. Oustromoff has guessed the truth.”

“What?” she gasped in alarm, “The secret is out?”

“Yes,” he answered gruffly.

“Impossible!”

“I tell you it’s the truth,” he answered. “I escaped over the frontier by the merest chance. Oustromoff’s bloodhounds were at my heels. They followed me to Vienna, but there I managed to escape them and travel to Berlin. I knew that there was a warrant out for me—Roesch sent me word that orders had been issued by the Minister of Police—therefore I feared to cross to England by any of the mail routes. I knew the police would be on the look-out at Calais, Antwerp, Ostend, Folkestone, and Dieppe. Therefore I travelled to Copenhagen, thence by steamer to Gothenburg, and rail to Christiania. I arrived by the weekly mail steamer from there only an hour ago.”

“What a journey!” exclaimed the woman I had been watching so long and patiently. “Do you actually mean that you are unsafe—here, in England?”

“Unsafe? Of course. The Ministry have telegraphed my description to all police centres, with a request for my extradition.”

“It is inconceivable,” she cried, “just at the moment when all seemed safest, that this catastrophe should fall! What of Roesch, Blumhardt, and Schaefer?”

“Schaefer was arrested in Sofia on the day I left. Blumhardt escaped to Varna, but was taken while embarking on board a cargo-boat for England. I tell you I had a narrow escape—a very narrow escape.”

“Then don’t speak so loud,” she urged. “Some one might be in the next room, you know.”

He rose and tried the door at which I stood. It was locked, and that apparently reassured him.

“Whom do you think informed the Ministry of Police?”

“Ah! at present no one knows,” he responded. “What do you think they say?”

“What?”

“That some of your precious friends in London have exposed the whole thing.”

“My friends? Whom do you mean?”

“You know best who are your friends,” he replied, with sarcasm.

“But no one is aware of the whole facts.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the loan for the Prince?” he said. “Have you raised it?”

“No; the thing is too dangerous in these circumstances. I have made a full report. You received it, I suppose?”

“No; I must have left Sofia before it arrived. Tell me.”

“That very useful fool named Heaton has suddenly gone out of his mind.”

“Insane?”

“Yes,” she responded. “At least, he seems so to me. I placed the matter before him, but he refused to have anything whatever to do with it. His standing in the City has been utterly shattered by all sorts of rumours regarding the worthlessness of certain of the concessions, and as far as we are concerned our hopes of successfully raising the loan have now disappeared into thin air.”

“What!” he cried. “Have you utterly failed?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Heaton assisted us while all was square, but now, just when we want a snug little sum for ourselves, he has suddenly become obstinate and refuses to raise a finger.”

“Curse him! He shall assist us—by Heaven! I’ll—I’ll compel him!” cried her mysterious companion furiously.

“To talk like that is useless,” she responded. “Remember that he knows something.”

“Something, yes. But what?”

“He knows more than we think.”

“Where is he now?”

“Nobody can discover. I saw him once, but he has disappeared. They say he’s a wandering lunatic. He left Denbury suddenly after showing signs of madness, and although that terror of a woman, his wife, strove to trace him, she was unsuccessful. His insanity, coupled with the fact that financial ruin overtook him suddenly, apparently preyed upon her mind. She fell ill, and according to a letter I received from Gedge a few days ago, she died suddenly of an aneurism, and was buried last Thursday at Budleigh-Salterton. The announcement of her death was in yesterday’s papers.”

I listened to those words open-mouthed. My wife was dead! Then I was free!

With my strained ear close to the thin wood of the door I stood breathless, fearing that they might distinguish the rapid beating of my heart.

“Your ingenuity has always been extraordinary, madame,” he said reflectively, “but in this last affair you have not shown your usual tact.”

“In what manner?”

“His Highness places confidence in you, yet you sit idly here, and profess yourself unable to assist him.”

“A warrant is out against you; nevertheless, you still consider the Prince your friend. That is curious!” she remarked, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Most certainly. It was Oustromoff’s doings. His Highness is powerless to control the Ministry of Police.”

“And you believe that you will be safe in England?” she inquired dubiously.

“I believe so, providing that I exercise care,” he responded. “After to-night it is best that we should remain strangers—you understand?”

“Of course.”

“And Mrs Anson and her charge? Are they at a safe distance?”

“Yes. When I met Heaton he inquired after them. He particularly wished to discover them, and of course I assisted him.”

They both laughed in chorus. But her words in themselves were sufficient proof that she feared the result of our re-union. They impressed upon me the truth of my suspicion, namely, that Mabel held the key to the enigma.

“What does he know?” asked the man, evidently referring to me.

“He is aware of the spot where the affair took place,” she answered.

“What?” gasped her companion in alarm. “That can’t be. He was stone blind, you said!”

“Certainly he was. But by some means—how I can’t say—he has ascertained at least one fact.”

“Did he make any remark to you?”

“Of course he did. He gave me to understand that he was acquainted with the details of the whole affair.” A long silence fell between them.

The mention of Mrs Anson and her charge held me breathless. The “charge” referred to was evidently Mabel. I only hoped that from this conversation I might obtain some clue to the whereabouts of my darling.

“I wonder how much Heaton really does know?” observed her visitor reflectively at last.

“Too much, I fear,” she answered. No doubt she recollected how I had expressed my determination to go to Scotland Yard.

Again there was a prolonged pause.

“Roesch has arrived in London. I must see him,” exclaimed the man.

“In London? I thought he was still at his post in the Ministry at Sofia,” she said in a tone of surprise.

“He was fortunate enough to obtain early intimation of Oustromoff’s intentions, and after warning me, escaped the same evening. He took steamer, I heard, from Trieste to London.”

“Why associate yourself further with that man?” she urged. “Surely it will only add to the danger.”

“What concerns myself likewise concerns him,” he answered rather ambiguously.

“You have apparently of late become closer friends. For what reason?”

“You will see later.”

“With some distinctly evil purpose, I have no doubt,” she observed, “but remember that I have no further interest in any of your future schemes.”

He grunted dubiously.

“Now that you think our fortunes have changed you contemplate deserting us, eh?” he snapped. “A single word to the Prince and you would conclude your career rather abruptly, I’m thinking.”

“Is that intended as a threat?” she inquired in a calm voice.

“Take it as such, if you wish,” the man responded angrily. “Through your confounded bungling you’ve brought exposure upon us. We have only you to thank for it. You know me quite well enough to be aware that when I make threats they are never idle ones.”

“And you are sufficiently well acquainted with me to know that I never run unnecessary risks.”

“I know you to be a devilishly clever woman,” he said. “But in your dealings with that man Heaton you showed weakness—a coward’s weakness. All that he knows is through your own folly. You attempted to mislead him by your actions and letters, but he has, it seems, been a little too shrewd for you.”

“And if he does know the truth—even, indeed, if he dared to inform the police—what direct evidence can he give, pray?” she queried. “He was blind, and therefore saw nothing. He is now mad, and nobody will believe him.”

“Even though he may be an idiot his mouth is better closed,” her companion growled.

His words startled me. This unseen man’s intention was apparently to make a further attempt upon my life. But I chuckled within myself. Forewarned is forearmed.

Just at that moment I heard the waiter tap at the door, and opening it, announce the arrival of another visitor—a Mr Roesch.

“Why, I wonder, has he sought you here?” exclaimed the man when the waiter had gone. “He must have some important news!”

Next moment the door was again thrown open, and the new arrival entered.

All three spoke quickly together in a foreign tongue. The man Roesch then made a brief statement, which apparently held his two companions for some moments speechless in alarm. Then again they all commenced talking in low confidential tones in that strange language—Slav I believe it was.

Whatever it might have been, and although I understood no word of it, it brought back vividly to my memory the indelible recollection of the night of the tragedy at The Boltons.

I listened attentively. Yes, there was no mistake—those tones were familiar. That trio of voices were the same that with my sharpened ears I had overheard conversing in the inner room immediately before the commission of the crime.

I have said that my nerves were shattered. All the past was a torturing memory to me, but the quintessence of that torture was my failure to discover my love. I believed that she alone could supply the solution of the enigma, and what truth there was in that suspicion you shall duly see.

The three voices continued to speak in that foreign tongue for perhaps half an hour, during which period I was unable to form any idea of the trend of the new-comer’s announcement.

Then I heard the visitors taking their leave, apparently with many of those gesticulated reassurances of respect which mark the shallow foreigner. I extinguished my light and opened my door cautiously. As they passed on their way down the corridor I succeeded in obtaining a very good view of the interesting pair. They were talking together, and I distinguished the man who had first called upon Edna by his deep voice. He was a short, thick-set, black-bearded man of forty, well-dressed in black, with a heavy gold albert across his ample vest. His companion, whose name was apparently Roesch, was considerably older, about fifty-five or so, of spare build, erect, thin-faced, with long grey whiskers descending from either cheek, and shaven chin. He wore a frock-coat and silk hat, and was of a type altogether superior to his companion.

The woman Grainger’s coffee was brought to her as usual in the morning, but about ten o’clock she rang again, and when the chambermaid responded, said—

“Here are two letters. Post them for me in the box in the bureau, and tell them to send my bill at once. I leave at ten forty-five.”

“Yes’m.” And the girl departed to post the letters.

To whom, I wondered, were those letters addressed? Within my mind I strove to devise some plan whereby I could obtain a glance at the addresses. The box, however, was only at the foot of the stairs, therefore ere I could resolve upon any plan the girl had dropped them into it, and I heard her linen flounces beating along the corridor again. Those letters were in the post, and beyond my reach.

She had written those two missives during the night, and after the departure of her visitors. They had, no doubt, some connexion with the matter which the trio had so earnestly discussed in that tantalising foreign tongue.

In hesitancy I remained some little time, then a sudden thought occurred to me. I addressed an envelope to the hall-porter of my club, enclosing a blank sheet of paper, and then descending, posted it. The box was placed outside the bureau, and the instant I had dropped the letter in I turned, as though in anger with myself, and, entering the bureau, said to the clerk—

“I’ve unfortunately posted a letter without a stamp. Have you the key of the box?”

“The box belongs to the Post Office, sir,” he answered. “But we have a key to it.”

“Then I should esteem it a favour if you would recover my letter for me. It is most important that the addressee should not be charged for its postage. I regret that my absent-mindedness should give you this trouble.”

The clerk took the key from a drawer at the end of the bureau, and opening the box, took out the half-dozen or so letters which it contained, and spread them upon the desk. Among them were two square, pale-faced envelopes. As I took my own letter and affixed a stamp I glanced eagerly at the address of both.

One bore the superscription: “Mr P. Gechkuloff, 98, King Henry’s Road, Hampstead, N.W.”

Upon the other were words which caused my heart to leap joyfully within me. They were—

“Miss Mabel Anson, Langham Hotel, London.”

I posted my letter, hurried upstairs and paid my bill. Edna had already packed her trunk, but had changed her mind, and did not intend leaving Hull that day. I heard her inform the chambermaid of her intention of remaining, then I left the hotel, and caught the ten-forty-five express for London.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Enigma.

At five o’clock that same afternoon I alighted from a taxi before the Langham Hotel, and presenting my card at the bureau, inquired for Miss Anson. The clerk looked at me rather curiously, I thought, glanced at the card, and entering the telephone-box, spoke some words into the instrument.

I was shown into a small room on the first floor, where I waited until a gentlemanly, middle-aged, fair-headed man entered, with my card in his hand.

“Good afternoon,” he said, greeting me rather stiffly. “Her Highness is at present out driving. Is there anything I can do? I am her secretary.”

“Her Highness?” I echoed, with a smile. “There must be some mistake. I have called to see Miss Mabel Anson.”

He regarded me with some surprise.

“Are you, then, unaware that Anson is the name adopted by Her Highness to preserve her incognita?” he asked, glancing at me in quick suspicion. “Are you not aware of her real rank and station?”

“No!” I cried, in blank amazement. “This is indeed a revelation to me! I have known Miss Anson intimately during the past six years. What is her true rank?”

“The lady whom you know as Miss Anson is Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Marie Elizabeth Mabel, third daughter of His Majesty the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria.”

“Mabel! The daughter of an Emperor?” I gasped involuntarily. “Impossible!”

He shrugged his shoulders. He was a foreigner, although he spoke English well—an Austrian most probably.

“You are surprised,” he laughed. “Many people have also been surprised, as the Archduchess, living in England nearly her whole life, has frequently been taken for an Englishwoman.”

“I can’t believe it!” I cried. “Surely there must be some mistake!”

I remembered those days of long ago when we had wandered together in Kensington Gardens. How charming and ingenuous she was: how sweet and unaffected by worldly vanities, how trustful was that look when she gazed into my eyes! Her air was never that of the daughter of the reigning House of Hapsbourg-Lorraine. She had possessed all the enchantment of ideal grace without the dignity of rank, and it seemed incredible that she was actually a princess whose home was the most brilliant Court of Europe.

“I can quite understand your surprise,” observed the secretary. “But what is the nature of your business with Her Highness?”

“It is of a purely private nature.”

He glanced at the card. “The Archduchess does not receive callers,” he answered coldly.

“But at least you will give her my name, and tell her that I have something of urgent importance to communicate to her,” I cried eagerly.

He hesitated. “If you are, as you allege, an old friend, I will place your card before her,” he said at last, with some hesitation. “You may leave your address, and if Her Highness consents to receive you I will communicate with you.”

“No,” I answered in desperation; “I will remain and await her return.”

“That is impossible,” he responded. “She has many engagements, and certainly cannot receive you to-day.”

I recollected that the letter I had found at Denbury made it plain that we had parted abruptly. If this man gave her my card without any word, it was more than likely that she would refuse to see me.

Therefore I entered into argument with him, but while I was speaking the door opened suddenly, and my love stood before me.

She halted there, elegantly dressed, having just returned from her drive, and for a moment we faced each other speechless.

“Mr Heaton!” she cried, and then, in breathless hurry arising from the sudden and joyful surprise, she rushed forward.

Our hands grasped. For the moment I could utter no word. The secretary, noticing our mutual embarrassment, discreetly withdrew, closing the door after him.

Once again I found myself, after those six lost years, alone with my love.

“At last!” I cried. “At last I have found you, after all these months!” I was earnestly gazing into her great dark eyes. She had altered but little since that night long ago at The Boltons, when I had discovered the traces of that hideous tragedy.

“And why have you come back to me now?” she inquired in a low, strained voice.

“I have striven long and diligently to find you,” I answered frankly, “because—because I wished to tell you how I love you—that I have loved you always—from the first moment that we met.”

A grave expression crossed her countenance.

“And yet you forsook me! You calmly broke off the secret engagement that we had mutually made, and left me without a single word. You have married,” she added resentfully, “therefore it is scarcely fitting that you should come here with a false declaration upon your lips.”

“It is no false declaration, I swear,” I cried. “As for my wife, I knew her not, and she is now dead.”

“Dead!” she gasped. “You knew her not! I don’t understand.”

“I have loved you always—always, Princess—for I have only ten minutes ago ascertained your true rank—”

“Mabel to you—as always,” she said, softly interrupting me.

“Ah, thank you for those words!” I cried, taking her small gloved hand. “I have loved you from the first moment that we met at the colonel’s, long ago—you remember that night?”

“I shall never forget it,” she faltered in that low tone as of old, which was as sweetest music to my ears.

“And you remember that evening when I dined with you at The Boltons?” I said. “Incomprehensible though it may seem, I began a new life from that night, and for six whole years have existed in a state of utter unconsciousness of all the past. Will you consider me insane if I tell you that I have no knowledge whatever of meeting you after that night, and only knew of our engagement by discovering this letter among my private papers a couple of months ago?” and I drew her letter from my pocket.

“Your words sound most remarkable,” she said, deeply interested. “Relate the whole of the facts to me. But first come along to my own sitting-room. We may be interrupted here.”

And she led the way to the end of the corridor, where we entered an elegant little salon, one of the handsome suite of rooms she occupied.

She drew forth a chair for me, and allowing a middle-aged gentlewoman—her lady-in-waiting, I presume—to take her hat and gloves, we once more found ourselves alone.

How exquisitely beautiful she was! Yet her royal birth, alas! placed her beyond my reach. All my hopes and aspirations had been in an instant crushed by the knowledge of her rank. I could only now relate to her the truth, and seek her forgiveness for what had seemed a cruel injustice.

I took her unresisting hand, and told her how long ago I had loved her, not daring to expose to her the great secret of my heart. If we had mutually decided upon marriage, and I had deliberately deserted her, it was, I declared, because of that remarkable unconsciousness which had blotted out all knowledge of my life previous to that last night when we had dined together, and I had accompanied the man Hickman to his lodgings.

“But tell me all,” she urged, “so that I can understand and judge accordingly.”

And then, beginning at the beginning, I recounted the whole of the amazing facts, just as I have narrated them to the reader in these foregoing chapters.

I think the telling occupied most part of an hour; but she sat there, her lovely eyes fixed upon me, her mouth half open, held dumb and motionless by the strange story I unfolded. Once or twice she gave vent to ejaculations of surprise, and I saw that only by dint of supreme effort did she succeed in preserving her self-control. I told her everything. I did not seek to conceal one single fact.

“And he was actually murdered in my house?” she cried, starting up at last. “You were present?”

I explained to her in detail the events of that fateful night.

“Then at last the truth is plain!” she exclaimed. “You have supplied the key to the enigma for which I have been so long in search!”

“Tell me,” I said, in breathless earnestness. “All these years I have been striving in vain to solve the problem.”

She paused, her dark, fathomless eyes fixed upon me, as though lacking courage to tell me the truth.

“I deceived you, Wilford, from the first,” she faltered, “I hid from you the secret of my birth, and it was at my request Colonel Channing—who, of course, knew me well when he was British Attaché at Vienna—refused to tell you the truth. You wonder, of course, that I should live in England incognita. Probably, however, you know that my poor mother, the late Empress, loved England and the English. She gave me an English name at my baptism, and when only five years of age I was sent here to be educated. At seventeen I returned to Vienna, but soon became tired of the eternal glitter of palace life, and a year or two later, as soon as I was of age and my own mistress, I returned to London, took into my service Mrs Anson, the widow of an English officer well known to my mother, and in order to preserve my incognita caused her to pass as my mother. I took the house at The Boltons, and only Colonel and Mrs Channing knew my real station. I was passionately fond of music, and desired to complete my studies, besides which I am intensely fond of London and of life unfettered by the trammels which must hamper the daughter of an Emperor.”

“You preferred a quiet, free life in London to that at your father’s Court?”

“Exactly,” she answered. “At twenty-one I had had my fill of life at Court, and found existence in London, where I was unknown, far more pleasant. Besides Mrs Anson, I had as companion a young Englishwoman who had been governess in a well-known family in Vienna. Her name was Grainger.”

“Grainger?” I cried. “Edna Grainger?”

“The same. She was my companion. Well, after I had been established at The Boltons nearly a year I met, while on a visit to a country house, a young man with whom I became on very friendly terms—Prince Alexander, heir to the throne of Bulgaria. We met often, and although I still passed as Mabel Anson, our acquaintanceship ripened into a mutual affection. With a disregard for the convenances, I induced Mrs Anson to invite him on several occasions to The Boltons. One morning, however, I received a private message from Count de Walkenstein-Trosburg, our ambassador here, saying that he had received a cipher telegraphic dispatch that my father, the Emperor, was very unwell, and his Excellency suggested that I should return to Vienna. This I did, accompanied by Mrs Anson, and, leaving the woman Grainger in charge of the household as usual, I wrote to the young Prince from Vienna, but received no reply, and when I returned a fortnight later searched for him in vain. He had mysteriously disappeared. A few days before, in my dreams, I had seen the fatal raven, the evil omen of my House, and feared the worst.”

“Then the man who was murdered at The Boltons on that night was none other than Prince Alexander, the heir to the throne of Bulgaria!” I cried.

“Without a doubt,” she answered. “What you have just told me makes it all plain. You took from the dead man’s pocket a small gold pencil-case, and you will remember that I recognised it as one that I had given him. It was that fact which caused me to suspect you.”

“Suspect me? Did you believe me guilty of murder?”

“I did not then know that murder had been committed. All that was known was that the heir to the throne had mysteriously disappeared. The terrible truth I have just learnt from your lips. The discovery that the little gift I had made to him was in your possession filled me with suspicion, and in order to solve the mystery I invoked the aid of the police-agent attached to our Embassy, and invited both of you to dine, in order that he might meet you. You will remember the man you met on that night?”

“Hickman!” I cried. “Was he really a police-agent?”

“Yes. He induced you, it appears, to go to a lodging he had taken for the purpose, and without my knowledge gave you a drugged cigar. You fell unconscious, and this enabled him to thoroughly overhaul your pockets, and also to go to your chambers during the night, either with your latch-key, and make a complete search, the result of which convinced us both that you had no hand in the missing man’s disappearance, in spite of the fact that his dress-stud and pencil-case were in your possession. On the following morning, however, when you were but half conscious—Hickman having then returned from making his search at Essex Street—you accidentally struck your head a violent blow on the corner of the stone mantelshelf. This blow, so severe that they were compelled to remove you to the hospital, apparently affected your brain, for when I met you again a month later you seamed curiously vacant in mind, and had no recollection whatever of the events that had passed.”

“I had none, I assure you,” I said.

“It seems marvellous that you should be utterly in ignorance of what followed,” she went on, her sweet eyes still gazing deeply into mine. “You told me how you loved me, and I, loving you in return, we entered upon a clandestine engagement that was to be secret from all. A few summer months went by, happy, joyous months, the most blissful in all my life, and then your love suddenly cooled. You had embarked in financial schemes in the City—you were becoming enriched by some concessions in Bulgaria, it was whispered—but your love for me slowly died, and you married a woman twice your age. Can you imagine my feelings? I was heart-broken, Wilford—utterly heart-broken.”

“But I knew not what I was doing,” I hastened to declare. “I loved you always—always. My brain had been injured by that blow, and all my tastes and feelings thereby became inverted.”

“I remained in England a few weeks longer, wandering aimlessly hither and thither, and then at last returned to Vienna and plunged into the vortex of gaiety at Court, in order to forget my sorrow.”

“And that woman Grainger? What of her?”

“She left my service about a month after that night when you met with your accident at The Boltons. I have not seen her since.”

I then related how for the past month I had been closely watching her, and repeated the conversation I had overheard at Hull between her and her visitors on the previous night.

“The woman, after leaving my service, has, it seems, somehow become an agent of the Bulgarian Government. She knows the truth,” she said decisively. “We must obtain it from her.”

“It was a woman who struck the young Prince down!” I exclaimed quickly. “Of that I am certain.”

My wife reflected for a brief instant.

“Perhaps,” she said. “That woman was jealous of the attention he paid me.”

Chapter Thirty.

Conclusion.

“Mrs Slade is still in her room, sir, but she’s not alone; her maid arrived from London last night,” answered the chambermaid at the North-Eastern Hotel at Hull, when on the following morning, I made inquiry.

I had been accompanied from King’s Cross by Mabel and the police-agent, Hickman, and we stood together in the hotel corridor prior to entering the woman’s room. Hickman, whom I had all along believed to be deeply implicated in the plot, if not the actual murderer, was, I found, a clever detective of English birth, who had for some years been an officer of the Prefecture of Police in Vienna, but who had latterly been attached to the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in Belgrave Square, and entrusted with the personal safety of the Emperor’s daughter. The revelations I had made utterly amazed him. By the last post on the previous night Mabel had received the letter written from Hull which merely asked for an interview, and we had all three set forth, determined to secure the arrest of the writer.

With that object we entered her sitting-room without a word of warning.

She was sitting at the table writing, but in an instant sprang to her feet, with a cry of profound alarm. When her eyes wandered from Mabel to Hickman and myself, her cheeks blanched. She apparently guessed our purpose.

“You have expressed a desire to meet me,” Mabel said determinedly. “So I have come to you.”

“And—and these gentlemen?” Edna inquired, glancing at us, puzzled.

“They are present to hear what you have to say to me.”

She was taken aback.

“I—I have nothing to say to your Highness,” the woman faltered. “I merely wished to know whether, when in London, I might call.”

“Then listen,” exclaimed Mabel. “The truth is known, and it is useless for you to further conceal it. If you have nothing to say, Mr Hickman will at once call in the police, and I shall charge you with the murder of the Prince.”

“The murder of the Prince!” she gasped, white to the lips. “I—did not commit the crime. I can prove that I didn’t!”

Her hands were trembling, and she stood beside the table, steadying herself by it. There was a haunted look in those cold grey eyes. Our sudden descent upon her had taken her utterly by surprise.

“Then let us hear your statement,” my love said in a hard voice quite unusual to her. “Let it be the truth, or I shall charge you now, at once, with the capital offence. The Prince was murdered in my house, and with your knowledge. Do you deny that?”

“No,” she cried hoarsely, “I do not deny it.”

A long silence ensued. The woman Grainger—or Slade, as she was known there—hung her head.

Hickman spoke authoritatively, demanding full explanation, but she maintained a dogged silence. A sudden fire flashed in her eyes—the fire of defiance and hatred.

“Then, as you refuse to speak,” said Mabel at length, “you will have no further opportunity until you stand in the criminal dock.”

“No, no!” cried the wretched woman quickly. “Hear me! I will tell you all—everything. Listen,” she implored. “Do not call the police ere I have explained my exact position, and how the tragedy occurred.”

“Proceed,” Mabel said harshly. “We are all attention.”

“You will remember that three days before the tragedy your Highness left London suddenly because of the illness of the Emperor, and I remained in charge of the household. It was on a Sunday you left, and you had invited the young Prince to dine on the following Wednesday evening. On the afternoon following your departure a visitor was announced. His name was Petrovitch Gechkuloff, a Bulgarian gentleman whom I knew slightly, he having been a visitor at the house in Vienna where I had previously been in service as English governess. He asked me whether I wished to earn a thousand pounds, and then, under promise of strictest secrecy, unfolded to me an ingenious and extraordinary scheme. He was acting, he said, together with Danilo Roesch, the Bulgarian Minister of Finance, whom he would later introduce to me, in the interests of the People’s Party in the Sobranje, and they desired the young Prince Alexander to sign a certain deed. He told me nothing of the contents of the document, but asked me to assist them. I was to send no notice of your Highness’s departure to the Prince, but, on the contrary, when he arrived on the Wednesday evening I was to entertain him, make some excuse for your Highness’s absence, and afterwards introduce the Minister Roesch and his friend. There was nothing risky about the proceedings, he declared most emphatically. The pair merely wished to obtain the young Prince’s signature.”

“But did not this request strike you as extraordinary?” asked Mabel. “You knew the Prince quite well.”

“It was the money which tempted me,” the wretched woman cried. “I hesitated for some time, and at last yielded. The Prince arrived, and although greatly surprised and disappointed to find your Highness absent, remained and dined with myself and the man Gechkuloff, of whom he, of course, knew nothing save that he was one of his father’s subjects. Near the conclusion of dinner we witnessed a cab accident opposite the window, a blind gentleman—Mr Heaton—being run over, and I ordered the people to carry him into the drawing-room. Dr Slater was fetched, and having bandaged his head, told us to let him remain quiet for an hour or so, then left. In the meantime the Bulgarian Minister, Roesch, arrived, apparently in a great hurry, was introduced, and had a long interview with the Prince in private. Afterwards we adjourned into the library. Some champagne was drunk, and the three men smoked, speaking often in their own language, so that I might not understand all that was said. Subsequently the deed was produced, and after a considerable amount of hesitation and many promises on the part of the Minister of Finance, his Highness signed it. Then a witness was required. Gechkuloff whispered to me the suggestion that the signature of Mr Heaton, who was lying in the adjoining room half conscious, should be obtained, and having made him believe that he was signing a birthday book I got from him the desired signature. Shortly afterwards, while sitting at the piano playing I felt a heavy blow, which for a few moments stunned me. Then gazing through into the adjoining room I saw two figures struggling—the Prince and a woman. For a few seconds he held her tightly, but with a furious twist she freed herself and struck him full in the chest with the small dagger in her hand. He staggered and fell backward upon the couch dying. The scene struck terror into the hearts of all of us, the two men standing near me rigid in amazement. The woman closed and locked the door communicating between the two rooms, and left the house, while a few minutes later we also followed.”

“You saw the woman’s face?” inquired Hickman.

“Most certainly,” she answered. Then, continuing, said, “The tragic dénouement was so unexpected and startling that at first neither man appeared to know how to act. Quickly, however, they saw that suspicion of the murder must fall upon them, owing, I suppose, to the part they had played in Bulgarian politics, and they at once made it imperative that I should join in and carry out their scheme. As together we hurried along Gilston Road, they confessed to me how they had contemplated the assassination of the young Prince after he had signed the document, in order to remove the heir to the throne, and thus strengthen the hands of the People’s Party. They explained how they had discovered a cellar beside the Thames, close to the Turpentine Factory at Battersea Bridge, and had intended that on the Prince emerging from the house at The Boltons he should be accosted by a man in police uniform, and asked to walk to the police-station, only to find himself entrapped. Now they pointed out that the witness to the crime was the blind gentleman who had met with the accident, and as his signature was upon the document executed, it was necessary that he should be silenced.”

“They intended to kill me!” I cried.

“Most assuredly,” she responded, turning towards me. “When you emerged from the house you were met by the man who acted the part of police-constable, a London ruffian, and being blind, at once fell into the trap. I saved you, for I saw that by securing your silence in exchange for your life I should also secure you as an agent who might be useful to the two men into whose clutches I had so suddenly and hopelessly fallen. This proved correct, for ere long your assistance became of greatest use. On the morning when we parted, accompanied by Gechkuloff, I visited your chambers, and made a search there to ascertain who and what you were. Having once embarked on the conspiracy with these two men, whom I found were powerful factors in Bulgarian politics, I was compelled to assist them in disposing of the body—which was placed in the cellar beside the Thames, and allowed to float out with the tide. Then, having sent the servants on holiday, I removed the blood-stains, and worked the crochet cover for the couch.”

“You told me that those stains were of coffee that you had spilled there,” Mabel said.

“True,” she answered. “But I was compelled to deceive you. I left you soon afterwards, for by Roesch’s influence I became appointed English governess to the two youngest children of Prince Ferdinand, and it was while at Sofia that I suggested to the Minister of Finance the scheme for placing the concessions in the hands of Mr Heaton, whom I had heard was now suffering from an unaccountable loss of memory, and recollected nothing of the past. The subject was mooted to Prince Ferdinand, who in all good faith empowered me to treat with Mr Heaton, and before long several formidable concessions were floated in the City. The most remarkable thing was Mr Heaton’s absolute ignorance of all the past. He was as wax in the hands of the two men who had become my masters. Only at the last coup, when they desired to raise a loan of half a million sterling, intending to appropriate it to their own uses, did he refuse to render us further assistance. It was as though his memory had suddenly returned to him, and he suspected.”

“My memory had then returned,” I said briefly, marvelling at her remarkable narrative. “But what reason had the men in making those elaborate preparations for the assassination of the Prince?”

“There were two reasons. One was that by the execution of the deed they were empowered to raise upon post-obits large sums, repayable when the young Prince came to the accession, and, secondly, they had found out that he had, by some means, discovered the huge defalcations which had been made in the Ministry of Finance at Sofia, and feared that he might expose them.”

“But you say that, although they had intention of assassinating him, they did not actually do so?” Hickman observed.

“No. They were not the actual assassins.”

“Then who was?” demanded Mabel.

The woman stood in silence, her lips hard-set, her face drawn.

“The truth must be told,” she said at last. “It is, I suppose, useless to try and conceal it now.”

And with a sudden movement she flung open the door leading to a small ante-chamber, crying in a hoarse, desperate voice—

“Enter! The guilty one is there?”

We pressed forward, and there saw a thin grey-haired woman who had guilt written plainly upon her drawn white face. She had overheard all our conversation, and had been compelled to remain in that chamber, there being no outlet.

“Joliot!” gasped Mabel, amazed. “My maid!” Then, addressing the cowering, trembling woman, she demanded the truth.

We stood there astonished. There was a silence, long and painful. The contortions of the guilty woman’s features were horrible; in her black eyes burned a fierce light, and she trembled in every limb.

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely, after the question had been repeated, “I killed him! I killed him because I was jealous! I thought that instead of coming to visit your Highness he, in reality, came to visit Miss Grainger. Therefore without knowing why I did it, I dashed into the room where Miss Grainger was at the piano and attacked her. The Prince rose quickly and stretched out his arm to save her. Then rushing upon him I stabbed him to the heart! Since that day,” she added, in her low voice, scarcely audible, “since that day I have lived upon the meagre charity of Roesch, and yesterday came here to take up a position as Miss Grainger’s maid.”

“Your interests were mutual in the preservation of your secret, therefore you resolved to adjust your differences and live together, eh?” remarked Hickman.

She gave vent to a shrill peal of hideous laughter, as though there were something humorous in that grim and terrible tragedy. It jarred upon our nerves, but it also explained to us the ghastly truth.

The woman Natalie Joliot was hopelessly insane.

“Your Highness recognises the state of the wretched woman’s mind,” observed Edna Grainger, with a pitying look. “She has been so ever since the homicidal frenzy which seized her on that fatal night, and I have now taken her beneath my charge, for with me she is as docile as a child.”

The truth was a startling one. We all three stood by in wondering silence. The crime had been committed in a sudden access of madness by that miserable creature who could not be held responsible for her actions.

“Roesch and Gechkuloff, with their elaborate preparations for the assassination of the heir to the Bulgarian throne, were murderers at heart, but, by that strange combination of circumstances which so often render truth stranger than fiction, their work was accomplished by another hand,” I remarked.

“There seems no doubt,” said Edna, “that large sums were raised in London and in Paris upon the deed executed by the young Prince, who evidently had no knowledge of its true nature, and during the first six months before the hue-and-cry as to his disappearance all was plain sailing. When, however, suspicion arose that the heir had met with foul play they feared to continue using the deed, and hit upon the expedient of the concessions which I induced you to negotiate.”

“And these two men, Roesch and Gechkuloff, where are they?” inquired Hickman.

“They were in England yesterday. The mystery surrounding the whereabouts of Prince Alexander has been used for political purposes in Bulgaria, with the result that the Ministry has been forced to resign. The defalcations of the head of the Treasury and his assistant being discovered, they were both forced to fly. They are, I believe, on their way to Australia.”

“We must arrest them,” said Hickman briefly. “Such a pair of villains must, not be allowed to go scot free.”

“And to you,” exclaimed Mabel, turning to me with the bright light of unshed tears in her fine eyes, “to your patience and careful watchfulness is due the unravelling of this extraordinary mystery, which might otherwise have remained an enigma always.”

She took my hand. I saw in her beautiful countenance that love-look as of old. But I bent over her bejewelled fingers as a courtier would over those of a princess of an Imperial House, my heart too full for words.

The madwoman railed at us, shrieking and hurling imprecations interspersed with all sorts of rambling sentences, while Edna held her tightly by the wrist and strove to calm her.

The scene was a hideous one. Neither of us could bear it longer, therefore we withdrew, leaving Hickman with Edna and her charge.

The chronicle of this strange chapter of my life’s history is finished.

There is no more to tell, save perhaps to explain—as Sir Henry Blundell, the specialist on mental diseases, explained to me in his consulting-room in Harley Street—the cause of my six lost years. Such an experience, it seemed, was not unknown in medical science, and he made it clear to me that the blow I had accidentally dealt myself in Hickman’s rooms had so altered the balance of my brain—already affected by the cab accident during my blindness—that my intellect stopped like a watch. I lost all knowledge of the past, and from the moment of recovering consciousness commenced an entirely new life. This extended through the long period, nearly six years, until I had struck my head against the marble statue in the drawing-room at Denbury, when my brain, restored again to its normal capacity, lost all impression of events which had occurred during its abnormal state. This, of course, accounted for my extraordinary unconscious life, my inverted tastes, and my parting with the woman I loved so fondly.

And what of her, you ask?

She had, during that period of my unconsciousness, become satiated by the gaiety of the brilliant Court at Vienna, and the tragic death of her devoted mother, the Empress, at the hand of Luccheni, the anarchist, caused her to prefer a life quiet, free, and untrammelled. Knowing her royal birth, however, I dared not ask her hand in marriage, and it was not until many weeks later, after the woman Natalie Joliot had been confined as a homicidal patient in Woking Asylum, Edna Grainger had, owing to Mabel’s clemency, escaped to the continent, the ex-Minister Roesch and his companion Gechkuloff had been extradited from Bow Street to Sofia to take their trial for their gigantic defalcations upon the State Treasury, and I had sold Denbury and made an end of the financial business which stood in my name, that she complained to me of her loneliness.

With eager, trembling heart I took her white hand in mine and put to her the question. I knew it was presumptuous, almost unheard of. But, reader, you may readily imagine what overwhelming joy arose within me when she threw her arms passionately about my neck, and as answer raised her face and gave me a warm fond kiss.

Our life to-day is very even, very uneventful, idyllically happy. Under her second title of Countess of Klagenfurt we were soon afterwards married. We spent part of our time at Heaton, with which she is charmed now that it is swept and garnished, and the remainder at her own mediaeval Castle of Mohaes, one of the great ancestral estates of the Hapsbourg-Lorraines in the Tyrol, not far from Innsbruck, which was presented to her as a marriage gift by the Emperor.

Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Marie-Elizabeth-Mabel no longer exists. At the outset I made it quite plain that I had not written here my true name. I did so at my wife’s suggestion, for although my real name is probably known to most of those who read this record of my strange adventures, yet the world is still in ignorance of Mabel’s actual social position. She said that she had no desire to be pointed at as a Princess who married a commoner, and I have, of course, respected her wish.

She sacrificed all for my sake, and peace and joy are ours at last. With a fond and devoted love she gave up everything in order to become my wife, and as such has renounced for ever that world in which she was born—the world of Purple and Fine Linen.

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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