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FANTOMAS

PIERRE SOUVESTRE
AND
MARCEL ALLAIN


_Translated from the original French by_
CRANSTOUN METCALFE

_Introduction to the Dover Edition by_
ROBIN WALZ


DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Mineola, New York




_Bibliographical Note_

This Dover edition, first published in 2006, is an unabridged
republication of the work first published by Brentano's Publishers Inc.,
New York, in 1915.

_International Standard Book Number: 0-486-44971-8_

Manufactured in the United States of America
Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501




CONTENTS


Introduction to the Dover Edition                     v

CHAPTER                                            PAGE

     I. The Genius of Crime                           1

    II. A Tragic Dawn                                12

   III. The Hunt for the Man                         26

    IV. "No! I am not Mad!"                          34

     V. "Arrest Me!"                                 45

    VI. "Fantomas, it is Death!"                     52

   VII. The Criminal Investigation Department        68

  VIII. A Dreadful Confession                        82

    IX. All for Honour                               92

     X. Princess Sonia's Bath                       104

    XI. Magistrate and Detective                    117

   XII. A Knock-out Blow                            125

  XIII. Therese's Future                            133

   XIV. Mademoiselle Jeanne                         140

    XV. The Mad Woman's Plot                        146

   XVI. Among the Market Porters                    156

  XVII. At the Saint-Anthony's Pig                  163

 XVIII. A Prisoner and a Witness                    174

   XIX. Jerome Fandor                               184

    XX. A Cup of Tea                                190

   XXI. Lord Beltham's Murderer                     196

  XXII. The Scrap of Paper                          205

 XXIII. The Wreck of the "Lancaster"                210

  XXIV. Under Lock and Key                          216

   XXV. An Unexpected Accomplice                    223

  XXVI. A Mysterious Crime                          228

 XXVII. Three Surprising Incidents                  237

XXVIII. The Court of Assize                         247

  XXIX. Verdict and Sentence                        255

   XXX. An Assignation                              265

  XXXI. Fell Treachery                              276

 XXXII. On the Scaffold                             288




I. THE GENIUS OF CRIME


"Fantomas."

"What did you say?"

"I said: Fantomas."

"And what does that mean?"

"Nothing.... Everything!"

"But what is it?"

"Nobody.... And yet, yes, it is somebody!"

"And what does the somebody do?"

"Spreads terror!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Dinner was just over, and the company were moving into the drawing-room.

Hurrying to the fireplace, the Marquise de Langrune took a large log
from a basket and flung it on to the glowing embers on the hearth; the
log crackled and shed a brilliant light over the whole room; the guests
of the Marquise instinctively drew near to the fire.

During the ten consecutive months she spent every year at her chateau of
Beaulieu, on the outskirts of Correze, that picturesque district bounded
by the Dordogne, it had been the immemorial custom of the Marquise de
Langrune to entertain a few of her personal friends in the neighbourhood
to dinner every Wednesday, thereby obtaining a little pleasant relief
from her loneliness and keeping up some contact with the world.

On this particular winter evening the good lady's guests included
several habitues: President Bonnet, a retired magistrate who had
withdrawn to his small property at Saint-Jaury, in the suburbs of
Brives, and the Abbe Sicot, who was the parish priest. A more occasional
friend was also there, the Baronne de Vibray, a young and wealthy widow,
a typical woman of the world who spent the greater part of her life
either in motoring, or in the most exclusive drawing-rooms of Paris, or
at the most fashionable watering-places. But when the Baronne de Vibray
put herself out to grass, as she racily phrased it, and spent a few
weeks at Querelles, her estate close to the chateau of Beaulieu, nothing
pleased her better than to take her place again in the delightful
company of the Marquise de Langrune and her friends.

Finally, youth was represented by Charles Rambert, who had arrived at
the chateau a couple of days before, a charming lad of about eighteen
who was treated with warm affection by the Marquise and by Therese
Auvernois, the granddaughter of the Marquise, with whom since her
parents' death she had lived as a daughter.

The odd and even mysterious words spoken by President Bonnet as they
were leaving the table, and the personality of this Fantomas about which
he had said nothing definite in spite of all the questions put to him,
had excited the curiosity of the company, and while Therese Auvernois
was gracefully dispensing the coffee to her grandmother's guests the
questions were renewed with greater insistence. Crowding round the fire,
for the evening was very cold, Mme. de Langrune's friends showered fresh
questions upon the old magistrate, who secretly enjoyed the interest he
had inspired. He cast a solemn eye upon the circle of his audience and
prolonged his silence, the more to capture their attention. At length he
began to speak.

"Statistics tell us, ladies, that of all the deaths that are registered
every day quite a third are due to crime. You are no doubt aware that
the police discover about half of the crimes that are committed, and
that barely half meet with the penalty of justice. This explains how it
is that so many mysteries are never cleared up, and why there are so
many mistakes and inconsistencies in judicial investigations."

"What is the conclusion you wish to draw?" the Marquise de Langrune
enquired with interest.

"This," the magistrate proceeded: "although many crimes pass unsuspected
it is none the less obvious that they have been committed; now while
some of them are due to ordinary criminals, others are the work of
enigmatical beings who are difficult to trace and too clever or
intelligent to let themselves be caught. History is full of stories of
such mysterious characters, the Iron Mask, for instance, and Cagliostro.
In every age there have been bands of dangerous creatures, led by such
men as Cartouche and Vidocq and Rocambole. Now why should we suppose
that in our time no one exists who emulates the deeds of those mighty
criminals?"

The Abbe Sicot raised a gentle voice from the depths of a comfortable
arm-chair wherein he was peacefully digesting his dinner.

"The police do their work better in our time than ever they did before."

"That is perfectly true," the president admitted, "but their work is
also more difficult than ever it was before. Criminals who operate in
the grand manner have all sorts of things at their disposal nowadays.
Science has done much for modern progress, but unfortunately it can be
of invaluable assistance to criminals at times; the hosts of evil have
the telegraph and the motor-car at their disposal just as authority has,
and some day they will make use of the aeroplane."

Young Charles Rambert had been listening to the president's dissertation
with the utmost interest and now broke in, with a voice that quivered
slightly.

"You were talking about Fantomas just now, sir----"

The president cast a cryptic look at the lad and did not reply directly
to him.

"That is what I am coming to, for, of course, you have understood me,
ladies. In these days we have been distressed by a steady access of
criminality, and among the assets we shall henceforth have to count a
mysterious and most dangerous creature, to whom the baffled authorities
and public rumour generally have for some time now given the name of
Fantomas. It is impossible to say exactly or to know precisely who
Fantomas is. He often assumes the form and personality of some definite
and even well-known individual; sometimes he assumes the forms of two
human beings at one and the same time. Sometimes he works alone,
sometimes with accomplices; sometimes he can be identified as such and
such a person, but no one has ever yet arrived at knowing Fantomas
himself. That he is a living person is certain and undeniable, yet he is
impossible to catch or to identify. He is nowhere and everywhere at
once, his shadow hovers above the strangest mysteries, and his traces
are found near the most inexplicable crimes, and yet----"

"You are frightening us!" exclaimed the Baronne de Vibray with a little
forced laugh that did not ring true, and the Marquise de Langrune, who
for the past few minutes had been uneasy at the idea of the children
listening to the conversation, cast about in her mind for an occupation
more suited to their age. The interruption gave her an opportunity, and
she turned to Charles Rambert and Therese.

"You must find it very dull here with all of us grown-up people, dears,
so run away now. Therese," she added with a smile to her granddaughter
who had risen obediently, "there is a splendid new puzzle in the
library; you ought to try it with Charles."

The young fellow realised that he must comply with the desire of the
Marquise, although the conversation interested him intensely; but he was
too well bred to betray his thoughts, and the next moment he was in the
adjoining room, sitting opposite the girl, and deep in the intricacies
of the latest fashionable game.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Baronne de Vibray brought the conversation back to the subject of
Fantomas.

"What connection is there, President, between this uncanny creature and
the disappearance of Lord Beltham, of which we were talking at dinner?"

"I should certainly have agreed with you and thought there was none,"
the old magistrate replied, "if Lord Beltham's disappearance had been
unattended by any mysterious circumstance. But there is one point that
deserves your attention: the newspaper from which I read an extract
just now, _La Capitale_, draws attention to it and regards it as being
important. It is said that when Lady Beltham began to be uneasy about
her husband's absence, on the morning of the day following his
disappearance, she remembered noticing just as he was going out that he
was reading a particular letter, the peculiar, square shape of which
surprised her. She had also noticed that the handwriting of the letter
was very heavy and black. Now, she found the letter in question upon her
husband's desk, but the whole of the writing had disappeared, and it was
only the most minute examination that resulted in the discovery of a few
almost imperceptible stains which proved that it really was the
identical document that had been in her husband's hands. Lady Beltham
would not have thought very much about it, if it had not occurred to the
editor of _La Capitale_ to interview detective Juve about it, the famous
Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, you know, who has
brought so many notorious criminals to justice. Now M. Juve manifested
the greatest excitement over the discovery and the nature of this
document; and he did not attempt to hide from his interviewer his belief
that the strange nature of this unusual epistle was proof of the
intervention of Fantomas. You very likely know that Juve has made it his
special business to follow up Fantomas; he has sworn that he will take
him, and he is after him body and soul. Let us hope he will succeed! But
it is no good pretending that Juve's job is not as difficult a one as
can be imagined.

"However, it is a fair inference that when Juve spoke as he did to the
representative of _La Capitale_, he did not think he was going too far
when he declared that a crime lay behind the disappearance of Lord
Beltham, and that perhaps the crime must be laid at Fantomas' door; and
we can only hope that at some not distant date, justice will not only
throw full light upon this mysterious affair, but also rid us for ever
of this terrifying criminal!"

President Bonnet had convinced his audience completely, and his closing
words cast a chill upon them all.

The Marquise de Langrune deemed it time to create a diversion.

"Who are these people, Lord and Lady Beltham?" she enquired.

"Oh, my dear!" the Baronne de Vibray answered, "it is perfectly obvious
that you lead the life of a hermit in this remote country home of yours,
and that echoes from the world of Paris do not reach you often! Lord and
Lady Beltham are among the best known and most popular people in
society. He was formerly attached to the English Embassy, but left Paris
to fight in the Transvaal, and his wife went with him and showed
magnificent courage and compassion in charge of the ambulance and
hospital work. They then went back to London, and a couple of years ago
they settled once more in Paris. They lived, and still live, in the
boulevard Inkermann at Neuilly-sur-Seine, in a delightful house where
they entertain a great deal. I have often been one of Lady Beltham's
guests; she is a most fascinating woman, distinguished, tall, fair, and
endowed with the charm that is peculiar to the women of the North. I am
very distressed at the trouble that is hanging over her."

"Well," said the Marquise de Langrune conclusively, "I mean to believe
that the gloomy prognostications of our friend the president will not be
justified by the event."

"Amen!" murmured the Abbe mechanically, roused from his gentle slumber
by the closing words of the Marquise.

       *       *       *       *       *

The clock chimed ten, and her duties as hostess did not make the
Marquise forgetful of her duties as grandmother.

"Therese," she called, "it is your bed-time. It is very late, darling."

The child obediently left her game, said good night to the Baronne de
Vibray and President Bonnet, and last of all to the old priest, who gave
her a paternal embrace.

"Shall I see you at the seven o'clock mass, Therese?" he asked.

The child turned to the Marquise.

"Will you let me accompany Charles to the station to-morrow morning? I
will go to the eight o'clock mass on my way back."

The Marquise looked at Charles Rambert.

"Your father really is coming by the train that reaches Verrieres at
6.55?" and when he assented she hesitated a moment before replying to
Therese. "I think, dear, it would be better to let our young friend go
alone to meet his father."

But Charles Rambert put in his plea.

"Oh, I am sure my father would be delighted to see Therese with me when
he gets out of the train."

"Very well, then," the kind old lady said; "arrange it as you please.
But, Therese, before you go upstairs, tell our good steward, Dollon, to
give orders for the carriage to be ready by six o'clock. It is a long
way to the station."

Therese promised, and the two young people left the drawing-room.

"A pretty couple," remarked the Baronne de Vibray, adding with a
characteristic touch of malice, "you mean to make a match between them
some day, Marquise?"

The old lady threw up her hands protesting.

"What an idea! Why, Therese is not fifteen yet."

"Who is this Charles Rambert?" the Abbe asked. "I just caught sight of
him the day before yesterday with Dollon, and I puzzled my brains
wondering who he could be."

"I am not surprised," the Marquise laughed, "not surprised that you did
not succeed in finding out, for you do not know him. But you may perhaps
have heard me mention a M. Etienne Rambert, an old friend of mine, with
whom I had many a dance in the long ago. I had lost sight of him
completely until about two years ago, when I met him at a charity
function in Paris. The poor man has had a rather chequered life; twenty
years ago he married a woman who was perfectly charming, but who is, I
believe, very ill with a distressing malady: I am not even sure that she
is not insane. Quite lately Etienne Rambert has been compelled to send
her to an asylum."

"That does not tell us how his son comes to be your guest," President
Bonnet urged.

"It is very simple: Etienne Rambert is an energetic man who is always
moving about. Although he is quite sixty he still occupies himself with
some rubber plantations he possesses in Colombia, and he often goes to
America: he thinks no more of the voyage than we do of a trip to Paris.
Well, just recently young Charles Rambert was leaving the _pension_ in
Hamburg where he had been living in order to perfect his German; I knew
from his father's letters that Mme. Rambert was about to be put away,
and that Etienne Rambert was obliged to be absent, so I offered to
receive Charles here until his father should return to Paris. Charles
came the day before yesterday, and that is the whole story."

"And M. Etienne Rambert joins him here to-morrow?" said the Abbe.

"That is so----"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Marquise de Langrune would have given other information about her
young friend had he not come into the room just then. He was an
attractive lad with refined and distinguished features, clear,
intelligent eyes, and graceful figure. The other guests were silent, and
Charles Rambert approached them with the slight awkwardness of youth. He
went up to President Bonnet and plucked up sudden courage.

"And what then, sir?" he asked in a low tone.

"I don't understand, my boy," said the magistrate.

"Oh!" said Charles Rambert, "have you finished talking about Fantomas?
It was so amusing!"

"For my part," the president answered dryly, "I do not find these
stories about criminals 'amusing.'"

But the lad did not detect the shade of reproach in the words.

"But still it is very odd, very extraordinary that such mysterious
characters as Fantomas can exist nowadays. Is it really possible that a
single man can commit such a number of crimes, and that any human being
can escape discovery, as they say Fantomas can, and be able to foil the
cleverest devices of the police? I think it is----"

The president's manner grew steadily more chilly as the boy's curiosity
waxed more enthusiastic, and he interrupted curtly.

"I fail to understand your attitude, young man. You appear to be
hypnotised, fascinated. You speak of Fantomas as if he were something
interesting. It is out of place, to put it mildly," and he turned to the
Abbe Sicot. "There, sir, that is the result of this modern education and
the state of mind produced in the younger generation by the newspaper
press and even by literature. Criminals are given haloes and proclaimed
from the housetops. It is astounding!"

But Charles Rambert was not the least impressed.

"But it is life, sir; it is history, it is the real thing!" he insisted.
"Why, you yourself, in just a few words, have thrown an atmosphere round
this Fantomas which makes him absolutely fascinating! I would give
anything to have known Vidocq and Cartouche and Rocambole, and to have
seen them at close quarters. Those were men!"

President Bonnet contemplated the young man in astonishment; his eyes
flashed lightning at him and he burst out:

"You are mad, boy, absolutely mad! Vidocq--Rocambole! You mix up legend
and history, bracket murderers with detectives, and make no distinction
between right and wrong! You would not hesitate to set the heroes of
crime and the heroes of law and order on one and the same pedestal!"

"You have said the word, sir," Charles Rambert exclaimed: "they all are
heroes. But, better still, Fantomas----"

The lad's outburst was so vehement and spontaneous and sincere, that it
provoked unanimous indignation among his hearers. Even the indulgent
Marquise de Langrune ceased to smile. Charles Rambert perceived that he
had gone too far, and stopped abruptly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he murmured. "I spoke without thinking; please
forgive me."

He raised his eyes and looked at President Bonnet, blushing to the tips
of his ears and looking so abashed that the magistrate, who was a
kind-hearted man at bottom, tried to reassure him.

"Your imagination is much too lively, young man, much too lively. But
you will grow out of that. Come, come: that's all right; lads of your
age do talk without knowledge."

It was very late now, and a few minutes after this incident the guests
of the Marquise de Langrune took their departure.

Charles Rambert accompanied the Marquise to the door of her own private
rooms, and was about to bid her a respectful good night before going on
to his bedroom, which adjoined hers, when she asked him to follow her.

"Come in and get the book I promised you, Charles. It should be on my
writing-table." She glanced at that piece of furniture as she entered
the room, and went on, "Or in it, perhaps; I may have locked it away."

"I don't want to give you any trouble," he protested, but the Marquise
insisted.

"Put your light down on that table," she said. "Besides, I have got to
open my desk, for I must look at the lottery tickets I gave to Therese a
few weeks ago." She pushed back the roll top of her Empire desk and
looked up at the young fellow. "It would be a piece of good luck if my
little Therese won the first prize, eh, Charles? A million francs! That
would be worth winning?"

"Rather!" said Charles Rambert with a smile.

The Marquise found the book she was searching for and gave it to the lad
with one hand while with the other she smoothed out several variegated
papers.

"These are my tickets," she said, and then broke off. "How stupid of me!
I have not kept the number of the winning ticket that was advertised in
_La Capitale_."

Charles Rambert immediately offered to go downstairs again to fetch the
newspaper, but the Marquise would not let him.

"It is no good, my dear boy; it is not there now. You know--or rather
you don't know--that the Abbe takes away all the week's newspapers every
Wednesday night in order to read all the political articles." The old
lady turned away from her writing-table, which she left wide open,
conducted the young man to the door, and held out a friendly hand. "It
is to-morrow morning already!" she said. "So now good night, dear
Charles!"

In his own room, with the lights extinguished and the curtains closed,
Charles Rambert lay wide awake, a prey to strange excitement. He turned
and tossed in his bed nervously. In vain did he try to banish from his
mind the words spoken during the evening by President Bonnet. In
imagination Charles Rambert saw all manner of sinister and dramatic
scenes, crimes and murders: hugely interested, intensely curious,
craving for knowledge, he was ever trying to concoct plots and unravel
mysteries. If for an instant he dozed off, the image of Fantomas took
shape in his mind, but never twice the same: sometimes he saw a colossal
figure with bestial face and muscular shoulders; sometimes a wan, thin
creature, with strange and piercing eyes; sometimes a vague form, a
phantom--Fantomas!

Charles Rambert slept, and woke, and dozed again. In the silence of the
night he thought he heard creakings and heavy sounds. Then suddenly he
felt a breath pass over his face--and again nothing! And suddenly again
strange sounds were buzzing in his ears.

Bathed in cold sweat Charles Rambert started and sat upright in bed,
every muscle tense, listening with all his ears. Was he dreaming, or had
he really waked up? He did not know. And still, still he had a
consciousness of Fantomas--of mystery--of Fantomas!

Charles Rambert heard the clock strike four.




II. A TRAGIC DAWN


As his cab turned by the end of the Pont Royal towards the Gare d'Orsay,
M. Etienne Rambert looked at his watch and found, as he had anticipated,
that he had a good quarter of an hour before the train that he intended
to take was due to start. He called a porter, and gave him the heavy
valise and the bundle of rugs that formed the whole of his hand baggage.

"Where is the office for forwarding luggage, my man?" he enquired.

The porter led him through the famous panelled hall of the Gare d'Orsay,
and M. Etienne Rambert satisfied himself that his trunks had been
properly registered for Verrieres, the station at which he had to alight
for the chateau of Beaulieu.

Still attended by the porter, who had conceived a respectful admiration
for him in consequence of the authoritative tone in which he demanded
information from the various railway servants, and who scented a
probable munificent tip, M. Etienne Rambert proceeded to the
booking-office and took a first-class ticket. He spent a few minutes
more at the book-stall where he selected an imposing collection of
illustrated papers, and then, his final preparations completed, he
turned once more to the porter.

"The Luchon train," he said; "where is it?" and as the man only made a
vague gesture and growled something wholly indistinct, he added: "Lead
the way, and I will follow."

It was now just half-past eight, and the station showed all the
animation inseparable from the departure of main-line trains. M. Etienne
Rambert hurried onwards, and reaching the platform from which all the
lines begin, was stayed by the porter who was laden with his baggage.

"You want the express, sir?"

"No, the slow train, my man."

The porter showed some surprise, but made no remark.

"Do you like the front or the back of the train?"

"The back by choice."

"First-class, isn't it?"

"Yes, first-class."

The porter, who had stopped a moment, picked up the heavy valise again.

"Then there isn't any choice. There are only two first-class carriages
on the slow train, and they are both in the middle."

"They are corridor carriages, I suppose?" said Etienne Rambert.

"Yes, sir; there are hardly any others on the main-line trains,
especially first-class."

In the ever-increasing crowd Etienne Rambert had some difficulty in
following the porter. The Gare d'Orsay has little or none of the
attractiveness of the other stations, which cannot fail to have a
certain fascination for any imaginative person, who thinks of the
mystery attaching to all those iron rails reaching out into the distance
of countries unknown to him. It is less noisy than the others also, for
between Austerlitz and Orsay the traction is entirely electric. And
further, there is no clearly defined separation between the main and the
suburban lines.

On the right of the platform was the train which was to take Etienne
Rambert beyond Brives to Verrieres, the slow train to Luchon; and on the
left of the same platform was another train for Juvisy and all the small
stations in the suburbs of Paris.

Very few people were making for the train to Luchon; but a large crowd
was pressing into the suburban train.

The porter who was piloting M. Etienne Rambert, set the baggage he was
carrying down on the footboard of a first-class carriage.

"There is no one for the slow train yet, sir; if you like to get in
first you can choose your own compartment."

M. Etienne Rambert acted on the suggestion, but he had hardly set foot
in the corridor before the guard, also scenting a generous tip, came to
offer his services.

"It really is the 8.50 you want, sir?" was his first enquiry. "You are
sure you are not making a mistake?"

"No," Etienne Rambert replied. "Why?"

"A great many first-class passengers do make a mistake," the man
explained, "and confuse the 8.50 with the 8.45 express."

As he spoke the guard took the baggage from the porter who had remained
on the platform, and the porter, after being generously remunerated for
his trouble by M. Rambert, hurried away to look for other travellers.

"The 8.45 is the express, isn't it?" M. Rambert enquired.

"Yes," the guard answered; "it runs right through without stopping at
all the small stations as this train does. It goes in front of this one
and gets to Luchon three hours earlier. There it is on the side there,"
and he pointed through the window in the door on the far side to another
train on the next rails, in which a number of travellers were already
taking their seats. "If you prefer to go by that one, sir," he went on,
"there is still time for you to change; you are entitled to take your
choice since you have a first-class ticket."

But Etienne Rambert, after a moment's consideration, declined the
suggestion.

"No: I would rather go by the slow train. If I take the express I should
have to get out at Brives, and then I should be twelve or thirteen miles
from Saint-Jaury, which is my destination; whereas the slow train stops
at Verrieres, where, by the way, I have already telegraphed to say I
shall arrive to-morrow morning."

He walked a little way along the corridor, assuring himself that the
various compartments were still quite empty, and then turned to the
guard.

"Look here, my man," he said, "I am awfully tired, and I mean to get
some sleep to-night; consequently I should like to be alone. Now where
shall I be most quiet and undisturbed?"

The man understood. M. Etienne Rambert's enquiry about the place where
he would be most quiet, was an implicit promise of a handsome tip if
nobody did disturb him.

"If you like to settle yourself here, sir," the man answered, "you can
draw down the blinds at once, and I dare say I shall be able to find
room for any other passengers somewhere else."

"Good," said M. Rambert, moving towards the compartment indicated. "I
will smoke a cigar until the train starts, and immediately afterwards I
will settle down to sleep. By the way, my man, since you seem so
obliging, I wish you would undertake to call me to-morrow morning in
time for me to get out at Verrieres. I am desperately sleepy and I am
quite capable of not waking up."

The guard touched his cap.

"You can be perfectly easy, sir, and sleep without the least anxiety. I
won't fail."

"Very well."

When his baggage had been stowed away, and his rugs spread out to make
the seat more comfortable still, M. Etienne Rambert repeated his appeal,
for he was an old traveller and knew that it does not do to rely too
much upon the promises of chance attendants.

"I can rely upon you, can't I? I may sleep as sound as I like, and you
will wake me at Verrieres?" And the more to assure himself that the
guard would execute his orders he slipped a franc into his hand.

When he was left alone, M. Rambert continued his preparations for the
night. He carefully drew down the blinds over the door and over the
windows of the compartment that gave on to the corridor, and also
lowered the shade over the electric light, and then, in order to enjoy
the last puffs at his cigar in peace, he opened the window over the
other door and leant his elbows on it, watching the final preparations
being made by the travellers by the express on the other line.

The departure of a train is always a picturesque sight, and M. Rambert
leant forward inquisitively to note how the passengers had installed
themselves in the two compartments which he could see from his coign of
vantage.

There were not many people in the train. As a matter of fact the Brives
and Luchon line is not much used at this time of year. If the number of
passengers in the express were any criterion Etienne Rambert might
reasonably expect that he would be the only one in the slow train. But
there was not much time for observations and reflections of this kind.
On the platform for the express, which he got a glimpse of through the
compartments, people were hurrying up their farewells. The passengers
had got into their carriages, and the friends who had come to see them
off were standing alone upon the platform. There was the sound of safety
locks being fastened by porters, and the noise of trollies being wheeled
along bearing articles for sale.

"Pillows! Rugs! Sweets! Papers!"

Then came the whistle of the guard, the shriller scream from the
electric engine, and then, slowly at first but steadily, more rapidly as
the engine got up speed, the express moved along the platform and
plunged into the tunnel on the way to Austerlitz.

Meanwhile the guard of the slow train was doing wonders. Shamelessly
resolved to assure perfect quiet to "his" passenger, he managed, without
unduly compromising himself but yet without leaving any doubt about it
in any mind, to insinuate discreetly that M. Rambert's carriage was
reserved, so that that gentleman might count upon an entirely
undisturbed night.

A few minutes after the express had gone, the slow train drew out in its
turn, and disappeared into the darkness of the underground tunnel.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the chateau of Beaulieu young Charles Rambert was just finishing
dressing when a gentle tap sounded on the door of his room.

"It is a quarter to five, Charles. Get up at once!"

"I am awake already, Therese," Charles Rambert answered with some pride.
"I shall be ready in two minutes."

"What? up already?" the girl exclaimed from the other side of the door.
"Marvellous! I congratulate you. I'm ready too; I will wait for you in
the dining-room. Come down as soon as you are dressed."

"All right!" the young man answered.

He wasted no time over his toilette, the more so because it was none too
warm in his room, for at this early hour it was still quite dark; and
then taking his light in one hand he opened his door carefully so as to
make no noise, tip-toed along the landing, and went down the staircase
to join Therese in the dining-room. The girl was an accomplished
housekeeper already, and while waiting for the young fellow she had got
a scratch meal together.

"Let us have breakfast quickly," she suggested; "it isn't snowing this
morning, and if you like we might walk to the station. We have plenty of
time, and it will do us good to have a walk."

"It will warm us up anyhow," Charles Rambert replied; he was only
half-awake, but he sat beside Therese, and did justice to the
preparations she had made.

"Do you know that it is very wonderful of you to get up so punctually?"
Mme. de Langrune's granddaughter remarked. "How did you manage it? Last
night you were afraid you would sleep on as usual."

"It was not much trouble for me to wake up," Charles Rambert answered.
"I hardly closed an eye all night."

"But I promised to come and knock at your door myself, so you might have
slept without any anxiety."

"That's so, but to tell you the truth, Therese, I was regularly upset
and excited by the thought of papa arriving this morning."

They had both finished breakfast, and Therese got up.

"Shall we start?" she asked.

"Yes."

Therese opened the hall door, and the two young people went down the
flight of steps leading to the garden. The girl had thrown a big cloak
over her shoulders, and she inhaled the pure morning air with keen
delight.

"I love going out in the early morning," she declared.

"Well, I don't like it at all," Charles Rambert confessed with
characteristic candour. "Good Lord, how cold it is! And it is still
pitch dark!"

"Surely you are not going to be frightened?" said Therese teasingly.

Charles Rambert made an irritable movement of vexation and surprise.

"Frightened? What do you take me for, Therese? If I don't like going out
in the early morning it's really only because it is cold."

She laughed at him while they were crossing the lawn towards the
out-buildings, through which she meant to get out on to the high road.
As they passed the stables they came across a groom who was leisurely
getting an old brougham out of the coach-house.

"Don't hurry, Jean," Therese called out as she greeted him. "We are
going to walk to the station, and the only important thing is that you
should be there to bring us back."

The man touched his cap and the two young people passed through the park
gate and found themselves upon the high road.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was still very dark, with just a wan reflection in the distance of
the sky vaguely outlining some cloud-shapes to the eastward to give some
promise of the day. There was no sound to break the silence of the
fields, and as they walked briskly along Charles and Therese could hear
their footsteps ringing on the hard surface of the frozen ground.

"It must please you awfully to be going to meet your father," said Mme.
de Langrune's granddaughter half questioningly. "It is a long time since
you have seen him, isn't it?"

"Three years," Charles Rambert answered, "and then just for a few
minutes. He is coming home from America now, and before that he
travelled in Spain for a long time."

"He was travelling the whole time you were a child, wasn't he?"

"Yes, always: either in Colombia, looking after his rubber plantations
there, or in Spain, where he has a good deal of property too. When he
was in Paris he used to come to the school and ask for me, and I saw him
in the parlour--for a quarter of an hour."

"And your mother?"

"Oh, mamma was different. You know, Therese, I spent all the childhood
that I can remember at the school. I liked the masters and had good
chums, and was very happy there, and if the truth must be told I looked
forward with anything but pleasure to the holidays, when I had to go to
my parents' house. I always felt a stranger with them; my real home was
the school-room, where I had my desk and all my own interests. And then,
you know, when one is little one doesn't understand things much; I
didn't feel having hardly any family, very much."

"But you loved your mother very much?"

Therese asked the question quite anxiously, and it was patent that she
would have thought it dreadful if her companion had not had a real
affection for his mother.

"Oh, yes, I loved her," Charles Rambert answered; "but I hardly knew her
either." And as Therese showed her surprise he went on, telling her
something of the secret of his lonely childhood. "You see, Therese, now
that I am a man I guess lots of things that I could not have had even a
suspicion of then. My father and mother did not get on well together.
They were what you call an ill-assorted couple. They were both very
good, but their characters did not harmonise. When I was little I always
saw mamma silent and sad, and papa active and on the go, and bright and
talking at the top of his voice. I half believe he frightened mamma! And
then my father was constantly away, whereas mamma hardly ever went out.
When a servant took me to the house on Thursdays, I was taken up to say
good morning to her, and I invariably found her lying on a sofa in her
room, with the blinds down and almost dark. She just touched me with her
lips and asked me one or two questions, and then I was taken away again
because I tired her."

"Was she ill, then?"

"Mamma always has been ill. I suppose you know, Therese, that three
months ago--stay, it was just when I had taken my degree and went to
Germany--she was sent to an asylum? I believe my father had wanted her
to agree to undergo careful treatment of the kind long before, but she
would not."

Therese was silent for a few minutes.

"You have not been very happy," she said presently.

"Oh, it was only after I grew up that I felt unhappy. When I was a
little chap I never thought of how sad it is to have no real father or
mother. The last four or five years it has hurt me, but when he came to
see me once at school, papa told me he would take me with him as soon as
I had taken my degree and grown up. Last October, after my examination,
he wrote and told me to be patient a little longer, and that he was
hurrying on with the winding up of his business and coming back to
France. That gave me a hope which has brightened these last few months,
and will also make you understand why I am so pleased this morning at my
fathers coming. It seems to me that a new life is going to begin."

Day was breaking now: a dirty December day, with the light filtering
through heavy grey clouds that drifted along the ground, hid the
horizon, clung to the low hills, and then suddenly dispersed in long
wisps driven by a keen breeze, that got up in gusts, and drove clouds of
dust along the hard frozen ground.

"I have not been very happy either," said Therese, "for I lost my father
when I was tiny: I don't even remember him; and mamma must be dead as
well."

The ambiguous turning of the child's phrase caught Charles Rambert's
interested attention.

"What does that mean, Therese? Don't you know if your mother is dead?"

"Yes, oh yes; grandmamma says so. But whenever I ask for particulars
grandmamma always changes the subject. I will echo what you said just
now: when you are little you don't know anything and are not surprised
at anything. For a long time I took no notice of her sudden reticence,
but now I sometimes wonder if something is not being kept back from
me--whether it is really true that mamma is no more in this world."

Talking like this Therese and Charles had walked at a good pace, and now
they came to the few houses built around Verrieres station. One by one,
bedroom windows and doors were being opened; peasants were making their
way to the sheds to lead their cattle to the pastures.

"We are very early," Therese remarked, pointing to the station clock in
the distance. "Your father's train is due at 6.55, and it is only 6.40
now; we still have a quarter of an hour to wait, and more, if the train
is not punctual!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They went into the little station and Charles Rambert, thankful for some
shelter from the cold, stamped his feet, making a sudden uproar in the
empty waiting-room. A porter appeared.

"Who the deuce is kicking up all this row?" he began angrily, and then
seeing Therese, broke off short. "Ah, Mademoiselle Therese," he said
with the familiar yet perfectly respectful cordiality that marks country
folk, "up already? Have you come to meet somebody, or are you going
away?"

As he spoke, the porter turned a curious eye upon Charles Rambert, whose
arrival had caused quite a sensation two days before in this little
spot, where with but few exceptions none but people belonging to the
neighbourhood ever came by train.

"No, I am not going away," Therese replied. "I have accompanied M.
Rambert, who has come to meet his father."

"Ah-ha, to meet your papa, sir: is he coming from far?"

"From Paris," Charles Rambert answered. "Is the train signalled yet?"

The man drew out a watch like a turnip, and looked at the time.

"It won't be here for quite another twenty minutes. The work on the
tunnel makes it necessary to be careful, and it's always late now. But
you will hear when the bell rings: that will be when the train is coming
over the level-crossing; it will run into the station three minutes
after that. Well, Mademoiselle, I must get on with my work," and the man
left them.

Therese turned to Charles Rambert.

"Shall we go on to the platform? Then we shall see the train come in."

So they left the waiting-room and began to walk up and down the whole
length of the platform. Therese watched the jerky movements of the hands
of the clock, and smiled at her companion.

"Five minutes more, and your father will be here! Four minutes more! Ah!
There it is!" and she pointed to a <DW72> in the distance where a slight
trail of smoke rose white against the blue of the sky, now clear of
cloud. "Can't you see it? That is the steam from the engine coming out
of the tunnel."

Ere she finished speaking the quivering whir of the bell echoed through
the empty station.

"Ah!" said Charles Rambert: "at last!"

The two porters who, with the stationmaster, constituted the entire
railway staff at Verrieres, came bustling along the platform, and while
the bell continued its monotonous whirring ring, pulled forward trucks
in readiness for any possible luggage. Puffing portentously, the engine
slackened speed, and the heavy train slowed down and finally stopped,
bringing a noisy atmosphere of life into the station of Verrieres that
but a moment ago was so still.

The first-class carriages had stopped immediately in front of Charles
and Therese, and on the footboard Etienne Rambert stood, a tall, elderly
man of distinguished appearance, proud bearing and energetic attitude,
with extraordinarily keen eyes and an unusually high and intelligent
forehead. Seeing Therese and Charles he seized his baggage and in a
twinkling had sprung on to the platform. He dropped his valise, tossed
his bundle of rugs on to a seat, and gripped Charles by the two
shoulders.

"My boy!" he exclaimed; "my dear boy!"

Although he had hitherto shown so little affection for his child, it was
obvious that the man was making a great effort to restrain his emotion,
and was really moved when he now saw him again as a grown young man.

Nor, on his part, did Charles Rambert remain unmoved. As if the sudden
grip of this almost stranger, who yet was his father, had awakened a
world of memories within him, he turned very pale and his voice faltered
as he replied:

"Papa! Dear papa! I am so glad to see you!"

Therese had drawn tactfully aside. M. Rambert still held his son by the
shoulders and stepped back a pace, the better to consider him.

"Why, you are a man! How you have altered, my boy! You are just what I
hoped you would be: tall and strong! Ah, you are my son all right! And
you are quite well, hey? Yet you look tired."

"I did not sleep well," Charles explained with a smile. "I was afraid I
should not wake up."

Turning his head, M. Rambert saw Therese and held out his hand.

"How do you do, my little Therese?" he exclaimed. "You have altered too
since I saw you last. I left a little chit of a child, and now I behold
a grown-up young lady. Well! I must be off at once to pay my respects to
my dear old friend, your grandmother. All well at the chateau, eh?"

Therese shook hands warmly with M. Rambert and thanked him prettily.

"Grandmamma is very well; she told me to tell you to excuse her if she
did not come to meet you, but her doctor says she must not get up very
early."

"Of course your grandmamma is excused, my dear. Besides, I have to thank
her for her kindness to Charles, and for the hospitality she is going to
extend to me for a few days."

Meanwhile the train had gone on again, and now a porter came up to M.
Rambert.

"Will you take your luggage with you, sir?"

Recalled to material things, Etienne Rambert contemplated his trunk
which the porters had taken out of the luggage van.

"Good Lord!" he began, but Therese interrupted him.

"Grandmamma said she would send for your heavy luggage during the
morning, and that you could take your valise and any small parcels with
us in the brougham."

"What's that? Your grandmamma has taken the trouble to send her
carriage?"

"It's a long way to Beaulieu, you know," Therese replied. "Ask Charles
if it isn't. We came on foot and the walk would be too tiring for you
after a whole night in the train."

The three had reached the station yard, and Therese stopped in surprise.

"Why, how's that?" she exclaimed; "the carriage is not here. And yet
Jean was beginning to get it ready when we left the chateau."

M. Etienne Rambert was resting one hand on his son's shoulder, and
contemplating him with an affectionate, all-embracing survey every now
and then. He smiled at Therese.

"He may have been delayed, dear. I tell you what we will do. Since your
grandmamma is going to send for my luggage there is no need for me to
take my valise; we can leave everything in the cloak-room and start for
the chateau on foot; if my memory serves me right--and it is a very good
memory--there is only one road, so we shall meet Jean and can get into
the carriage on the way."

A few minutes later all three set out on the road to Beaulieu. M.
Rambert walked between the two young people; he had gallantly offered
his arm to Therese, who was not a little proud of the attention, which
proved to her mind that she was now regarded as a grown-up young lady.
On the other side of his father Charles made answer to the incessant
questions put to him.

M. Etienne Rambert enjoyed the walk in the quiet morning through the
peaceful country-side. With a tender half-melancholy he recognised every
turn in the road, every bit of scenery.

"Just fancy my coming back here at sixty years of age, with a great son
of eighteen!" he said with a laugh. "And I remember as if it were
yesterday the good times I have had at the chateau of Beaulieu. Mme. de
Langrune and I will have plenty of memories to talk over. Gad! it must
be quite forty years since I came this way, and yet I remember every bit
of it. Say, Therese, isn't it the fact that we shall see the front of
the chateau directly we have passed this little copse?"

"Quite true," the girl answered with a laugh. "You know the country very
well, sir."

"Yes," said Etienne Rambert; "when one gets to my age, little Therese,
one always does remember the happy days of one's youth; one remembers
recent events much less distinctly. Most likely that means, my dear,
that the human heart declines to grow old and refuses to preserve any
but pictures of childhood."

       *       *       *       *       *

For a few minutes M. Rambert remained silent, as if absorbed in
somewhat melancholy reflections. But he soon recovered himself and shook
off the tender sadness evoked in his mind by memories of the past.

"Why, the park enclosure has been altered," he exclaimed. "Here is a
wall which used not to be here: there was only a hedge."

Therese laughed.

"I never knew the hedge," she said. "I have always seen the wall."

"Must we go on to the main gate?" M. Rambert asked, "or has your
grandmamma had another gate made?"

"We are going in by the out-buildings," the girl answered; "then we
shall hear why Jean did not come to meet us." She opened a little door
half-hidden among the moss and ivy that clothed the wall surrounding the
park, and making M. Rambert and Charles pass in before her, cried: "But
Jean _has_ gone with the brougham, for the horses are not in the stable.
How was it we did not meet him?" Then she laughed. "Poor Jean! He is so
muddle-headed! I would not mind betting he went to meet us at
Saint-Jaury, as he does every morning to bring me home from church."

The little company, Etienne Rambert, Therese and Charles, were now
approaching the chateau. Passing beneath Mme. de Langrune's windows
Therese called merrily up to them.

"Here we are, grandmamma!"

There was no reply.

But at the window of an adjoining room appeared the figure of the
steward, Dollon, making a gesture, as if asking for silence.

Therese, in advance of her guests, had proceeded but a few yards when
Mme. de Langrune's old servant rushed down the stone flight of steps in
front of the chateau, towards M. Rambert.

Dollon seemed distraught. Usually so respectful and so deferential in
manner, he now seized M. Rambert by the arm, and imperiously waving
Therese and Charles away, drew him aside.

"It is awful, sir," he exclaimed: "horrible: a fearful thing has
happened. We have just found Mme. la Marquise dead--murdered--in her
room!"




III. THE HUNT FOR THE MAN


M. de Presles, the examining magistrate in charge of the Court at
Brives, had just arrived at the chateau of Beaulieu, having been
notified of the tragedy by the police sergeant stationed at Saint-Jaury.
The magistrate was a young, fashionable, and rather aristocratic man of
the world, whose grievance it was to be tied down to work that was
mechanical rather than intellectual. He was essentially modern in his
ideas, and his chief ambition was to get away as quickly as possible
from the small provincial town to which he had been exiled by the
changes and chances of promotion; he was sick of Brives, and now it
occurred to him that a crime like this present one would give him an
opportunity of displaying his gifts of intuition and deduction, prove
his quality, and so might enable him to get another appointment. After
Dollon had received him at the chateau, the magistrate had first of all
made enquiry as to who was in the house at the time. From the
information given him he was satisfied that it was unnecessary to
subject either Therese or Charles Rambert to immediate examination, both
of the young people being much too upset to be able to reply to serious
questions, and both having been taken away to the house of the Baronne
de Vibray. It was, also, clear that M. Rambert senior, who had only
arrived after the crime, could not furnish any interesting information.

"Tell me exactly how you discovered the crime, M. Dollon," he said as,
pale and trembling, the steward accompanied him along the corridor to
the scene of the murder.

"I went this morning as usual, sir," the steward replied, "to say good
morning to Mme. de Langrune and receive her orders for the day. I
knocked at her door as I always did, but got no answer. I knocked
louder, but still there was no answer. I don't know why I opened the
door instead of going away; perhaps I had some kind of presentiment. Oh,
I shall never forget the shock I had when I saw my poor dear mistress
lying dead at the foot of her bed, steeped in blood, and with such a
horrible gash in her throat that for a moment I thought her head was
severed from the trunk."

The police sergeant corroborated the steward's story.

"The murder certainly was committed with peculiarly horrible violence,
sir," he remarked. "The body shows that the victim was struck with the
utmost fury. The murderer must have gone mad over the corpse from sheer
lust of blood. The wounds are shocking."

"Knife wounds?" M. de Presles asked.

"I don't know," said the sergeant uncertainly. "Your worship can form
your own opinion."

The magistrate followed the steward into the room where Dollon had taken
care that nothing was touched.

In its furniture and general arrangement Mme. de Langrune's room
corresponded with the character of the old lady. It was large, and
quietly furnished with old presses, arm-chairs, chairs and old-fashioned
tables. It was evident that she had had no liking for modern fashions,
but had preferred to have her own room stamped with the rather severe,
yet very comfortable character of former days.

The whole of one side of the room was filled by the Marquise's bed. It
was large, and raised upon a kind of dais covered with a carpet of
subdued tones. At the foot of the bed, on the right, was a large window,
fastened half open despite the keen cold, no doubt for hygienic reasons.
In the middle of the room was a round mahogany table with a few small
articles upon it, a blotting-pad, books and so on. In one corner a large
crucifix was suspended from the wall with a prie-Dieu in front of it,
the velvet of which had been worn white by the old lady's knees.
Finally, a little further away, was a small escritoire, half open now,
with its drawers gaping and papers scattered on the floor.

There were only two ways of ingress into the room: one by the door
through which the magistrate had entered, which opened on to the main
corridor on the first floor, and the other by a door communicating with
the Marquise's dressing-room; this dressing-room was lighted by a large
window, which was shut.

The magistrate was shocked by the spectacle presented by the corpse of
the Marquise. It was lying on its back on the floor, with the arms
extended; the head was towards the bed, the feet towards the window. The
body was almost naked. A gash ran almost right across the throat,
leaving the bones exposed. Torrents of blood had saturated the victim's
clothes, and on the carpet round the body a wide stain was still slowly
spreading wider.

M. de Presles stooped over the dead woman.

"What an appalling wound!" he muttered. "The medical evidence will
explain what weapon it was made with; but no doctor is required to point
out the violence of the blow or the fury of the murderer." He turned to
the old steward who, at sight of his mistress, could hardly restrain his
tears. "Nothing has been moved in the room, eh?"

"Nothing, sir."

The magistrate pointed to the escritoire with its open drawers.

"That has not been touched?"

"No, sir."

"I suppose that is where Mme. de Langrune kept her valuables?"

The steward shook his head.

"The Marquise could not have had any large sum of money in the house: a
few hundred francs perhaps for daily expenses, but certainly no more."

"So you do not think robbery was the motive of the crime?"

The steward shrugged his shoulders.

"The murderer may have thought that Mme. de Langrune had money here,
sir. But anyhow he must have been disturbed, because he did not take
away the rings the Marquise had laid upon the dressing-table before she
got into bed."

The magistrate walked slowly round the room.

"This window was open?" he asked.

"The Marquise always left it like that; she liked all the fresh air she
could get."

"Might not the murderer have got in that way?"

The steward shook his head.

"It is most unlikely, sir. See: the windows are fitted outside with a
kind of grating pointing outwards and downwards, and I think that would
prevent anyone from climbing in."

M. de Presles saw that this was so. Continuing his investigation, he
satisfied himself that there was nothing about the furniture in that
room, or in the dressing-room, to show that the murderer had been
through them, except the disorder on and about the little escritoire. At
last he came to the door which opened on to the corridor.

"Ah!" he exclaimed: "this is interesting!" and with a finger he pointed
to the inner bolt on the door, the screws of which were wrenched half
out, showing that an attempt had been made to force the door. "Did Mme.
de Langrune bolt her door every night?" he asked.

"Yes, always," Dollon answered. "She was very nervous, and if I was the
first to come to bid her good morning I always heard her unfasten that
bolt when I knocked."

M. de Presles made no reply. He made one more tour of the room, minutely
considering the situation of each single article.

"M. Dollon, will you kindly take me where I can have the use of a table
and inkstand, and anything else I may need to get on with my preliminary
enquiry?"

"Your clerk is waiting for you in the library, sir," the steward
replied. "He has everything ready for you there."

"Very well. If it is convenient to you we will join him now."

       *       *       *       *       *

M. de Presles followed Dollon down to the library on the ground floor,
where his enterprising clerk had already established himself. The
magistrate took his seat behind a large table and called to the police
sergeant.

"I shall ask you to be present during my enquiry, sergeant. The first
investigations will devolve upon you, so it will be well for you to hear
all the details the witnesses can furnish me with. I suppose you have
taken no steps as yet?"

"Beg pardon, sir: I have sent my men out in all directions, with orders
to interrogate all tramps and to detain any who do not give a
satisfactory account of their time last night."

"Good! By the way, while I think of it, have you sent off the telegram I
gave you when I arrived--the telegram to the police head-quarters in
Paris, asking for a detective to be sent down?"

"I took it to the telegraph office myself, sir."

His mind made easy on this score, the young magistrate turned to Dollon.

"Will you please take a seat, sir?" he said and, disregarding the
disapproving looks of his clerk, who had a particular predilection for
all the long circumlocutions and red tape of the law, he pretermitted
the usual questions as to name and age and occupation of the witnesses,
and began his enquiry by questioning the old steward. "What is the exact
plan of the chateau?" was his first enquiry.

"You know it now, sir, almost as well as I do. The passage from the
front door leads to the main staircase, which we went up just now, to
the first floor where the bedroom of the Marquise is situated. The first
floor contains a series of rooms separated by a corridor. On the right
is Mlle. Therese's room, and then come guest-chambers which are not
occupied now. On the left is the bedroom of the Marquise, followed by
her dressing-room on the same side, and after that there is another
dressing-room and then the bedroom occupied by M. Charles Rambert."

"Good. And the floor above: how is that arranged?"

"The second floor is exactly like the first floor, sir, except that
there are only servants' rooms there. They are smaller, and there are
more of them."

"What servants sleep in the house?"

"As a general rule, sir, the two maid-servants, Marie the housemaid and
Louise the cook, and also Herve the butler; but Herve did not sleep in
the chateau last night. He had asked the mistress's permission to go
into the village, and she had given it to him on condition that he did
not come back that night."

"What do you mean?" enquired the magistrate, rather surprised.

"The Marquise was rather nervous, sir, and did not like the idea of
anyone being able to get into the house at night; so she was always
careful to double-lock the front door and the kitchen door herself every
night. She went round all the rooms too every night, and made sure that
all the iron shutters were properly fastened, and that it was impossible
for anyone to get into the house. When Herve goes out in the evenings he
either sleeps in the village and does not return till the following
morning, which is what he did to-day, or else he asks the coachman to
leave the yard door unlocked, and sleeps in a room above the stables
which as a rule is not occupied."

"That is where the other servants sleep, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. The gardeners, the coachman, and the keepers all live in the
out-buildings. With regard to myself, I have a small cottage a little
farther away in the park."

M. de Presles sat silent for a few moments, thinking deeply. The only
sound in the room was the irritating squeak of the clerk's quill pen, as
he industriously wrote down all the steward's replies. At last M. de
Presles looked up.

"So, on the night of the crime the only persons sleeping in the chateau
were Mme. de Langrune, her granddaughter Mlle. Therese, M. Charles
Rambert and the two maids. Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it does not seem likely that the crime was committed by anyone
living in the chateau?"

"That is so, sir:--and yet I do not believe that anybody got into the
chateau; only two people had a key of the front door--the Marquise and
myself. When I got to the house this morning I found the door open,
because Mlle. Therese went out early with M. Charles Rambert to meet M.
Rambert, senior, at the station, and she opened the door with the keys
that the Marquise had given into her care the night before; but she
told me herself that when she started to meet the train at five o'clock
the door was shut. Mlle. Therese had put her keys under her pillow, and
my bunch had never left my possession."

"Is it not possible," the magistrate suggested, "that someone may have
got in during the day, hidden himself, and have committed the crime when
night came? Remember, M. Dollon, the bolt inside Mme. de Langrune's
bedroom door has been wrenched away: that means that the murderer made
his entrance by that door, and made it by force."

But the steward shook his head.

"No, sir, nobody could have secreted himself in the chateau during the
day; people are always coming to the kitchen, so the back door is under
constant supervision; and all yesterday afternoon there were gardeners
at work on the lawn in front of the main entrance; if any stranger had
presented himself there he would certainly have been seen; and finally,
Mme. de Langrune had given orders, which I always attended to myself, to
keep the door locked through which one gets down to the cellars. So the
murderer could not have hidden in the basement, and where else could he
have hidden? Not in the rooms on the ground floor: there was company to
dinner last night, and all the rooms were used more or less; the
Marquise, or some one of the guests, would certainly have discovered
him. So he would have had to be upstairs, either on the first or second
floor: that is most unlikely: it would have been very risky; besides,
the big house-dog is fastened up at the foot of the staircase during the
day, and he would not have let any stranger pass him: either the dog
must have known the man, or at all events some meat must have been
thrown to him; but there are no traces to show that anything of the sort
was done."

The magistrate was much perplexed.

"Then the crime is inexplicable, M. Dollon. You have just told me
yourself that there was no one in the chateau but Mme. de Langrune, the
two young people Therese and Charles, and the two maids: it certainly is
not any one of those who can be the guilty person, for the way in which
the crime was committed, and the force of the blows dealt, show that
the criminal was a man--a professional murderer in fact. Consequently
the guilty person must have got in from outside. Come now, have you no
suspicions at all?"

The steward raised his arms and let them fall in utter dejection.

"No," he replied at last, "I do not suspect anybody! I cannot suspect
anybody! But, sir, as far as I am concerned, I feel certain that
although the murderer was not one of those who occupied the chateau last
night he nevertheless did not come in from outside. It was not possible!
The doors were locked and the shutters were fastened."

"Nevertheless," M. de Presles remarked, "inasmuch as someone has
committed a murder, it must necessarily be the fact, either that that
someone was hidden inside the chateau when Mme. de Langrune herself
locked the front door, or else that he got in during the night. Do you
not see yourself, M. Dollon, that one or other of these two hypotheses
must be correct?"

The steward hesitated.

"It is a mystery, sir," he declared at last. "I swear to you, sir, that
nobody could have got in, and yet it is perfectly clear also that
neither M. Charles nor Mlle. Therese, nor yet either of the two maids,
Marie and Louise, is the murderer."

M. de Presles sat wrapped in thought for a few minutes and then desired
the old steward to fetch the two women servants.

"Come back, yourself," he added, as the old man went away; "I may
require further particulars from you."

Dollon left the room, and Gigou, the clerk, leant forward towards the
magistrate: tact was not the most shining of M. Gigou's qualities.

"When your enquiry is finished, sir--presently--we shall have to pay a
visit to the Mayor of Saint-Jaury. That is in accordance with the usual
procedure. And then he cannot do less than invite us to stay to
dinner!"




IV. "NO! I AM NOT MAD!"


The next day but one after the crime, on the Friday, Louise the cook,
who was still terribly upset by the dreadful death of the good mistress
in whose service she had been for fifteen years, came down to her
kitchen early. It was scarcely daybreak, and the good woman was obliged
to light a lamp to see by. With her mind anywhere but on her work, she
was mechanically getting breakfast for the servants and for the visitors
to the chateau, when a sharp knock on the back door made her jump. She
went to open it, and uttered a little scream as she saw the cocked hats
of gendarmes silhouetted against the wan light of the early morning.

Between the gendarmes were two miserable-looking specimens of humanity.
Louise had only opened the door a few inches when the sergeant, who had
known her for many years, took a step forward and gave her a military
salute.

"I must ask your hospitality for us and for these two fellows whom we
have taken up to-night, prowling about the neighbourhood," he said.

The dismayed Louise broke in.

"Good heavens, sergeant, are you bringing thieves here? Where do you
expect me to put them? Surely there's enough trouble in the house as it
is!"

The gendarme, Morand, smiled with the disillusioned air of a man who
knows very well what trouble is, and the sergeant replied:

"Put them? Why, in your kitchen, of course," and as the servant made a
sign of refusal, he added: "I am sorry, but you must; besides, there's
nothing for you to be afraid of; the men are handcuffed, and we shall
not leave them. We are going to wait here for the magistrate who will
examine them."

The gendarmes had pushed their wretched captives in before them, two
tramps of the shadiest appearance.

Louise, who had gone mechanically to raise the lid of a kettle beginning
to boil over, looked round at his last words.

"The magistrate?" she said: "M. de Presles? Why, he is here now--in the
library."

"No?" exclaimed the sergeant, jumping up from the kitchen chair on which
he had seated himself.

"He is, I tell you," the old woman insisted; "and the little man who
generally goes about with him is here too."

"You mean M. Gigou, his clerk?"

"Very likely," muttered Louise.

"I leave the prisoners with you, Morand," said the sergeant curtly;
"don't let them out of your sight. I am going to the magistrate. I have
no doubt he will wish to interrogate these fellows at once."

The gendarme came to attention and saluted.

"Trust me, sergeant!"

It looked as if Morand's job was going to be an easy one; the two
tramps, huddled up in a corner of the kitchen opposite the stove, showed
no disposition to make their escape. The two were utterly different in
appearance. One was a tall, strongly built man, with thick hair crowned
by a little jockey cap, and was enveloped in a kind of overcoat which
might have been black once but which was now of a greenish hue, the
result of the inclemency of the weather; he gnawed his heavy moustache
in silence and turned sombre, uneasy looks on all, including his
companion in misfortune. He wore hobnailed shoes and carried a stout
cudgel. He was more like a piece of the human wreckage one sees in the
street corners of great cities than a genuine tramp. Instead of a
collar, there was a variegated handkerchief round his neck. His name, he
had told the sergeant, was Francois Paul.

The other man, who had been discovered at the back of a farm just as he
was about to crawl inside a stack, was a typical country tramp. An old
soft felt hat was crammed down on his head, and a shock of rebellious
red and grey hair curled up all round it, while a hairy beard entirely
concealed all the features of his face. All that could be seen of it was
a pair of sparkling eyes incessantly moving in every possible direction.
This second man contemplated with interest the place into which the
police had conducted him. On his back he bore a heavy sort of wallet in
which he stowed articles of the most varied description. Whereas his
companion maintained a rigid silence, this man never stopped talking.
Nudging his neighbour every now and then he whispered:

"Say, where do you come from? You're not from these parts, are you? I've
never seen you before have I? Everybody round here knows me:
Bouzille--my name's Bouzille," and turning to the gendarme he said:
"Isn't it true, M'sieu Morand, that you and I are old acquaintances?
This is the fourth or fifth time you've pinched me, isn't it?"

Bouzille's companion vouchsafed him a glance.

"So it's a habit of yours, is it?" he said in the same low tone; "you
often get nabbed?"

"As to 'often,'" the garrulous fellow replied, "that depends on what you
mean by the word. In winter time it's not bad business to go back to
clink, because of the rotten weather; in the summer one would rather go
easy, and then, too, in the summer there isn't so much crime; you can
find all you want on the road; country people aren't so particular in
the summer, while in the winter it's quite another thing; so they have
done me down to-night for mother Chiquard's rabbit, I expect."

The gendarme, who had been listening with no great attention, chimed in.

"So it was you who stole the rabbit, was it, Bouzille?"

"What's the good of your asking me that, M'sieu Morand?" protested
Bouzille. "I suppose you would have left me alone if you hadn't been
sure of it?"

Bouzille's companion bent his head and whispered very low:

"There has been something worse than that: the job with the lady of this
house."

"Oh, that!" said Bouzille with a gesture of complete indifference. But
he did not proceed. The sergeant came back to the kitchen and said
sternly:

"Francois Paul, forward: the examining magistrate will hear you now."

The man summoned stepped towards the sergeant, and quietly submitted to
being taken by the arm, for his hands were fastened. Bouzille winked
knowingly at the gendarme, now his sole remaining confidant, and
remarked with satisfaction:

"Good luck! We are getting on to-day! Not too much 'remanded' about it,"
and as the gendarme, severely keeping his proper distance, made no
reply, the incorrigible chatterbox went on merrily: "As a matter of fact
it suits me just as well to be committed for trial, since the government
give you your board and lodging, and especially since there's a really
beautiful prison at Brives now." He leaned familiarly against the
gendarme's shoulder. "Ah, M'sieu Morand, you didn't know it--you weren't
old enough--why, it was before you joined the force--but the lock-up
used to be in an old building just behind the Law Courts: dirty! I
should think it was dirty! And damp! Why once, when I did three months
there, from January to April, I came out so ill with the rheumatics that
I had to go back into the infirmary for another fortnight! Gad!" he went
on after a moment's pause during which he snuffed the air around him,
"something smells jolly good here!" He unceremoniously addressed the
cook who was busy at her work: "Mightn't there perhaps be a bit of a
blow out for me, Mme. Louise?" and as she turned round with a somewhat
scandalised expression he continued: "you needn't be frightened, lady,
you know me very well. Many a time I've come and asked you for any old
thing, and you've always given me something. M'sieu Dollon, too:
whenever he has an old pair of shoes that are worn out, well, those are
mine; and a crust of bread is what nobody ever refuses."

The cook hesitated, touched by the recollections evoked by the poor
tramp; she looked at the gendarme for a sign of encouragement. Morand
shrugged his shoulders and turned a patronising gaze on Bouzille.

"Give him something, if you like, Mme. Louise. After all, he is well
known. And for my own part I don't believe he could have done it."

The tramp interrupted him.

"Ah, M'sieu Morand, if it's a matter of picking up trifles here and
there, a wandering rabbit, perhaps, or a fowl that's tired of being
lonely, I don't say no; but as for anything else--thank'ee kindly,
lady."

Louise had handed Bouzille a huge chunk of bread which he immediately
interned in the depths of his enormous bag.

"What do you suppose that other chap can have to tell Mr. Paul Pry? He
did not look like a regular! Now when I get before the gentlemen in
black, I don't want to contradict them, and so I always say, 'Yes, my
lord,' and they are perfectly satisfied; sometimes they laugh and the
president of the court says, 'Stand up, Bouzille,' and then he gives me
a fortnight, or twenty-one days, or a month, as the case may be."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sergeant came back, alone, and addressed the gendarme.

"The other man has been discharged," he said. "As for Bouzille, M. de
Presles does not think there is any need to interrogate him."

"Am I to be punted out then?" enquired the tramp with some dismay, as he
looked uneasily towards the window, against the glass of which rain was
lashing.

The sergeant could not restrain a smile.

"Well, no, Bouzille," he said kindly, "we must take you to the lock-up;
there's the little matter of the rabbit to be cleared up, you know. Come
now, quick march! Take him to Saint-Jaury, Morand!"

The sergeant went back to the library to hold himself at the
magistrate's disposal; through the torrential downpour of rain Bouzille
and the gendarme wended their way to the village; and left alone in her
kitchen, Louise put out her lamp, for despite the shocking weather it
was getting lighter now, and communed with herself.

"I've a kind of idea that they would have done better to keep that other
man. He was a villainous-looking fellow!"

The sad, depressing day had passed without any notable incident.

Charles Rambert and his father had spent the afternoon with Therese and
the Baronne de Vibray continuously addressing large black-edged
envelopes to the relations and friends of the Marquise de Langrune,
whose funeral had been fixed for the next day but one.

A hasty dinner had been served at which the Baronne de Vibray was
present. Her grief was distressing to witness. Somewhat futile to
outward seeming, this woman had a very kind and tender heart; as a
matter of course she had constituted herself the protector and comforter
of Therese, and she had spent the whole of the previous day with the
child at Brives, ransacking the local shops to procure her mourning.

Therese was terribly shocked by the dreadful death of her grandmother
whom she adored, but she displayed unexpected strength of character and
controlled her grief so that she might be able to look after the guests
whom she was now entertaining for the first time as mistress of the
house. The Baronne de Vibray had failed in her attempt to persuade
Therese to come with her to Querelles to sleep. Therese was determined
in her refusal to leave the chateau and what she termed her "post of
duty."

"Marie will stay with me," she assured the kind Baronne, "and I promise
you I shall have sufficient courage to go to sleep to-night."

So her friend got into her car alone at nine o'clock and went back to
her own house, and Therese went up at once to bed with Marie, the
faithful servant who, like Louise the cook, had been with her ever since
she was born.

       *       *       *       *       *

After having read all the newspapers, with their minute and often
inaccurate account of the tragedy at Beaulieu--for everyone in the
chateau had been besieged the previous day by reporters and
representatives of various press agencies--M. Etienne Rambert said to
his son simply, but with a marked gravity:

"Let us go upstairs, my son: it is time."

At the door of his room Charles deferentially offered his cheek to his
father, but M. Etienne Rambert seemed to hesitate; then, as if taking a
sudden resolution, he entered his son's room instead of going on to his
own. Charles kept silence and refrained from asking any questions, for
he had noticed how lost in sad thought his father had seemed to be since
the day before.

Charles Rambert was very tired. He began to undress at once. He had
taken off his coat and waistcoat, and was turning towards a
looking-glass to undo his tie, when his father came up to him; with an
abrupt movement M. Etienne Rambert put both his hands on his son's
shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. Then in a stifled but
peremptory tone he said:

"Now confess, unhappy boy! Confess to your father!"

Charles went ghastly white.

"What?" he muttered.

Etienne Rambert kept his eyes fixed upon him.

"It was you who committed the murder!"

The ringing denial that the young man tried to utter was strangled in
his throat; he threw out his arms and groped with his hands as if to
find something to support him in his faintness; then he pulled himself
together.

"Committed the murder? I? You accuse me of having killed the Marquise?
It is infamous, hateful, awful!"

"Alas, yes!"

"No, no! Good God, no!"

"Yes!" Etienne Rambert insisted.

The two men faced each other, panting. Charles controlled the emotion
which was sweeping over him once more, and looking steadily at his
father, said in tones of bitter reproach:

"And it is actually my own father who says that--who suspects me!"

Tears filled the young fellow's eyes and sobs choked him; he grew whiter
still, and seemed so near collapse that his father had to support him to
a chair, where he remained for several minutes utterly prostrated.

M. Rambert paced up and down the room a few times, then took another
chair and sat down in front of his son. Passing a hand across his brow
as if to sweep away the horrible nightmare that was haunting him, he
spoke again.

"Come now, my boy, my poor boy, let us talk it over quietly. I do not
know how it was, but yesterday morning when I saw you at the station I
had a presentiment of something: you were haggard, and tired, and your
eyes were drawn----"

"I told you before," Charles answered tonelessly "that I had had a bad
night: I was over-excited and did not sleep: I was awake the whole
night."

"By Jove, yes!" his father rapped out: "I can believe that! But if you
were not asleep, how do you account for your not hearing anything?"

"Therese did not hear anything either," said Charles after a moment's
reflection.

"Therese's room was a long way off," M. Rambert replied, "while there
was only a thin wall between yours and that of the Marquise. You must
have heard: you did hear! More than that----, oh, my boy, my unhappy
boy!"

Charles was twisting and untwisting his hands, and great drops of cold
perspiration beaded his brow.

"You are the only single person who thinks I committed such an awful
crime!" he said, half questioningly.

"The only one?" Etienne Rambert muttered. "Perhaps! As yet! But you
ought to know that you made a very bad impression indeed upon the
friends of the Marquise during the evening before the crime, when
President Bonnet was reading the particulars of a murder that had been
committed in Paris by--somebody: I forget whom."

"Good heavens!" Charles exclaimed in indignation, "I did not say
anything wrong. Do you mean to say that just because I am interested in
stories of great criminals like Rocambole and Fantomas----"

"You created a deplorable impression," his father repeated.

"So they suspect me too, do they?" Charles enquired. "But you can't make
accusations like that," he said, warming up: "you've got to have facts,
and proofs." He looked at his father for the sympathy and encouragement
of affection. "Listen, papa, I know you will believe me when I swear
that I am innocent; but do you think other people----"

M. Etienne Rambert sat with his head between his hands, wrapped in
thought; there was a short silence before the unhappy father replied:

"Unfortunately there is evidence against you," he said at last; "and
damning evidence, too!" he added with a glance at his son that seemed to
pulverise him. "Terrible evidence! Consider, Charles: the magistrates
have decided, as a result of their investigations, that no one got into
the chateau on the fatal night; you were the only man who slept there;
and none but a man could possibly have committed such a horrible crime,
such a monstrous piece of butchery!"

"Someone might have got in from outside," the unhappy lad urged, as if
trying to escape from the network in which he was being entangled.

"No one did," Etienne Rambert insisted; "besides, how could you prove
it?"

Charles was silent. He stood in the middle of the room, with trembling
legs and haggard eyes, seemingly stupefied and incapable of coherent
thought, vacantly watching his father. With bent head and shoulders
bowed as though beneath a too-heavy load, Etienne Rambert moved towards
the dressing-room attached to the bedroom.

"Come here," he said in an almost inaudible voice; "follow me."

He went into the dressing-room, and picking up the towels that were
heaped anyhow on the lower rail of the washstand, he selected a very
crumpled one and held it out in front of his son.

"Look at that!" he said in a low, curt tone.

And on the towel, thus held in the light, Charles Rambert saw red stains
of blood. The lad started, and was about to burst into some
protestation, but Etienne Rambert imperiously checked him.

"Do you still deny it? Unhappy, wretched boy, there is the convincing,
irrefutable evidence of your guilt! These stains of blood proclaim it.
Something always is overlooked! How are you to explain the presence of
this blood-stained linen in your room? Can you still deny that it is
proof positive of your guilt?"

"But I do deny it, I do deny it! I don't understand! I know nothing
about it!" and once more Charles Rambert collapsed into the arm-chair;
the unhappy lad was nothing but a human wreck, with no strength to argue
or even utter a word.

His father's eyes rested on him, filled with infinite affection and
profoundest pity.

"My poor, poor boy!" the unhappy Etienne Rambert murmured, and added, as
if speaking only to himself: "I wonder if you are not entirely
responsible--if there are circumstances to plead for you!"

"Do you still accuse me, papa? Do you really believe I am the murderer?"

Etienne Rambert shook his head hopelessly.

"Oh, I wish, I wish," he exclaimed, "that for the honour of our name,
and for the sake of those who love us, I could prove you had congenital,
hereditary tendencies that made you not responsible! Why could not I
have watched over your upbringing? Why has fate decreed that I should
only see my son three times at most in eighteen years, and come home to
find him--a criminal? Oh, if science could but establish the fact that
the child of a tainted mother----"

"Tainted?" Charles exclaimed; "what do you mean?"

"Tainted with a terrible and mysterious disease," Etienne Rambert went
on: "a disease before which we are powerless and unarmed--insanity!"

"What?" cried Charles, growing momentarily more distressed and
bewildered; "what is that, papa? Are my wits going? My mother insane?"
And then he added hopelessly: "My God! You must be right! Often and
often I have been amazed by her strange, puzzling looks and behaviour!
But I--I have all my proper senses: I know what I am doing!"

"Was it, perhaps, some appalling hallucination," Etienne Rambert
suggested: "some moment of irresponsibility?"

But Charles saw what he meant and cut him short.

"No, no, papa! I am not mad! I am not mad! I am not mad!"

In his intense excitement the young fellow never thought of moderating
the tone of his voice, but shouted out what was in his mind, shouted it
into the silence of the night, heedless of all but this terrible
discussion he was having with the father whom he loved. Nor did Etienne
Rambert lower his voice: his son's impassioned protest wrung the retort
from him:

"Then, Charles, if you are right, your crime is beyond forgiveness!
Murderer! Murderer!"

The two men stopped short as a slight sound in the passage caught their
attention. A silence fell upon them that they could not break, and they
stood dumbfounded, nervous and overwrought.

The door of the room opened very slowly, and a white form appeared
against the darkness of the corridor outside.

Robed in a long night-dress, Therese stood there, with hair dishevelled,
bloodless lips, and eyes dilated with horror; the child was shaking from
head to foot; as if every movement hurt her, she painfully raised her
arm and pointed to Charles.

"Therese!" Etienne Rambert muttered: "Therese, you were outside?"

The child's lips moved: she seemed to be making a more than human
effort, and a whisper escaped her lips:

"Yes----"

But she could say no more: her eyes rolled, her whole frame tottered,
and then, without sign or cry, she fell rigid and unconscious to the
floor.




V. "ARREST ME!"


Twelve or thirteen miles from Souillac the main line from Brives to
Cahors, which flanks the <DW72>, describes a rather sharp curve. The
journey is a particularly picturesque one, and travellers who make it
during the daytime have much that is interesting and agreeable to see;
but while they are admiring the country, which marks the transition from
the severe region of the Limousin to the more laughing landscapes on the
confines of the Midi, the train suddenly plunges into a tunnel which
runs for half a mile and more through the heart of the mountain <DW72>.
Leaving the tunnel, the line continues along the <DW72>, then gradually
descends towards Souillac. Two or three miles from that little station,
which is a junction, the line runs alongside the highroad to Salignac,
skirts for a brief distance the Correze, one of the largest tributaries
on the right bank of the Dordogne, and then plunges into the heart of
Lot.

Torrential winter rains had seriously affected the railway embankment,
particularly near the mouth of the tunnel; a succession of heavy storms
in the early part of December had so greatly weakened the ballast that
the chief engineers of the Company had been hastily summoned to the
scene of the mischief. The experts decided that very important repairs
were required close to the Souillac end of the tunnel. It was necessary
to put in a complete system of drainage, with underground pipes through
which the water that came down from the mountain could escape between
the ballast and the side of the rock and so pass underneath the
permanent way. The sleepers, too, had been loosened by the bad weather,
and some of them had perished so much that the chairs were no longer
fast, a matter which was all the more serious because the line described
a very sharp curve at that precise spot.

Gangs of first-class navvies had been hurriedly requisitioned, but in
spite of the fact that an exceptional rate of wages was paid, a local
strike had broken out and for some days all work was stopped. Gradually,
however, moderate counsels prevailed and for over a week now, nearly all
the men had taken up their tools again. Nevertheless, for a month past,
these various circumstances had resulted in all the trains running
between Brives and Cahors, being regularly half an hour late. Further,
in view of the dangerous state of the line, all engine drivers coming
from Brives had received orders to stop their trains two hundred yards
from the end of the tunnel, and all drivers coming from Cahors to stop
their trains five hundred yards before the entrance to the tunnel, so
that should a train appear while any work was going on which rendered it
dangerous to pass, it could wait until the work was completed. The order
was also issued with the primary object of preventing the workers on the
line from being taken by surprise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Day was just breaking this grey December morning, when the gang of
navvies set to work under a foreman, fixing on the down line the new
sleepers which had been brought up the day before. Suddenly a shrill
whistle was heard, and in the gaping black mouth of the tunnel the light
of two lamps became visible; a train bound for Cahors had stopped in
accordance with orders, and was calling for permission to pass.

The foreman ranged his men on either side of the down line and walked to
a small cabin erected at the mouth of the tunnel, where he pulled the
hand-signal so as to show the green light, thereby authorising the train
to proceed on its way.

There was a second short, sharp whistle; heavy puffs escaped from the
engine, and belching forth a dense volume of black smoke it slowly
emerged from the tunnel, followed by a long train of carriages, the
windows of which were frosted all over by the cold temperature outside.

A man approached the cabin allotted to the plate-layer in charge of that
section of the line in which the tunnel was included.

"I suppose this is the train due at Verrieres at 6.55?" he said
carelessly.

"Yes," the plate-layer answered, "but it's late, for the clock down
there in the valley struck seven several minutes ago."

The train had gone by: the three red lamps fastened at the end of it
were already lost in the morning mist.

The man who spoke to the plate-layer was no other than Francois Paul,
the tramp who had been discharged by the magistrate installed at the
chateau of Beaulieu, at precisely the same time the day before, after a
brief examination. In spite of the deep wrinkle furrowed in his brow the
man seemed to make an effort to appear friendly and to want to carry on
the conversation.

"There aren't many people in this morning train," he remarked,
"specially in the first-class carriages."

The plate-layer appeared in no wise unwilling to postpone for a few
moments his tiring and chilly underground patrol; he put down his pick
before answering.

"Well, that's not surprising, is it? People who are rich enough to
travel first-class always come by the express which gets to Brives at
2.50 A.M."

"I see," said Francois Paul; "that's reasonable: and more practical for
travellers to Brives or Cahors. But what about the people who want to
get out at Gourdon, or Souillac, or Verrieres, or any of the small
stations where the express doesn't stop?"

"I don't know," said the plate-layer; "but I suppose they have to get
out at Brives or Cahors and drive, or else travel by the day trains,
which are fast to Brives and slow afterwards."

Francois Paul did not press the matter. He lit a pipe and breathed upon
his benumbed fingers.

"Hard times, these, and no mistake!"

The plate-layer seemed sorry for him.

"I don't suppose you're an independent gentleman, but why don't you try
to get taken on here?" he suggested. "They want hands here."

"Oh, do they?"

"That's the fact; this is the foreman coming along now: would you like
me to speak to him for you?"

"No hurry," replied Francois Paul. "'Course, I'm not saying no, but I
should like to see what sort of work it is they're doing here: it might
not suit me; I shall still have time to get a couple of words with him,"
and with his eyes on the ground the tramp slowly walked along the
embankment away from the plate-layer.

The foreman met and passed him, and came up to the plate-layer at the
mouth of the tunnel.

"Well, Michu, how goes it with you? Still got the old complaint?"

"Middling, boss," the worthy fellow answered: "just keeping up, you
know. And how's yourself? And the work? When shall you finish? I don't
know if you know it, but these trains stopping regularly in my section
give me an extra lot of work."

"How's that?" the foreman enquired in surprise.

"The engine drivers take advantage of the stop to empty their ash-pans,
and they leave a great heap of mess there in my tunnel, which I'm
obliged to clear away. In the ordinary way they dump it somewhere else:
where, I don't know, but not in my tunnel, and that's all I care about."

The foreman laughed.

"You're a good 'un, Michu! If I were you I would ask the Company to give
me another man or two."

"And do you suppose the Company would?" Michu retorted. "By the way,
that poor devil who is going along there, shivering with cold and
hunger, was grumbling to me just now, and I advised him to ask you to
take him on. What do you think he said? Why, that he would have a look
at the work first, and off he went."

"It's a fact, Michu, that it's mighty difficult to come across people
who mean business nowadays. It's quite true that I want more hands. But
if that chap doesn't ask me to engage him in another minute, I'll kick
him out. The embankment is not public property, and I don't trust these
rascals who are for ever coming and going among the workmen to see what
mischief they can make. I'll go and cast an eye over the bolts and
things, for there are all sorts of vagrants about the neighbourhood just
now."

"And criminals, too," said old Michu. "I suppose you have heard of the
murder up at the chateau of Beaulieu?"

"Rather! My men are talking of nothing else. But you are right, Michu, I
will get a closer look at all strangers, and at your friend in
particular."

The foreman stopped abruptly; he had been examining the foot of the
embankment, and was standing quite still, watching. The plate-layer
followed his glance, and also stood fixed. After a few moments' silence
the two men looked at each other and smiled. In the half-light of the
valley they had seen the outline of a gendarme; he was on foot and
appeared to be looking for somebody, while making no attempt to remain
unseen himself.

"Good!" whispered Michu; "that's sergeant Doucet: I know him by his
stripes. They say the murder was not committed by anyone belonging to
this part of the country; everybody was fond of the Marquise de
Langrune."

"Look! Look!" the foreman broke in, pointing to the gendarme who was
slowly climbing up the embankment. "It looks as if the sergeant were
making for the gentleman who was looking for work just now and hoped he
would not find it. The sergeant's got a word for him, eh, what?"

"That might be," said Michu after a moment's further watching. "That
chap has a villainous, ugly face. One can tell from the way he's dressed
that he don't belong to our parts."

The two men waited with utmost interest to see what was going to happen.

Sergeant Doucet reached the top of the embankment at last and hurried
past the navvies, who stopped their work to stare inquisitively after
the representative of authority. Fifty yards beyond them, Francois Paul,
wrapped in thought, was walking slowly down towards the station of
Verrieres. Hearing the sound of steps behind him, he turned. When he saw
the sergeant he frowned. He glanced rapidly about him and saw that while
he was alone with the gendarme, so that no one could overhear what they
said, however loudly they might speak, they were yet in such a position
that every sign and movement they made would be perfectly visible to
whoever might watch them. And as the gendarme paused a few paces from
him and--remarkable fact--seemed to be on the point of bringing his hand
to his cap in salute, the mysterious tramp rapped out:

"I thought I said no one was to disturb me, sergeant?"

The sergeant took a pace forward.

"I beg your pardon, Inspector, but I have important news for you."

For this Francois Paul, whom the sergeant thus respectfully addressed as
Inspector, was no other than an officer of the secret police who had
been sent down to Beaulieu the day before from head-quarters in Paris.

He was no ordinary officer. As if M. Havard had had an idea that the
Langrune affair would prove to be puzzling and complicated, he had
singled out the very best of his detectives, the most expert inspector
of them all--Juve. It was Juve who for the last forty-eight hours had
been prowling about the chateau of Beaulieu disguised as a tramp, and
had had himself arrested with Bouzille that he might prosecute his own
investigations without raising the slightest suspicion as to his real
identity.

Juve made a face expressive of his vexation at the over-deferential
attitude of the sergeant.

"Do pay attention!" he said low. "We are being watched. If I must go
back with you, pretend to arrest me. Slip the handcuffs on me!"

"I beg your pardon, Inspector: I don't like to," the gendarme answered.

For all reply, Juve turned his back on him.

"Look here," he said, "I will take a step or two forward as if I meant
to run away; then you must put your hand on my shoulder roughly, and I
will stumble; when I do, slip the bracelets on."

From the mouth of the tunnel the plate-layer, the foreman and the
navvies all followed with their eyes the unintelligible conversation
passing between the gendarme and the tramp a hundred yards away.
Suddenly they saw the man try to get off and the sergeant seize him
almost simultaneously. A few minutes later the individual, with his
hands linked together in front of him, was obediently descending the
steep <DW72> of the embankment, by the gendarme's side, and then the two
men disappeared behind a clump of trees.

"I understand why that chap was not very keen on getting taken on here,"
said the foreman. "His conscience was none too easy!"

As they walked briskly in the direction of Beaulieu Juve asked the
sergeant:

"What has happened at the chateau, then?"

"They know who the murderer is, Inspector," the sergeant answered.
"Little Mlle. Therese----"




VI. "FANTOMAS, IT IS DEATH!"


Hurrying back towards the chateau with the sergeant, Juve ran into M. de
Presles outside the park gate. The magistrate had just arrived from
Brives in a motor-car which he had commandeered for his personal use
during the last few days.

"Well," said Juve in his quiet, measured tones, "have you heard the
news?" And as the magistrate looked at him in surprise he went on: "I
gather from your expression that you have not. Well, sir, if you will
kindly fill up a warrant we will arrest M. Charles Rambert."

Juve briefly repeated to the magistrate what the sergeant had reported
to him, and the sergeant added a few further details. The three men had
now reached the foot of the steps before the house and were about to go
up when the door of the chateau was opened and Dollon appeared. He
hurried towards them, with unkempt hair and haggard face, and excitedly
exclaimed:

"Didn't you meet the Ramberts? Where are they? Where are they?"

The magistrate, who was bewildered by what Juve had told him, was trying
to form a coherent idea of the whole sequence of events, but the
detective realised the situation at once, and turned to the sergeant.

"The bird has flown," he said. The sergeant threw up his hands in
dismay.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside the hall Juve and M. de Presles ordered Dollon to give them an
exact account of the discovery made by Therese in the course of the
previous night.

"Well, gentlemen," said the old fellow, who was greatly upset by the
discovery of the murderer of the Marquise de Langrune, "when I got to
the chateau early this morning I found the two old servants, Marie and
Louise, entirely occupied attending to the young mistress. Marie slept
in an adjoining room to hers last night, and was awakened about five
o'clock by the poor child's inarticulate cries. Mlle. Therese was bathed
in perspiration; her face was all drawn and there were dark rings under
her eyes; she was sleeping badly and evidently having a dreadful
nightmare. She half woke up several times and muttered some
unintelligible words to Marie, who thought that it was the result of
over-excitement. But about six o'clock, just as I arrived, Mlle. Therese
really woke up, and bursting into a fit of sobbing and crying, repeated
the names of her grandmother and the Ramberts and the Baronne de Vibray.
She kept on saying, 'The murderer! the murderer!' and making all sorts
of signs of terror, but we were not able to get from her a clear
statement of what it was all about. I felt her pulse and found she was
very feverish, and Louise prepared a cooling drink, which she persuaded
her to take. In about twenty minutes--it was then nearly half-past
six--Mlle. Therese quietened down, and managed to tell us what she had
heard during the night, and the dreadful interview and conversation
between M. Rambert and his son which she had seen and overheard."

"What did you do then?" enquired M. de Presles.

"I was dreadfully upset myself, sir, and I sent Jean, the coachman, to
Saint-Jaury to fetch the doctor and also to let Sergeant Doucet know.
Sergeant Doucet got here first; I told him all I knew, and then I went
upstairs with the doctor to see Mlle. Therese."

The magistrate turned to the police-sergeant and questioned him.

"Directly M. Dollon told me his story," the sergeant replied, "I thought
it my duty to report to M. Juve, who I knew was not far from the
chateau, on his way to Verrieres: M. Juve told me last night that he
meant to explore that part in the early morning. I left Morand on duty
at the entrance to the chateau, with orders to prevent either of the
Ramberts from leaving."

"And Morand did not see them going away?" the magistrate asked.

Juve had already divined what had happened, and replied for the
sergeant.

"Morand did not see them go out for the obvious reason that they had
left long before--in the middle of the night, directly after their
altercation: in a word, before Mlle. Therese woke up." He turned to the
sergeant. "What has been done since then?"

"Nothing, Inspector."

"Well, sergeant," said Juve. "I imagine his worship will order you to
send out your men at once after the runaways." As a matter of courtesy
he glanced at the magistrate as if asking for his approval, but he only
did so out of politeness, for he took it for granted.

"Of course!" said the magistrate; "please do so at once." The sergeant
turned on his heel and left the hall.

"Where is Mlle. Therese?" M. de Presles asked Dollon, who was standing
nervously apart.

"She is sleeping quietly just now, sir," said the steward, coming
forward. "The doctor is with her, and would rather she were not
disturbed, if you have no objection."

"Very well," said the magistrate. "Leave us, please," and Dollon also
went away.

Juve and M. de Presles looked at one another. The magistrate was the
first to break the silence.

"So it is finished?" he remarked. "So this Charles Rambert is the
culprit?"

Juve shook his head.

"Charles Rambert? Well, he ought to be the culprit."

"Why that reservation?" enquired the magistrate.

"I say 'ought to be,' for all the circumstances point to that
conclusion, and yet in my bones I don't believe he is."

"Surely the presumptions of his guilt, his pseudo-confession, or at
least his silence in face of his father's formal accusation, may make us
sure he is," said M. de Presles.

"There are some presumptions in favour of his innocence too," Juve
replied, but with a slight hesitation.

The magistrate pressed his point.

"Your investigations formally demonstrated the fact that the crime was
committed by some person who was inside the house."

"Possibly," said Juve, "but not certainly. The probabilities do not
allow us to assert it as a fact."

"Explain yourself."

"Not so fast, sir," Juve replied, and getting up he added: "There is
nothing for us to do here, sir; shall we go up to the room Charles
Rambert occupied?"

M. de Presles followed the detective, and the two men went into the
room, which was as plainly furnished as that of any young girl. The
magistrate installed himself comfortably in an easy chair and lighted a
cigar, while Juve walked up and down, scrutinising everything with
quick, sharp glances, and began to talk:

"I said 'not so fast' just now, sir, and I will tell you why: in my
opinion there are two preliminary points in this affair which it is
important to clear up: the nature of the crime, and the motive which can
have actuated the criminal. Let us take up these two points, and first
of all ask ourselves how the murder of the Marquise de Langrune ought to
be 'classified' in the technical sense. The first conclusion which must
be impressed upon the mind of any observant person who has visited the
scene of the crime and examined the corpse of the victim is, that this
murder must be placed in the category of crapulous crimes. The murderer
seems to have left the implicit mark of his character upon his victim;
the very violence of the blows dealt shows that he is a man of the lower
orders, a typical criminal, a professional."

"What do you deduce that from?" M. de Presles enquired.

"Simply from the nature of the wound. You saw it, as I did. Mme. de
Langrune's throat was almost entirely severed by the blade of some
cutting instrument. The breadth and depth of the wound absolutely prove
that it was not made with one stroke; the murderer must have gone amok
and dealt several blows--have gone on striking even when death had
finished his work, or at least was quite inevitable; that shows clearly
that the murderer belongs to a class of individuals who feel no
repugnance for their horrid work, but who kill without horror, and even
without excitement. Again, the nature of the wound shows that the
murderer is a strong man; you no doubt know that weak men with feeble
muscles strike 'deep' by choice, that is to say with a pointed weapon
and aiming at a vital organ, whereas powerful murderers have a
predilection for blows dealt 'superficially,' and for broad, ghastly
wounds. Besides, that is only following a natural law; a weak man
finesses with death, tries to make sure of it at some precise point,
penetrating the heart or severing an artery; a brutal man does not care
where he hits, but trusts to his own brute strength to achieve his
purpose.

"We have next to determine the sort of weapon with which the murder was
committed. We have not got it, at any rate up to the present; I have
given orders for the drains to be emptied, and the pond to be dragged
and the shrubberies to be searched, but, whether our search is crowned
with success or not, I am convinced that the instrument was a knife, one
of those common knives with a catch lock that apaches always carry. If
the murderer had had a weapon whose point was its principal danger, he
would have stabbed, and stabbed to the heart, instead of cutting; but he
used the edge, the part of a knife that is most habitually used, and he
actually cut. When the first wound was made he did not strike anywhere
else, but continued working away at the wound and enlarging it. It is a
point of capital importance that this murder was committed with a knife,
not with a dagger or stiletto, and therefore this is a crapulous crime."

"And what conclusion do you draw from the fact that the crime is a
crapulous one?" the magistrate proceeded to enquire.

"Merely that it cannot have been committed by Charles Rambert," Juve
answered very gravely. "He is a young man who has been well brought up,
he comes of very good stock, and his age makes it most improbable that
he can be a professional criminal."

"Obviously, obviously!" murmured the magistrate, not a little
embarrassed by the keen logic of the detective.

"And now let us consider the motive or motives of the crime," Juve
continued. "Why did the man commit this murder?"

"Doubtless for purposes of robbery," said the magistrate.

"What did he want to steal?" Juve retorted. "As a matter of fact, Mme.
de Langrune's diamond rings and watch and purse were all found on her
table, in full view of everybody; in the drawers that had been broken
open I found other jewels, over twenty pounds in gold and silver, and
three bank-notes in a card-case. What is your view, sir, of a crapulous
robber who sees valuables like that within his reach, and who does not
take them?"

"It is certainly surprising," the magistrate admitted.

"Very surprising; and goes to show that although the crime in itself is
a common, sordid one, the criminal may have had higher, or at any rate
different, aspirations from those which would lead an ordinary ruffian
to commit murder for the sake of robbery. The age and social position
and personality of Mme. de Langrune make it very unlikely that she had
enemies, or was the object of vengeance, and therefore if she was got
rid of, it was very likely that she might be robbed--but robbed of what?
Was there something more important than money or jewels to be got? I
frankly admit that although I put the question I am at a loss how to
answer it."

"Obviously," murmured the magistrate again, still more puzzled by all
these logical deductions.

Juve proceeded with the development of his ideas.

"And now suppose we are face to face with a crime committed without any
motive, as a result of some morbid impulse, a by no means uncommon
occurrence, monomania or temporary insanity?

"In that case, although, in consequence of the crapulous nature of the
crime, I had previously dismissed the very serious presumption of guilt
attaching to young Rambert, I should be inclined to reconsider my
opinion and think it possible that he might be the culprit. We know very
little about the young fellow from the physiological point of view; in
fact we don't know him at all; but it seems that his family is not
altogether normal, and I understand that his mother's mental condition
is precarious. If for a moment we regard Charles Rambert as a
hysterical subject, we can associate him with the murder of the Marquise
de Langrune without thereby destroying our case that the crime is a
crapulous one, for a man of only medium physical strength, when
suffering from an attack of mental alienation, has his muscular power
increased at least tenfold during his paroxysms. Under such influence as
that Charles Rambert might have committed murder with all the fierce
brutality of a giant!

"But I shall soon be in possession of absolutely accurate knowledge as
to the muscular strength of the murderer," Juve proceeded. "Quite lately
M. Bertillon invented a marvellous dynamometer which enables us not only
to ascertain what kind of lever has been used to force a lock or a piece
of furniture, but also to determine the exact strength of the individual
who used the tools. I have taken samples of the wood from the broken
drawer, and I shall soon have exact information."

"That will be immensely important," M. de Presles agreed. "Even if it
does away with our present certainty of Charles Rambert's guilt, we
shall be able to find out whether the murder was committed by any other
occupant of the house--still assuming that it was committed by some
member of the household."

"With regard to that," said Juve, "we can proceed with our method of
deduction and eliminate from our field of observation everybody who has
a good alibi or other defence; it will be so much ground cleared. For my
own part I find it impossible to suspect the two old maidservants,
Louise and Marie; the tramps whom we have detained and subsequently
released are too simple-minded, elementary people to have been capable
of devising the minute precautions which demonstrate the subtle
cleverness of the man who murdered the Marquise. Then there is Dollon;
but I imagine you will agree with me in thinking that his alibi removes
him from suspicion--more especially as the medical evidence proves that
the murder was committed during the night, between two and three
o'clock."

"Only M. Etienne Rambert is left," the magistrate put in, "and about
nine o'clock that evening he left the d'Orsay station in the slow train
which reaches Verrieres at 6.55 A.M. He spent the whole night in the
train, for he certainly arrived by that one. He could not have a better
alibi."

"Not possibly," Juve replied. "So we need only trouble ourselves with
Charles Rambert," and warming up to the subject the detective proceeded
to pile up a crushing indictment against the young man. "The crime was
committed so quietly that not the faintest sound was heard; therefore
the murderer was in the house; he went to the Marquise's room and
announced his arrival by a cautious tap on the door; the Marquise then
opened the door to him, and was not surprised to see him, for she knew
him quite well; he went into her room with her and----"

"Oh, come, come!" M. de Presles broke in; "you are romancing now, M.
Juve; you forget that the bedroom door was forced, the best proof of
that being the bolt, which was found wrenched away and hanging literally
at the end of the screws."

"I was expecting you to say that, sir," said Juve with a smile. "But
before I reply I should like to show you something rather quaint." He
led the way across the passage and went into the bedroom of the
Marquise, where order had now been restored; the dead body had been
removed to the library, which was transformed into a _chapelle ardente_,
and two nuns were watching over it there. "Have a good look at this
bolt," he said to M. de Presles. "Is there anything unusual about it?"

"No," said the magistrate.

"Yes, there is," said Juve; "the slide-bolt is out, as when the bolt is
fastened, but the socket into which the slide-bolt slips to fasten the
door to the wall is intact. If the bolt really had been forced, the
socket would have been wrenched away too." Juve next asked M. de Presles
to look closely at the screws that were wrenched halfway out of the
door. "Do you see anything on those?"

The magistrate pointed to their heads.

"There are tiny scratches on them," he said, rather hesitatingly, for in
his inmost heart he knew the detective's real superiority over himself,
"and from those I must infer that the screws have not been wrenched out
by the pressure exerted on the bolt, but really unscrewed, and
therefore----"

"And therefore," Juve broke in, "this is a mere blind, from which we may
certainly draw the conclusion that the murderer wished to make us
believe that the door was forced, whereas in reality it was opened to
him by the Marquise. Therefore the murderer was personally known to
her!"

"The murderer was personally known to her," he repeated. "Now I should
like to remind you of young Charles Rambert's equivocal behaviour in the
course of the evening that preceded the crime. It struck President
Bonnet and shocked the priest. I also recall his hereditary antecedents,
his mothers insanity, and finally----" Juve broke off abruptly and
unceremoniously dragged the magistrate out of the room and into Charles
Rambert's bedroom. He hurried into the dressing-room adjoining, went
down on his knees on the floor, and laid a finger on the middle of the
oil-cloth that was laid over the boards. "What do you see there, sir?"
he demanded.

The magistrate adjusted his eyeglass and, looking at the place indicated
by the detective, saw a little black stain; he wetted his finger, rubbed
it on the spot, and then, holding up his hand, observed that the tip of
his finger was stained red.

"It is blood," he muttered.

"Yes, blood," said Juve, "and I gather from this that the story of the
blood-stained towel which M. Rambert senior found among his son's
things, and the sight of which so greatly impressed Mlle. Therese, was
not an invention on that young lady's part, but really existed; and it
forms the most damning evidence possible against the young man. He
obviously washed his hands after the crime in the water from the tap
over this wash-hand basin here, but one drop of blood falling on the
towel and dripping on to the floor has been enough to give him away."

The magistrate nodded.

"It is conclusive," he said. "You have just proved to demonstration, M.
Juve, that Charles Rambert is the guilty party. It is beyond argument.
It is conclusive--conclusive!"

There were a couple of seconds of silence, and then Juve suddenly said
"No!"

"No!" he repeated; "it is quite true that we can adduce perfectly
logical arguments to show that the murder was committed by some member
of the household and that, therefore, Charles Rambert is the only
possible culprit; but we can adduce equally logical arguments to show
that the crime was committed by some person who got in from outside:
there is nothing to prove that he did not walk into the house through
the front door."

"The door was locked," said the magistrate.

"That's nothing," said Juve with a laugh. "Don't forget that there isn't
such a thing as a real safety lock nowadays--since all locks can be
opened with an outside key. If I had found one of the good old-fashioned
catch locks on the door, such as they used to make years ago, I should
have said to you: nobody got in, because the only way to get through a
door fastened with one of those locks is to break the door down. But
here we have a lock that can be opened with a key. Now the key does not
exist of which one cannot get an impression, and there is not such a
thing as an impression from which one cannot manufacture a false key.
The murderer could easily have got into the house with a duplicate key."

The magistrate raised a further objection.

"If the murderer had got in from outside he would inevitably have left
some traces round about the chateau, but there aren't any."

"Yes there are," Juve retorted. "First of all there is this piece of an
ordnance map which I found yesterday between the chateau and the
embankment." He took it from his pocket as he spoke. "It is an odd
coincidence that this scrap shows the neighbourhood of the chateau of
Beaulieu."

"That doesn't prove anything," said the magistrate. "To find a piece of
a map of our district in our district is the most natural thing
possible. Now if you were to discover the rest of this map in anybody's
possession, then----"

"You may rest assured that I shall try to do so with the least possible
delay," said Juve gently. "But this is not the only argument I have to
support my theory. This morning, when I was walking near the embankment,
I found some very suspicious footprints. It is true there are any number
of footprints near the end of the Verrieres tunnel, where the navvies
are at work. But at the other end of the tunnel, where there is no
occasion for anyone to pass by, I found that the earth of the
embankment, which was crisp with the frost, had been disturbed, showing
that someone had clambered up the embankment; the tips of his shoes had
been driven into the earth, and I could see distinctly where his feet
had been placed; but unfortunately the soil there is so dry that the
footprints were too faint for me to hope to be able to identify the
maker of them. But the fact remains that someone did climb up the
embankment, someone who was making for the railway."

The magistrate did not seem to be impressed by Juve's discovery.

"And pray what conclusion do you think ought to be drawn from that?" he
enquired.

Juve sat down in an easy chair, threw back his head and closed his eyes
as if he were about to indulge in a long soliloquy, and began to express
his thoughts aloud.

"Suppose we were to combine the two hypotheses into one; to wit, that
the murderer was in the chateau prior to the accomplishment of the crime
and left the chateau directly it was accomplished. What should you say,
sir, of a criminal completing his deed, then hurrying over the couple of
miles that separate Beaulieu from the railway, and catching a passing
train, and on his way climbing the embankment at the spot where I found
the footprints I mentioned."

"I should say," the magistrate replied, "that you can't jump into a
moving train as you can into a passing tram, and further, that at night
none but express trains run between Brives and Cahors."

"All right," said Juve: "I will merely point out that owing to the work
on the line at present, all trains have stopped at the beginning of the
tunnel for the last two months. If the murderer had planned to escape in
that way he might very well have been aware of this regular stoppage."

The magistrates confidence was a little shaken by these new deductions
on the part of the detective, but he submitted yet another objection.

"We have not found any traces round about the chateau."

"Strictly speaking, no, we have not," Juve admitted; "but it is clear
that if the murderer walked on the grass, and he probably did so, he
walked on it during the night, that is to say, before the morning dew.
Now everybody knows that when the dew rises in the early morning, grass
that has been bent down by any passing man or animal, stands up again in
its original position, thereby destroying all traces; so if the murderer
did walk on the lawn when he was getting away, nobody could tell that he
had done so. Nevertheless, on the lawn in front of the window of the
room where the murder was committed I have observed, not exactly
footprints, but signs that the earth has been disturbed at that spot. I
imagine that if I were to jump out of a first floor window on to the
soft surface of a lawn, and wanted to efface the marks of my boots, I
should smooth the earth and the grass around them in just the same way
that the little piece of lawn I speak of seems to have been smoothed."

"I should like to have a look at that," said M. de Presles.

"Well, there's no difficulty about it," Juve replied. "Come along."

The two men hurried down the staircase and out of the house. When they
reached the patch of grass which the inspector said had been "made up,"
they crouched down and scrutinised it closely. Just by the side of the
grass, even overhanging it a little, a large rhubarb plant outspread its
thick, dentelated leaves almost parallel with the soil. Juve happened to
glance casually at the nearest leaf, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise and gratification.

"Gad, here's something interesting!" and he drew the magistrate's
attention to some little pilules of earth with which the plant was
peppered.

"What is that?" enquired M. de Presles.

"Earth," said Juve, who had swept the top of the leaf with the palm of
his hand; "ordinary earth, like the rest ten inches below, on the
grass."

"Well, what about it?" said the puzzled magistrate.

"Well," said Juve with a smile, "I imagine that ordinary earth, or any
kind of earth, has no power to move of its own volition, much less to
jump up ten inches into the air and settle on the top of a leaf, even a
rhubarb leaf! So I conclude that since this earth did not get here by
itself it was brought here. How? That is very simple! Somebody has
jumped on to the grass there, M. de Presles; he has removed the marks of
his feet by smoothing the earth with his hands; the earth soiled his
hands, and he rubbed one against the other quite mechanically; the earth
which was on his hands fell off in little balls on to the rhubarb leaf,
and remained there for us to discover. And so it is certain--this is one
proof more--that even if the murderer did not get in from outside, he
did at any rate take to flight after he had committed the crime."

"So it can't be Charles Rambert after all," said the magistrate.

"It 'ought to be' Charles Rambert!" was Juve's baffling reply.

The magistrate waxed irritable.

"My dear sir, your everlasting contradictions end by being rather
absurd! You have hardly finished building up one laborious theory before
you start knocking it down again. I fail to understand you."

Juve smiled at M. de Presles' sudden irritability, but quickly became
grave again.

"I am anxious not to be led away by any preconceived opinion. I put the
hypothesis that so and so is guilty, and examine all the arguments in
support of that theory; then I submit that the crime was committed by
somebody else, and proceed in the same way. My method certainly has the
objection that it confronts every argument with a diametrically opposite
one, but we are not concerned with establishing any one case in
preference to another--it is the truth, and nothing else, that we have
to discover."

"And that is tantamount to saying that in spite of the overwhelming
circumstantial evidence, and in spite of the fact that he has run away,
Charles Rambert is innocent?"

"Charles Rambert is the culprit, sir," Juve replied brightly. "If he
were not, whom else could we possibly suspect?"

The detective's placidity and his perpetual self-contradictions
exasperated M. de Presles. He held his tongue, and was silently
revolving the case in his mind when Juve made yet one more suggestion.

"There is one final hypothesis which I feel obliged to put before you.
Do you realise, sir, that this is a typical Fantomas crime?"

M. de Presles shrugged his shoulders as the detective pronounced this
half-mythical name.

"Upon my word, M. Juve, I should never have expected you to invoke
Fantomas! Why, Fantomas is the too obvious subterfuge, the cheapest
device for investing a case with mock honours. Between you and me, you
know perfectly well that Fantomas is merely a legal fiction--a lawyers'
joke. Fantomas has no existence in fact!"

Juve stopped in his stride. He paused a moment before replying; then
spoke in a restrained voice, but with an emphasis on his words that
always marked him when he spoke in all seriousness.

"You are wrong to laugh, sir; very wrong. You are a magistrate and I am
only a humble detective inspector, but you have three or four years'
experience, perhaps less, while I have fifteen years' work behind me. I
know that Fantomas does exist, and I do anything but laugh when I
suspect his intervention in a case."

M. de Presles could hardly conceal his surprise, and Juve went on:

"No one has ever said of me, sir, that I was a coward. I have looked
death in the eyes; I have often hunted and arrested criminals who would
not have had the least hesitation in doing away with me. There are whole
gangs of rascals who have vowed my death. All manner of horrible
revenges threaten me to-day. For all that I have the most complete
indifference! But when people talk to me of Fantomas, when I fancy that
I can detect the intervention of that genius of crime in any case, then,
M. de Presles, I am in a funk! I tell you frankly I am in a funk. I am
frightened, because Fantomas is a being against whom it is idle to use
ordinary weapons; because he has been able to hide his identity and
elude all pursuit for years; because his daring is boundless and his
power unmeasurable; because he is everywhere and nowhere at once and, if
he has had a hand in this affair, I am not even sure that he is not
listening to me now! And finally, M. de Presles, because every one whom
I have known to attack Fantomas, my friends, my colleagues, my superior
officers, have one and all, one and all, sir, been beaten in the fight!
Fantomas does exist, I know, but who is he? A man can brave a danger he
can measure, but he trembles when confronted with a peril he suspects
but cannot see."

"But this Fantomas is not a devil," the magistrate broke in testily; "he
is a man like you and me!"

"You are right, sir, in saying he is a man; but I repeat, the man is a
genius! I don't know whether he works alone or whether he is the head of
a gang of criminals; I know nothing of his life; I know nothing of his
object. In no single case yet has it been possible to determine the
exact part he has taken. He seems to possess the extraordinary gift of
being able to slay and leave no trace. You don't see him; you divine his
presence: you don't hear him; you have a presentiment of him. If
Fantomas is mixed up in this present affair, I don't know if we ever
shall succeed in clearing it up!"

M. de Presles was impressed in spite of himself by the detective's
earnestness.

"But I suppose you are not recommending me to drop the enquiry, are you,
Juve?"

The detective forced a laugh that did not ring quite true.

"Come, come, sir," he answered, "I told you just now that I was
frightened, but I never said I was a coward. You may be quite sure I
shall do my duty, to the very end. When I first began--and that was not
yesterday, nor yet the day before--to realise the importance and the
power of this Fantomas, I took an oath, sir, that some day I would
discover his identity and effect his arrest! Fantomas is an enemy of
society, you say? I prefer to regard him first and foremost as my own
personal enemy! I have declared war on him, and I am ready to lose my
skin in the war if necessary, but by God I'll have his!"

Juve ceased. M. de Presles also was silent. But the magistrate was
still sceptical, despite the detective's strange utterance, and
presently he could not refrain from making a gentle protest and appeal.

"Do please bring in a verdict against someone, M. Juve, for really I
would rather believe that your Fantomas is--a creation of the
imagination!"

Juve shrugged his shoulders, seemed to be arriving at a mighty decision,
and began:

"You are quite right, sir, to require me to draw some definite
conclusion, even if you are not right in denying the existence of
Fantomas. So I make the assertion that the murderer is----"

       *       *       *       *       *

The sound of hurrying steps behind them made both men turn round. A
postman, hot and perspiring, was hurrying to the chateau; he had a
telegram in his hand.

"Does either of you gentlemen know M. Juve?" he asked.

"My name is Juve," said the detective, and he took the telegram and tore
the envelope open. He glanced through it and then handed it to the
magistrate.

"Please read that, sir," he said.

The telegram was from the Criminal Investigation Department, and ran as
follows:

       *       *       *       *       *

"Return immediately to Paris. Are convinced that extraordinary crime
lies behind disappearance of Lord Beltham. Privately, suspect Fantomas'
work."




VII. THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT


"Does M. Gurn live here, please?"

Mme. Doulenques, the concierge at No. 147 rue Levert, looked at the
enquirer and saw a tall, dark man with a heavy moustache, wearing a soft
hat and a tightly buttoned overcoat, the collar of which was turned up
to his ears.

"M. Gurn is away, sir," she answered; "he has been away for some little
time."

"I know," said the stranger, "but still I want to go up to his rooms if
you will kindly go with me."

"You want----" the concierge began in surprise and doubt. "Oh, I know;
of course you are the man from the what's-its-name company, come for his
luggage? Wait a bit; what is the name of that company? Something
funny--an English name, I fancy."

The woman left the door, which she had been holding just ajar, and went
to the back of her lodge; she looked through the pigeon-holes where she
kept the tenants' letters ready sorted, and picked out a soiled printed
circular addressed to M. Gurn. She was busy putting on her spectacles
when the stranger drew near and from over her shoulder got a glimpse of
the name for which she was looking. He drew back again noiselessly, and
said quietly:

"I have come from the South Steamship Company."

"Yes, that's it," said the concierge, laboriously spelling out the
words: "the South--what you said. I can never pronounce those names. Rue
d'Hauteville, isn't it?"

"That's it," replied the man in the soft hat in pleasant, measured
tones.

"Well, it's very plain that you don't bustle much in your place," the
concierge remarked. "I've been expecting you to come for M. Gurn's
things for nearly three weeks; he told me you would come a few days
after he had gone. However, that's your business."

Mme. Doulenques cast a mechanical glance through the window that looked
on to the street, and then surveyed the stranger from top to toe; he
seemed to be much too well dressed to be a mere porter.

"But you haven't got any handcart or truck," she exclaimed. "You're not
thinking of carrying the trunks on your shoulder, are you? Why, there
are at least three or four of them--and heavy!"

The stranger paused before answering, as though he found it necessary to
weigh each word.

"As a matter of fact I merely wanted to get an idea of the size of the
luggage," he said quietly. "Will you show me the things?"

"If I must, I must," said the concierge with a heavy sigh. "Come up with
me: it's the fifth floor," and as she climbed the stairs she grumbled:
"It's a pity you didn't come when I was doing my work: I shouldn't have
had to climb a hundred stairs a second time then; it counts up at the
end of the day, and I'm not so young as I was."

The stranger followed her up the stairs, murmuring monosyllabic
sympathy, and regulating his pace by hers. Arrived at the fifth floor,
the concierge drew a key from her pocket and opened the door of the
flat.

It was a small modest place, but quite prettily decorated. The door on
the landing opened into a tiny sort of anteroom, from which one passed
into a front room furnished with little but a round table and a few
arm-chairs. Beyond this was a bedroom, almost filled by the large bed,
which was the first thing one saw on entering, and on the right there
was yet another room, probably a little office. Both the first room,
which was a kind of general living room, and the bedroom had wide
windows overlooking gardens as far as one could see. An advantage of the
flat was that it had nothing opposite, so that the occupant could move
about with the windows open if he liked, and yet have nothing to fear
from the inquisitiveness of neighbours.

The rooms had been shut up for several days, since the tenant had gone
away indeed, and there was a stuffy smell about them, mingled with a
strong smell of chemicals.

"I must air the place," the concierge muttered, "or else M. Gurn won't
be pleased when he comes back. He always says he is too hot and can't
breathe in Paris."

"So he does not live here regularly?" said the stranger, scanning the
place curiously as he spoke.

"Oh, no, sir," the concierge answered. "M. Gurn is a kind of commercial
traveller and is often away, sometimes for a month or six weeks
together," and the gossiping woman was beginning a long and incoherent
story when the stranger interrupted her, pointing to a silver-framed
photograph of a young woman he had noticed on the mantelpiece.

"Is that Mme. Gurn?"

"M. Gurn is a bachelor," Mme. Doulenques replied. "I can't fancy him
married, with his roaming kind of life."

"Just a little friend of his, eh?" said the man in the soft hat, with a
wink and a meaning smile.

"Oh, no," said the concierge, shaking her head. "That photograph is not
a bit like her."

"So you know her, then?"

"I do and I don't. That's to say, when M. Gurn is in Paris, he often has
visits from a lady in the afternoon: a very fashionable lady, I can tell
you, not the sort that one often sees in this quarter. Why, the woman
who comes is a society lady, I am sure: she always has her veil down and
passes by my lodge ever so fast, and never has any conversation with me;
free with her money, too: it's very seldom she does not give me
something when she comes."

The stranger seemed to find the concierge's communications very
interesting, but they did not interrupt his mental inventory of the
room.

"In other words, your tenant does not keep too sharp an eye on his
money?" he suggested.

"No, indeed: the rent is always paid in advance, and sometimes M. Gurn
even pays two terms in advance because he says he never can tell if his
business won't be keeping him away when the rent falls due."

Just then a deep voice called up the staircase:

"Concierge: M. Gurn: have you any one of that name in the house?"

"Come up to the fifth floor," the concierge called back to the man. "I
am in his rooms now," and she went back into the flat. "Here's somebody
else for M. Gurn," she exclaimed.

"Does he have many visitors?" the stranger enquired.

"Hardly any, sir: that's why I'm so surprised."

Two men appeared; their blue blouses and metal-peaked caps proclaimed
them to be porters. The concierge turned to the man in the soft hat.

"I suppose these are your men, come to fetch the trunks?"

The stranger made a slight grimace, seemed to hesitate and finally made
up his mind to remain silent.

Rather surprised to see that the three men did not seem to be acquainted
with each other, the concierge was about to ask what it meant, when one
of the porters addressed her curtly:

"We've come from the South Steamship Company for four boxes from M.
Gurn's place. Are those the ones?" and taking no notice of the visitor
in the room, the man pointed to two large trunks and two small boxes
which were placed in a corner of the room.

"But aren't you three all together?" enquired Mme. Doulenques, visibly
uneasy.

The stranger still remained silent, but the first porter replied at
once.

"No; we have nothing to do with the gentleman. Get on to it, mate! We've
no time to waste!"

Anticipating their action, the concierge got instinctively between the
porters and the luggage: so too did the man in the soft hat.

"Pardon," said he politely but peremptorily. "Please take nothing
away."

One of the porters drew a crumpled and dirty memorandum book from his
pocket and turned over the pages, wetting his thumb every time. He
looked at it attentively and then spoke.

"There's no mistake: this is where we were told to come," and again he
signed to his mate. "Let's get on with it!"

The concierge was puzzled. She looked first at the mysterious stranger,
who was as quiet and silent as ever, and then at the porters, who were
beginning to be irritated by these incomprehensible complications.

Mme. Doulenques' mistrust waxed greater, and she sincerely regretted
being alone on the fifth floor with these strangers, for the other
occupants of this floor had gone off to their daily work long ago.
Suddenly she escaped from the room, and called shrilly down the stairs:

"Madame Aurore! Madame Aurore!"

The man in the soft hat rushed after her, seized her gently but firmly
by the arm, and led her back into the room.

"I beg you, madame, make no noise: do not call out!" he said in a low
tone. "Everything will be all right. I only ask you not to create a
disturbance."

But the concierge was thoroughly alarmed by the really odd behaviour of
all these men, and again screamed at the top of her voice:

"Help! Police!"

The first porter was exasperated.

"It's unfortunate to be taken for thieves," he said with a shrug of his
shoulders. "Look here, Auguste, just run down to the corner of the
street and bring back a gendarme. The gentleman can explain to the
concierge in his presence, and then we shall be at liberty to get on
with our job."

Auguste hastened to obey, and several tense moments passed, during which
not a single word was exchanged between the three people who were left
together.

Then heavy steps were heard, and Auguste reappeared with a gendarme. The
latter came swaggering into the room with a would-be majestic air, and
solemnly and pompously enquired:

"Now then, what's all this about?"

At sight of the officer every countenance cleared. The concierge ceased
to tremble; the porter lost his air of suspicion. Both were beginning to
explain to the representative of authority, when the man in the soft hat
waved them aside, stepped up to the guardian of the peace and looking
him straight in the eyes, said:

"Criminal Investigation Department! Inspector Juve!"

The gendarme, who was quite unprepared for this announcement, stepped
back a pace and raised his eyes towards the man who addressed him: then
suddenly raised his hand to his _kepi_ and came to attention.

"Beg pardon, Inspector, I didn't recognise you! M. Juve! And you have
been in this division a long time too!" He turned angrily to the
foremost porter. "Step forward, please, and let's have no nonsense!"

Juve, who had thus disclosed his identity as a detective, smiled, seeing
that the gendarme assumed that the South Steamship Company's porter was
a thief.

"That's all right," he said. "Leave the man alone. He's done no harm."

"Then who am I to arrest?" the puzzled gendarme asked.

The concierge broke in to explain: she had been much impressed by the
style and title of the stranger.

"If the gentleman had told me where he came from I would certainly never
have allowed anyone to go for a gendarme."

Inspector Juve smiled.

"If I had told you who I was just now, madame, when you were, quite
naturally, so upset, you would not have believed me. You would have
continued to call out. Now, I am particularly anxious to avoid any
scandal or noise at the present moment. I rely on your discretion." He
turned to the two porters, who were dumb with amazement and could make
nothing of the affair. "As for you, my good fellows, I must ask you to
leave your other work and go back at once to your office in the rue
d'Hauteville and tell your manager--what is his name?"

"M. Wooland," one of the men replied.

"Good: tell M. Wooland that I want to see him here at the earliest
possible moment; and tell him to bring with him all the papers he has
that refer to M. Gurn. And not a word to anyone about all this, please,
especially in this neighbourhood. Take my message to your manager, and
that's all."

       *       *       *       *       *

The porters had left hurriedly for the rue d'Hauteville and a quarter of
an hour went by. The detective had requested the concierge to ask the
Madame Aurore to whom she had previously appealed so loudly for help, to
take her place temporarily in the lodge. Juve kept Mme. Doulenques
upstairs with him partly to get information from her, and partly to
prevent her from gossiping downstairs.

While he was opening drawers and ransacking furniture, and plunging his
hand into presses and cupboards, Juve asked the concierge to describe
this tenant of hers, M. Gurn, in whom he appeared to be so deeply
interested.

"He is a rather fair man," the concierge told him, "medium height, stout
build, and clean shaven like an Englishman; there is nothing particular
about him: he is like lots of other people."

This very vague description was hardly satisfactory. The detective told
the policeman to unscrew the lock on a locked trunk, and gave him a
small screw-driver which he had found in the kitchen. Then he turned
again to Mme. Doulenques who was standing stiffly against the wall,
severely silent.

"You told me that M. Gurn had a lady friend. When used he to see her?"

"Pretty often, when he was in Paris; and always in the afternoon.
Sometimes they were together till six or seven o'clock, and once or
twice the lady did not come down before half-past seven."

"Used they to leave the house together?"

"No, sir."

"Did the lady ever stay the night here?"

"Never, sir."

"Yes: evidently a married woman," murmured the detective as if speaking
to himself.

Mme. Doulenques made a vague gesture to show her ignorance on the point.

"I can't tell you anything about that, sir."

"Very well," said the detective; "kindly pass me that coat behind you."

The concierge obediently took down a coat from a hook and handed it to
Juve who searched it quickly, looked it all over and then found a label
sewn on the inside of the collar: it bore the one word _Pretoria_.

"Good!" said he, in an undertone; "I thought as much."

Then he looked at the buttons; these were stamped on the under side with
the name _Smith_.

The gendarme understood what the detective was about, and he too
examined the clothes in the first trunk which he had just opened.

"There is nothing to show where these things came from, sir," he
remarked. "The name of the maker is not on them."

"That's all right," said Juve. "Open the other trunk."

While the gendarme was busy forcing this second lock Juve went for a
moment into the kitchen and came back holding a rather heavy copper
mallet with an iron handle, which he had found there. He was looking at
this mallet with some curiosity, balancing and weighing it in his hands,
when a sudden exclamation of fright from the gendarme drew his eyes to
the trunk, the lid of which had just been thrown back. Juve did not lose
all his professional impassivity, but even he leaped forward like a
flash, swept the gendarme to one side, and dropped on his knees beside
the open box. A horrid spectacle met his eyes. For the trunk contained a
corpse!

The moment Mme. Doulenques caught sight of the ghastly thing, she fell
back into a chair half fainting, and there she remained, unable to move,
with her body hunched forward, and haggard eyes fixed upon the corpse,
of which she caught occasional glimpses as the movements of Juve and the
gendarme every now and then left the shocking thing within the trunk
exposed to her view.

Yet there was nothing especially gruesome or repellent about the
corpse. It was the body of a man of about fifty years of age, with a
pronounced brick-red complexion, and a lofty brow, the height of which
was increased by premature baldness. Long, fair moustaches drooped from
the upper lip almost to the top of the chest. The unfortunate creature
was doubled up in the trunk, with knees bent and head forced down by the
weight of the lid. The body was dressed with a certain fastidiousness,
and it was obviously that of a man of fashion and distinction; there was
no wound to be seen. The calm, quiet face suggested that the victim had
been taken by surprise while in the full vigour of life and killed
suddenly, and had not been subjected to the anguish of a fight for life
or to any slow agony.

Juve half turned to the concierge.

"When did you see M. Gurn last? Exactly, please: it is important."

Mme. Doulenques babbled something unintelligible and then, as the
detective pressed her, made an effort to collect her scattered wits.

"Three weeks ago at least, sir: yes, three weeks exactly; no one has
been here since, I will swear."

Juve made a sign to the gendarme, who understood, and felt the body
carefully.

"Quite stiff, and hard, sir," he said; "yet there is no smell from it.
Perhaps the cold----"

Juve shook his head.

"Even severe cold could not preserve a body in that condition for three
weeks, and it's not cold now, but there is this:" and he showed his
subordinate a small yellowish stain just at the opening of the collar,
close to the Adam's apple, which, in spite of the comparative thinness
of the body, was very much developed.

Juve took the corpse under the arm-pits and raised it gently, wishing to
examine it closely, but anxious, also, not to alter its position. On the
nape of the neck was a large stain of blood, like a black wen and as big
as a five-shilling piece, just above the last vertebra of the spinal
column.

"That's the explanation," the detective murmured, and carefully
replacing the body he continued his investigation. With quick, clever
hands he searched the coat pockets and found the watch in its proper
place. Another pocket was full of money, chiefly small change, with a
few louis. But Juve looked in vain for the pocket-book which the man had
doubtless been in the habit of carrying about with him: the pocket-book
probably containing some means of identification.

The inspector merely grunted, got up, began pacing the room, and
questioned the concierge.

"Did M. Gurn have a motor-car?"

"No, sir," she replied, looking surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, for no particular reason," said the inspector with affected
indifference, but at the same time he was contemplating a large nickel
pump that lay on a what-not, a syringe holding perhaps half a pint, like
those that chauffeurs use. He looked at it steadfastly for several
minutes. His next question was addressed to the gendarme who was still
on his knees by the trunk.

"We have found one yellow stain on the neck; you will very likely find
some more. Have a look at the wrists and the calves of the legs and the
stomach. But do it carefully, so as not to disturb the body." While the
gendarme began to obey his chief's order, carefully undoing the clothing
on the corpse, Juve looked at the concierge again.

"Who did the work of this flat?"

"I did, sir."

Juve pointed to the velvet curtain that screened the door between the
little anteroom and the room in which they were.

"How did you come to leave that curtain unhooked at the top, without
putting it to rights?"

Mme. Doulenques looked at it.

"It's the first time I've seen it like that," she said apologetically;
"the curtain could not have been unhooked when I did the room last
without my noticing it. Anyhow, it hasn't been like that long. I ought
to say that as M. Gurn was seldom here I didn't do the place out
thoroughly very often."

"When did you do it out last?"

"Quite a month ago."

"That is to say M. Gurn went away a week after you last cleaned the
place up?"

"Yes, sir."

Juve changed the subject, and pointed to the corpse.

"Tell me, madame, did you know that person?"

The concierge fought down her nervousness and for the first time looked
at the unfortunate victim with a steady gaze.

"I have never seen him before," she said, with a little shudder.

"And so, when that gentleman came up here, you did not notice him?" said
the inspector gently.

"No, I did not notice him," she declared, and then went on as if
answering some question which occurred to her own mind. "And I wonder I
didn't, for people very seldom enquired for M. Gurn; of course when the
lady was with him M. Gurn was not at home to anybody. This--this dead
man must have come straight up himself."

Juve nodded, and was about to continue his questioning when the bell
rang.

"Open the door," said Juve to the concierge, and he followed her to the
entrance of the flat, partly fearing to find some intruder there, partly
hoping to see some unexpected person whose arrival might throw a little
light upon the situation.

At the opened door Juve saw a young man of about twenty-five, an obvious
Englishman with clear eyes and close-cropped hair. With an accent that
further made his British origin unmistakable, the visitor introduced
himself:

"I am Mr. Wooland, manager of the Paris branch of the South Steamship
Company. It seems that I am wanted at M. Gurn's flat on the fifth floor
of this house, by desire of the police."

Juve came forward.

"I am much obliged to you for putting yourself to this inconvenience,
sir: allow me to introduce myself: M. Juve, an Inspector from the
Criminal Investigation Department. Please come in."

Solemn and impassive, Mr. Wooland entered the room; a side glance
suddenly showed him the open trunk and the dead body, but not a muscle
of his face moved. Mr. Wooland came of a good stock, and had all that
admirable self-possession which is the strength of the powerful
Anglo-Saxon race. He looked at the inspector in somewhat haughty
silence, waiting for him to begin.

"Will you kindly let me know, sir, the instructions your firm had with
regard to the forwarding of the baggage which you sent for to this flat
of M. Gurn's this morning?"

"Four days ago, Inspector," said the young man, "on the 14th of December
to be precise, the London mail brought us a letter in which Lord
Beltham, who had been a client of ours for several years, instructed us
to collect, on the 17th of December, that is, to-day, four articles
marked H. W. K., 1, 2, 3 and 4, from M. Gurn's apartments, 147 rue
Levert. He informed us that the concierge had orders to allow us to take
them away."

"To what address were you to despatch them?"

"Our client instructed us to forward the trunks by the first steamer to
Johannesburg, where he would send for them; we were to send two invoices
with the goods as usual; the third invoice was to be sent to London, Box
63, Charing Cross Post Office."

Juve made a note of Box 63, Charing Cross in his pocket-book.

"Addressed to what name or initials?"

"Simply Beltham."

"Good. There are no other documents relating to the matter?"

"No, I have nothing else," said Mr. Wooland.

The young fellow relapsed into his usual impassive silence. Juve watched
him for a minute or two and then said:

"You must have heard the various rumours current in Paris three weeks
ago, sir, about Lord Beltham. He was a very well-known personage in
society. Suddenly he disappeared; his wife left nothing undone to give
the matter the widest publicity. Were you not rather surprised when you
received a letter from Lord Beltham four days ago?"

Mr. Wooland was not disconcerted by the rather embarrassing question.

"Of course I had heard of Lord Beltham's disappearance, but it was not
for me to form any official opinion about it. I am a business man, sir,
not a detective. Lord Beltham might have disappeared voluntarily or the
reverse: I was not asked to say which. When I got his letter I simply
decided to carry out the orders it contained. I should do the same again
in similar circumstances."

"Are you satisfied that the order was sent by Lord Beltham?"

"I have already told you, sir, that Lord Beltham had been a client of
ours for several years; we have had many similar dealings with him. This
last order which we received from him appeared to be entirely above
suspicion: identical in form and in terms with the previous letters we
had had from him." He took a letter out of his pocket-book, and handed
it to Juve. "Here is the order, sir; if you think proper you can compare
it with similar documents filed in our office in the rue d'Hauteville";
and as Juve was silent, Mr. Wooland, with the utmost dignity, enquired:
"Is there any further occasion for me to remain here?"

"Thank you, sir, no," Juve replied. Mr. Wooland made an almost
imperceptible bow and was on the point of withdrawing when the detective
stayed him once more. "M. Wooland, did you know Lord Beltham?"

"No, sir: Lord Beltham always sent us his orders by letter; once or
twice he has spoken to us over the telephone, but he never came to our
office, and I have never been to his house."

"Thank you very much," said Juve, and with a bow Mr. Wooland withdrew.

       *       *       *       *       *

With meticulous care Juve replaced every article which he had moved
during his investigations. He carefully shut the lid of the trunk, thus
hiding the unhappy corpse from the curious eyes of the gendarme and the
still terrified Mme. Doulenques. Then he leisurely buttoned his overcoat
and spoke to the gendarme.

"Stay here until I send a man to relieve you; I am going to your
superintendent now." At the door he called the concierge. "Will you
kindly go down before me, madame? Return to your lodge, and please do
not say a word about what has happened to anyone whatever."

"You can trust me, sir," the worthy creature murmured, and Juve walked
slowly away from the house with head bowed in thought.

There could be no doubt about it: the body in the trunk was that of Lord
Beltham! Juve knew the Englishman quite well. But who was the murderer?

"Everything points to Gurn," Juve thought, "and yet would an ordinary
murderer have dared to commit such a crime as this? Am I letting my
imagination run away with me again? I don't know: but it seems to me
that about this murder, committed in the very middle of Paris, in a
crowded house where yet nobody heard or suspected anything, there is an
audacity, a certainty of impunity, and above all a multiplicity of
precautions, that are typical of the Fantomas manner!" He clenched his
fists and an evil smile curled his lips as he repeated, like a threat,
the name of that terrible and most mysterious criminal, of whose hellish
influence he seemed to be conscious yet once again. "Fantomas! Fantomas!
Did Fantomas really commit this murder? And if he did, shall I ever
succeed in throwing light upon this new mystery, and learning the secret
of that tragic room?"




VIII. A DREADFUL CONFESSION


While Juve was devoting his marvellous skill and incomparable daring to
the elucidation of the new case with which the Criminal Investigation
Department had entrusted him in Paris, things were marching at Beaulieu,
where the whole machinery of the law was being set in motion for the
discovery and arrest of Charles Rambert.

       *       *       *       *       *

With a mighty clatter and racket Bouzille came down the <DW72> and
stopped before old mother Chiquard's cottage. He arrived in his own
equipage, and an extraordinary one it was!

Bouzille was mounted upon a tricycle of prehistoric design, with two
large wheels behind and a small steering wheel in front, and a rusty
handle-bar from which all the plating was worn off. The solid rubber
tyres which once had adorned the machine had worn out long ago, and were
now replaced by twine twisted round the felloes of the wheels; this was
for ever fraying away and the wheels were fringed with a veritable
lace-work of string. Bouzille must have picked up this impossible
machine for an old song at some local market, unless perhaps some
charitable person gave it to him simply to get rid of it. He styled this
tricycle his "engine," and it was by no means the whole of his equipage.
Attached to the tricycle by a stout rope was a kind of wicker
perambulator on four wheels, which he called his "sleeping-car," because
he stored away in it all the bits of rag he picked up on his journeys,
and also his very primitive bedding and the little piece of waterproof
canvas under which he often slept in the open air. Behind the
sleeping-car was a third vehicle, the restaurant-car, consisting of an
old soap box mounted on four solid wooden wheels, which were fastened to
the axles by huge conical bolts; in this he kept his provisions; lumps
of bread and fat, bottles and vegetables, all mixed up in agreeable
confusion. Bouzille made quite long journeys in this train of his, and
was well known throughout the south-west of France. Often did the
astonished population see him bent over his tricycle, with his pack on
his back, pedalling with extraordinary rapidity down the hills, while
the carriages behind him bumped and jumped over the inequalities in the
surface of the road until it seemed impossible that they could retain
their equilibrium.

Old mother Chiquard had recognised the cause of the racket. The healthy
life of the country had kept the old woman strong and active in spite of
the eighty-three years that had passed over her head, and now she came
to her door, armed with a broom, and hailed the tramp in angry,
threatening tones.

"So it's you, is it, you thief, you robber of the poor! It's shocking,
the way you spend your time in evil doing! What do you want now, pray?"

Slowly and sheepishly and with head bowed, Bouzille approached mother
Chiquard, nervously looking out for a whack over the head with the broom
the old lady held.

"Don't be cross," he pleaded when he could get in a word; "I want to
come to an arrangement with you, mother Chiquard, if it can be done."

"That's all according," said the old woman, eyeing the tramp with great
mistrust; "I haven't much faith in arrangements with you: rascals like
you always manage to do honest folk."

Mother Chiquard turned back into her cottage; it was no weather for her
to stop out of doors, for a strong north wind was blowing, and that was
bad for her rheumatism. Bouzille deliberately followed her inside and
closed the door carefully behind him. Without ceremony he walked up to
the hearth, where a scanty wood fire was burning, and put down his pack
so as to be able to rub his hands more freely.

"Miserable weather, mother Chiquard!"

The obstinate old lady stuck to her one idea.

"If it isn't miserable to steal my rabbit, this is the finest weather
that ever I saw!"

"You make a lot of fuss about a trifle," the tramp protested,
"especially since you will be a lot the better by the arrangement I'm
going to suggest."

The notion calmed mother Chiquard a little, and she sat down on a form,
while Bouzille took a seat upon the table.

"What do you mean?" the old woman enquired.

"Well," said Bouzille, "I suppose your rabbit would have fetched a
couple of shillings in the market; I've brought you two fowls that are
worth quite eighteen-pence each, and if you will give me some dinner at
twelve o'clock I will put in a good morning's work for you."

Mother Chiquard looked at the clock upon the wall; it was eight o'clock.
The tramp's proposal represented four hours' work, which was not to be
despised; but before striking the bargain she insisted on seeing the
fowls. These were extracted from the pack; tied together by the feet,
and half suffocated, the unfortunate creatures were not much to look at,
but they would be cheap, which was worth considering.

"Where did you get these fowls?" mother Chiquard asked, more as a matter
of form than anything else, for she was pretty sure they had not been
honestly come by.

Bouzille put his finger to his lip.

"Hush!" he murmured gently; "that's a secret between me and the poultry.
Well, is it a go?" and he held out his hand to the old lady.

She hesitated a moment and then made up her mind.

"It's a go," she said, putting her horny fingers into the man's hard
palm. "You shall chop me some wood first, and then go down to the river
for the rushes I have put in to soak; they must be well swollen by this
time."

Bouzille was glad to have made it up with mother Chiquard, and pleased
at the prospect of a good dinner at midday; he opened the cottage door,
and leisurely arranged a few logs within range of the axe with which he
was going to split them; mother Chiquard began to throw down some grain
to the skinny and famished fowls that fluttered round her.

"I thought you were in prison, Bouzille," she said, "over stealing my
rabbit, and also over that affair at the chateau of Beaulieu."

"Oh, those are two quite different stories," Bouzille replied. "You
mustn't mix them up together on any account. As for the chateau job,
every tramp in the district has been run in: I was copped by M'sieu
Morand the morning after the murder; he took me into the kitchen of the
chateau and Mme. Louise gave me something to eat. There was another chap
there with me, a man named Francois Paul who doesn't belong to these
parts; between you and me, I thought he was an evil-looking customer who
might easily have been the murderer, but it doesn't do to say that sort
of thing, and I'm glad I held my tongue because they let him go. I heard
no more about it, and five days later I went back to Brives to attend
the funeral of the Marquise de Langrune. That was a ceremony if you
like! The church all lighted up, and all the nobility from the
neighbourhood present. I didn't lose my time, for I knew all the
gentlemen and ladies and took the best part of sixteen shillings, and
the blind beggar who sits on the steps of the church called me all the
names he could put his tongue to!"

The tramp's story interested mother Chiquard mightily, but her former
idea still dominated her mind.

"So they didn't punish you for stealing my rabbit?"

"Well, they did and they didn't," said Bouzille, scratching his head.
"M'sieu Morand, who is an old friend of mine, took me to the lock-up at
Saint-Jaury, and I was to have gone next morning to the court at Brives,
where I know the sentence for stealing domestic animals is three weeks.
That would have suited me all right just now, for the prison at Brives
is quite new and very comfortable, but that same night Sergeant Doucet
shoved another man into the clink with, me at Saint-Jaury, a raving
lunatic who started smashing everything up, and tried to tear my eyes
out. Naturally, I gave him as good as I got, and the infernal row we
made brought in the sergeant. I told him the chap wanted to throttle
me, and he was nonplussed, for he couldn't do anything with the man, who
was fairly mad, and couldn't leave me alone there with him. So at last
the sergeant took me to one side and told me to hook it and not let him
see me again. So there it is."

While he was chattering like this Bouzille had finished the job set him
by mother Chiquard, who meanwhile had peeled some potatoes and poured
the soup on the bread. He wiped his brow, and seeing the brimming pot,
gave a meaning wink and licked his tongue.

"I'll make the fire up, mother Chiquard; I'm getting jolly hungry."

"So you ought to be, at half-past eleven," the old woman replied. "Yes,
we'll have dinner, and you can get the rushes out afterwards."

Mother Chiquard was the proud free-holder of a little cottage that was
separated from the bank of the Dordogne by the high road between Martel
and Montvalent. Round the cottage she had a small orchard, and opposite,
through a gap in the trees, was a view of the yellow waters of the
Dordogne and the chain of hills that stood up on the far side of the
river. Living here summer and winter, with her rabbits and her fowls,
mother Chiquard earned a little money by making baskets; but she was
crippled with rheumatism, and was miserable every time she had to go
down to the river to pull out the bundles of rushes that she put there
to soak; the work meant not merely an hour's paddling in mud up to the
knees, but also a fortnight's acute agony and at least a shilling for
medicine. So whoever wanted to make a friend of the old woman only had
to volunteer to get the rushes out for her.

As he ate, Bouzille told mother Chiquard of his plans for the coming
spring.

"Yes," he said, "since I'm not doing any time this winter I'm going to
undertake a long journey." He stopped munching for a second and paused
for greater effect. "I am going to Paris, mother Chiquard!" Then, seeing
that the old lady was utterly dumbfounded by the announcement, he leant
his elbows on the table and looked at her over his empty plate. "I've
always had one great desire--to see the Eiffel Tower: that idea has
been running in my head for the last fifteen years. Well, now I'm going
to gratify the wish. I hear you can get a room in Paris for
twopence-halfpenny a night, and I can manage that."

"How long will it take you to get there?" enquired the old woman,
immensely impressed by Bouzille's venturesome plan.

"That depends," said the tramp. "I must allow quite three months with my
train. Of course if I got run in on the way for stealing, or as a rogue
and vagabond, I couldn't say how long it would take."

The meal was over, and the old woman was quietly washing up her few
plates and dishes, when Bouzille, who had gone down to the river to
fetch the rushes, suddenly called shrilly to mother Chiquard.

"Mother Chiquard! Mother Chiquard! Come and look! Just fancy, I've
earned twenty-five francs!"

The summons was so urgent, and the news so amazing, that the old lady
left her house and hurried across the road to the river bank. She saw
the tramp up to his waist in the water, trying, with a long stick, to
drag out of the current a large object which was not identifiable at a
first glance. To all her enquiries Bouzille answered with the same
delighted cry, "I have earned twenty-five francs," too intent on
bringing his fishing job to a successful issue even to turn round. A few
minutes later he emerged dripping from the water, towing a large bundle
to the safety of the bank. Mother Chiquard drew nearer, greatly
interested, and then recoiled with a shriek of horror.

Bouzille had fished out a corpse!

It was a ghastly sight: the body of a very young man, almost a boy, with
long, slender limbs; the face was so horribly swollen and torn as to be
shapeless. One leg was almost entirely torn from the trunk. Through
rents in the clothing strips of flesh were trailing, blue and
discoloured by their long immersion in the water. On the shoulders and
back of the neck were bruises and stains of blood. Bouzille, who was
quite unaffected by the ghastliness of the object and still kept up his
gay chant "I have fished up a body, I've earned twenty-five francs,"
observed that there were large splinters of wood, rotten from long
immersion, sticking in some of the wounds. He stood up and addressed
mother Chiquard who, white as a sheet, was watching him in silence.

"I see what it is: he must have got caught in some mill wheel: that's
what has cut him up like that."

Mother Chiquard shook her head uneasily.

"Suppose it was a murder! That would be an ugly business!"

"It's no good my looking at him any more," said Bouzille. "I don't
recognise him; he's not from the country."

"That's sure," the old woman agreed. "He's dressed like a gentleman."

The two looked at each other in silence. Bouzille was not nearly so
complacent as he had been a few minutes before. The reward of
twenty-five francs prompted him to go at once to inform the police; the
idea of a crime, suggested by the worthy woman, disturbed him greatly,
and all the more because he thought it was well founded. Another murder
in the neighbourhood would certainly vex the authorities, and put the
police in a bad temper. Bouzille knew from experience that the first
thing people do after a tragedy is to arrest all the tramps, and that if
the police are at all crotchety they always contrive to get the tramps
sentenced for something else. He had had a momentary inclination to
establish his winter quarters in prison, but since then he had formed
the plan of going to Paris, and liberty appealed to him more. He reached
a sudden decision.

"I'll punt him back into the water!"

But mother Chiquard stayed him, just as he was putting his idea into
execution.

"You mustn't: suppose somebody has seen us already? It would land us in
no end of trouble!"

Half an hour later, convinced that it was his melancholy duty, Bouzille
left two-thirds of his train in mother Chiquard's custody, got astride
his prehistoric tricycle and slowly pedalled off towards Saint-Jaury.

       *       *       *       *       *

New Year's Day is a melancholy and a tedious one for everybody whose
public or private relations do not make it an exceptionally interesting
one. There is the alteration in the date, for one thing, which is
provocative of thought, and there is the enforced idleness for another,
coming upon energetic folk like a temporary paralysis and leaving them
nothing but meditation wherewith to employ themselves.

Juve, comfortably installed in his own private study, was realising this
just as evening was falling on this first of January. He was a confirmed
bachelor, and for several years had lived in a little flat on the fifth
floor of an old house in the rue Bonaparte. He had not gone out to-day,
but though he was resting he was not idle. For a whole month past he had
been wholly engrossed in his attempt to solve the mystery surrounding
the two cases on which he was engaged, the Beltham case, and the
Langrune case, and his mind was leisurely revolving round them now as he
sat in his warm room before a blazing wood fire, and watched the blue
smoke curl up in rings towards the ceiling. The two cases were very
dissimilar, and yet his detective instinct persuaded him that although
they differed in details their conception and execution emanated not
only from one single brain but also from one hand. He was convinced that
he was dealing with a mysterious and dangerous individual, and that
while he himself was out in the open he was fighting a concealed and
invisible adversary; he strove to give form and substance to the
adversary, and the name of Fantomas came into his mind. Fantomas! What
might Fantomas be doing now, and, if he had a real existence, as the
detective most firmly believed, how was he spending New Year's Day?

A sharp ring at the bell startled him from his chair, and not giving his
man-servant time to answer it, he went himself to the door and took from
a messenger a telegram which he hastily tore open and read:

"Have found in the Dordogne drowned body of young man, face
unrecognisable, from description possibly Charles Rambert. Please
consider situation and wire course you will take."

The telegram had been handed in at Brives and was signed by M. de
Presles.

"Something fresh at last," the detective muttered. "Drowned in the
Dordogne, and face unrecognisable! I wonder if it really is Charles
Rambert?"

Since M. Etienne Rambert and his son had disappeared so unaccountably,
the detective naturally had formulated mentally several hypotheses, but
he had arrived at no conclusion which really satisfied his judgment. But
though their flight had not surprised him greatly, he had been rather
surprised that the police had not been able to find any trace of them,
for rightly or wrongly Juve credited them with a good deal of cleverness
and power. So it was by no means unreasonable to accept the death of the
fugitives as explanation of the failure of the police to find them.
However, this was a fresh development of the case, and he was about to
draft a reply to M. de Presles when once more the bell rang sharply.

This time Juve did not move, but listened while his man spoke to the
visitor. It was an absolute rule of Juve's never to receive visitors at
his flat. If anyone wanted to see him on business, he was to be found
almost every day in his office at head-quarters about eleven in the
morning; to a few people he was willing to give appointments at a quiet
and discreet little cafe in the boulevard Saint-Michel; but he invited
no one to his own rooms except one or two of his own relations from the
country, and even they had to be provided with a password before they
could obtain admission. So now, to all the entreaties of the caller,
Juve's servant stolidly replied with the assurance that his master would
see no one; yet the visitor's insistence was so great that at last the
servant was prevailed upon to bring in his card, albeit with some fear
as to the consequences for himself. But to his extreme relief and
surprise, Juve, when he had read the name engraved upon the card, said
sharply:

"Bring him in here at once!"

And in another couple of seconds M. Etienne Rambert was in the room!

The old gentleman who had fled so mysteriously a few days before, taking
with him the son over whom so dread a charge was hanging, bowed
deferentially to the detective, with the pitiful mien of one who is
crushed beneath the burden of misfortune. His features were drawn, his
face bore the stamp of deepest grief, and in his hand he held an evening
paper, which in his agitation he had crumpled almost into a ball.

"Tell me, sir, if it is true," he said in low trembling tones. "I have
just read that."

Juve pointed to a chair, took the paper mechanically, and smoothing it
out, read, below a large head-line, "Is this a sequel to the Beaulieu
Crime?" a story similar to that he had just gathered from M. de Presles'
telegram.

Juve contemplated M. Etienne Rambert in silence for a few minutes, and
then, without replying directly to his visitor's first question, asked
him a question in that quiet voice of his, the wonderful indifferent
tonelessness of which concealed the least clue to his inmost thoughts.

"Why do you come to me, sir?"

"To find out, sir," the old man answered.

"To find out what?"

"If that poor drowned corpse is--my son's: is my poor Charles!"

"It is rather you who can tell me, sir," said Juve, impassive as ever.

There was a pause. Despite his emotion, M. Rambert seemed to be thinking
deeply. Suddenly he appeared to make an important decision, and raising
his eyes to the detective he spoke very slowly:

"Have pity, sir, on a broken-hearted father. Listen to me: I have a
dreadful confession to make!"

Juve drew his chair close to M. Etienne Rambert.

"I am listening," he said gently, and M. Etienne Rambert began his
"dreadful confession."




IX. ALL FOR HONOUR


Society had mustered in force at the Cahors Law Courts, where the
Assizes were about to be held. Hooting motor-cars and antiquated coaches
drawn by pursy horses were arriving every minute, bringing gentry from
the great houses in the neighbourhood, squireens and well-to-do country
people, prosperous farmers and jolly wine-growers, all of them
determined not to miss "the trial" that was causing such immense
excitement because the principal figure in it was well known as a friend
of one of the oldest families in those parts; and because he was not
merely a witness, nor even the victim, but actually the defendant in the
case, although he had been admitted to bail in the interval by order of
the court.

Compared with those of large towns, this court room at Cahors was small,
but it was filled by a considerable and most select crowd. Quiet
greetings and low-toned conversation were freely exchanged, but there
was an air of melancholy about every person present, and it was obvious
that they were drawn there by no mere curiosity or desire for horrid
details, but by legitimate interest in the development of great drama.

One of the leading heroines in the case was pointed out with particular
sympathy.

"That's Therese Auvernois, over there in the first row! The President of
the Court gave her that seat; the officer who took the card of admission
over to Querelles told me so."

"That's where Mme. de Vibray lives, isn't it?"

"Yes: she is sitting next to Therese now: that pretty woman in grey.
Since Mme. de Langrune's death she has kept the child with her,
thinking, very rightly, that it would be too painful for her to be at
Beaulieu. The family council have appointed President Bonnet temporary
guardian of Therese. He is that tall, thin man over there, talking to
the steward, Dollon."

The Baronne de Vibray turned affectionately to Therese, who was looking
dreadfully pale in her long mourning veil.

"Are you sure this won't tire you too much, dear? Shall we go outside
for a little while?"

"Oh, no, please do not worry about me," Therese replied. "Indeed I shall
be all right."

President Bonnet sat by the two ladies. He had been engaged solemnly
exchanging bows with everyone in the court room whom he considered it
flattering to himself to know; now he took part in the conversation, and
displayed his special knowledge by explaining the constitution of the
court and pointing out where the clerk sat, and where the public
prosecutor sat, and where the jury sat, all at great length and much to
the interest of the people near him: with, however, one exception; a man
dressed entirely in black, with his head half buried in the huge collar
of a travelling ulster, and dark glasses over his eyes, appeared to be
vastly bored by the old magistrate's disquisition. Juve--for it was
he--knew too much about legal procedure to require explanations from
President Bonnet.

Suddenly a thrill ran through the room and conversation stopped
abruptly. M. Etienne Rambert had just walked down the gangway in the
court to the seat reserved for him, just in front of the witness box and
close to a kind of rostrum in which Maitre Dareuil, an old member of the
Cahors Bar, immediately took his place. M. Etienne Rambert was very
pale, but it was obvious that he was by no means overwhelmed by the
fatality overhanging him. He was, indeed, a fine figure as he took his
seat and mechanically passed his hand through his long white curls,
flinging them back and raising his head almost as if in defiance of the
inquisitive crowd that was gazing at him.

Almost immediately after he had taken his seat a door was thrown open
and the jury filed in, and then a black-gowned usher came forward and
shrilly called for silence.

"Stand up, gentlemen! Hats off, please! Gentlemen, the Court!"

With solemn, measured steps, and heads bent as if absorbed in
profoundest meditation, the judges slowly proceeded to their seats. The
president formally declared the court open, whereupon the clerk rose
immediately to read the indictment.

The Clerk of the Court at Cahors was a most excellent man, but modesty
was his distinguishing characteristic and his chief desire appeared to
be to shun responsibility, figure as little prominently as possible, and
even escape observation altogether. Assizes were not often held at
Cahors, and he had had few occasions to read an indictment as tragic as
this present one, with the result that he lacked confidence now. He read
in a toneless, monotonous voice, so nervously and softly that nobody in
the body of the court could hear a word he said, and even the jury were
obliged to lean their elbows on the desk before them and make an ear
trumpet of their hands to find out what it was all about.

Etienne Rambert, however, was only a few feet from the clerk; he did not
miss a word, and it was evident from his nervous movements every now and
then that some passages in the indictment hit him very hard indeed, and
even lessened his general confidence.

When the clerk had finished Etienne Rambert sat still, with his forehead
resting in his hands, as if crushed by the weight of the memories the
indictment had evoked. Then the sharp, thin voice of the President of
the Court snapped the chain of his thoughts.

"Stand up, sir!"

And pale as death Etienne Rambert rose and folded his arms across his
breast. In firm, yet somehow muffled tones, he answered the preliminary
formal questions. His name was Herve Paul Etienne Rambert; his age,
fifty-nine; his occupation, a merchant, owning and working rubber
plantations in South America. Then followed the formal enquiry whether
he had heard and understood the indictment which had just been read.

"I followed it all, sir," he replied, with a little gesture expressive
of his sense of the gravity of the facts detailed and the weight of the
evidence adduced, which won general sympathy for him. "I followed it
all, but I protest against some of the allegations, and I protest with
my whole energy against the suggestion that I have failed in my duty as
a man of honour and as a father!"

The President of the Court checked him irritably.

"Excuse me, I do not intend to permit you to extend the pleadings
indefinitely. I shall examine you on the various points of the
indictment, and you may protest as much as you please." The unfeeling
rudeness provoked no comment from the defendant, and the President
proceeded. "Well, you have heard the indictment. It charges you first
with having aided and abetted the escape of your son, whom an enquiry
held in another place had implicated in the murder of the Marquise de
Langrune; and it charges you secondly with having killed your son, whose
body has been recovered from the Dordogne, in order that you might
escape the penalty of public obloquy."

At this brutal statement of the case Etienne Rambert made a proud
gesture of indignation.

"Sir," he exclaimed, "there are different ways of putting things. I do
not deny the purport of the indictment, but I object to the summary of
it that you present. No one has ever dared to contend that I killed my
son in order to escape public obloquy, as you have just insinuated. I am
entirely indifferent to the worlds opinion. What the indictment is
intended to allege, the only thing it can allege, is that I wrought
justice upon a criminal who ought to have filled me with horror but
whom, nevertheless, I ought not to have handed over to the public
executioner."

This time it was the judge's turn to be astonished. He was so accustomed
to the cheap triumphs that judges look to win in court that he had
expected to make mincemeat of this poor, broken old man whom the law had
delivered to his tender mercy. But he discovered that the old man had
fine courage and replied with spirit to his malevolent remarks.

"We will discuss your right to take the law into your own hands
presently," he said, "but that is not the question now: there are other
points which it would be well for you to explain to the jury. Why, in
the first place, did you obstinately decline to speak to the examining
magistrate?"

"I had no answer to make to the examining magistrate," Etienne Rambert
answered slowly, as if he were weighing his words, "because in my
opinion he had no questions to put to me! I do not admit that I am
charged with anything contrary to the Code, or that any such charge can
be formulated against me. The indictment charges me with having killed
my son because I believed him to be guilty of the murder of Mme. de
Langrune and would not hand him over to the gallows. I have never
confessed to that murder, sir, and nothing will ever make me do so. And
that is why I would not reply to the examining magistrate, because I
would not admit that there was anything before the court concerning
myself: because, since the dreadful tragedy in my private life was
exposed to public opinion, I desired that I should be judged by public
opinion, which, sir, is not represented by you who are a professional
judge, but by the jury here who will shortly say whether I am really a
criminal wretch: by the jury, many of whom are fathers themselves and,
when they think of their own sons, will wonder what appalling visions
must have passed through my mind when I was forced to believe that my
boy, my own son, had committed a cowardly murder! What sort of tragedy
will they think that must have been for a man like me, with sixty years
of honour and of honourable life behind him?"

The outburst ended on a sob, and the whole court was moved with
sympathy, women wiping their eyes, men coughing, and even the jury
striving hard to conceal the emotion that stirred them.

The judge glared round the court, and after a pause addressed the
defendant again with sarcastic phrases.

"So that is why you stood mute during the enquiry, was it, sir? Odd!
very odd! I admire the interpretation you place upon your duty as an
honourable man. It is--quaint!"

Etienne Rambert interrupted the sneering speech.

"I am quite sure, sir, that there are plenty of people here who will
understand and endorse what I did."

The declaration was so pointedly personal that the judge took it up.

"And I am quite sure that people of principle will understand me when I
have shown them your conduct as it really was. You have a predilection
for heroics; it will not be without interest to bring things to the
point. Your attitude throughout this affair has been this:--it is not
for me to anticipate the issue of the enquiry which will be held some
day into the murder of Mme. de Langrune, but I must recall the fact that
the moment you believed your son was the murderer, the moment you
discovered the blood-stained towel which furnished the circumstantial
evidence of his guilt, you--the man of honour, mind you,--never thought
of handing over the culprit to the police who were actually in the
precincts of the chateau, but only thought of securing his escape, and
helping him to get away! You even accompanied him in his flight, and so
became in a sense his accomplice. I suppose you do not deny that?"

Etienne Rambert shook with emotion and answered in ringing tones.

"If you are of opinion, sir, that that was an act of complicity on my
part, I will not only not deny it, I will proclaim it from the
housetops! I became the accomplice of a murderer by inducing him to run
away, did I? You forget, sir, that at the moment when I first believed
my son was the culprit--I was not his accomplice then, I suppose?--there
was a bond between him and me already that I could not possibly break:
he was my son! Sir, the duty of a father--and I attach the very loftiest
meaning to the word 'duty'--can never entail his giving up his son!"

A fresh murmur of sympathy through the court annoyed the judge, who
shrugged his shoulders.

"Let us leave empty rhetoric alone," he said. "You have plenty of fine
phrases with which to defend your action; that, indeed, is your concern,
as the jury will doubtless appreciate; but I think it will be more
advantageous to clear up the facts a little--not more advantageous to
you, perhaps, but that is what I am here to do. So will you please tell
me whether your son confessed to having murdered Mme. de Langrune,
either during that night when you persuaded him to run away, or
afterwards? Yes or no, please."

"I can't answer, sir. My son was mad! I will not believe my son was a
criminal! There was absolutely no motive to prompt him to the deed, and
his mother is in an asylum! That is the whole explanation of the crime!
If he committed murder, it was in a fit of temporary insanity! He is
dead; I refuse to cover his memory with the stain of infamy!"

"In other words, according to you Charles Rambert did confess, but you
don't want to say so."

"I do not say he did confess."

"You leave it to be inferred."

Etienne Rambert made no reply, and the judge passed on to another point.

"What exactly did you do after you left the chateau?"

"What anyone does, I suppose, when he runs away. We wandered miserably
about, going through fields and woods, I accusing him and he defending
himself. We avoided the villages, scarcely venturing even in the early
morning to go and buy food, and walked quickly, wishing to get as far
away as possible. We spent the most frightful time it is possible to
conceive."

"How long was all this?"

"I was with my son for four days, sir."

"So it was on the fourth day that you killed him?"

"Have pity, sir! I did not kill my son. It was a murderer that I had
with me, a murderer for whom the police were hunting and for whom the
guillotine was waiting!"

"A murderer, if you prefer it so," said the judge, entirely heedless of
the unhappy man's protests. "But you had no right to assume the
functions of executioner. Come, you admit you did kill him?"

"I do not admit it."

"Do you deny that you killed him?"

"I did what my duty told me to do!"

"Still the same story!" said the judge, angrily drumming his fingers on
the desk. "You refuse to answer. But even in your own interests you must
have the courage to adopt some definite theory. Well, would you have
been glad if your son had taken his own life?"

"May I entreat you to remember that my son is dead!" Etienne Rambert
said once more. "I can only remember the one fact that he was my son. I
can't say that I desired his death. I don't even know now if he was
guilty. Whatever horror I may feel for a crime, I can only remember now
that Charles was not in his right mind, and that he was the son of my
loins!"

Again a tremor of emotion passed through the court, and again the judge
made an angry gesture ordering silence.

"So you decline to answer any of the principal points of the indictment?
The jury will no doubt appreciate the reason. Well, can you let us know
any of the advice you gave your son? If you did not desire him to take
his own life, and if you had no intention of killing him, what did you
want?"

"Oblivion," said Etienne Rambert, more calmly this time. "It was not for
me to give my son up, and I could only desire for him oblivion, and if
that was impossible, then death. I implored him to think of the life
that was before him, and the future of shame, and I urged him to
disappear for ever."

"Ah, you admit you did recommend him to commit suicide?"

"I mean I wanted him to go abroad."

The president feigned to be occupied with his notes, purposely giving
time for the importance of the last admission he had wrung from Etienne
Rambert to sink into the minds of the jury. Then, without raising his
head, he asked abruptly:

"You were very surprised to hear of his death?"

"No," said Rambert dully.

"How did you part from each other?"

"The last night we slept out of doors, under a stack; we were both worn
out and heart-sick; I prayed God of His mercy to have pity on us. It was
by the bank of the Dordogne. Next morning when I woke up I was alone.
He--my son--had disappeared. I know no more."

The judge quelled the emotion in the court by a threatening glance, and
sprang a question on the defendant which was like a trap to catch him
lying.

"If at that time you knew no more, how was it that a few days later you
called on Inspector Juve and asked him at once what was known about the
dead body of your son? The body had only been recovered within the
previous hour or two, and had not been absolutely identified; the
newspapers, at any rate, only suggested the identity, with the utmost
reserve. But you, sir, had no doubt on the subject! You knew that the
corpse was that of your son! Why? How?"

It was one of the strongest points that could be made in support of the
theory that Etienne Rambert had murdered his son, and the defendant
immediately saw the difficulty he would have in giving an adequate
answer without compromising himself. He turned to the jury, as though he
had more hope in them than in the court.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "this is torture! I can bear no more! I cannot
answer any more. You know quite enough to form your judgment of me! Form
it now! Say if I failed in my duty as a man of honour and a father! I,
at least, can answer no more questions!" and he sank back in his place
like a beaten man, crushed by the distress evoked by all these painful
memories.

The judge nodded to the jury with the grim complacency of a man who has
run down his game.

"This refusal to answer my questions is in itself tantamount to a
confession," he said acidly. "Well, we will proceed to call the
witnesses. I should like to say that the most interesting witness would
undoubtedly be Bouzille, the tramp who recovered the body of Charles
Rambert; but unfortunately that individual has no fixed abode and it has
not been possible to serve him with a subpoena."

A number of witnesses succeeded one another in the box, without,
however, throwing any fresh light upon the matter; they were peasants
who had met the two Ramberts when they were flying from the chateau,
village bakers who had sold them bread, and lockkeepers who had seen,
but been unable to recover, the floating corpse. The people in the court
began to weary of the proceedings, the more so as it was confidently
rumoured that Etienne Rambert had proudly declined to call any
witnesses on his behalf, and even to allow his counsel to make any
rhetorical appeal to the jury. It might be imprudent, but there was
something fine in his defiance.

There was, however, one more thrill of interest for the public. The
judge had explained that he deemed it unnecessary to call the detective
Juve, inasmuch as all the information he had to give was already
detailed in the long indictment, but as Mme. de Langrune's granddaughter
was present in court, he would exercise his discretion and request her
to answer one or two questions. And, much taken aback by this unexpected
publicity, Therese Auvernois followed the usher to the witness-box.

"Mademoiselle Therese Auvernois, I need hardly ask if you recognise M.
Rambert: but do you identify him as the person whose conversation with
young Charles Rambert you overheard on that fatal night at the chateau
of Beaulieu?"

"Yes, sir, that is M. Etienne Rambert," she replied in low tones, and
with a long and tender look of pity at the defendant.

"Will you please tell us anything you know that has any bearing upon the
charge brought against the defendant, the charge of having killed his
son?"

Therese made a visible effort to restrain her distress.

"I can only say one thing, sir: that M. Rambert was talking to his son
in tones of such terrible distress that I knew his heart was broken by
the tragedy. I have heard so much from my dear grandmother about M.
Etienne Rambert that I can only remember that she always declared him to
be a man of the very highest principle, and I can only tell him here how
dreadfully sorry I am for him, and that everybody pities him as much as
I do."

The judge had expected that Therese would be a witness hostile to the
defendant, whereas anything she was going to say would obviously be much
to his advantage. He cut her short.

"That is enough, mademoiselle. Thank you," and while Therese was going
back to her seat, wiping away the tears that would come to her eyes
despite her bravest efforts to keep her self-control in the presence of
so many strangers, the judge announced that there were no other
witnesses to be heard, and called upon the Public Prosecutor to address
the court.

That personage rose at once and made a harangue that was eloquent
enough, no doubt, but introduced no new features into the case. He
relied upon his law rather than his facts: rapidly recapitulated the
defendant's contradictions and pitifully weak arguments, if arguments
they could be called: claimed that the facts had been proved despite the
defendant's steady refusal to answer questions: and insisted on the
point that the defendant had no right whatever to take the law into his
own hands, and either kill his son or aid and abet in his flight. He
concluded by asking for a verdict of guilty, and a sentence of penal
servitude for life.

To him succeeded counsel for the defendant, whose speech was brevity
itself. He declined to make any appeal _ad misericordiam_, but simply
asked the jury to decide whether the defendant had not acted as any
high-principled father would act when he discovered that his son had
committed a crime during a fit of insanity. He asked only for an
impartial decision on the facts, from men of high principle, and he sat
down conscious of having focussed the issue on the proper point and
secured the sympathy of the public.

The judges withdrew to their room, the jury retired to consider their
verdict, and Etienne Rambert was removed between two warders. Juve had
not stirred during the whole trial, or displayed the least sign of
approval or disapproval at any of the questions and answers exchanged.
He sat now unobtrusively listening to the conversation that passed near
him, relative to the issue of the case.

President Bonnet opined that Etienne Rambert had blundered in refusing
to put up any defence: he had shown contempt of court, which was always
unwise, and the court would show him no mercy. Dollon was of another
opinion: according to him Etienne Rambert was a sport of fate, deserving
pity rather than severity, and the court would be very lenient. Another
man declared that Etienne Rambert had been in an impasse: however fondly
he loved his son he could not but hope that he might commit suicide: if
a friend committed an offence against the laws of honour, the only thing
to do was to put a pistol into his hand. And so on: the only point on
which all were unanimous was their sympathy with the defendant.

But a bell rang sharply; grave and impassive, the jury returned, the
judges filed once more into their seats, Etienne Rambert was led back
into court by the warders. In tense silence the foreman of the jury
spoke:

"In the presence of God and of man, and upon my honour and my conscience
I declare that the answer of the jury is 'no' to all the questions put,
and that is the answer of them all."

It was acquittal!

There was no applause, but yet it seemed as if the words that set the
defendant free had relieved every bosom of an overwhelming dread; the
air seemed easier to breathe; and there was no one there but seemed
physically better and also happier, for hearing a verdict which gave
sanction for the general pity they had felt for the unhappy defendant, a
man of honour and a most unhappy father!

By their verdict the jury had implicitly applauded and commiserated
Etienne Rambert; but he still sat in the dock, broken and prostrated by
terrible distress, sobbing unreservedly and making no effort to restrain
his immeasurable grief.




X. PRINCESS SONIA'S BATH


Four months had passed since Etienne Rambert had been acquitted at the
Cahors Assizes, and the world was beginning to forget the Beaulieu
tragedy as it had already almost forgotten the mysterious murder of Lord
Beltham. Juve alone did not allow his daily occupation to put the two
cases out of his mind. True, he had ceased to make any direct enquiries,
and gave no sign that he still had any interest in those crimes; but the
detective knew very well that in both of them he had to contend with no
ordinary murderer and he was content to remain in the shadow, waiting
and watching, in seeming inactivity, for some slip which should betray
the person or persons who had perpetrated two of the most puzzling
murders that he had ever had to deal with.

It was the end of June, and Paris was beginning to empty. But the spring
had been late and cold that year, and although it was within a couple of
days of July society had lingered on in the capital; luxuriously
appointed carriages still swept along the Champs Elysees when the
audiences poured out of theatres and concert rooms, and fashionably
attired people still thronged the broad pavements and gathered before
the brilliantly lighted cafes on the Rond-Point; even at that late hour
the Champs Elysees were as animated as in the busiest hours of the day.

At the Royal Palace Hotel the greatest animation prevailed. The entire
staff was hurrying about the vast entrance halls and the palatial rooms
on the ground floor; for it was the hour when the guests of the Royal
Palace Hotel were returning from their evening's amusements, and the
spacious vestibules of the immense hotel were crowded with men in
evening dress, young fellows in dinner jackets, and women in low-cut
gowns.

A young and fashionable woman got out of a perfectly appointed victoria,
and M. Louis, the manager of the staff, came forward and bowed low, as
he only did to clients of the very highest distinction. The lady
responded with a gracious smile, and the manager called a servant.

"The lift for Mme. la Princesse Sonia Danidoff," and the next moment the
beautiful vision, who had created quite a sensation merely in passing
through the hall, had disappeared within the lift and was borne up to
her apartments.

Princess Sonia was one of the most important clients that the Royal
Palace Hotel possessed. She belonged to one of the greatest families in
the world, being, by her marriage with Prince Danidoff, cousin to the
Emperor of Russia and, so, connected with many royal personages. Still
barely thirty years of age, she was not pretty but remarkably lovely,
with wonderful blue eyes which formed a strange and most bewitching
contrast to the heavy masses of black hair that framed her face. A woman
of immense wealth, and typically a woman of the world, the Princess
spent six months of the year in Paris, where she was a well-known and
much-liked figure in the most exclusive circles; she was clever and
cultivated, a first-rate musician, and her reputation was spotless,
although it was very seldom that she was accompanied by her husband,
whose duties as Grand Chamberlain to the Tsar kept him almost
continuously in Russia. When in Paris she occupied a suite of four rooms
on the third floor of the Royal Palace Hotel, a suite identical in plan
and in luxury with that reserved for sovereigns who came there
incognito.

The Princess passed through her drawing-room, a vast, round room, with a
superb view over the Arc de Triomphe, and went into her bedroom where
she switched on the electric light.

"Nadine," she called, in her grave, melodious voice, and a young girl,
almost a child, sprang from a low divan hidden in a corner. "Nadine,
take off my cloak and unfasten my hair. Then you can leave me: it is
late, and I am tired."

The little maid obeyed, helped her mistress to put on a silken dressing
gown, and loosened the masses of her hair. The Princess passed a hand
across her brow, as if to brush away a headache.

"Before you go, get a bath ready for me; I think that would rest me."

Ten minutes later Nadine crept back like a shadow, and found the
Princess standing dreamily on the balcony, inhaling deep breaths of the
pure night air. The child kissed the tips of her mistress's fingers.
"Your bath is quite ready," she said, and then withdrew.

A few more minutes passed, and Princess Sonia, half undressed, was just
going into her dressing-room when suddenly she turned and went back to
the middle of the bedroom which she had been on the point of leaving.

"Nadine," she called, "are you still there?" No answer came. "I must
have been dreaming," the Princess murmured, "but I thought I heard
someone moving about."

Sonia Danidoff was not unduly nervous, but like most people who live
much alone and in large hotels, she was wont to be careful, and wished
to make sure that no suspicious person had made his way into her rooms.
She made a rapid survey of her bedroom, glanced into the brilliantly
lighted drawing-room, and then moved to her bed and saw that the
electric bell board, which enabled her to summon any of her own or of
the hotel's servants, was in perfect order. Then, satisfied, she went
into her dressing-room, quickly slipped off the rest of her clothes, and
plunged into the perfumed water in her bath.

She thrilled with pleasure as her limbs, so tired after a long evening,
relaxed in the warm water. On a table close to the bath she had placed a
volume of old Muscovite folk tales, and she was glancing through these
by the shaded light from a lamp above her, when a fresh sound made her
start. She sat up quickly in the water and looked around her. There was
nothing there. Then a little shiver shook her and she sank down again in
the warm bath with a laugh at her own nervousness. And she was just
beginning to read once more, when suddenly a strange voice, with a ring
of malice in it, sounded in her ear. Someone was looking over her
shoulder, and reading aloud the words she had just begun!

Before Sonia Danidoff had time to utter a cry or make a movement, a
strong hand was over her lips, and another gripped her wrist, preventing
her from reaching the button of the electric bell that was fixed among
the taps. The Princess was almost fainting. She was expecting some
horrible shock, expecting to feel some horrible weapon that would take
her life, when the pressure on her lips and the grip upon her wrist
gradually relaxed; and at the same moment, the mysterious individual who
had thus taken her by surprise, moved round the bath and stood in front
of her.

He was a man of about forty years of age, and extremely well dressed. A
perfectly cut dinner jacket proved that the strange visitor was no
unclean dweller in the Paris slums: no apache such as the Princess had
read terrifying descriptions of in luridly illustrated newspapers. The
hands which had held her motionless, and which now restored her liberty
of movement to her, were white and well manicured and adorned with a few
plain rings. The man's face was a distinguished one, and he wore a very
fine black beard; slight baldness added to the height of a forehead
naturally large. But what struck the Princess most, although she had
little heart to observe the man very closely, was the abnormal size of
his head and the number of wrinkles that ran right across his temples,
following the line of the eyebrows.

In silence and with trembling lips Sonia Danidoff made an instinctive
effort again to reach the electric bell, but with a quick movement the
man caught her shoulder and prevented her from doing so. There was a
cryptic smile upon the stranger's lips, and with a furious blush Sonia
Danidoff dived back again into the milky water in the bath.

The man still stood in perfect silence, and at length the Princess
mastered her emotion and spoke to him.

"Who are you? What do you want? Go at once or I will call for help."

"Above all things, do not call out, or you are a dead woman!" said the
stranger harshly. Then he gave a little ironical shrug of his
shoulders. "As for ringing--that would not be easy: you would have to
leave the water to do so! And, besides, I object."

"If it is money, or rings you want," said the Princess between clenched
teeth, "take them! But go!"

The Princess had laid several rings and bracelets on the table by her
side, and the man glanced at them now, but without paying much attention
to what the Princess said.

"Those trinkets are not bad," he said, "but your signet ring is much
finer," and he calmly took the Princess's hand in his and examined the
ring that she had kept on her third finger. "Don't be frightened," he
added as he felt her hand trembling. "Let us have a chat, if you don't
mind! There is nothing especially tempting about jewels apart from their
personality," he said after a little pause, "apart, I mean, from the
person who habitually wears them. But the bracelet on a wrist, or the
necklace round a neck, or the ring upon a finger is another matter!"

Princess Sonia was as pale as death and utterly at a loss to understand
what this extraordinary visitor was driving at. She held up her ring
finger, and made a frightened little apology.

"I cannot take this ring off: it fits too tight."

The man laughed grimly.

"That does not matter in the least, Princess. Anyone who wanted to get a
ring like that could do it quite simply." He felt negligently in his
waistcoat pocket and produced a miniature razor, which he opened. He
flashed the blade before the terrified eyes of the Princess. "With a
sharp blade like this a skilful man could cut off the finger that had
such a splendid jewel on it, in a couple of seconds," and then, seeing
that the Princess, in fresh panic, was on the very point of screaming,
quick as a flash he laid the palm of his hand over her lips, while still
speaking in gentle tones to her. "Please do not be so terrified; I
suppose you take me for some common hotel thief, or highway robber, but,
Princess, can you really believe that I am anything of the kind?"

The man's tone was so earnest, and there was so deferent a look in his
eyes, that the Princess recovered some of her courage.

"But I do not know who you are," she said half questioningly.

"So much the better," the man replied; "there is still time to make one
another's acquaintance. I know who you are, and that is the main thing.
You do not know me, Princess? Well, I assure you that on very many an
occasion I have mingled with the blessed company of your adorers!"

The Princess's anger rose steadily with her courage.

"Sir," she said, "I do not know if you are joking, or if you are talking
seriously, but your behaviour is extraordinary, hateful, abominable----"

"It is merely original, Princess, and it pleases me to reflect that if I
had been content to be presented to you in the ordinary way, in one or
other of the many drawing-rooms we both frequent, you would certainly
have taken much less notice of me than you have taken to-night; from the
persistence of your gaze I can see that from this day onwards, not a
single feature of my face will be unfamiliar to you, and I am convinced
that, whatever happens, you will remember it for a very long time."

Princess Sonia tried to force a smile. She had recovered her
self-possession, and was wondering what kind of man she had to deal
with. If she was still not quite persuaded that this was not a vulgar
thief, and if she had but little faith in his professions of admiration
of herself, she was considerably exercised by the idea that she was
alone with a lunatic. The man seemed to read her thoughts for he, too,
smiled a little.

"I am glad to see, Princess, that you have a little more confidence now:
we shall be able to arrange things ever so much better. You are
certainly much more calm, much less uneasy now. Oh, yes, you are!" he
added, checking her protest. "Why, it is quite five minutes since you
last tried to ring for help. We are getting on. Besides, I somehow can't
picture the Princess Sonia Danidoff, wife of the Grand Chamberlain and
cousin of His Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias, allowing herself
to be surprised alone with a man whom she did not know. If she were to
ring, and someone came, how would the Princess account for the gentleman
to whom she had accorded an audience in the most delightful, but
certainly the most private of all her apartments?"

"But tell me," pleaded the unhappy woman, "how did you get in here?"

"That is not the question," the stranger replied. "The problem actually
before us is, how am I to get out? For, of course, Princess, I shall not
be so indelicate as to prolong my visit unduly, too happy only if you
will permit me to repeat it on some other evening soon." He turned his
head, and plunging his hand into the bath in the most natural manner
possible, took out the thermometer which was floating on the perfumed
water. "Thirty degrees, centigrade, Princess! Your bath is getting cold:
you must get out!"

In her blank astonishment Princess Sonia did not know whether to laugh
or cry. Was she alone with a monster who, after having played with her
as a cat plays with a mouse, would suddenly turn and kill her? Or was
this merely some irresponsible lunatic, whom chance alone had enabled to
get into her rooms? Whatever the fact might be, the man's last words had
made her aware that her bath really was getting cold. A shiver shook her
whole frame, and yet----

"Oh, go, please go!" she implored him.

He shook his head, an ironical smile in his eyes.

"For pity's sake," she entreated him again, "have mercy on a woman--a
good woman!"

The man appeared to be considering.

"It is very embarrassing," he murmured, "and yet we must decide upon
something soon, for I am most anxious you should not take a chill. Oh,
it is very simple, Princess: of course you know the arrangement of
everything here so well that you could find your dressing-gown at once,
by merely feeling your way? We will put out the light, and then you will
be able to get out of the bath in the dark without the least fear." He
was on the very point of turning off the switch of the lamp, when he
stopped abruptly and came back to the bath. "I was forgetting that
exasperating bell," he said. "A movement is so very easily made: suppose
you were to ring, by mere inadvertence, and regret it afterwards?"
Putting his idea into action, the man made a quick cut with his razor
and severed the two electric wires several feet above the ground. "That
is excellent," he said. "By the way, I don't know where these other two
wires go that run along the wall, but it is best to be on the safe side.
Suppose there were another bell?" He lifted his razor once more and was
trying to sever the electric wires when the steel blade cut the
insulator and an alarming flash of light resulted. The man leaped into
the air, and dropped his razor. "Good Lord!" he growled, "I suppose that
will make you happy, madame: I have burnt my hand most horribly! These
must be wires for the light! But no matter: I have still got one sound
hand, and that will be enough for me to secure the darkness that you
want. And anyhow, you can press the button of your bell as much as you
like: it won't ring. So I am sure of a few more minutes in your
company."

Sudden darkness fell upon the room. Sonia Danidoff hesitated for a
moment and then half rose in the bath. All her pride as a great lady was
in revolt. If she must defend her honour and her life, she was ready to
do so, and despair would give her strength; but in any event she would
be better out of the water, and on her feet, prepared. The darkness was
complete, both in the bathroom and in the adjacent bedroom, and the
silence was absolute. Standing up in the bath, Sonia Danidoff swept her
arms round in a circle to feel for any obstacle. Her touch met nothing.
She drew out one foot, and then the other, sprang towards the chair on
which she had left her dressing-gown, slipped into it with feverish
haste, slid her feet into her slippers, stood motionless for just a
second and then, with sudden decision, moved to the switch by the door
and turned on the light.

The man had gone from the bathroom, but taking two steps towards her
bedroom Sonia Danidoff saw him smiling at her from the far end of that
room.

"Sir," she said, "this--pleasantry--has lasted long enough. You must go.
You shall, you shall!"

"Shall?" the stranger echoed. "That is a word that is not often used to
me. But you are forgiven for not knowing that, Princess. I forgot for
the moment that I have not been presented to you. But what is in your
mind now?"

Between them was a little escritoire, on the top of which was lying the
tiny inlaid revolver that Sonia Danidoff always carried when she went
out at night. Could she but get that into her hands it would be a potent
argument to induce this stranger to obey her. The Princess also knew
that in the drawer of that escritoire which she could actually see half
open, she had placed, only a few minutes before going in to her bath, a
pocket-book filled with bank-notes for a hundred and twenty thousand
francs, money she had withdrawn from the strong-room of the hotel that
very morning in order to meet some bills next day. She looked at the
drawer and wondered if the pocket-book was still there, or if this
mysterious admirer of hers was only a vulgar hotel thief after all. The
man had followed her eyes to the revolver.

"That is an unusual knick-knack to find in a lady's room, Princess," and
he sprang in front of her as she was taking a step towards the
escritoire, and took possession of the revolver. "Do not be alarmed," he
added, noticing her little gesture of terror. "I would not do you an
injury for anything in the world. I shall be delighted to give this back
to you in a minute, but first let me render it harmless." He deftly
slipped the six cartridges out of the barrel and then handed the now
useless weapon to the Princess with a gallant little bow. "Do not laugh
at my excess of caution: but accidents happen so easily!"

It was in vain that the Princess tried to get near her escritoire to
ascertain if the drawer had been tampered with: the man kept between her
and it all the time, still smiling, still polite, but watching every
movement that she made. Suddenly he took his watch from his pocket.

"Two o'clock! Already! Princess, you will be vexed with me for having
abused your hospitality to such an extent. I must go!" He appeared not
to notice the sigh of relief that broke from her, but went on in a
melodramatic tone. "I shall take my departure, not through the window
like a lover, nor up the chimney like a thief, nor yet through a secret
door behind the arras like a brigand of romance, but like a gentleman
who has come to pay his tribute of homage and respect to the most
enchanting woman in the world--through the door!" He made a movement as
if to go, and came back. "And what do you think of doing now, Princess?
Perhaps you will be angry with me? Possibly some unpleasant discovery,
made after my departure, will raise some animosity in your breast
against me? You might even ring, directly my back is turned, and alarm
the staff, merely to embarrass me in my exit, and without paying any
attention to the subsequent possible scandal. That is a complicated
arrangement of bells and telephones beside your bed! It would be a pity
to spoil such a pretty thing, and besides, I hate doing unnecessary
damage!" The Princess's eyes turned once more to the drawer: it was
practically certain that her money was not there now! But the man broke
in again upon her thoughts. "What can I be thinking of? Just fancy my
not having presented myself to you even yet! But as a matter of fact I
do not want to tell you my name out loud: it is a romantic one, utterly
out of keeping with the typically modern environment in which we are
now. Ah, if we were only on the steep side of some mountain with the
moon like a great lamp above us, or by the shore of some wild ocean,
there would be some fascination in the proclamation of my identity in
the silence of the night, or in the midst of lightning and thunder as
the hurricane swept the seas! But here--in a third-floor suite of the
Royal Palace Hotel, surrounded by telephones and electric light, and
standing by a window overlooking the Champs Elysees--it would be a
positive anachronism!" He took a card out of his pocket and drew near
the little escritoire. "Allow me, Princess, to slip my card into this
drawer, left open on purpose, it would seem," and while the Princess
uttered an exclamation she could not repress, he suited the action to
the word. "And now, Princess," he went on, compelling her to retreat
before him right to the door of the anteroom opening on to the corridor,
"you are too well bred, I am sure, not to wish to conduct your visitor
to the door of your suite." His tone altered abruptly, and in a deep
imperious voice that made the Princess quake he ordered her: "And now,
not a word, not a cry, not a movement until I am outside, or I will kill
you!"

Clenching her fists, and summoning all her strength to prevent herself
from swooning, Sonia Danidoff led the man to the anteroom door. Slowly
she unlocked the door and held it open, and the man stepped quietly
through. The next second he was gone!

Leaping back into her bedroom Sonia Danidoff set every bell a-ringing;
with great presence of mind she telephoned down to the hall porter:
"Don't let anybody go out! I have been robbed!" and she pressed hard
upon the special button that set the great alarm bell clanging.
Footsteps and voices resounded in the corridor: the Princess knew that
help was coming and ran to open her door. The night watchman, and the
manager of the third floor came running up and waiters appeared in
numbers at the end of the corridor.

"Stop him! Stop him!" the Princess shouted. "He has only just gone out:
a man in a dinner jacket, with a great black beard!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A lad came hurrying out of the lift.

"Where are you going? What is the matter?" enquired the hall porter,
whose lodge was at the far end of the hall, next to the courtyard of the
hotel, the door into which he had just closed.

"I don't know," he answered. "There is a thief in the hotel! They are
calling from the other side."

"It's not in your set, then? By the way, what floor are you on?"

"The second."

"All right," said the hall porter, "it's the third floor that they are
calling from. Go up and see what is wrong."

The lad turned on his heel, and disregarding the notice forbidding
servants to use the passenger lift, hurried back into it and upstairs
again. He was a stoutly built fellow, with a smooth face and red hair.
On the third floor he stopped, immediately opposite Sonia Danidoff's
suite. The Princess was standing at her door, taking no notice of the
watchman Muller's efforts to soothe her excitement, and mechanically
twisting between her fingers the blank visiting card which her strange
visitor had left in place of her pocket-book and the hundred and twenty
thousand francs. There was no name whatever on the card.

"Well," said Muller, to the red-headed lad, "where do you come from?"

"I'm the new man on the second floor," the fellow answered. "The hall
porter sent me up to find out what was the matter."

"Matter!" said Muller. "Somebody has robbed the Princess. Here, send
someone for the police at once."

"I'll run, sir," and as the lift, instead of being sent down, had
carelessly been sent up to the top floor, the young fellow ran down the
staircase at full speed.

Through the telephone, Muller was just ordering the hall porter to send
for the police, when the second-floor servant rushed up and caught him
by the arm, dragging him away from the instrument.

"Open the door for the Lord's sake! I'm off to the police station," and
the hall porter made haste to facilitate his departure.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the top floor cries of astonishment re-echoed. The servants had been
alarmed by the uproar and, surprised to see the lift stop and nobody get
out of it, they opened the door and found a heap of clothing, a false
beard, and a wig. Two housemaids and a valet gazed in amazement at these
extraordinary properties, and never thought of informing the manager, M.
Louis. Meantime, however, that gentleman had hurried through the mazes
of the hotel, and had just reached the third floor when he was stopped
by the Baronne Van den Rosen, one of the hotel's oldest patronesses.

"M. Louis!" she exclaimed, bursting into sobs. "I have just been robbed
of my diamond necklace. I left it in a jewel-case on my table before
going down to dinner. When I heard the noise just now, I got up and
looked through my jewel-case, and the necklace is not there."

M. Louis was too dazed to reply. Muller ran up to him.

"Princess Sonia Danidoff's pocket-book has been stolen," he announced;
"but I have had the hotel doors shut and we shall be sure to catch the
thief."

The Princess came near to explain matters, but at that moment the
servants came down from upstairs, bringing with them the make-up
articles which they had found in the lift. They laid these on the
ground without a word and M. Louis was staring at them when Muller had a
sudden inspiration.

"M. Louis, what is the new man on the second floor like?"

Just at that instant a servant appeared at the end of the corridor, a
middle-aged man with white whiskers and a bald head.

"There he is, coming towards us," M. Louis replied. "His name is
Arnold."

"Good God!" cried Muller; "and the red-headed fellow: the carroty chap?"
M. Louis shook his head, not understanding, and Muller tore himself away
and rushed down to the hall porter. "Has he gone out? Has anyone gone
out?"

"No one," said the porter, "except, of course, the servant from the
second floor, whom you sent for the police."

"The carroty chap?" Muller enquired.

"Yes, the carroty chap."

Princess Sonia Danidoff lay back in an easy chair, receiving the anxious
attentions of Nadine, her Circassian maid. M. Louis was holding salts to
her nostrils. The Princess still held in her hands the card left by the
mysterious stranger who had just robbed her so cleverly of a hundred and
twenty thousand francs. As she slowly came to herself the Princess gazed
at the card as if fascinated, and this time her haggard eyes grew wide
with astonishment. For upon the card, which hitherto had appeared
immaculately white, marks and letters were gradually becoming visible,
and the Princess read:

"Fan--to--mas!"




XI. MAGISTRATE AND DETECTIVE


M. Fuselier was standing in his office in the law courts at Paris,
meditatively smoothing the nap of his silk hat. His mind was busy with
the enquiries he had been prosecuting during the day, and although he
had no reason to be dissatisfied with his day's work he had no clear
idea as to what his next steps ought to be.

Three discreet taps on the door broke in upon his thoughts.

"Come in," he said, and then stepped forward with a hearty welcome as he
recognised his visitor. "Juve, by all that is wonderful! What good wind
has blown you here? I haven't seen you for ages. Busy?"

"Frightfully."

"Well, it's a fact that there's no dearth of sensational crime just now.
The calendar is terribly heavy."

Juve had ensconced himself in a huge easy chair in a corner of the room.

"Yes," he said, "you are quite right. But unfortunately the calendar
won't be a brilliant one for the police. There may be lots of cases, but
there are not lots that they have worked out to a finish."

"You've got nothing to grumble at," M. Fuselier smiled. "You have been
in enough cases lately that were worked out to a finish. Your reputation
isn't in any danger of diminishing."

"I don't know what you mean," Juve said deprecatingly. "If you refer to
the Beltham and Langrune cases, you must admit that your congratulations
are not deserved. I have achieved no definite result in either of those
affairs."

M. Fuselier also dropped into a comfortable chair. He lighted a
cigarette.

"You have found out nothing fresh about that mysterious murder of Lord
Beltham?"

"Nothing. I'm done. It is an insoluble mystery to me."

"You seem to be very sorry for yourself, but really you needn't be,
Juve. You cleared up the Beltham case, and you solved the Langrune case,
although you try to make out you didn't. And allow me to inform you,
those two successes count, my friend."

"You are very kind, but you are rather misinformed. Unfortunately I have
not cleared up the Beltham case at all."

"You found the missing peer."

"Well, yes, but----"

"That was an amazing achievement. By the way, Juve, what led you to go
to the rue Levert to search Gurn's trunks?"

"That was very simple. You remember what an excitement there was when
Lord Beltham disappeared? Well, when I was called in I saw at once that
all ideas of accident or suicide might be dismissed, and that
consequently the disappearance was due to crime. Once convinced of that,
I very naturally suspected every single person who had ever had
relations with Lord Beltham, for there was no single individual for me
to suspect. Then I found out that the ex-Ambassador had been in
continuous association with an Englishman named Gurn whom he had known
in the South African war, and who led a very queer sort of life. That of
course took me to Gurn's place, if for nothing else than to pick up
information. And--well, that's all about it. It was just by going to
Gurn's place to pump him, rather than anything else, that I found the
noble lord's remains locked away in the trunk."

"Your modesty is delightful, Juve," said M. Fuselier with an approving
nod. "You present things as if they were all matters of course, whereas
really you are proving your extraordinary instinct. If you had arrived
only twenty-four hours later the corpse would have been packed off to
the Transvaal, and only the Lord knows if after that the extraordinary
mystery ever would have been cleared up."

"Luck," Juve protested: "pure luck!"

"And were your other remarkable discoveries luck too?" enquired M.
Fuselier with a smile. "There was your discovery that sulphate of zinc
had been injected into the body to prevent it from smelling
offensively."

"That was only a matter of using my eyes," Juve protested.

"All right," said the magistrate, "we will admit that you did not
display any remarkable acumen in the Beltham case, if you would rather
have it so. That does not alter the fact that you have solved the
Langrune case."

"Solved it!"

M. Fuselier flicked the ash off his cigarette, and leant forward towards
the detective.

"Of course you know that I know you were at the Cahors Assizes, Juve?
What was your impression of the whole affair--of the verdict, and of
Etienne Rambert's guilt or innocence?"

Juve got up and began to walk up and down the room, followed by the
magistrate's eyes. He seemed to be hesitating as to whether he would
answer at all, but finally he stopped abruptly and faced his friend.

"If I were talking to anybody but you, M. Fuselier, I would either not
answer at all, or I would give an answer that was no answer! But as it
is----, well, in my opinion, the Langrune case is only just beginning,
and nothing certain is known at all."

"According to that, Charles Rambert is innocent?"

"I don't say that."

"What then? I suppose you don't think the father was the murderer?"

"The hypothesis is not absurd! But there! What is the real truth of the
whole affair? That is what I am wondering all the time. That murder is
never out of my head; it interests me more and more every day. Oh, yes,
I've got lots of ideas, but they are all utterly vague and improbable:
sometimes my imagination seems to be running away with me."

He stopped, and M. Fuselier wagged a mocking finger at him.

"Juve," he said, "I charge you formally with attempting to implicate
Fantomas in the murder of the Marquise de Langrune!"

The detective replied in the same tone of raillery.

"Guilty, my lord!"

"Good lord, man!" the magistrate exclaimed, "Fantomas is a perfect
obsession with you," and as Juve acquiesced with a laugh the magistrate
dropped his bantering tone. "Shall I tell you something, Juve? I too am
beginning to have an obsession for that fantastic miscreant! And what I
want to know is why you have not come to me before to ask me about that
sensational robbery at the Royal Palace Hotel?"

"The robbery from Princess Sonia Danidoff?"

"Yes: the Fantomas robbery!"

"Fantomas, eh?" Juve protested. "That remains to be seen."

"Why, man," M. Fuselier retorted, "you have heard that detail about the
card the man left, haven't you?--the visiting card that was blank when
the Princess found it, and on which the name of Fantomas afterwards
became visible?"

"There's no Fantomas about that, in my opinion."

"Why not?"

"Well, it isn't one of Fantomas' little ways to leave clear traces
behind him. One might as well picture him committing robbery or murder
in a cap with a neat little band round it: 'Fantomas and Co.' He might
even add 'Discretion and Dispatch!' No, it's most unlikely."

"You don't think Fantomas capable of throwing down his glove to the
police in the shape of some such material proof of his identity?"

"I always base my arguments on the balance of probabilities," Juve
replied. "What emerges from this Royal Palace story is that some common
hotel thief conceived the ingenious idea of casting suspicion on
Fantomas: it was just a trick to mislead the police: at least, that is
my opinion."

But M. Fuselier declined to be convinced.

"No, you are wrong, Juve: it was no common hotel thief who stole Mme.
Van den Rosen's necklace and Princess Sonia's hundred and twenty
thousand francs; the prize was big enough to appeal to Fantomas: and the
amazing audacity of the crime is suggestive too. Just think what
coolness the man must have had to be able to paralyse the Princess's
power of resistance when she tried to call for help: and also to get
clear away in spite of the hosts of servants in the hotel and all the
precautions taken!"

"Tell me all about the robbery, M. Fuselier," said Juve.

The magistrate sat down at his desk and took up the notes he had made in
the course of his official enquiry that day. He told Juve everything he
had been able to elicit.

"The most amazing thing to me," he said in conclusion, "is the way the
fellow, when he had once got out of Princess Sonia's room, contrived to
get into the lift, shed his evening dress, get into livery, and make his
first attempt to escape. When the hall porter stopped him he did not
lose his head, but got into the lift again, sent that flying up to the
top of the hotel with the clothes that would have betrayed him, calmly
presented himself before Muller, the night watchman, and contrived to be
told to go for the police, ran down the stairs again, and took advantage
of the night watchman's telephoning to the hall porter to get the latter
to open the door for him, and so marched off as easily as you please. A
man who kept his nerve like that and could make such amazing use of
every circumstance, who was so quick and daring, and who was capable of
carrying through such a difficult comedy in the middle of the general
uproar, richly deserves to be taken for Fantomas!"

Juve sat in deep consideration of the whole story.

"That isn't what interests me most," he said at last. "His escape from
the hotel might have been effected by any clever thief. What I think
more remarkable is the means he took to prevent the Princess from
screaming when he was just leaving her rooms: that really was masterly.
Instead of trying to get her as far away as possible and shut her up in
her bedroom, to take her with him to the very door opening on to the
corridor, where the faintest cry might have involved the worst possible
consequences, and to be sure that the terror he had inspired would
prevent her from uttering that cry, to be able to assume that the victim
was so overwrought that she would make no effort at all and could do
nothing--that is really very good indeed: quite admirable psychology!
Fine work!"

"So you see there are some unusual features in the case," said M.
Fuselier complacently: "this, for instance: why do you suppose the
fellow stayed such a long time with the Princess and went through all
that comedy business in the bathroom? Don't forget that she came in
late, and it is extremely probable that he might have finished his job
before she returned."

Juve passed his hand through his hair, a characteristic trick when his
mind was working.

"I can imagine only one answer to that question, M. Fuselier. But you
have inspected the scene of the crime: tell me first, where do you think
the rascal was hidden?"

"Oh, I can answer that definitely. The Princess's suite of rooms ends in
the bathroom, you know, and the chief things there are the famous bath,
some cupboards, and a shower bath: the shower bath is one of those large
model Norchers with lateral as well as vertical sprays, and a waterproof
curtain hanging from rings at the top right down to the tub at the
bottom. There were footmarks on the enamel of the tub, so it is clear
that the thief hid there, behind the curtain, until the Princess got
into her bath."

"And I suppose the shower bath is in the corner of the room near the
window?" Juve went on. "And the window was partly open, or had been
until the maid went in to prepare her mistress's bath? It's quite
interesting! The man had just succeeded in stealing the necklace from
Mme. Van den Rosen, whose rooms are next to Princess Sonia's: for some
reason or other he had not been able to escape through the corridor, and
so he naturally made up his mind to get into the Princess's suite, which
he did by the simple process of stepping over the railing on the balcony
and walking in through the open window of the dressing-room."

"And then Nadine came in, and he had to hide?"

"No, no!" said Juve, "you are getting on too fast. If that had been so,
there would have been no need for all the bath business; besides, the
Princess was robbed, too, you know. That was not just chance, it was
planned; and so if the thief hid in the shower bath he did so on purpose
to wait for the Princess."

"But he did not want her!" Fuselier retorted: "very much the reverse. If
he was in the room before anybody else, all he had to do was, take the
pocket-book and go!"

"Not a bit of it!" said Juve. "This robbery took place at the end of the
month, when the Princess would have big monthly bills to meet, as the
thief must have known. He must have found out that she had withdrawn her
portfolio and money from the custody of the hotel. But he must have been
ignorant of where she had placed the portfolio; and he waited for her to
ask her--and she told him!"

"That's a pretty tall yarn!" M. Fuselier protested. "What on earth do
you base it all upon? The Princess would never have shown the man the
drawer where the money was taken from!"

"Yes, she did!" said Juve. "Look here: this is what happened: the fellow
wanted to steal this pocket-book, and did not know where it was. He hid
in the shower bath and waited, either for the Princess to go to bed or
take a bath, either of which would place her at his mercy. When the lady
was in the bath he appeared, threatened her, until she was terrified,
and then bucked her up a bit again and hit on the dodge of putting out
the electric light--not out of respect for her wounded feelings, but
simply in order to get a chance to search through her clothes and make
sure that the pocket-book was not there. I am convinced that if he had
found it then he would have bolted at once. But he didn't find it. So he
went to the end of the next room and waited for the Princess to come to
him there, which is precisely what she did. He did not know where the
money was, so he watched every movement of her eyes and saw them go
automatically towards the drawer and stay there; then he slipped his
card into the drawer, abstracted the pocket-book, and took his leave,
driving his impudence and skill to the length of making her see him to
the door!"

"Upon my word, Juve, you are a wonder," M. Fuselier said admiringly.
"I've spent the entire day cross-examining everybody in the hotel, and
came to no definite conclusion; and you, who have not seen anything or
anybody connected with it, sit in that chair and in five minutes clear
up the entire mystery. What a pity you won't believe that Fantomas had
a finger in this pie! What a pity you won't take up the search!"

Juve paid no heed to the compliments to his skill. He took out his watch
and looked at the time.

"I must go," he said; "it's quite time I was at my own work. Well, we
may not have been wasting our time, M. Fuselier. I admit I had not paid
much attention to the Royal Palace Hotel robbery. You have really
interested me in it. I won't make any promises, but I think I shall very
likely come again in a day or two for another talk with you about the
case. It really interests me now. And when once I'm quit of one or two
pressing jobs, I don't say I shan't ask leave to go thoroughly into it
with you."




XII. A KNOCK-OUT BLOW


The staff of the Royal Palace Hotel were just finishing dinner, and the
greatest animation prevailed in the vast white-tiled servants' hall. The
tone of the conversation varied at different tables, for the servants
jealously observed a strict order of precedence among themselves, but
the present topic was the same at all, the recent sensational robbery
from Mme. Van den Rosen and the Princess Sonia Danidoff. At one table,
smaller than the rest, a party of upper servants sat, under-managers or
heads of departments: M. Louis was here, the general manager, M. Muller
the superintendent of the second floor, M. Ludovic chief valet, M.
Maurice head footman, M. Naud chief cashier, and last but not least
Mlle. Jeanne the young lady cashier whose special duty it was to take
charge of all the moneys and valuables deposited in the custody of the
hotel by guests who wished to relieve themselves of the responsibility
of keeping these in their own rooms. This small and select company was
increased to-night by the addition of M. Henri Verbier, a man of about
forty years of age, who had left the branch hotel at Cairo belonging to
the same Company to join the staff at the Royal Palace Hotel in Paris.

"I am afraid, M. Verbier, you will form a very bad opinion of our
establishment," said M. Muller to him. "It is really a pity that you
should have left the Cairo branch and come here just when these
robberies have put the Royal Palace under a cloud."

Henri Verbier smiled.

"You need not be afraid of my attaching too much importance to that," he
said. "I've been in hotel life for fifteen years now, in one capacity
or another, and, as you may suppose, I've known similar cases before, so
they don't surprise me much. But one thing does surprise me, M. Muller,
and that is that no clue has yet been found. I suppose the Board have
done everything that can be done to trace the culprit? The reputation of
the hotel is at stake."

"I should think they have looked for him!" said M. Louis, with a
pathetic shrug of his shoulders. "Why, they even upbraided me for having
had the door opened for the thief! Luckily I had a good friend in
Muller, who admitted that he had been completely imposed upon and that
he had given the order for the fellow, whom he supposed to be the
second-floor waiter, to be allowed to go out. I knew nothing about it."

"And how was I to guess that the man was an impostor?" Muller protested.

"All the same," Henri Verbier retorted, "it is uncommonly annoying for
everybody when things like that happen."

"So long as one has not committed any breach of orders, and so can't be
made a scapegoat of, one mustn't grumble," M. Muller said. "Louis and I
did exactly what our duty required and no one can say anything to us.
The magistrate acknowledged that a week ago."

"He does not suspect anybody?" Henri Verbier asked.

"No: nobody," Muller answered.

M. Louis smiled.

"Yes, he did suspect somebody, Verbier," he said, "and that was your
charming neighbour Mlle. Jeanne there."

Verbier turned towards the young cashier.

"What? The magistrate tried to make out that you were implicated in it?"

The girl had only spoken a few words during the whole of dinner,
although Henri Verbier had made several gallant attempts to draw her
into the general conversation. Now she laughingly protested.

"M. Louis only says that to tease me."

But M. Louis stuck to his guns.

"Not a bit of it, Mademoiselle Jeanne: I said it because it is the
truth. The magistrate was on to you: I tell you he was! Why, M. Verbier,
he cross-examined her for more than half an hour after the general
confrontation, while he finished with Muller and me in less than ten
minutes."

"Gad, M. Louis, a magistrate is a man, isn't he?" said Henri Verbier
gallantly. "The magistrate may have enjoyed talking to Mlle. Jeanne more
than he did to you, if I may suggest it without seeming rude."

There was a general laugh at this sally on the part of the new
superintendent, and then M. Louis continued:

"Well, if he wanted to make up to her he went a funny way to work, for
he made her angry."

"Did he really?" said Henri Verbier, turning again to the girl. "Why did
the magistrate cross-examine you so much?"

The young cashier shrugged her shoulders.

"We have thrashed it out so often, M. Verbier! But I will tell you the
whole story: during the morning of the day when the robbery was
committed I had returned to Princess Sonia Danidoff the pocket-book
containing a hundred and twenty thousand francs which she had given into
my custody a few days before; I could not refuse to give it to her when
she asked for it, could I? How was I to know that it would be stolen
from her the same evening? Customers deposit their valuables with me and
I hand them a receipt: they give me back the receipt when they demand
their valuables, and all I have to do is comply with their request,
without asking questions. Isn't that so?"

"But that was not what puzzled the magistrate I suppose," said Henri
Verbier. "You are the custodian of all valuables, and you only complied
strictly with your orders."

"Yes," M. Muller broke in, "but Mlle. Jeanne has only told you part of
the story. Just fancy: only a few minutes before the robbery Mme. Van
den Rosen had asked Mlle. Jeanne to take charge of her diamond necklace,
and Mlle. Jeanne had refused!"

"That really was bad luck for you," said Henri Verbier to the girl with
a laugh, "and I quite understand that the magistrate thought it rather
odd."

"They are unkind!" she protested. "From the way they put it, M.
Verbier, you really might think that I refused to take charge of Mme.
Van den Rosen's jewellery in order to make things easy for the thief,
which is as much as to say that I was his accomplice."

"That is precisely what the magistrate did think," M. Louis
interpolated.

The girl took no notice of the interruption, but went on with her
explanation to Henri Verbier.

"What happened was this: the rule is that I am at the disposal of
customers, to take charge of deposits or to return them to the owners,
until nine P.M., and until nine P.M. only. After that, my time is up,
and all I have to do is lock my safe and go: I am free until nine
o'clock next morning. You know that it does not do to take liberties in
a position like mine. So when, on the day of the robbery, Mme. Van den
Rosen came with her diamond necklace at half-past nine, I was perfectly
within my rights in refusing to accept the deposit."

"That's right enough," said M. Muller, who, having finished his dessert,
was now sipping coffee into which he had tipped sugar until it was as
thick as syrup: "but you were disobliging, my dear young lady, and that
was what struck the magistrate; for really it would not have been much
trouble to register the new deposit and take charge of Mme. Van den
Rosen's necklace for her."

"No, it wouldn't," the girl replied; "but when there is a rule it seems
to me that it ought to be obeyed. My time is up at nine o'clock, and I
am forbidden to accept any deposits after nine o'clock: and that's why I
refused that lady's. I was perfectly right; and I should do the same
again, if the same thing happened."

Henri Verbier was manifestly anxious to conciliate the young cashier. He
expressed his approval of her conduct now.

"I quite agree with you, it never does to put interpretations upon
orders. It was your duty to close your safe at nine o'clock, and you did
close it then, and no one can say anything to you. But, joking apart,
what did the magistrate want?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of indifference.

"You see I was right just now: M. Louis is only trying to tease me by
saying that the magistrate cross-examined me severely. As a matter of
fact I was simply asked what I have just told you, and when I gave all
this explanation, no fault at all was found with me." As she spoke,
Mlle. Jeanne folded her napkin carefully, pushed back her chair and
shook hands with her two neighbours at table. "Good night," she said. "I
am going up to bed."

Mlle. Jeanne had hardly left the room before Henri Verbier also rose
from the table and prepared to follow her example.

M. Louis gave M. Muller a friendly dig in his comfortable paunch.

"A pound to a penny," he said, "that friend Verbier means to make up to
Mlle. Jeanne. Well, I wish him luck! But that young lady is not very
easy to tame!"

"You didn't succeed," M. Muller replied unkindly, "but it doesn't follow
that nobody else will!"

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Louis was not deceived: Henri Verbier evidently did think his
neighbour at table a very charming young woman.

Mlle. Jeanne had hardly reached her room on the fifth floor of the
hotel, and flung open her window to gaze over the magnificent panorama
spread out below her and inhale the still night air, when a gentle tap
fell upon the door and, complying with her summons to come in, Henri
Verbier entered the room.

"My room is next to yours," he said, "and as I saw you were standing
dreaming at your window I thought perhaps you would condescend to smoke
an Egyptian cigarette. I have brought some back from Cairo: it is very
mild tobacco--real ladies' tobacco."

The girl laughed and took a dainty cigarette from the case that Henri
Verbier offered her.

"It's very kind of you to think of me," she said. "I don't make a habit
of smoking, but I let myself be tempted sometimes."

"If I have been kind, you can show your gratitude very easily," Henri
Verbier replied: "by allowing me to stay here a few minutes and smoke a
cigarette with you."

"By all means," said Mlle. Jeanne. "I love to spend a little time at my
window at night, to get the air before going to bed. You will prevent me
from getting tired of my own company, and can tell me all about Cairo."

"I'm afraid I know very little about Cairo," Henri Verbier replied; "you
see I spent almost the whole of my time in the hotel. But as you seem so
kind and so friendly disposed I wish you would tell me things."

"But I am a very ignorant young woman."

"You are a woman, and that's enough. Listen: I am a new-comer here, and
I am quite aware that my arrival, and my position, will make me some
enemies. Now, whom ought I to be on my guard against? Who is there,
among the staff, of whom I ought to be careful as doubtful associates? I
ask with all the more concern because I will tell you frankly that I had
no personal introduction to the Board: I have not got the same chance
that you have."

"How do you know I had any introduction?" the girl enquired.

"Gad, I'm sure of it," Henri Verbier answered: he was leaning his elbows
on the window-sill and gradually drawing closer to the young cashier. "I
don't suppose that an important position like the one you hold,
requiring absolute integrity and competence, is given without fullest
investigation. Your work is not tiring, but that does not mean it would
be entrusted to anybody."

"You are quite right, M. Verbier: I did have an introduction to the
Board: and I had first-rate testimonials too."

"Have you been in business long? Two years--three years?"

"Yes," Mlle. Jeanne replied, purposely refraining from being explicit.

"I only asked because I fancy I have seen you before somewhere. I
recognise your eyes!" Henri Verbier smiled, and looked meaningly at the
girl. "Mlle. Jeanne, on summer nights like this, when you are looking at
a lovely view like this, don't you have a funny sort of feeling?"

"No. What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. But you see, I'm a sentimental chap unfortunately,
and I really suffer a lot from always living in lonely isolation,
without any affection: there are times when I feel as if love were an
absolute necessity."

The cashier looked at him ironically.

"That's all foolishness. Love is only stupid, and ought to be guarded
against as the worst possible mistake. Love always means misery for
working people like us."

"It is you who are foolish," Henri Verbier protested gently, "or else
you are mischievous. No: love is not stupid for working people like us;
on the contrary, it is the only means we have of attaining perfect
happiness. Lovers are rich!"

"In wealth that lets them die of hunger," she scoffed.

"No, no," he answered: "no. Look here: all to-day you and I have been
working hard, earning our living; well, suppose you were not laughing at
me but we were really lovers, would not this be the time to enjoy the
living we have earned?" and as the girl did not reply, Henri Verbier,
who like an experienced wooer had been drawing closer to her all the
time, until now his shoulder was touching hers, took her hand. "Would
not this be sweet?" he said. "I should take your little fingers into
mine--like this; I should look at them so tenderly, and raise them to my
lips----"

But the girl wrested herself away.

"Let me go! I won't have it! Do you understand?" And then, to mitigate
the sharpness of her rebuke, and also to change the conversation, she
said: "It is beginning to turn cold. I will put a cloak over my
shoulders," and she moved away from the window to unhook a cloak from a
peg on the wall.

Henri Verbier watched her without moving.

"How unkind you are!" he said reproachfully, disregarding the angry
gleam in her eyes. "Can it really be wrong to enjoy a kiss, on a lovely
night like this? If you are cold, Mademoiselle Jeanne, there is a better
way of getting warm than by putting a wrap over one's shoulders: and
that is by resting in someone else's arms."

He put out his arms as he spoke, ready to catch the girl as she came
across the room, and was on the very point of taking her into his arms
as he had suggested, when she broke from his grasp with a sudden turn
and, furious with rage, dealt him a tremendous blow right on the
temple. With a stifled groan, Henri Verbier dropped unconscious to the
floor.

Mlle. Jeanne stared at him for a moment, as if dumbfounded. Then with
quite amazing rapidity the young cashier sprang to the window and
hurriedly closed it. She took down her hat from a hook on the wall, and
put it on with a single gesture, opened a drawer and took out a little
bag, and then, after listening for a minute to make sure that there was
nobody in the passage outside her room, she opened her door, went out,
rapidly turned the key behind her and ran down the stairs.

Two minutes later Mlle. Jeanne smilingly passed the porter on duty and
wished him good night.

"Bye-bye," she said. "I'm going out to get a little fresh air!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Slowly, as if emerging from some extraordinary dream, Henri Verbier
began to recover from his brief unconsciousness: he could not understand
at first what had happened to him, why he was lying on the floor, why
his head ached so much, or why his blood-shot eyes saw everything
through a mist. He gradually struggled into a sitting posture and looked
around the room.

"Nobody here!" he muttered. Then as if the sound of his own voice had
brought him back to life, he got up and hurried to the door and shook it
furiously. "Locked!" he growled angrily. "And I can call till I'm black
in the face! No one has come upstairs yet. I'm trapped!" He turned
towards the window, with some idea of calling for help, but as he passed
the mirror over the mantelpiece he caught sight of his own reflection
and saw the bruise on his forehead, with a tiny stream of blood
beginning to trickle from a cut in the skin. He went close to the glass
and looked at himself in dismay. "Juve though I am," he murmured, "I've
let myself be knocked out by a woman!" And then Juve, for Juve it was,
cleverly disguised, uttered a sudden oath, clenching his fists and
grinding his teeth in rage. "Confound it all, I'll take my oath that
blow was never dealt by any woman!"




XIII. THERESE'S FUTURE


M. Etienne Rambert was in the smoking-room of the house which he had
purchased a few months previously in the Place Pereire, rue
Eugene-Flachat, smoking and chatting with his old friend Barbey, who
also was his banker. The two had been discussing investments, and the
wealthy merchant had displayed considerable indifference to the banker's
recommendation of various gilt-edged securities.

"To tell you the truth, my dear fellow," he said at length, "these
things interest me very little; I've got used to big enterprises--am
almost what you would call a plunger. Of course you know that nothing is
so risky as the development of rubber plantations. No doubt the industry
has prospered amazingly since the boom in motor-cars began, but you must
remember that I went into it when no one could possibly foresee the
immense market that the new means of locomotion would open for our
produce. That's enough to prove to you that I'm no coward when it's a
question of risking money." The banker nodded: his friend certainly did
display a quite extraordinary energy and will-power for a man of his
age. "As a matter of fact," M. Rambert went on, "any business of which I
am not actually a director, interests me only slightly. You know I am
not boasting when I say that my fortune is large enough to justify me in
incurring a certain amount of financial risk without having to fear any
serious modification of my social position if the ventures should happen
to turn out ill. I've got the sporting instinct."

"It's a fine one," M. Barbey said with some enthusiasm. "And I don't
mind telling you that if I were not your banker, and so had a certain
responsibility in your case, I should not hesitate to put a scheme
before you that has been running in my head for a year or two now."

"A scheme of your own, Barbey?" said M. Rambert. "How is it you have
never told me about it? I should have thought we were close enough
friends for that."

The hint of reproach in the words pricked the banker, and also
encouraged him to proceed.

"It's rather a delicate matter, and you will understand my hesitation
when I tell you--for I'll burn my boats now--that it isn't any ordinary
speculation, such as I am in the habit of recommending to my customers.
It is a speculation in which I am interested personally: in short, I
want to increase the capital of my Bank, and convert my House into a
really large concern."

"Oh-ho!" said M. Etienne Rambert, half to himself. "Well, you are quite
right, Barbey. But if you want to suggest that I shall help to finance
it, you had better put all the cards on the table and let me know
exactly what the position is; I need not say that if nothing comes of
it, I shall regard any information you give me as absolutely
confidential."

The two men plunged into the subject, and for a good half-hour discussed
it in all its bearings, making endless calculations and contemplating
all contingencies. At last M. Rambert threw down his pen and looked up.

"I'm accustomed to the American method of hustle, Barbey. In principle I
like your proposition quite well; but I won't be one of your financial
partners; if the thing goes through I'll be the only one, or not one at
all. I know what is in your mind," he went on with a smile, as he
noticed the banker's surprise; "you know what my fortune is, or rather
you think you do, and you are wondering where I shall get the million
sterling, or thereabouts, that you want. Well, make your mind easy about
that; if I talk like this, it's because I've got it." The banker's bow
was very deferent, and M. Rambert continued: "Yes, the last year or two
have been good, even very good, for me. I've made some lucky
speculations and my capital has further been increased by some lotteries
which have turned out right quite lately. Well!" he broke off with a
sigh, "I suppose one can't always be unlucky in everything, though money
can't cure, or even touch, the wounds in one's heart."

The banker made no answer: he shrank from waking, by untimely words, the
sad memories which were hardly dormant yet in the old man's mind. But M.
Rambert soon reverted to his business tone.

"I'm quite disposed to be interested in a financial venture like yours,
Barbey. But you must understand that you will have a good deal more than
a sleeping partner in me. Will that suit you? I should not ask you to
abdicate your authority, but I tell you frankly I should follow all the
operations of your house very closely indeed."

"There shall be no secrets from you, my dear friend, my dear partner, if
I may call you that," said M. Barbey, rising: "quite the contrary!"

The banker looked towards the mantelpiece, as if expecting to see a
clock there; M. Rambert understood the instinctive action and drew out
his watch.

"Twenty minutes to eleven, Barbey: late hours for you. So off with you."
He cut short the banker's half-hearted apologies for not prolonging the
evening. "I am turning you out quite unceremoniously, my dear chap, and
besides, as you know, I'm not lonely to-night as I generally am. I have
a young and very charming companion, for whom I have the greatest
possible affection, and I am going to join her."

M. Etienne Rambert conducted his friend to the hall door, heard the
sound of his motor-car die away in the distance, and then walked across
the hall and, instead of going back to the smoking-room, turned into the
adjoining drawing-room. He paused for a moment in the doorway, tenderly
contemplating the charming spectacle that met his eyes.

The shaded light from an electric lamp fell upon the bent head, oval
face and delicate features of Therese Auvernois, who was intent upon a
book. The girl was emerging from childhood into young womanhood now, and
sorrow had heightened her natural distinction by giving her a stamp of
gravity that was new. Her figure showed slight and supple, delicate and
graceful, and her long, tapered fingers turned over the pages of the
book with slow and regular movement. Therese looked round towards
Etienne Rambert when she heard him coming in, and laying down her book
she came forward to meet him, moving with a very graceful, easy
carriage.

"I am sure I am keeping you up most dreadfully late, dear M. Rambert,"
she said apologetically, "but what am I to do? I must wait for the
Baronne de Vibray, and the dear thing is so often late!"

The tragedy at the chateau of Beaulieu had had one effect in knitting
all the friends of the Marquise de Langrune in closer bonds of
friendship. Prior to that event Etienne Rambert had scarcely known the
Baronne de Vibray; now the two were intimate friends. The Baronne had
not desisted from her first generous effort until she had persuaded the
family council to appoint her guardian of the orphaned Therese
Auvernois. At first she had installed the child at Querelles, and
remained there with her, leading the quietest possible life, partly out
of respect for Therese's grief, and partly because she herself was also
much upset by the distressing tragedy. She had even enjoyed the rest,
and her new interest in playing mother, or rather elder sister, to
Therese. But as the weeks went by and time accomplished its healing
work, Paris called to the Baronne once more, and yielding to the
solicitations of her many friends she brought her new ward to the
capital and settled in a little flat in the rue Boissy-d'Anglais. At
first she protested that she would go out nowhere, or at most pay only
absolutely necessary visits, but by degrees she accepted first one and
then many invitations, though always deploring the necessity of leaving
Therese for several hours at a time.

Happily there was always Etienne Rambert, who was also staying in Paris
just now. It had gradually become the custom of the Baronne de Vibray,
when she was dining out, to entrust Therese to Etienne Rambert's care,
and the young girl and the old man got on together perfectly. Their
hearts had met across the awful chasm that fate had tried to cut between
them.

To Therese's last words now Etienne Rambert replied:

"You need not apologise for staying late, dear; you know how glad I am
to see you. I wish the house were yours."

The girl glanced round the room that had grown so familiar to her, and
with a sudden rush of feeling slipped her arm around the old man's neck
and laid her fair head on his shoulder.

"I should so love to stay here with you, M. Rambert!"

The old man looked oddly at her for a moment, repressing the words that
he might perhaps have wished to say, and then gently released himself
from her affectionate clasp and led her to a sofa, on which he sat down
by her side.

"That is one of the things that we must not allow ourselves to think
about, my dear," he said. "I should have rejoiced to receive you in my
home, and your presence, and the brightness of your dear fair face would
have given a charm to my lonely fireside; but unfortunately those are
vain dreams. We have to reckon with the world, and the world would not
approve of a young girl like you living in the home of a lonely man."

"Why not?" Therese enquired in surprise. "Why, you might be my father."

Etienne Rambert winced at the word.

"Ah!" he said, "you must not forget, Therese, that I am not your father,
but--his: the father of him who----" but Therese's soft hand laid upon
his lips prevented him from finishing what he would have said.

To change the conversation Therese feigned concern about her own future.

"When we left Querelles," she said, "President Bonnet told me that you
would tell me something about my affairs. I gather that my fortune is
not a very brilliant one."

It was indeed the fact that after the murder of the Marquise the
unpleasant discovery had been made that her fortune was by no means so
considerable as had generally been supposed. The estate was mortgaged,
and President Bonnet and Etienne Rambert had had long and anxious
debates as to whether it might not be well for Therese to renounce her
inheritance to Beaulieu, so doubtful did it seem whether the assets
would exceed the liabilities.

Etienne Rambert made a vague, but significant gesture when he heard the
girl raise the point now, but Therese had all the carelessness of youth.

"Oh, I shall not be down-hearted," she exclaimed. "My poor grannie
always gave me an example of energy and hard work; I've got plenty of
pluck, and I will work too. Suppose I turn governess?"

M. Rambert looked at her thoughtfully.

"My dear child, I know how brave and earnest you are, and that gives me
confidence. I have thought about your future a great deal already. Some
day, of course, some nice and wealthy young fellow will come along and
marry you---- Oh, yes, he will: you'll see. But in the meantime it will
be necessary for you to have some occupation. I am wondering whether it
will not be necessary to let, or even to sell Beaulieu. And, on the
other hand, you can't always stay with the Baronne de Vibray."

"No, I realise that," said Therese, who, with the native tact that was
one of her best qualities, had quickly seen that it would not be long
before she would become a difficulty in the way of the independence of
the kind Baronne. "That is what troubles me most."

"Your birth and your upbringing have been such that you would certainly
suffer much in taking up the difficult and delicate, and sometimes
painful, position of governess in a family; and, without wishing to be
offensive, I must remind you that you need to have studied very hard to
be a governess nowadays, and I am not aware that you are exactly a
blue-stocking. But I have an idea, and this is it: for a great many
years now I have been on the very friendliest terms with a lady who
belongs to the very best English society: Lady Beltham; you may perhaps
have heard me speak of her." Therese opened wide eyes of astonishment,
and Rambert went on: "A few months ago Lady Beltham lost her husband in
strange circumstances, and since then she has been good enough to give
me more of her confidence than previously. She is immensely rich, and
very charitable, and I have frequently been asked by her to look after
some of her many financial interests. Now I have often noticed that she
has with her several young English ladies who live with her, not as
companions, but, shall I say, secretaries? Do you understand the
difference? She treats them like friends or relatives, and they all
belong to the very best social class, some of them indeed being
daughters of English peers. If Lady Beltham, to whom I could speak about
it, would admit you into her little company, I am sure you would be in a
most delightful _milieu_, and Lady Beltham, whom, I know, you would
please, would almost certainly interest herself in your future. She
knows what unhappiness is as well as you do, my dear," he added, bending
fondly over the girl, "and she would understand you."

"Dear M. Rambert!" murmured Therese, much moved: "do that; speak to Lady
Beltham about me; I should be so glad!"

Therese did not finish all she would have said. A loud ring at the front
door bell broke in upon her words, and Etienne Rambert rose and walked
across the room.

"That must be the good Baronne de Vibray come for you," he said.




XIV. MADEMOISELLE JEANNE


After she had so roughly disposed of the enterprising Henri Verbier,
whose most unseemly advances had so greatly scandalised her, Mlle.
Jeanne took to her heels, directly she was out of sight of the Royal
Palace Hotel, and ran like one possessed. She stood for a moment in the
brilliantly lighted, traffic-crowded Avenue Wagram, shaking with
excitement and with palpitating heart, and then mechanically hailed a
passing cab and told the driver to take her towards the Bois. There she
gave another heedless order to go to the boulevard Saint-Denis, but as
the cab approached the place de l'Etoile she realised that she was once
more near the Royal Palace Hotel, and stopping the driver by the tram
lines she dismissed him and got into a tram that was going to the
station of Auteuil. It was just half-past eleven when she reached the
station.

"When is the next train for Saint-Lazaire?" she asked.

She learned that one was starting almost at once, and hurriedly taking a
second-class ticket she jumped into a ladies' carriage and went as far
as Courcelles. There she alighted, went out of the station, looked
around her for a minute or two to get her bearings, and then walked
slowly towards the rue Eugene-Flachat. She hesitated a second, and then
walked firmly towards a particular house, and rang the bell.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A lady to see you, sir," the footman said to M. Rambert.

"Bring her in here at once," said M. Rambert, supposing that the man had
kept the Baronne de Vibray waiting in the anteroom.

The drawing-room door was opened a little way, and someone came in and
stepped quickly into the shadow by the door. Therese, who had risen to
hurry towards the visitor, stopped short when she perceived that it was
a stranger and not her guardian. Noticing her action, M. Etienne Rambert
turned and looked at the person who had entered.

It was a lady.

"To what am I indebted----" he began with a bow; and then, having
approached the visitor, he broke off short. "Good heavens----!"

The bell rang a second time, and on this occasion the Baronne de Vibray
hurried into the room, a radiant incarnation of gaiety.

"I am most dreadfully late!" she exclaimed, and was hurrying towards M.
Etienne Rambert with outstretched hands, full of some amusing story she
had to tell him, when she too caught sight of the strange lady standing
stiffly in the corner of the room, with downcast eyes.

Etienne Rambert repressed his first emotion, smiled to the Baronne, and
then went towards the mysterious lady.

"Madame," he said, not a muscle of his face moving, "may I trouble you
to come into my study?"

"Who is that lady, M. Rambert?" said Therese when presently M. Rambert
came back into the drawing-room. "And how white you are!"

M. Rambert forced a smile.

"I am rather tired, dear. I have had a great deal to do these last few
days."

The Baronne de Vibray was full of instant apologies.

"It is all my fault," she exclaimed. "I am dreadfully sorry to have kept
you up so late," and in a few minutes more the Baronne's car was
speeding towards the rue Boissy-d'Anglais.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Rambert hurried back to his study, shut and locked the door behind
him, and almost sprang towards the unknown lady, his fists clenched, his
eyes starting out of his head.

"Charles!" he exclaimed.

"Papa!" the girl replied, and sank upon a sofa.

There was silence. Etienne Rambert seemed utterly dumbfounded.

"I won't, I won't remain disguised as a woman any longer. I've done with
it. I cannot bear it!" the strange creature murmured.

"You must!" said Rambert harshly, imperiously. "I insist!"

The pseudo Mlle. Jeanne slowly took off the heavy wig that concealed her
real features, and tore away the corsage that compressed her bosom,
revealing the strong and muscular frame of a young man.

"No, I will not," replied the strange individual, to whom M. Rambert had
not hesitated to give the name of Charles. "I would rather anything else
happened."

"You have got to expiate," Etienne Rambert said with the same harshness.

"The expiation is too great," the young fellow answered. "The torture is
unendurable."

"Charles," said M. Rambert very gravely, "do you forget that legally,
civilly, you are dead?"

"I would a thousand times rather be really dead!" the unhappy lad
exclaimed.

"Alas!" his father murmured, speaking very fast, "I thought your mind
was more unhinged than it really is. I saved your life, regardless of
all risk, because I thought you were insane, and now I know you are a
criminal! Oh, yes, I know things, I know your life!"

"Father," said Charles Rambert with so stern and determined an
expression that Etienne Rambert felt a moment's fear. "I want to know
first of all how you managed to save my life and make out that I was
dead. Was that just chance, or was it planned deliberately?"

Confronted with this new firmness of his son's, Etienne Rambert dropped
his peremptory tone; his shoulders drooped in distress.

"Can one anticipate things like that?" he said. "When we parted, my
heart bled to think that you, my son, must fall into the hands of
justice, and that your feet must tread the path that led to the scaffold
or, at least, to the galleys; I wondered how I could save you; then
chance, chance, mark you, brought that poor drowned body in my way: I
saw the fortunate coincidence of a faint resemblance, and resolved to
pass it off for you; I got those woman's clothes which you exchanged for
yours, buried the dead man's clothes and put yours on the corpse. Do you
know, Charles, that I have suffered too? Do you know what agony and
torture I, as a man of honour, have endured? Have you not heard the
story of my appearance at the Assizes and of my humiliation in court?"

"You did all that!" Charles Rambert murmured. "Strange chance, indeed!"
Then his tone changed and he sobbed. "Oh, my poor father, what an awful
fatality it all is!" Suddenly he sprang to his feet. "But I committed no
crime, papa! I never killed the Marquise de Langrune! Oh, do believe me!
Why, you have just this minute said that you know I am not mad!"

Etienne Rambert looked at his son with distress.

"Not mad, my poor boy? Yet perhaps you were mad--then?" Then he stopped
abruptly. "Don't let us go over all that again! I forbid it absolutely."
He leaned back on his writing-table, folded his arms and asked sternly:
"Have you come here only to tell me that?"

The curt question seemed to affect the lad strangely. All his former
audacity dropped from him. Nervously he stammered:

"I can't remain a woman any longer!"

"Why not?" snapped Etienne Rambert.

"I can't."

The two men looked at each other in silence, as if trying to read one
another's thoughts. Then Etienne Rambert seemed to see the inner meaning
of the words his son had just said.

"I see!" he answered slowly. "I understand.... The Royal Palace Hotel,
where Mlle. Jeanne held a trusted post, has just been the scene of a
daring robbery. Obviously, if anyone could prove that Charles Rambert
and the new cashier were one and the same person----"

But the young fellow understood the insinuation and burst out:

"I did not commit that robbery!"

"You did!" Etienne Rambert insisted: "you did. I read the newspaper
accounts of the robbery, read them with all the agony that only a father
like me with a son like you could feel. The detectives and the
magistrates were at a loss to find the key to the mystery, but I saw
clearly and at once what the solution of the mystery was. And I knew and
understood because I knew it was--you!"

"I did not commit the robbery," Charles Rambert shouted. "Do you mean to
begin all your horrible insinuations again, as you did at Beaulieu?" he
demanded in almost threatening tones. "What evil spirit obsesses you?
Why will you insist that your unhappy son is a criminal? I had nothing
to do with those robberies at the hotel; I swear I had not, father!"

M. Rambert shrugged his shoulders and clasped his hands.

"What have I done," he muttered, "to have so heavy a cross laid on me?"
He turned again to his son. "Your defence is childish. What is the use
of mere denials? Words don't mean anything without proofs to support
them." The lad was silent, seeming to think it useless to attempt to
convince a father who appeared so certain of his guilt, and also crushed
by the thought of all that had happened at the hotel. His father
betrayed some uneasiness at a new thought that had come into his mind.
"I told you not to come to me again except as a last resource, when
punishment was actually overtaking you, or when you had proved your
innocence: why are you here now? Has something happened that I do not
know about? What has happened? What else have you done? Speak!"

Charles Rambert answered in a toneless voice, as if hypnotised:

"There has been a detective in the hotel for the last few days. He
called himself Henri Verbier, and was disguised, but I knew him, for I
had seen him too lately, and in circumstances too deeply impressed upon
my mind for me to be able to forget him, although I only saw him then
for a few minutes."

"What do you mean?" said the elder man uneasily.

"I mean that Juve was at the Royal Palace Hotel."

"Juve?" exclaimed Etienne Rambert. "And then--go on!"

"Juve, disguised as Henri Verbier, subjected me to a kind of
examination, and I don't know what conclusion he came to. Then, this
evening, barely two hours ago, he came up to my room and had a long
talk, and while he was trying to get some information from me about a
matter that I know nothing about--for I swear, papa, that I had nothing
whatever to do with the robbery--he came up to me and took hold of me as
a man does when he wants to make up to a woman. And I lost my head! I
felt that in another minute all would be up with me--that he would
establish my identity, which he perhaps suspected already--and I thought
of all you had done to save my life by representing that I was dead,
and----"

Charles paused for breath. His father's fists were clenched and his face
contracted.

"Go on!" he said, "go on, but speak lower!"

"As Juve came close," Charles went on, "I dealt him a terrific blow on
the forehead, and he fell like a stone. And I got away!"

"Is he dead?" Etienne Rambert whispered.

"I don't know."

       *       *       *       *       *

For ten minutes Charles Rambert remained alone in the study, where his
father had left him, thinking deeply. Then the door opened and Etienne
Rambert came back carrying a bundle of clothes.

"There you are," he said to his son: "here are some man's clothes. Put
them on, and go!"

The young man hastily took off his woman's garments and dressed himself
in silence, while his father walked up and down the room, plunged in
deepest thought. Twice he asked: "Are you quite sure it was Juve?" and
twice his son replied "Quite sure." And once again Etienne Rambert
asked, in tones that betrayed his keen anxiety: "Did you kill him?" and
Charles Rambert shrugged his shoulders and replied: "I told you before,
I do not know."

And now Charles Rambert stood upon the threshold of the house, about to
leave his father without a word of farewell or parting embrace. M.
Etienne Rambert stayed him, holding out a pocket-book, filled full with
bank-notes.

"There: take that," he said, "and go!"




XV. THE MAD WOMAN'S PLOT


When Dr. Biron built his famous private asylum in the very heart of
Passy, intended, according to his prospectus, to provide a retreat for
people suffering from nervous breakdown or from overwork or
over-excitement, and to offer hospital treatment to the insane, in order
to secure a kind of official sanction for his institution, he took the
wise precaution to proclaim from the housetops that he would enlist the
services of ex-medical officers of the hospitals. The idea was a shrewd
and a successful one, and his establishment throve.

Perret and Sembadel were having breakfast, and also were grumbling.

"I shouldn't curse the meanness of the management quite so much if they
didn't put us on to all the jobs," said Sembadel. "Hang it all, man, we
are both qualified, and when we undertook to assist Dr. Biron we did so,
I presume, in order to top off our theoretical training with some
practical clinical experience."

"Who's stopping you?" Perret enquired.

"How can we find the time, when besides all our actual work with the
patients, we have to do all this administrative work, writing to people
to say how the patients are, and all that? That ought to be done by
clerks, not by us."

"Isn't one job as good as another?" Perret retorted. "Besides, we are
the only people who know how the patients really are, so it's common
sense that we should have to write to their friends."

"They might let us have a secretary, anyhow," Sembadel growled.

Perret saw that his friend was in a bad temper, so did not try to carry
on the argument.

"Say," he said, "you ought to make a special note of that case of No.
25, for your thesis. She was in your ward for about six months, wasn't
she?"

"No. 25?" said Sembadel. "Yes, I know: a woman named Rambert; age about
forty; hallucination that people are persecuting her; anaemic, with
alternate crises of excitement and melancholia, punctuated by fits of
passion; treatment: rest, nourishment, anodynes."

"You evidently remember the case distinctly."

"She interested me; she has marvellous eyes. Well, what about her?"

"Why, when she was moved into my pavilion the diagnosis was bad and the
prognosis very bad: she was supposed to be incurable. Just go and see
her now: her brain is restored: she's a new woman." He came to the table
and picked up some notepaper. "I wrote to her husband a day or two ago
and told him he might expect to hear that his wife had recovered, but I
imagine my letter miscarried, for I've had no answer. I have a good mind
to write to him again and ask for permission to send her to the
convalescent home. The mischief of it is that this Etienne Rambert may
want to remove her altogether, and that would mean one paying patient
less, which would put our worthy director in a bad temper for a month."

He turned to his correspondence, and for some minutes the silence in the
room was only broken by the scratching of pens on paper. Then an
attendant came in, bringing a quantity of letters. Perret picked them up
and began to sort them out.

"None for you," he said to Sembadel. "Not one of those little mauve
envelopes which you look for every day and which decide what your temper
will be. I must look out for storms."

"Shan't even have time to grouse to-day," Sembadel growled again. "You
forget that Swelding pays us an official visit to-day."

"The Danish professor? Is it this morning that he is coming?"

"So it seems."

"Who is the fellow?"

"Just one of those foreign savants who haven't succeeded in becoming
famous at home and so go abroad to worry other people under a pretext of
investigations. That's why he wants to come here. Wrote some beastly
little pamphlet on the ideontology of the hyper-imaginative. Never heard
of it myself."

The conversation dropped, and presently the two men went off to their
wards to see their patients, and warn the attendants to have everything
in apple-pie order for the official inspection.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meantime, in the great drawing-room, elaborate courtesies were being
exchanged between Dr. Biron and Professor Swelding.

Dr. Biron was a man of about forty, with a high-<DW52> face and an
active, vigorous frame. He gesticulated freely and spoke in an unctuous,
fawning tone.

"I am delighted at the great compliment you pay me by coming here, sir,"
he said. "When I started this institution five years ago I certainly did
not dare to hope that it would so soon win sufficient reputation to
entitle it to the honour of inspection by men so eminent in the
scientific world as yourself."

The professor listened with a courteous smile but evinced no hurry in
replying.

Professor Swelding was certainly a remarkable figure. He might have been
sixty, but he bore very lightly the weight of the years that laid their
snows upon his thick and curly but startlingly white hair. It was this
hair that attracted attention first; it was of extraordinary thickness
and was joined on to a heavy moustache and a long and massive beard. He
was like a man who might have taken a vow never to cut his hair. It
covered his ears and grew low upon his forehead, so that hardly a
vestige of the face could be seen, while, further, all the expression of
the eyes was concealed behind large blue spectacles. The professor was
enveloped in a heavy cloak, in spite of the bright sunshine; evidently
he was one of those men from the cold North who do not know what real
warmth is and have no idea of what it means to be too thickly clothed.
He spoke French correctly, but with a slight accent and a slow
enunciation that betrayed a foreign origin.

"I was really anxious, sir, to observe for myself the measures you have
taken which have set your institution in the forefront of establishments
of the kind," he replied. "I have read with the very greatest interest
your various communications to the transactions of learned societies. It
is a great advantage for a practitioner like myself to be able to profit
by the experience of a savant of your high standing."

A few further compliments were exchanged and then Dr. Biron suggested a
visit to the various wards, and led his guest out into the grounds of
the institution.

If Dr. Biron did not possess that theoretical knowledge of insanity
which has made French alienists famous throughout the world, he was
certainly a first-rate organiser. His sanatorium was a model one. It was
situated in one of the wealthiest, quietest and airiest quarters of
Paris, and stood in a vast enclosure behind high walls; within this
enclosure a number of small pavilions were built, all attractive in
design, and communicating by broad flights of steps with a beautiful
garden studded with trees and shrubs, but further subdivided into a
series of little gardens separated from one another by white latticed
palings.

"You see, Professor, I rely entirely on the isolation principle. A
single block would have involved a deleterious collocation of various
types of insanity, so I built this series of small pavilions, where my
patients can be segregated according to their type of alienation. The
system has great therapeutic advantages, and I am sure it is the
explanation of my high percentage of cures."

Professor Swelding nodded approval.

"We apply the system of segregation in Denmark," he said, "but we have
never carried it so far as to divide the general grounds. I see that
each of your pavilions has its own private garden."

"I regard that as indispensable," Dr. Biron declared. He led his visitor
to one of the little gardens, where a man of about fifty was walking
about between two attendants. "This man is a megalomaniac," he said: "he
believes that he is the Almighty."

"What is your treatment here?" Professor Swelding enquired. "I am aware
that the books prescribe isolation, but that is not sufficient by
itself."

"I nurse the brain by nursing the body," Dr. Biron replied. "I build up
my patient's system by careful attention to hygiene, diet, and rest, and
I pretend to ignore his mental alienation. There is always a spark of
sound sense in a diseased brain. This man imagines he is the Almighty,
but when he is hungry he has to ask for something to eat, and then we
pretend to wonder why he has any need to eat if he is the Almighty; he
has to concoct some explanation, and very gradually his reasoning power
is restored. A man ceases to be insane the moment he begins to
comprehend that he is insane."

The Professor followed the doctor, casting curious eyes at the various
patients who were walking in their gardens.

"Have you many cures?"

"That is a difficult question to answer," said Dr. Biron. "The
statistics are so very different in the different categories of
insanity."

"Of course," said Professor Swelding; "but take some particular type of
dementia, say, hallucination of persecution. What percentage of cures
can you show there?"

"Twenty per cent absolute recoveries, and forty per cent definite
improvements," the doctor replied promptly, and as the Professor evinced
unmistakable astonishment at so high a percentage, Dr. Biron took him
familiarly by the arm and drew him along. "I will show you a patient who
actually is to be sent home in a day or two. I believe that she is
completely cured, or on the very point of being completely cured."

A woman of about forty was sitting in one of the gardens by the side of
an attendant, quietly sewing. Dr. Biron paused to draw his visitor's
particular attention to her.

"That lady belongs to one of the best of our great merchant families.
She is Mme. Alice Rambert, wife of Etienne Rambert, the rubber merchant.
She has been under my care for nearly ten months. When she came here she
was in the last stage of debility and anaemia and suffered from the most
characteristic hallucination of all: she thought that assassins were all
round her. I have built up her physical system, and now I have cured her
mind. At the present moment that lady is not mad at all, in the proper
sense of the term."

"She never shows any symptoms of reverting to her morbid condition?"
Professor Swelding enquired with interest.

"Never."

"And would not, even if violently upset?"

"I do not think so."

"May I talk to her?"

"Certainly," and Dr. Biron led the visitor towards the seat on which the
patient was sitting. "Madame Rambert," he said, "may I present Professor
Swelding to you? He has heard that you are here and would like to pay
his respects."

Mme. Rambert put down her needlework and rose and looked at the Danish
professor.

"I am delighted to make the gentleman's acquaintance," she said, "but I
should like to know how he was aware of my existence, my dear doctor."

"I regret that I cannot claim to know you, madame," said Professor
Swelding, replying for Dr. Biron, "but I know that in addressing you I
shall be speaking to the inmate of this institution who will testify
most warmly to the scientific skill and the devotion of Dr. Biron."

"At all events," Mme. Rambert replied coldly, "he carries his kindness
to the extent of wishing his patients never to be dull, since he brings
unexpected visitors to see them."

The phrase was an implicit reproach of Dr. Biron's too ready inclination
to exhibit his patients as so many rare and curious wild animals, and it
stung him all the more because he was convinced that Mme. Rambert was
perfectly sane. He pretended not to hear what she said, giving some
order to the attendant, Berthe, who was standing respectfully by.

"I understand, madame," Professor Swelding replied gently. "You object
to my visit as an intrusion?"

Mme. Rambert had picked up her work and already was sewing again, but
suddenly she sprang up, so abruptly that the professor recoiled, and
exclaimed sharply:

"Who called me? Who called me? Who----"

The Professor was attempting to speak when the patient interrupted him.

"Oh!" she cried, "Alice! Alice! His voice--his voice! Go away! You
frighten me! Who spoke? Go away! Oh, help! help!" and she fled screaming
towards the far end of the garden, with the attendant and Dr. Biron
running after her. With all the cleverness of the insane she managed to
elude them, and continued to scream. "Oh, I recognised him! Do go away,
I implore you! Go! Murder! Murder!"

The attendant tried to reassure the doctor.

"Don't be frightened, sir. She is not dangerous. I expect the visit from
that gentleman has upset her."

The poor demented creature had taken refuge behind a clump of shrubs,
and was standing there with eyes dilated with anguish fixed on the
Professor and hand pointing to him, trembling in every limb.

"Fantomas!" she cried: "Fantomas! There--I know him! Oh, help!"

The scene was horribly distressing, and Dr. Biron put an end to it by
ordering the attendant to take Mme. Rambert to her room and induce her
to rest, and to send at once for M. Perret. Then he turned to Professor
Swelding.

"I am greatly distressed by this incident, Professor. It proves that the
cure of this poor creature is by no means so assured as I had believed.
But there are other cases which will not shake your faith in my judgment
like this, I hope. Shall we go on?"

Professor Swelding tried to comfort the doctor.

"The brain is a pathetically frail thing," he said. "You could not have
a more striking case to prove it: that poor lady, whom you believed to
be cured, suddenly having a typical crisis of her form of insanity
provoked by--what? Neither you nor I look particularly like assassins,
do we?" And he followed Dr. Biron, who was much discomfited, to be shown
other matters of interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Better now, madame? Are you going to be good?"

Mme. Rambert was reclining on a sofa in her room, watching her
attendant, Berthe, moving about and tidying up the slight disorder
caused by her recent ministrations. The patient made a little gesture of
despair.

"Poor Berthe!" she said. "If you only knew how unhappy I am, and how
sorry for having given way to that panic just now!"

"Oh, that was nothing," said the attendant. "The doctor won't attach any
importance to that."

"Yes, he will," said the patient with a weary smile. "I think he will
attach importance to it, and in any case it will delay my discharge from
this place."

"Not a bit of it, madame. Why, you know they have written to your home
to say you are cured?"

Mme. Rambert did not reply for a minute or two. Then she said:

"Tell me, Berthe, what do you understand by the word 'cured'?"

The attendant was rather nonplussed.

"Why, it means that you are better: that you are quite well."

Her patient smiled bitterly.

"It is true that my health is better now, and that my stay here has done
me good. But that is not what I was talking about. What is your opinion
about my madness?"

"You mustn't think about that," the attendant remonstrated. "You are no
more mad than I am."

"Oh, I know the worst symptom of madness is to declare you are not mad,"
Mme. Rambert answered sadly; "so I will be careful not to say it,
Berthe. But, apart from this last panic, the reason for which I cannot
tell you, have you ever known me do, or heard me say, anything that was
utterly devoid of reason, in all the time that I have been in your
charge?"

Struck by the remark, the attendant, in spite of herself, was obliged to
confess:

"No, I never have--that is----"

"That is," Mme. Rambert finished for her, "I have sometimes protested to
you that I was the victim of an abominable persecution, and that there
was a tragic mystery in my life: in short, that if I was shut up here,
it was because someone wanted me to be shut up. Come now, Berthe, has
it never occurred to you that perhaps I was telling the truth?"

The attendant had been shaken for a minute by the calm self-possession
of her patient; now she resumed her professional manner.

"Don't worry any more, Mme. Rambert, for you know as well as I do that
Dr. Biron acknowledges that you are cured now. You are going to leave
the place and resume your ordinary life."

"Ah, Berthe," said Mme. Rambert, twisting and untwisting her hands, "if
you only knew! Why, if I leave this sanatorium, or rather if the doctor
sends me back to my family, I shall certainly be put in some other
sanatorium before two days are past! No, it isn't merely an idea that I
have got into my head," she went on as the attendant protested. "Listen:
during the whole ten months that I have been here, I have never once
protested that I was not insane. I was quite glad to be in this place!
For I felt safe here. But now I am not sure of that. I must go, but I
must not go merely to return to my husband! I must be free, free to go
to those who will help me to escape from the horrible trap in which I
have spent the last few years of my life!"

Mme. Rambert's earnest tone convinced the attendant in spite of her own
instinct.

"Yes?" she said enquiringly.

"I suppose you know that I am rich, Berthe?" Mme. Rambert went on. "I
have always been generous to you, and higher fees are paid for me here
than are paid for any other patient. Would you like to make sure of your
future for ever, and quite easily? I have heard you talk about getting
married. Shall I give you a dot? You might lose your situation here, but
if you trust me I will make it up to you a hundredfold, if you will help
me to escape from this place! And it cannot be too soon! I have not a
minute to lose!"

Berthe tried to get away from her patient, but Mme. Rambert held her
back, almost by force.

"Tell me your price," she said. "How much do you want? A thousand
pounds? Two thousand pounds?" and as the attendant, bewildered by the
mere suggestion of such fabulous sums, was silent, Mme. Rambert slipped
a diamond ring off her finger and held it out to the young woman. "Take
that as proof of my sincerity," she said. "If anybody asks me about it I
will say that I have lost it. And from now, Berthe, begin to prepare a
way for me to escape! The very night that I am free I swear you shall be
a rich woman!"

Berthe got up, swaying, hardly knowing if she was awake or dreaming.

"A rich woman!" she murmured. "A rich woman!" and over the girl's face
there suddenly crept a horrible expression of cupidity and desire.




XVI. AMONG THE MARKET PORTERS


"Boulevard Rochechouart," said Berthe, the young asylum nurse, to the
conductor as she sprang into the tram just as it was starting.

It was a September afternoon, one of the last fine days of the now
fast-dying summer, and the girl had just got her fortnightly leave for
forty-eight hours. She had gone off duty at noon, and now had until noon
on the next day but one to resume her own personality and shake off the
anxieties that beset all those who are charged with the constant care of
the insane, the most distressing kind of patients that exists. As a
general rule Berthe spent her fortnightly holidays with her old
grand-parents in their cottage outside Paris, but on this occasion she
had elected to remain in the city, influenced thereto by the long
conversation she had had with the patient confided to her particular
care, No. 25, Mme. Rambert. Since that first talk with her, on the day
of Professor Swelding's visit to the asylum, she had had others, and
Berthe had now elaborated a plan to enable the supposed lunatic to
escape, and had decided to spend her short holiday in bringing the plan
to a point.

At the boulevard Rochechouart Berthe got out of the tram, looked around
to get her bearings in the somewhat unfamiliar neighbourhood, and then
turned into the rue Clignancourt and stood on the left-hand side of the
street, looking at the shops. The third one was a wine shop, only the
first of many in the street.

Berthe pushed the door of this establishment a little way open and
looked at the rather rowdy company gathered round the zinc counter, all
with flushed faces and all talking loudly. She did not venture inside,
but in a clear voice asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" No definite answer
was forthcoming, but the men turned round, hearing her enquiry, and
seeing her pretty figure began to nudge one another and jest and laugh
coarsely. "Come in, missy," said one of them, but already Berthe had
quickly closed the door and lightly gone on her way.

A few yards further on there was another bar, and into this, also,
Berthe peeped and once more asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" adding by way
of further explanation, "Hogshead Geoffroy, I mean." This time a roar of
laughter followed, and the girl fled, flushed with indignation.

Yet she did not desist from her strange search, and at last, at the
sixth shop, her question was answered by a deep bass voice from the far
end of a smoke-clouded den. "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here!" and heaving a
sigh of relief Berthe went inside the shop.

       *       *       *       *       *

When you want to see M. "Hogshead" Geoffroy, your procedure is
simplicity itself. As he has no known address, all you have to do is to
start at the bottom of the rue Clignancourt on the left-hand side, look
into every wineshop, and ask, in tones loud enough to be heard above the
clatter of conversation, whether Hogshead Geoffroy is there, and it will
be mighty bad luck if, at one or other of the bars, you do not hear the
answer, "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here," followed immediately by that
gentleman's order to the _patronne_: "Half a pint, please: the gentleman
will pay!" It is a safe order; the _patronne_ knows from past experience
that she can serve the half-pint without anxiety: Hogshead Geoffroy
rapidly drains it, and then holds out a huge and hairy hand to the
visitor and enquires, "Well, what is it?"

If, as often happens, the Hogshead finds himself confronted by a
stranger, he feels no surprise; he knows his own popularity, and is a
modest soul, so he calls his visitor by his Christian name at once, taps
him amicably on the shoulder, and calls him "old boy," and invites him
to stand a drink. The Hogshead is an artist in his line; he hires
himself out to public halls to announce in his powerful voice,
reinforced by a trumpet, the various items on the programme or the
results of performances achieved. He also harangues the crowd on behalf
of showmen, or hurls threats at too excited demonstrators at public
demonstrations. Between whiles he rolls hogsheads down into cellars, or
bottles wine, and even drinks it when he is among friends who have money
to pay withal.

       *       *       *       *       *

At sight of Berthe, Hogshead Geoffroy so far departed from custom as not
to give an order to the _patronne_ at the bar; instead, he rose and went
towards the girl and unceremoniously embraced her.

"Ah-ha, little sister, there you are! Why, I was just that moment
thinking of you!" He drew her to the back of the shop, towards a bunch
of sturdy, square-shouldered fellows drinking there, to whom he
introduced her. "Now then, mates, try to behave yourselves; I'm bringing
a charming young lady to see you, my sister Berthe, little
Bob--Bobinette, as we called her when we lived with the old folks." The
girl blushed, a little uneasy at finding herself in such a mixed
company, but Hogshead Geoffroy put every one at ease; he put his great
hand under Berthe's chin and tilted her head back. "Don't you think she
is pretty, this little sister of mine? She's the very spit of her
brother!" There was a general roar of laughter. The contrast between the
two figures was so great that it seemed impossible there could be any
relationship between them: the graceful, slender, tiny _Parisienne_
looking tinier still beside the huge colossus of a man six feet high,
with the chest of a bull and the shoulders of an athlete. "We don't seem
to be built on quite the same lines," M. Geoffroy admitted, "but all the
same there is a family likeness!"

The men made room for the girl, and after she had yielded to the general
insistence and accepted a glass of white wine, Geoffroy bent forward and
spoke in a lower tone.

"Well, what do you want with me?"

"I want to talk to you about something which will interest you, I'm
sure," Berthe answered.

"Anything to be got out of it?" was the giant's next enquiry.

Berthe smiled.

"I expect so, or I wouldn't have troubled you."

"Whenever there's any money to be picked up the Hogshead's always on,"
he replied: "especially just now when things aren't any too bright,
though I may tell you I think there's going to be an alteration in that
respect."

"Have you got a situation?" Berthe asked in some surprise.

Hogshead Geoffroy laid a finger on his lip.

"It's still a secret," he said, "but there's no harm in talking it over,
for everybody here knows all about it," and at interminable length, and
with many a pause for libations, he explained that he was a candidate
for an appointment as Market Porter. He had been cramming for a
fortnight past, in order to emerge triumphantly from the examination to
which candidates were always subjected, and that very morning he had sat
in the Hotel de Ville wrestling with nothing less than a problem in
arithmetic. In proof, he produced from his pocket a crumpled, greasy and
wine-stained sheet of paper scrawled all over with childish writing and
figures, and showed it to his sister, immensely proud of the effect he
was producing on her. "A problem," he repeated. "See here: two taps fill
a tank at the rate of twenty litres a minute, and a third tap empties it
at the rate of fifteen hundred litres an hour. How long will it take for
the tank to get full?"

A friend of Geoffroy's broke in: it was Mealy Benoit, his most
formidable competitor for the appointment.

"And how long will it take for you to get full?" he asked with a great
laugh.

Hogshead Geoffroy banged his fist on the table.

"This is a serious conversation," he said, and turned again to his
sister, who wanted to know if he had succeeded in finding the answer to
the problem. "Maybe," he replied. "I worked by rule of thumb, for, as
you know, arithmetic and all those devil's funniments aren't in my line.
To sit for an hour, writing at a table in the great hall of the Hotel de
Ville--not much! It made me sweat more than carrying four
hundredweight!"

But the company was preparing to make a move. Time was getting on, and
at six o'clock the second part of the examination, the physical test,
was to be held in the Fish Market. Mealy Benoit had paid his score
already, and Hogshead Geoffroy's deferent escort of friends was getting
restless. Berthe won fresh favour in her brother's eyes by paying for
their refreshments with a ten franc piece and leaving the change to be
placed to his credit, and then with him she left the wineshop.

       *       *       *       *       *

The annual competition for an appointment as Market Porter is held at
the end of September. It is a great event. There are generally many
candidates, but only two or three, and sometimes less, of the best are
picked. The posts are few and good, for the number of porters is
limited. The examination is in two parts: one purely intellectual,
consisting of some simple problem and a little dictation, the other
physical, in which the candidates have to carry a sack of meal weighing
three hundredweight a distance of two hundred yards in the shortest
time.

At six o'clock punctually the market women were all in their places
along the pavement by their respective stalls. The hall was decorated
with flags; the salesmen and regular shopmen were provided with chairs,
and their assistants were behind them, with the sweepers and criers; at
the back stood three or four rows of the general public, all eager to
witness the impressive display.

The two-hundred-yard course was carefully cleared, every obstacle having
been scrupulously swept off the asphalte, especially pieces of
orange-peel, lettuce leaves and bits of rotten vegetable matter, which
might have caused a competitor to slip when trying to break the record
for carrying the sack. A high official of the Hotel de Ville and three
of the senior Market Porters formed the jury, and there were also two
officials of the Cyclists' Union, expert in the use of stop watches,
armed with tested chronometers and deputed to take the exact time of
each performance.

The crowd of onlookers was as odd, and eclectic, and keen, as can
possibly be imagined. Berthe, who knew that false modesty is quite out
of place in popular gatherings, mingled freely in the general
conversation. Among other picturesque types she had noticed one
particularly extraordinary individual who, although he was in the last
row of all, overtopped the rest by quite half of his body, being perched
on an antiquated tricycle, which provoked the hilarity of the mob.

"What ho, Bouzille!" somebody called out, for the man was a well-known
and popular figure, and everybody knew his name. "Is that Methuselah's
tricycle that you have pinched?" and to some of the sallies the fellow
replied with a smile that was almost lost in his matted beard, and to
others with a jest uttered in the purest dialect of Auvergne.

Someone spoke softly in Berthe's ear and she turned and saw a sturdy
fellow of about twenty-five, wearing a blue blouse, a red handkerchief
round his neck, and a drover's cap; he was a well-built, powerful man,
and in spite of his humble dress, had an intelligent face and an almost
distinguished manner. Berthe responded amiably, and a few commonplace
remarks were exchanged between the two.

"In case you care to know, my name's Julot," said the man.

And Berthe replied frankly, but without otherwise compromising herself.

"And I am Bob, or Bobinette, whichever you like. I am Hogshead
Geoffroy's sister," she added with a little touch of pride.

A murmur ran round the crowd. Mealy Benoit was going through his trial.
The great fellow came along with rapid, rhythmical step, with supple
limbs and chest hunched forward. Surely balanced on his broad shoulders
and the nape of his neck was an enormous sack of meal, accurately
weighed to scale three hundredweight. Without the least hesitation or
slackening of pace, he covered the two hundred yards, reaching the goal
perfectly fresh and fit; he stood for a moment or two in front of the
judges, displaying the mighty muscles of his naked chest, over which the
perspiration was running, and evincing genuine delight in not freeing
himself from his heavy burden at the earliest possible moment. The
applause was enthusiastic and immediate, but silence quickly fell again
and all eyes turned towards the starting-post. It was Hogshead
Geoffroy's turn.

The giant was really a splendid sight. Instead of walking as his rival
had done, he began to step like a gymnast, and the crowd yelled their
delight. It seemed that he must beat his rival's time easily, but all at
once the great sack on his shoulders was seen to shake, and Geoffroy
almost stopped, uttering a heavy groan before he got going again. The
crowd looked on in surprise: where he had just set his feet there was a
wet mark upon the asphalte: Geoffroy had slipped on a piece of
orange-peel. But he managed to restore the equilibrium of the sack, and,
taught caution by the risk he had just run, he finished the course with
measured steps.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two hours later the result of the competition was announced. Hogshead
Geoffroy and Mealy Benoit were bracketed equal, having taken exactly the
same time to cover the course; upon the result of the written
examination would depend the final issue, and the matter was all the
more important because this year there was but one vacancy for a Market
Porter.

Berthe, or Bobinette, was vehemently discussing with her neighbours the
mishap that had befallen Geoffroy during his trial. A man dressed in a
shabby black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, and wearing a kind of
jockey cap on his greasy hair, was watching her intently, seeming to
agree with all she said while really interested in something else.
Berthe, who was very intent upon the matter in hand, did not notice this
individual's manner; it was Julot, her faithful squire for the last two
hours, who got her away.

"Come," he said, taking her by the sleeve, "you know your brother is
waiting for you," and as she yielded to his insistence he whispered in
her ear, "That chap's a dirty-looking rascal: I don't think much of
him!"

"He certainly is uncommonly ugly," the girl admitted, and then like the
trained nurse that she was, she added, "and did you notice his
complexion? The man must be ill: he is absolutely green!"




XVII. AT THE SAINT-ANTHONY'S PIG


"Pay for a drink, and I'll listen to you," said Hogshead Geoffroy to his
sister.

After numerous visits to the many bars and drinking saloons that
surround the markets, they had finally gone for a late supper into the
Saint-Anthony's Pig, the most popular tavern in the neighbourhood,
Geoffroy having reconciled himself to waiting for the result of the
examination, which would not be announced until the following day.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new and original attraction had been stationed outside the
Saint-Anthony's Pig for the last few days. After the formal enquiries
succeeding his discovery of the drowned body in the river, Bouzille had
come to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower. He had met with but a week's
delay in his itinerary, having been locked up for that time at Orleans
for some trifling misdemeanour.

On entering the capital, Bouzille's extraordinary equipage had caused
quite a sensation, and as the worthy fellow, with utter disregard of the
heavy traffic in the city, had careered about in it through the most
crowded streets, he had very soon been run in and taken to the nearest
lock-up. His train had been confiscated for forty-eight hours, but as
there was nothing really to be objected against the tramp, he had merely
been requested to make himself scarce, and not to do it again.

Bouzille did not quite know what to make of it all. But while he was
towing his two carriages behind his tricycle towards the Champ-de-Mars,
from which point he would at last be able to contemplate the Eiffel
Tower, he had fallen in with the editor of the _Auto_, to whom, in
exchange for a bottle of wine at the next cafe, he had ingenuously
confided his story. A sensational article about the globe-trotting tramp
appeared in the next number of that famous sporting journal, and
Bouzille woke to find himself famous. The next thing that happened was
that Francois Bonbonne, the proprietor of the Saint-Anthony's Pig,
shrewdly foreseeing that this original character with his remarkable
equipage would furnish a singular attraction, engaged him to station
himself outside the establishment from eleven to three every night, in
return for his board and lodging and a salary of five francs a day.

It need not be said that Bouzille had closed with the offer. But getting
tired of cooling his heels on the doorstep, he had gradually taken to
leaving his train on the pavement and himself going down into the
basement hall, where he generously returned his five francs every night
to the proprietor, in exchange for potations to that amount.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the basement of the Saint-Anthony's Pig the atmosphere was steadily
getting cloudier, and the noise louder. The time was about a quarter to
two. The "swells," and the young men about town who went to have a bowl
of onion soup at the popular cafe because that was the latest correct
thing to do, had withdrawn. The few pale and shabby dancers had given
their show, and in another ten minutes, when the wealthy customers had
departed, the supper room would resume its natural appearance and
everybody would be at home. Francois Bonbonne had just escorted the last
toffs up the narrow corkscrew staircase that led from the basement to
the ground-floor, and now he stood, his stout person entirely filling
the only exit, unctuously suggesting that perhaps somebody would like to
give an order for a hot wine salad.

Berthe was sitting in a corner beside her brother, whom the warmth of
the room and his numerous potations had rendered drowsy, and thinking it
an opportune moment to tell him of her scheme, before he became
talkative or quarrelsome, she began to explain.

"There's nothing much to do, but I want a strong man like you."

"Any barrels to roll anywhere?" he enquired in a thick voice.

Berthe shook her head, her glance meanwhile resting mechanically on a
small young man with a budding beard and a pale face, who had just taken
a seat opposite her and was timidly ordering a portion of sauerkraut.

"I want some bars removed from a window; they are iron bars set in
stone, but the stone is worn and the bars are very rusty, and anybody
with a little strength could wrench them out."

"And that's all?" Geoffroy enquired suspiciously.

"Yes, that's all."

"Then I shall be very glad to help you: I suppose it will be worth
something, won't it?" He broke off short, noticing that a man sitting
close by seemed to be listening attentively to the conversation. Berthe
followed his eyes, and then turned with a smile to her brother.

"That's all right; don't mind; I know that man," and in proof of the
statement she held out a friendly hand to the individual who seemed to
be spying upon them. "Good evening again, M. Julot: how are you, since I
saw you just now? I did not notice you were here."

Julot shook hands with her and without evincing any further interest in
her, went on with the conversation he was having with his own companion,
a clean-shaven fellow.

"Go on, Billy Tom," he said in low tones. "Tell me what has happened."

"Well, there has been the devil to pay at the Royal Palace, owing to
that----accident, you know; of course I was not mixed up in it in any
way: I'm only interpreter, and I stick to my own job. But three weeks
after the affair, Muller was suddenly kicked out, owing to the door
having been opened for the chap who worked the robbery."

"Muller, Muller?" said Julot, seeming to be searching his memory. "Who
is Muller?"

"Why, the watchman on the second floor."

"Oh, ah, yes; and who turned him out?"

"I think his name is Juve."

"Oh--ho!" Julot muttered to himself. "I thought as much!"

There was a noise at the entrance of the hall, and down the corkscrew
staircase came two people who, judging by the greeting they received,
were very popular: Ernestine, a well-known figure, and Mealy Benoit, who
was very drunk.

Benoit lurched from one table to another, leaning on every head and pair
of shoulders that came his way, and reached an empty seat on a lounge
into which he crushed, half squashing the pale young man with the
budding beard. The lad made no protest, seeming to be afraid of his
neighbour's bulk, but merely wriggled sideways and tried to give the
new-comer all the room he wanted. Benoit did not seem even to notice the
humble little fellow, but Ernestine took pity on him and assured him
that she would look after him.

"All right, sonny," she said, "Mealy won't squash you; and if he tries
any of his games on you, Ernestine will look after you." She took his
head between her two hands and kissed his forehead affectionately,
ignoring Mealy Benoit's angry protests. "He's a dear little chap: I like
him," she said to the company at large. "What's your name, deary?"

The boy blushed to the tips of his ears.

"Paul," he murmured.

But Francois Bonbonne the proprietor, with his usual keen eye to
business, arrived just then and set down before Mealy Benoit the famous
hot wine salad of which he had spoken before. Behind Bonbonne came
Bouzille, who had left his turn-out on the pavement and come down into
the supper room to eat and drink his five francs, and more if credit
could be got.

Benoit caught sight of Hogshead Geoffroy and immediately offered to
clink glasses with him; he pushed a glass towards him, inviting him to
dip it with the rest into the steaming bowl; but Geoffroy was warming up
under the influence of alcohol, and broke into a sudden flame of wrath
at sight of Mealy Benoit. If Benoit should be given the first place, it
would be a rank injustice, he reflected, for he, Geoffroy, was most
certainly the stronger man. And besides, the sturdy Hogshead was
beginning to wonder whether his rival might not have devised an odious
plot against him and put the famous piece of orange-peel upon the track,
but for which Geoffroy would have won hands down. So Geoffroy, very
drunk, offered Benoit, who was no whit more sober, the gross affront of
refusing to clink glasses with him!

"Why, it's you!" exclaimed Bouzille, in ringing tones of such glad
surprise that everybody turned round to see whom he was addressing.
Julot and Berthe looked with the rest.

"Why, it's the green man of just now," said the asylum nurse to her
companion, and he assented, moodily enough.

"Yes, it's him right enough."

Bouzille took no notice of the attention he had provoked, and did not
seem to notice that the green man appeared to be anything but pleased at
having been recognised.

"I've seen you before, I know," he went on; "where have I met you?"

The green man did not answer; he affected to be engrossed in a most
serious conversation with the friend he had brought with him into the
supper room, a shabby individual who carried a guitar. But Bouzille was
not to be put off, and suddenly he exclaimed, with perfect indifference
to what his neighbours might think:

"I know: you are the tramp who was arrested with me down there in Lot!
The day of that murder--you know--the murder of the Marquise de
Langrune!"

Bouzille in his excitement had caught the green man by the sleeve, but
the green man impatiently shook him off, growling angrily.

"Well, and what about it?"

       *       *       *       *       *

For some minutes now Hogshead Geoffroy and Mealy Benoit had been
exchanging threatening glances. Geoffroy had given voice to his
suspicions, and kind friends had not failed to report his words to
Benoit. Inflamed with drink as they were, the two men were bound to come
to blows before long, and a dull murmur ran through the room heralding
the approaching altercation. Berthe, anxious on her brother's behalf,
and a little frightened on her own, did all she could to induce
Geoffroy to come away, but even though she promised to pay for any
number of drinks elsewhere, he refused to budge from the bench where he
was sitting hunched up in a corner.

       *       *       *       *       *

When at length he got rid of Bouzille and his exasperating garrulity,
the green man resumed his conversation with his friend with the guitar.

"It's rather odd that he hasn't a trace of accent," the latter remarked.

"Oh, it's nothing for a fellow like Gurn to speak French like a
Frenchman," said the green man in a low tone; then he stopped nervously.
Ernestine was walking about among the company, chatting to one and
another and getting drinks, and he fancied that she was listening to
what he said.

But another duologue rose audible in another part of the room.

"If the gentleman would like to show his strength there's someone ready
to take him on."

Hogshead Geoffroy had thrown down his glove!

Silence fell upon the room. It was Mealy Benoit's turn to answer. At
that precise moment, however, Benoit was draining the salad bowl. He
slowly swallowed the last of the red liquid--one can't do two things at
once--laid the bowl down, empty, on the table, and in thundering,
dignified tones demanded another, wiped his lips on the back of his
sleeve, and turned his huge head towards the corner where Geoffroy was
hunched up, saying, "Will the gentleman kindly repeat his last remark?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Ernestine moved furtively to Julot's side, and affecting to be
interested only in the argument going on between Geoffroy and Benoit,
said without looking at him:

"The pale man, with the greenish complexion, said to the man with the
guitar, 'It's he, all right, because of the burn in the palm of his
hand.'"

Julot choked back an oath, and instinctively clenched his fist, but
Ernestine already had moved on and was huskily chaffing the young man
with the budding beard. Julot sat with sombre face and angry eyes, only
replying in curt monosyllables to the occasional remarks of his next
neighbour, Billy Tom. Marie, the waitress, was passing near him and he
signed to her to stop.

"Say, Marie," he said, nodding towards the window that was behind him,
"what does that window open on to?"

The girl thought for a moment.

"On to the cellar," she said; "this hall is in the basement."

"And the cellar," Julot went on; "how do you get out of that?"

"You can't," the servant answered; "there's no door; you have to come
through here."

Momentarily becoming more uneasy, Julot scrutinised the long tunnel of a
room at the extreme end of which he was sitting; there was only one
means of egress, up the narrow corkscrew staircase leading to the
ground-floor, and at the very foot of that staircase was the table
occupied by the green man and the man with the guitar.

       *       *       *       *       *

A plate aimed by Hogshead Geoffroy at Mealy Benoit crashed against the
opposite wall. Everyone jumped to his feet, the women screaming, the men
swearing. The two market porters stood confronting one another, Hogshead
Geoffroy brandishing a chair, Benoit trying to wrench the marble top
from a table to serve as a weapon. The melee became general, plates
smashing on the floor, and dinner things flying towards the ceiling.

Suddenly a shot rang out, but quickly though it had been fired, the
green man and the man with the guitar had seen who fired it. For the
last few minutes, indeed, these two mysterious individuals had never
taken their eyes off Julot.

Julot, whom Berthe had supposed from his appearance to be an honest
cattle-drover, was undoubtedly a wonderful shot. Having observed that
the room was lighted by a single chandelier composed of three electric
lamps, and that the current was supplied by only two wires running along
the cornice, Julot had taken aim at the wires and cut them clean in two
with a single shot!

Immediately following upon the shot, the room was plunged into absolute
darkness. A perfectly incredible uproar ensued, men and women struggling
together and shouting and trampling one another down, and crockery and
dinner things crashing down from the side-boards and tables on to the
floor.

Above the din a sudden hoarse cry of pain rang out, "Help!" and
simultaneously Berthe, who was lost among the mob, heard a muttered
exclamation in her ear and felt two hands groping all over her body as
if trying to identify her. The young nurse was the only woman in the
room wearing a hat. Half swooning with terror, she felt herself picked
up and thrust upon a bench, and then someone whispered in a vinous
voice: "You are not to help no. 25, the Rambert woman, to escape."

Berthe was so utterly astonished that she overcame her fright
sufficiently to stammer out a question:

"But what--but who----?"

Lower still, but yet more peremptorily, the voice became audible again.

"Fantomas forbids you to do it! And if you disobey, you die!"

The nurse dropped back upon the bench half fainting with fright, and the
row in the supper room grew worse. Three men were fighting now, the
green man being at grips with two at once. The green man did not seem to
feel the blows rained on him, but with a strength that was far beyond
the ordinary he gripped hold of an arm and slid his hands along the
sleeve, never letting go of the arm, until he reached the wrist, when
wrenching open the clenched fist he slipped his fingers on to the palm
of the hand. A little exclamation of triumph escaped him, and
simultaneously the owner of the hand uttered an exclamation of pain, for
the green man's fingers had touched a still raw wound upon the hollow of
the palm.

But at that instant his leg was caught between two powerful knees, and
the slightest pressure more would have broken it. The green man was
forced to let go the hand he held; he fell to the ground with his
adversary upon him, and for a moment thought that he was lost. But at
the same moment his adversary let go of him in turn, having been taken
by surprise by yet a third combatant who joined in the fray and
separated the first two, devoting himself to a furious assault upon the
man whom the green man had tried to capture. The green man passed a
rapid hand over the individual who had just rescued him from the fierce
assault, and was conscious of a shock of surprise as he identified the
young man with the budding beard; thereupon he collared him firmly by
the neck and did not let him go.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the crush the combatants had been forced towards the staircase, and
at this narrow entrance into the hall bodies were being trampled
underfoot and piercing screams rent the air. Francois Bonbonne had not
made the least attempt to interfere. He knew exactly the proper
procedure when trouble of this sort broke out, and he had gone to the
corner of the street and sent the constable on duty there to the nearest
police station for help. Directly the first gendarmes arrived, Francois
Bonbonne led them behind the counter in the shop and showed them the
fire hose; with the skill acquired by long practice, they rapidly
unrolled the pipe, introduced it into the narrow mouth of the staircase,
turned on the tap, and proceeded to drench everybody in the supper room
below.

The unexpected sousing pulled the combatants up short, separated all the
champions, and drove the howling and shrieking mob back to the far end
of the room. The operation lasted for a good five minutes, and when the
gendarmes considered that the customers of the Saint-Anthony's Pig were
sufficiently quieted down, the sergeant threw the light of a lantern,
which the proprietor obligingly had ready for him, over the supper room,
and peremptorily ordered the company to come up, one by one.

Seeing that resistance would be futile, the company obeyed. As they
slowly emerged at the top of the corkscrew staircase, meek and subdued,
the gendarmes at the top arrested them, slipped handcuffs on them, and
sent them off in couples to the station. When the sergeant assumed that
every one had come out, he went down into the supper room, just to make
sure that nobody was still hiding there. But the room was not quite
empty. One unfortunate man was lying on the floor, bathed in his own
blood. It was the man with the guitar, and a knife had been driven
through his breast!

       *       *       *       *       *

The couple consisting of the green man and the young man with the
budding beard, of whom his companion had never once let go since
identifying him during the fight in the supper room, were taken to the
station. The clerk, who was taking down the names of the prisoners, with
difficulty repressed an exclamation of surprise when the green man
produced an identification card, and whispered a few words in his ear.

"Release that gentleman at once," said the clerk. "With regard to the
other----"

"With regard to the other," the green man broke in, "kindly release him
too. I want to keep him with me."

The clerk bowed in consent, and both men were immediately released from
their handcuffs. The young man stared in astonishment at the individual
who a minute before had been his companion in bonds, and was about to
thank him, but the other grasped him firmly by the wrist, as though to
warn him of the impossibility of flight, and led him out of the police
station. In the street they met the sergeant with a gendarme bringing in
the unfortunate man with the guitar, who was just breathing, and in whom
the officials had recognised a detective-inspector. Without letting go
of the youth, the green man bent forward to the sergeant and had a brief
but animated conversation with him.

"Yes, sir, that's all," the sergeant said respectfully; "I haven't
anyone else."

The green man stamped his foot in wrath.

"Good Lord! Gurn has got away!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Towards the rue Montmartre the green man rapidly dragged his companion,
who was trembling in every limb, and utterly at a loss to guess what the
future held in store for him. Suddenly the green man halted, just under
the light of a street lamp outside the church of Saint-Eustache. He
stood squarely in front of his prisoner and looked him full in the
eyes.

"I am Juve," he said, "the detective!" and as the young man stared at
him in silent dismay, Juve went on, emphasising each of his words, and
with a sardonic smile flickering over his face. "And you, Mademoiselle
Jeanne--you are Charles Rambert!"




XVIII. A PRISONER AND A WITNESS


Juve had spoken in a tone of command that brooked no reply. His keen
eyes seemed to pierce through Paul and read his inmost soul. The winking
light of the street lamp shed a wan halo round the lad, who obviously
wanted to move away from its radius, but Juve held him fast.

"Come now, answer! You are Charles Rambert, and you were Mademoiselle
Jeanne?"

"I don't understand," Paul declared.

"Really!" sneered Juve. He hailed a passing cab. "Get in," he ordered
briefly, and pushing the lad in before him he gave an address to the
driver, entered the cab and shut the door. Juve sat there rubbing his
hands as if well pleased with his night's work. For several minutes he
remained silent, and then turned to his companion.

"You think it is clever to deny it," he remarked, "but do you imagine it
isn't obvious to anyone that you are Charles Rambert, and that you were
disguised as Mademoiselle Jeanne?"

"But you are wrong," Paul insisted. "Charles Rambert is dead."

"So you know that, do you? Then you admit that you know whom I am
talking about?"

The lad  and began to tremble. Juve looked out of the window,
pretending not to notice him, and smiled gently. Then he went on in a
friendly tone. "But you know it's stupid to deny what can't be denied.
Besides, you should remember that if I know you are Charles Rambert I
must know something else as well; and therefore----"

"Well, yes," Paul acknowledged, "I _am_ Charles Rambert, and I was
disguised as Mademoiselle Jeanne. How did you know it? Why were you at
the Saint-Anthony's Pig? Had you come to arrest me? And where are you
taking me now--to prison?"

Juve shrugged his shoulders.

"You want to know too much, my boy. Besides, you ought to know Paris,
and so ought to be able to guess where I told the driver to go, merely
by looking at the streets we are passing through."

"That is exactly what frightens me," Charles Rambert replied. "We are on
the quays, near the Law Courts."

"And the Police Station, my son. Quite so. Now it's quite useless to
make a scene: you will gain nothing by attempting to get away. You are
in the hands of justice, or rather in my hands, which is not quite the
same thing, so come quietly. That is really good advice!"

A few minutes later the cab stopped at the Tour Pointue which has such
melancholy associations for so many criminals. Juve alighted and made
his companion alight as well, paid the driver, and walked up the
staircase to the first floor of the building. It was daylight now, and
the men were coming on duty; all of them saluted Juve as he walked along
with his trembling captive. The detective went down one long passage,
turned into another, and opened a door.

"Go in there," he ordered curtly.

Charles Rambert obeyed, and found himself in a small room the nature of
which he recognised immediately from the furniture it contained. It was
the measuring room of the anthropometric service. So what he feared was
about to happen: Juve was going to lock him up!

But the detective called out in a loud tone: "Hector, please!" and one
of the men who remained on duty in the department, in case they were
required by any of the detective inspectors to find the records of any
previously convicted criminal, came hurrying in.

"Ah, M. Juve, and with a bag too! So early? You think he has been here
before?"

"No," said Juve in a dry tone that put a stop to further indiscreet
questions. "I don't want you to look up my companion's record, but to
take his measurements, and very carefully too."

The man was somewhat surprised at the order, for it was not usual to be
asked to do such work at so very early an hour. He was rather irritable
too at being disturbed from the rest he was enjoying, and it was very
curtly that he spoke to Charles Rambert.

"Come here, please: the standard first: take off your boots."

Charles Rambert obeyed and stood under the standard of measurement, and
then, as the assistant ordered him, he submitted to having his fingers
smeared with ink so that his finger prints might be taken, to being
photographed, full face and in profile, and finally to having the width
of his head, from ear to ear, measured with a special pair of caliper
compasses.

Hector was surprised by his docility.

"I must say your friend is not very talkative, M. Juve. What has he been
up to?" and as the detective merely shrugged his shoulders and did not
reply, he went on: "That's done, sir. We will develop the negatives and
take the prints, and recopy the measurements, and the record shall be
classified in the register in a couple of hours."

Charles Rambert grew momentarily more scared. He felt that he was
definitely arrested now. But Juve left the arm-chair in which he had
been resting, and coming up to him laid his hand upon his shoulder,
speaking the while with a certain gentleness.

"Come: there are some other points as to which I wish to examine you."
He led him from the anthropometric room along a dark corridor, and
presently taking a key from his pocket, opened a door and pushed the lad
in before him. "Go in there," he said. "This is where we make the
dynamometer tests."

A layman looking round the room might almost have supposed that it was
merely some carpenter's shop. Pieces of wood, of various shapes and
sizes and sorts, were arranged along the wall or laid upon the floor; in
glass cases were whole heaps of strips of metal, five or six inches
long, and of varying thickness.

Juve closed the door carefully behind him.

"For pity's sake, M. Juve, tell me what you are going to do with me,"
Charles Rambert implored.

The detective smiled.

"Well, there you ask a question which I can't answer off-hand. What am I
going to do with you, eh? That still depends upon a good many things."

As he spoke Juve tossed his hat aside and, looking at a rather high kind
of little table, proceeded to remove from it a grey cloth which
protected it from dust, and drew it into the middle of the room. This
article was composed of a metal body screwed on to a strong tripod, with
a lower tray that moved backwards and forwards, and two lateral
buttresses with a steel cross-piece firmly bolted on to them above. Upon
this framework were two dynamometers worked by an ingenious piece of
mechanism. Juve looked at Charles Rambert and explained.

"This is Dr. Bertillon's effraction dynamometer. I am going to make use
of it to find out at once whether you are or are not deserving of some
little interest. I don't want to tell you more just at present." Juve
slipped into a specially prepared notch a thin strip of wood, which he
had selected with particular care from one of the heaps of material
arranged along the wall. From a chest he took a tool which Charles
Rambert, who had had some intimate experience of late with the
light-fingered community, immediately recognised as a jemmy. "Take hold
of that," said Juve, and as Charles took it in his hand he added: "Now
put the jemmy into this groove, and press with all your force. If you
can move that needle to a point which I know, and which it is difficult
but not impossible to reach, you may congratulate yourself on being in
luck."

Stimulated by this encouragement from the detective, Charles Rambert
exerted all his force upon the lever, only afraid that he might not be
strong enough. Juve stopped him very soon.

"That's all right," he said, and substituting a strip of sheet-iron for
the strip of wood, he handed another tool to the lad. "Now try again."

A few seconds later Juve took a magnifying lens, and closely examined
both the strip of metal and the strip of wood. He gave a little
satisfied click with his tongue, and seemed to be very pleased.

"Charles Rambert," he remarked, "I think we are going to do a very good
morning's work. Dr. Bertillon's new apparatus is an uncommonly useful
invention."

The detective might have gone on with his congratulatory monologue had
not an attendant come into the room at that moment.

"Ah, there you are, M. Juve: I have been looking for you everywhere.
There is someone asking for you who says he knows you will receive him.
I told him this was not the proper time, but he was so insistent that I
promised to bring you his card. Besides, he says you have given him an
appointment."

Juve took the card and glanced at it.

"That's all right," he said. "Take the gentleman into the parlour and
tell him I will be with him in a minute." The attendant went out and
Juve looked at Charles Rambert with a smile. "You are played out," he
said; "before we do anything else common humanity requires that you
should get some rest. Come, follow me; I will take you to a room where
you can throw yourself on a sofa and get a sleep for a good hour at
least while I go and see this visitor." He led the lad into a small
waiting-room, and as Charles Rambert obediently stretched himself upon
the sofa, Juve looked at the pale and nervous and completely silent boy,
and said with even greater gentleness: "There, go to sleep; sleep
quietly, and presently----"

Juve left the room, and called a man to whom he gave an order in a low
tone.

"Stay with that gentleman, please. He is a friend of mine, but a friend,
you understand, who must not leave this place. I am going to see some
one, but I will come up again presently," and Juve hurried downstairs to
the parlour.

The visitor rose as the door opened, and Juve made a formal bow.

"M. Gervais Aventin?" he said.

"M. Gervais Aventin," that gentleman replied. "And you are
Detective-Inspector Juve?"

"I am, sir," the detective answered, and pointing his visitor to a chair
he took a seat himself at a small table littered with official
documents.

"Sir," Juve began, "I ventured to send you that pressing invitation to
come to Paris to-day, because from enquiries I had made about you, I was
sure that you were a man with a sense of duty, who would not resent
being put to inconvenience when it was a question of co-operating in a
work of justice and of truth."

The visitor, a man of perhaps thirty, of somewhat fashionable appearance
and careful though quiet dress, manifested much surprise.

"Enquiries about me, sir? And pray, why? I must confess that I was very
much astonished when I received your letter informing me that the famous
Detective-Inspector Juve wished to see me, and at first I suspected some
practical joke. On consideration I decided to obey your summons without
further pressing, but I did not imagine that you would have made any
enquiries about me. How do you know me, may I ask?"

Juve smiled.

"Is it the fact," he enquired, instead of replying directly, for like
the good detective that he was, intensely keen on his work, he enjoyed
mystifying people with whom he conversed, "is it the fact that your name
is Gervais Aventin? A civil engineer? The possessor of considerable
private means? About to be married? And that lately you made a short
journey to Limoges?"

The young man nodded and smiled.

"Your information is perfectly correct in every particular. But I do not
yet understand what crime of mine can have subjected me to these
enquiries on your part."

Juve smiled again.

"I wondered, sir, why you vouchsafed no answer to the local enquiries
which have been made at my instance, to the advertisements which I have
had inserted in the papers, in which I discreetly made it known that the
police wanted to get into communication with all the passengers who
travelled first class, in the slow train from Paris to Luchon, on the
night of the 23rd of December last."

This time the young man looked anxious.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, "are you in the employment of my future
father-in-law?"

Juve burst into a roar of laughter.

"First acknowledge that you did travel by that train on that night: that
you got into it at Vierzon, where you live and where you are going to be
married; and that you were going to Limoges to see a lady--and that you
did not want your fiancee's family to know anything about it."

Gervais Aventin pulled himself together.

"I had no idea that the official police undertook espionage of that
sort," he said rather drily. "But it is true, sir, that I went to
Limoges--my last post before I was appointed to Vierzon--to take a final
farewell to a lady. But since you are so accurately informed about all
this, since you even know what train I went by, a train I deliberately
chose because in little places like Vierzon so much notice is taken of
people who travel by the express, you must also know----"

Juve checked him with a wave of the hand.

"A truce to jesting," he said; "excuse me, sir, I was only amusing
myself by observing once more how quickly decent people, who have a
little peccadillo on their conscience, are disturbed when they think
they have been found out. Your love affairs do not matter to me, sir; I
don't want to know if you have a lady friend, or not. The information I
want from you is of a very different nature. Tell me simply this: in
what circumstances did you make that journey? What carriage did you get
into? Who travelled with you in that carriage? I am asking you because,
sir, I have every reason to believe that you travelled that night with a
murderer who committed a crime of particular atrocity, and I think you
may be able to give me some interesting information."

The young man, who had been looking grave, smiled once more.

"I would rather have that than an enquiry into my defunct love affairs.
Well, sir, I got into the train at Vierzon, into a first-class
carriage----"

"What kind of carriage?"

"One of the old-fashioned corridor carriages; that is to say, not a
corridor communicating with the other carriages, but a single carriage
with four compartments, two in the middle opening on to the corridor,
and two at the ends communicating with the corridor by a small door."

"I know," said Juve; "the lavatory is in the centre, and the end
compartments are like the ordinary noncorridor compartments, except that
they have only seven seats, and also have the little door communicating
with the narrow passage down one side of the carriage."

"That's it. I got into the smoking compartment at the end."

"Don't go too quick," said Juve. "Tell me whom you saw in the various
compartments. Let us go even farther back. You were on the platform,
waiting for the train; it came in; what happened then?"

"You want to be very precise," Gervais Aventin remarked. "Well, when the
train pulled up I looked for the first-class carriage; it was a few
yards away from me, and the corridor was alongside the platform. I got
into the corridor and wanted to choose my compartment. I remember
clearly that I went first to the rear compartment, the last one in the
carriage. I could not get into that, for the door opening into it from
the corridor was locked."

"That is correct," Juve nodded. "I know from the guard that that
compartment was empty. What did you do then?"

"I turned back and, passing the ladies' compartment and the lavatory,
decided to take my seat in the one next it communicating with the
corridor. But luck was against me: a pane of glass was broken and it was
bitterly cold there; so I had to fall back on the only compartment left,
the smoking one towards the front of the train."

"Were there many of you there?"

"I thought at first that I was going to have a fellow-traveller, for
there was some luggage and a rug arranged on the seat. But the passenger
must have been in the lavatory, for I didn't see him. I lay down on the
other seat and went to sleep. When I got out of the train at Limoges, my
fellow-traveller must have been in the lavatory again, for I remember
quite distinctly that he was not on the opposite seat. I thought at the
time how easy it would have been for me to steal his luggage and walk
off with his valise: nobody would have seen me."

Juve had listened intently to every word of the story. He asked for one
further detail with a certain anxiety in his tone.

"Tell me, sir, when you woke up did you have any impression that the
baggage arranged on the seat opposite yours had been disturbed at all?
Might the traveller, whom you did not see, have come in for a sleep
while you yourself were asleep?"

Gervais Aventin made a little gesture of uncertainty.

"I can't answer in the affirmative, M. Juve. I did not notice that; and,
besides, when I got into the compartment, the shade was pulled down over
the lamp, and the curtains were drawn across the windows. I hardly saw
how the things were arranged. And then, when I got out at Limoges I was
in a hurry, and only thought about finding my ticket and jumping on to
the platform. But I do not think the other fellow did take his place
while I was asleep. I did not hear a sound, and yet I did not sleep at
all heavily."

"So you travelled in a first-class compartment in the slow train from
Paris to Luchon on the night of the 23rd of December, and in that
compartment there was the luggage of a traveller whom you did not
see--who may not have been there?"

"Yes," said Gervais Aventin, and, as the detective sat silent for a
moment, he enquired: "Is my information too vague to be of any use to
you?"

Juve was wondering inwardly why the dickens Etienne Rambert was not in
that compartment when, according to the depositions of the guard, he
must have been there; but he said nothing of this. Instead, he said:

"Your information is most valuable, sir. You have told me everything I
wanted to know."

Gervais Aventin displayed still more surprise.

"Well," he said, "by way of return, M. Juve, tell me something which
puzzles me. How did you know I travelled by that train that night?"

The detective drew out his pocket-book, and from an inner pocket
produced a first-class ticket, which he held out to the engineer.

"That is very simple," he replied. "Here is your ticket. I wanted to
know exactly who everyone was who travelled in that first-class
compartment, so I sent for all the first-class tickets which were given
up by passengers who left the train at the different stations. That's
how I got yours: it had been issued at Vierzon, the station where you
got in, so I interrogated the clerk at the booking-office who gave me a
description of you; then I sent down an inspector to Vierzon to make
discreet enquiries, and he got me all the information I required. All I
had to do then was to write and ask you to come here to-day; and the
regrettable story of your broken relations with the lady was an ample
guarantee to me that you would be punctual at the appointment!"




XIX. JEROME FANDOR


Whistling a quick-step, sure sign with him of a light heart, Juve opened
the door of the little room where he had left Charles Rambert, and
looked at the sleeping lad.

"It's a fine thing to be young," he remarked to the man he had left on
guard; "that boy plunges into the wildest adventures and shaves the
scaffold by an inch, and yet after one late night he sleeps as
peacefully as any chancellor of the Legion of Honour!" He shook the lad
with a friendly hand. "Get up, lazy-bones! It's ten o'clock: high time
for me to carry you off."

"Where to?" the unhappy boy asked, rubbing his eyes.

"There's no doubt about inquisitiveness being your besetting sin," Juve
replied cryptically. "Well, we've got a quarter of an hour's drive in
front of us. But you're not going to prison; I'm going to take you home
with me!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Juve had taken off his collar and tie and put on an old jacket, had set
a great bowl of bread and milk in front of Charles Rambert, and was
leisurely enjoying his own breakfast.

"I didn't want to answer any questions just now," he said, "because I
hate talking in cabs where I have to sit by a man's side, and can't see
him or hear half he says. But now that we are snug and comfortable here,
I've no right to keep you waiting any longer, and I'll give you a bit of
good news."

"Snug" and "comfortable" were the right words with which to describe
Juve's private abode. The detective had attained an honourable and
lucrative position in his profession, and, exposed as he was in the
course of his work to all manner of dangers and privations, had
compensated himself by making an entirely satisfactory, if not
luxurious, nest where he could rest after his labours.

When he had finished his breakfast he lighted a big cigar and sank into
an easy chair, crossing his hands behind his head. He turned a steady
gaze upon Charles Rambert, who was still completely puzzled, and half
frightened by this sudden amiability, and did not know whether he was a
prisoner or not.

"I will give you a bit of good news; that is, that you are innocent of
the Langrune affair when you were Charles Rambert, and innocent also of
the Danidoff affair, when you were Mademoiselle Jeanne. I need not say
anything about the scrap last night, in which you played a still more
distinguished part."

"Why tell me that?" asked Charles Rambert nervously. "Of course I know I
did not rob Princess Sonia Danidoff; but how did you recognise me last
night, and how did you find out that I was Mademoiselle Jeanne?"

Juve smiled, and shook back a lock of hair that was falling over his
eyes.

"Listen, my boy: do you suppose that thundering blow you dealt the
excellent Henri Verbier when he was making love to Mademoiselle Jeanne,
could fail to make me determined to find out who that young lady was who
had the strength of a man?"

The allusion made Charles Rambert most uneasy.

"But that does not explain how you recognised me in Paul to-night. I
recognised you in Henri Verbier at the hotel, but I had no idea that it
was you last night."

"That's nothing," said Juve with a shake of the head. "And you may
understand once for all that when I have once looked anybody square in
the face, he needs to be an uncommonly clever fellow to escape me
afterwards by means of any disguise. You don't know how to make up, but
I do; and that's why I took you in and you did not take me in."

"What makes you believe I did not rob Princess Sonia Danidoff?" Charles
Rambert asked after a pause. "I am quite aware that everything points to
my having been the thief."

"Not quite everything," Juve answered gently. "There are one or two
things you don't know, and I'll tell you one of them. The Princess was
robbed by the same man who robbed Mme. Van den Rosen, wasn't she? Well,
Mme. Van den Rosen was the victim of a burglary: some of the furniture
in her room was broken into, and the tests I made this morning with the
dynamometer proved to me that you are not strong enough to have caused
those fractures."

"Not strong enough?" Charles Rambert ejaculated.

"No. I told you at the time that your innocence would be proved if you
were strong enough, but I said that to prevent you from playing tricks
and not putting out all your strength. As a matter of fact it was your
comparative weakness that saved you. The dynamometer tests and the
figures I obtained just now prove absolutely that you are innocent of
the Van den Rosen robbery and, consequently, of the robbery from Sonia
Danidoff."

Again the lad reflected for a minute or two.

"But you didn't know who I was when you came to the hotel, did you? And
therefore had no suspicion that I was Charles Rambert? That's true,
isn't it? How did you find out? I was supposed to be dead."

"That was a child's job," Juve replied. "I got the anthropometric
records of the body that had been buried as yours, and I planned to get
symmetrical photographs of you in your character of Mademoiselle Jeanne,
as I did of you to-day at head-quarters. My first job was to lay hands
upon Mademoiselle Jeanne, and I very soon found her, as I expected,
turned into a man again, and living in the most disreputable company. I
made any number of enquiries, and when I went to the Saint-Anthony's Pig
last evening I knew that it was some unknown person who had been buried
in your stead; that Paul was Mademoiselle Jeanne; and that Mademoiselle
Jeanne was Charles Rambert. It was my intention to arrest you, and to
ascertain definitely by means of the dynamometer that you were innocent
of the Langrune and the Danidoff crimes."

"What you tell me about the dynamometer explains how you know I am not
the man who committed the robbery at the hotel, but what clears me in
your eyes of the Langrune murder?"

"Bless my soul!" Juve retorted, "you are arguing as if you wanted to
prove you were guilty. Well, my boy, it's the same story as the other.
The man who murdered the Marquise de Langrune smashed things, and the
dynamometer has proved that you are not strong enough to have been the
man."

"And suppose I had been mad at the time," Charles Rambert said, his
hesitation and his tone betraying his anxiety about the answer, "could I
have been strong enough then? Might I have committed these crimes
without knowing anything about it?"

But Juve shook his head.

"I know: you are referring to your mother, and are haunted by an idea
that through some hereditary taint you might be a somnambulist and have
done these things in your sleep. Come, Charles Rambert, finish your
breakfast and put all that out of your head. To begin with, you would
not have been strong enough, even then; and in the next place there is
nothing at present to show that you are mad, nor even that your poor
mother---- But I need not go on: I've got some rather odd notions on
that subject."

"Then, M. Juve----"

"Drop the 'monsieur'; call me 'Juve.'"

"Then, if you know that I am innocent, you can go and tell my father? I
have nothing to fear? I can reappear in my own name?"

Juve looked at the lad with an ironical smile.

"How you go ahead!" he exclaimed. "Please understand that although I do
believe you are innocent, I am almost certainly the only person who
does. And unfortunately I have not yet got any evidence that would be
sufficiently convincing and certain to put the persuasion of your guilt
out of your father's head, or anybody else's. This is not the time for
you to reappear: it would simply mean that you would be arrested by some
detective who knows less than I do, and thrown into prison as you
confidently expected to be this morning."

"Then what is to become of me?"

"What do you think of doing yourself?"

"Going to see my father."

"No, no," Juve protested once more. "I tell you not to go. It would be
stupid and utterly useless. Wait a few days, a few weeks if need be.
When I have put my hand on Fantomas' shoulder, I will be the very first
to take you to your father, and proclaim your innocence."

"Why wait until Fantomas is arrested?" Charles Rambert asked, the mere
sound of the name seeming to wake all his former enthusiasm on the
subject of that famous criminal.

"Because if you are innocent of the charge brought against you, it is
extremely likely that Fantomas is the guilty party. When he is laid by
the heels you will be able to protest your innocence without any fear."

Charles Rambert sat silent for some minutes, musing on the odd chance of
destiny which required him to make his own return to normal life
contingent on the arrest of a mysterious criminal, who was merely
suspected, and had never been seen nor discovered.

"What do you advise me to do?" he asked presently.

The detective got up and began to pace the room.

"Well," he began, "the first fact is that I am interested in you, and
the next is, that while I was having that rough-and-tumble last night
with that scoundrel in the supper-room, I thought for a minute or two
that it was all up with me: your chipping in saved my life. On the other
hand I may be said to have saved your life now by ascertaining your
innocence and preventing your arrest. So we are quits in a way. But you
began the delicate attentions, and I have only paid you back, so it's up
to me to start a new series and not turn you out into the street where
you would inevitably get into fresh trouble. So this is what I propose:
change your name and go and take a room somewhere; get into proper
clothes and then come back to me, and I'll give you a letter to a friend
of mine who is on one of the big evening papers. You are well educated,
and I know you are energetic. You are keen on everything connected with
the police, and you'll get on splendidly as a reporter. You will be able
to earn an honest and respectable name that way. Would you like to try
that idea?"

"It's awfully good of you," Charles Rambert said gratefully. "I should
love to be able to earn my living by work so much to my taste."

Juve cut his thanks short, and held out some bank-notes.

"There's some money; now clear out; it's high time we both got a little
sleep. Get busy settling into rooms, and in a fortnight I shall expect
you to be editor of _La Capitale_."

"Under what name shall you introduce me to your friend?" Charles Rambert
asked, after a little nervous pause.

"H'm!" said Juve with a smile: "it will have to be an alias of course."

"Yes; and as it will be the name I shall write under it ought to be an
easy one to remember."

"Something arresting, like Fantomas!" said Juve chaffingly, amused by
the curious childishness of this lad, who could take keen interest in
such a trifle when he was in so critical a situation. "Choose something
not too common for the first name; and something short for the other.
Why not keep the first syllable of Fantomas? Oh, I've got it--Fandor;
what about Jerome Fandor?"

Charles Rambert murmured it over.

"Jerome Fandor! Yes, you are right, it sounds well."

Juve pushed him out of the door.

"Well, Jerome Fandor, leave me to my slumbers, and go and rig yourself
out, and get ready for the new life that I'm going to open up for you!"

Bewildered by the amazing adventures of which he had just been the
central figure, Charles Rambert, or Jerome Fandor, walked down Juve's
staircase wondering. "Why should he take so much trouble about me? What
interest or what motive can he have? And how on earth does he find out
such a wonderful lot of things?"




XX. A CUP OF TEA


After the tragic death of her husband, Lady Beltham--whose previous life
had inclined to the austere--withdrew into almost complete retirement.
The world of gaiety and fashion knew her no more. But in the world where
poverty and suffering reign, in hospital wards and squalid streets, a
tall and beautiful woman might often be seen, robed all in black, with
distinguished bearing and eyes serene and grave, distributing alms and
consolation as she moved. It was Lady Beltham, kind, good and very
pitiful, bent on the work of charity to which she had vowed her days.

Yet she had not allowed herself to be crushed by sorrow; after the
tragedy which left her a widow, she had assumed the effective control of
her husband's property, and, helped by faithful friends, had carried on
his interests and administered his estates, spreading a halo of kindness
all around her.

To help her in the heavy correspondence entailed by all these affairs,
she found three secretaries none too many. On M. Etienne Rambert's
recommendation, Therese Auvernois was now one of these, and the young
girl was perfectly happy in her new surroundings; time was helping her
to forget the tragedy which had taken her grandmother from her at
Beaulieu, and she enjoyed the company of the well-born, well-bred
English gentlewomen.

Lady Beltham was reclining on a sofa in the great hall of her house at
Neuilly. It was a spacious room, furnished half as a lounge and half as
an office, and Lady Beltham liked to receive people there. A large
glass-enclosed balcony commanded a view over the garden and the
boulevard Richard Wallace beyond, with the Bois de Boulogne beyond that
again. A few minutes before, a footman had brought in a table and set
out tea-things, and Lady Beltham was reading while Therese and the two
young English girls were chattering among themselves.

The telephone bell rang and Therese answered it.

"Hullo? Yes ... yes: you want to know if you may call this evening? The
Reverend--oh, yes: you have just come from Scotland? Hold on a minute."
She turned to Lady Beltham. "It is Mr. William Hope, and he wants to
know if you will see him to-night. He has just come from your place in
Scotland."

"The dear man!" exclaimed Lady Beltham; "of course he may come," and as
Therese turned lightly to convey her permission to the clergyman waiting
at the other end of the line, she caught a smile on the face of one of
the other girls. "What is the joke, Lisbeth?" she enquired.

The girl laughed brightly.

"I think the worthy parson must have smelt the tea and toast, and wants
to make up for the wretched dinner he got in the train."

"You are incorrigible," Lady Beltham replied. "Mr. Hope is above such
material matters."

"Indeed he isn't, Lady Beltham," the girl persisted. "Why, only the
other day he told Therese that all food deserved respect and esteem
directly a blessing had been asked upon it, and that a badly cooked
steak was a kind of sacrilege."

"A badly cooked pheasant," Therese corrected her.

"You are both wicked little slanderers," Lady Beltham protested gently,
"and don't know the blessing a good appetite is. You do, Susannah, don't
you?"

Susannah, a pretty Irish girl, looked up from a letter she was reading,
and blushed.

"Oh, Lady Beltham, I've been ever so much less hungry since Harry's ship
sailed."

"I don't quite see the connection," Lady Beltham answered. "Love is good
nourishment for the soul, but not for the body. However, a good appetite
is nothing to be ashamed of, and you ought to keep your roses for your
future husband, and qualify in every way to be an excellent mother of a
family."

"With lots and lots of children," Lisbeth went on wickedly: "seven or
eight daughters at the very least, all of whom will marry nice young
clergymen when their time comes and----"

She stopped speaking and the light chatter died away as a footman
entered and announced the Reverend William Hope, who followed him
immediately into the room, an elderly man with a full, clean-shaven face
and a comfortable portliness of figure.

Lady Beltham offered him a cordial hand.

"I am delighted you are back," she said. "Will you have a cup of tea
with us?"

The parson made a general bow to the girls gathered about the table.

"I got a wretched dinner in the train," he began, but Lisbeth
interrupted him.

"Don't you think this tea smells delicious?" she asked.

The parson put out his hand to take the cup she offered to him, and
bowed and smiled.

"Precisely what I was going to observe, Miss Lisbeth."

Therese and Susannah turned away to hide their amusement, and Lady
Beltham adroitly changed the subject. She moved towards her
writing-table.

"Mr. Hope must have much to tell me, girls, and it is getting late. I
must get to business. Did you have a good journey?"

"Quite as good as usual, Lady Beltham. The people at Scotwell Hill are
very plucky and good, but it will be a hard winter; there is snow on the
hills already."

"Have the women and children had all their woollen things?"

"Oh, yes: twelve hundred garments have been distributed according to a
list drawn up by the under-steward; here it is," and he handed a paper
to Lady Beltham, who passed it on to Susannah.

"I will ask you to check the list," she said to the girl, and turned
again to the clergyman. "The under-steward is a good fellow, but he is a
rabid politician; he may have omitted some families that are openly
radical; but I think charity should be given equally to all, for poverty
makes no political distinctions."

"That is the right Christian view," the clergyman said approvingly.

"And what about the sanatorium at Glasgow?" Lady Beltham went on.

"It is very nearly finished," the good man answered. "I have got your
lawyers to cut down the contractor's accounts by something like fifteen
per cent, which means a saving of nearly three hundred pounds."

"Excellent," said Lady Beltham, and she turned to Therese. "You must add
that three hundred pounds to the funds of the Scotwell Hill coal
charity," she said. "They will want all of it if the winter is going to
be a hard one," and Therese made a note of the instruction, full of
admiration for Lady Beltham's simple generosity.

But Mr. Hope was fidgeting on his chair. He seized an opportunity when
Lady Beltham, busy making notes, had turned her deep and steady eyes
away from him, to say in a low tone:

"Have I your permission just to mention--poor Lord Beltham?"

Lady Beltham started, and her face betrayed an emotion which she bravely
controlled. Hearing the name pronounced, the three girls withdrew to the
far end of the room, where they began to talk among themselves. Lady
Beltham signified her assent, and Mr. Hope began.

"You know, dear friend, this has been my first visit to Scotland since
Lord Beltham's death. I found your tenants still grievously upset by the
tragedy that occurred nearly a year ago. They have got by heart all the
newspaper accounts of the mysterious circumstances attending Lord
Beltham's death, but those are not enough to satisfy the sympathetic
curiosity of these excellent people, and I was obliged to tell them over
and over again in full detail--all we knew."

"I hope no scandal has gathered round his name," said Lady Beltham
quickly.

"You need have no fear of that," the clergyman replied in the same low
tone. "The rumour that got about when the crime was first discovered,
that Lord Beltham had been surprised in an intrigue and killed in
revenge, has not won acceptance. Local opinion agrees that he was
decoyed into a trap and killed by the man Gurn, who meant to rob him,
but who was either surprised or thought he was going to be, and fled
before he had time to take the money or the jewels from the body of his
victim. They know that the murderer has never been caught, but they also
know that there is a price on his head, and they all hope the police----
Oh, forgive me for recalling all these painful memories!"

While he had been speaking, Lady Beltham's face had expressed almost
every shade of emotion and distress; it seemed to be drawn with pain at
his concluding words. But she made an effort to control herself, and
spoke resignedly.

"It cannot be helped, dear Mr. Hope. Go on."

But the clergyman changed the topic.

"Oh, I was quite forgetting," he said more brightly. "The under-steward
has turned out the two Tillys, quite on his own authority: you must
remember them, two brothers, blacksmiths, who drank a great deal and
paid very little, and created so much scandal in the place."

"I object to the under-steward doing any such thing without referring to
me first," Lady Beltham exclaimed warmly. "Man's duty is to persuade and
forgive, not to judge and punish. Kindness breeds kindness, and it is
pity that wins amendment. Why should a subordinate, my under-steward,
presume to do what I would not permit myself to do?"

She had sprung to her feet and was pacing excitedly about the room; she
had wholly dropped the impassive mask she habitually wore, concealing
her real personality.

The three girls watched her in silence.

The door opened anew, and Silbertown came in, the major-domo of Lady
Beltham's establishment at Neuilly. He brought the evening letters, and
the girls speedily took all the envelopes and newspapers from the tray
and began to sort and open them, while the major-domo entered into
conversation with his mistress, and the Rev. William Hope seized the
opportunity to say good night, and take his leave.

Many of the letters were merely appeals to help in money or in kind,
but one long letter Lisbeth handed to Lady Beltham. She glanced at the
signature.

"Ah, here is news of M. Etienne Rambert," she exclaimed, and as Therese
instinctively drew near, knowing that she, too, might hear something of
what her old friend had written, Lady Beltham put the letter into her
hand. "You read it, my dear, and then you can tell me presently what he
has to say."

Therese read the letter eagerly. M. Etienne Rambert had left Paris a
week before, upon a long and important journey. The energetic old fellow
was to make a trip in Germany first, and then go from Hamburg to
England, where he had some business to attend to on behalf of Lady
Beltham, with whom he was on more confidential terms than ever. Then he
meant to sail from Southampton and spend the winter in Colombia, where
he had important interests of his own to look after.

While Therese was reading, Lady Beltham continued her conversation with
her major-domo.

"I am glad you had the park gate seen to this afternoon," she said. "You
know how nervous I am. My childhood in Scotland was very lonely, and
ever since then I have had a vague terror of solitude and darkness."

The major-domo reassured her: he had no lack of self-confidence.

"There is nothing for your ladyship to be afraid of; the house is
perfectly safe, and carefully guarded. Walter, the porter, is a
first-rate watch-dog and always sleeps with one eye open. And I,
too----"

"Yes, I know, Silbertown," the young widow replied; "and when I give
myself time to think I am not nervous. Thank you; you can leave me now."

She turned to the three girls.

"I am tired, dears; we won't stay up any later."

Lisbeth and Susannah kissed her affectionately and went away. Therese
lingered a moment, to bring a book, a Bible, and place it on a table
close to Lady Beltham's chair. Lady Beltham laid a hand upon her head as
if in blessing, and said gently:

"Good night; God bless you, dear child!"




XXI. LORD BELTHAM'S MURDERER


It was on the point of midnight, and absolute stillness reigned
throughout the house.

But Lady Beltham had not gone to bed. Although she had remained in the
great hall where she did her work, she had been unable to settle down to
any occupation. She had read a little, and begun a letter, got up and
sat down; and finally, beginning to feel chilly, she had drawn an easy
chair up to the hearth, where a log was just burning out, and stretching
out her slippers to the warmth had fallen into a waking dream.

A sound caught her ear and she sat upright. At first she thought it was
some trick of the imagination, but in another minute the noise grew
louder; there was the hurrying of feet and voices, muffled at first but
rapidly becoming louder, and at last a regular uproar, doors banging,
glass breaking, and shouts from all parts of the house. Lady Beltham
jumped up, nervous and trembling; she was just going to the window when
she heard a shot and stopped dead where she stood. Then she rushed out
into the vestibule.

"Help!" she screamed. "What on earth is the matter?" and remembering the
girls for whom she had assumed responsibility, she called out anxiously
for them. "Lisbeth! Therese! Susannah! Come to me!"

Doors upstairs were flung open, and with their hair streaming over their
night-dresses Therese and Susannah rushed downstairs and crouched down
by her side, stifling moans of terror.

"Lisbeth? Where is Lisbeth?" Lady Beltham asked sharply.

At the same moment she appeared, her face distorted with fright.

"Oh, Lady Beltham, it's dreadful! There's a man, a burglar in the
garden! And Walter is throttling him! They are fighting dreadfully!
They'll kill one another!"

Silbertown, the major-domo, came rushing in just then. Seeing the three
girls in their night-dresses he made as if to draw back, but Lady
Beltham called him in and demanded explanations.

"We had just finished our rounds," he answered breathlessly, "when we
caught sight of a man hiding in the shadows, a thief probably. When we
shouted to him he ran away, but we ran after him and seized him; he
resisted and there was a fight. But we have got him and the police will
take him away in a few minutes."

Lady Beltham listened, with jaw set and hands clenched.

"A thief?" she said, controlling her emotion. "How do you know he is a
thief?"

"Well," stammered the major-domo, "he is very poorly dressed, and
besides, what was he doing in the garden?"

Lady Beltham was recovering her calm.

"What excuse did he give for being there?" she asked coldly.

"We didn't give him time to invent one," said the major-domo. "We
collared him almost as soon as we saw him. And you know, madame, how
tremendously powerful Walter is: Walter gave him all he deserved!" and
the major-domo clenched his fists and made an expressive exhibition of
the porter's reception of the stranger.

Lisbeth was still overcome by what she had seen.

"Oh, the blood!" she muttered hysterically; "it was streaming!"

Lady Beltham spoke angrily to the major-domo.

"I hate brutality: is the man seriously hurt? I hope not. You ought to
have questioned him before assaulting him. No one in my house has a
right to use violence. 'Whoso smites with the sword shall perish by the
sword'!"

The major-domo heard her in silent astonishment: it was not at all what
he expected to be told, in view of all the circumstances.

Lady Beltham went on more gently:

"I suppose I shall have to apologise to this man for your wrong and
thoughtless behaviour."

"Apologise?" exclaimed Silbertown in amazement. "Surely your ladyship
will not do that?"

"One must not shrink from humiliation when one has been in the wrong,"
said Lady Beltham, in the pulpit manner she affected. "Tell Walter to
come to me."

A few minutes later the porter, a muscular giant of a man, came into the
room and made a clumsy bow.

"How was it possible for anyone to get into the house at this time of
night?" his mistress enquired coldly.

Walter dropped his eyes and twisted his cap nervously.

"I hope your ladyship will forgive me. I caught the fellow, and as he
was struggling I hit him. Then two of the footmen came, and they are
looking after him in the kitchen."

"Has he given any explanation of his presence here since you assaulted
him--at which I am very angry?" said Lady Beltham.

"He hasn't said anything; at least----"

"Well?"

"I don't like to tell you."

"Please do like!" said Lady Beltham irritably.

"Well," Walter replied, overcoming his nervousness with an effort, "he
says your ladyship is well known for your charity to everybody, and--he
wants to see you."

There was a moment's pause.

"I will see him," said Lady Beltham at last, in a half-stifled voice.

"Will your ladyship allow me to point out the danger of doing any such
thing?" Silbertown exclaimed. "Very likely the man is a lunatic! Or it
may be a trick: Lord Beltham was murdered, and perhaps----"

Lady Beltham looked intently at the major-domo, seemingly trying to read
his thoughts. Then she answered slowly:

"I will see him. I will be more pitiful than you," and as the major-domo
and the porter made a gesture of futile protest, she added peremptorily:
"I have given my orders: kindly obey."

When the two men had reluctantly left the room, Lady Beltham turned to
the three girls.

"You had better leave me, darlings," she said, kindly but firmly. "Run
away: excitement is bad for you. Go back to bed. No, I assure you I
shall be in no danger whatever," and for a few minutes she was left
alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Speak," said Lady Beltham in a toneless voice.

The major-domo and the porter had led in, and placed before her, a man
with unkempt hair and ragged beard; he was dressed entirely in black,
and his face was tired and haggard. Lady Beltham, ghastly pale, was
leaning for support against the back of an arm-chair. The man did not
raise his eyes to her.

"I will not speak unless we are alone," he answered dully.

"Alone?" said Lady Beltham, fighting down her emotion. "Then it is
something serious you have to tell me?"

"If you know anything of people in misfortune, Madame," the man answered
gently, "you know that they do not like to humiliate themselves
before--before those who cannot understand," and he nodded towards the
major-domo and the porter.

"I do know something of misfortune," Lady Beltham replied, in firmer
tones; "and I will hear you alone." She looked at her two servants.
"Leave us, please."

The major-domo started.

"Leave you alone with him? It's madness!" and as Lady Beltham merely
looked at him in haughty surprise, he began to withdraw in confusion,
but still protesting. "It's--it's---- Your ladyship has no idea what
this fellow wants: do please----"

But Lady Beltham curtly cut him short.

"That is enough!"

A heavy velvet curtain fell over the closing door, and in the room, that
was dimly lighted by a small electric lamp, Lady Beltham was alone with
the strange individual to whom she had so readily, so oddly, consented
to accord a private interview. She followed her servants to the door and
locked it after them. Then with a sudden movement she sprang towards the
man, who was standing motionless in the middle of the room following
her with his eyes, and flung herself into his arms.

"Oh, Gurn, my darling, my darling!" she cried. "I love you! I love you,
darling!" She looked up at him and saw blood upon his forehead. "Good
God! The brutes have hurt you! What pain you must be in! Give me your
eyes, your lips!" With kisses from her own lips she stanched the blood
that was trickling down his cheeks, and with her fingers she smoothed
his hair. "I am so happy!" she murmured, and broke off again. "But you
are mad! Why, why come here like this, and let yourself be caught and
tortured so?"

Moodily Gurn answered, returning kiss for kiss.

"Time has been so long without you! And this evening I was prowling
round and saw a light. I thought that every one would be asleep--except
you, of course. And so I came straight to you, over walls, and
gates--drawn to you like a moth to a candle: and that is all!"

With shining eyes and heaving breast Lady Beltham clung to her lover.

"I love you so! How brave you are! Yes, I am wholly, only yours. But
this is madness! You might be arrested and given up to no one knows what
horror, without my knowing!"

Gurn seemed to be hypnotised by the fierce and passionate love of this
great lady.

"I never gave that a thought," he murmured. "I only thought of you!"

Silence fell upon these tragic lovers as they stood reading love in one
another's eyes, and recalling memories common to both, utterly unlike as
they were to outward seeming, yet linked by the strongest bond of all,
the bond of love.

"What happy hours we lived together out there!" Lady Beltham whispered.
Her thoughts had wandered to the far Transvaal and the battle-field
where first she had set eyes on Gurn, the sergeant of artillery with
powder-blackened face; and then to the homeward voyage on the mighty
steamer that bore them across the blue sea, towards the dull white
cliffs of England.

Gurn's thoughts followed hers.

"Out there! Yes; and then on the vast ocean, on the ship homeward bound!
The quiet and peace of it all! And our meetings every day: our long,
long talks, and longer silences--in the clear starlight of those
tropical skies! We were learning to know each other----"

"We were learning to love each other," she said. "And then--London, and
Paris, and all the fever of life threatening our love. But that is the
strongest thing in the world: and--do you remember? Oh, the ecstasy of
it all! But, do you remember too what you did for me--through
me--thirteen months ago?"

She had risen, and with white lips and haggard eyes held Gurn's hands
within her own in an even tighter grip. Emotion choked her further
utterance.

"Yes, I remember," Gurn went on slowly: "it was in our little room in
the rue Levert, and I was on my knees beside you when the door opened
quietly, and there stood Lord Beltham, mad with rage and jealousy!"

"I don't know what happened then," Lady Beltham whispered in a hopeless
undertone, drooping her head again.

"I do," muttered Gurn. "His eyes sought you, and a pistol was pointed at
your heart! He would have fired, but I sprang and struck him down! And
then I strangled him!"

Lady Beltham's eyes were fixed on the man's hands, that she still held
between her own.

"And I saw the muscles in these hands swell up beneath the skin as they
tightened on his throat!"

"I killed him!" groaned the man.

But Lady Beltham, swept by a surge of passion, sprang up and sought his
lips.

"Oh, Gurn!" she sobbed--"my darling!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Listen," said Gurn harshly, after a pause of anxious silence. "I had to
see you to-night, for who knows if to-morrow----" Lady Beltham shrank at
the words, but Gurn went on unheeding. "The police are after me. Of
course I have made myself almost unrecognisable, but twice just lately I
have been very nearly caught."

"Do you think the police have any accurate idea of what happened?" Lady
Beltham asked abruptly.

"No," said Gurn after a moment's hesitation. "They think I killed him
with the mallet. They have not found out that I had to strangle him. As
far as I know, they found no marks of my hands on his throat. At all
events, they could not have been clear, for his collar--you understand."
The man spoke of his crime without the least sign of remorse or
repugnance now; his only dread was lest he should be caught. "But, none
the less, they have identified me. That detective Juve is very clever."

"We did not have enough presence of mind," Lady Beltham said
despairingly. "We ought to have led them to suspect someone else: have
made them think that it was, say, Fantomas."

"Not that!" said Gurn nervously; "don't talk about Fantomas! We did all
we could. But the main thing now is that I should escape them. I had
better get away,--across the Channel,--across the Atlantic,--anywhere.
But--would you come too?"

Lady Beltham did not hesitate. She flung her arms around the neck of the
man who had murdered her own husband, and yielded to a paroxysm of wild
passion.

"You know that I am yours, wherever you may go. Shall it be to-morrow?
We can meet--you know where--and arrange everything for your flight."

"My flight?" said Gurn, with reproachful emphasis on the pronoun.

"For our flight," she replied, and Gurn smiled again.

"Then that is settled," he said. "I have seen you, and I am happy!
Good-bye."

He made a step towards the door, but Lady Beltham stayed him gently.

"Wait," she said. "Walter shall let you out of the house. Do not say
anything: I will explain; I will invent some story to satisfy the
servants as to your coming here, and also to justify your being allowed
to go."

They clung to one another in a parting caress. Lady Beltham tore herself
away.

"Till to-morrow!" she whispered.

She stole to the door and unlocked it noiselessly, then crossed the room
and rang the bell placed near the fireplace. Resuming her impassive
mask, and the haughty air and attitude of cold indifference that were in
such utter contrast to her real character, she waited, while Gurn stood
upright and still in the middle of the room.

Walter, the porter, came in.

"Take that man to the door, and let no harm be done to him," said Lady
Beltham proudly and authoritatively. "He is free."

Without a word, or sign, or glance, Gurn went out of the room, and
Walter followed behind him to obey his mistress's command.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once more alone in the great hall, Lady Beltham waited nervously to hear
the sound of the park gate closing behind Gurn. She did not dare go on
to the balcony to follow her departing lover with her eyes. So, shaken
by her recent emotions, she stood waiting and listening, in an agony to
know that he was safe. Then, of a sudden, the noise that she had heard
an hour before broke on her ears again: the noise of hurrying feet and
broken shouts, and words, vague at first but rapidly growing clearer.
She crouched forward listening, filled with a horrible fear, her hand
laid upon her scarcely beating heart.

"There he is: hold him!" some one shouted. "That's him all right! Look
out, constable!"

"This way, Inspector! Yes, it's him, it's Gurn! Ah, would you!"

Paler than death, Lady Beltham cowered down upon a sofa.

"Good God! Good God!" she moaned. "What are they doing to him!"

The uproar in the garden decreased, then voices sounded in the corridor,
Silbertown's exclamations rising above the frightened cries of the three
young girls.

"Gurn! Arrested! The man who murdered Lord Beltham!" Lisbeth called out
in anxious terror.

"But Lady Beltham? Dear God, perhaps he has murdered her too!"

The door was flung open and the girls rushed in. Lady Beltham by a
tremendous effort of will had risen to her feet, and was standing by the
end of the sofa.

"Lady Beltham! Alive! Yes, yes!" and Therese and Lisbeth and Susannah
rushed sobbing to her, and smothered her with caresses.

But the agonised woman motioned them away. With hard eyes and set mouth
she moved towards the window, straining her ears to listen. From the
park outside Gurn's voice rang distinctly; the lover wished to let his
mistress know what had happened, and to take a last farewell.

"I am caught, I am caught! Yes, I am Gurn, and I am caught!"

The fatal words were still ringing in Lady Beltham's ears when the
major-domo, Silbertown, came bursting into the room, with radiant face
and shining eyes and smiling lips, and hurried to his mistress.

"I thought as much!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It was the villain all
right. I recognised him from the description, in spite of his beard. I
informed the police! As a matter of fact they have been watching for the
last two days. Just fancy, your ladyship, a detective was shadowing
Gurn--and when he was going out of the house I gave him the signal!"

Lady Beltham stared at the major-domo in mute horror.

"Yes?" she muttered, on the point of swooning.

"I pointed him out to the police, and it's thanks to me, your ladyship,
that Gurn, the murderer, has been arrested at last!"

For just another moment Lady Beltham stared at the man who gave her
these appalling tidings, seemed to strive to utter something, then fell
prone to the floor, unconscious.

The major-domo and the girls sprang to her side to lavish attentions
upon her.

At that moment the door was pushed a little way open, and the figure of
Juve appeared.

"May I come in?" said he.




XXII. THE SCRAP OF PAPER


It was three o'clock when Juve arrived at the rue Levert, and he found
the concierge of number 147 just finishing her coffee.

Amazed at the results achieved by the detective, the details of which
she had learned from the sensational articles in the daily paper she
most affected, Mme. Doulenques had conceived a most respectful
admiration for the Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department.

"That man," she constantly declared to Madame Aurore, "it isn't eyes he
has in his head, it's telescopes, magnifying glasses! He sees everything
in a minute--even when it isn't there!"

She gave him an admiring "good afternoon, Inspector," as he came into
her lodge, and going to a board on which numbers of keys were hanging,
took one down and handed it to him.

"So there's something fresh to-day?" she said. "I've just seen in the
paper that M. Gurn has been arrested. So it was my lodger who did it?
What a dreadful man! Whoever would have thought it? It turns my blood
cold to think of him!"

Juve was never a man for general conversation, and he was still less
interested in the garrulity of this loquacious creature. He took the key
and cut short her remarks by walking to the door.

"Yes, Gurn has been arrested," he said shortly; "but he has made no
confession, so nothing is known for certain yet. Please go on with your
work exactly as though I were not in the house, Mme. Doulenques."

It was his usual phrase, and a constant disappointment to the
concierge, who would have asked nothing better than to go upstairs with
the detective and watch him at his wonderful work.

Juve went up the five floors to the flat formerly occupied by Gurn,
reflecting somewhat moodily. Of course Gurn's arrest was a success, and
it was satisfactory to have the scoundrel under lock and key, but in
point of fact Juve had learned nothing new in consequence of the arrest,
and he was obsessed with the idea that this murder of Lord Beltham was
an altogether exceptional crime. He did not yet know why Gurn had killed
Lord Beltham, and he did not even know exactly who Gurn himself was; all
he could declare was that the murder had been planned and carried out
with marvellous audacity and skill, and that was not enough.

Juve let himself into the flat and closed the door carefully behind him.
The rooms were in disorder, the result of the searches effected by the
police. The rent had not been paid for some time, and as no friend or
relation had come forward to assume control of Gurn's interests, the
furniture and ornaments of the little flat were to be sold by auction.

The detective walked through the rooms, then flung himself into an
arm-chair. He did not know precisely why he had come. He had searched
the place a dozen times already since his discovery of the corpse within
the trunk, and had found nothing more, no tell-tale marks or fresh
detail, to assist in the elucidation of the mystery. He would have given
very much to be able to identify Gurn with some other of the many
criminals who had passed through his hands, and still more to be able to
identify him with that one most mysterious criminal whose fearful deeds
had shocked the world so greatly. Somehow the particular way in which
this murder was committed, the very audacity of it, led him to think, to
"sense," almost to swear that----

Juve got up. It was little in accord with his active temperament to sit
still. Once more he went all round the flat.

"The kitchen? Let me see: I have been through everything? The stove? The
cupboards? The saucepans? Why, I went so far as to make sure that there
was no poison in them, though it seemed a wild idea. The anteroom?
Nothing there: the umbrella stand was empty, and the one interesting
thing I did see, the torn curtain, has been described and photographed
officially." He went back into the dining-room. "I've searched all the
furniture: and I went through all the parcels Gurn had done up before he
left, and would, no doubt, have come back for at his leisure, had it not
been for my discovery of the body, and the unfortunate publicity the
newspapers gave to that fact." In one corner of the room was a heap of
old newspapers, crumpled and torn, and thrown down in disorder. Juve
kicked them aside. "I've looked through all that, even read the agony
columns, but there was nothing there." He went into the bedroom and
contemplated the bed, that the concierge had stripped, the chairs set
one on top of another in a corner, and the wardrobe that stood empty,
its former contents scattered on the floor by the police during their
search. There, too, nothing was to be found.

Against the wall, near the fireplace, was a little escritoire with a
cupboard above it, containing a few battered books.

"My men have been all through that," Juve muttered; "it's most unlikely
that they missed anything, but perhaps I had better see."

He sat down before it and began methodically to sort the scattered
papers; with quick, trained glance he scanned each document, putting one
after another aside with a grimace expressive of disappointment. Almost
the last document he picked up was a long sheet of parchment, and as he
unfolded it an exclamation escaped his lips. It was an official notice
of Gurn's promotion to the rank of sergeant when fighting under Lord
Beltham in the South African War. Juve read it through--he knew English
well--and laid it down with a gesture of discouragement.

"It is extraordinary," he muttered. "That seems to be perfectly
authentic; it is authentic, and it proves that this fellow was a decent
fellow and a brave soldier once; that is a fine record of service." He
drummed his fingers on the desk and spoke aloud. "Is Gurn really Gurn,
then, and have I been mistaken from start to finish in the little
romance I have been weaving round him? How am I to find the key to the
mystery? How am I to prove the truth of what I feel to be so very close
to me, but which eludes me every time, just as I seem to be about to
grasp it?"

He went on with his search, and then, looking at the bookcase, took the
volumes out and, holding each by its two covers, shook it to make sure
that no papers were hidden among the leaves. But all in vain. He did the
same with a large railway time-table and several shipping calendars.

"The odd thing is," he thought, "that all these time-tables go to prove
that Gurn really was the commercial traveller he professed to be. It's
exactly things such as these one would expect to find in the possession
of a man who travelled much, and always had to be referring to the dates
of sailing to distant parts of the world."

In the bookcase was a box, made to represent a bound book, and
containing a collection of ordnance maps. Juve took them out to make
sure that no loose papers were included among them, and one by one
unfolded every map.

Then a sharp exclamation burst from his lips.

"Good Lord! Now there----"

In his surprise he sprang up so abruptly that he pushed back his chair,
and overturned it. His excitement was so great that his hands were
shaking as he carefully spread out upon the desk one of the ordnance
maps he had taken from the case.

"It's the map of the centre district all right: the map which shows
Cahors, and Brives, and Saint-Jaury and--Beaulieu! And the missing
piece--it is the missing piece that would give that precise district!"

Juve stared at the map with hypnotised gaze; for a piece had been cut
out of it, cut out with a penknife neatly and carefully, and that piece
must have shown the exact district where the chateau stood which had
been occupied by the Marquise de Langrune.

"Oh, if I could only prove it: prove that the piece missing from this
map, this map belonging to Gurn, is really and truly the piece I found
near Verrieres Station just after the murder of the Marquise de
Langrune--what a triumph that would be! What a damning proof! What
astounding consequences this discovery of mine might have!"

Juve made a careful note of the number of the map, quickly and
nervously, folded it up again, and prepared to leave the flat.

He had made but a step or two towards the door when a sharp ring at the
bell made him jump.

"The deuce!" he exclaimed softly; "who can be coming to ring Gurn up
when everybody in Paris knows he has been arrested?" and he felt
mechanically in his pocket to make sure that his revolver was there.
Then he smiled. "What a fool I am! Of course it is only Mme. Doulenques,
wondering why I am staying here so long."

He strode to the door, flung it wide open, and then recoiled in
astonishment.

"You?" he exclaimed, surveying the caller from top to toe. "You? Charles
Rambert! Or, I should say, Jerome Fandor! Now what the deuce does this
mean?"




XXIII. THE WRECK OF THE "LANCASTER"


Jerome Fandor entered the room without a word. Juve closed the door
behind him. The boy was very pale and manifestly much upset.

"What is the matter?" said Juve.

"Something terrible has happened," the boy answered. "I have just heard
awful news: my poor father is dead!"

"What?" Juve exclaimed sharply. "M. Etienne Rambert dead?"

Jerome Fandor put a newspaper into the detective's hand. "Read that," he
said, and pointed to an article on the front page with a huge head-line:
"_Wreck of the 'Lancaster': 150 Lives Lost._" There were tears in his
eyes, and he had such obvious difficulty in restraining his grief, that
Juve saw that to read the article would be the speediest way to find out
what had occurred.

The Red Star liner _Lancaster_, plying between Caracas and Southampton,
had gone down with all hands the night before, just off the Isle of
Wight, and at the moment of going to press only one person was known to
have been saved. There was a good sea running, but it was by no means
rough, and the vessel was still within sight of the lighthouse and
making for the open sea at full speed, when the lighthousemen suddenly
saw her literally blown into the air and then disappear beneath the
waves. The alarm was given immediately and boats of all kinds put off to
the scene of the disaster, but though a great deal of wreckage was still
floating about, only one man of the crew was seen, clinging to a spar;
he was picked up by the _Campbell_ and taken to hospital, where he was
interviewed by _The Times_, without, however, being able to throw any
light upon what was an almost unprecedented catastrophe in the history
of the sea. All he could say was that the liner had just got up full
speed and was making a perfectly normal beginning of her trip, when
suddenly a tremendous explosion occurred. He himself was engaged at the
moment fastening the tarpaulins over the baggage hold, and he was
confident that the explosion occurred among the cargo. But he could give
absolutely no more information: the entire ship seemed to be riven
asunder, and he was thrown into the sea, stunned, and knew no more until
he recovered consciousness and found himself aboard the _Campbell_.

"It's quite incomprehensible," Juve muttered; "surely there can't have
been any powder aboard? No explosives are carried on these great liners;
they only take passengers and the mails." He scanned the list of
passengers. "Etienne Rambert's name is given among the first-class
passengers, right enough," he said. "Well, it's odd!"

Jerome Fandor heaved a profound sigh.

"It is a fatality which I shall never get over," he said. "When you told
me the other day that you knew I was innocent, I ought to have gone to
see my father, in spite of what you said. I am sure he would have
believed me and come to see you; then you could have convinced him, and
I should not have this horrible grief of remembering that he had died
without learning that his son was not a bad man, but was quite deserving
of his affection."

Jerome Fandor was making a brave struggle to maintain his self-control,
and Juve looked at him without concealing the real sympathy he felt for
him in his grief. He put his hand kindly on his shoulder.

"Listen, my dear boy; odd as you may think it, you can take my word for
it that there is no need for you to despair; there is nothing to prove
that your father is dead; he may not have been on board."

The boy looked up in surprise.

"What do you mean, Juve?"

"I don't want to say anything, my boy, except that you would be very
wrong to give way to distress at present. If you have any confidence in
me, you may believe me when I say that. There is nothing yet to prove
that you have had this loss: and, besides, you still have your mother,
who is perfectly sure to get quite well: do you understand?--_perfectly
sure!_" He changed the subject abruptly. "There is one thing I should
like to know: what the dickens brought you here?"

"You were the first person I thought of in my trouble," Fandor replied.
"Directly I read about the disaster in that paper I came to tell you at
once."

"Yes, I quite understand that," Juve answered. "What I do not understand
is how you guessed that you would find me here, in Gurn's flat."

The question seemed to perturb the boy.

"It--it was quite by chance," he stammered.

"That is the kind of explanation one offers to fools," Juve retorted.
"By what chance did you see me come into this house? What the deuce were
you doing in the rue Levert?" The lad showed some inclination to make
for the door, but Juve stayed him peremptorily. "Answer my question,
please: how did you know I was here?"

Driven into a corner, the boy blurted out the truth:

"I had followed you."

"Followed me?" Juve exclaimed. "Where from?"

"From your rooms."

"You mean, and you may as well own up to it at once, that you were
shadowing me."

"Well, yes, M. Juve, it is true," Fandor confessed, all in one breath.
"I was shadowing you: I do every day!"

Juve was dumbfounded.

"Every day? And I never saw you! Gad, you are jolly clever! And may I
enquire why you have been exercising this supervision over me?"

Jerome Fandor hung his head.

"Forgive me," he faltered; "I have been very stupid. I thought you--I
thought you were--Fantomas!"

The idea tickled the detective so much that he dropped back into a chair
to laugh at his ease.

"'Pon my word," he said, "you have an imagination! And what made you
suppose that I was Fantomas?"

"M. Juve," Fandor said earnestly, "I made a vow that I would find out
the truth, and discover the scoundrel who has made such awful havoc of
my life. But I did not know where to begin. From all you have said I
realised that Fantomas was a most extraordinarily clever man; I did not
know anyone who could be cleverer than you; and so I watched you! It was
merely logical!"

Far from being angry, Juve was rather flattered.

"I am amazed by what you have just told me, my boy," he said with a
smile. "In the first place your reasoning is not at all bad. Of course
it is obvious that I cannot suspect myself of being Fantomas, but I
quite admit that if I were in your place I might make the supposition,
wild as it may seem. And, in the next place, you have shadowed me
without my becoming aware of the fact, and that is very good indeed: a
proof that you are uncommonly smart." He looked at the lad attentively
for a few moments, and then went on more gravely: "Are you satisfied now
that your hypothesis was wrong? Or do you still suspect me?"

"No, I don't suspect you now," Fandor declared; "not since I saw you
come into this house; Fantomas certainly would not have come to search
Gurn's rooms because----"

He stopped, and Juve, who was looking at him keenly, did not make him
finish what he was saying.

"Shall I tell you something?" he said at last. "If you continue to
display as much thought and initiative in the career you have chosen as
you have just displayed, you will very soon be the first newspaper
detective of the day!" He jumped up and led the boy off. "Come along:
I've got to go to the Law Courts at once."

"You've found out something fresh?"

"I'm going to ask them to call an interesting witness in the Gurn
affair."

       *       *       *       *       *

Rain had been falling heavily all the morning and afternoon, but within
the last few minutes it had almost stopped. Dollon, the steward, put his
hand out of the window and found that only a few drops were falling now
from the heavy grey sky.

He was an invaluable servant, and a few months after the death of the
Marquise de Langrune, the Baronne de Vibray had gladly offered him a
situation, and a cottage on her estate at Querelles.

He walked across the room, and called his son.

"Jacques, would you like to come with me? I am going down to the river
to see that the sluices have been opened properly. The banks are
anything but sound, and these rains will flood us out one of these
days."

The steward and his son went down the garden towards the stream which
formed one boundary of Mme. de Vibray's park.

"Look, father," Jacques exclaimed, "the postman is calling us."

The postman, a crusty but good-hearted fellow, came hurrying up to the
steward.

"You do make me run, M. Dollon," he complained. "I went to your house
this morning to take you a letter, but you weren't there."

"You might have left it with anybody."

"Excuse me!" the man retorted; "it's against the regulations: I've got
an official letter for you, and I can only give it to you yourself," and
he held out an envelope which Dollon tore open.

"Magistrates' office?" he said enquiringly, as he glanced at the heading
of the notepaper. "Who can be writing to me from the Law Courts?" He
read the letter aloud:

"Sir: As time does not permit of a regular summons being sent to you by
an usher of the court, I beg you to be so good as to come to Paris
immediately, the day after to-morrow if possible, and attend at my
office, where your depositions are absolutely required to conclude a
case in which you are interested. Please bring, without exception, all
the papers and documents entrusted to you by the Clerk of Assizes at
Cahors, at the conclusion of the Langrune enquiry."

"It is signed Germain Fuselier," Dollon remarked. "I've often seen his
name in the papers. He is a very well-known magistrate, and is employed
in many criminal cases." He read the letter through once more, and
turned to the postman. "Will you take a glass of wine, Muller?"

"That's a thing I never say 'no' to."

"Well, go into the house with Jacques, and while he is attending to you
I will write a reply telegram which you can take to the office for me."

While the man was quenching his thirst Dollon wrote his reply:

"Will leave Verrieres to-morrow evening by 7.20 train, arriving Paris 5
A.M. Wire appointment at your office to me at Hotel Francs-Bourgeois,
152 rue du Bac."

He read the message over, signed it "Dollon" and considered.

"I wonder what they can want me for? Oh, if only they have found out
something about the Langrune affair, how glad I shall be!"




XXIV. UNDER LOCK AND KEY


After the preliminary examination as to his identity and so on, Gurn had
been transferred to the Sante prison. At first the prisoner seemed to
have terrible difficulty in accustoming himself to the rigours of
confinement; he suffered from alternate paroxysms of rage and despair,
but by sheer strength of character he fought these down. As a prisoner
on remand he was entitled to the privilege of a separate cell, also
during the first forty-eight hours he had been able to have his meals
sent in from outside. Since then, however, his money had given out, and
he was obliged to content himself with the ordinary prison dietary. But
Gurn was not fastidious; this man whom Lady Beltham had singled out, or
accepted, as her lover had often given proofs of an education and an
intelligence above the average, yet now he appeared quite at ease in the
atmosphere of a prison.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gurn was walking quickly and alone round the exercise yard, when a
breathless voice sounded in his ear.

"'Gad, Gurn, you know how to march! I was going to join you for a bit,
but I could not keep up with you."

Gurn turned and saw old Siegenthal, the warder in charge of his
division, in whose custody he was particularly placed.

"My word!" the old fellow panted, "anybody could tell you had been in
the infantry. Well, so have I; though that wasn't yesterday, nor yet the
day before; but we never marched as fast as you do. We made a fine march
once though--at Saint-Privat."

Out of pity for the decent old fellow Gurn slackened his pace. He had
heard the story of the battle of Saint-Privat a dozen times already, but
he was quite willing to let Siegenthal tell it again. The warder,
however, wandered to another point.

"By the way, I heard you were promoted sergeant out in the Transvaal: is
that so?" and as Gurn nodded assent, he went on: "I never rose above the
rank of corporal, but at any rate I have always led an honest life." A
sudden compassion for his prisoner seized the old man, and he laid a
kindly hand on Gurn's shoulder. "Is it really possible that an old
soldier like you, who seem to be such a steady, serious, kind of man,
can have committed such a crime?"

Gurn dropped his eyes and did not reply.

"I suppose there was a woman at the bottom of it?" Siegenthal said
tentatively. "You acted on impulse, in a fit of jealousy, eh?"

"No," Gurn answered with sudden bluntness, "I may as well own up that I
did it in anger, because I wanted money--for the sake of robbery."

"I'm sorry," said the old warder simply. "You must have been desperately
hard up."

"No I wasn't."

Siegenthal stared at his prisoner. The man must be utterly callous to
talk like that, he thought. Then a clock struck and the warder gave a
curt order.

"Time, Gurn! We must go back," and he conducted the unresisting prisoner
up the three flights of stairs that led to the division in which his
cell was. "By the way," he remarked as they went, "I forgot to tell you
that you and I have got to part."

"Oh?" said Gurn. "Am I to be transferred to another prison?"

"No, it's I who am going. Just fancy, I have been appointed head warder
at Poissy; I go on leave to-night, and take up my new post in a week."
Both halted before the door of cell number 127. "In with you," said
Siegenthal, and when Gurn had obeyed he turned to go. Then he wheeled
round again quickly, and put out his hand hurriedly, as if half afraid
of being seen. "Put it there, Gurn," he said; "no doubt you are a
murderer and, as you have confessed yourself, a thief; but I can't
forget that if you had kept straight, you were the sergeant and I should
have had to obey you. I'm sorry for you!" Gurn was touched and murmured
a word of thanks. "That's all right, that's all right," Siegenthal
muttered, not attempting to hide his emotion; "let us hope that
everything will turn out well," and he left Gurn alone in the cell to
his meditations.

Twice, Gurn reflected, relying on the sympathy which he knew he had
evoked in the old warder's heart despite the number of criminals who had
passed through his hands, he had been on the point of broaching a
serious and delicate matter to him; but he had not actually spoken,
being deterred by some undefinable scruple, as well as half suspecting
that his application would be made in vain. And now he was glad he had
been so cautious, for even if the warder had been amenable, his
approaching removal to another prison would have prevented the idea from
coming to fruition.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sing-song voice echoed in the corridor.

"Number 127, you are wanted in the barristers' room. Get ready," and the
next minute the door of the cell was thrown open, and a cheery-looking
warder, with a strong Gascon accent, appeared. Gurn had noticed him
before: he was the second warder in this division, a man named Nibet,
and no doubt he would be promoted to Siegenthal's place when the chief
warder left. Nibet looked curiously at Gurn, a certain sympathy in his
quick brown eyes. "Ready, Gurn?"

Gurn growled an answer and pulled on his coat again. His counsel was
Maitre Barberoux, one of the foremost criminal barristers of the day;
Gurn had thought it prudent to retain him for his defence, more
especially as it would cost him nothing personally. But he had no
particular desire to talk to him now; he had already told him everything
he intended to tell him, and he had no intention of allowing the case to
be boomed as a sensation; quite the reverse indeed: in his opinion, the
flatter the case fell, the better it would be for his interests, though
no doubt Maitre Barberoux would not be of the same way of thinking.

But he said nothing, and merely walked in front of Nibet along the
corridor towards the barristers' room, the way to which he was already
familiar with. On the way they passed some masons who were at work in
the prison, and these men stopped to watch him pass, but contrary to
Gurn's apprehensions they did not seem to recognise him. He hoped it
meant that the murder was already ceasing to be a nine days' wonder for
the public at large.

Nibet pushed Gurn into the barristers' room, saying respectfully to the
person in it already, "You only have to ring, sir, when you have
finished," and then withdrew, leaving Gurn in presence, not of his
counsel as he had expected, but of that personage's assistant, a young
licentiate in law named Roger de Seras, who was also a most incredible
dandy.

Roger de Seras greeted Gurn with an engaging smile and advanced as if to
shake hands with him, but suddenly wondering whether that action might
not suggest undue familiarity, he raised his hand to his own head
instead and scratched it; the young fellow was still younger in his
business, and did not rightly know whether it was etiquette for a
barrister, or even a barrister's junior, to shake hands with a prisoner
who was implicated in a notorious murder.

Gurn felt inclined to laugh, and on the whole was glad that it was the
junior whom he had to see; the futile verbosity of this very young
licentiate might possibly be amusing.

Maitre Roger de Seras began with civil apologies.

"You will excuse me if I only stay for a few minutes, but I am most
frightfully busy; besides, two ladies are waiting for me outside in my
carriage: I may say confidentially that they are actresses, old friends
of mine, and, just fancy, they are most frightfully anxious to see you!
That's what it means to be famous, M. Gurn; eh, what?" Gurn nodded, not
feeling unduly flattered. Roger de Seras continued. "Just to please them
I have made any number of applications to the governor of the prison,
but there was nothing doing, my dear chap; that beast of a magistrate,
Fuselier, insists on your being kept in absolute seclusion. But none the
less, I've got some news for you. I know heaps: why, my friends at the
Law Courts call me 'the peripatetic paragraph!' Not bad, eh, what?"
Gurn smiled and Roger de Seras was encouraged. "It's given me no end of
a boom, my leader acting for you, and my being able to come and see you
whenever I like! Everybody asks me how you are, and what you are like,
and what you say, and what you think. You can congratulate yourself on
having caused a sensation in Paris."

Gurn began to be irritated by all this chatter.

"I must confess I'm not the least interested in what people are saying
about me. Is there anything new in my case?"

"Absolutely nothing that I am aware of," Roger de Seras replied
serenely, without stopping to think whether there was or not. "I
say--Lady Beltham----"

"Yes?" said Gurn.

"Well, I know her very well, you know: I go out a frightful lot and I
have often met her: a charming woman, Lady Beltham!"

Gurn really did not know how to treat the idiot. Never one to suffer
fools gladly, he grew irritable and would almost certainly have said
something that would have put the garrulous young bungler in his place,
had not the latter suddenly remembered something, just as he was on the
point of getting up to go.

"Oh, by the way," he said with a laugh, "I was nearly forgetting the
most important thing of all. Just fancy, that beast Juve, the marvellous
detective whom the newspapers rave about, went to your place yesterday
afternoon to make another official search!"

"Alone?" enquired Gurn, much interested.

"Quite alone. Now what do you suppose he found; the place has been
ransacked dozens of times, you know; of course I mean something
sensational in the way of a find. I bet you a thousand----"

"I never bet," Gurn snapped. "Tell me at once what it was."

The young fellow was proud of having caught the attention of his
leader's notorious client, if only for a moment; he paused and wagged
his head, weighing each word to give them greater emphasis.

"He found an ordnance map in your bookcase, my dear chap--an ordnance
map with a bit torn out of it."

"Oh! And what then?" said Gurn, a frown upon his face.

The young barrister did not notice the expression on the murderer's
countenance.

"Well, then it appears that Juve thought it was very important. Between
you and me, my opinion is that Juve tries to be frightfully clever and
succeeds in looking a fool. How, I ask you, can the discovery of that
map affect your case or influence the decision of the jury? By the way,
there is no need for you to worry about the result; I have had a
frightful lot of experience in criminal cases, and so be assured you are
all right: extenuating circumstances, you know. But--oh, yes, there is
one thing more I wanted to tell you. A fresh witness is going to be
called at the examination; let me see, what's his name? Dollon: that's
it: the steward, Dollon."

"I don't understand," said Gurn; his head was bent and his eyes cast
down.

A glimmer of light dawned in the young licentiate's brain.

"Wait, there is some connection," he said. "The steward, Dollon, is in
the employment of a lady who calls herself the Baronne de Vibray. And
the Baronne de Vibray is guardian to the young lady who was staying with
Lady Beltham the day, or rather the night, when you--you--well, you
know. And that young lady, Mlle. Therese Auvernois, was placed with Lady
Beltham by M. Etienne Rambert. And M. Etienne Rambert is the father of
the young man who murdered the Marquise de Langrune last year. I tell
you all these things without attempting to draw any deductions from
them, for, for my own part, I haven't the least idea why the steward,
Dollon, has been summoned in our case at all."

"Nor have I," said Gurn, and the frown on his brow was deeper.

Roger de Seras hunted all round the little room for his gloves and found
them in his pocket.

"Well, my dear chap, I must leave you. We have been chatting for a whole
half-hour, and those ladies are still waiting for me. What on earth will
they say to me?"

He was about to ring for the warder when Gurn abruptly stayed him.

"Tell me," he said with a sudden air of interest, "when is that man
coming--what's his name? Dollon?"

The young barrister was on the point of saying he did not know, when a
brilliant recollection came into his mind.

"'Gad, how frightfully stupid I am! Why, I have a copy of the telegram
he sent the magistrate in my portfolio here now." He opened the
portfolio and picked out a sheet of blue paper. "Here it is."

Gurn took it from him and read:

"Will leave Verrieres to-morrow evening by 7.20 train, arriving Paris 5
A.M...."

Gurn appeared to be sufficiently edified: at all events he paid no
attention to the rest of the message. Lord Beltham's murderer handed the
document back to the barrister without a word.

A few minutes later Maitre Roger de Seras had rejoined his lady friends,
and the prisoner was once more in his cell.




XXV. AN UNEXPECTED ACCOMPLICE


Gurn was walking nervously up and down in his cell after this interview,
when the door was pushed open and the cheery face of the warder Nibet
looked in.

"Evening, Gurn," he said; "it's six o'clock, and the restaurant-keeper
opposite wants to know if he is to send your dinner in to you."

"No," Gurn growled. "I'll have the prison ordinary."

"Oh--ho!" said the warder; "funds low, eh? Of course, it's not for you
to despise our dietary, but still, Government beans----" He came further
into the cell, ignoring Gurn's impatient preference for his room to his
company, and said in a low tone: "There, take that," and thrust a
bank-note into the hand of the dumbfounded prisoner. "And if you want
any more, they will be forthcoming," he added. He made a sign to Gurn to
say nothing, and went to the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes: I'll
just go and order a decent dinner for you."

Gurn felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from him; the cell
seemed larger, the prison walls less high; he had an intuition that Lady
Beltham was not deserting him. He had never doubted the sincerity of her
feelings for him, but he quite realised how a woman in her delicate
position might feel embarrassed in trying to intervene in favour of any
prisoner, and much more so in the case of the one whom the entire world
believed to be the single-handed murderer of her husband. But now Lady
Beltham had intervened. She had succeeded in communicating with him
through the medium of this warder. And almost certainly she would do
much more yet.

       *       *       *       *       *

The door opened again, and the warder entered, carrying a long rush
basket containing several dishes and a bottle of wine.

"Well, Gurn, that's a more agreeable sort of dinner, eh?"

"Gad, I wanted it after all," said the murderer with a smile. "It was a
good idea of yours, M. Nibet, to insist on my getting my dinner sent in
from outside."

Nibet winked; he appreciated his prisoner's tact; obviously he was not
one to make untimely allusions to the warder's breach of discipline in
conveying money to him so simply, but so very irregularly.

As he ate Gurn chatted with Nibet.

"I suppose it is you who will get Siegenthal's place?"

"Yes," said Nibet, sipping the wine Gurn had offered him. "I have asked
for the berth no end of times, but it never came; I was always told to
wait because the place was not free, and another berth must be found
first for Siegenthal, who was my senior. But the old beast would never
make any application. However, three days ago, I was sent for to the
Ministry, and one of the staff told me that some one in the Embassy, or
the Government, or somewhere, was taking an interest in me, and they
asked me a lot of questions and I told them all about it. And then, all
of a sudden, Siegenthal was promoted to Poissy and I was given his
billet here."

Gurn nodded: he saw light.

"And what about the money?"

"That's stranger still, but I understood all the same. A lady met me in
the street the other night and spoke to me by name. We had a chat there
on the pavement, for the street was empty, and she shoved some
bank-notes in my hand--not just one or two, but a great bunch----, and
she told me that she was interested in me--in you----, and that if
things turned out as she wished there were plenty more bank-notes where
those came from."

While the warder was talking Gurn watched him carefully. The murderer
was an experienced reader of character in faces, and he speedily
realised that his lady's choice had fallen on an excellent object. Thick
lips, a narrow forehead, and prominent cheek-bones suggested a material
nature that would hesitate at nothing which would satisfy his carnal
appetites, so Gurn decided that further circumlocution was so much waste
of time, and that he might safely come to the point. He laid his hand
familiarly on the warder's shoulder.

"I'm getting sick of being here," he remarked.

"I dare say," the warder answered uneasily; "but you must be guided by
reason; time is going on, and things arrange themselves."

"They do when you help them," Gurn said peremptorily; "and you and I are
going to help them."

"That remains to be seen," said the warder.

"Of course, everything has got to be paid for," Gurn went on. "One can't
expect a warder to risk his situation merely to help a prisoner to
escape." He smiled as the warder made an exclamation of nervous warning.
"Don't be frightened, Nibet. We're not going to play any fool games, but
let us talk seriously. Of course you have another appointment with the
worthy lady who gave you that money?"

"I am to meet her to-night at eleven, in the boulevard Arago," Nibet
said, after a moment's hesitation.

"Good," said Gurn. "Well, you are to tell her that I must have ten
thousand francs."

"What?" exclaimed the man, in utter astonishment, but his eyes shone
with greed.

"Ten thousand francs," Gurn repeated calmly, "and by to-morrow morning.
Fifteen hundred of those are for you; I will go away to-morrow evening."

There was a tense silence; the warder seemed doubtful, and Gurn turned
the whole of his will power upon him to persuade him.

"Suppose they suspect me?" said Nibet.

"Idiot!" Gurn retorted; "all you will do will be to make a slip in your
duty: I don't want you to be an accomplice. Listen: there will be
another five thousand francs for you, and if things turn out awkwardly
for you, all you will have to do will be to go across to England, and
live there comfortably for the rest of your days."

The warder was obviously almost ready to comply.

"Who will guarantee me?" he asked.

"The lady, I tell you--the lady of the boulevard Arago. Here, give her
this," and he tore a leaf out of his pocket-book and, scribbling a few
words on it, handed it to Nibet.

"Well," said the warder hesitatingly: "I don't say 'no.'"

"You've got to say 'yes,'" Gurn retorted.

The two looked steadily in each other's eyes; then the warder blenched.

"Yes," he said.

Nibet was going away, and was already almost in the corridor when Gurn
calmly called him back.

"You will evolve a plan, and I will start to-morrow. Don't forget to
bring me a time-table; the Orleans Company time-table will do."

       *       *       *       *       *

The murderer was not disappointed in his expectations. The next morning
Nibet appeared with a mysterious face and eager eyes. He took a small
bundle from underneath his jersey and gave it to Gurn.

"Hide that in your bed," he said, and Gurn obeyed.

The morning passed without further developments; numerous warders came
and went in the corridor, attending to the prisoners, and Gurn could get
no private talk with Nibet, who contrived, however, to come into his
cell several times on various pretexts and assure him with a nod or a
word that all was going well. But presently, when walking in the
exercise yard, the two men were able to have a conversation.

Nibet manifested an intelligence of which his outer appearance gave no
indication; but it seems to be an established fact that the inventive
faculties, even of men of inferior mental quality, are sharpened when
they are engaged in mischief.

"For the last three weeks," he said, "about a score of masons have been
working in the prison, repairing the roof and doing up some of the
cells. Cell number 129, the one next yours, is empty, and there are no
bars on the window; the masons go through that cell and that window to
get on to the roof. They knock off work soon after six o'clock. The
gate-keeper knows them all, but he does not always look closely at their
faces when they go by, and you might perhaps be able to go out with
them.

"In the bundle that I gave you there is a pair of workman's trousers,
and a waistcoat and a felt hat; put those on. At about a quarter to six,
the men who went up on to the roof through the cell, come down by way of
the skylights to the staircase that leads to the clerk's office, pass
the office, where they are asked no questions, cross the two yards and
go out by the main gate. I will open the door of your cell a few minutes
before six, and you must go into the empty cell next yours, slip up on
to the roof and take care to hide behind the chimney stacks until the
men have done work. Let them go down in front of you, and follow behind
with a pick or a shovel on your shoulder, and when you are passing the
clerk, or anywhere where you might be observed, mind you let the men go
a yard or two in front of you. When the gate is just being shut after
the last workman, call out quietly, but as naturally as you can, 'Hold
on, M. Morin; mind you don't lock me in; I'm not one of your lodgers;
let me out after my mates.' Make some joke of that sort, and when you
are once outside the gate, by George, my boy, you'll have to vamoose!"

Gurn listened attentively to the warder's instructions. Lady Beltham
must, indeed, have been generous and have made the man perfectly easy on
the score of his own future.

"In one of the pockets of the clothes," Nibet went on, "I have put ten
hundred-franc notes; you asked for more, but I could not raise it: we
can settle that some other time."

Gurn made no comment.

"When will my escape be discovered?" he asked.

"I am on night duty," the warder answered. "Arrange your clothes on your
bed to make it look as if you were in bed, and then they will think I
might have been deceived. I go off duty at five; the next round is at
eight. My mate will open the door of the cage, and by that time you will
be miles away."

Gurn nodded comprehension. Time did not permit of longer conversation.
The bell had rung some minutes ago, proclaiming that the exercise time
was over. The two men hurried upstairs to cell number 127 on the third
floor, and the prisoner was locked in alone, while Nibet went about his
duty as usual.




XXVI. A MYSTERIOUS CRIME


Arriving in good time at the little station at Verrieres, where he was
about to take a train to Paris to keep his appointment at the Law
Courts, the old steward Dollon gave his parting instructions to his two
children, who had come to see him off.

"I must, of course, call upon Mme. de Vibray," he said, "and I don't yet
know what time M. Fuselier wants to see me at his office. Anyhow, if I
don't come back to-morrow, I will the next day, without fail. Well,
little ones, I'm just off now, so say good-bye and get home as fast as
you can. It looks to me as if there was going to be a storm, and I
should like to know that you were safe at home."

With heavy creaking of iron wheels, and hoarse blowing off of steam from
the engine, the Paris train drew into the station. The steward gave a
final kiss to his little son and daughter and got into a second-class
carriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a neighbouring village a clock had just struck three.

The storm had been raging since early in the evening, but now it seemed
informed with a fresh fury: the rain was lashing down more fiercely, and
the wind was blowing harder still, making the slender poplars along the
railway line bow and bend before the squalls and assume the most
fantastic shapes, but vaguely shown against the night. The night was
inky black. The keenest eye could make out nothing at all distinctly,
even at the distance of a few yards: the darkness was so dense as to
seem absolutely solid.

Nevertheless, along the railway embankment, a man was making his way
with steady step, seeming not a whit disturbed by the tragic horror of
the storm.

He was a man of about thirty, rather well dressed in a large waterproof
coat, the collar of which, turned up to his ears, hid the lower part of
his face, and a big felt hat with brim turned down protecting him fairly
well from the worst of the weather. The man fought his way against the
wind, which drove into his overcoat with such force that sometimes it
almost stopped his progress, and he trod the stony track without paying
heed to the sorry plight into which it would most surely put the thin
boots he was wearing.

"Awful weather!" he growled: "I don't remember such a shocking night for
years: wind, rain, every conceivable thing! But I mustn't grumble, for
the total absence of moon will be uncommonly useful for my purpose." A
flash of lightning streaked the horizon, and the man stopped and looked
quickly about him. "I can't be far from the place," he thought, and
again went on his way. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief. "Here I am
at last."

At this spot the line was completely enclosed between two high <DW72>s,
or ran at the bottom of a deep cutting.

"It's better here," the man said to himself; "the wind passes well above
my head, and the cutting gives good shelter." He stopped and carefully
deposited on the ground a rather bulky bundle he had been carrying under
his arm; then he began to pace up and down, stamping his feet in an
effort to keep warm. "It has just struck three," he muttered. "From the
time-table I can't expect anything for another ten minutes. Well, better
too soon than too late!" He contemplated the bundle which he had laid
down a few minutes before. "It's heavier than I thought, and deucedly in
the way. But it was absolutely necessary to bring it. And down here in
this cutting, there is nothing for me to be anxious about: the grass is
thick, so I can run, and the line is so straight that I shall see the
lights of the train a long way off." A thin smile curled his lips. "Who
would have thought, when I was in America, that I should ever find it so
useful to have learnt how to jump a train?"

A dull sound in the distance caught his ear. In a second he had sprung
to his bundle, picked it up, and, choosing a spot on the ballast,
crouched down listening. At the place where he stood the line ran up a
steep acclivity. It was from the lower end of this that the noise he had
heard proceeded, and now was growing louder, almost deafening. It was
the heavy, regular puffing of a powerful engine coming up a steep
gradient, under full steam.

"No mistake: my star is with me!" the man muttered, and as the train
approached he stretched his muscles and, taking a firmer grip of his
bundle, he bent forward in the stooping attitude that runners take when
about to start off in a race.

With a heavy roar, and enveloped in clouds of steam, the train came up
to where he was, travelling slowly because of the steep gradient,
certainly less than twenty miles an hour. The moment the engine had
passed him, the man started off, lithe as a cat, and ran at the top of
his speed. The train, of course, gained upon him; the tender, luggage
vans, and third-class carriages passed him, and a second-class carriage
was just coming up with him. The pace alone would have deprived almost
anyone else of power of thought, but this man was evidently a first-rate
athlete, for the moment he caught sight of the second-class carriage he
took his decision. With a tremendous effort he caught hold of the
hand-rail and sprang upon the footboard, where, with extraordinary
skill, he contrived to remain.

Reaching the summit of the <DW72>, the train gathered speed, and with an
even louder roar began its headlong journey through the darkness and the
storm, which seemed to increase in intensity with every passing minute.

For a few seconds the man hung on where he was. Then, when he had
regained his breath, he got on to the upper step and listened at the
door of the corridor at which he found himself. "No one there," he
muttered. "Besides, everyone will be asleep," and, chancing everything,
he rose up, opened the door, and stepped into the second-class carriage
with a grunt of relief.

Making no attempt to conceal himself, he walked boldly into the lavatory
and washed his face that was blackened with the smoke from outside, and
then, in the most leisurely, natural way possible, he came out of the
lavatory and walked along the corridor, soliloquising aloud, manifestly
not minding whether he were overheard.

"It's positively maddening! No one can sleep, with travelling companions
like that!"

As he spoke he went along the corridor, rapidly glancing into every
compartment. In one, three men were asleep, obviously unaware that
anyone was surveying them from outside. The door of the compartment was
ajar, and the stranger noiselessly stepped within. The fourth corner was
unoccupied, and here the man took his seat, laying his bundle down
beside him, and feigning sleep. He waited, motionless, for a good
quarter of an hour, until he was quite satisfied that his companions
were really sleeping soundly, then he slid his hand into the bundle by
his side, seemed to be doing something inside it, then withdrew his hand
noiselessly, stepped out of the compartment, and carefully closed the
door.

In the corridor he drew a sigh of relieved satisfaction, and took a
cigar from his pocket.

"Everything is going splendidly," he said to himself. "I was cursing
this awful storm just now, but it is wonderfully useful to me. On such a
night as this no one would dream of opening the windows." He strolled up
and down, holding on to the hand-rail with one hand to maintain himself
against the rocking of the train, and every now and then taking out his
watch with the other to see the time. "I haven't any too much time," he
muttered. "I shall have to be quick, or my friend will miss his train!"
He smiled, as if amused at the idea, and then, holding his cigar away
from him so as not to inhale the smoke, he drew several deep breaths.
"There is a faint smell," he said, "but you would have to be told of it
to detect it. The devil of it is that it so often causes nightmare; that
would be awful!" He suspended his patrol and listened again. There was
no sound to be heard from within the compartments except the snoring of
a few travellers and the monotonous, rhythmical noise of the wheels
passing over the joints of the rails. "Come: I've waited twenty minutes;
it would be risky to wait longer; let's get to work!"

He stepped briskly back into the compartment, and furtively glancing
into the corridor to make sure that no one was there, he went across to
the opposite window and opened it wide. He put his head out into the air
for a minute or two, and then turned to examine his travelling
companions. All three were still sound asleep.

The man gave vent to a dry chuckle. He drew his bundle towards him, felt
until he found something within it, and flung it back on to the seat.
Then he walked up to the man opposite him, slipped his hand inside his
coat and abstracted a pocket-book and began to examine the papers it
contained. "Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly; "that was what I was afraid of!"
and taking one of the papers he put it inside his own pocket-book, chose
one from his own and put it into the other man's pocket-book, and then,
having effected this exchange, replaced the man's property and chuckled
again. "You do sleep!"

And indeed, although the pick-pocket took no particular precaution, the
man continued to sleep soundly, as did the other two men in the
compartment.

The thief looked once more at his watch.

"Time!"

He leaned out of the open window and slipped back the safety catch. Then
he opened the door quite wide, took the sleeping traveller by the
shoulders and picked him up from the seat, and with all his strength
sent him rolling out on to the line!

The next moment he seized from the rack the light articles that
evidently belonged to his victim, and threw them out after him.

When he had finished his ghastly work he rubbed his hands in
satisfaction. "Good!" he said, and closing the door again, but leaving
the window down, he left the compartment, not troubling to pick up his
belongings, and walked along the corridors to another second-class
compartment, towards the front of the train, in which he calmly
installed himself.

"Luck has been with me," he muttered as he stretched himself out on the
seat. "Everything has gone off well; no one has seen me, and those two
fools who might have upset my plans will wake up quite naturally when
they begin to feel the cold; and they will attribute the headache they
will probably feel to their tiring journey."

A train, travelling in the opposite direction, suddenly roared past the
window and made him jump. He started up, and smiled.

"'Gad! I said my friend would miss his train, but he'll catch it in
another five minutes! In another five minutes, luggage and body and the
entire caboodle will be mincemeat!" and as if completely reassured by
the idea he chuckled again. "Nothing could have gone better: I can have
a rest, and in an hour's time I shall be at Juvisy, where, thanks to my
forethought, I shall be able to whitewash myself--literally." One thing,
however, still seemed to worry him: he did not know exactly where on the
line he had thrown his unhappy victim, but he had an idea that the train
had run through a small station shortly afterwards; if that was so, the
body might be found sooner than he would have liked. He tried to dismiss
the notion from his mind, but he caught sight of the telegraph posts
speeding past the windows, and he shook his fist at them malignantly.
"That is the only thing that can harm me now," he muttered.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Juvisy! Juvisy! Wait here two minutes!"

It was barely half-past six, and the porters hurried along the train,
calling out the name of the station, and rousing sleepy travellers from
their dreams. A man jumped nimbly out of a second-class carriage and
walked towards the exit from the station, holding out his ticket.
"Season," he said, and passed out rapidly.

"Good idea, that season ticket," he said to himself; "much less
dangerous than an ordinary ticket which the police could have traced."

He walked briskly towards the subway, crossed the main road, and took a
side turning that led down towards the Seine. Taking no notice of the
mud, the man went into a field and hid himself in a little thicket on
the river bank. He looked carefully all around him to make sure that he
was unobserved, then took off his overcoat, jacket and trousers, and
drawing a bundle from one of the pockets of his large waterproof,
proceeded to dress himself anew. As soon as he was dressed, he spread
the waterproof out on the ground, folded up in it the clothes and hat he
had previously been wearing, added a number of heavy stones, and tied
the whole bundle up with a piece of string. He swung it once or twice at
the full length of his arm, and sent it hurtling right into the middle
of the river, where it sank at once.

A few minutes later a bricklayer in his working clothes presented
himself at the Juvisy booking office.

"A workman's ticket to Paris, please, missus," he said, and having got
it, the man went on to the departure platform. "It would have been risky
to use my own ticket," he muttered. "This return ticket will put them
off the scent," and with a smile he waited for the train that would take
him to Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

The slow train from Luchon was drawing near its Paris terminus and the
travellers were all making hasty toilettes and tidying themselves up
after their long night journey. Just, however, as it was approaching the
goods station it slowed down and stopped. The passengers, surprised, put
their heads out of the windows, to ascertain the reason for the
unexpected delay, hazarding various conjectures but unanimous in their
vituperation of the company.

Three men were walking slowly along the line, looking carefully at every
door. Two were porters, and they were manifesting the most respectful
attention to everything the third man said: he was a grave individual,
very correctly attired.

"Look there, sir," one of the porters exclaimed; "there is a door where
the safety catch has either been undone or not fastened; that is the
only one on the train."

"That is so," said the gentleman, and grasping the handle he opened the
door of the compartment and got in. Two travellers were busy strapping
up their bags, and they turned round in simultaneous surprise.

"You will pardon me, gentlemen, when you know who I am," said the
intruder, and throwing open his coat he showed his tricolour scarf. "I
have to make enquiry relative to a dead body that has been found on the
line near Bretigny; it probably fell from this train, and perhaps from
this compartment, for I have just observed that the safety catch is not
fastened. Where did you get into the train?"

The two passengers looked at one another in astonishment.

"What a dreadful thing!" one of them exclaimed. "Why, sir, to-night,
while my friend here and I were asleep, one of our fellow-travellers did
disappear. I made a remark about it, but this gentleman very reasonably
pointed out that he must have got out at some station while we were
asleep."

The official was keenly interested.

"What was this passenger like?"

"Quite easily recognised, sir; a man of about sixty, rather stout, and
wearing whiskers."

"That tallies with the description. Might he have been a butler or a
steward?"

"That is exactly what he looked like."

"Then that must be the man whose body has been found upon the line. But
I do not know whether it is to be regarded as a case of suicide or of
murder, for some hand baggage has been picked up as well: a suicide
would not have thrown his luggage out, and a thief would not have wanted
to get rid of it."

The passenger who had not yet spoken, broke in.

"You are wrong, sir; at any rate all his luggage was not thrown on to
the line," and he pointed to the bundle left upon the seat. "I thought
that belonged to the gentleman here, but he has just told me it isn't
his."

The official rapidly unfastened the straps and started back.

"Hullo! A bottle of liquid carbonic acid! Now what does that mean?" He
looked at it. "Did this bundle belong to the man who disappeared?"

The two passengers shook their heads.

"I don't think so," one of them said; "I should certainly have noticed
that Scotch rug; but I did not see it."

"Then there was a fourth passenger in this compartment?" the official
enquired.

"No, we travelled alone," said one of the men, but the other dissented.

"It is very odd, and I am not sure about it, but I really am wondering
whether someone did not get into our compartment last night while we
were asleep. I have a vague impression that someone did, but I can't be
sure."

"Do try to remember, sir," the official urged him; "it is of the very
highest importance."

But the passenger shook his shoulders doubtfully.

"No, I really can't say anything definite; and, besides, I have a
shocking headache."

The official was silent for a minute or two.

"In my opinion, gentlemen, you have been uncommonly lucky to escape
murder yourselves. I do not quite understand yet how the murder was
done, but I incline to think it proves almost incredible daring.
However----" He stopped and put his head out of the window. "You can
send the train on now," he called to a porter, and resumed: "However, I
must ask you to accompany me to the stationmaster's office and give me
your names and addresses, and to help me afterwards in the conduct of
the legal investigation."

The two travellers looked at one another in distressed surprise.

"It is really appalling," said one of them; "you're not safe anywhere
nowadays."

"You really aren't," the other agreed. "Such a number of awful murders
and crimes are being perpetrated every day that you would think not one,
but a dozen Fantomas were at work!"




XXVII. THREE SURPRISING INCIDENTS


Nibet went off duty at five in the morning, and returned to his own home
to go to bed. As a general rule he slept like a top, after a night on
duty, but on this occasion he could not close an eye, being far too
uneasy about the consequences of his co-operation in Gurn's escape.

A few minutes before six in the evening he had taken advantage of no
warders being about to slip Gurn from cell number 127 into number 129,
whence he could make his way to the roof. At six, when he actually came
on duty, Nibet opened the peephole in the door of number 127, as he did
in all the others, and saw that Gurn had made an admirable dummy figure
in the bed: it was so good that it even deceived a head warder who made
a single rapid inspection of all the cells when Nibet was on one of his
several rounds during the night. Obviously Gurn must have got clear away
from the prison, for if he had been caught it would certainly have
become generally known.

These reflections somewhat comforted the restless man, but he knew that
the most difficult part of his task was still before him: the difficulty
of simulating astonishment and distress when he should get back to the
prison presently and be told by his fellow-warders of the prisoner's
escape, and the difficulty of answering in a natural manner to the close
interrogation to which he would be subjected by the governor and the
police, and possibly even M. Fuselier, who would be in a fine rage when
he learned that his captive had escaped him. Nibet meant to pretend
ignorance and even stupidity. He would far rather be called a fool, than
found out to be a knave and an accomplice.

About half-past eleven Nibet got up; Gurn's escape must certainly be
known at the prison by this time. The warder on duty would have gone to
the cell about seven to wake the prisoner, and though nothing might have
been detected then, the cell would infallibly have been found to be
empty at eight o'clock, when the morning broth was taken round. And
then----

As he walked from his home round to the prison, Nibet met the gang of
masons coming out for dinner; he crossed the street towards them, hoping
to hear some news, but they passed by him in silence, one or two of them
giving a careless nod or word of greeting; at first Nibet took their
silence for a bad sign, thinking they might have been warned to give him
no alarm, but he reflected that if Gurn's escape were discovered, as it
surely must be, the authorities would probably prefer not to let the
matter become widely known.

As he reached the porter's lodge his heart beat violently. What would
old Morin have to tell him? But old Morin was very busy trying to make
his kitchen fire burn properly instead of sending all the smoke pouring
out into the room; the old man's slovenly figure was just visible in a
clearing in the smoke, and he returned Nibet's salutation with nothing
more than a silent salute.

"That's funny!" thought Nibet, and he passed through the main courtyard
towards the clerks' offices at the end. Through the windows he could see
the staff, a few bending over their work, most of them reading
newspapers, none of them obviously interested in anything special. Next
he presented himself before the warders' turnkey, and again he was
allowed to pass on without a word.

By this time Gurn's accomplice was in a state of such nervous tension
that he could hardly restrain himself from catching hold of one or other
of the warders whom he saw at their work, and asking them questions. How
could the escape of so important a prisoner as the man who had murdered
Lord Beltham create so little excitement as this? Nibet longed to rush
up the flights of stairs to number 127 and interrogate the warder who
had gone on duty after himself, and whom he was now about to relieve in
turn. He must surely know all about it. But it would not do to create
suspicion, and Nibet had sufficient self-control left to go upstairs at
his usual leisurely pace. Outwardly calm and steady, he reached his post
just as the clock was striking twelve; he was ever punctuality itself,
and he was due on duty at noon.

"Well, Colas," he said to his colleague, "here I am; you can go now."

"Good!" said the warder. "I'll be off at once. I'm on again at six
to-night," and he moved away.

"Everything all right?" Nibet enquired, in a tone he tried to make as
casual as possible, but that trembled a little nevertheless.

"Quite," said Colas, perfectly naturally, and he went away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nibet could contain himself no longer, and the next second he threw
caution to the winds: rushing to Gurn's cell he flung the door open.

Gurn was there, sitting on the foot of his bed with his legs crossed and
a note-book on his knees, making notes with the quietest attention: he
scarcely appeared to notice Nibet's violent invasion.

"Oh! So you are there?" stammered the astonished warder.

Gurn raised his head and looked at the warder with a cryptic gaze.

"Yes, I'm here."

All manner of notions crowded through Nibet's brain, but he could find
words for none of them. Had the plot been discovered before Gurn had had
time to get away, or had a trap been laid for himself through the medium
of one of the prisoners to test his own incorruptibility? Nibet went
white, and leaned against the wall for support. At last Gurn spoke
again, reassuring him with a smile.

"Don't look so miserable," he said. "I am here. That is a matter of
absolutely no importance. We will suppose that nothing passed between us
yesterday, and--that's an end to it."

"So you haven't gone, you didn't go?" said Nibet again.

"No," Gurn replied; "since you are so interested, all I need say is that
I was afraid to risk it at the last minute."

Nibet had cast a keen and experienced eye all over the cell; under the
washstand he saw the little bundle of clothes which he had brought the
prisoner the previous day. He rightly opined that the first thing to do
was to remove these dangerous articles, whose presence in Gurn's cell
would appear very suspicious if they happened to be discovered. He took
the bundle and was hurriedly stowing it away under his own clothes, when
he uttered an exclamation of surprise; the things were wet, and he knew
from his own experience that the rain had never ceased throughout the
whole of the night.

"Gurn," he said reproachfully, "you are up to some trick! These things
are soaked. You must have gone out last night, or these things would not
be like this."

Gurn smiled sympathetically at the warder.

"Not so bad!" he remarked; "that's pretty good reasoning for a mere
gaoler." And as Nibet was about to press the matter, Gurn anticipated
his questions, and made frank confession. "Well, yes, I did try to get
out,--got as far as the clerk's office last evening, but at the last
minute I funked it, and went back on to the roof. But when I got into
number 129 again I found I could not get back into my own cell, for, as
you know, 129 was locked outside; so to avoid detection I returned to
the roof and spent the night there; at daybreak I took advantage of the
little disturbance caused by the workmen coming in, and slipped down
from the roof just as they were going up. As soon as I found myself on
this floor I ran along this corridor and slipped into my cell. When your
friend Colas brought me my broth he did not notice that my cell was
unlocked,--and there you are!"

The explanation was not altogether convincing, but Nibet listened to it
and pondered the situation. On the whole, it was much better that things
should be as they were, but the warder was wondering how the great lady,
who paid so mighty well, might take the matter. She most certainly had
not promised so large a sum of money, nor paid the good round sum of ten
thousand francs down in advance, merely in order that Gurn might have a
little walk upon the tiles. What was to be done with regard to that
personage? With much ingenuousness Nibet confided his anxiety to the
prisoner, who laughed.

"It's not all over yet," he declared. "Indeed, it is only just
beginning. What if we only wanted to test you, and prove your quality?
Make your mind easy, Nibet. If Gurn is in prison at the present moment
it is because he has his own reasons for being there. But who is able to
predict the future?"

It was time for Gurn to go to the exercise yard, and Nibet, reassuming
the uncompromising attitude that all warders ought to maintain when in
custody of prisoners, led the murderer down to the courtyard.

       *       *       *       *       *

In his office at the Law Courts, M. Fuselier was having a private
interview with Juve, and listening with much interest to what the clever
detective inspector was saying to him.

"I tell you again, sir, I attach great importance to the finding of this
ordnance map in Gurn's rooms."

"Yes?" said M. Fuselier, with a touch of scepticism.

"And I will tell you why," Juve went on. "About a year ago, when I was
engaged on the case of the murder of the Marquise de Langrune at her
chateau of Beaulieu, down in Lot, I found a small piece of a map showing
the district in which I was at the time. I took it to M. de Presles, the
magistrate who was conducting the enquiry. He attached no importance to
it, and I myself could not see at the time that it gave us any new
evidence."

"Quite so," said M. Fuselier. "There is nothing particularly remarkable
in finding a map, or a piece of a map, showing a district, in the
district itself."

"Those are M. de Presles' very words to me," said Juve with a smile.
"And I will give you the same answer I gave him, namely, that if some
day we could find the other portion of the map which completed the first
piece we found, and could identify the owner of the two portions, there
would then be a formal basis on which to proceed to base an argument."

"Proceed to base it," M. Fuselier suggested.

"That's very easy," said Juve. "The fragment of map numbered 1, found at
Beaulieu, belongs to X. I do not know who X is; but in Paris, in Gurn's
rooms, I find the fragment of map numbered 2, which belongs to Gurn. If
it turns out, as I expect, that the two fragments of map, when placed
together, form a single and complete whole, I shall conclude logically
that X, who was the owner of fragment number 1, is the same as the owner
of fragment number 2, to wit, Gurn."

"How are you going to find out?" enquired M. Fuselier.

"It is in order to find it out that we have sent for Dollon," Juve
replied. "He was steward to the late Marquise de Langrune, and has all
the circumstantial evidence relating to that case. If he has still got
the fragment of map, it will be simplicity itself to prove what I have
suggested, and perhaps to make the identification I suggest."

"Yes," said M. Fuselier, "but if you do succeed, will it be of really
great importance in your opinion? Will you be able to infer from that
one fact that Gurn and the man who murdered the Marquise de Langrune are
one and the same person? Is not that going rather far? Especially as, if
I remember rightly, it was proved that the murderer in that case was the
son of a M. Rambert, and this young Rambert committed suicide after the
crime?"

Juve evaded the issue.

"Well, we shall see," was all he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The magistrate's clerk came into the room and unceremoniously
interrupted the conversation.

"It has gone two, sir," he said. "There are some prisoners to examine,
and a whole lot of witnesses," and he placed two bulky bundles of papers
before the magistrate and waited for a sign to call the various persons,
free or otherwise, whom the magistrate had to see.

The first bundle caught Juve's attention. It was endorsed "Royal Palace
Hotel Case."

"Anything new about the robbery from Mme. Van den Rosen and Princess
Sonia Danidoff?" he enquired, and as the magistrate shook his head, he
added, "Are you going to examine Muller now?"

"Yes," said the magistrate; "at once."

"And after that you are to examine Gurn, aren't you, in connection with
the Beltham case?"

"Quite so."

"I wish you would oblige me by confronting the two men here, in my
presence."

M. Fuselier looked up in surprise: he could not see what connection
there could be between the two utterly dissimilar cases. What object
could Juve have in wanting the man who had murdered Lord Beltham to be
confronted with the unimportant little hotel servant who had really been
arrested rather as a concession to public opinion than because he was
actually deemed capable of burglary or attempted burglary? Might not
Juve, with his known mania for associating all crimes with each other,
be going just a little too far in the present instance?

"You have got some idea in the back of your head?" said M. Fuselier.

"I've got a--a scar in the palm of my hand," Juve answered with a smile,
and as the magistrate confessed that he failed to understand, Juve
enlightened him. "We know that the man who did that robbery at the Royal
Palace Hotel burned his hand badly when he was cutting the electric
wires in the Princess's bathroom. Well, a few weeks ago, while I was on
the look out for someone with a scar from such a wound, I was told of a
man who was prowling about the slums. I had the fellow followed up, and
the very night the hunt began I was going to arrest him, when, a good
deal to my surprise, I discovered that he was no other than Gurn. He
escaped me that time, but when he was caught later on I found that he
has an unmistakable scar inside the palm of his right hand; it is fading
now, for the burn was only superficial, but it is there. Now do you see
my idea?"

"Yes, I do," the magistrate exclaimed, "and I am all the more glad to
hear of it, since I am to have both the men here now. Shall I have
Muller in first?"

Juve assented....

"So you still refuse to confess?" said the magistrate at last. "You
still maintain that your--extraordinary--order to let the red-haired
waiter out, was given in good faith?"

"Yes, yes, yes, sir," the night watchman answered. "That very evening a
new servant had joined the staff. I had not even set eyes on him. When I
saw this--stranger----, I took him to be the servant who had been
engaged the day before, and I told them to open the door for him. That
is the real truth."

"And that is all?"

"That is positively all."

"We are only charging you with complicity," the magistrate went on, "for
the man who touched the electric wires burned his hand; that is a strong
point in your favour. And you also say that if the thief were put before
you, you could recognise him?"

"Yes," said the man confidently.

"Good!" said M. Fuselier, and he signed to his clerk to call in another
personage.

The clerk understood, and Gurn was brought in between two municipal
guards, and was followed by the young licentiate in law, Maitre Roger de
Seras, who represented his leader at most of these preliminary
examinations. As Gurn came in, with the light from the window falling
full on his face, M. Fuselier gave a curt order.

"Muller, turn round and look at this man!"

Muller obeyed, and surveyed with some bewilderment, and without the
least comprehension, the bold head and the well-built, muscular frame of
Lord Beltham's murderer. Gurn did not flinch.

"Do you recognise that man?" the magistrate demanded.

Muller ransacked his brains and looked again at Gurn, then shook his
head.

"No, sir."

"Gurn, open your right hand," the magistrate ordered. "Show it," and he
turned again to Muller. "The man before you seems to have been burned in
the palm of the hand, as that scar shows. Can you not remember having
seen that man at the Royal Palace Hotel?"

Muller looked steadily at Gurn.

"On my honour, sir, although it would be to my interest to recognise
him, I am bound to acknowledge that I really and truly don't."

M. Fuselier had a brief conversation aside with Juve, and then, the
detective appearing to agree with him, turned once more to the night
watchman.

"Muller," he said, "the court is pleased with your frankness. You will
be set free provisionally, but you are to hold yourself at the disposal
of the court of enquiry," and he signed to the municipal guards to lead
the gratefully protesting man away.

Meanwhile Gurn's case appeared to him to be becoming much more serious,
and much more interesting. He had the prisoner placed in front of him,
while Juve, who had withdrawn into a dark corner of the room, never took
his eyes off the murderer.

"Gurn," he began, "can you give me an account of your time during the
second half of December of last year?"

Gurn was unprepared for the point-blank question, and made a gesture of
doubt. M. Fuselier, probably anticipating a sensation, was just on the
point of ordering Dollon to be called, when he was interrupted by a
discreet tap on the door. His clerk went to answer it, and saw a
gendarme standing at the door. At almost the first words he said, the
clerk uttered an exclamation and wheeled round to the magistrate.

"Oh, M. Fuselier, listen! They have just told me----"

But the gendarme had come in. He saluted the magistrate and handed him a
letter which M. Fuselier hastily tore open and read.

     "To M. Germain Fuselier, Examining Magistrate,
         The Law Courts, Paris.

     "The special commissioner at Bretigny station has the honour
     to report that this morning at 8 A.M. the police informed
     him of the discovery on the railway line, five kilometres
     from Bretigny on the Orleans side, of the dead body of a man
     who must either have fallen accidentally or been thrown
     intentionally from a train bound for Paris. The body had
     been mutilated by a train travelling in the other
     direction, but papers found on the person of the deceased,
     and in particular a summons found in his pocket, show that
     his name was Dollon, and that he was on his way to Paris to
     wait upon you.

     "The special commissioner at Bretigny station has, quite
     late, been informed of the following facts: passengers who
     left the train on its arrival at the Austerlitz terminus at
     5 A.M. were examined by the special commissioner at that
     station, and subsequently allowed to go. Possibly you have
     already been informed. We have, however, thought it our
     duty, after having searched the body, to report this
     identification to you, and have therefore requisitioned an
     officer of the police at Bretigny to convey to you the
     information contained in this communication."

       *       *       *       *       *

M. Fuselier had turned pale as he read this letter. He handed it to
Juve. With feverish haste the famous detective read it through and
wheeled round to the gendarme.

"Tell me, do you know what has been done? Do you know if this man's
papers, all his papers, were found and have been preserved?"

The man shook his head in ignorance. Juve clasped the magistrate's hand.
"I'm off to Bretigny this instant," he said in a low tone.

Throughout this incident Maitre Roger de Seras had remained in a state
of blank incomprehension.

Gurn's face was more expressionless and impenetrable than ever.




XXVIII. THE COURT OF ASSIZE


"Call Lady Beltham!"

It was a perfect May day, and everyone who could pretend, on any
conceivable ground, to belong to "Paris" had schemed and intrigued to
obtain admission to a trial over which public opinion had been excited
for months: the trial of Gurn for the murder of Lord Beltham,
ex-Ambassador and foremost man of fashion, whose murder, two years
before, had caused a great sensation.

The preliminary formalities of the trial had furnished nothing to tickle
the palates of the sensation-loving crowd. The indictment had been
almost inaudible, and, besides, it contained nothing that had not
already been made public by the Press. Nor had the examination of the
prisoner been any more interesting; Gurn sat, strangely impassive, in
the dock between two municipal guards, and hardly listened to his
counsel, the eminent Maitre Barberoux, who was assisted by a galaxy of
juniors, including young Roger de Seras. Moreover, Gurn had frankly
confessed his guilt almost immediately after his arrest. There was not
much for him to add to what he had said before, although the President
of the Court pressed him as to some points which were still not
satisfactorily clear with respect to his own identity, and the motives
which had prompted him to commit his crime, and, subsequently, to pay
that most risky visit to Lady Beltham, at the close of which Juve had
effected his arrest.

But Lady Beltham's evidence promised to be much more interesting. Rumour
had been busy for a long time with the great lady and her feelings, and
odd stories were being whispered. She was said to be beautiful, wealthy
and charitable; people said, under their breath, that she must know a
good deal about the murder of her spouse, and when she made her
appearance in the box a sudden hush fell upon the crowded court. She
was, indeed, a most appealing figure, robed in long black weeds, young,
graceful, and very pale, so sympathetic a figure that scandal was
forgotten in the general tense desire to hear her answers to the
President of the Court.

Following the usher to the witness-box, she took off her gloves as
desired, and, in a voice that trembled slightly but was beautifully
modulated, repeated the words of the oath, with her right hand raised
the while. Noticing her agitation, the President mitigated somewhat the
harshness of the tone in which he generally spoke to witnesses.

"Pray compose yourself, madame. I am sorry to be obliged to subject you
to this examination, but the interests of Justice require it. Come now:
you are Lady Beltham, widow of the late Lord Beltham, of English
nationality, residing in Paris, at your own house in Neuilly?"

"Yes."

"Will you kindly turn round, madame, and tell me if you know the
prisoner in the dock?"

Lady Beltham obeyed mechanically; she glanced at Gurn, who paled a
little, and answered the President.

"Yes, I know the prisoner; his name is Gurn."

"Very good, madame. Can you tell me first of all how you came to be
acquainted with him?"

"When my husband was in South Africa, at the time of the Boer War, Gurn
was a sergeant in the regular army. It was then that I first met him."

"Did you know him well at that time?"

Lady Beltham seemed to be unable to prevent herself from casting long
glances at the prisoner; she appeared to be almost hypnotised and
frightened by his close proximity.

"I saw very little of Gurn in the Transvaal," she answered. "It was just
by chance that I learned his name, but of course the difference between
his own rank and my husband's position made the relations that I could
have with a mere sergeant very limited indeed."

"Yes, Gurn was a sergeant," the President said. "And after the war,
madame, did you see the prisoner again?"

"Yes, immediately after the war; my husband and I went to England by the
same boat on which Gurn went home."

"Did you see much of him on board?"

"No; we were first-class passengers, and he, I believe, went second. It
was just by accident that my husband caught sight of him soon after the
boat sailed."

The President paused and made a note.

"Were those all the relations your husband had with the prisoner?"

"They are at any rate all the relations I had with him," Lady Beltham
replied in tones of some distress; "but I know that my husband employed
Gurn on several occasions, to help him in various affairs and matters of
business."

"Thank you," said the President; "we will return to that point
presently. Meanwhile there is one question I should like to ask you. If
you had met the prisoner in the street a few months ago, should you have
recognised him? Was his face still distinct in your memory, or had it
become blurred and vague?"

Lady Beltham hesitated, then answered confidently.

"I am sure I should not have recognised him; and some proof of this is,
that just before his arrest was effected I was conversing with the
prisoner for several minutes, without having the faintest idea that the
poor man with whom I imagined I had to do was no other than the man Gurn
for whom the police were looking."

The President nodded, and Maitre Barberoux leaned forward and spoke
eagerly to his client in the dock. But the President continued
immediately.

"You must forgive me, madame, for putting a question that may seem
rather brutal, and also for reminding you of your oath to tell us the
entire truth. Did you love your husband?"

Lady Beltham quivered and was silent for a moment, as though
endeavouring to frame a right answer.

"Lord Beltham was much older than myself----," she began, and then,
perceiving the meaning implicit in her words, she added: "I had the very
highest esteem for him, and a very real affection."

A cynical smile curled the lip of the President, and he glanced at the
jury as though asking them to pay still closer attention.

"Do you know why I put that question to you?" he asked, and as Lady
Beltham confessed her ignorance he went on: "It has been suggested,
madame, by a rumour which is very generally current in the newspapers
and among people generally, that the prisoner may possibly have been
greatly enamoured of you: that perhaps--well, is there any truth in
this?"

As he spoke the President bent forward, and his eyes seemed to pierce
right through Lady Beltham.

"It is a wicked calumny," she protested, turning very pale.

Throughout the proceedings Gurn had been sitting in an attitude of
absolute indifference, almost of scorn; but now he rose to his feet and
uttered a defiant protest.

"Sir," he said to the President of the Court, "I desire to say publicly
here that I have the most profound and unalterable respect for Lady
Beltham. Anyone who has given currency to the malignant rumour you refer
to, is a liar. I have confessed that I killed Lord Beltham, and I do not
retract that confession, but I never made any attempt upon his honour,
and no word, nor look, nor deed has ever passed between Lady Beltham and
myself, that might not have passed before Lord Beltham's own eyes."

The President looked sharply at the prisoner.

"Then tell me what your motive was in murdering your victim."

"I have told you already! Lady Beltham is not to be implicated in my
deed in any way! I had constant business dealings with Lord Beltham; I
asked him, over the telephone, to come to my place one day. He came. We
had an animated discussion; he got warm and I answered angrily; then I
lost control of myself and in a moment of madness I killed him! I am
profoundly sorry for my crime and stoop to crave pardon for it; but I
cannot tolerate the suggestion that the murder I committed was in the
remotest way due to sentimental relations with a lady who is, I repeat,
entitled to the very highest respect from the whole world."

A murmur of sympathy ran through the court at this chivalrous
declaration, by which the jury, who had not missed a word, seemed to be
entirely convinced. But the President was trained to track truth in
detail, and he turned again to Lady Beltham who still stood in the
witness-box, very pale, and swaying with distress.

"You must forgive me if I attach no importance to a mere assertion,
madame. The existence of some relations between yourself and the
prisoner, which delicacy would prompt him to conceal, and honour would
compel you to deny, would alter the whole aspect of this case." He
turned to the usher. "Recall Mme. Doulenques, please."

Mme. Doulenques considered it a tremendous honour to be called as
witness in a trial with which the press was ringing, and was
particularly excited because she had just been requested to pose for her
photograph by a representative of her own favourite paper. She followed
the usher to where Lady Beltham stood.

"You told us just now, Mme. Doulenques," the President said suavely,
"that your lodger, Gurn, often received visits from a lady friend. You
also said that if this lady were placed before you, you would certainly
recognise her. Now will you kindly look at the lady in the box: is this
the same person?"

Mme. Doulenques, crimson with excitement, and nervously twisting in her
hands a huge pair of white gloves which she had bought for this
occasion, looked curiously at Lady Beltham.

"Upon my word I can't be sure that this is the lady," she said after
quite a long pause.

"But you were so certain of your facts just now," the President smiled
encouragingly.

"But I can't see the lady very well, with all those veils on," Mme.
Doulenques protested.

Lady Beltham did not wait for the request which the President would
inevitably have made, but haughtily put back her veil.

"Do you recognise me now?" she said coldly.

The scorn in her tone upset Mme. Doulenques. She looked again at Lady
Beltham and turned instinctively as if to ask enlightenment from Gurn,
whose face, however, was expressionless, and then replied:

"It's just what I told you before, your worship: I can't be sure; I
couldn't swear to it."

"But you think she is?"

"You know, your worship," Mme. Doulenques protested, "I took an oath
just now to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth; so I don't want
to tell any stories; well, this lady might be the same lady, and again
she mightn't be."

"In other words, you cannot give a definite answer."

"That's it," said the concierge. "I don't know; I can't swear. This lady
is like the other lady--there's a sort of family likeness between
them----, but at the moment I do not exactly recognise her; it's much
too serious!"

Mme. Doulenques would willingly have continued to give evidence for ever
and a day, but the President cut her short.

"Very well; thank you," he said, and dismissed her with the usher,
turning again meanwhile to Lady Beltham.

"Will you kindly tell me now what your personal opinion is as to the
relative culpability of the prisoner? Of course you understand that he
has confessed to the crime, and your answer will bear chiefly on the
motive that may have actuated him."

Lady Beltham appeared to have recovered some of her confidence.

"I cannot say anything definite, can only express a very vague feeling
about the matter. I know my husband was quick-tempered, very
quick-tempered, and even violent; and his peremptory temper predisposed
him to positive convictions. He maintained what he considered his rights
at all times and against all comers; if, as the prisoner says, there was
a heated discussion, I should not be surprised if my husband did make
use of arguments that might have provoked anger."

The President gently gave a clearer turn to the phrase she used.

"So, in your opinion, the prisoner's version of the story is quite
permissible? You admit that Lord Beltham and his murderer may have had a
heated discussion, as a consequence of which Gurn committed this crime?
That is your honest belief?"

"Yes," Lady Beltham answered, trying to control her voice; "I believe
that that may be what took place. And then, it is the only way in which
I can find the least excuse for the crime this man Gurn committed."

The President picked up the word, in astonishment.

"Do you want to find excuses for him, madame?"

Lady Beltham stood erect, and looked at the President.

"It is written that to pardon is the first duty of good Christians. It
is true that I have mourned my husband, but the punishment of his
murderer will not dry my tears; I ought to forgive him, bow beneath the
burden that is laid upon my soul: and I do forgive him!"

Ghastly pale, Gurn was staring at Lady Beltham from the dock; and this
time his emotion was so visible that all the jury noticed it. The
President held a brief colloquy with his colleagues, asked the
prisoner's counsel whether he desired to put any questions to the
witness, and, receiving a reply in the negative, dismissed Lady Beltham
with a word of thanks, and announced that the Court would adjourn.

Immediately a hum of conversation broke out in the warm and sunny court;
barristers in their robes moved from group to group, criticising,
explaining, prophesying; and in their seats the world of beauty and
fashion bowed and smiled and gossiped.

"She's uncommonly pretty, this Lady Beltham," one young lawyer said,
"and she's got a way of answering questions without compromising
herself, and yet without throwing blame on the prisoner, that is
uncommonly clever."

"You are all alike, you men," said a pretty, perfectly dressed woman in
mocking tones; "if a woman is young, and hasn't got a hump on her back,
and has a charming voice, your sympathies are with her at once! Oh, yes,
they are! Now shall I tell you what your Lady Beltham really is? Well,
she is nothing more nor less than a barnstormer! She knew well enough
how to get on the soft side of the judge, who was quite ridiculously
amiable to her, and to capture the sympathy of the Court. I think it was
outrageous to declare that she had married a man who was too old for
her, and to say that she felt nothing but esteem for him!"

"There's an admission!" the young barrister laughed. "_Vive l'amour_,
eh? And _mariages de convenance_ are played out, eh?"

On another bench a little further away, a clean-shaven man with a highly
intelligent face was talking animatedly.

"Bosh! Your Lady Beltham is anything you like: what do I care for Lady
Beltham? I shall never play women's parts, shall I? She does not stand
for anything. But Gurn, now! There's a type, if you like! What an
interesting, characteristic face! He has the head of the assassin of
genius, with perfect mastery of self, implacable, cruel, malignant, a
Torquemada of a man!"

"Your enthusiasm is running away with you," someone laughed.

"I don't care! It is so seldom one comes across figures in a city that
really are figures, entities. That man is not an assassin: he is The
Assassin--the Type!"

Two ladies, sitting close to this enthusiast, had been listening keenly
to this diatribe.

"Do you know who that is?" one whispered to the other. "That is
Valgrand, the actor," and they turned their lorgnettes on the actor who
was waxing more animated every moment.

A bell rang, and, heralded by the usher proclaiming silence, the judges
returned to the bench and the jury to their box. The President cast an
eagle eye over the court, compelling silence, and then resumed the
proceedings.

"Next witness: call M. Juve!"




XXIX. VERDICT AND SENTENCE


Once more a wave of sensation ran through the court. There was not a
single person present who had not heard of Juve and his wonderful
exploits, or who did not regard him as a kind of hero. All leaned
forward to watch him as he followed the usher to the witness-box, wholly
unaffected in manner and not seeking to make any capital out of his
popularity. Indeed, he seemed rather to be uneasy, almost nervous, as
one of the oldest pressmen present remarked audibly.

He took the oath, and the President of the Court addressed him in
friendly tones.

"You are quite familiar with procedure, M. Juve. Which would you prefer:
that I should interrogate you, or that I should leave you to tell your
story in your own way? You know how important it is; for it is you who
are, so to speak, the originator of the trial to-day, inasmuch as it was
your great detective skill that brought about the arrest of the
criminal, after it had also discovered his crime."

"Since you are so kind, sir," Juve answered, "I will make my statement
first, and then be ready to answer any questions that may be put to me
by yourself, or by counsel for the defence."

Juve turned to the dock and fixed his piercing eyes on the impassive
face of Gurn, who met it unflinchingly. Juve shrugged his shoulders
slightly, and, turning half round to the jury, began his statement. He
did not propose, he said, to recite the story of his enquiries, which
had resulted in the arrest of Gurn, for this had been set forth fully in
the indictment, and the jury had also seen his depositions at the
original examination: he had nothing to add to, or to subtract from,
his previous evidence. He merely asked for the jury's particular
attention; for, although he was adducing nothing new in the case
actually before them, he had some unexpected disclosures to make about
the prisoner's personal culpability. The first point which he desired to
emphasise was that human intelligence should hesitate before no
improbability, however improbable, provided that some explanation was
humanly conceivable, and no definite material object rendered the
improbability an impossibility. His whole statement would be based on
the principle that the probable is incontestable and true, until proof
of the contrary has been established.

"Gentlemen," he went on, "hitherto the police have remained impotent,
and justice has been disarmed, in presence of a number of serious cases
of crime, committed recently and still unsolved. Let me recall these
cases to your memory: they were the murder of the Marquise de Langrune
at her chateau of Beaulieu; the robberies from Mme. Van den Rosen and
the Princess Sonia Danidoff; the murder of Dollon, the former steward of
the Marquise de Langrune, when on his way from the neighbourhood of
Saint-Jaury to Paris in obedience to a summons sent him by M. Germain
Fuselier; and, lastly, the murder of Lord Beltham, prior to the cases
just enumerated, for which the prisoner in the dock is at this moment
standing his trial. Gentlemen, I have to say that all these cases, the
Beltham, Langrune and Dollon murders, and the Rosen-Danidoff burglaries,
are absolutely and indisputably to be attributed to one and the same
individual, to that man standing there--Gurn!"

Having made this extraordinary assertion, Juve again turned round
towards the prisoner. That mysterious person appeared to be keenly
interested in what the detective said, but it would have been difficult
to say whether he was merely surprised, or not rather perturbed and
excited as well. Juve hushed, with a wave of his hand, the murmur that
ran round the court, and resumed his address.

"My assertion that Gurn is the sole person responsible for all these
crimes has surprised you, gentlemen, but I have proofs which must, I
think, convince you. I will not go into the details of each of those
cases, for the newspapers have made you quite familiar with them, but I
will be as brief and as lucid as I can.

"My first point, gentlemen, is this: the murderer of the Marquise de
Langrune and the man who robbed Mme. Van den Rosen and Princess Sonia
Danidoff are one and the same person.

"That is shown beyond dispute by tests made in the two cases with a
Bertillon dynamometer, an instrument of the nicest exactitude, which
proved that the same individual operated in both cases; that is one
point made good. And next, the man who robbed Mme. Van den Rosen and
Princess Sonia is Gurn. That is proved to equal demonstration by the
fact that the burglar burned his hand while engaged upon his crime, and
that Gurn has a scar on his hand which betrays him as the criminal; the
scar is faint now perhaps, but I can testify that it was very obvious at
the time of a disturbance which occurred at a low cafe named the
Saint-Anthony's Pig, where, accompanied by detective Lemaroy, who is
still in hospital for treatment for injuries received on that occasion,
I attempted, and failed, to arrest this man Gurn.

"Thus, gentlemen, I prove that the Langrune and Danidoff cases are the
work of but one man, and that man, Gurn.

"I come to another point. As you know, the murder of the Marquise de
Langrune was attended by some strange circumstances. At the inquest it
was proved that the murderer most probably got into the house from
outside, opening the front door with a skeleton key, and that he
obtained admission into the bedroom of the Marquise, not by burglarious
means--I lay insistence upon that--but by the simple means of her having
opened the door to him, which she did on the strength of his name, and,
finally, that if robbery was the motive of the crime, the nature of the
robbery remained a mystery.

"Now I have ascertained, gentlemen, and--if, as I shall ask you
presently, you decide to have an adjournment and a supplementary
investigation--I shall be able to prove two important facts. The first
is that the Marquise had in her possession a lottery ticket which had
just won a large first prize; this ticket had been sent to her by M.
Etienne Rambert. This ticket was not found at the time, but it was
subsequently traced to a person, who for the moment has utterly
disappeared, who declared that it was given to him by M. Etienne
Rambert. And it is further noteworthy that M. Etienne Rambert seemed to
be in greater funds from that time. The second fact I have ascertained
is that, although M. Etienne Rambert pretended to get into a first-class
carriage of a slow train at the gare d'Orsay, he most certainly was not
in that train between Vierzon and Limoges: I can, if you wish, call a
witness who inspected all the compartments of that carriage, and can
prove that he was not there.

"The probable, almost certain, inference is that M. Etienne Rambert got
into that slow train at the gare d'Orsay for the definite purpose of
establishing an alibi, and then got out of it on the other side, and
entered an express that was going in the same direction, and in front of
the slow train.

"You may remember that it was shown that all trains stopped at the mouth
of the Verrieres tunnel, near Beaulieu, and that it was possible for a
man to get out of the express, commit the crime and then return--I would
remind you of the footprints found on the embankment--and get into the
slow train which followed the express at an interval of three hours and
a half, and get out of that train at Verrieres station. The passenger
who did that, was the criminal, and it was M. Etienne Rambert.

"As I have already proved that it was Gurn who murdered the Marquise de
Langrune, it seems to follow necessarily that M. Etienne Rambert must be
Gurn!"

Juve paused to make sure that the jury had followed his deductions and
taken all his points. He proceeded, in the most tense hush.

"We have just identified Gurn with Rambert and proved that Rambert-Gurn
is guilty of the Beltham and Langrune murders, and the robbery from Mme.
Van den Rosen and Princess Sonia Danidoff. There remains the murder of
the steward, Dollon.

"Gentlemen, when Gurn was arrested on the single charge of the murder of
Lord Beltham, you will readily believe that his one fear was that all
these other crimes, for which I have just shown him to be responsible,
might be brought up against him. I was just then on the very point of
finding out the truth, but I had not yet done so. A single link was
missing in the chain which would connect Gurn with Rambert, and identify
the murderer of Lord Beltham as the author of the other crimes. That
link was some common clue, or, better still, some object belonging to
the murderer of Lord Beltham, which had been forgotten and left on the
scene of the Langrune murder.

"That object I found. It was a fragment of a map, picked up in a field
near the chateau of Beaulieu, in the path which Etienne Rambert must
have followed from the railway line; it was a fragment cut out of a
large ordnance map, and the rest of the map I found in Gurn's rooms,
thereby identifying Gurn with Rambert.

"Gentlemen, the fragment of map which was picked up in the field was
left in the custody of the steward Dollon. That unfortunate man was
summoned to Paris by M. Germain Fuselier. There was only one person who
had any interest in preventing Dollon from coming, and that person was
Gurn, or it would be better to say Rambert-Gurn; and you know that
Dollon was killed before he reached M. Germain Fuselier. Is it necessary
to declare that it was Gurn, Rambert-Gurn, who killed him?"

Juve said the last words in tones of such earnest and solemn
denunciation that the truth of them seemed beyond all doubt. And yet he
read incredulous surprise in the attitude of the jury. From the body of
the court, too, a murmur rose that was not sympathetic. Juve realised
that the sheer audacity of his theory must come as a shock, and he knew
how difficult it would be to convince anyone who had not followed every
detail of the case as he himself had done.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I know that my assertions about the multiple
crimes of this man Gurn must fill you with amazement. That does not
dismay me. There is one other name which I must mention, perhaps to
silence your objections, perhaps to show the vast importance I attach to
the deductions which I have just been privileged to detail to you. This
is the last thing I have to say:

"The man who has been capable of assuming in turn the guise of Gurn,
and of Etienne Rambert, and of the man of fashion at the Royal Palace
Hotel: who has had the genius to devise and to accomplish such terrible
crimes in incredible circumstances, and to combine audacity with skill,
and a conception of evil with a pretence of respectability; who has been
able to play the Proteus eluding all the efforts of the police;--this
man, I say, ought not to be called Gurn! He is, and can be, no other
than Fantomas!"

The detective suddenly broke off from his long statement, and the
syllables of the melodramatic name seemed to echo through the court,
and, taken up by all those present, to swell again into a dread murmur.

"Fantomas! He is Fantomas!"

For a space of minutes judges and jury seemed to be absorbed in their
own reflections; and then the President of the Court made an abrupt
gesture of violent dissent.

"M. Juve, you have just enunciated such astounding facts, and elaborated
such an appalling indictment against this man Gurn, that I have no doubt
the Public Prosecutor will ask for a supplementary examination, which
this Court will be happy to grant, if he considers your arguments worth
consideration. But are they? I will submit three objections." Juve bowed
coldly. "First of all, M. Juve, do you believe that a man could assume
disguise with the cleverness that you have just represented? M. Etienne
Rambert is a man of sixty; Gurn is thirty-five. M. Rambert is an elderly
man, slow of movement, and the man who robbed Princess Sonia Danidoff
was a nimble, very active man."

"I have anticipated that objection, sir," Juve said with a smile, "by
saying that Gurn is Fantomas! Nothing is impossible for Fantomas!"

"Suppose that is true," said the President with a wave of his hand, "but
what have you to say to this: you charge Etienne Rambert with the murder
of Mme. de Langrune; but do you not know that Etienne Rambert's son,
Charles Rambert, who, according to the generally received, and most
plausible, opinion was the real murderer of the Marquise, committed
suicide from remorse? If Etienne Rambert was the guilty party, Charles
Rambert would not have taken his own life."

Juve's voice shook a little.

"You would be quite right, sir, if again it were not necessary to add
that Etienne Rambert is Gurn--that is to say, Fantomas! Is it not a
possible hypothesis that Fantomas might have affected the mind of that
lad: have suggested to him that it was he who committed the crime in a
period of somnambulism: and at last have urged him to suicide? Do you
not know the power of suggestion?"

"Suppose that also is true," said the President with another vague wave
of his hand. "I will only put two incontestable facts before you. You
accuse Etienne Rambert of being Gurn, and Etienne Rambert was lost in
the wreck of the _Lancaster_; you also accuse Gurn of having murdered
Dollon, and at the time that murder was committed Gurn was in solitary
confinement in the Sante prison."

This time the detective made a sign as if of defeat.

"If I have waited until to-day to make the statement you have just
listened to, it was obviously because hitherto I have had no absolute
proofs, but merely groups of certainties. I spoke to-day, because I
could keep silent no longer; if I am still without some explanations in
detail, I am sure I shall have them some day. Everything comes to light
sooner or later. And as to the two facts you have just put before me, I
would reply that there is no proof that M. Rambert was lost in the wreck
of the _Lancaster_: it has not been legally established that he ever was
on board that ship. Of course, I know his name was in the list of
passengers, but a child could have contrived a device of that sort.
Besides, all the circumstances attending that disaster are still an
utter mystery. My belief is that a Fantomas would be perfectly capable
of causing an explosion on a ship and blowing up a hundred and fifty
people, if thereby he could dispose of one of his identities, especially
such a terribly compromising identity as that of Etienne Rambert."

The President dismissed the theory with a word.

"Pure romance!" he said. "And what about the murder of Dollon? I should
like, further, to remind you that the fragment of map which, according
to you, was the real reason for this man's death, was found on his
body, and does not correspond in the least with the hole cut in the map
you found in Gurn's rooms."

"As for that," Juve said with a smile, "the explanation is obvious. If
Gurn, whom I charge with the murder of Dollon, had been content merely
to abstract the real fragment, he would so to speak have set his
signature to the crime. But he was much too clever for that: he was
subtle enough to abstract the compromising fragment and substitute
another fragment for it--the one found on the body."

"Perhaps," said the President; "that is possible, but I repeat, Gurn was
in prison at the time."

"True! True!" said Juve, throwing up his hands. "I am prepared to swear
that it was Gurn who did the murder, but I cannot yet explain how he did
it, since he was in solitary confinement in the Sante."

Silence fell upon the court; Juve refrained from saying anything more,
but a sarcastic smile curled his lip.

"Have you anything else to say?" the President asked after a pause.

"Nothing: except that anything is possible to Fantomas."

The President turned to the prisoner.

"Gurn, have you anything to say, any confession to make? The jury will
listen to you."

Gurn rose to his feet.

"I do not understand a word of what the detective has just been saying,"
he said.

The President looked at Juve again.

"You suggest that there shall be a supplementary investigation?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Solicitor-General, have you any application to make on that
subject?" the President asked the Public Prosecutor.

"No," said the functionary. "The witness's allegations are altogether
too vague."

"Very well. The Court will deliberate forthwith."

The judges gathered round the President of the Court, and held a short
discussion. Then they returned to their places and the President
announced their decision. It was that after consideration of the
statement of the witness Juve, their opinion was that it rested merely
upon hypotheses, and their decision was that there was no occasion for a
supplementary enquiry.

And the President immediately called upon the Public Prosecutor to
address the Court.

Neither in the lengthy address of that functionary, nor in the ensuing
address of Maitre Barberoux on behalf of the defendant, was the
slightest allusion made to the fresh facts adduced by the detective. The
theories he put forward were so unexpected and so utterly astonishing
that nobody paid the least attention to them! Then the sitting was
suspended while the jury considered their verdict. The judges retired
and guards removed the prisoner, and Juve, who had accepted the
dismissal of his application for a further enquiry with perfect
equanimity, went up to the press-box and spoke to a young journalist
sitting there.

"Shall we go out for a quarter of an hour, Fandor?" and when they were
presently in the corridor, he smote the young fellow in a friendly way
on the shoulder and enquired: "Well, my boy, what do you say to all
that?"

Jerome Fandor seemed to be overwhelmed.

"You accuse my father? You really accuse Etienne Rambert of being Gurn?
Surely I am dreaming!"

"My dear young idiot," Juve growled, "do pray understand one thing: I am
not accusing your father, your real father, but only the man who
represented himself to be your father! Just think: if my contention is
right--that the Etienne Rambert who killed the Marquise is Gurn--it is
perfectly obvious that Gurn is not your father, for he is only
thirty-five years of age! He has merely represented himself to be your
father."

"Then who is my real father?"

"I don't know anything about that," said the detective. "That's a matter
we will look into one of these fine days! You take it from me that we
are only just at the beginning of all these things."

"But the Court has refused a supplementary enquiry."

"'Gad!" said Juve, "I quite expected it would! I have not got the proofs
to satisfy the legal mind; and then, too, I had to hold my tongue about
the most interesting fact that I knew."

"What was that?"

"Why, that you are not dead, Charles Rambert! I had to conceal that
fact, my boy, for the melancholy reason that I am a poor man and depend
on my job. If I had let out that I had known for a long time that
Charles Rambert was alive when he was supposed to be dead, and that I
had known him first as Jeanne and then as Paul, and yet had said nothing
about it, I should have been dismissed from the service as sure as eggs
are eggs--and it is equally certain that you would have been arrested;
which is precisely what I do not wish to happen!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In tense silence the foreman of the jury rose.

"In the presence of God and man, and upon my honour and my conscience, I
declare that the answer of a majority of the jury is 'yes' to all the
questions submitted to them."

Then he sat down: he had made no mention of extenuating circumstances.

The words of the fatal verdict fell like a knell in the silent Court of
Assize, and many a face went white.

"Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?"

"Nothing," Gurn replied.

In rapid tones the President read the formal pronouncement of the Court.
It seemed horribly long and unintelligible, but presently the
President's voice became slower as it reached the fatal words: there was
a second's pause, and then he reached the point:

"--the sentence on the prisoner Gurn is death."

And almost simultaneously he gave the order:

"Guards, take the condemned away!"

Juve, who had returned to court with Fandor, spoke to the young
journalist.

"'Gad!" he exclaimed, "I know what pluck is. That man is a truly
remarkable man: he never turned a hair!"




XXX. AN ASSIGNATION


The final curtain had fallen upon the first performance of the new drama
at the Grand Treteau.

The night had been one long triumph for Valgrand, and although it was
very late the Baronne de Vibray, who plumed herself on being the great
tragedian's dearest friend, had made her way behind the scenes to lavish
praise and congratulations on him, and have a little triumph of her own
in presenting her friends to the hero of the hour. In vain had Charlot,
the old dresser, tried to prevent her invasion of his master's
dressing-room. He was not proof against her perseverance, and ere long
she had swept into the room with the proud smile of a general entering a
conquered town. The Comte de Baral, a tall young man with a single
eyeglass, followed close in her wake.

"Will you please announce us," he said to the dresser.

Charlot hesitated a moment in surprise, then broke into voluble
explanations.

"M. Valgrand is not here yet. What, didn't you know? Why, at the end of
the performance the Minister of Public Instruction sent for him to
congratulate him! That's a tremendous honour, and it's the second time
it has been paid to M. Valgrand."

Meanwhile the other two ladies in the party were roaming about the
dressing-room: Mme. Simone Holbord, wife of a colonel of the Marines who
had just covered himself with distinction in the Congo, and the Comtesse
Marcelline de Baral.

"How thrilling an actor's dressing-room is!" exclaimed Mme. Holbord,
inspecting everything in the room through her glass. "Just look at these
darling little brushes! I suppose he uses those in making up? And, oh,
my dear! There are actually three kinds of rouge!"

The Comtesse de Baral was fascinated by the photographs adorning the
walls.

"'To the admirable Valgrand from a comrade,'" she read in awe-struck
tones. "Come and look, dear, it is signed by Sarah Bernhardt! And listen
to this one: 'At Buenos Ayres, at Melbourne, and New York, wherever I am
I hear the praises of my friend Valgrand!'"

"Something like a globe-trotter!" said Mme. Holbord. "I expect he
belongs to the Comedie Francaise."

Colonel Holbord interrupted, calling to his wife.

"Simone, come and listen to what our friend de Baral is telling me: it
is really very curious."

The young woman approached, and the Comte began again for her benefit.

"You have come back too recently from the Congo to be up to date with
all our Paris happenings, and so you will not have noticed this little
touch, but in the part that he created to-night Valgrand made himself up
exactly like Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham!"

"Gurn?" said Mme. Holbord, to whom the name did not convey much. "Oh,
yes, I think I read about that: the murderer escaped, didn't he?"

"Well, they took a long time to find him," the Comte de Baral replied.
"As usual, the police were giving up all hope of finding him, when one
day, or rather one night, they did find him and arrested him; and where
do you suppose that was? Why, with Lady Beltham! Yes, really: in her own
house at Neuilly!"

"Impossible!" cried Simone Holbord. "Poor woman! What an awful shock for
her!"

"Lady Beltham is a brave, dignified, and truly charitable woman," said
the Comtesse de Baral. "She simply worshipped her husband. And yet, she
pleaded warmly for mercy for the murderer--though she did not succeed in
getting it."

"What a dreadful thing!" said Simone Holbord perfunctorily; her
attention was wandering to all the other attractions in this attractive
room. A pile of letters was lying on a writing-table, and the reckless
young woman began to look at the envelopes. "Just look at this pile of
letters!" she cried. "How funny! Every one of them in a woman's hand! I
suppose Valgrand gets all sorts of offers?"

Colonel Holbord went on talking to the Comte de Baral in a corner of the
room.

"I am enormously interested in what you tell me. What happened then?"

"Well, this wretch, Gurn, was recognised by the police as he was leaving
Lady Beltham's, and was arrested and put in prison. The trial came on at
the Court of Assize about six weeks ago. All Paris went to it, of course
including myself! This man Gurn is a brute, but a strange brute, rather
difficult to define; he swore that he had killed Lord Beltham after a
quarrel, practically for the sake of robbing him, but I had a strong
impression that he was lying."

"But why else should he have committed the murder?"

The Comte de Baral shrugged his shoulders.

"Nobody knows," he said: "politics, perhaps, nihilism, or perhaps
again--love. There was one fact, or coincidence, worth noting: when Lady
Beltham came home from the Transvaal after the war, during which, by the
way, she did splendid work among the sick and wounded, she sailed by the
same boat that was taking Gurn to England. Gurn also was a bit of a
popular hero just then: he had volunteered at the beginning of the war,
and came back with a sergeant's stripes and a medal for distinguished
conduct. Can Gurn and Lady Beltham have met and got to know each other?
It is certain that the lady's behaviour during the trial lent itself to
comment, if not exactly to scandal. She had odd collapses in the
presence of the murderer, collapses which were accounted for in very
various ways. Some people said that she was half out of her mind with
grief at the loss of her husband; others said that if she was mad, it
was over someone, over this vulgar criminal--martyr or accomplice,
perhaps. They even went so far as to allege that Lady Beltham had an
intrigue with Gurn!"

"Come! come!" the Colonel protested: "a great lady like Lady Beltham, so
religious and so austere? Absurd!"

"People say all sorts of things," said the Comte de Baral vaguely. He
turned to another subject. "Anyhow, the case caused a tremendous
sensation; Gurn's condemnation to death was very popular, and the case
was so typically Parisian that our friend Valgrand, knowing that he was
going to create the part of the murderer in this tragedy to-night,
followed every phase of the Gurn trial closely, studied the man in
detail, and literally identified himself with him in this character. It
was a shrewd idea. You noticed the sensation when he came on the stage?"

"Yes, I did," said the Colonel; "I wondered what the exclamations from
all over the house meant."

"Try to find a portrait of Gurn in some one of the illustrated papers,"
said the Comte, "and compare it with---- Ah, I think this is Valgrand
coming!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Baronne de Vibray had tired of her conversation with the old
dresser, Charlot, and had left him to take up her stand outside the
dressing-room, where she greeted with nods and smiles the other actors
and actresses as they hurried by on their way home, and listened to the
sounds at the end of the passage. Presently a voice became
distinguishable, the voice of Valgrand singing a refrain from a musical
comedy. The Baronne de Vibray hurried to meet him, with both hands
outstretched, and led him into his dressing-room.

"Let me present M. Valgrand!" she exclaimed, and then presented the two
young women to the bowing actor: "Comtesse Marcelline de Baral, Mme.
Holbord."

"Pardon me, ladies, for keeping you waiting," the actor said. "I was
deep in conversation with the Minister. He was so charming, so kind!" He
turned to the Baronne de Vibray. "He did me the honour to offer me a
cigarette! A relic! Charlot! Charlot! You must put this cigarette in the
little box where all my treasures are!"

"It is very full already, M. Valgrand," said Charlot deprecatingly.

"We must not keep you long," the Baronne de Vibray murmured. "You must
be very tired."

Valgrand passed a weary hand across his brow.

"Positively exhausted!" Then he raised his head and looked at the
company. "What did you think of me?"

A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip.

"Splendid!" "Wonderful!" "The very perfection of art!"

"No, but really?" protested Valgrand, swelling with satisfied vanity.
"Tell me candidly: was it really good?"

"You really were wonderful: could not have been better," the Baronne de
Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed
every word, until the artist was convinced that their praise was quite
sincere.

"How I have worked!" he exclaimed: "do you know, when rehearsals
began--ask Charlot if this isn't true--the piece simply didn't exist!"

"Simply didn't exist!" Charlot corroborated him, like an echo.

"Didn't exist," Valgrand repeated: "not even my part. It was
insignificant, flat! So I took the author aside and I said: 'Frantz, my
boy, I'll tell you what you must do: you know the lawyer's speech?
Absurd! What am I to do while he is delivering it? I'll make the speech
for my own defence, and I'll get something out of it!' And the prison
scene! Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that! I said to Frantz:
'Cut the parson out, my boy: what the dickens am I to do while he is
preaching? Simply nothing at all: it's absurd. Give his speech to me!
I'll preach to myself!' And there you are: I don't want to boast, but
really I did it all! And it was a success, eh?"

Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrand, who was
contemplating his reflection in a mirror.

"And my make-up, Colonel? Do you know the story of my make-up? I hear
they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gurn? What do
you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, Comte: what do you
think?"

"The resemblance is perfectly amazing," said the Comte de Baral with
perfect truth.

The actor stroked his face mechanically: a new idea struck him.

"My beard is a real one," he exclaimed. "I let it grow on purpose. I
hardly had to make myself up at all; I am the same build, the same type,
same profile; it was ridiculously easy!"

"Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket," said the Baronne
de Vibray impudently.

Valgrand looked at her, and heaved a profound sigh.

"Not yet, not yet, dear lady: I am infinitely sorry, but not yet: a
little later on, perhaps; wait for the hundredth performance."

"I must have one too," said Simone Holbord, and Valgrand with great
dignity replied:

"I will put your name down for one, madame!"

       *       *       *       *       *

But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

"My good people, it is most horribly late! And our great artiste must be
overcome with sleep!"

Forthwith they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor's courteous
protests that he could not hear of letting them go so soon. They
lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation,
shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations.
Then the sound of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the
Baronne de Vibray and her friends left the theatre. Valgrand turned back
into his dressing-room and locked the door, then dropped into the low
and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing-table.

       *       *       *       *       *

He remained there resting for a few minutes, and then sat up and threw a
whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary
clothes.

"Hang it all, Charlot! What's exhaustion? The mere sight of such jewels
as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead!"

Charlot shrugged his shoulders.

"Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?"

"Heavens, I hope not!" exclaimed the actor. "I hope not, for if there
is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the
peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!"

"You are very poetical to-night," the dresser remarked.

"I am a lover--in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you
know----" He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back
abruptly to mundane affairs. "Come, help me to dress."

Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with
careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely
amused.

"Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and--perfume. Say, Charlot, is
this a proposal? What do you bet?"

"You never have anything else," the dresser grumbled "--except bills."

"Do you bet?"

"If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win," said Charlot.

"Done!" cried Valgrand. "Listen," and he began to declaim the letter
aloud: "'Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing'---- Got it,
Charlot? Another of them!" He tore open another envelope. "Ah-ha!
Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to
my fancy!" He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. "Where is my
collar?" He picked up a third envelope. "What will you bet that this
violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?"

"I bet it is another bill," said the dresser; "but you are sure to win."

"I have," Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: "'if
you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.' Does
one ever regret it--even if one does not keep one's promises?"

"At lovers' perjuries----" Charlot quoted.

"Drunken promises!" Valgrand retorted. "By the way, I am dying for a
drink. Give me a whisky and soda." He got up and moved to the table on
which Charlot had set decanters and glasses, and was about to take the
glass the dresser offered him when a tap on the door brought the
conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned: he did not want to be
bothered by more visitors. But curiosity got the better of his
annoyance and he told Charlot to see who it was.

Charlot went to the door and peered through a narrow opening at the
thoughtless intruder.

"Fancy making all this bother over a letter!" he growled. "Urgent? Of
course: they always are urgent," and he shut the door on the messenger
and gave the letter to Valgrand. "A woman brought it," he said.

Valgrand looked at it.

"H'm! Mourning! Will you bet, Charlot?"

"Deep mourning," said Charlot: "then I bet it is a declaration. I expect
you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges
stir compassion."

Valgrand was reading the letter, carelessly to begin with, then with
deep attention. He reached the signature at the end, and then read it
through again, aloud this time, punctuating his reading with flippant
comments: "'In creating the part of the criminal in the tragedy
to-night, you made yourself up into a most marvellous likeness of Gurn,
the man who murdered Lord Beltham. Come to-night, at two o'clock, _in
your costume_, to 22 rue Messier. Take care not to be seen, but come.
Someone who loves you is waiting for you there.'"

"And it is signed----?" said the dresser.

"That, my boy, I'm not going to tell you," said Valgrand, and he put the
letter carefully into his pocket-book. "Why, man, what are you up to?"
he added, as the dresser came up to him to take his clothes.

"Up to?" the servant exclaimed: "I am only helping you to get your
things off."

"Idiot!" laughed Valgrand. "Didn't you understand? Give me my black tie
and villain's coat again."

"What on earth is the matter with you?" Charlot asked with some
uneasiness. "Surely you are not thinking of going?"

"Not going? Why, in the whole of my career as amorist, I have never had
such an opportunity before!"

"It may be a hoax."

"Take my word for it, I know better. Things like this aren't hoaxes.
Besides, I know the--the lady. She has often been pointed out to me: and
at the trial---- By Jove, Charlot, she is the most enchanting woman in
the world: strangely lovely, infinitely distinguished, absolutely
fascinating!"

"You are raving like a schoolboy."

"So much the better for me! Why, I was half dead with fatigue, and now I
am myself again. Be quick, booby! My hat! Time is getting on. Where is
it?"

"Where is what?" the bewildered Charlot asked.

"Why, this place," Valgrand answered irritably: "this rue Messier. Look
it up in the directory."

Valgrand stamped impatiently up and down the room while Charlot
hurriedly turned over the pages of the directory, muttering the
syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical
order.

"J ... K ... L ... M ... Ma ... Me ...--Why, M. Valgrand----"

"What's the matter?"

"Why, it is the street where the prison is!"

"The Sante? Where Gurn is--in the condemned cell?" Valgrand cocked his
hat rakishly on one side. "And I have an assignation at the prison?"

"Not exactly, but not far off: right opposite; yes, number 22 must be
right opposite."

"Right opposite the prison!" Valgrand exclaimed gaily. "The choice of
the spot, and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn, are evidence
of a positive refinement in sensation! See? The lady, and I--the
counterpart of Gurn--and, right opposite, the real Gurn in his cell!
Quick, man: my cloak! My cane!"

"Do think, sir," Charlot protested: "it is absolutely absurd! A man like
you----"

"A man like me," Valgrand roared, "would keep an appointment like this
if he had to walk on his head to get there! Good-night!" and carolling
gaily, Valgrand strode down the corridor.

       *       *       *       *       *

Charlot was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for
Valgrand was the most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to
imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after
Valgrand had left him, the dresser shook his head.

"What a pity it is! And he such a great artiste! These women will make
an absolute fool of him! Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his
scarf!" There was a tap at the door, and the door-keeper looked in.

"Can I turn out the lights?" he enquired. "Has M. Valgrand gone?"

"Yes," said the dresser absently, "he has gone."

"A great night," said the door-keeper. "Have you seen the last edition
of the _Capitale_, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us
already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great
success."

"Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice,
added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest
triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the
newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens,
it can't be possible!"

"What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired.

Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column.

"Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken."

The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated passage.

"I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is
to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth."

"But that is this morning--presently," Charlot exclaimed.

"May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the
seventeenth, so it is the eighteenth now! Are you ill, Charlot?"

Charlot pulled himself together.

"No, it's nothing; I'm only tired. You can put out the lights. I shall
be out of the theatre in five minutes; I only want to do one or two
little things here."

"All right," said Jean, turning away. "Shut the door behind you when you
leave, if I have gone to bed."

Charlot sat on the arm of a chair and wiped his brow.

"I don't like this business," he muttered. "Why the deuce did he want
to go? What does this woman want with him? I may be only an old fool,
but I know what I know, and there have been no end of queer stories
about this job already." He sat there meditating, till an idea took
shape in his mind. "Can I dare to go round there and just prowl about?
Of course he will be furious, but suppose that letter was a decoy and he
is walking into a trap? One never can tell. An assignation in that
particular street, with that prison opposite, and Gurn to be guillotined
within the next hour or so?" The man made up his mind, hurriedly put on
his coat and hat, and switched off the electric lights in the
exquisitely appointed dressing-room. "I'll go!" he said aloud. "If I see
anything suspicious, or if at the end of half an hour I don't see M.
Valgrand leaving the house--well!" Charlot turned the key in the lock.
"Yes, I will go. I shall be much easier in my mind!"




XXXI. FELL TREACHERY


Number 22 rue Messier was a wretched one-storeyed house that belonged to
a country vine-dresser who seldom came to Paris. It was damp, dirty, and
dilapidated, and would have had to be rebuilt from top to bottom if it
were to be rendered habitable. There had been a long succession of
so-called tenants of this hovel, shady, disreputable people who, for the
most part, left without paying any rent, the landlord being only too
glad if occasionally they left behind them a little miserable furniture
or worn out kitchen utensils. He was finding it ever more difficult to
let the wretched house, and for weeks together it had remained
unoccupied. But one day, about a month ago, he had been astonished by
receiving an application for the tenancy from someone who vaguely signed
himself Durand; and still further astonished by finding in the envelope
bank-notes representing a year's rent in advance. Delighted with this
windfall, and congratulating himself on not having gone to the expense
of putting the hovel into something like repair--unnecessary now, since
he had secured a tenant, and a good one, for at least twelve months--the
landlord promptly sent a receipt to this Durand, with the keys, and
thought no more about the matter.

In the principal room, on the first floor of this hovel, a little poor
furniture had been put; a shabby sofa, an equally shabby arm-chair, a
few cane-bottomed chairs, and a deal table. On the table was a tea-pot,
a small kettle over a spirit-stove, and a few cups and small cakes. A
smoky lamp shed a dim light over this depressing interior, and a handful
of coal was smouldering in the cracked grate.

And here, in these miserable surroundings, Lady Beltham was installed on
this eighteenth of December.

The great lady was even paler than usual, and her eyes shone with a
curious brilliance. That she was suffering from the most acute and
feverish nervous excitement was patent from the way in which she kept
putting her hands to her heart as though the violence of its throbbing
were unendurable, and from the restless way in which she paced the room,
stopping at every other step to listen for some sound to reach her
through the silence of the night. Once she stepped quickly from the
middle of the room to the wall opposite the door that opened on to the
staircase; she pushed ajar the door of a small cupboard and murmured
"hush," making a warning movement with her hands, as if addressing
someone concealed there; then she moved forward again and, sinking on to
the sofa, pressed her hands against her throbbing temples.

"No one yet!" she murmured presently. "Oh, I would give ten years of my
life to----! Is all really lost?" Her eyes wandered round the room.
"What a forbidding, squalid place!" and again she sprang to her feet and
paced the room. Through the grimy panes of the window she could just see
a long row of roofs and chimneys outlined against the sky. "Oh, those
black roofs, those horrible black roofs!" she muttered. The already
wretched light in the wretched room was burning dimmer, and Lady Beltham
turned up the wick of the lamp. As she did so she caught a sound and
stopped. "Can that be he?" she exclaimed, and hurried to the door.
"Footsteps--and a man's footsteps!"

The next moment she was sure. Someone stumbled in the passage below,
came slowly up the stairs, was on the landing.

Lady Beltham recoiled to the sofa and sank down on it, turning her back
to the door, and hiding her face in her hands.

"Valgrand!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Valgrand was a man with a passion for adventure. But invariable success
in his flirtations had made him blase, and now it was only the
absolutely novel that could appeal to him. And there could certainly be
no question about the woman who had sent him the present invitation
being anything but a commonplace one! Moreover, it was not just any
woman who had asked him to keep this assignation in the outward guise of
Gurn, but the one woman in whose heart the murderer ought to inspire the
greatest abhorrence, the widow of the man whom Gurn had murdered. What
should his deportment be when he came face to face with her? That was
what preoccupied the actor as he left the theatre, and made him dismiss
the taxi in which he had started, before he reached his destination.

Valgrand came into the room slowly, and with a trained eye for effect.
He flung his cloak and hat theatrically on the arm-chair, and moved
towards Lady Beltham, who still sat motionless with her face hidden in
her hands.

"I have come!" he said in deep tones.

Lady Beltham uttered a little exclamation as if of surprise, and seemed
even more anxious to hide from him.

"Odd!" thought Valgrand. "She seems to be really upset; what can I say
to her, I wonder?"

But Lady Beltham made a great effort and sat up, looking at the actor
with strained eyes, yet striving to force a smile.

"Thank you for coming, sir," she murmured.

"It is not from you, madame, that the thanks should come," Valgrand
answered magnificently; "quite the reverse; I am infinitely grateful to
you for having summoned me. Pray believe that I would have been here
even sooner but for the delay inevitable on a first performance. But you
are cold," he broke off, for Lady Beltham was shivering.

"Yes, I am," she said almost inaudibly, mechanically pulling a scarf
over her shoulders. Valgrand was standing, taking in every detail of the
squalid room in which he found himself with this woman whose wealth, and
taste, and sumptuous home at Neuilly were notorious.

"I must clear up this mystery," he thought, while he moved to the window
to see that it was shut, and searched about, in vain, for a little coal
to put upon the fire. While he was thus occupied Lady Beltham also rose,
and going to the table poured out two cups of tea.

"Perhaps this will warm us, in the absence of anything better," she
said, making an effort to seem more amiable. "I am afraid it is rather
strong, M. Valgrand; I hope you do not mind?" and, with a hand that
trembled as if it held a heavy weight, she brought one of the cups to
her guest.

"Tea never upsets me, madame," Valgrand replied as he took the cup.
"Indeed, I like it." He came to the table and picked up the basin filled
with castor sugar, making first as if to put some in her cup.

"Thanks, I never take sugar in tea," she said.

Valgrand made a little grimace. "I admire you, but I will not imitate
you," he said, and unceremoniously tipped a generous helping of the
sugar into his own cup.

Lady Beltham watched him with haggard eyes.

While they were sipping their tea, there was silence between them. Lady
Beltham went back to the sofa, and Valgrand took a chair quite close to
her. The conversation was certainly lacking in animation, he reflected
whimsically; would the lady succeed in reducing him to the level of
intelligence of a callow schoolboy? And she most certainly did seem to
be horribly upset. He raised his eyes to her and found that she was
gazing into infinity.

"One has got to draw upon psychology here," Valgrand mused. "It is not
me, myself, in whom this lovely creature takes any interest, or she
would not have desired me to come in these trappings that make me look
like Gurn; it's his skin that I must stop in! But what is the proper
attitude to adopt? The sentimental? Or the brutal? Or shall I appeal to
her proselytising mania, and do the repentant sinner act? I'll chance
it; here goes!" and he rose to his feet.

As he moved, Lady Beltham looked round, uneasy, frightened, almost
anguished: it seemed as though she realised that the moment had come for
extraordinary things to happen.

Valgrand began to speak as he did upon the stage, restraining his
effects at first and controlling his voice of set purpose to give full
effect to it later on, modulating it cleverly.

"At your summons, madame, the prisoner Gurn has burst his bonds, broken
through the door of his cell, and scaled his prison walls, triumphing
over every obstacle with the single object of coming to your feet. He
comes----" and he took a step nearer to her.

Lady Beltham stayed him with a gesture of terror.

"Don't! Don't! Please say no more!" she murmured.

"I've got a bite," Valgrand said to himself. "Let's try another bait,"
and as if repeating a part he said dramatically: "Has your charitable
heart turned towards the guilty soul that you fain would rescue from
transgression? Men say you are so great a lady, so good, so near to
heaven!"

Again Lady Beltham put up a protesting hand.

"Not that! Not that!" she said imploringly. "Oh, this is torture; go
away!"

In her distress she was really superbly beautiful; but Valgrand knew too
much about women of every temperament, neurotic, hysterical, and many
another kind, not to suppose that here he was merely taking part in a
sentimental comedy. He made a rough gesture and laid his hand on Lady
Beltham's arm.

"Do you not know me?" he said harshly. "I am Gurn! I will crush you to
my heart!" and he tried to draw her close to him.

But this time Lady Beltham threw him off with the violence of despair.
"Stand back! You brute!" she cried, in tones that there was no
mistaking.

Valgrand recoiled in real dismay, and stood silent in the middle of the
room, while Lady Beltham went to the wall farthest from him and leaned
for support against it.

"Listen, madame," Valgrand began presently, in dulcet tones that had the
effect of making Lady Beltham try to control her emotion and murmur some
faint words of apology. "Of course you know I am Valgrand, Valgrand the
actor; I will apologise for having come to you like this, but I have
some small excuse in your note!"

"My note?" she murmured. "Oh, yes; I forgot!"

Valgrand went on, seeming to pick his words.

"You have overestimated your strength, and now perhaps you find the
resemblance too startling? Do not be frightened. But your letter came
to me like healing balm upon a quivering wound. For weeks, long
weeks----" The actor stopped, and mechanically rubbed his eyes. "It's
odd," he thought to himself, "but I feel ever so much more inclined to
go to sleep than to make love." He shook off his real desire for sleep
and began again. "I have loved you since the day I saw you first. I love
you with an intensity----"

For some moments Lady Beltham had been looking at him with a calmer air,
and eyes that were less hostile. The old amorist observed it, and made a
tremendous effort to overcome his most inopportune drowsiness.

"How shall I be silent, when at last kind heaven is about to grant the
fondest desire of my heart? When, all afire with love, I am kneeling at
your feet?"

Valgrand dropped to his knees. Lady Beltham drew herself up, listening.
In the distance a clock struck four.

"Oh, I can bear it no longer!" she cried stammeringly. "I can bear no
more! Listen; four o'clock! No, no! It is too much, too much for me!"
The woman seemed absolutely frantic. She paced up and down the room like
a caged animal. Then she came close to Valgrand, and looked at him with
an immense pity in her eyes. "Go, sir; if you believe in God, go away!
Go as quickly as you can!"

Valgrand struggled to his feet. His head was heavy, and he had an
irresistible desire to hold his tongue and just stay where he was.
Partly from gallantry and partly from his desire not to move, he
murmured, not without a certain aptness: "I believe only in the god of
love, madame, and he bids me remain!"

In vain did Lady Beltham make every effort to rouse the actor and induce
him to go away; in vain were all her frantic appeals to him to fly.

"I will stay," was all he said, and he dropped heavily on the sofa by
Lady Beltham's side, and mechanically tried to put his arm round her.

"Listen!" she began, freeing herself from him: "in heavens name you
must---- And yet, I cannot tell you! Oh, it is horrible! I am going
mad! How am I to choose! What am I to do! Which----? Oh, go--go--go!
There is not a minute to lose!"

"I will stay!" said Valgrand again; this amazing drowsiness was gaining
on him so fast that he had but one desire left--for sleep! Surely a
strange assignation, this, and a poor kind of lover, too!

Lady Beltham stopped her torrent of appeal, and looked at the actor
crumpled up beside her. Suddenly she started and listened: a slight
noise became audible, coming from the staircase. Lady Beltham stood
erect and rigid: then dropped to her knees upon the floor.

"Oh! It is all over!" she sobbed.

       *       *       *       *       *

In spite of his overwhelming longing for sleep, Valgrand suddenly
started. Two heavy hands fell on his shoulder, and then his arms were
pulled behind him and his wrists rapidly bound together.

"Good God!" he cried, in stupefied surprise, turning quickly round. Two
men stood before him, old soldiers by the look of them, in dark uniforms
relieved only by the gleam of metal buttons. He was going to say more,
but one of the men laid his hand over his lips.

"Hush!" he said peremptorily.

Valgrand made frantic efforts to prevent himself from falling.

"What does this mean? Let me go! What right----"

The two men began to drag him gently away.

"Come along," said one of them in his ear. "Time's up. Don't be
obstinate."

"Besides, you know it's quite useless to resist, Gurn," the other added,
not unkindly. "Nothing in the world could----"

"I don't understand," Valgrand protested feebly. "Who are you? And why
do you call me Gurn?"

"Let me finish," growled one of the men irritably. "You know we are
running an awful risk in getting you out of the prison and bringing you
here when you are supposed to be with the chaplain; you swore you would
behave squarely with us and go back when you were told. Now you've got
to keep your promise."

"The lady paid us well to give you an hour with her," the other man put
in, "but you've had more than an hour and a half, and we've got our
characters and our situations to look after. So now, come along, Gurn,
and don't let us have any nonsense."

Valgrand, fighting hard against his overpowering sleepiness, began to
have some vague comprehension of what was happening. He recognised the
uniforms, and guessed that the men were prison warders.

"Good God!" he exclaimed thickly, "the fools think I am Gurn! But I am
not Gurn! Ask----" He cast a despairing eye at Lady Beltham who
throughout the awful scene remained on her knees in a corner of the
room, dumb with anguish, apparently deaf and turned to stone. "Tell
them, madame," he implored her. "Oh, God save me!" but still the warders
dragged him towards the door. By an herculean effort he swayed them back
with him into the middle of the room. "I am not Gurn, I tell you," he
shouted. "I am Valgrand, Valgrand the actor. Everybody in the world
knows me. You know it too, but---- Search me, I tell you," and he made a
sign with his head towards his left side. "Look in my pocket-book; my
name's inside; and you'll find a letter too; proof of the trap I've been
led into: the letter from that woman over there!"

"Better look and see, Nibet," one warder said to the other, and to
Valgrand he added: "Not so much noise, man! Do you mean to get us all
caught?"

Nibet passed a quick hand through Valgrand's pockets; there was no
note-book there. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Besides, what about it?" he growled. "We brought Gurn here, didn't we?
Well, we've got to take Gurn back again. That's all I know. Come on!"

Beaten down by the drowsiness that was quite irresistible, and worn out
by his violent but futile efforts to resist the warders, Valgrand was
half dragged, half carried out by the two men, his head drooping on his
chest, his consciousness failing. But still as they were getting him
down the stairs his voice could be heard in the half-dark room above,
bleating more weakly and at longer intervals:

"I am not Gurn! I am not Gurn!"

Once more silence reigned in the room. After the three men had gone,
Lady Beltham rose to her feet, tottered to the window, and stood there
listening. She heard their footsteps crossing the street and stopping by
the door into the prison. She waited for a few minutes to make sure that
they had escaped unnoticed from their amazing adventure, then turned
again to the sofa, struggled to unfasten the collar of her dress to get
more air, drew a few deep sighs, and swooned.

The door opposite the staircase opened slowly, and noiselessly Gurn
emerged from the darkness and went towards Lady Beltham. The murderer
flung himself at her feet, covered her face with kisses, and pressed her
hands in his.

"Maud!" he called. "Maud!"

She did not answer and he hunted about the room for something to revive
her. Presently, however, she recovered consciousness unaided and uttered
a faint sigh. Her lover hurried to her.

"Oh, Gurn," she murmured, laying her white hand on the wretch's neck:
"it's you, dear! Come close to me, and hold me in your arms! It was too
much for me! I almost broke down and told everything! I could have borne
no more. Oh, what an appalling time!" She sat up sharply, her face drawn
with terror. "Listen: I can hear him still!"

"Try not to think about it," Gurn whispered, caressing her.

"Did you hear him, how he kept on saying 'I am not Gurn! I am not Gurn!'
Oh, heaven grant they may not find that out!"

Gurn himself was shaken by the horror of the plot he had contrived with
his mistress to effect this substitution of another for himself; it
surpassed in ghastliness anything that had gone before, and he had not
dared to give the least hint of it to Nibet.

"The warders were well paid," he said to reassure her now. "They would
deny everything." He hesitated a second, and then asked: "He drank the
drug, didn't he?"

Lady Beltham nodded assent.

"It will take effect. It was acting already: so rapidly, that I thought
for a moment he would fall unconscious there, at my feet!"

Gurn drew a deep breath.

"Maud, we are saved!" he exclaimed. "See," he went on, "as soon as it is
light, and there are enough people in the street for us to mix with them
unobserved, we will go away from here. While you were with--him---- I
burned my other clothes, so I will take these to get away in." He picked
up the hat and cloak which Valgrand had thrown upon the chair, and
wrapped the heavy cloak around himself. "This will conceal me
effectively."

"Let us go at once!" Lady Beltham exclaimed, but Gurn stayed her.

"I must get rid of this beard, and my moustache," he said, and he took a
pair of scissors from his pocket and was walking towards a looking-glass
when suddenly they both heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming
slowly and steadily up the stairs. Gurn had no time to get back to his
former hiding-place; all he could do was to sink into the one arm-chair
that was in the room, and conceal his features as well as he could by
turning down the brim of the hat and turning up the collar of the cloak
which the actor had forgotten. The man went as white as a sheet, but
Lady Beltham appeared to recover all her presence of mind, and strength,
and daring, at the approach of danger, and she hurried to the door. But
though she tried to keep it shut, it slowly turned upon the hinges, and
a timid, hesitating figure appeared in the doorway and advanced towards
the retreating woman.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Lady Beltham faltered.

"I beg you to excuse me, madame," the man began, "I came to----" He
caught sight of Gurn and pointed to him. "M. Valgrand knows me well. I
am Charlot, his dresser at the theatre, and I came to--I wanted to have
a word--stay----" he took a small square parcel from his pocket. "M.
Valgrand went off so hurriedly that he forgot his pocket-book, and so I
came to bring it to him." The dresser was trying to get near the
murderer, whom he supposed to be his master, but Lady Beltham, in the
most acute anxiety, kept between the two men. Charlot misunderstood her
intention. "I also came to----" He stopped again and whispered to Lady
Beltham. "He does not speak: is he very angry with me for coming? I
didn't come out of curiosity, or to cause you any trouble, madame; will
you ask him not to be very angry with his poor old Charlot?"

Lady Beltham felt like swooning again; she could endure very little of
this old man's garrulity.

"Go, for goodness' sake, go," she said peremptorily.

"I am going," Charlot said; "I know I am in the way; but I must explain
to him," and he raised his voice and spoke to Gurn, who sat quite still,
sinking as far as he could into the shadow of the chair. "You are not
very angry with me, M. Valgrand, are you?" and getting no reply he
looked apologetically at Lady Beltham. "It was all these stories, and
then the street, and the prison opposite: but perhaps you do not know;
you see, I read in the paper yesterday, or rather to-night, a couple of
hours ago, that that man Gurn, who murdered the rich English gentleman,
was to be executed this morning. And so I was rather what you might call
uneasy; at first I only meant to follow M. Valgrand and wait for him
down below, but I lost my way and I have only just arrived; I found the
door open, and as I did not know whether he had gone or was still here,
I took the liberty to come upstairs. But I am going now, quite easy in
my mind, since he is quiet and happy here with you. And I beg your
pardon, madame." He threw a last appeal to where Gurn sat. "I hope you
will forgive me, M. Valgrand?" He sighed as no answer was forthcoming,
and made a pathetic little appeal to Lady Beltham. "You will explain to
him, madame, won't you? He is a kind master, and he will understand. One
does get fancies like that, you know. But now I will go away easy, quite
easy in my mind, since I have seen him."

Charlot turned away slowly, with bent shoulders. As he passed the window
he glanced outside and stopped short. Day was just beginning to break,
making the wan light of the street lamps still more wan. From the window
a view could be obtained of a kind of platform at the corner of the
boulevard Arago which was bounded by the high wall of the Sante prison.
This spot, usually deserted, was crowded with people; a moving mob,
swarming and struggling behind some hastily erected barriers. Charlot
stretched a trembling hand towards the spectacle, in sudden
comprehension.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "that must be where they are putting up the
scaffold. Yes, I can see the planks and uprights; it is the guillotine!
The exe----"

The old man's words ended in a sudden cry, and almost simultaneously
there was a heavy thud.

Struck from behind, Charlot fell like a log to the floor, while Lady
Beltham recoiled in terror, clenching her fists to prevent herself from
screaming.

Seizing the opportunity presented by Valgrand's faithful servant
standing so still, hypnotised by the gruesome spectacle being prepared
outside, Gurn had drawn a knife from his pocket, and, springing on the
unfortunate old man, had driven the blade up to the hilt behind his
neck.

Charlot fell prone and rigid, the weapon remaining in the wound and
stopping the flow of blood.

Lady Beltham was staring at the victim in horror, but Gurn seized her
roughly by the arm.

Without troubling to alter the appearance of his face, but horrified as
she was by the tragedies which had succeeded one another in such
appalling and rapid succession during this awful night, Gurn drew the
half-fainting woman to him, and hurried her away.

"Come quick!" he muttered hoarsely. "Let us get out of this!"




XXXII. ON THE SCAFFOLD


It was still dark.

In the keen morning air a crowd came hurrying along the pavements,
flowing over into the roadways. The boulevards were black with people,
all marching briskly towards one common goal. And it was a
light-hearted, singing crowd, chanting the choruses of popular songs and
swarming into the open restaurants and wine-shops and drinking dens.

And it was noticeable that all these late birds belonged to one of two
sharply divided classes. They were either rich, or miserably poor; they
either came from the night clubs, or they were the poor devils with no
homes or hearths who roam about the city from one year's end to another.
There were crooks whose faces shone with the evil excitement of alcohol,
out-of-works of all kinds, beggars, and young men--all young men--with
sleek oiled hair and shiny boots, in whose eyes and demeanour theft and
crime could be seen.

By a curious coincidence the great news seemed to have reached all,
toffs and crooks alike, at exactly the same time. About midnight the
rumour had run round the town; it was certain, definite this time; the
official steps had been taken, and the guillotine was going to raise her
blood-stained arms towards the sky; at earliest dawn, Gurn, the man who
had murdered Lord Beltham, was to undergo the supreme punishment, and
expiate his murder with his life.

No sooner had the great news become known than all prepared, as for a
holiday, to go to see the man's head fall. At Montmartre carriages were
requisitioned and taxi-cabs were at a premium. Women in gorgeous
toilets and sparkling with jewels streamed from the open doors into the
carriages which should bear them swiftly towards the Sante prison, and
the place of execution. In the faubourgs likewise, the bars were emptied
of their customers, and men and women, linked arm-in-arm, set forth on
foot, with songs and ribaldries upon their lips, for the spectacle of
blood and the boulevard Arago.

Around the Sante prison an atmosphere of pleasure reigned as the people,
massed together in tight ranks, produced bottles of wine, and ate
sausages, and gaily enjoyed an improvised supper in the open air, while
speculating about the details of the sight they had come to see. And so
the crowd amused itself, for Gurn's head was going to fall.

Worming his way through the crowd, Francois Bonbonne, the landlord of
the Saint-Anthony's Pig, led a little company of friends who took
advantage of his great stature to find the best path to take.

The landlord was half-drunk already in honour of the occasion.

"Come along, Billy Tom," he shouted. "Catch hold of the tail of my coat
and then you won't lose us. Where is Hogshead Geoffroy?"

"He's coming along with Bouzille."

"Good! Just fancy if Bouzille had tried to get through here with his
train! There are some people about, eh?"

Two men passed the landlord of the market inn just then.

"Come along," said one of them, and as the other caught him up, Juve
added: "Didn't you recognise those fellows?"

"No," said Fandor.

Juve told him the names of the men whom they had passed.

"You will understand that I don't want them to recognise me," he said,
and as Fandor smiled Juve went on: "It's a queer thing, but it is always
the future customers of the guillotine, apaches and fellows like that,
who make a point of seeing this ghastly spectacle." The detective
stopped and laid a hand upon the journalist's shoulder. "Wait," he said,
"we are right in front now: only the men who are holding the line are
ahead of us. If we want to get through and avoid the crush we must make
ourselves known at once. Here is your pass."

Jerome Fandor took the card which Juve held out to him, and had got for
him as a special favour.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"Here come the municipal guards," Juve replied; "I can see their sabres
flashing. We will get behind the newspaper kiosks and let them drive the
crowd back, and then we will go through."

Juve had correctly anticipated the manoeuvre which the officer in
command of the squadron immediately proceeded to execute. Grave and
imposing, and marvellously mounted on magnificent horses, a large number
of municipal guards had just arrived on the boulevard Arago, by the side
of the Sante prison, and just where the detective and the journalist
were standing. A sharp order rang out, and the guards deployed fan-wise
and, riding knee to knee, drove the crowd back irresistibly to the end
of the avenue, utterly disregarding the angry murmur of protest, and the
general crushing that ensued.

The municipal guards were followed by troops of infantry, and these
again by gendarmes who, holding hands, moved on all who by some means or
other had managed to worm their way between the horses of the guards and
the infantry, determined at any cost to keep in the front row of
spectators.

Juve and Fandor, armed with their special passes which admitted them to
the enclosure where the guillotine actually stood, had no difficulty in
getting through the triple line. They found themselves in the centre of
a large portion of the boulevard Arago, entirely clear of spectators,
and bounded on one side by the walls of the prison, and on the other by
those of a convent.

In this clear space about a dozen individuals in black coats and silk
hats were walking about, affecting a complete indifference to what was
going to happen, although really they were profoundly affected by it.

"Chief detective-inspectors," Juve said, pointing them out: "my
colleagues. Some of yours too: do you see them? Chief reporters of the
big dailies. Are you aware that you are uncommonly lucky to have been
selected, at your extremely youthful age, to represent your paper at
this lugubrious function?"

Jerome Fandor made an odd grimace.

"I don't mind admitting to you, Juve, that I am here because I am like
you in wanting to see Gurn's head fall; you have satisfied me beyond all
doubt that Gurn is Fantomas, and I want to be sure that Fantomas is
really dead. But if it were not the execution of that one particular
wretch,--the only thing that can make society safe,--I should certainly
have declined the honour of reporting this event."

"It upsets you?"

"Yes."

Juve bent his head.

"So it does me! Just think: for more than five years I have been
fighting Fantomas! For more than five years I have believed in his
existence, in spite of all ridicule and sarcasm! For more than five
years I have been working for this wretch's death, for death is the only
thing that can put a stop to his crimes!" Juve paused a moment, but
Fandor made no comment. "And I am rather sick and sorry, too: because,
although I have reached this certainty that Gurn is Fantomas, and have
succeeded in convincing intelligent people, who were ready to study my
work in good faith, I have nevertheless not succeeded in establishing
legal proof that Gurn is Fantomas. Deibler and the Public Prosecutor,
and people generally, think that it is merely Gurn who is going to be
decapitated now. I may have secured this man's condemnation, but none
the less he has beaten me and deprived me of the satisfaction of having
brought him, Fantomas, to the scaffold! I have only consigned Gurn to
the scaffold, and that is a defeat!"

The detective stopped. From the boulevard Arago, from the end to which
the crowd had been driven back, cheers and applause and joyous shouts
broke out; it was the mob welcoming the arrival of the guillotine.

Drawn by an old white horse, a heavy black van arrived at a fast trot,
escorted by four mounted police with drawn swords. The van stopped a few
yards from Juve and Fandor; the police rode off, and a shabby brougham
came into view, from which three men in black proceeded to get out.

"Monsieur de Paris and his assistants," Juve informed Fandor: "Deibler
and his men." Fandor shivered, and Juve went on with his explanations.
"That van contains the timbers and the knife. Deibler and his men will
get the guillotine up in half an hour, and in an hour at the outside,
Fantomas will be no more!"

While the detective was speaking, the executioner had stepped briskly to
the officer in charge of the proceedings and exchanged a few words with
him. He signified his approval of the arrangements made, saluted the
superintendent of police of that division, and turned to his men.

"Come along, lads; get to work!" He caught sight of Juve and shook hands
with him. "Good morning," he said, adding, as though his work were of
the most commonplace kind: "Excuse me: we are a bit late this morning!"

The assistants took from the van some long cases, wrapped in grey canvas
and apparently very heavy. They laid these on the ground with the utmost
care: they were the timbers and frame of the guillotine, and must not be
warped or strained, for the guillotine is a nicely accurate machine!

They swept the ground thoroughly, careful to remove any gravel which
might have affected the equilibrium of the framework, and then set up
the red uprights of the scaffold. The floor timbers fitted one into
another and were joined by stout metal clamps fastened together by a
bolt; next the men set the grooved slides, down which the knife must
fall, into holes cut for the purpose in the middle of the floor. The
guillotine now raised its awful arms to the sky.

Hitherto Deibler had merely watched his men at work. Now he took a hand
himself.

With a spirit-level he ascertained that the floor was absolutely
horizontal; next he arranged the two pieces of wood, from each of which
a segment is cut so as to form the lunette into which the victim's neck
is thrust; then he tested the lever, to make sure that it worked freely,
and gave a curt order.

"The knife!"

One of the assistants brought a case which Deibler opened, and Fandor
instinctively shrank as a flash from the bright steel fell full in his
eyes, that sinister triangular knife that presently would do the work of
death.

Deibler leant calmly against the guillotine, fitted the shank into the
grooves in the two uprights, and, setting the mechanism to work, hoisted
up the knife which glittered strangely; he looked the whole thing over
and turned again to his assistants.

"The hay!"

A truss was arranged in the lunette, and Deibler came up to the
instrument and pressed a spring. Like a flash the knife dropped down the
uprights and severed the truss in two.

The rehearsal was finished. Now for the real drama!

While the guillotine was being set up Juve had stood by Fandor nervously
chewing cigarettes.

"Everything is ready now," he said to the lad. "Deibler has only got to
put on his coat and take delivery of Fantomas."

The assistants had just arranged two baskets filled with bran along each
side of the machine; one was destined to receive the severed head, the
other the body when that was released from the plyer. The executioner
pulled on his coat, rubbed his hands mechanically, and then strode
towards a group of officials who had arrived while the guillotine was
being erected, and were now standing by the entrance to the prison.

"Gentlemen," said Deibler, "it will be sunrise in a quarter of an hour.
We can proceed to awaken the prisoner."

Slowly, in single file, the officials went inside the prison.

       *       *       *       *       *

There were present the Attorney General, the Public Prosecutor, his
deputy, the Governor of the prison, and behind these, M. Havard,
Deibler, and his two assistants.

The little company passed through the corridors to the third floor,
where the condemned cells are.

The warder Nibet came forward with his bunch of keys in his hand.

Deibler looked at the Public Prosecutor.

"Are you ready, sir?" and as that gentleman, who was very white, made a
sign of assent, Deibler looked at the Governor of the prison.

"Unlock the cell," the Governor ordered.

Nibet turned the key noiselessly and pushed open the door.

The Public Prosecutor stepped forward. He had hoped to find the
condemned man asleep, and so have had a moment's respite before
announcing the fatal news. But he drew back; for the man was awake and
dressed, sitting ready on his bed with mad, haggard eyes.

"Gurn," said the Public Prosecutor. "Be brave! Your appeal has been
rejected!"

The others, standing behind him, were all silent, and the words of the
Public Prosecutor fell like a knell. The condemned man, however, had not
stirred, had not even seemed to understand: his attitude was that of a
man in a state of somnambulism. The Public Prosecutor was surprised by
this strange impassivity and spoke again, in strangled tones.

"Be brave! Be brave!"

A spasm crossed the face of the condemned man, and his lips moved as
though he were making an effort to say something.

"I'm not----" he murmured.

But Deibler laid his hands upon the man's shoulders and cut the horrid
moment short.

"Come now!"

The chaplain came forward in his turn.

"Pray, my brother," he said; "do you wish to hear mass?"

At the touch of the executioner the prisoner had trembled; he rose, like
an automaton, with dilated eyes and twitching face. He understood what
the chaplain said and took a step towards him.

"I--not----"

M. Havard intervened, and spoke to the chaplain.

"Really, sir, no: it is time."

Deibler nodded approval.

"Let us be quick; we can proceed; the sun has risen."

The Public Prosecutor was still bleating "Be brave! Be brave!"

Deibler took the man by one arm, a warder took him by the other, and
between them they half-carried him to the office for his last toilette.
In the little room, dimly lighted by a winking lamp, a chair had been
set close to a table. The executioner and his assistant pushed the
condemned man into the chair, and Deibler took up a pair of scissors.

The Public Prosecutor spoke to the prisoner.

"Would you like a glass of rum? Would you like a cigarette? Is there
anything you wish to have done?"

Maitre Barberoux, who had not arrived in time for the awakening of the
prisoner, now approached his client; he, too, was ghastly white.

"Is there anything else that I can do for you? Have you any last wish?"

The condemned man made another effort to rise from the chair, and a
hoarse groan escaped from his throat.

"I--I----"

The prison doctor had joined the group, and now drew the Public
Prosecutor's deputy aside.

"It is appalling!" he said. "The man has not articulated a single word
since he was awakened. He is as though sunk in a stupefied sleep. There
is a technical word for his condition: he is in a state of inhibition.
He is alive, and yet he is a corpse. Anyhow he is utterly unconscious,
incapable of any clear thought, or of saying a word that has any sense.
I have never seen such complete stupefaction."

Deibler waved aside the men who were pressing round him.

"Sign the gaol book, please, M. Havard," he said, and while that
gentleman affixed a shaky signature to the warrant authorising the
delivery of Gurn to the public executioner, Deibler took the scissors
and cut a segment out of the prisoner's shirt and cut off a wisp of hair
that grew low down on his neck. Meanwhile an assistant bound the wrists
of the man who was about to die. Then the executioner looked at his
watch and made a half-bow to the Public Prosecutor.

"Come! Come! It is the time fixed by law!"

Two assistants took the wretch by the shoulders and raised him up. There
was a horrible, deep, unintelligible rattle in his throat.

"I--I----"

But no one heard him, and he was dragged away. It was practically a
corpse that the servants of the guillotine bore down to the boulevard
Arago.

       *       *       *       *       *

Outside, the first rosy tints of early dawn were waking the birds, and
playing on the great triangular knife, drawing gleams from it. The time
was ten minutes past five. And now the supreme moment was at hand.

The crowd, momentarily growing denser, was crushed behind the cordon of
troops that had difficulty in keeping it at a distance from the
guillotine. The soldiers, unheeding the oaths and curses and entreaties
with which they were assailed, carried out their orders and permitted no
one to take up his stand anywhere in the near neighbourhood of the
guillotine, except the few rare individuals who had a special pass.

A sudden murmur ran through the crowd. The mounted police, stationed
opposite the guillotine, had just drawn their sabres. Fandor gripped
Juve's hand nervously. The detective was very pale.

"Let us get over there," he said, and led Fandor just behind the
guillotine, to the side where the severed head would fall into the
basket. "We shall see the poor devil get out of the carriage, and being
fastened on to the bascule, and pulled into the lunette." He went on
talking as if to divert his own mind from the thing before him. "That's
the best place for seeing things: I stood there when Peugnez was
guillotined, a long time ago now, and I was there again in 1909 when
Duchemin, the parricide, was executed."

But he came to an abrupt stop. From the great door of the Sante prison a
carriage came rapidly out. All heads were uncovered, all eyes were
fixed, and a deep silence fell upon the crowded boulevard.

The carriage passed the journalist and the detective at a gallop and
pulled up with a jerk just opposite them, on the other side of the
guillotine, and at the very foot of the scaffold. M. Deibler jumped down
from the box, and opening the door at the back of the vehicle let down
the steps. Pale and nervous, the chaplain got out backwards, hiding the
scaffold from the eyes of the condemned man, whom the assistants managed
somehow to help out of the carriage.

Fandor was shaking with nervousness and muttering to himself.

But things moved quickly now.

The chaplain, still walking backwards, hid the dread vision for yet a
few seconds more, then stepped aside abruptly. The assistants seized the
condemned man, and pushed him on to the bascule.

Juve was watching the unhappy wretch, and could not restrain a word of
admiration.

"That man is a brave man! He has not even turned pale! Generally
condemned men are livid!"

The executioner's assistants had bound the man upon the plank; it tilted
upwards. Deibler grasped the head by the two ears and pulled it into the
lunette, despite one last convulsive struggle of the victim.

There was a click of a spring, the flash of the falling knife, a spurt
of blood, a dull groan from ten thousand breasts, and the head rolled
into the basket!

But Juve had flung Fandor aside and sprang towards the scaffold. He
thrust the assistants away, and plunging his hands into the bran that
was all soaked with blood, he seized the severed head by the hair and
stared at it.

Horrified by this scandalous action the assistants rushed upon the
detective.

Deibler forced him backwards.

"You must be mad!"

"Get away!"

Fandor saw that Juve was staggering and seemed about to swoon. He rushed
towards him.

"Good God!" he cried in tones of anguish.

"It isn't Gurn who has just been put to death!" Juve panted brokenly.
"This face has not gone white because it is painted! It is made up--like
an actor's! Oh, curses on him! Fantomas has escaped! Fantomas has got
away! He has had some innocent man executed in his stead! I tell you
Fantomas is alive!"

  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
  | Transcriber's Notes                                          |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 25: comma added after "why" ("Why, the park enclosure   |
  | has been altered")                                           |
  | Page 136: taper amended to tapered ("long, tapered fingers") |
  | Page 265: Treteau _sic_                                      |
  |                                                              |
  | Accents have been standardised.                              |
  |                                                              |
  | Hyphenation has generally been standardized. However, when   |
  | a word appears hyphenated and unhyphenated an equal number   |
  | of times, both versions have been retained                   |
  | (maidservants/maid-servants).                                |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------+





End of Project Gutenberg's Fantomas, by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain

*** 