The Four Faces: A Mystery

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XXVI

  "THAT WOMAN!"

  Sir Roland, whose appearance the cap pulled over his eyes had partlydisguised, made a motion with his hand, enjoining silence. Then, linkingDulcie's arm in his, he walked slowly towards the saloon entrance. Iwalked beside them, but for the moment nobody spoke.

  We presently found ourselves in a small, deserted room, apparently acard room. Here, after carefully shutting the door, Sir Roland seatedhimself. Then he indicated the seats that he wished us each to occupy,for he was rather deaf.

  "It is unwise," he said, as he offered me a cigar, "ever to converseprivately on the deck of a steamer. Though I have travelled little bysea, I know that on board ship, especially on a small boat like this,voices carry in an extraordinary manner. Standing down wind of you, ondeck, some moments ago, I heard your remarks quite distinctly, in spiteof my deafness. I even recognized your voices--until then I did not knowyou were on board."

  "But why are you here, father?" Dulcie exclaimed. "When did you leaveEngland?"

  "I crossed the night before last. Connie wired to me to come atonce--she said in her telegram 'most urgent,' though she gave no reasonfor the urgency."

  "And have you seen her? Where is she now?"

  "I was to meet her in the lounge of the Hotel Bristol in Paris lastnight. Punctually at nine o'clock, the time arranged, I arrived there. Iwaited until nearly ten, and then a messenger arrived with a note. Itwas from her. She said in it that she had been telegraphed for to returnto England, that she was leaving by the night boat. She expressed deepregret, and said she hoped that I would come back to London as soon aspossible--and so here I am."

  Again, for some moments, nobody spoke. Dulcie was the first to break thesilence.

  "Father," she exclaimed impetuously, "are you really going to--are youstill determined to marry that woman?"

  Sir Roland stared at her.

  "'That woman'?" he said in surprised indignation. "Whom do you mean by'that woman'?"

  "Connie Stapleton, father," she answered, looking him full in the eyes."Have you the least idea who and what she is?"

  Sir Roland gazed at her aghast. Then, obviously controlling himself:

  "I know that she has done me the honour of accepting my offer ofmarriage," he replied, with cold dignity. "More than that, I don't askto know; her circumstances don't interest me; my fortune is amplefor both."

  Dulcie made a gesture of impatience.

  "For goodness' sake, father," she exclaimed, "how can you talk likethat? Connie Stapleton is--"

  She turned to me abruptly.

  "Oh, Mike," she said in a tone of great vexation, "tell himeverything--I can't."

  I cleared my throat to gain time to collect my thoughts. Sir Roland'srather dull stare was set upon my face inquiringly, though hisexpression betrayed astonishment and keen annoyance.

  "It's just this, Sir Roland," I said at last, bracing myself to face anunpleasant task. "You, Dulcie, and I too, have been completely taken inby Mrs. Stapleton. We believed her to be as charming as she certainly isbeautiful, we thought she was a lady, we--"

  "'Thought'!" Sir Roland interrupted, cold with anger. "I still considerher to be--"

  "Will you let me finish? I say we all thought that, I say we supposedthat Mrs. Stapleton was just one of ourselves, a lady, an ordinarymember of society. Then circumstances arose, events occurred whicharoused my suspicions. At first I tried to dispel those suspicions, notonly because I liked the woman personally, but because it seemed almostincredible that such a woman, mixing with the right people, receivedeverywhere, could actually be what the circumstances and events I havehinted at pointed to her being. But at last proof came along that Mrs.Stapleton was--as she is still--a common adventuress, or rather anuncommon adventuress, a prominent member of a gang of clever thieves, ofa clique of criminals--"

  "Criminals!" Sir Roland stormed, bursting suddenly into passion. Often Ihad seen him annoyed, but never until now had I seen him actually in anungovernable fury. "How dare you say the lady I am about to marryis--is--"

  "I have proofs, Sir Roland," I cut in as calmly as I could. "You maydoubt my word, you can hardly doubt the word of a famous Continentaldetective. He is on board. I will bring him here now."

  As I quietly rose to leave the room, I saw Sir Roland staring, halfstupidly, half in a passion still, from Dulcie to me, then back again atDulcie. Before he could speak, however, I had left the little room andgone in search of Victor Albeury. He was not in his cabin, nor was he inthe smoking-room, where men still sat playing cards, nor was he in thebig saloon. On the forward deck I found him at last, a solitary figureleaning against the stanchion rail, smoking his pipe, and gazingabstractedly out across the smooth sea, his eyes apparently focussedupon the black, far-distant horizon.

  Gently I tapped him on the arm, as he seemed unaware of my approach.

  "Well, Mr. Berrington," he said calmly, without looking round or moving,"what can I do for you?"

  "Please come at once," I exclaimed. "Sir Roland and Miss Challoner arein the small saloon; we have been trying to explain to Sir Roland thatthe woman Stapleton is an adventuress. Probably you don't know that sheis engaged to be married to Sir Roland. He won't believe a word we say.We want you to come to him--to speak to him and open his eyes."

  It was no easy matter, however, to get the old man to believe evenAlbeury's calm and convincing assurance that Connie Stapleton belongedto a gang of infamous people, some of whom we knew beyond question to becold-blooded assassins. It was due, indeed, largely to Albeury'sremarkable personality that in the end he succeeded in altering theopinion Sir Roland had held concerning this woman of whom he wasevidently even more deeply enamoured than we already knew him to be.

  "But she has been such a close friend of yours, Dulcie," he said atlast, in an altered tone. "If she is all that you now say she is, howcame you to remain so intimate with her all this time?"

  "She has tricked me, father, just as she has hoodwinked you," sheanswered, with self-assurance that astonished me. "And then she seemedsomehow to mesmerize me, to cast a sort of spell over me, so that I camealmost to love her, and to do almost everything she suggested. Bydegrees she got me in her power, and then she began to make proposalsthat alarmed me--and yet I was drawn to her still. Once or twice Mikehad warned me against her, but I had refused to believe his warnings. Itwas only two days ago that the crisis came. She didn't ask me to do whatshe wanted; she told me I _must_ do it--and then, all at once, thescales seemed to fall from my eyes. At last her true nature was revealedto me. It was an awful moment, father--awful!"

  Far into the night the three of us remained talking. At last, when werose to separate, Albeury turned to me.

  "I sleep with you in your cabin to-night, Mr. Berrington," he saidquietly. "And I have arranged that one of the stewardesses shall shareMiss Challoner's cabin. Nobody can tell what secret plans the members ofthis gang may have made, and it's not safe, believe me it isn't, foreither of you to spend the night unprotected. Locks, sometimes evenbolts, form no barrier against these people, some of whom are almostsure to be on board, though I haven't as yet identified any among thepassengers. You will remember that Lady Fitzgraham's cabin was ransackedlast week, though she was in it, and the door locked on the inside. Andpoor Preston--we can't risk your sharing his fate."

  These ominous warnings would assuredly have filled me with alarm, hadnot Albeury's calmness and complete self-possession inspired me with astrange confidence. Somehow it seemed to me that so long as he was nearno harm could befall either Dulcie or myself. Even Preston's presencehad never inspired such confidence as this clever and far-seeingdetective's presence had done ever since I had come to know him.

  But nothing happened. When I woke next morning, after a night of soundrest, the boat was steaming slowly into port.

  Together the four of us journeyed back to town, and for the first timefor many weeks I had an opportunity of a lengthy talk with Dulcie.Somehow her association with the woman Stapleton seemed to
havebroadened her views of life, though in all other respects she wasabsolutely unchanged. To me she seemed, if possible, more intenselyattractive and lovable than during the period of our temporaryestrangement--I realized now that we had during those past weeks been toall intents estranged. Perhaps, after all, the singular adventures shehad experienced--some which she related to me were strange indeed--hadserved some good purpose I did not know of. What most astonished me wasthat, during those weeks which she had spent in close companionship withStapleton, Gastrell, Lorrimer, and other members of the criminalorganization, nothing had, until quite recently, been said that by anypossibility could have led her to suppose that these friends of hers, asshe had deemed them to be, were other than respectable members ofsociety. Certainly, I reflected as she talked away now with the utmostcandour and unconcern, these people must constitute one of the cleverestgangs of criminals there had ever been; the bare fact that its memberswere able to mix with such impunity in exclusive social circlesproved that.

  Before the train left Newhaven I had bought a number of newspapers, butnot until we were half-way to London did it occur to me to look at anyof them. It was not long, then, before I came across an announcementwhich, though I had half expected to see it, startled me a little. Thereport of my supposed suicide was brief enough, and then came quite along account of my uneventful career--uneventful until recently. Turningto Dulcie, who, seated beside me, was staring out at the flying scenery,I handed her one of the papers, indicating the paragraph.

  "Good heavens, Mike!" she exclaimed when she had read it. "How awful!Supposing I had read that without knowing it to be untrue!"

  She held out the paper to Sir Roland.

  "Father, just read that," she said.

  He had heard me relate to Dulcie the story of my narrow escape in theforest near Martin d'Ablois, and I was pleased to see a smile at lastcome into his eyes, for since his cruel disillusionment he had lookedterribly depressed.

  "After all," I said as he put the paper down, "I am glad I returned toParis, if only because my doing so has saved you from this shock."

  "If I had read that, believing it to be true," he answered quietly, "theshock would probably have killed me."

  "Killed you!" I exclaimed. "Oh, no, Sir Roland, a little thing like thatwould not have killed you; a family like yours takes a lot ofkilling--the records in history prove that."

  He gazed at me with a strange seriousness for some moments. At last hespoke.

  "Michael," he said, and there was an odd catch in his voice, "I wonderif you have the remotest conception of the strength of my attachment toyou. I don't believe you have. And yet I could hardly be more attachedto you than I am if you were my own son."

  When, after parting from Sir Roland and Dulcie in London--they were toreturn to Holt direct--I arrived with Albeury at my flat in South MoltonStreet, I found a stack of letters awaiting me, also several telegrams.Simon, my man, was expecting me--I had telegraphed from Newhaven--butalmost directly he opened the door I noticed a change in his expression,and to some extent in his manner. Deferential, also curiously reserved,he had always been, but now there was a "something" in his eyes, a lookwhich made me think he had something on his mind--something he wished tosay to me but dared not say.

  I had sent Albeury into my study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass ofwine while I went up to my room to have a bath. Simon was still busywith my things when I came out of the bathroom, and, while I dressed, Itook the opportunity of questioning him.

  "What's amiss, Simon?" I asked lightly.

  He looked up with a start.

  "Amiss, sir?" he repeated, with obvious embarrassment.

  "I said 'amiss.' Out with it."

  He seemed, for some moments, unable to meet my glance. Then suddenly hefaced me unflinchingly.

  "Yes?" I said encouragingly, as he did not speak.

  "I'll tell you what's amiss, sir," he answered abruptly, forcing himselfto speak. "The day after you'd left, a peculiar-looking man called here,and asked to see you. When I told him you were not at home, he asked ifyou were out of town. I didn't answer that, sir, but I asked him quitepolitely if I couldn't give you any message. He answered No, that hemust see you himself. Then he started to question me, in a kind ofroundabout way, about you and your movements, sir."

  "I hope you kept your counsel," I exclaimed quickly, for, excellentservant though Simon, was, he occasionally lacked discretion.

  "Indeed I did, sir. Though I was quite courteous, I was a bit short withhim. The next day he come again, about the same time--it was close ondinner time--and with him this time was another man--a rather youngerman. They questioned me again, sir, quite friendly-like, but they didn'tget much change out of me. Yesterday they tried it on a third time--bothof them come again--and, well, sir, happing to put my hand into myjacket pocket soon after they were gone, I found these in it."

  As he spoke he dived into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope.Opening the envelope, he withdrew from it what I saw at a glance werebank-notes. Unfolding them with trembling hands, which made the notescrackle noisily, he showed me that he had there ten five-pound notes.

  "And they gave you those for nothing?" I asked, meaning to be ironical.

  "Well, sir, they didn't get anything in return, though they expectsomething in return--that's only natural. They said they'd come backto see me."

  "Did they say when they'd come back?"

  "To-day, sir, about the same time as they come yesterday and the daybefore." He pulled out his watch. "It's close on seven now. Perhaps youwill like to see them if they come presently, sir."

  "On the other hand, perhaps I shall not," I said, and I lit a cigarette."At the same time, if they call, you can tell me."

  "Certainly, sir--if anybody rings, I'll come at once and tell you."

  He shuffled for a moment, then added:

  "And these notes, sir; am I entitled to keep them?"

  "Of course you are. Anybody has a right to accept and keep a gift. Atthe same time, I would warn you not to be disappointed if, when you tryto cash them, you find the numbers have been stopped."

  Downstairs, with Albeury, I began to look through my correspondence. Thethird telegram I opened puzzled me.

  "_Is it all right?--Dick."_

  It had been awaiting me two days. Guessing that there must be a letterfrom Dick which would throw light on this telegram, I glanced quicklythrough the pile. I soon came to one addressed in his handwriting.

  I had to read it through twice before I fully realized what it allmeant. Then I turned quickly to Albeury.

  "Read that," I said, pushing the letter to him across the table.

  He picked it up and adjusted his glasses. A few moments later he sprangsuddenly to his feet.

  "My God! Mr. Berrington!" he exclaimed, "this is most serious! And itwas written "--he glanced at the date--"eight days ago--the very dayyou left London."

  "What is to be done?" I said quickly.

  "You may well ask," he answered. He looked up at the clock. "The policemust be shown this at once, and, under the circumstances, toldeverything that happened in France. I had hoped to be able to entrap thegang without dealing with Scotland Yard direct."

  For some moments he paced the room. Never since I had met him had I seenhim so perturbed--he was at all times singularly calm. I was not,however, surprised at his anxiety, for it seemed more than likely thatquite unwittingly, and with the best intentions, Dick Challoner had notmerely landed us in a terrible mess, but that he had certainly turnedthe tables upon us, leaving Dulcie and myself at the mercy of thisdesperate gang. On board the boat I had mentioned Dick to the detective,and told him about the cypher, and the part that Dick had played. He hadnot seemed impressed, as I had expected him to be, and without a doubthe had not been pleased. All he had said was, I now remembered: "It's abad thing to let a boy get meddling with a matter of this kind, Mr.Berrington"--he had said it in a tone of some annoyance. And now, itwould seem, his view had been the right one. What Dick had done
,according to this letter just received from him, had been to startadvertising in the _Morning Post_ on his own account--in the cypher codewhich he had discovered--serious messages intended for the gang and thatmust assuredly have been read by them. With his letter two cuttings wereenclosed--his two messages already published. As I looked at them againa thought flashed across me. Now I knew how it came about that myimpenetrable disguise had been discovered. Now I knew how it came aboutthat Alphonse Furneaux had been released from the room where Preston hadlocked him in his flat. And now I knew why the members of the gang hadleft the "Continental" so suddenly, scattering themselves probably inall directions, and why the woman Stapleton had dashed back to London.

  I caught my breath as my train of thought hurried on. Another thoughthad struck me. I held my breath! Yes, it must be so. Try as I would Icould not possibly deceive myself.

  Dick had unwittingly been responsible for the murder of George Preston!

  This was the most awful blow of all. Unconsciously I looked up at thedetective, who still paced the room. Instantly my eyes met his. He mayhave read in my eyes the horror that I felt, or the strength of myfeeling may have communicated my thought to him, for at once he stoodstill, and, staring straight at me, said in a tone of considerableemotion:

  "That boy has done a fearful thing, Mr. Berrington. He has--"

  "Stop! Stop!" I cried, raising my head. "I know what you are going tosay! But you mustn't blame him, Albeury--he did it withoutknowing--absolutely without knowing! And only you and I know that he isto blame. Dick must never know--never. Nobody else must ever know. Ifhis father ever finds it out, it will kill him."

  For some moments Albeury remained quite still. His lip twitched--I hadseen it twitch like that before, when he was deeply moved. At lasthe spoke.

  "Nobody shall ever know," he said in the same strained tone. He paused,then:

  "I must talk on your telephone," he exclaimed suddenly, turning to leavethe room.

  As he did so, Simon entered.

  "The two men are here, sir," he said. "I have told them you are quitealone. Shall I show them in?"