DEATH had summoned my friend Maurice Escott, and I was called to Paris at a moment's notice. I was thirty years of age, and had led up to that date a lazy and in many respects a good-for-nothing existence. My name was Rupert Phenays. I came of an old family, and had plenty of money for my needs.
It was on the 5th of February, 1898, that I received the telegram, and little did I guess as I opened it that with one leap I was to spring into a totally new life. I, who had not the slightest experience of danger, whose blood had never been quickened by a single heart-beat into undue excitement, was henceforth to be the victim of a strange mystery. I was to know tragedy, pain, and the extreme of peril.
I was standing in the bay window of my luxurious sitting-room in Half Moon Street when my servant brought me a telegram on a salver. I tore it open. It ran as follows:—
"Dying, Come at once—Escott.'"
I had known Escott all my days. I was fond of him. He was a first-rate fellow in very sense of the word—handsome to look at, brave, and in all his actions straight as a die. Where I was lacking in energy, he was lull of go and spirit. Nevertheless, friends that we were, there was a secret in connection with his life which I had never been able to discover. He was, I knew, a very busy man, but in what sort of manner he occupied his time, or in what way he earned his income, for he had no private means, was a secret he had never divulged. He was strangely, remarkably sensitive on the point, and, knowing that such was the case, I had long ceased to worry him.
Such a telegram was immediately to be obeyed. I took the night mail to Paris, and early the following morning drove up in hot haste to Escott's apartments in the Rue de Rivoli. The door was opened by my friend's valet, who knew me well.
"How is your master, Valentine?" I asked.
The man shook his head.
"I am sorry to say he is very bad, sir; the doctor does not give the slightest hope. I am glad, Mr. Phenays, that you are in time."
"Pray let the nurse know that I have arrived," was my next remark.
The man ushered me into a sitting-room. A moment later a tall young woman dressed as a nurse came in.
"You are in time, Mr. Phenays. Mr. Escott has been asking for you at intervals all night. He is very ill, but your presence will comfort him."
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"The patient is in the last stage of double pneumonia. The doctor, Professor Thesiger, who is attending him, and who is an Englishman, gave up all hope a few hours ago. Will you follow me, sir?"
The nurse led the way into a darkened room. As soon as I got accustomed to the dim light, I looked on the face of my friend, and knew that both doctor and nurse were right. Escott was breathing with extreme difficulty, and there was a dusky hue under his eyes and round his lips. When I first bent over him, his eyes were shut, but the next instant he opened them with a restless movement, saw me, and a smile lit up his face.
"Thank God! Rupert, you have come," he said. "I must speak to you at once and alone. I have not a moment to lose. Please leave us, nurse."
The woman withdrew from the room. When the door had closed behind her, Escott raised himself with some difficulty in bed. A flicker of strength came into his voice, and his eyes grew bright.
"I have come to the end, old man," he said. "I am within a few moments of solving the great secret. Do not waste time condoling with me; there is something I must tell you quickly. You have often wondered what my life has been. I never told you, but it is necessary to tell you now. I am one of the agents of the British Secret Service."
I listened to these words in astonishment. I had always heard of the Secret Service, and knew well that to belong to it meant danger and difficulty.
"You may thank Heaven that up to the present you have known nothing of what I have lived through," continued Escott. "Men in my profession have to obtain their strange knowledge at fearful risks. Yes, my life has been one of danger; and now, Phenays, I am about to transfer that danger to you. You must not shrink nor hesitate; there is no course in honour open to you but to accept the charge which I am about to confide in you. When you know my secret, you, too, will be at the mercy of men without scruple and without conscience. But I put this burden on you, Phenays, because you are an Englishman, and for the sake of our country."
His voice sank to a whisper. I gave him a spoonful of a restorative which stood near. It revived him, and he continued, his words coming out now in gasps.
"You will do what I want, Phenays?"
"Yes," I replied.
I spoke with earnestness, and my words comforted him.
"I knew I was right in appealing to you," he said. "Now listen. A fortnight ago it was my misfortune to obtain possession of a political secret of such gravity that if even a suspicion of its existence were breathed, it would cause a European crisis. There is only one who knows that I know this secret. That man is a certain Monsieur Laroque, a French chemist, a man of remarkable learning and power. He is altogether my friend in this matter. Immediately after my death you must go to my cabinet in my sitting-room; you will find a letter there addressed to him. Take it to him and act in concert with him over this grave matter."
"But what is the secret?" I asked.
"Listen. I was present, but unknown, a fortnight back, at a secret conference between the President of the French Republic and the agent of the Czar of Russia. The substance of what I heard was that in the event of war between England and the Transvaal, Russia and France would—but come closer. No, do not write anything, for Heaven's sake! it would not be safe. Listen, and do not forget. There are three generals of the French Army, General Romville, General——"
There was a sudden movement at the door, a few words of entreaty and expostulation fell on our ears, and the next instant a tall girl, with evidences of great excitement on her face, burst into the room.
The name of General Romville must have fallen on her ears. She rushed to the bedside, and the horror on her face was painful to witness.
"I am in time," she said. "Send him away, Maurice, and tell me what you want. Tell me what has burdened your last moments!"
She fell on her knees by the dying man's side and buried her face in her hands. Escott gave her a glance of despair. Then he looked at me, and then a sudden change came over his face. His lips made an effort to speak, but no words were audible. His breath came in hurried gasps and then stopped. He was dead.
"You have killed him!" I said, turning to the girl and speaking in hot anger. "Why did you force yourself into the room? You do not know what you have done."
"I know perfectly well," she replied. She had risen to her feet. Her face was as white as the white face of my dead friend. "I meant to be with him at the very end," she said. "I had the right."
I stared at her in consternation.
"He was telling you something important when I entered the room," she continued. "It was a secret. Now listen. That secret was meant for me. I know what it was about, for I caught the words 'General Romville.' Will you tell it to me now, for it is my right to know."
Her words were interrupted by the nurse, who entered the room.
"Mr. Escott is dead," I said, turning to the woman. "The entrance of this young lady was the final shock—you had no right to admit her."
"I told Mademoiselle what the consequences would be," said the nurse. "She went to the sitting-room first. What were you doing, mademoiselle? How did you come by the key of my master's cabinet? I found it on the floor."
"Give it to me," I said eagerly.
The nurse handed it to me without a word. As she did so Mademoiselle regarded her with grave, wide-open eyes. There was a half-despairing, half-vindictive expression on her face. Notwithstanding the fact that I had just lost my dearest friend, it was the sort of look to haunt a man, to fill him with uneasiness.
I left the room where Escott lay dead and went straight to his sitting-room. The first thing I did was to walk to the cabinet and open it. I meant to take out the letter which he had told me I should find there, the letter addressed to M. Laroque. Search as I would, I could not see it anywhere. I opened drawer after drawer. Had the strange girl, whose name I did not even know, taken it?
This thought had scarcely come to me before the door was opened and she came in.
"Mr. Phenays," she said, "I have come to ask your pardon. Please forgive me if I spoke with intemperance. The fact is, I was very much upset at seeing you in the room with Maurice Escott. I wanted to be alone with him during his last moments. I had my reason."
"Whatever that reason was, mademoiselle," I replied, "I still very deeply regret your having burst into the room in the intemperate way you did; but, however much we may deplore it, we cannot call the dead back to life. Now, I have a question to ask you. The nurse said she found the key of this cabinet on the floor; she further said that you had been in the room. Did you open the cabinet and take from thence a letter? If you did, please return it to me immediately. It was entrusted to me by my friend, and was addressed to a man he had business connections with."
"I took no letter," she answered haughtily. "What do you take me for?"
"You are a stranger to me," I answered. "Your actions since you came into this house have astonished me; forgive me if I am over-suspicious."
"You had better know at once who I am," she replied. "My name is Francesca Delacourt. My father, who is dead, was a Frenchman, but my mother was English. I have known Mr. Escott for a long time. I can scarcely realise that he is dead. Whatever secret he told you was meant for me. May I share the confidence which he gave you on his deathbed?"
"I have nothing whatever to tell you," I answered. "I should be glad if you would leave me now, for I am upset and shocked."
"I will certainly go," she replied. "As to your being shocked, if you know what I think you know, you have reason for your emotion."
She turned, walked to the door, went out, and closed it behind her.
I was alone, and I tried to collect my troubled thoughts. Escott had died without having told me his secret. The letter which he had written to M. Laroque could not be found. Mademoiselle Delacourt seemed to be mixed up in the affair. I distrusted her. I felt certain, that, although she denied it, she had really stolen the letter which was addressed to M. Laroque. What that letter contained, God only knew. It was terrible to feel that my poor friend's most dangerous secret might have got into wrong hands. An agent of the British Secret Service is a man scarcely to be envied; he becomes acquainted with matters which touch big interests, often affecting the welfare of nations. Escott declared that his was a most dangerous secret; he was about to tell it to me, when death, caused by Mademoiselle Delacourt's abrupt entrance, prevented him.
I was musing on these thoughts when the doctor arrived. He was an Englishman, with a clever face, of about forty years of age. I told him that his patient was dead.
"I expected it," was his answer. "Did you arrive in time, Mr. Phenays?"
"Yes and no," was my answer. "He sent me a wire, as, perhaps, you know; he had something to confide in me, but died before his confidence was complete."
"Indeed! How sad! Where are you staying?"
"I was going to the Continental. I must return to London immediately after the funeral."
"Pray make my house your home, Mr. Phenays. I have apartments in the Rue St. Honoré. Bring your things, for we shall be quite quiet."
After a moment's thought I decided to accept this invitation. I went, therefore, that afternoon to Thesiger's rooms, and in the evening the doctor and I dined together. During the meal I asked him a few questions with regard to my dead friend.
"Did you know Escott well? Did you see much of him?" was my first query.
"A good deal," replied Dr. Thesiger. "He was always rather a reserved sort of fellow, but he often came over here to smoke and have a chat. During the last few weeks he seemed to be seriously troubled and to have something weighing on his mind."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and I think that something lessened his chance of recovery. When I told him yesterday that his illness was likely to take a serious turn, he immediately asked me to wire for you. I am sorry you were not in time to receive his confidence."
"Alas! I was not."
Thesiger gave me a keen glance; his eyes met mine—I saw a gleam of curiosity in them.
"There was a great deal of mystery about him, poor fellow," he continued. "He never even told me what his business was. Was he conscious at the end?"
"Yes," I said slowly.
"And yet he did not relieve his mind?"
"He was prevented."
"How?"
"A girl forced her way into the room."
"Mr. Phenays! A girl? What girl?"
"Mademoiselle Francesca Delacourt."
"Ah! I know Mademoiselle Delacourt. What do you mean?"
"She rushed in uninvited. My friend was interrupted in an important confidence; her entrance agitated him. He passed away a moment later."
Thesiger's face looked grave and stern.
"Do you know this young lady?" I asked.
"Yes; I think everyone does. She is a beautiful and clever woman. Her father belonged to one of the best old French families. She goes everywhere; her beauty and position give her the entrée wherever she wills."
"Do you like her, doctor?"
"Yes," he replied, but I noted a certain reserve in his tone.
"You mean 'No,' Dr. Thesiger," I said boldly.
"You may take my answer then to mean both 'Yes' and 'No,’" was his reply.
"Please tell me exactly what you know about her."
"I should advise you, Phenays, to have nothing to do with her. She is said to have the power of arousing keen interest in most men to whom she accords her friendship. It is rumoured that she has considerable political influence, and that her greatest friends belong to the Diplomatic Corps."
"The Diplomatic Corps!" I replied.
"Yes."
I sat silent, but a thrill of mingled pain and fear had run through me. Could Mademoiselle really know Escott's secret? Had she interrupted his confidence on purpose? At that moment a servant entered with a card on a salver. Thesiger glanced at it and then, with a curious smile on his face, handed it to me. It bore the name of Mademoiselle Francesca Delacourt.
"This is curious," I said.
"I will go and see what she wants," said the doctor. "If she should have learnt that you are here, Phenays, and asks to see you, what shall I say?"
"I will see her," I replied.
Thesiger was absent a minute or two. His face looked grave when he returned.
"Mademoiselle has managed to trace you here," he said. "With what motive I am unable to say. She wishes to see you immediately. Will you give her an interview? You are, of course, at liberty to refuse."
"I will see her," I said.
"If you will take my advice, Phenays, you will be careful."
"I shall be very careful," I answered.
Thesiger now led the way to his library. He opened the door for me, and I entered.
Mademoiselle was standing in the shade of a lamp. She wore full dinner dress, covered with a long opera cloak, lined with rich silk of a rosy hue.
"Nothing but the utmost necessity, Mr. Phenays, would make me intrude myself on you at a moment like this," she began.
"Your business?" I interrupted.
"I will tell you in as few words as possible. You were a great friend of Mr. Escott's, were you not?"
"His greatest friend, mademoiselle."
"May I ask if you had any idea as to the nature of his profession?"
As Mademoiselle uttered these words I watched her face closely. Notwithstanding all her efforts to wear a mask of utter indifference, I noticed on her smooth young features an expression of anxiety, joined to what might almost be called fear.
"I certainly knew about my friend," I answered. "But, pardon me, what affair is it of yours?"
"I will soon explain. Please listen. Mr. Escott was a member of the British Secret Service. You know that fact, so do I. Less than an hour before I reached his house I received an urgent message from him to come at once, as he had a matter of the utmost importance to tell me. I came on the scene just too late; he was giving you his confidence. Did he say anything about me?"
"He did not."
"Then did he tell you that secret of great importance."
"I decline to discuss the question, mademoiselle."
Her eyes flashed an angry fire and her face hardened.
"Mr. Phenays," she said earnestly, "you are unknowingly putting yourself into danger. I use the word advisedly; it is my duty to warn you. The Secret Service requires much of its votaries. The communication Mr. Escott made to you was not a pleasant one for you to receive; he only told you because I was not present. Beyond doubt his instructions were that you were to deliver the message to me."
"You are mistaken," I answered. "Those were not his instructions."
As I spoke I walked to the door and held it wide open.
"I think, mademoiselle, our conference has come to an end."
To my amazement she changed colour, the hard look left her face, her eyes filled with tears, which rolled over and ran down her cheeks.
"I spoke hastily," she exclaimed. "I am always hasty, always excitable, unfit, most unfit for that which—which I have undertaken; but you are so cold, so suspicious. Why do you not trust me . Do you think I would injure him?"
"I will be truthful with you," I replied. "My friend was about to confide a secret to me, but your entrance prevented it ever reaching his lips. I shall never know what he wanted to say. It was your fault. He sought to relieve his mind, and the secret may have been of consequence—that I am unprepared to say. I have never heard it; it can, therefore, never be imparted to you."
She smiled.
"Do you really think that I believe you?" she answered. "Did I not with my own ears hear words to convince me of the contrary? You will be sorry for this. Are you leaving Paris at once?"
"After the funeral."
She gave me a curious stare, but did not speak. Without offering her hand she left the room.
On the day of the funeral I received a letter. It was directed in a strange hand, was enclosed in a black-edged envelope, and bore the mark of a Paris suburb. The words in it were typewritten, and were, in the French tongue. They ran as follows:—
"We are well aware that your friend, before he died, told you his secret. Understand that if you divulge that secret to the British Government, or if in any way it reaches their ears, you are a dead man. No human precautions and no human laws can possibly protect you. We shall know at once by the steps the British Government will take on receipt of the intelligence whether they have learnt the secret or not. Therefore Beware."
I read this strange letter twice, at first with bewilderment, then with growing interest. One of two things had happened: either I was the victim of a pitiable and laboured jest, or I had received a threat of some seriousness. In either case, the letter, being anonymous, must be disregarded. My thoughts naturally flew to Mademoiselle Delacourt. Could she have written the letter? I dismissed the notion as impossible. But if she were not the author, who was? for who else knew that I was with Escott?
Just then the words the poor fellow had said on his deathbed recurred to my memory.
"My life has been in great danger, and that danger I hand to you when I tell you my secret."
A shudder ran through me.
"I must consult my London lawyer about this," I said to myself, and I rose from my chair in Thesiger's sitting-room with the intention of packing my things. Just then a servant entered with a letter.
"By messenger, sir," he said briefly.
I tore open the letter. It was in a handwriting quite unknown to me.
"Another anonymous communication," I said to myself. "What does it mean?"
I turned quickly to the signature of the second letter, and then I gave a start of relief. The letter was headed "Château Laroque," and at the end was the signature "Edouard Laroque." These were the contents of the letter:—
"My Dear Sir,
"I have just heard, to my infinite distress, of my friend Escott's death. I received a letter from him a few days ago telling me that he was about to send for you in order to entrust a secret of great importance to your keeping. Now, as I know all about the matter, I am anxious to see you at once. My house is situated four kilometres outside the village of Bévallon. A train leaves the Gare du Nord for Bévallon at five o'clock this evening, arriving at the village at six o'clock. If you can make it convenient to come by that train, a carriage shall meet you and bring you at once to my château. Pray do not delay, as the matter is of great urgency.
Yours faithfully,
"Edouard Laroque."