only there can you pick up a living. The police have nothingagainst either of us, so what have we to fear?"
"Recognition by one or other of our dupes. Play wasn't all straight,you'll remember."
"Bah!" cried Zertho with impatience. "What's the use of meeting troublehalf-way? You never used to have a thought for the morrow in the olddays. But, there, you're respectable now," he added, with a slightsneer.
"If I go South I shall not play," Brooker said, decisively. "I've givenit up."
"Because you've had a long run of ill-luck--eh?" the other laughed."Surely this is the first time you've adopted such a course. I mighthave been in the same unenviable plight as yourself by now if myrespected parent had not taken it into his head to drop out of this sickhurry of life just at a moment when my funds were exhausted. One day Iwas an adventurer with a light heart and much lighter pocket, and on thenext wealthy beyond my wildest expectations. Such is one's fortune.Even your bad luck may have changed during these months."
"I think not," Brooker answered gravely.
"Well, you shall have a thousand on loan to venture again," his oldpartner said good-naturedly.
"I appreciate your kindness, Zertho," he answered, in a low tone,smiling sadly, "but my days are over. I've lost, and gone under."
The prince glanced at him for an instant. There was a strange glint inhis dark eyes.
"As you wish," he answered, then walking to a small rosewood escritoirewhich stood in the window, he sat down and scribbled a cheque, payableto his friend for five hundred pounds. Brooker, still smoking, watchedhim in silence, unaware of his intention. Slowly the prince blotted it,folded it, and placing it in an envelope, returned to where his visitorwas standing.
"I asked you to take Liane from all the painful memories of StratfieldMortimer. Do so for her sake, and accept this as some slightcontribution towards the expense. Only don't let her know that it comesfrom me."
Brooker took the envelope mechanically, regarding his friend steadily,with fixed gaze. At first there was indecision in his countenance, butnext instant his face went white with fierce anger and resentment. Hishand closed convulsively upon the envelope, crushing it into a shapelessmass, and with a fierce imprecation he cast it from him upon the floor.
"No, I'll never touch your money!" he cried, with a gesture, as ifshrinking from its contact. "You fear lest Liane should know that youare attempting to buy her just as you would some chattel or other which,for the moment, takes your fancy. But she shall know; and she shallnever be your wife."
"Very well," answered Zertho, with a contemptuous smile, facing theCaptain quickly. "Act as you please, but I tell you plainly, once andfor all, that Liane will many me."
"She shall not."
"She shall!" declared the other, determinedly, looking into his faceintently, his black eyes flashing. "And you will use that cheque forher benefit, and in the manner I direct, without telling her anything.You will also bring her to Nice, and stand aside that I may win her,and--"
"I'll do nothing of the sort. I'd rather see her dead."
Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited. Upon his darksallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil lookwhich his companion had only seen once before.
"Listen, Brooker," he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing closeto him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that nonemight hear them save himself.
"Good God! Zertho!" cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips,and glaring at him. "Surely you don't intend to give me away?" hegasped, in a hoarse, terrified whisper.
"I do," was the firm reply. "My silence is only in exchange for yourassistance. Now you thoroughly understand."
"Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret! My God!" hegroaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in anattitude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face withtrembling hands.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE MISSING MARIETTE.
In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless. Alone in hisdingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house inClifford's Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen fromits once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily intothe fire. In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; astrange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder,whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortunefor her sake.
She had been nearly three months abroad, and although she had writtenweekly there was an increasing coldness about her letters which sorelypuzzled him. Twice only had they met since he left the Court--on thetwo evenings she and her father had spent in London on their way to theContinent. He often looked back upon those hours, remembering everytender word she had uttered, and recalling the unmistakable light oflove that lit up her face when he was nigh. Yet since she had been _ensejour_ on the Riviera her letters were no longer long and gossipy, butbrief, hurriedly-written scribbles which bore evidence that she wrotemore for the fulfilment of her promise than from a desire to tell of herdaily doings, as lovers will.
A dozen times he had read and re-read the letter, then lifting his eyesfrom it his gaze wandered around the shabby room with its ragged leatherchairs, its carpet so faded that the original pattern had been lost, itstwo well-filled bookcases which had stood there and been used by varioustenants for close upon a century, its panelled walls painted a dulldrab, and its deep-set windows grimy with the soot of London. The tworooms which comprised this bachelor abode were decidedly depressing evenon the brightest day, for the view from the windows was upon a smallpaved court, beyond which stood the small ancient Hall, the same inwhich Sir Matthew Hale and the seventeen judges sat after the Great Firein 1666, to adjudicate on the claims of landlords and tenants of burnedhouses, so as to prevent lawsuits. An ocean of chimneys belched around,while inside the furniture had seen its best days fully twenty yearsbefore, and the tablecloth of faded green was full of brown holes burntby some previous resident who had evidently been a careless cigarettesmoker.
George drew his hand wearily across his brow, sighed, replaced theletter slowly in its envelope, examined the post-mark, then placed it inhis pocket.
"No," he said aloud, "I won't believe it. She said she loved me, andshe loves me still."
And he poked the fire vigorously until it blazed and threw a welcomelight over the gloomy, dismal room.
Suddenly a loud rapping sounded on the outer door, and risingunwillingly, expecting it to be one of his many friends of the"briefless brigade," he went and opened it, confronting to his surprisehis father's solicitor, Harrison.
"Well, George," exclaimed his visitor, thrusting his wet umbrella intothe stand in the tiny cupboard-like space which served as hall, andwalking on uninvited into the apartment which served as office andsitting-room. "Alone I see. I'm glad, for I want ten minutes' chatwith you."
"At your service, Harrison," Stratfield answered, in expectation of afive-guinea brief. "What is it? Something for opinion?"
"Yes," answered the elder man, taking a chair. "It is for opinion, butit concerns yourself."
George flung himself into the armchair from which he had just risen,placed his feet upon the fender and his hands at the back of his head,as was his habit when desiring to listen attentively.
"Well," he said, sighing, "about that absurd provision of the old man'swill, I suppose? I'm comfortable enough, so what's the use of worryingover it?"
"But it is necessary. You see, I'm bound to try and find this woman,"the other answered, taking from his pocket some blue foolscap whereonwere some memoranda. "Besides, the first stage of the inquiry iscomplete."
"And what have you discovered?" he asked eagerly. "I placed the matterin the hands of Rutter, the private inquiry agent, whose report I havehere," answered the solicitor. "It states that no such person as MadameLepage is living at 89 Rue Toullier, Paris, but the concierge remembersthat an elderly
lady, believed to be a widow, once occupied with herdaughter a flat on the fourth floor. The man, however forgets theirname, as they only resided there a few months. During that time thedaughter, whom he describes as young and of prepossessing appearance,mysteriously disappeared, and although a search was instituted, she wasnever found. There was no suspicion of suicide or foul play, but thepolice at the time inclined to the belief that, possessing a voice abovethe average, she had, like so many other girls who tire of the monotonyof home life, forsaken it and obtained an engagement at some obscurecafe-concert under an assumed name. Rutter, following up this
If Sinners Entice Thee Page 13
