Kitabı oku: «Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo», sayfa 7
His host and hostess were undoubtedly criminals. Indeed, they did not hide the fact. Both were paid by The Sparrow to conceal and provide for anyone whom he sent there.
He had been there four weary, anxious days when one evening a pretty, well-dressed young French girl called, and after a short chat with Beppo’s wife became installed there as his fellow-guest. He did not know her name and she did not tell him.
She was known to them as Lisette, and Hugh found her a most vivacious and interesting companion. Truly, he had been thrown into very queer company, and he often wondered what his friends would say if they knew that he was guest in a hiding-place of thieves.
TENTH CHAPTER
A LESSON IN ARGOT
Late one evening the dainty girl thief, Lisette, went out for a stroll with Hugh, but in the Via Roma they met an agent of police.
“Look!” whispered the girl in French, “there’s a pince sans rire! Be careful!”
She constantly used the argot of French thieves, which was often difficult for the young Englishman to understand. And the dark-haired girl would laugh, apologize, and explain the meaning of her strange expressions.
Outside the city they were soon upon the high road which wound up the deep green valley of the Bisagno away into the mountains, ever ascending to the little hill-town of Molassana. The scene was delightful in the moonlight as they climbed the steep hill and then descended again into the valley, Lisette all the time gossiping on in a manner which interested and amused him.
Her arrival had put an end to his boredom, and, though he was longing to get away from his surroundings, she certainly cheered him up.
They had walked for nearly an hour, when, declaring she felt tired, they sat upon a rock to rest and eat the sandwiches with which they had provided themselves.
Two carabineers in cloaks and cocked hats who met them on the road put them down as lovers keeping a clandestine tryst. They never dreamed that for both of them the police were in search.
“Now tell me something concerning yourself, mademoiselle,” Hugh urged presently.
“Myself! Oh! la la!” she laughed. “What is there to tell? I am just of la haute pegre—a truqueuse. Ah! you will not know the expression. Well—I am a thief in high society. I give indications where we can make a coup, and afterwards bruler le pegriot—efface the trace of the affair.”
“And why are you here?”
“Malheureusement! I was in Orleans and a friquet nearly captured me. So Il Passero sent me here for a while.”
“You help Il Passero—eh?”
“Yes. Very often. Ah! m’sieur, he is a most wonderful man—English, I think. Girofle (genteel and amiable), like yourself.”
“No, no, mademoiselle,” Hugh protested, laughing.
“But I mean it. Il Passero is a real gentleman—but—maquiller son truc, and he is marvellous. When he exercises his wonderful talent and forms a plan it is always flawless.”
“Everyone seems to hold him in high esteem. I have never met him,” Hugh remarked.
“He was in Genoa on the day that I arrived. Curious that he did not call and see Beppo. I lunched with him at the Concordia, and he paid me five thousand francs, which he owed me. He has gone to London now with his ecrache-tarte.”
“What is that, pray?”
“His false passport. He has always a good supply of them for anyone in need of one. They are printed secretly in Spain. But m’sieur,” she added, “you are not of our world. You are in just a little temporary trouble. Over what?”
In reply he was perfectly frank with her. He told her of the suspicion against him because of the affair of the Villa Amette.
“Ah!” she replied, her manner changing, “I have heard that Mademoiselle was shot, but I had no idea that you had any connexion with that ugly business.”
“Yes. Unfortunately I have. Do you happen to know Yvonne Ferad?”
“Of course. Everyone knows her. She is very charming. Nobody knows the truth.”
“What truth?” inquired Hugh quickly.
“Well—that she is a marque de ce.”
“A marque de ce—what is that?” asked Hugh eagerly.
“Ah! non, m’sieur. I must not tell you anything against her. You are her friend.”
“But I am endeavouring to find out something about her. To me she is a mystery.”
“No doubt. She is to everybody.”
“What did you mean by that expression?” he demanded. “Do tell me. I am very anxious to know your opinion of her, and something about her. I have a very earnest motive in trying to discover who and what she really is.”
“If I told you I should offend Il Passero,” replied the girl simply. “It is evident that he wishes you should remain in ignorance.”
“But surely, you can tell me in confidence? I will divulge nothing.”
“No,” answered the girl, whose face he could not see in the shadow. “I am sorry, M’sieur Brown”—she had not been told his Christian name—“but I am not permitted to tell you anything concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”
“She is a very remarkable person—eh?” said Henfrey, again defeated.
“Remarkable! Oh, yes. She is of the grande monde.”
“Is that still your argot?” he asked.
“Oh no. Mademoiselle Yvonne is a lady. Some say she is the daughter of a rich Englishman. Others say she is just a common adventuress.”
“The latter is true, I suppose?”
“I think not. She has le clou for the eponge d’or.”
“I do not follow that.”
“Well,” she laughed, “she has the attraction for those who hold the golden sponge—the Ministers of State. Our argot is difficult for you, m’sieur—eh?”
“I see! Your expressions are a kind of cipher, unintelligible to the ordinary person—eh?”
“That is so. If I exclaim, par exemple, tarte, it means false; if I say gilet de flanelle, it is lemonade; if I say frise, it means a Jew; or casserole, which is in our own tongue a police officer. So you see it is a little difficult—is it not? To us tire-jus is a handkerchief, and we call the ville de Paris Pantruche.”
Hugh sat in wonder. It was certainly a strange experience to be on a moonlight ramble with a girl thief who had, according to her own confession, been born in Paris the daughter of a man who was still one of Il Passero’s clever and desperate band.
“Yes, m’sieur,” she said a few moments later. “They are all dangerous. They do not fear to use the knife or automatic pistol when cornered. For myself, I simply move about Europe and make discoveries as to where little affairs can be negotiated. I tell Il Passero, and he then works out the plans. Dieu! But I had a narrow escape the other day in Orleans!”
“Do tell me about Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. I beg of you to tell me something, Mademoiselle Lisette,” Hugh urged, turning to the girl of many adventures who was seated at his side upon the big rock overlooking the ravine down which the bright moon was shining.
“I would if I were permitted,” she replied. “Mademoiselle Yvonne is charming. You know her, so I need say nothing, but–”
“Well—what?”
“She is clever—very clever,” said the girl. “As Il Passero is clever, so is she.”
“Then she is actively associated with him—eh?”
“Yes. She is cognizant of all his movements, and of all his plans. While she moves in one sphere—often in a lower sphere, like myself—yet in society she moves in the higher sphere, and she ‘indicates,’ just as I do.”
“So she is one of The Sparrow’s associates?” Hugh said.
“Yes,” was the reply. “From what you have told me I gather that Il Passero knew by one of his many secret sources of information that you were in danger of arrest, and sent Paolo to rescue you—which he did.”
“No doubt that is so. But why should he take all this interest in me? I don’t know and have never even met him.”
“Il Passero is always courteous. He assists the weak against the strong. He is like your English bandit Claude Duval of the old days. He always robs with exquisite courtesy, and impresses the same trait upon all who are in his service. And I may add that all are well paid and all devoted to their great master.”
“I have heard that he has a house in London,” Hugh said. “Do you know where it is situated?”
“Somewhere near Piccadilly. But I do not know exactly where it is. He is always vague regarding his address. His letters he receives in several names at a newspaper shop in Hammersmith and at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross.”
“What names?” asked Hugh, highly interested.
“Oh! a number. They are always being changed,” the French girl replied.
“Where do you write when you want to communicate with him?”
“Generally to the Poste Restante in the Avenue de l’Opera, in Paris. Letters received there are collected for him and forwarded every day.”
“And so clever is he that nobody suspects him—eh?”
“Exactly, m’sieur. His policy is always ‘Rengraciez!’ and he cares not a single rotin for La Reniffe,” she replied, dropping again into the slang of French thieves.
“Of course he is on friendly terms with Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?” Hugh remarked. “He may have been at Monte Carlo on the night of the tragic affair.”
“He may have been. He was, no doubt, somewhere on the Riviera, and he sent Paolo in one of the cars to rescue you from the police.”
“In that case, he at least knows that I am innocent.”
“Yes. And he probably knows the guilty person. That would account for the interest he takes in you, though you do not know him,” said Lisette. “I have known Il Passero perform many kindly acts to persons in distress who have never dreamed that they have received money from a notorious international thief.”
“Well, in my case he has, no doubt, done me signal service,” young Henfrey replied. “But,” he added, “why cannot you tell me something more concerning Mademoiselle? What did you mean by saying that she was a marque de ce? I know it is your slang, but won’t you explain what it means? You have explained most of your other expressions.”
But the girl thief was obdurate. She was certainly a chic and engaging little person, apparently well educated and refined, but she was as sly as her notorious employer, whom she served so faithfully. She was, she had already told Hugh, the daughter of a man who had made jewel thefts his speciality and after many convictions was now serving ten years at the convict prison at Toulon. She had been bred in the Montmartre, and trained and educated to a criminal life. Il Passero had found her, and, after several times successfully “indicating” where coups could be made, she had been taken into his employment as a decoy, frequently travelling on the international wagon-lits and restaurants, where she succeeded in attracting the attention of men and holding them in conversation with a mild flirtation while other members of the gang investigated the contents of their valises. From one well-known diamond dealer travelling between Paris and Amsterdam, she and the man working with her had stolen a packet containing diamonds of the value of two hundred thousand francs, while from an English business man travelling from Boulogne to Paris, two days later, she had herself taken a wallet containing nearly four thousand pounds in English bank-notes. It was her share of the recent robbery that Il Passero had paid her three days before at the Concordia Restaurant in the Via Garibaldi, in Genoa.
Hugh pressed her many times to tell him something concerning the mysterious Mademoiselle, but he failed to elicit any further information of interest.
“Her fortune at the Rooms is wonderful, they say,” Lisette said. “She must be very rich.”
“But she is one of Il Passero’s assistants—eh?”
The girl laughed lightly.
“Perhaps,” was her enigmatical reply. “Who knows? It is, however, evident that Il Passero is seriously concerned at the tragic affair at the Villa Amette.”
“Have you ever been there?”
She hesitated a few moments, then said: “Yes, once.”
“And you know the old Italian servant Cataldi?”
She replied in the affirmative. Then she added:
“I know him, but I do not like him. She trusts him, but–”
“But what?”
“I would not. I should be afraid, for to my knowledge he is a saigneur a musique.”
“And what is that?”
“An assassin.”
“What?” cried Henfrey. “Is he guilty of murder—and Mademoiselle knows it?”
“Mademoiselle may not know about it. She is probably in ignorance, or she would not employ him.”
Her remark was of considerable interest, inasmuch as old Cataldi had seemed to be most devoted to his mistress, and entirely trusted by her.
“Do you know the circumstances?” asked Hugh.
“Yes. But it is not our habit to speak of another’s—well, shortcomings,” was her reply.
“Surely, Mademoiselle should have been told the truth! Does not Il Passero know?” he asked.
There flitted across his mind at that moment the recollection of Dorise. What could she think of his disappearance? He longed to write to her, but The Sparrow’s chauffeur had impressed upon him the serious danger he would be running if he wrote to her while she was at Monte Carlo.
“I question whether he does know. But if he does he would say nothing.”
“Ah!” sighed Hugh. “Yours is indeed a queer world, mademoiselle. And not without interest.”
“It is full of adventure and excitement, of ups and downs, of constant travel and change, and of eternal apprehension of arrest,” replied the girl, with a laugh.
“I wish you would tell me something about Yvonne Ferad,” he repeated.
“Alas! m’sieur, I am not permitted,” was her obdurate reply. “I am truly sorry to hear of the dastardly attack upon her. She once did me a very kind and friendly action at a moment when I was in sore need of a friend.”
“Who could have fired the shot, do you think?” Henfrey asked. “You know her friends. Perhaps you know her enemies?”
Mademoiselle Lisette was silent for some moments.
“Yes,” she replied reflectively. “She has enemies, I know. But who has not?”
“Is there any person who, to your knowledge, would have any motive to kill her?”
Again she was silent.
“There are several people who hate her. One of them might have done it out of revenge. You say you saw nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“Why did you go and see her at that hour?” asked the girl.
“Because I wanted her to tell me something—something of greatest importance to me.”
“And she refused, of course? She keeps her own secrets.”
“No. On the other hand, she was about to disclose to me the information I sought when someone fired through the open window.”
“The shot might have been intended for you—eh?”
Hugh paused.
“It certainly might,” he admitted. “But with what motive?”
“To prevent you from learning the truth.”
“She was on the point of telling me what I wanted to know.”
“Exactly. And what more likely than someone outside, realizing that Mademoiselle was about to make a disclosure, fired at you.”
“But you said that Mademoiselle had enemies.”
“So she has. But I think my theory is the correct one,” replied the girl. “What was it that you asked her to reveal to you?”
“Well,” he replied, after a brief hesitation, “my father died mysteriously in London some time ago, and I have reason to believe that she knows the truth concerning the sad affair.”
“Where did it happen?”
“My father was found in the early morning lying in a doorway in Albemarle Street, close to Piccadilly. The only wound found was a slight scratch in the palm of the hand. The police constable at first thought he was intoxicated, but the doctor, on being called, declared that my father was suffering from poison. He was at once taken to St. George’s Hospital, but an hour later he died without recovering consciousness.”
“And what was your father’s name?” asked Lisette in a strangely altered voice.
“Henfrey.”
“Henfrey!” gasped the girl, starting up at mention of the name. “Henfrey! And—and are—you—his son?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. “Why? You know about the affair, mademoiselle! Tell me all you know,” he cried. “I—the son of the dead man—have a right to demand the truth.”
“Henfrey!” repeated the girl hoarsely in a state of intense agitation. “Monsieur Henfrey! And—and to think that I am here—with you—his son! Ah! forgive me!” she gasped. “I—I–Let us return.”
“But you shall tell me the truth!” cried Hugh excitedly. “You know it! You cannot deny that you know it!”
All, however, he could get from her were the words:
“You—Monsieur Henfrey’s son! Surely Il Passero does not know this!”
ELEVENTH CHAPTER
MORE ABOUT THE SPARROW
A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by.
Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason.
It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the newspapers.
The evening after Hugh’s disappearance, Monsieur Ogier had called upon Dorise Ranscomb—her mother happily being away at the Rooms at the time. In one of the sitting-rooms of the hotel the official of police closely questioned the girl, but she, of course made pretense of complete ignorance. Naturally Ogier was annoyed at being unable to obtain the slightest information, and after being very rude, he told the girl the charge against her lover and then left the hotel in undisguised anger.
Lady Ranscomb was very much mystified at Hugh’s disappearance, though secretly she was very glad. She questioned Brock, but he, on his part, expressed himself very much puzzled. A week later, however, Walter returned to London, and on the following night Lady Ranscomb and her daughter took the train-de-luxe for Boulogne, and duly arrived home.
As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had told her of her lover’s escape.
In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious George Sherrard.
Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.
“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”
“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a delightful man!”
“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?” queried the widow of the great contractor.
“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”
“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.
Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he’s done?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”
“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily. “He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”
“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”
“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”
“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last of the fellow.”
“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it—something she dared not tell.
On the day following their midnight stroll, he had done all in his power to induce her to reveal something at least of the affair, but, alas! to no avail. Then, two days later, she had suddenly left—at orders of The Sparrow, she said.
Before Hugh left Ravecca had given him eighty pounds in English notes, saying that he acted at Il Passero’s orders, for Hugh would no doubt need the money, and it would be most dangerous for him to write to his bankers.
At first Henfrey protested, but, as his funds were nearly exhausted, he had accepted the money.
As he left the station in Brussels on that bright spring morning and crossed the busy Place, he was wondering to what hotel he should go. He had left his scanty luggage in the consigne, intending to go out on foot and search for some cheap and obscure hotel, there being many such in the vicinity of the station. After half an hour he chose a small and apparently clean little place in a narrow street off the Place de Brouckere, and there, later on, he carried his handbag. Then, after a wash, he set out for the Central Post Office in the Place de la Monnaie.
He had not gone far along the busy boulevard when he was startled to hear his name uttered from behind, and, turning, encountered a short, thick-set little man wearing a brown overcoat.
The man, noticing the effect his words had upon him, smiled reassuringly, and said in broken English: “It is all right! I am not a police officer, Monsieur Henfrey. Cross the road and walk down that street yonder. I will follow in a few moments.”
And then the man walked on, leaving Hugh alone.
Much surprised, Hugh did as he was bid, and a few minutes later the Belgian met him again.
“It is very dangerous for us to be seen together,” he said quickly, scarcely pausing as he walked. “Do not go near the Post Office, but go straight to 14 Rue Beyaert, first floor. I shall be there awaiting you. I have a message for you from a friend. You will find the street close to the Porte de Hal.”
And the man continued on his way, leaving Hugh in wonder. He had been on the point of turning from the boulevard into the Place de la Monnaie to obtain Dorise’s long looked for letter. Indeed, he had been hastening his footsteps full of keen apprehension when the stranger had accosted him.
But in accordance with the man’s suggestion, he turned back towards the station, where he entered a taxi and drove across the city to the corner of Rue Beyaert, a highly respectable thoroughfare. He experienced no difficulty in finding the house indicated, and on ascending the stairs, found the stranger awaiting him.
“Ah!” he cried. “Come in! I am glad that I discovered you! I have been awaiting your arrival from Italy for the past fortnight. It is indeed fortunate that I found you in time to warn you not to go to the Poste Restante.” He spoke in French, and had shown his visitor into a small but well furnished room.
“Why?” asked Hugh. “Is there danger in that quarter?”
“Yes, Monsieur Henfrey. The French police have, by some unknown means, discovered that you were coming here, and a strict watch is being kept for anyone calling for letters addressed to Godfrey Brown.”
“But how could they know?” asked Hugh.
“Ah! That is the mystery! Perhaps your lady friend has been indiscreet. She was told in strict confidence, and was warned that your safety was in her hands.”
“Surely, Dorise would be most careful not to betray me!” cried the young Englishman.
“Well, somebody undoubtedly has.”
“I presume you are one of Il Passero’s friends?” Hugh said with a smile.
“Yes. Hence I am your friend,” was the reply.
“Have you heard of late how Mademoiselle Yvonne is progressing?”
The man, who told his visitor his name was Jules Vervoort, shook his head.
“She is no better. I heard last week that the doctors have said that she will never recover her mental balance.”
“What! Is she demented?”
“Yes. The report I had was that she recognized nobody, except at intervals she knows her Italian manservant and calls him by name. I was ordered to tell you this.”
“Ordered by Il Passero—eh?”
The man Vervoort nodded in the affirmative. Then he went on to warn his visitor that the Brussels police were on the eager watch for his arrival. “It is fortunate that you were not recognized when you came this morning,” he said. “I had secret warning and was at the station, but I dared not approach you. You passed under the very nose of two detectives, but luckily for you, their attention had been diverted to a woman who is a well-known pickpocket. I followed you to your hotel and then waited for you to go to the Poste Restante.”
“But I want my letters,” said Hugh.
“Naturally, but it is far too dangerous to go near there. You, of course, want news of your lady friend. That you will have by special messenger very soon. Therefore remain patient.”
“Why are all these precautions being taken to prevent my arrest?” Hugh asked. “I confess I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. But when Il Passero commands we all obey.”
“You are, I presume, his agent in Brussels?”
“His friend—not his agent,” Vervoort replied with a smile.
“Do you know Mademoiselle Lisette?” Hugh asked. “She was with me in Genoa.”
“Yes. We have met. A very clever little person. Il Passero thinks very highly of her. She has been educated in the higher schools, and is perhaps one of our cleverest decoys.”
Hugh Henfrey paused.
“Now look here, Monsieur Vervoort,” he exclaimed at last, “I’m very much in the dark about all this curious business. Lisette knows a lot concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”
“Admitted. She acted once as her maid, I believe, in some big affair. But I don’t know much about it.”
“Well, you know what happened at the Villa Amette that night? Have you any idea of the identity of the person who shot poor Mademoiselle—the lady they call Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”
“Not in the least,” was the reply. “All I know is that Il Passero has some very keen and personal interest in the affair. He has sent further orders to you. It is imperative, he says, that you should get away from Brussels. The police are too keen here.”
“Where shall I go?”
“I suggest that you go at once to Malines. Go to Madame Maupoil, 208 Rue de Stassart, opposite the Military Hospital. It is far too dangerous for you to remain here in Brussels. I have already written that you are coming. Her house is one of the sanctuaries of the friends of Il Passero. Remember the name and address.”
“The Sparrow seems to be ubiquitous,” Hugh remarked.
“He is. No really great robbery can be accomplished unless he plans and finances it.”
“I cannot think why he takes so keen an interest in me.”
“He often does in persons who are quite ignorant of his existence.”
“That is my own case. I never heard of him until I was in Genoa, a fugitive,” said Hugh. “But you told me I shall receive a message from Miss Ranscomb by special messenger. When?”
“When you are in Malines.”
“But all this is very strange. Will the mysterious messenger call upon Miss Ranscomb in London?”
“Of course. Il Passero has several messengers who travel to and fro in secret. Mademoiselle Lisette was once one of them. She has travelled many times the length and breadth of Europe. But nowadays she is an indicator—and a very clever one indeed,” he added with a laugh.
“I suppose I had better get away to Malines without delay?” Hugh remarked.
“Yes. Go to your hotel, pay them for your room and get your valise. I shall be waiting for you at noon in a car in the Rue Gretry, close to the Palais d’Ete. Then we can slip away to Malines. Have you sufficient money? If not, I can give you some. Il Passero has ordered me to do so.”
“Thanks,” replied Hugh. “I have enough for the present. My only desire is to be back again in London.”
“Ah! I am afraid that is not possible for some time to come.”
“But I shall hear from Miss Ranscomb?”
“Oh, yes. The messenger will come to you in Malines.”
“Who is the messenger?”
“Of that I have no knowledge,” was Vervoort’s reply. He seemed a very refined man, and was no doubt an extremely clever crook. He said little of himself, but sufficient to cause Hugh to realize that his was one of the master minds of underground Europe.
The young Englishman was naturally eager to further penetrate the veil of mystery surrounding Mademoiselle Yvonne, but he learned little or nothing. Vervoort either knew nothing, or else refused to disclose what he knew. Which, Hugh could not exactly decide.
Therefore, in accordance with the Belgian’s instructions, he left the house and at noon carried his valise to the Rue Gretry, where he found his friend awaiting him in a closed car, which quickly moved off out of the city by the Laeken road. Travelling by way of Vilvorde they were within an hour in old-world Malines, famous for its magnificent cathedral and its musical carillon. Crossing the Louvain Canal and entering by the Porte de Bruxelles, they were soon in an inartistic cobbled street under the shadow of St. Rombold, and a few minutes later Hugh was introduced to a short, stout Belgian woman, Madame Maupoil. The place was meagrely furnished, but scrupulously clean. The floor of the room to which Hugh was shown shone with beeswax, and the walls were whitewashed.
“I hope monsieur will make himself quite comfortable,” madame said, a broad smile of welcome upon her round face.
“You will be comfortable enough under madame’s care,” Vervoort assured him. “She has had some well-known guests before now.”
“True, monsieur. More than one of them have been world-famous and—well—believed to be perfectly honest and upright.”
“Yes,” laughed Vervoort. “Do you remember the English ex-member of Parliament?”
“Ah! He was with me nearly four months when supposed to be in South America. There was a warrant out for him on account of some great financial frauds—all of which was, of course, hushed up. But he stayed here in strict concealment and his friends managed to get the warrant withdrawn. He was known to Il Passero, and the latter aided him—in return for certain facilities regarding the English police.”
