Louis Tracy

“ Furneaux seemed to murmur to himself: "As I hoped!" And now the glitter of malice passed away from his softened eyes, his forehead flushed a little, out went his hand to Osborne, who, in a daze of misery, without in the least understanding why, mechanically shook it.
"Surely, Mr. Osborne," said Furneaux, "Miss Marsh would consider that a noble deed of you, if she knew it."
"She will never know it."
"Oh, never is a long time. One must be more or less hopeful. Unfortunately, I am compelled to inform you that I am here to arrest you——"
"Me? At last! For the murder?" ”

“ Never had a breath of scandal or notoriety attached itself to his name until he was dragged into lurid prominence by the stupefying event of that fatal Tuesday evening.
Those who knew him best had expressed sheer incredulity when they first heard of his contemplated marriage with the French actress. But a man's friends, as a rule, are the worst judges of his probable choice of a partner for life: and Rupert Osborne was drawn to Rose de Bercy because she possessed in superabundance those lively qualities and volatile charms in which he was himself deficient. ”

“ An important official at Scotland Yard must learn early the value of self-control. Consumed with a certain sense of the monstrous in this display of untimely mirth, Winter only gnawed a bristle or two of his mustache. He looked strangely at Furneaux, and they lingered together, loath to part, having still something bitter and rankling to say, but not knowing quite what, since men who have been all in all to each other cannot quarrel without some childish tone of schoolboy spite mingling in the wrangle. ”

“ It was on July the 3d that Rose de Bercy had been done to death!
When Clarke again walked onward his eyes were alight with a wild exultation. He was thinking:
"Now, Allah be praised, that I didn't show Furneaux this thing, as I nearly was doing!"
He reached his house with a sense of surprise—he had covered so much ground unconsciously, and the dominant thought in his mind was that the race was not always to the swift.
"Luck is the thing in a man's career," he said to himself, "not wit, or mere sharpness to grasp a point. Slow, and steady, and lucky—that's the combination. ”

“ Rupert rose and looked out of the window. He could not endure that another man should see the agony in his face.
"Are you in earnest?" he said, when he felt that his voice might be trusted.
"Dead in earnest, Mr. Osborne," came the quiet answer.
"You even advise me to adopt an alias?"
"Call it a nom de voyage," said Winter.
"I shall be horribly lonely. May I not take my valet?"
"Take no one. I suppose you can leave some person in charge of your affairs?"
"I have a secretary. But she and my servants will think my conduct very strange." ”

“ Rosalind laughed, with the quiet amusement of well-bred indifference.
"What a weird person!" she said.
And as their words passed beyond hearing, a hiss, like a snake's in the grass, rose from the shrubbery behind them, a hiss of venom intensely low, and yet loud enough to be heard by Furneaux, who, standing a little behind the lady of the ringlets, rubbed his hands together in silent and almost mischievous self-congratulation. ”

“ And Clarke knew the girl, too! It was Bertha Seward, the late cook of the murdered actress, Rose de Bercy.
Could he be mistaken as to Janoc? he asked himself. Could two men be so striking to the eye, and so alike—the lank figure, stooping; the long wavering legs, the clothes hanging loose on him; the scraggy throat with the bone in it; the hair, black and plenteous as the raven's breast, draping the sallow-dark face; the eyes so haggard, hungry, unresting. Few men were so picturesque: few so greasy, repellent. ”

“ I hate correcting your mistakes, because I fancy it does you good to discover them for yourself. Still, it is a pity to spoil a good cause. Mere professional pride forces me to warn you against liberating Osborne."
[pg 272] "Man alive, you try me beyond endurance. Do you believe I don't know the truth—that Rose de Bercy was your wife—that you were in that museum before the murder—that you.... Oh, Furneaux, you wring it from me. Get a pistol, man, before it is too late." ”

“ Oh, pity is strong in me, love is strong; but what is strongest of all is self-admiration, my worship of intelligence. And have I not made it impossible that you should be let free without conditions by my confession to you that it was my sister Pauline who killed the actress? I tell you again it was Pauline who killed her. It was not a murder! It was an assassination—a political assassination. Mademoiselle de Bercy had proved a traitress to the group of Internationals to which she belonged: she was condemned to death; the lot fell upon Pauline to execute the sentence ”

“ Something dreadful has happened to her—she speaks of the loss of some weapon—one cannot understand her ravings! And unless she sees you—her hands cannot be kept from destroying herself—Oh, lady! lady! Come to my sweet sister——"
Rosalind looked at him with the scared eyes of one who hears, yet not understands. There was a mad probability in all this, since Pauline might have discovered the loss of the daggers; and, in her present anguish of spirit, the thought that the man's story might only be a device to lure her into some trap never entered Rosalind's head. ”

“ But it has made no difference; and I have to dine with Lady Knox-Florestan, and go with her to the opera; and Osborne may be coming. They will think me a death's-head, and catch melancholy from me like a fever. I do not know why I dreamt it, and why I cannot forget. It seems rather strange. Is anything going to happen to me, really? Oh, inside this breast of mine there is a bell tolling, and a funeral moving to the tomb this afternoon. It is as if I had drunk of some lugubrious drug that [pg 172] turns the human bosom to wormwood. Is it my destiny to die suddenly, and lie in an early grave? ”

“ She noted the over-skirt of Chantilly, the wrap of Venetian lace on the girl's head, the white slippers, the roses disposed on her corsage with the harmless vanity of the artist's skill, all these that fixed stare ravenously devoured and digested while Rosalind took half a dozen slow steps.
"But seriously," she heard Osborne say, "what is your opinion of a love so apparently fickle and flighty as this of Osborne's?"
"Let me alone with your Osborne," Rosalind retorted with another little laugh. "A person of such a mood is merely uninteresting, and below being a topic. ”

“ If ever a man loved a woman then Osborne loved her, yet she had seen him in the arms of that dreadful creature, Hylda Prout. If ever a man had shown devotion by word and look, then Osborne was devoted to her, yet he had taken leave of her with the manner of one who was going to his doom. Ah, he spoke of "a felon's cell." Was that it? Was it true what the world was saying—that he had really killed Rose de Bercy? No, that infamy she would never believe. Yet Furneaux [pg 286] had arrested him—Furneaux, the strange little man who seemed ever to say with his lip what his heart did not credit. ”

“ The next afternoon at three o'clock an elderly lady arrived by the London train at Tormouth, and she, too, came to put up at the Swan.
Furneaux, at the moment of her arrival, was strolling to and fro on the pavement in front of the hotel, very shaky and old, a man with feeble knees, threadbare coat, and shabby hat—so much so that the manager had told the young person in the bar to be sure and send in an account on Saturday.
Giving one near, clear, piercing glance into the newcomer's face, round which trembled a colonnade of iron-gray ringlets, Furneaux was satisfied. ”

“ Then, with that curious omniscience which sometimes seemed to belong to the man, he sent a strange cry into the gloom.
"Are you anywhere about, Winter?"
Nor was there anything aggressive in the call. It was subdued, sad, touched with solemnity, like the voice of a man who had wept, and dried his eyes.
There was little delay before Winter appeared out of the shadow of his ambush.
"I am!" he said; he was amazed beyond expression, yet his colleague had ever been incomprehensible in some things.
"Windy night," said Furneaux, in an absurd affectation of ease. ”

“ Furneaux's mobile face instantly became alive with excitement.
"It was a long, thin dagger," he cried. "Something in the surgical line, I imagine. Who found it, and where?"
Some men in Winter's shoes might have smiled in a superior way. He did not. He knew Furneaux, profoundly distrusted Clarke.
"There is some mistake," he contented himself with saying. "Miss de Bercy was killed by a piece of flint, shaped like an ax-head—one of those queer objects of the stone age which is ticketed carefully after it is found in an ancient cave, and then put away in a glass case. ”

“ And now he has got hold of your Saracen dagger. But don't you fear him: I shall know how to foil him at the last; I alone have knowledge that will surely make him look a fool. Trust in me! I tell you so. But I can't help your being arrested—that must happen. Believe me, for I know. And let that once take place, and that Tormouth girl will never look at you again. I understand her class, with its prides and prejudices—she will never marry you—innocent or guilty—if you have once stood in the dock at an assize court. Such as she does not know what love is. ”

“ Osborne—and it really must have been stolen—and if that was the same stiletto that the deed was done with, then, the motive of the thief in stealing it was to kill Mademoiselle de Bercy with it. But why should one steal a weapon to commit a murder? And why should the murderer have chosen Mr. Osborne to steal his weapon from? Obviously, because he wanted to throw the suspicion upon him—in which case he would naturally leave the weapon behind as proof of Mr. Osborne's guilt. ”

“ Osborne took a step towards him, but Furneaux sprang out and banged the door. Winter caught the millionaire by the shoulder.
"I am as thoroughly in the dark as you," he said. "Perhaps not, though. I have a glimmer of light; you, too, will begin to see dimly when you have collected your thoughts. But you must let Furneaux have his way. It may not be your way—it certainly is not mine—but he never fails when he promises, and, at any rate, you must now be sure that no manner of doubt rests in the minds of the police where you are concerned. ”

“ You know that the Tsar comes to London from Windsor to-morrow? Well, read this," and Winter, with the impressive air of one who communicates a state secret, handed the Paris message.
"Ah!" muttered Clarke, gloating over the word "Anarchists."
"Now you understand," murmured Winter darkly. "Unfortunately these men are far too well acquainted with me to render it advisable that I should shadow them. So I shall accompany you to Charing Cross, point them out, and leave them to you. A live monarch is of more account than a dead actress, so you see now what confidence I have in you, Mr. Clarke." ”

“ They have to think something, and when there is only one thing for them to think, they think it—meaning well. It will blow over in time. Don't you worry."
"Oh, I!—What do I care what forty millions of vermin choose to say or think?"
She pouted her pretty lips saucily.
"Forty—millions—of vermin," cried Furneaux; "that's worse than Carlyle."
Hylda Prout's swift hands plied among her papers. She made no answer; and Furneaux suddenly stood up.
"Well, you will mention to the valet and the others how the matter stands as to Mr. Osborne. He is simply avoiding the crowd—that is all. Good-day." ”

“ He covered his eyes, but Furneaux, whose face was twitching curiously, laid a hand on his knee, and said in a low voice:
"Do not despair. You are not the only man in the world who suffers. I had reasons—and strong reasons—for acting in this manner. One reason was that I was uncertain of the depth of your affection for Miss Marsh, and I wished to be as certain as you have now made me."
"But how on earth could that concern you, the depth or shallowness of my affection for Miss Marsh?" asked Osborne in a white heat of anger and indignation. ”

“ The clothes Osborne wore have been produced long since. They were soiled by you two days after the murder, a fact which I can prove by half a dozen witnesses. Those which you wore to-night, which you are wearing now, are spotted with your victim's blood. I know, because I have seen them in your lodgings, and they can be identified beyond dispute by the man who sold them to you."
Suddenly he raised his voice.
"Winter! Quick! She has the strength of ten women!"
For Hylda Prout, hearing those fateful words, was seized with a fury of despair. ”

“ Hylda's eyes took fire at that last word.
"Go to your Home Secretary," she said with measured venom. "Much good may it do you! While you are being dismissed with platitudes I shall have rescued my affianced husband from jail."
"Dear me! this is most embarrassing. Your affianced husband?"
Furneaux cackled out each sentence, and looked alternately at Hylda and Rosalind. There was no mistaking his meaning. He implied that the one woman was callously appropriating a man who was the acknowledged suitor of the other.
Hylda laughed shrilly.
"That is news to you, Mr. Furneaux," she cried. ”

“ Dared she say "Yes," or must she persist in self-accusation?
"Janoc," thundered Winter, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't you see how she is suffering for your sake? Tell her, then, that you are as innocent as she of this murder?"
The dreamer, the man who would reform an evil world by force, had the one great quality demanded of a leader—he knew a man when he met him. He turned now to Pauline.
"My sister," he said in French, "this gentleman can be trusted. He is no trickster. I had no hand in the slaying of the traitress, just though her death might be." ”

“ But the strange lady's eyes were now like gimlets, with the very fire of youth burning in them, and it was with the sure fleetness of youth that she suddenly ran in a moment of opportunity from the yew to the gate, pushed it a little open, and slipped aside into a footpath that ran parallel with the lawn on which the "St. Briavels" diners were now strolling.
With equal suddenness, or equal disregard of appearance, Mr. Pugh, too, became young again, as if both, like Philemon and Baucis, had all at once quaffed the elixir of youth; and he was soon by the young-old lady's side on the footpath. ”

“ He had the semblance of a man who had lost all—for whom death had no terrors.
"Nevertheless, I tell you that I forecasted the result of your interview with Hylda Prout," persisted Furneaux. "Even now I do not see your reason for despair. I knew that Miss Prout had an ardent attachment to you; I said to myself: 'She will surely seek to sell the information in her possession for what she most longs for, and the possibility is that Osborne may yield to her terms—always provided that his attachment to the other lady is profound. ”