The Mysterious Three

by William Le Queux

knewshe must be there against her will, that eventually she would explainall. And seeing what I had seen of Violet, I felt equally sure thatcircumstances which she too could not prevent were responsible for herpresence.

  I suppose most men who self-complacently term themselves "men of theworld," would have laughed outright at what they would have called my"blind belief in innocence," had the circumstances been related to them.For here were two young girls mixing with the lost souls of MonteCarlo, and apparently enjoying themselves. On the face of it, myconfidence seemed quixotic, I admit, but there are times when I trust myinstinct rather than even circumstantial evidence. And up to now myinstinct has generally proved correct.

  This was no time for deliberate thought, however. I knew I must actquickly, and for once I was able to come to a decision with remarkablepromptitude. Obviously Paulton and the Baronne were there in hiding.They knew they were liable at any moment to be arrested. And, thanks toJudith, I had discovered their place of concealment.

  "You know there is a warrant out for the arrest of you both," I said,facing them fearlessly. "I can at once inform the police of yourwhereabouts--or I can say nothing. It is for you to decide which Ishall do."

  The Baronne looked at me, as I thought, imploringly.

  "If Vera Thorold comes away with me at once, and you undertake neveragain to molest her, your secret will remain safe, so far as I amconcerned. If you refuse to let her come, then you will be arrested atonce."

  The tables were, indeed, strangely turned. A few days previously thesetwo adventurers had held me at their mercy, and Faulkner too. Now Icould dictate to them what terms I chose.

  I saw a look of dismay enter Violet de Coudron's eyes, and I guessed thereason of it. She and Vera had become close friends, and now Vera wasto go from her. It seemed dreadful to leave a young, beautiful, refinedgirl like Violet in the control of these ghouls, yet I could not suggesttheir surrendering her too, for was she not the Baronne's niece? Andwas the Baronne actually a Baronne--or was she merely an adventuress? Ihad looked up her name and family in the "Almanack de Gotha," and sheseemed to be all right, but still--

  Then an idea came to me. I would, with Vera's help, and Faulkner's, tryto steal the girl away if she should express a wish to leave thoseunhealthy and unholy surroundings. It would be almost like repayingPaulton and the Baronne in their own coin. These and other thoughtssped through my mind with great rapidity.

  "Well," I said quickly, addressing Paulton again, "what is your answer?Am I to betray your whereabouts, or not?"

  He still hesitated, still loth to decide. Then suddenly he exclaimedabruptly--

  "Take her. I shall be even with you soon, never fear. I shall be evenwith you in a way you don't expect."

  I smiled, thinking his words were but a hollow taunt. Later, however, Ialso realised to the full that his had been no empty boast.

  The two girls left the room, and both returned wearing hats and sealskincoats over their evening gowns. Then, linking my arm in that of mybeloved, we descended the stairs together.

  At last she was saved from that scoundrelly gang who seemed to hold herso completely in their clutches, she was still mine--mine!

  At Judith's suggestion we walked back to where the ball was in progress.As a matter-of-fact I was undecided how next to act. Besides, I wantedto see Faulkner, who was awaiting me.

  So we went back, and seated with Vera and Judith, I had a long chat withthe latter, about many things. She told me much that interested me.Paulton and the Baronne ran this establishment, as I had guessed, andoften made it their headquarters. They had several assumed names. Theyhad run similar secret gaming-houses in Paris, Ostend, Aix andelsewhere. In this particular house they lived in a big, well-furnishedflat overlooking the harbour of Monaco. Vera and Violet had each abedroom, and shared a sitting-room. Since they had met for the firsttime, some weeks previously, they had become great friends--in factalmost inseparable. Both had been staying at the Chateau d'Uzerche whenthe fire had broken out, and she, Judith, had been there too. It hadbeen Vera's voice we had heard calling for help before we suspected thealarming truth. She had been overcome by smoke in her own room--it wasjust before that she had called for help--and almost stifled. No liveshad been lost. There had been only five servants at D'Uzerche thatnight, and they had all escaped. The Baronne had, it seemed, escaped byturning sharp to the right into a lumber-room, almost directly she hadrushed out of the room. From the lumber-room she had scrambled througha skylight on to the roof, entered another skylight immediately above arusty iron fire staircase, the existence of which everybody else hadforgotten, and so made her way out of the building in safety.

  I inquired about the man and woman struggling in the dark.

  She smiled when I referred to this, and, pulling up her short sleeve--itreached barely to her elbow--displayed several horizontal streaks of adeep purple which looked like bruises.

  "I was that woman," exclaimed Judith quietly. "The man was Dago, andthese are the marks his fingers left upon me when he gripped me andfought with me. Are you surprised I have to-night so readily betrayedhis hiding-place?"

  "Not so very readily," I said, thinking of the sum of which she hadmulcted me before she would speak at all.

  Guessing my thoughts, she laughed.

  "Still, m'sieur," she said, "you will admit that you have received fullvalue for your money, _n'est-ce-pas_?"

  During this conversation, carried on in one of the ante-rooms withinearshot of the music in the ballroom, Vera sat almost in silence. Igrew to understand the woman Judith better, indeed almost to like her.She said little about herself, though I questioned her frequentlyconcerning her own life. She seemed more inclined to talk of otherpeople, and their doings. One thing I did gather was that she belongedto a gang of male and female adventurers, who probably stood at nothingwhen they had an end to gain. To this gang belonged also the Baronne,Paulton and Henderson. Whether Sir Charles Thorold was, or was not, insome way mixed up in this gang's schemes I could not ascertain forcertain, though several times I tried to. For about Sir Charles andLady Thorold, Judith seemed unwilling to speak.

  I had a long and confidential chat with Vera. Ah! that hour was perhapsfull of the sweetest happiness of my life. She was mine--mine! It waspast three in the morning when we paused for a few moments in ouranimated conversation. "Ah, here comes your friend," exclaimed my sweetbeloved.

  Faulkner, passing the open door, had caught sight of us and strolled in.Violet de Coudron was with him. She looked dreadfully tired, Ithought, though this did not greatly detract from her very exceptionalbeauty.

  Briefly, I told Faulkner all that had happened.

  "It is fortunate we are not conventional," he said lightly, when I hadoutlined my plan. "What food for scandal some people would find in allthis. I think, after all, that our visit here to-night has not beenwholly unprofitable--eh? You may be surprised to hear that this newfriend of mine"--and he indicated Violet de Coudron, seated besidehim--"has arranged to leave the Baronne for good and all. She tells meshe leads an awful life here, and that when Vera is gone--"

  "But you have known Vera only a few weeks," I interrupted, addressingViolet.

  "Yes," she answered sadly, with her pretty accent, "and those are theonly weeks of comparative happiness I have had. I couldn't stay herewith these people without her. I couldn't. I really couldn't. Oh, ifyou only knew all I have been through--all I have been forced to enduresince the Baronne adopted me!" And she hid her face in her hands.

  "Adopted you!" I exclaimed. "You said you were the Baronne's niece."

  "I said so--yes. I always said so, because she made me, and I passedalways as her niece. But I am not. I can scarcely remember my parents.All I can recollect is that they were very poor--but oh, so kind to me!I remember their kissing me passionately one day, with tears streamingdown their cheeks--it was evening, and nearly dark--and telling me thatthey had to go away from me, that probably we should never mee
t again inthis world."

  "How old were you then?" I asked, much interested.

  "I could not have been more than six, possibly seven. It was in Rouen.They took me to a big, fashionable street I did not remember having everbeen in before, kissed me again and again once more, stood me by the_porte-cochere_, and rang the bell. Then they went hurriedly away. Bythe time the bell was answered, they had disappeared. I was questionedby a tall man-servant--after that, I don't exactly recollect whathappened, except that the Baronne adopted me. She lived in the bighouse."

  "And it was in Rouen, you say?"

  "Yes, in Rouen."

  "Do you think you would recognise it if you saw the outside of itagain?" I asked quickly.

  She paused.

  "I think I should," she said thoughtfully, "though we did not stay therelong--not more than a few months. Why do you ask?"

  "Only," I answered, "because I have an idea. But now let us leave thisplace. It is nearly four o'clock."

  Yes, we were a truly unconventional quartette.

  The hotel people were surprised, on the following morning, to find oneof our two rooms occupied by two fair visitors, while in the otherFaulkner and I slept, tucked up together. But in gay, reckless Montenobody is surprised at anything.

  That an attempt would at once be made to discover Violet's whereaboutsand get her back, we knew. For that reason we had arranged to leave forParis by the mid-day _rapide_.

  CHAPTER TWENTY.

  CONCERNS A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT.

  London--the dear, dirty old city of delight--looked gloomy enough as wepassed out of Charing Cross yard, and made our way around the corner tothe _Grand Hotel_. It was a damp, raw evening, and after the crispatmosphere and bright sunshine of the Riviera, seemed to us more thanordinarily depressing.

  By wire we had engaged rooms at the _Grand_ for Vera and Violet,overlooking Trafalgar Square, and we now began to wonder what our nextstep ought to be. I wanted, if possible, to get into communication withSir Charles and Lady Thorold, for I was anxious not to delay my marriageany longer, and Vera, though she had promised to become my wife as soonas possible, refused to do so until she had seen her parents.

  But where were her parents?

  She had no idea, neither had I. We had telegraphed to the address inBrighton where they had been staying, but an intimation had come fromthe Post Office that the message had not been delivered, the addresseehaving left.

  As for Faulkner, he was distrait. Something seemed to be on his mind,and I thought I knew what it was. He was engaged to be married toGladys Deroxe, of whom Vera had, during the past day or two, let dropcertain things.

  Gladys Deroxe, she had confided to me among other things, was one of themost jealous women she had ever met. Her jealousy amounted almost to anobsession. When I heard this I breathed a fervent hope that Faulknermight never marry her, for I have seen something of jealous wives amongmy friends. What was weighing upon Faulkner's mind, of course, was thathe had brought Violet to London with him, and that, as Miss Deroxe livedin Mayfair, she might at any moment get to hear of this, and then?

  Another thought occurred to me now, for the first time. Had myunemotional, phlegmatic friend fallen in love with Violet de Coudron,the foundling?

  She was pretty and fascinating enough for any one to fall in love with.Personally, I thought Faulkner would do well to marry her in preferenceto Gladys, who I gathered to be something of a schemer, with an eye tothe main chance. Vera had come to know Miss Deroxe quite by accident.At first she had liked her, but soon she had begun to discover her truecharacter. Violet on the contrary, she liked immensely. Yet girls formstrange prejudices.

  Thus a week of anxiety passed. The two girls remained at the _Grand_,while I stayed at my rooms, and Faulkner slept at his club. Though hedid not tell me, I knew he had not informed Gladys of his return totown. Therefore he must have felt somewhat perturbed, though, as washis wont, he completely hid his feelings, when one morning as I waswalking with him up Hamilton Place a taxi swept up behind us, stoppedbeside the kerb, and a rather florid-looking girl, leaning out of thecab window, called in a loud, querulous voice--

  "Frank! _Frank_!"

  Before he presented me to her I had guessed her identity, and I saw at aglance that she was none too well pleased at his being in London withouther knowing it.

  "I was calling upon my uncle Henry," she said presently, "and chanced tolook out of the window, when I saw you go by. I was amazed. I thoughtyou were on the Riviera still. So I hurried out, hailed a taxi, andpursued you. Why didn't you tell me you were back?"

  He invented on the spot some excellent reason--I forget what it was--andit seemed to satisfy her. And then, feeling that my presence was notneeded, I made an excuse, raised my hat, and left them.

  "I am only glad," I remembered saying mentally and ungrammatically, "itis Faulkner, and not I, who is to marry that girl."

  Next day, I took my well-beloved in the car down to Virginia Water,where we lunched, and returned in the afternoon. That evening I, asusual, scanned the personal columns of the _Morning Post_. I have ahabit of doing this, as some of the announcements one sees there are notdevoid of humour.

  That day the personal columns were singularly dull. The advertisementsof money-lenders masquerading as private gentlemen, and as ladiesanxious to be philanthropic, occupied a good deal of the space. Therewas the widow of twenty-three who implored "some kind-hearted gentleman"(sic) "to lend her twenty pounds to save her from the bailiffs;" a "ladyof high social standing, closely related to an Earl," who touted for thechaperonage of debutantes, willing to pay for the privilege of beingsurreptitiously smuggled into Society; a crack-brained inventoradvertising for some one to finance a new torpedo for destroying Germanbands, or something of the kind, and so on. There was nothing at allexciting. Why, I can't say, but quite a commonplace line at the foot ofthe second column interested me. It ran--

  "_Meet me_ 2."

  That was all--no name, no address, no date. Why I had noticed it atall, I could not imagine. I concluded it must be the extreme brevity ofthe advertisement that had caught my fancy.

  Next morning, it being dry and fine, I called at the _Grand Hotel_, andtook Vera for a run in the car to Hatfield, returning by St. Albans. Welunched at Pagani's--one gets so tired of the sameness of the ordinaryrestaurants--and after that I left Vera at the hotel, and sent my car tothe garage.

  Somehow I felt in a restless mood, and the atmosphere of well-bredrespectability pervading the club oppressed me, as it so often does. Iam afraid that the older I grow the more Bohemian I become, and the lesswilling to bend to convention. It seems to me farcical, for instance,that in this twentieth century of ours, a rule made fifty years ago tothe effect that "pipes shall not be smoked in this club," should stillbe enforced. Plenty of the younger members of the clubs where this ruleobtains have endeavoured to rebel, but in vain. The Committee havesolemnly pointed out to such free-thinking and independent spirits thattheir fathers and grandfathers got on quite well without smoking pipesin the club, and that if their fathers and their grandfathers didwithout pipes, they ought to be able to do without pipes too--in theclub. Oh, yes, they were at liberty, if they liked, to smoke cigarettesat five a penny all over the house, but never tobacco in a pipe, even ifthey paid half-a-crown an ounce for it.

  The conversation of the only two occupants of the smoking-room--try as Iwould, I could not help listening to it--wearied me so intensely that Igot up at last and went out. I strolled aimlessly up the street toPiccadilly, then turned to the left. Many thoughts filled my mind as Irambled along, and when, presently, I found myself at Hyde Park Corner,I decided I would stroll down into Belgravia and see if a new caretakerhad been installed at the house in Belgrave Street in place of poor oldTaylor.

  To my surprise the house was boarded up. Nearly every window wasboarded, even the top-floor windows. It looked like a house in whichpeople have died of some plague.

  I found the policem
an on the beat, and questioned him. Inclined atfirst to be sullen and uncommunicative, he became cordial andconfidential soon after my fingers had slipped a coin into his hand.

  "So you haven't heard anything about number a hundred and two," he saidsome moments later. "About here it's causin' a bit o' talk."

  "Indeed? In what way?"

  He paused, as though reflecting whether he ought to tell me.

  "Well, sir, it's like this," he said at last. "The 'ouse is, as you'veseen, boarded up, and there's nobody living there but--"

  "Yes? But what?"

  "Well, for the last eight nights there's been a light in a window on thefirst floor."

  "A light? But how could you see a light if there were one, with thewindows boarded up?"

  "Oh, it can be seen right enough, through the chinks between theboards."

  "Who has seen it?"

  "I have--and others also."

  "Is it always in the same window?"

  "Not always in the same window, but always on the same floor. Ah, no!On two nights there was a light on the second floor too."

  "And at what time is it seen?"

  "Very late--not before two in the morning, as a rule."

  "And how long does it remain?"

  "Sometimes for five or ten minutes, sometimes as much as half-an-hour,or more. Three nights ago two windows were lit up at one-twenty andremained lit until two-fifty-five."

  "And do you mean to say nobody goes into the house or comes out of it?"

  "Nobody. Nobody at all.