The Count's Chauffeur

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER VII

  THE LADY OF THE GREAT NORTH ROAD

  It occurred about a month after my return from Germany. A strangeaffair, assuredly; and stranger still that my life should have beenspared to relate it.

  After luncheon at the Trocadero I mounted into the car, a new fortysix-cylinder "Napier" that we had purchased only a week before, to driveto Barnack, an old-world Northamptonshire village near Stamford, where Ihad to meet the audacious rascal Count Bindo. From Piccadilly Circus,I started forth upon my hundred-mile run with a light heart, in keenanticipation of a merry time. The Houghs, with whom Bindo was staying,always had gay house-parties, for the Major, his wife, and Marigold, hisdaughter, were keen on hunting, and we usually went to the meets of theFitzwilliam, and got good runs across the park, Castor Hanglands, andthe neighbourhood.

  Through the grey, damp afternoon I drove on up the Great North Road,that straight, broad highway which you who motor know so well. Simmons,Bindo's new valet, was suffering from neuralgia; therefore I had lefthim in London, and, sitting alone, had ample time for reflection.

  The road surface was good, the car running like a clock, and on thelevel, open highway out of Biggleswade through Tempsford and Eaton Soconalong to Buckden the speed-indicator was registering thirty-five andeven forty miles an hour. I was anxious to get to Barnack before dark;therefore, regardless of any police-traps that might be set, I "let herrip."

  The cheerless afternoon had drawn to a close, and rain had begun tofall. In a week or ten days we should be on the Riviera again, amidthe sunshine and the flowers; and as I drew on my mackintosh I pitiedthose compelled to bear the unequal rigour of the English winter. Iwas rushing up Alconbury Hill on my "second," having done seventymiles without stopping, when of a sudden I felt that drag on thesteering-wheel that every motorist knows and dreads. The car refusedto answer to the wheel--there was a puncture in the near hind tyre.

  For nearly three-quarters of an hour I worked away by the light of oneof the acetylene head-lamps, for darkness had now fallen, and at last Irecommenced to climb the hill and drop down into Sawtry, the big Frenchlamps illuminating the dark, wet road.

  About two miles beyond Sawtry, when, by reason of the winding of theroad, I had slackened down to about fifteen miles an hour, I came tocross-roads and a sign-post, against which something white shone in thedarkness. At first I believed it to be a white dog, but next moment Iheard a woman's voice hailing me, and turning, saw in the lamp-light asI flashed past, a tall, handsome figure, with a long dark cloak over alight dress. She raised her arms frantically, calling to me. ThereforeI put down the brakes hard, stopped, and then reversed the car, untilI came back to where she stood in the muddy road.

  The moment she opened her mouth I recognised that she was a lady.

  "Excuse me," she exclaimed breathlessly, "but would you do me a greatfavour--and take us on to Wansford--to the railway?" And looking, I madeout that she held by the hand a fair-haired little lad about seven yearsof age, well dressed in a thick overcoat and knitted woollen cap andgloves. "You will not refuse, will you?" she implored. "The life of aperson very dear to me depends upon it." And in her voice I detected anaccent by which I knew she was not English.

  Seeing how deeply in earnest she was, and that she was no mere wayfarerdesirous of a "lift," I expressed my readiness to do her a favour, and,getting down, opened the door of the _tonneau_, removed the waterproofrug, and assisted the little lad and herself to get in.

  "Ah, sir, this kindness is one for which I can never sufficiently thankyou. Others may be able to render you some service in return," she said,"but for myself I can only give you the heartfelt thanks of a distressedwoman."

  In her refined voice there was a ring of deep earnestness. Who could shebe?

  The hood of her heavy, fur-lined cape was drawn over her head, and inthe darkness I could not distinguish her features. The little boyhuddled close to her as we tore on towards Wansford Station, herdestination, fifteen miles distant. The ceaseless rain fell heavier aswe entered the long, old-world village of Stilton, and noticing theyhad no mackintoshes, I pulled up before the "Bell," that well-known innof the coaching days where the York coaches changed horses.

  "You are not surely going to make a stop here, are you? No one must seeus. Let us go on!" she urged in apprehension.

  "But you can't go through this storm," I said. "No one shall see you.There is a little sitting-room at the side that we may have until therain has ceased." And then, with apparent reluctance, she allowed me tolead her and the boy through the old stone hall and into the little,low, old-fashioned room, the window of which, with its red blind, lookedout upon the village street.

  As she seated herself in the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, herdark, refined face was turned towards me, while the little lad stoodhuddled up against her, as though half afraid of me. That she was a ladywas at once apparent. Her age was about twenty-two, and her countenanceone of the most beautiful that I had ever gazed upon. Her dark, luminouseyes met mine with an expression half of innate modesty, half of fear.The white hand lying in her lap trembled, and with the other she strokedthe child's head caressingly.

  She had unhooked her dripping cloak, and I saw that beneath she wore awell-cut travelling-gown of pale-grey cloth that fitted admirably, andshowed off her neat figure to perfection. Her dress betrayed her foreignbirth, but the accent when she spoke was only very slight, a rolling ofthe "r's," by which I knew that she was French.

  "I'm so afraid that someone may see me here," she said, after a slightpause.

  "Then I take it, mademoiselle, that you are leaving the neighbourhood insecret?" I remarked in French, with some suspicion, still wondering whoshe might be. The boy was certainly not her child, yet he seemed toregard her as his guardian.

  "Yes, m'sieur," was her brief reply; and then in French she said, aftera pause, "I am wondering whether I can trust you further."

  "Trust me?" I echoed. "Certainly you can, mademoiselle." And taking outa card, I handed it to her, declaring my readiness to serve her in anyway in my power.

  She was silent for some moments.

  "To-morrow, or the next day, there will be a sensation in theneighbourhood where I joined you," she said at last.

  "A mystery, you mean?" I exclaimed, looking straight into her handsomeface.

  "Yes," she answered in a deep, hoarse voice. "A mystery. But," she addedquickly, "you will not prejudge me until you know--will you? Recollectme merely as an unhappy woman whom you have assisted, not as----" Shesighed deeply, without concluding the sentence.

  I saw that her splendid eyes were filled with tears--tears of regret, itseemed.

  "Not as what?" I inquired softly. "May I not at least know your name?"

  "Ah!" she said bitterly. "Call me Clotilde, if you like. The name willbe as good as any other--until you know the truth."

  "But, mademoiselle, you are in distress, I see. Cannot I do anythingelse for you now than merely dropping you at the roadside station? I amon my way to Stamford."

  "No," she sighed; "you can do nothing more at present. Only deny thatyou have ever met me."

  Her words puzzled me. At one moment I wondered if she were not someclever woman who was abducting the lad, and by whose plausible tale Iwas being led into rendering her assistance. And yet as I stood with myback to the fire gazing at her as she sat, I recognised a somethingabout her that told me she was no mere adventuress.

  Upon her finger was a magnificent ring--a coronet of fine diamonds thatflashed and sparkled beneath the lamp-light, and when she smiled at meher face assumed a sweet expression that held me in fascination.

  "Cannot you tell me what has occurred?" I asked at last, in a quiet,earnest voice. "What is the nature of the sensation that is imminent?"

  "Ah no!" she answered hoarsely. "You will know soon enough."

  "But, mademoiselle, I confess I should like to meet you again in London,and offer you my services. In half an hour we shall part."

  "Yes, we shall pa
rt; and if we do not meet again I shall always rememberyou as one who performed one of the greatest services a man can perform.To-night, m'sieur, you have saved my life--and _his_," she added,pointing to the little lad at her side.

  "Saved your lives? How?"

  "You will know one day," was her evasive reply.

  "And who is he?"

  "I regret that I am not permitted to tell you," she answered.

  At that instant heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and gruff voicesexchanged greetings.

  "Hark!" she gasped, starting to her feet in alarm. "Is the door locked?"

  I sprang to it, and, as the waiting-maid had left it slightly ajar, Icould see the new-comers. I closed it, and slid the bolt into itssocket.

  "Who are they?" she inquired.

  "Two men in dark overcoats and soft felt hats. They look likeforeigners."

  "Ah! I know!" she gasped, terrified, her face blanched in an instant."Let us go! They must not see me! You will help me to escape, won't you?Can I get out without them recognising me?"

  Was it possible that she had committed some crime, and they weredetectives? Surely this adventure was a strange and mysterious one.

  "Remain here," I exclaimed quickly. "I'll go out and prepare the car.When all is ready, I will keep watch while you and the boy slip out."

  I went forth into the pelting rain, took off the rugs from the seats,and started the motor. Then returning, and finding no one in thepassage--the two men having evidently passed on into the tap-room--Ibeckoned to her, and she and the lad stole softly along and out into theroadway.

  In a moment they were both in the car, and a few seconds later we weretearing along the broad road out of Stilton village at a pace that mighthave cost me a five-pound fine.

  What was the forthcoming "sensation"? Why was she flying from the twostrangers?

  She feared we might be followed, therefore I decided to drive her toPeterborough. We tore on through the biting wind and driving rain, pastWater Newton and Orton, until we drew up at the Great Northern Stationat Peterborough, where she descended, and for a moment held my hand ina warm grasp of heartfelt thankfulness.

  "You must thank this gentleman," she said to the lad. "Recollect thatto-night he has saved your life. They meant to kill you."

  "Thank you, sir," said the little lad simply, holding out his hand.

  When they had gone I remounted and drove away to Barnack, utterlydumbfounded. The fair stranger, whoever she was, held me in fascination.Never in all my life had I met a woman possessed of such perfect graceand such exquisite charm. She had fled from her enemies. What startlingevent had occurred that evening to cause her and the lad to take to theroad so ill-prepared?

  What was the "sensation" which she had prophesied on the morrow? Ilonged for day to dawn, when I might learn the truth.

  Yet though I chatted with the grooms and other outdoor servants atBarnack during the next day, I heard nothing.

  Over the dinner-table that evening, however, old Colonel Cooper, who haddriven over from Polebrook, near Oundle, related to the guests a strangestory that he had heard earlier in the day.

  "A mysterious affair has happened over at Buckworth, near the GreatNorth Road, they say," he exclaimed, adjusting his monocle andaddressing his hostess and Bindo, who sat on her right. "It seems that ahouse called 'The Cedars,' about a mile out of the village, has beenrented furnished by some foreigners, a man named Latour and his wifeand son, whose movements were rather suspicious. Yesterday they receivedthree visitors, who came to spend a week; but just before dinner one ofthe servants, on entering the drawing-room, was horrified to find bothher master and mistress lying upon the floor dead, strangled by thesilken cords used to loop up the curtains, while the visitors and thelittle boy were missing. So swiftly and quietly was it all done," headded, "that the servants heard nothing. The three visitors aredescribed as very gentlemanly-looking men, evidently Frenchmen, whoappeared to be on most intimate terms of friendship with their hostess.One of them, however, is declared by the groom to be a man he had met inthe neighbourhood two days before; therefore it would seem as though theaffair had been very carefully planned."

  "Most extraordinary!" declared Bindo, while a chorus of surprise andhorror went around the table. "And the boy is missing with theassassins?"

  "Yes; they have apparently taken him away with them. They say thatthere's some woman at the bottom of it all--and most probably," sniffedthe old Colonel. "The foreigners who live here in England are mostly aqueer lot, who've broken the laws of their own country and efface theiridentity here."

  I listened at the open door with breathless interest as the old fellowdiscussed the affair with young Lady Casterton, who sat next him, whilearound the table various theories were advanced.

  "I met the man Latour once--one day in the summer," exclaimed Mr.Molesworth, a tall, thin-faced man, rector of a neighbouring parish. "Hewas introduced to me at the village flower-show at Alconbury, when I wasdoing duty there. He struck me as a very pleasant, well-bred man, whospoke English perfectly."

  I stood in the corridor like a man in a dream. Had I actually assistedthe mysterious woman to abduct the child? Every detail of my adventureon the previous night arose vividly before me. That she had been awareof the terrible tragedy was apparent, for without doubt she was inleague with the assassins. She had made me promise to deny having seenher, and I ground my teeth at having been so cleverly tricked by apretty woman.

  Yet ought I to prejudge her when still ignorant of the truth, which shehad promised to reveal to me? Was it just?

  Next day, making excuse that I wished to test the car, I ran over to thesleepy little village of Buckworth, which lay in a hollow about twomiles from the sign-post where I had been stopped by Clotilde. "TheCedars" was a large, old-fashioned house, standing away from the villagein its own grounds, and at the village inn, where I called, I learnedfrom the landlord many additional details of how the three mysteriousvisitors had arrived in a station-fly from Huntingdon, how eagerly Mr.Latour had welcomed them, and how they had disappeared at nightfall,after accomplishing their object.

  "I hear it said that a woman is at the bottom of it all," I remarked.

  "Of course we can't say, sir," he replied; "but a little while ago Mr.Latour was seen several times by men working in the fields to meet, downat Alconbury Brook, a rather handsome, dark young lady, and walk withher."

  Was that lady Clotilde? I wondered.

  The inquest, held two days later, revealed nothing concerning theantecedents of the Latours, except that they had taken "The Cedars"furnished a year before, and very rarely received visitors. Mr. Latourwas believed to be French, but even of that nobody was certain.

  A week afterwards, after taking Bindo up to Nottingham, I returned toLondon, and watched daily for some communication, as Clotilde hadpromised. Weeks passed, but none came, and I gradually became more andmore convinced that I had been the victim of an adventuress.

  One afternoon, however, I received at my rooms in Bloomsbury a briefnote in a woman's handwriting, unsigned, asking me to call at an addressin Eccleston Street, Pimlico, that evening, at half-past nine. "I desireto thank you for your kindness to me," was the concluding sentence ofthe letter.

  Naturally, I kept the appointment, and on ringing at the door was shownup by a man-servant to a sitting-room on the first floor, where I stoodprepared again to meet the woman who held me entranced by her beauty.

  But instead of a woman there appeared two dark-faced, sinister-lookingforeigners, who entered without a word and closed the door behind them.I instantly recognised them as those I had seen in the passage of the"Bell" at Stilton.

  "Well? So you have come?" laughed the elder of the two. "We have askedyou here because we wish to know something." And I saw that in his handhe held some object which glistened as it caught my eye. It was a platedrevolver. I had been trapped!

  "What do you want to know?" I inquired, quickly on the alert against thepair of desperate ruffians.

  "A
nswer me, Mr. Ewart," said the elder of the two, a man with a greybeard and a foreign accent. "You were driving an automobile nearAlconbury on a certain evening, and a woman stopped you. She had a boywith her, and she gave you something--a packet of papers, to keep insafety for her. Where are they? We want them."

  "I know nothing of what you are saying," I declared, recollectingClotilde's injunction. "I think you must be mistaken."

  The men smiled grimly, and the elder made a signal, as though tosomeone behind me, and next instant I felt a silken cord slipped over myhead and pulled tight by an unseen hand. A third man had steppednoiselessly from the long cupboard beside the fireplace, to which myback had been turned.

  I felt the cord cutting into my throat, and tried to struggle and shout,but a cloth was clapped upon my mouth, and my hands secured by a secondcord.

  "Now," said the elder man, "tell us the truth, or, if not, you die. Youunderstand? Where is that packet?"

  "I know nothing of any packet," I gasped with great difficulty.

  "It's a lie! She gave it to you! Where did you take her to?"

  I was silent. I had given my promise of secrecy, and yet I was entirelyhelpless in their unscrupulous hands. Again and again they demanded thepapers, which they said she had given me to keep for her, and my denialonly brought upon me the increased torture of the cord, until I wasalmost black in the face, and my veins stood out knotted and hard.

  I realised, to my horror, that they intended to murder me, just as theyhad assassinated Latour and his wife. I fought for life, but mystruggles only tightened the cord, and thus increased my agony.

  "Tell us where you have put those papers," demanded the younger of thevillainous, black-eyed pair, while the third man held me helpless withhands of steel. "Where is the boy?"

  "I have no idea," I replied.

  "Then die," laughed the man with the grey beard. "We have given you achance of life, and you refuse to take it. You assisted her to escapeand you will share the fate of the others."

  I saw that to save myself was impossible, but with a superhuman effort Isucceeded in slipping the noose from my hands and hooking my fingers inthe cord around my throat. The fellow behind placed his knee in my back,and drew the cord with all his might to strangle me; but I criedhoarsely for help, and clung to the fatal cord.

  In an instant the two others, joined by a fourth, fell upon me, but bydoing so the cord became loosened, and I ducked my head. For a second myright hand was freed, and I drew from my belt the long Italian knifewhich I often carry as a better weapon in a scrimmage than a revolver,and struck upward at the fellow who had sentenced me to death. The bladeentered his stomach, and he fell forward with an agonised cry. Thenslashing indiscriminately right and left, I quickly cleared myself ofthem. A revolver flashed close to me, but the bullet whizzed past, andmaking a sudden dash for the door I rushed headlong down the stairs andout into the Buckingham Palace Road, still holding my knife, my handssmeared with the blood of my enemies, and the cord still around myneck.

  I went direct to the police-station, and within five minutes half adozen constables were on their way round to the house. But on arrivalthey found that the men, notwithstanding their severe wounds, had fled,fearing the information I should give. The owner of the house knewnothing, save that he had let it furnished a fortnight before to thegrey-bearded man, who had given the name of Burton, although he was aforeigner.

  The shock had upset my nerves considerably, but, accompanied by Blytheand Bindo, I drove the car down to Dover, took her across to Calais, andthen drove across France to Marseilles, and along the Riviera to Genoaand Pisa, and on to Florence--a delightful journey, which I hadaccomplished on three previous occasions, for we preferred the car tothe stuffy _wagon-lit_ of the Rome express.

  Times without number I wondered what was the nature of those documents,and why the gang desired to obtain possession of them. But it was all amystery, inscrutable and complete. And I told the Count nothing.

  Our season at Florence was a gay one, and there were many pleasantgatherings at Bindo's villa. The season was, however, an empty one asfar as _coups_ were concerned. The various _festas_ had succeeded oneanother, and the month of May, the brightest and merriest in Italy, wasnearly at an end, when one afternoon I was walking in the Cascine, theHyde Park of the Florentines, idly watching the procession of carriages,many of whose fair occupants were known to me. Of a sudden there passeda smart victoria-and-pair, among the cushions of which lolled the figureof a well-dressed woman.

  Our eyes met. In an instant the recognition was mutual, and she gave anorder to stop. It was the sweet-faced wayfarer of the Great NorthRoad--the woman who had enchanted me!

  I stood in the roadway, hat in hand, as Italian etiquette requires.

  "Ah! I am so pleased to meet you again," she said in French. "I havemuch to tell you. Can you call on me--to-night at seven, if you have noprior engagement? We have the Villa Simoncini, in the Viale. Anyone willdirect you to it. We cannot talk here."

  "I shall be delighted. I know the villa quite well," was my answer; andthen, with a smile, she drove on, and somehow I thought that the idlerswatching us looked at me strangely.

  At seven o'clock I was conducted through the great marble hall of thevilla, one of the finest residences on the outskirts of Florence, andinto the beautiful salon, upholstered in pale-green silk, where mypretty companion of that exciting run on the Great North Road rose togreet me with eager, outstretched hand; while behind her stood a tall,white-headed, military-looking man, whom she introduced as her father,General Stefanovitch.

  "I asked you here for seven," she said, with a sweet smile; "but we donot dine until eight, therefore we may talk. How fortunate we shouldmeet to-day! I intended to write to you."

  I gathered from her subsequent conversation that we might speak franklybefore her father, therefore I described to her the exciting adventurethat had happened to me in Eccleston Street, whereupon she said--

  "Ah! it is only to-day that I am able to reveal to you the truth,relying upon you not to make it public. The secret of the Latours muststill be strictly kept, at all hazards."

  "What was their secret?" I inquired breathlessly.

  "Listen, and I will tell you," she said, motioning me to a seat andsinking into a low lounge-chair herself, while the General stood astrideupon the bear-skin stretched before the English fire-grate. "Those mensought the life of one person only--the boy. They went to England tokill him."

  "And would have done so, Clotilde, had you not saved him," declared herfather.

  "It was not I," she said quickly. "It was Mr. Ewart, who snatched usfrom them. They were following, and we both should have shared the fateof the Latours had he not taken us up and driven us away. The thanks ofthe State are due to Mr. Ewart." And at that moment the little ladentered shyly, and, walking towards her, took her hand.

  "The State--what do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.

  "The truth is this," she said, smiling. "Little Paul, here, lived inEngland incognito as Paul Latour, but he is really His Royal Highnessthe Crown Prince Paul of Bosnia, heir to the throne. Because there was aconspiracy in the capital to kill him, he was sent to England in secretin the care of his tutor and his wife, who took the name of Latour,while he passed as their son. The revolutionists had sworn to kill theKing's son, and by some means discovered his whereabouts in England;whereupon four of them were chosen to go there and assassinate him. Bygood fortune I learnt the truth, and as maid-of-honour to the Queenresolved to say nothing, but to go alone to England in secret and rescuethe Crown Prince. The four conspirators had already left our capital;therefore I went in hot pursuit, travelling across Europe, and reachingLondon on the day before we met. I managed to overtake them, and,watching their movements, I travelled by the same train down toHuntingdon. On arrival there, while they were bargaining with a fly-manto take them on their fateful errand, I got into a cab and drove withall speed out to Buckworth. I had been there before, and knew the placewell. I crossed the lawn, entered th
e drawing-room by the French window,and found little Paul alone. The Latours were out, he said; so I inducedhim to leave the place with me without the knowledge of the servants. Idesired to see the Latours, and also to watch the movements of theassassins; therefore we hid in the wood close to the house at a spotwhere I had once met Latour secretly with a message from Her Majesty,who somehow mistrusted Latour's wife. In half an hour three of the menarrived, and were met by Latour, who had returned almost at the samemoment. They entered, carrying some hand-baggage with them, and I wascompelled to remain in hiding, awaiting an opportunity to speak withhim. At half-past seven, however, to my great surprise I saw them slipout one by one, and disappear into the wood close to where little Pauland I were hiding in the undergrowth. Then, suspecting something waswrong by the stealthiness of their movements, I crept across the groundsand re-entered the drawing-room from the lawn, where, to my horror, Ifound Latour and his wife lying dead. I saw that a tragedy had beenenacted, and, regaining the wood, hastened on with little Paul in theopposite direction, until I came to the Great North Road, and there metyou driving your car. They had heard from Latour that the child hadwandered out somewhere, and were, I knew, scouring the country for him.Only by your aid the Crown Prince was saved, and we came here intohiding, the King sending my father to meet me and to live here as hisson's protector."

  "But why did they kill the Latours?"

  "It was part of the conspiracy. Latour, who had recently been back inBosnia, had, they discovered, given information to the chief of policeregarding a plot against the Queen, and they, the revolutionists, hadcondemned both him and his wife to death."

  "And the packet which they demanded of me?"

  "It contains certain papers concerning the royal family of Bosnia,secrets which the revolutionists desire to obtain and publish," sheexplained. "The King, distrustful of those about him, gave the packetinto the hands of his faithful subject Latour, in England, and he, inpreference to putting it into a safe, which might attract the spies ofthe conspirators, kept it in a small cavity behind the wainscoting inthe drawing-room at Buckworth--a spot which he showed me, so that if anyuntoward event occurred I should at least know where the documents weresecreted. When I realised the terrible fate of the unfortunate Latourand noticed the disordered state of the room and study beyond, Isuspected that search had been made for them, and going to the spot Ipressed the spring, and, finding them still safe, secured them. Therevolutionists undoubtedly saw us leaving the inn at Stilton together,and believed that I had secured the documents as well as the boy, andthat I had probably, in my flight, handed them to you for safe keeping."

  "And the assassins? What has become of them?"

  "They returned to Bosnia when they had recovered from the wounds youinflicted, but were at once arrested on information supplied by me, andhave all four been condemned to solitary confinement for life--apunishment which is worse than death."

  Since that evening I have been a frequent visitor at the Stefanovitchs',who still live in Florence under the name of Darfour, and more than oncehas the little Crown Prince thanked me. The pretty, dark-eyed Clotildeand her father are quite popular in society, but no one dreams thatlittle Paul, who is so carefully guarded by the old General and histrusty soldier-servant, is heir to a European throne, or that his lifewas saved in curious circumstances by "the Count's chauffeur."