The Mysterious Three

by William Le Queux

are to meet Vera."

  "You quite mistake my meaning," I said. "I say we are a pair of fools--I am more to blame perhaps than you--for being coerced by a chit of agirl into promising to stay here, as though we were a pair of schoolboysput `on their honour.' It is downright silly, to say the least. Yet wemust not break our _parole_--eh?"

  I liked Faulkner. His spirit, and his way of saying what he thoughtamused me. One meets so few men nowadays with pluck enough to say whatthey really think and mean.

  The young girl, whose name was Violet--Violet de Coudron--spread thewhite cloth, laid the table, and herself brought in our dejeuner. Whatposition did she occupy in the house, we both wondered. Surely theremust be servants, and yet... where was Vera?

  "You have to stay here until to-morrow," she said, when we had begun ourmeal--the cooking was excellent, and the wine was above reproach.

  "And, until then, you are under my supervision. Those are my orders."

  "Your orders, received from whom--eh?" I asked.

  "Mademoiselle Thorold wishes it."

  "Were we brought here yesterday, or when?" Faulkner asked presently.

  "About two o'clock this morning."

  "And what was this grim joke?"

  "That I may not tell you, m'sieur," she replied. "Indeed, I couldn'ttell you--for I don't know. Miss Thorold knows."

  "Who lives here usually?" I asked. "The Baronne?"

  "She is rarely here. But that is enough. I cannot answer morequestions. Is there anything else that I can get you?"

  Nothing else we needed, except tobacco, and she brought us that. Verygood tobacco it was, too.

  Wearily the day passed, for though the room we were in waswell-furnished, there were few books in it. We could, of course, havegone out of the room, out of the house probably, but our pretty littlewardress had placed us on _parole_.

  Whether or not the house was occupied, even whether there were servantsin it, we could not tell. And the matter did not interest us much.What we should have liked to know was, why we had been brought there,still more, how Vera Thorold and Gladys Deroxe were faring in ourabsence. During the past weeks my life seemed to have been made up of aseries of mysteries, each more puzzling than the last. I wasdistracted.

  During the afternoon, while sitting together, very dejected, we suddenlycaught the faint sound of a female voice singing.

  Both of us listened. It was Vera's voice, a sweet contralto, and shewas singing, as though to herself, Verlaine's "Manoline," that sweetharmonious song--

  "Les donneurs de serenades, Et les belles ecouteuses, Echangent des propos fades Sous les ramures chanteuses.

  "C'est Tircis et c'est Aminte Et c'est l'eternel Clitandre Et c'est Damis qui pour mainte cruelle Fait maint vers tendre."

  The girl brought us tea presently, and, late in the evening, a plaindinner. The room was lit by petrol-gas. Each time she stayed with us alittle while, and we were glad to have her company. She was, however,exceedingly discreet, refusing to make any statement which might throwlight upon the reason of our confinement.

  How strange it all was. Vera did not appear. We laughed at our ownweakness and our own chivalry.

  She showed us the bedroom where we were to sleep. Beautifully andexpensively-furnished, it had two comfortable-looking beds, while alog-fire burnt cheerily in the grate--for the evening after the sunshinewas singularly chilly in the mountains.

  "If Vera does not come by mid-day to-morrow," Faulkner said, as weprepared to get into bed, "I shall break my _parole_ and set out todiscover where she is. Our pretty friend is all very well, but mypatience is exhausted. I'm not in need of a rest cure just at present."

  We had both been asleep, I suppose, for a couple of hours, when Isuddenly awoke. The room was in total darkness, but somehow I "felt"the presence of some stranger in the room. At that instant it flashedin upon me that we had left the door unlocked. Straining my ears tocatch the least sound, I held my breath.

  Suddenly a noise came to me, not from the room, but from somewhere inthe house. It was a cry--A cry for help! Sitting bolt upright in thebed, I remained motionless, listening intently. I heard it again. Itwas a woman's cry--but this time fainter--

  "Help! _Help_!" sounded in a long drawn-out gasp--a gasp of despair.

  Something moved in the darkness. Again I "felt," rather than heard it.My mouth grew dry, and fear, a deadly fear of the unknown, possessed me.

  "Who is there?" I called out loudly.

  There was no answer, but the sound of my voice gave me courage. Istretched my arm out in the darkness, meaning to reach over toFaulkner's bed and prod him into wakefulness, when by chance I touchedsomething alive.

  Instantly a cold, damp hand gripped my own, holding it like a vice, anda moment later I was flung down on my back on the bed, and held therefirmly by a silent, unseen foe.

  In vain I struggled to get free, but the speechless, invisible Thingpressing me down in the darkness, kept me pinned to the bed! I wasabout to cry out, when a third hand closed about my throat, preventingme. It was a soft hand--a woman's hand. Also, as it gripped me, afaint perfume struck my nostrils, a perfume familiar to me, curious,rich, pungent.

  And then, almost as I stopped struggling, the room was suddenly floodedwith light.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

  WITHIN AN ACE.

  Slowly I realised that Paulton was bending over me, holding me down.

  The Baronne de Coudron, upon the opposite side of the bed, had her thin,strong sinewy hands upon my throat. Beside the gas-jet a yard or twoaway, Faulkner stood with his hand still holding the little chain he hadpulled in order to turn on the light.

  Nobody spoke.

  The Baronne, removing her hands from me, stood upright, big and strong,gazing down upon me still. She wore an elaborate kimono made of somesoft pink Eastern material. Paulton was in evening clothes, oneshirt-cuff was turned back.

  "You should have taken my advice, m'sieur," the Baronne said in her deepvoice, addressing Dago Paulton. She spoke quite calmly.

  Instead of answering, and without loosening hold, he half-turned,apparently undecided what to do, until his eyes rested upon Faulkner.Then suddenly, to my surprise, he released me. I got up.

  "Faulkner, come here," he said sharply.

  The young man--he was in the blue pyjamas he had found laid out upon thebed when Violet de Coudron had shown us into the bedroom--looked quietlyat the speaker for a moment or two, then answered with the utmostsang-froid--

  "I'm not your servant, hang you! Don't speak to me like that."

  "You may not be my servant, but I now control your movements," Paultonretorted quickly. "Therefore you will please do what I order. I takeit that you know that I brought you and Ashton over here."

  "Naturally."

  "Have you any idea why?"

  "None."

  "Then I will tell you. Listen."

  He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him, looked withinterest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood together a yard or twoaway from them.

  "For some months past," Paulton said, watching me with an unpleasantexpression, "you have been on intimate terms with the Thorolds."

  "Really," I answered, shortly, "I can't see what concern that is ofyours. I have known the Thorolds intimately for a good many years.Perhaps you will tell me your reason for the extraordinary liberty youtook last night in bringing us here. I consider it a grossimpertinence."

  "Impertinence!" he laughed. "Let me tell you both," he said, "that youhave to thank this lady," he turned slightly to indicate the Baronne,"for being alive to-day. When I brought you here I intended thatneither of you should ever again be heard of. Your disappearance wouldhave made a stir, no doubt, but the stir would not have lasted; youwould soon have been forgotten here. Dead men tell no tales. But theBaronne interfered."

  "I'm sure we feel deeply grateful," I answered ironically. "One wouldthink we were conspirators, or criminals, by the way you talk
. So faras I'm aware, I never set eyes on you until last night in the _Hotel deParis_."

  "Quite likely," he replied, "but that is beside the point. You possessinformation you have no right to possess. You know the Thorolds'secret, and until your lips are closed I shall not feel safe." Ah! thatremarkable secret again! What on earth could it be? That was thethought that flashed across my mind, but I merely answered--"You can'tsuppose I shall reveal it?"

  He smiled coldly.

  "Not reveal it, man, when you know what is at stake! You must think mevery confiding if you suppose I shall trust your bare assurance. As Ihave said, I intended to--to--well, to close both your mouths."

  "Why Faulkner's," I asked.

  "Because he is to marry Gladys Deroxe, who is so friendly with VeraThorold, who is to be my wife. Vera knows too much, and may have toldher little friend what she knows. I mistrust Vera's friends--even herfriends' friends. You understand?"

  "At that rate," I answered, growing reckless, "you will need to `remove'a good many people."

  "That is possible. It is for that reason--"

  "Oh, why talk so much!" the Baronne interrupted impatiently. "Tell himeverything in a few words, and have done with it!"

  "I will." He said fiercely, "You both stand in my way. I brought youhere last night to get rid of you. I came into this room some minutesago to carry out my plan. I was going to kill you both with ananaesthetic. Then the Baronne came in, threatening to wake you if Itried to do what I had said I should. I felt you touch me in the dark,I knew we had awakened you, and at once seized you--the Baronne heldyour throat to prevent your calling out. Then Faulkner sprang up andturned on the light and--"

  He paused, listening. There had been another cry for help, barelyaudible even in the stillness of the night. He glanced at hiscompanion. She too had heard it.

  They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to leave theroom. The cry had sounded so piteous that I should myself have rushedout to ascertain whence it came. Was it Vera's voice? Paulton was nearthe door, and to have passed him would have been impossible.

  Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy.

  "There is only one way," he went on, as though nothing had happened,"for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer even this, had notthe Baronne persuaded me to against my better judgment."

  "What is the way?"

  "You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you, Faulkner, mustwrite at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off your engagement. It is theonly alternative. Do you both agree?"

  Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one.

  "Is there no other way?" I asked at last in order to gain time.

  "None."

  "Then I refuse absolutely," Faulkner exclaimed hotly.

  "Your proposal is ridiculous," I declared with a grin.

  Paulton turned furiously on the Baronne.

  "I said what it would be!" he broke out with a curse. "Get out of myway!"

  She had sprung in front of him, but he pushed her aside. Again sherushed forward to stop his doing something--we had not guessed what itwas--and this time he struck her a blow in the face with his open hand,and with a cry she fell forward on to the bed.

  Beside myself, I leapt forward, but Faulkner was nearer to him and I sawhis fist fly out. I did not know then that Faulkner had won "friendlybouts" against professional light-weight boxers at the National SportingClub. It was a stunning blow, Faulkner's fist hit him on the mouth, atwhat boxers call the "crucial moment," that is, just before the armstraightens. Paulton reeled backward, his lower lip rent almost to thechin.

  His hand disappeared. Now it flashed out with a Browning pistol, but asthe shot rang out the woman leapt to her feet and struck his arm away.An instant later Faulkner was behind him deftly twisting his left arm sothat he bent backward with a scream of pain.

  I had wrested the weapon from him ere he could shoot again, and as Ihelped Faulkner to hold him down I realised the man's colossal strength.Mad with fury, and with blood pouring from his mouth, he struggled toget free. But the twisted arm that Faulkner still clutched tightly bythe wrist with both hands, kept him down. Suddenly he changed histactics. He had wormed himself half round on the floor, his teethclosed tightly upon Faulkner's right shoulder.

  "Twist his right arm--quick!" Faulkner shouted at me.

  I did so, and the man lay flat upon his back, his two arms screwed sotightly that I marvelled they did not break.

  The strange, warm smell that I had noticed in the room for the firsttime some minutes previously, and that had gradually grown stronger, wasnow so oppressive that it almost stifled us. Still holding down ourman, we both glanced about the room to find out whence it came, and nowwe noticed that the atmosphere was foggy, or so it seemed. The Baronnewas standing by us, staring down at Paulton, but not attempting in anyway to help him. Her gaze was dull, almost vacant. She seemedstupefied.

  An odd noise, as of distant roaring, sounded somewhere in the house. Itwas growing louder. All at once I saw the Baronne move quickly to thedoor. She listened for a moment, then turned the handle slowly.

  As the door opened a little way, a cloud of dense, yellow smoke sweptinto the room, choking and nearly blinding us. She slammed the door andlocked it.

  "_Dieu_!" she gasped, pale as death.

  And then, simultaneously, we knew the awful truth, that the chateau wason fire; that our only way of escape was made impassable by smoke.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  THE HARVEST OF FIRE.

  In face of Death human antagonism becomes suddenly absorbed in the madcraving for Life.

  The bitter hatred, the fearful rage, the furious struggle of the pastfew minutes were, in that instant, forgotten as though they had neverbeen. Speechless with terror we gazed hopelessly at each other. Ah! Ican see that picture still. Am I ever likely to forget it?

  The Baronne, deathly white, stood there a handsome figure, trembling inher wonderfully embroidered pink kimono, her eyes fixed and starting asthough madness were stealing into her brain. Paulton stood with hislips badly cut. Young Faulkner was erect and calm, with set teeth,blood spattered about his pyjamas, and an angry red wound showing at thespot where Paulton in his frenzy had bitten into his shoulder.

  Truly, it was a weird and terrible scene. I stood aghast.

  The fierce devouring roar in the house increased. It sounded like afurnace heard at night in the Black Country. Quickly the air grewthicker. Through the door, dark yellow, choking smoke percolated, thenrolled upward in spirals that became merged in the general atmosphere.

  We both slipped into our clothes hurriedly. Then Faulkner was the firstto act.

  Crossing quickly to the window, he pulled aside the curtains, thrustdown the handle, and pushed open both frames. A red, quivering glowflickered in the blackness of the night, revealing for an instant thelevel meadow far below, the trees silhouetted upon it, the outlines of adistant wood.

  Now he was kneeling on the broad window-sill of the long casementwindow, his body thrust far out. I saw him glance to right and left,then look down towards the earth. Slowly he drew back. Once more hestood amongst us.

  "We are pretty high up," he said, without any sign of emotion. "Thirtyfeet I should say."

  He looked about him. Then he went over to the beds, and pulled off allthe clothes.

  "Six blankets and six sheets--but I wouldn't trust the sheets, and theblankets are too short," he observed as though nothing unusual werehappening.

  A washstand, a couple of antique wardrobes, four chairs with high carvedbacks, a dressing-table and a smaller table, was all that the roomcontained besides the beds. He glanced up at the ceiling. It wassolid. He tore up the carpet. Beneath it was a loose board, hinged.He lifted it by the ring. Smoke rolled up into his face, and he slammedthe board down again, stamping his foot upon it. And at that instantthe gas suddenly went out.

  In the sky, the lurid light still ros
e and fell over the meadows andhills. The fierce roaring in the house grew louder. From a coverbeyond the lawn came the echo of crackling wood and cracking timber, butnowhere was a human voice audible.

  At this juncture, to my amazement, Faulkner calmly produced hiscigarette case, lit a cigarette, topped it and offered me one. I tookit without knowing what I did--I, who had so often pretended that in amoment of crisis I should never lose my head!

  "What's to be done?" I gasped, beside myself. "Where is Vera?" I knewthat in another moment I should be upon my knees, praying as I had onlyonce in my life prayed before. It is, alas, only at such times thatmany of us think of our Maker and invoke His aid. In the ordinarycourse of life prayers weary so many of us and we feel we do not needthem. I remember still, a typhoon off Japan, and how everybody prayedfervently. Yet when the seas subsided, and we felt safe once more, weall pretended we forgot how frightened we had been, and especially howwe had implored forgiveness for our sins and promised never to sinagain. We humans are, after all, but abject cowards.

  "There is nothing to be done, that I can see," Faulkner answered. Heglanced again at the beds, now naked of coverings, then up at thecurtain-pole over the window. He pulled over the smaller table, climbedon to it, then proceeded, leisurely as it seemed to me, to examine therings of the curtain-pole with the help of the bedroom candle he heldabove his head. Every second brought us nearer a terrible fate.

  "These are good stout hooks," he said, puffing smoke out of his nose."They