The House of Whispers

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XX

  TELLS OF FLOCKART'S TRIUMPH

  "What are you doing here at this hour?" Gabrielle's father demandedslowly, releasing her hand. "Why are you prying into my affairs?" He hadnot detected Flockart's presence, and believed himself alone with hisdaughter.

  The man's glance again met Gabrielle's, and she saw in his eyes adesperate look. To tell the truth would, she knew, alas! cause theexposure of her secret and her disgrace. On both sides had she suddenlybecome hemmed in by a deadly peril.

  "Dad," she cried suddenly, "do I not know all about your affairsalready? Do I not act as your secretary? With what motive should I openyour safe?"

  Without response, the blind man moved back to the open door, and,placing his hand within, fingered one of the long iron drawers. It wasunlocked, and he drew it forth. Some papers were within--blue,legal-looking papers which his daughter had never seen. "Yes," heexclaimed aloud, "just as I thought. This drawer has been opened, and myprivate affairs pried into. Tell me, Gabrielle, where is young Muriejust at present?"

  "In Paris, I believe. He left London unexpectedly three days ago."

  "Paris!" echoed the old man. "Ah," he added, "Goslin was right--quiteright. And so you, my daughter, in whom I placed all my trust--my--myonly friend--have betrayed me!" he added brokenly.

  "I have not betrayed you, dear father," was her quick protest. "To whomdo you allege I have exposed your affairs?"

  "To your lover, Walter."

  To Flockart, whose wits were already at work upon some scheme toextricate himself, there came at that instant a sudden suggestion. Hespoke, causing the old man to start suddenly and turn in the directionof the speaker.

  As the words left his lips he raised a threatening finger towardsGabrielle, a sign of silence to her of which the old man wasunfortunately in ignorance.

  "I think, Sir Henry, that I ought to speak--to tell you the truth,painful though it may be. Five minutes ago I came down here in order toget a telegraph-form, as I wanted to send a wire at the earliestpossible moment to-morrow, when, to my surprise, I saw a light beneaththe door. I----"

  "Oh, no, no!" gasped the girl, in horrified protest. "It's a lie!"

  "I crept in quietly, and was very surprised to find Gabrielle with thesafe open, and alone. I had expected that she was sitting up late,working with you. But she seemed to be examining and reading some papersshe took from a drawer. Forgive me for telling you this, but the truthmust now be made plain. I startled her by my sudden presence; and,pointing out the dishonour of copying her father's papers, no matter forwhat purpose, I compelled her to return the documents to their place. Ifold her frankly that it was my duty, as your friend, to inform you ofthe incident; but she implored me, for the sake of her lover, to remainsilent."

  "Mr. Flockart!" cried the girl, "how dare you say such a thing when youknow it to be an untruth; when----"

  "Enough!" exclaimed her father bitterly. "I'm ashamed of you, Gabrielle.I----"

  "I would beg of you, Sir Henry, not further to distress yourself,"Flockart interrupted. "Love, as you know, often prompts both men andwomen to commit acts of supreme folly."

  "Folly!" echoed the blind man. "This is more than folly! Gabrielle andher lover have conspired to bring about my ruin. I have had suspicionsfor several weeks; now, alas! they are confirmed. Walter Murie is inParis at this moment in order to make money out of the secret knowledgewhich Gabrielle obtains for him. My own daughter is responsible for mybetrayal!" he added, in a voice broken by emotion.

  "No, no, Sir Henry!" urged Flockart. "Surely the outlook is not so blackas you foresee. Gabrielle has acted injudiciously; but surely she isstill devoted to you and your interests."

  "Yes," cried the girl in desperation, "you know I am, dad. You know thatI----"

  "It is useless, Flockart, for you to endeavour to seek forgiveness forGabrielle," declared her father in a firm, harsh voice, "Quite useless.She has even endeavoured to deny the statement you have made--tried todeny it when I actually heard with my own ears her defiant declarationthat she was prepared to bear her shame and all its consequences! Lether do so, I say. She shall leave Glencardine to-morrow, and have nofurther opportunity to conspire against me."

  "Oh, father, what are you saying?" she cried in despair, bursting intotears. "I have not conspired."

  "I am saying the truth," went on the blind man. "You and your lover haveformed another clever plot, eh? Because I have not sight to watch you,you will copy my business reports and send them to Walter Murie, whohopes to place them in a certain channel where he can receive payment.This is not the first time my business has leaked out from this room.Only a short time ago certain confidential documents were offered to theGreek Government, but fortunately they were false ones prepared onpurpose to trick any one who had designs upon my business secrets."

  "I swear I am in ignorance of it all."

  "Well, I have now told you plainly," the old man said. "I loved you,Gabrielle, and until this moment foolishly believed that you weredevoted to me and to my interests. I trusted you implicitly, but youhave betrayed me into the hands of my enemies--betrayed me," he wailed,"in such a manner that only ruin may face me. I tell you the hard andbitter truth. I am blind, and ever since your return from school youhave acted as my secretary, and I have looked at the world only throughyour eyes. Ah," he sighed, "but I ought to have known! I should neverhave trusted a woman, even though she be my own daughter."

  The girl stood with her blanched face covered by her hands. To protest,to declare that Flockart's story was a lie, was, she saw, all to nopurpose. Her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! mostunfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt.

  Flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he utteredhe succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of hisfriendship both for father and for daughter. He urged forgiveness, butSir Henry disregarded all his appeals.

  "No," he declared. "It is fortunate indeed, Flockart, that you made thisdiscovery, and thus placed me upon my guard." The poor deluded manlittle dreamt that on the occasion when Flockart had taken him down thedrive to announce his departure from Glencardine on account of thegossip, and had drawn Sir Henry's attention to his hanging watch-chain,he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-keyattached. In his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask hisdaughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door.

  "Dad," she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tenderhand upon his shoulder, "won't you listen to reason? I assure you I amquite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you. I know youhave many enemies;" and she glanced quickly in Flockart's direction."Have we not often discussed them? Have I not kept eyes and ears open,and told you of all I have seen and learnt? Have----"

  "You have seen and learnt what is to my detriment," he answered. "Allargument is useless. A fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemiessecured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe.To-night Mr. Flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe,and with my own ears I heard you utter defiance. You are more devoted toyour lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of mypapers."

  "That is untrue, dad," protested the girl reproachfully.

  But her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, "I havealready told you my decision, which is irrevocable. To-morrow you shallleave Glencardine and go to your aunt Emily at Woodnewton. You won'thave much opportunity for mischief in that dull little Northamptonvillage. I won't allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you aretoo ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of myaffliction."

  "But, father----"

  "Go to your room," he ordered sternly. "Tomorrow I will speak with yourmother, and we shall then decide what shall be done. Only, understandone thing: in the future you are not my dear daughter that you have beenin the past. I--I have no daughter," he added in a voice harsh yetbroken by emotion, "for you have now proved yourself an enemy wo
rse eventhan those who for so many years have taken advantage of myhelplessness."

  "Ah, dad, dad, you are cruel!" she cried, bursting again into a torrentof tears. "You are too cruel! I have done nothing!"

  "Do you call placing me in peril nothing?" he retorted bitterly. "Go toyour room at once. Remain with me, Flockart. I want to speak to you."

  The girl saw herself convicted by those unfortunate words she hadused--words meant in defiance of her arch-enemy Flockart, but which hadplaced her in ignominy and disgrace. Ah, if she could only stand firmand speak the ghastly truth! But, alas! she dared not. Flockart, the manwho held her in his power, the man whom she knew to be her father'sbitterest opponent, a cheat and a fraud, stood there triumphant, with asmile upon his lips; while she, pure, honest, and devoted to thatafflicted man, was denounced and outcast. She raised her voice in onelast word of faint protest.

  But her father, angered and grieved, turned fiercely upon her andordered her from his presence. "Go," he said, "and do not come near meagain until your boxes are packed and you are ready to leaveGlencardine."

  "You speak as though I were a servant whom you've discharged," she saidbitterly.

  "I am speaking to my enemy, not to my daughter," was his hard response.

  She raised her eyes to Flockart, and saw upon his dark face a hard,sphinx-like look. What hope of salvation could she ever expect from thatman--the man who long ago had sought to estrange her from her father sothat he might work his own ends? It was upon her tongue to turn upon himand relate the whole infamous truth. Yet so friendly had the two menbecome of late that she feared, even if she did so, that her fatherwould only see in the revelation an attempt at reprisal. Besides, whatif Flockart spoke? What if he told the awful truth? Her own dear father,whom she loved so well, even though he had misjudged her, would bedragged into the mire. No, she was the victim of that man, who was apast-master of the art of subterfuge; the man who, for years, had livedby his wits and preyed upon society.

  "Leave us, and go to your room," again commanded her father.

  She looked sadly at the white, bespectacled countenance which she lovedso well. Her soft hand once more sought his; but he cast it from him,saying, "Enough of your caresses! You are no longer my daughter! Leaveus!" And then, seeing all protest in vain, she sighed, turned veryslowly, and with a last, lingering look upon the helpless man to whomshe had been so devoted, and who now so grossly misjudged her, shetottered out, closing the door behind her.

  "Has she gone?" asked Sir Henry a moment later.

  Flockart responded in the affirmative, laying his hand upon the shoulderof his agitated host, and urging him to remain calm.

  "That's all very well, my dear Flockart," he cried; "but you don't knowwhat she has done. She exposed a week or so ago a most confidentialarrangement with the Greek Government, a revelation which might haveinvolved me in the loss of over a hundred thousand."

  "Then it's fortunate, perhaps, that I discovered her to-night," repliedhis guest. "All this must be very painful to you, Sir Henry."

  "Very. I shall not give her another opportunity to betray me, Flockart,depend upon that," the elder man said. "My wife warned me againstGabrielle long ago. I now see that I was a fool for not taking heradvice."

  "Certainly it's a curious fact that Walter Murie is in Paris," remarkedthe other. "Was the revelation of your financial dealings made in Paris,do you know?"

  "Yes, it was," snapped the blind man. "I believed Walter to be quite agood young fellow."

  "Ah, I knew different, Sir Henry. His life up in London was not--well,not exactly all that it should be. He's in with a rather shady crowd."

  "You never told me so."

  "Because you did not believe me to be your friend until quite recently.I hope I have now proved what I have asserted. If I can do anything toassist you I am only too ready. I assure you that you have only tocommand me."

  Sir Henry reflected deeply for a few moments. The discovery that hisdaughter was playing him false caused within him a sudden revulsion offeeling. Unfortunately, he could not see the expression upon thecountenance of his false friend. He was wondering at that moment whetherhe might entrust to him a somewhat delicate mission.

  "Gabrielle shall not return here," her father said, as though speakingto himself.

  "That is a course which I would most strongly advise. Send the girlaway," urged the other. "Evidently she has grossly betrayed you."

  "That I certainly intend doing," was the answer. "But I wonder,Flockart, if I might take you at your word, and ask you to do me afavour? I am so helpless, or I would not think of troubling you."

  "Only tell me what you wish, and I will do it with pleasure."

  "Very well, then," replied the blind man. "Perhaps I shall want you togo to Paris at once, watch the actions of young Murie, and report to mefrom time to time. Would you?"

  A look of bright intelligence overspread the man's features as a newvista opened before him. Sir Henry was about to take him into hisconfidence! "Why, with pleasure," he said cheerily. "I'll startto-morrow, and rest assured that I'll keep a very good eye upon theyoung gentleman. You now know the painful truth concerning yourdaughter--the truth which Lady Heyburn has told you so often, and whichyou have never yet heeded."

  "Yes, Flockart," answered the afflicted man, taking his guest's hand inwarm friendship. "I once disliked you--that I admit; but you were quitefrank the other day, and now to-night you have succeeded in making adiscovery that, though it has upset me terribly, may mean my salvation."