Kitabı oku: «The Doctor of Pimlico: Being the Disclosure of a Great Crime», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XIV
WHAT CONFESSION WOULD MEAN
A silence had fallen between the pair. Again Walter Fetherston glanced at her.
She was an outdoor girl to the tips of her fingers. At shooting parties she went out with the guns, not merely contenting herself, as did the other girls, to motor down with the luncheon for the men. She never got dishevelled or untidy, and her trim tweed skirt and serviceable boots never made her look unwomanly. She was her dainty self out in the country with the men, just as in the pretty drawing-room at Hill Street, while her merry laugh evoked more smiles and witticisms than the more studied attempts at wit of the others.
At that moment she had noticed the change in the man she had so gradually grown to love, and her heart was beating in wild tumult.
He, on his part, was hating himself for so foolishly allowing her to steal into his heart. She had lied to him there, just as she had lied to him at Biarritz. And yet he had been a fool, and had allowed himself to be drawn back to her side.
Why? he asked himself. Why? There was a reason, a strong reason. He loved her, and the reason he was at that moment at her side was to save her, to rescue her from a fate which he knew must sooner or later befall her.
She made some remark, but he only replied mechanically. His countenance had, she saw, changed and become paler. His lips were pressed together, and, taking a cigar from his case, he asked her permission to smoke, and viciously bit off its end. Something had annoyed him. Was it possible that he held any suspicion of the ghastly truth?
The real fact, however, was that he was calmly and deliberately contemplating tearing her from his heart for ever as an object of suspicion and worthless. He, who had never yet fallen beneath a woman's thraldom, resolved not to enter blindly the net she had spread for him. His thoughts were hard and bitter—the thoughts of a man who had loved passionately, but whose idol had suddenly been shattered.
Again she spoke, remarking that it was time she turned back, for already they were at the opposite end of the wood, with a beautiful panorama of valley and winding river spread before them. But he only answered a trifle abruptly, and, acting upon her suggestion, turned and retraced his steps in silence.
At last, as though suddenly rousing himself, he turned to her, and said in an apologetic tone: "I fear, Enid, I've treated you rather—well, rather uncouthly. I apologise. I was thinking of something else—a somewhat serious matter."
"I knew you were," she laughed, affecting to treat the matter lightly. "You scarcely replied to me."
"Forgive me, won't you?" he asked, smiling again in his old way.
"Of course," she said. "But—but is the matter very serious? Does it concern yourself?"
"Yes, Enid, it does," he answered.
And still she walked on, her eyes cast down, much puzzled.
Two woodmen passed on their way home from work, and raised their caps politely, while Walter acknowledged their salutation in French.
"I shall probably leave here to-morrow," her companion said as they walked back to the high road. "I am not yet certain until I receive my letters to-night."
"You are now going back to your village inn, I suppose," she laughed cheerfully.
"Yes," he said. "My host is an interesting old countryman, and has told me quite a lot about the war. He was wounded when the Germans shelled Verdun. He has told me that he knows Paul Le Pontois, for his son Jean is his servant."
"Why, Mr. Fetherston, you are really ubiquitous," cried the girl in confusion. "Why have you been watching us like this?"
"Merely because I wished to see you, as I've already explained," was his reply. "I wanted to ask you those questions which I have put to you this afternoon."
"About poor Harry?" she remarked in a hoarse, low voice. "But you begged me to reply to you in my own interests—why?"
"Because I wished to know the real truth."
"Well, I've told you the truth," she said with just the slightest tinge of defiance in her voice.
For a moment he did not speak. He had halted; his grave eyes were fixed upon her.
"Have you told me the whole truth—all that you know, Enid?" he asked very quietly a moment later.
"What more should I know?" she protested after a second's hesitation.
"How can I tell?" he asked quickly. "I only ask you to place me in possession of all the facts within your knowledge."
"Why do you ask me this?" she cried. "Is it out of mere idle curiosity? Or is it because—because, knowing that Harry loved me, you wish to cause me pain by recalling those tragic circumstances?"
"Neither," was his quiet answer in a low, sympathetic voice. "I am your friend, Enid. And if you will allow me, I will assist you."
She held her breath. He spoke as though he were aware of the truth—that she had not told him everything—that she was still concealing certain important and material facts.
"I—I know you are my friend," she faltered. "I have felt that all along, ever since our first meeting. But—but forgive me, I beg of you. The very remembrance of that night of the second of September is, to me, horrible—horrible."
To him those very words of hers increased his suspicion. Was it any wonder that she was horrified when she recalled that gruesome episode of the death of a brave and honest man? Her personal fascination had overwhelmed Harry Bellairs, just as it had overwhelmed himself. The devil sends some women into the hearts of upright men to rend and destroy them.
Upon her cheeks had spread a deadly pallor, while in the centre of each showed a scarlet spot. Her heart was torn by a thousand emotions, for the image of that man whom she had seen lying cold and dead in his room had arisen before her vision, blotting out everything. The hideous remembrance of that fateful night took possession of her soul.
In silence they walked on for a considerable time. Now and then a rabbit scuttled from their path into the undergrowth or the alarm-cry of a bird broke the evening stillness, until at last they came forth into the wide highway, their faces set towards the autumn sunset.
Suddenly the man spoke.
"Have you heard of the doctor since you left London?" he asked.
She held her breath—only for a single second. But her hesitation was sufficient to show him that she intended to conceal the truth.
"No," was her reply. "He has not written to me."
Again he was silent. There was a reason—a strong reason—why Weirmarsh should not write to her, he knew. But he had, by his question, afforded her an opportunity of telling him the truth—the truth that the mysterious George Weirmarsh was there, in that vicinity. That Enid was aware of that fact was certain to him.
"I wish," she said at last, "I wish you would call at the château and allow me to introduce you to Paul and his wife. They would be charmed to make your acquaintance."
"Thank you," he replied a trifle coldly; "I'd rather not know them—in the present circumstances."
"Why, how strange you are!" the girl exclaimed, looking up into his face, so dark and serious. "I don't see why you should entertain such an aversion to being introduced to Paul. He's quite a dear fellow."
"Perhaps it is a foolish reluctance on my part," he laughed uneasily. "But, somehow, I feel that to remain away from the château is best. Remember, your stepfather and your mother are in ignorance of—well, of the fact that we regard each other as—as more than close friends. For the present it is surely best that I should not visit your relations. Relations are often very prompt to divine the real position of affairs. Parents may be blind," he laughed, "but brothers-in-law never."
"You are always so dreadfully philosophical!" the girl cried, glad that at last that painful topic of conversation had been changed. "Paul Le Pontois wouldn't eat you!"
"I don't suppose any Frenchman is given to cannibalistic diet," he answered, smiling. "But the fact is, I have my reasons for not being introduced to the Le Pontois family just now."
The girl looked at him sharply, surprised at the tone of his response. She tried to divine its meaning. But his countenance still bore that sphinx-like expression which so often caused his friends to entertain vague suspicions.
Few men could read character better than Walter Fetherston. To him the minds of most men and women he met were as an open book. To a marvellous degree had he cultivated his power of reading the inner working of the mind by the expression in the eyes and on the faces of even those hard-headed diplomats and men of business whom, in his second character of Mr. Maltwood, he so frequently met. Few men or women could tell him a deliberate lie without its instant detection. Most shrewd men possess that power to a greater or less degree—a power that can be developed by painstaking application and practice.
Enid asked her companion when they were to meet again.
"At least let me see you before you go from here," she said. "I know what a rapid traveller you always are."
"Yes," he sighed. "I'm often compelled to make quick journeys from one part of the Continent to the other. I am a constant traveller—too constant, perhaps, for I've nowadays grown very world-weary and restless."
"Well," she exclaimed, "if you will not come to the château, where shall we meet?"
"I will write to you," he replied. "At this moment my movements are most uncertain—they depend almost entirely upon the movements of others. At any moment I may be called away. But a letter to Holles Street will always find me, you know."
He seemed unusually serious and strangely preoccupied, she thought. She noticed, too, that he had flung away his half-consumed cigar in impatience, and that he had rubbed his chin with his left hand, a habit of his when puzzled.
At the crossroads where the leafless poplars ran in straight lines towards the village of Fresnes, a big red motor-car passed them at a tearing pace, and in it Enid recognised General Molon.
Fetherston, although an ardent motorist himself, cursed the driver under his breath for bespattering them with mud. Then, with a word of apology to his charming companion, he held her gloved hand for a moment in his.
Their parting was not prolonged. The man's lips were thin and hard, for his resolve was firm.
This girl whom he had grown to love—who was the very sunshine of his strange, adventurous life—was, he had at last realised, unworthy. If he was to live, if the future was to have hope and joy for him, he must tear her out of his life.
Therefore he bade her adieu, refusing to give her any tryst for the morrow.
"It is all so uncertain," he repeated. "You will write to me in London if you do not hear from me, won't you?"
She nodded, but scarce a word, save a murmured farewell, escaped her dry lips.
He was changed, sadly changed, she knew. She turned from him with overflowing heart, stifling her tears, but with a veritable volcano of emotion within her young breast.
He had changed—changed entirely and utterly in that brief hour and a half they had walked together. What had she said? What had she done? she asked herself.
Forward she went blindly with the blood-red light of the glorious sunset full in her hard-set face, the great fortress-crowned hills looming up before her, a barrier between herself and the beyond! They looked grey, dark, mysterious as her own future.
She glanced back, but he had turned upon his heel, and she now saw his retreating figure swinging along the straight, broad highway.
Why had he treated her thus? Was it possible, she reflected, that he had actually become aware of the ghastly truth? Had he divined it?
"If he has," she cried aloud in an agony of soul, "then no wonder—no wonder, indeed, that he has cast me from his life as a criminal—as a woman to be avoided as the plague—that he has said good-bye to me for ever!"
Her lips trembled, and the corners of her pretty mouth hardened.
She turned again to watch the man's disappearing figure.
"I would go back," she cried in despair, "back to him, and beg his forgiveness upon my knees. I love him—love him better than my life! Yet to crave forgiveness would be to confess—to tell all I know—the whole awful truth! And I can't do that—no, never! God help me! I—I—I—can't do that!"
And bursting into a flood of hot tears, she stood rigid, her small hands clenched, still watching him until he disappeared from her sight around the bend of the road.
"No," she murmured in a low, hoarse voice, still speaking to herself, "confession would mean death. Rather than admit the truth I would take my own life. I would kill myself, yes, face death freely and willingly, rather than he—the man I love so well—should learn Sir Hugh's disgraceful secret."
CHAPTER XV
THREE GENTLEMEN FROM PARIS
Gaston Darbour's comedy, Le Pyrée, had been played to a large audience assembled in one of the bigger rooms of the long whitewashed artillery barracks outside Ronvaux, where General Molon had his official residence.
The humorous piece had been applauded to the echo—the audience consisting for the most part of military officers in uniform and their wives and daughters, with a sprinkling of the better-class civilians from the various châteaux in the neighbourhood, together with two or three aristocratic parties from Longuyon, Spincourt, and other places.
The honours of the evening had fallen to the young English girl who had played the amusing part of the demure governess, Miss Smith—pronounced by the others "Mees Smeeth." Enid was passionately fond of dramatic art, and belonged to an amateur club in London. Among those present were the author of the piece himself, a dark young man with smooth hair parted in the centre and wearing an exaggerated black cravat.
When the curtain fell the audience rose to chatter and comment, and were a long time before they dispersed. Paul Le Pontois waited for Enid, Sir Hugh accompanying Blanche and little Ninette home in the hired brougham. As the party had a long distance to go, some twelve kilomètres, General Molon had lent Le Pontois his motor-car, which now stood awaiting him with glaring headlights in the barrack-square.
As the hall emptied Paul glanced around him while awaiting Enid. On the walls the French tricolour was everywhere displayed, the revered drapeau under which he had so gallantly and nobly served against the Huns.
He presented a spruce appearance in his smart, well-cut evening coat, with the red button of the Legion d'Honneur in his lapel, and to the ladies who wished him "bon soir" as they filed out he drew his heels together and bowed gallantly.
Outside, the night was cloudy and overcast. In the long rows of the barrack windows lights shone, and somewhere sounded a bugle, while in the shadows could be heard the measured tramp of sentries, the clank of spurs, or the click of rifles as they saluted their officers passing out.
The whole atmosphere was a military one, for, indeed, the little town of Ronvaux is, even in these peace days, scarcely more than a huge camp.
For a few minutes Le Pontois stood chatting to a group of men at the door. They had invited him to come across to their quarters, but he had explained that he was awaiting mademoiselle. So they raised their eyebrows, smiled mischievously, and bade him "bon soir."
Soldiers were already stacking up the chairs ready for the clearance of the gymnasium for the morrow. Others were coming to water and sweep out the place. Therefore Le Pontois remained outside in the square, waiting in patience.
He was reflecting. That evening, as he had sat with his wife watching the play, he had been seized by a curious feeling for which he entirely failed to account. Behind him there had sat a man and a woman, French without a doubt, but entire strangers. They must, of course, have known one or other of the officers in order to obtain an admission ticket. Nevertheless, they had spoken to no one, and on the fall of the curtain had entered a brougham in waiting and driven off.
Paul had made no comment. By a sudden chance he had, during the entr'acte, risen and gazed around, when the face of the stranger had caught his eyes—a face which he felt was curiously familiar, yet he could not place it. The middle-aged man was dressed with quiet elegance, clean-shaven and keen-faced, apparently a prosperous civilian, while the lady with him was of about the same age and apparently his wife. She was dressed in a high-necked dress of black lace, and wore in her corsage a large circular ornament of diamonds and emeralds.
Twice had Le Pontois taken furtive glances at the stranger whose lined brow was so extraordinarily familiar. It was the face of a deep thinker, a man who had, perhaps, passed through much trouble. Was it possible, he wondered, that he had seen that striking face in some photograph, or perhaps in some illustrated paper? He had racked his brain through the whole performance, but could not decide in what circumstances they had previously met.
From time to time the stranger had joined with the audience in their hearty laughter, or applauded as vociferously as the others, his companion being equally amused at the quaint sayings of the demure "Mees Smeeth."
And even as he stood in the shadows near the general's car awaiting Enid he was still wondering who the pair might be.
At the fall of the curtain he had made several inquiries of the officers, but nobody could give him any information. They were complete strangers—that was all. Even a search among the cards of invitation had revealed nothing.
So Paul Le Pontois remained mystified.
Enid came at last, flushed with success and apologetic because she had kept him waiting. But he only congratulated her, and assisted her into the car. It was a big open one, therefore she wore a thick motor coat and veil as protection against the chill autumn night.
A moment later the soldier-chauffeur mounted to his seat, and slowly they moved across the great square and out by the gates, where the sentries saluted. Then, turning to the right, they were quickly tearing along the highway in the darkness.
Soon they overtook several closed carriages of the home-going visitors, and, ascending the hill, turned from the main road down into a by-road leading through a wooded valley, which was a short cut to the château.
Part of their way led through the great Forêt d'Amblonville, and though Enid's gay chatter was mostly of the play, the defects in the acting and the several amusing contretemps which had occurred behind the scenes, her companion's thoughts were constantly of that stranger whose brow was so deeply lined with care.
They expected to overtake Sir Hugh in the brougham, but so long had Enid been changing her gown that they saw nothing of the others.
Just, however, as they were within a hundred yards or so of the gates which gave entrance to the château, and were slowing down in order to swing into the drive, a man emerged from the darkness, calling upon the driver to stop, and, placing himself before the car, held up his hands.
Next instant the figure of a second individual appeared. Enid uttered a cry of alarm, but the second man, who wore a hard felt hat and dark overcoat, reassured her by saying in French:
"Pray do not distress yourself, mademoiselle. There is no cause for alarm. My friend and I merely wish to speak for a moment with Monsieur Le Pontois before he enters his house. For that reason we have presumed to stop your car."
"But who are you?" demanded Le Pontois angrily. "Who are you that you should hold us up like this?"
"Perhaps, m'sieur, it would be better if you descended and escorted mademoiselle as far as your gates. We wish to speak to you for a moment upon a little matter which is both urgent and private."
"Well, cannot you speak here, now, and let us proceed?"
"Not before mademoiselle," replied the man. "It is a confidential matter."
Paul, much puzzled at the curious demeanour of the strangers, reluctantly handed Enid out, and walked with her as far as his own gate, telling her to assure Blanche that he would return in a few moments, when he had heard what the men wanted.
"Very well," she laughed. "I'll say nothing. You can tell her all when you come in."
The girl passed through the gates and up the gravelled drive to the house, when Le Pontois, turning upon his heel to return to the car, was met by the two men, who, he found, had walked closely behind him.
"You are Paul Le Pontois?" inquired the elder of the pair brusquely.
"Of course! Why do you ask that?"
"Because it is necessary," was his businesslike reply. Then he added: "I regret, m'sieur, that you must consider yourself under arrest by order of his Excellency the Minister of Justice."
"Arrest!" gasped the unhappy man. "Are you mad, messieurs?"
"No," replied the man who had spoken.
"We have merely our duty to perform, and have travelled from Paris to execute it."
"With what offence am I charged?" Le Pontois demanded.
"Of that we have no knowledge. As agents of secret police, we are sent here to convey you for interrogation."
The man under arrest stood dumbfounded.
"But at least you will allow me to say farewell to my wife and child—to make excuse to them for my absence?" he urged.
"I regret that is quite impossible, m'sieur. Our orders are to make the arrest and to afford you no opportunity to communicate with anyone."
"But this is cruel, inhuman! His Excellency never meant that, I am quite sure—especially when I am innocent of any crime, as far as I am aware."
"We can only obey our orders, m'sieur," replied the man in the dark overcoat.
"Then may I not write a line to my wife, just one word of excuse?" he pleaded.
The two police agents consulted.
"Well," replied the elder of the pair, who was the one in authority, "if you wish to scribble a note, here are paper and pencil." And he tore a leaf from his notebook and handed it to the prisoner.
By the light of the head-lamps of the car Paul scribbled a few hurried words to Blanche: "I am detained on important business," he wrote. "I will return to-morrow. My love to you both.—Paul."
The detective read it, folded it carefully, and handed it to his assistant, telling him to go up to the château and deliver it at the servants' entrance.
When he had gone the detective, turning to the chauffeur, said: "I shall require you to take us to Verdun."
"This is not my car, m'sieur," replied Paul. "It belongs to General Molon."
"That does not matter. I will telephone to him an explanation as soon as we arrive in Verdun. We may as well enter the car as stand here."
Paul Le Pontois was about to protest, but what could he say? The Minister in Paris had apparently committed some grave error in thus ordering his arrest. No doubt there would be confusion, apologies and laughter. So, with a light heart at the knowledge that he had committed no offence, he got into the car, and allowed the polite police agent to seat himself beside him.
The only chagrin he felt was that the chauffeur had overheard all the conversation. And to him he said: "Remember, Gallet, of this affair you know nothing."
"I understand perfectly, m'sieur," was the wondering soldier's reply.
Then they sat in silence in the darkness until the hurrying police agent returned, after which the car sped straight past the château on the high road which led through the deep valley on to the fortress town of Verdun.
As they passed the château Paul Le Pontois caught a glimpse of its lighted windows and sat wondering what Blanche would imagine. He pictured the pleasant supper party and the surprise that would be expressed at his absence.
How amusing! What incongruity! He was under arrest!
The car rushed on beneath the precipitous hill crowned by the great fortress of Haudiomont, through the narrow gorge—the road to Paris.
All three men, seated abreast, were silent until, at last, the elder of the two police agents bent and glanced at the clock on the dashboard, visible by the tiny glow-lamp.
"Half past twelve," he remarked. "The express leaves Verdun at two twenty-eight."
"For where?" asked Paul.
"For Paris."
"Paris!" he cried. "Are you taking me to Paris?"
"Those are our orders," was the detective's quiet response.
