The Master Detective by Percy James Brebner (page 3)

“I do not remember a lady calling on Mr. Bridwell at anytime.”

It was early morning when the professor and I left Duke’s Mansions.

“There are two obvious things to do, Wigan,” said Quarles. “First, we must know something of this man Fisher. I think you should go to Harrow as soon as possible. Then we want to know something of Bridwell’s parliamentary record. You might get an interview with one or two of his colleagues, and ask their opinion of him as a public man and as a private individual. Come to Chelsea to-night. You will probably have raked up a good many facts by then, and we may find the right road to pursue. I will also make an inquiry or two. At present I confess to being puzzled.”

“You told the doctor that you usually formed an opinion before the inquest,” I reminded him with a smile.

“And he immediately talked of tablets and poisoned foods, and looked horribly superior. He is a young man, and I knew his father, who once did me a good turn. I shall have to repay the debt and prevent the son making a fool of himself.”

“You have no doubt that it was murder?” I asked.

“Why, you told me it was yourself when you rang me up on the ‘phone,” he answered.

As had often happened before, Quarles’s manner of shutting me up annoyed me, but when you have to deal with an eccentric it is no use expecting him to travel in an ordinary orbit.

To obviate unnecessary repetition I shall give the result of my inquiries as I related it to Quarles and Zena when I went to Chelsea that night.

“You look satisfied and successful, Wigan,” said the professor.

“I am both,” I answered. “Whether we shall catch the actual criminal is another matter. We may at least lay our hands on one of his accomplices. Will it surprise you to learn that I am having the Italian Masini carefully watched?”

“It is a wise precaution.”

“I am inclined to adopt the method you do sometimes, professor, and begin at the end,” I went on. “First, as regards Mr. Bridwell’s parliamentary friends and acquaintances, and his political career. Although he is a Member whose voice is not often heard in the House, his intimate knowledge of Europe, its general history and politics, gives him importance. He is constantly consulted by the Government, and his opinion is always considered valuable. His colleagues are unanimous on this point, and generally he seems to be respected.”

“But the respect is not unanimous, you mean?”

“It is not.”

“And in his private life?”

“I have not found any one who was intimate with him in private.”

“I see; kept politics and his private life entirely separate,” said Quarles.

“I am not prepared to say that,” I answered. “I have not had time to hunt up anybody on the private side yet, and I do not think it will be necessary. One of the men I saw was Reynolds, of the War Office. I was advised to go and see him, as he was supposed to know Bridwell well. He did not have much good to say about him. It seems that for some time past there has been a leakage of War Office secrets, that in some unaccountable way foreign powers have obtained information, and suspicion has pointed to Bridwell being concerned. So far as I can gather, nothing has been actually proved against him, and I pointed out that his intimate knowledge of European affairs made him rather a marked man. Reynolds, however, was very definite in his opinion, spoke as if he possessed knowledge which he could not impart to me. He was not surprised to hear of Bridwell’s death. When I spoke of murder he was rather skeptical, remarked that in that case Bridwell must have been double-dealing with his paymasters, and had paid the penalty; but it was far more likely to be suicide, he thought, and said it was the best thing, the only thing, in fact, which Bridwell could do. I have no doubt Reynolds knew that some action had been taken which could not fail to show Bridwell that he was suspected.”

Quarles nodded, evidently much interested.

“This view receives confirmation from the movements of Fisher,” I went on. “He left Harrow last night–must have gone almost directly after he received the packet. He only occupies furnished rooms in Harrow, and the landlady tells me that during the year he has had them he has often been away for days and even weeks at a time. Announcing his return, or giving her some instructions, she has received letters from him from Berlin, Madrid, Rome, and Vienna. That is significant, Professor.”

“It is. Did she happen to mention any places in England from which she has heard from him?”

“Yes, several–York, Oakham, Oxford, and also from Edinburgh.”

“She did not mention any place in Sussex?”

“No, I think not.”

“It would appear then that Fisher could have had nothing to do with Bridwell’s legitimate political business or he would certainly have spent some time in the constituency. Well, Wigan, what do you make of the case?”

“I think it is fairly clear in its main points,” I answered. “Bridwell has been selling information to foreign powers, and would naturally deal with the highest bidders. Fisher is a foreign agent, and having received valuable information yesterday, left England with it at once. The two men who came to dinner represented some other power, came no doubt by appointment to receive information, but probably knew that their host was dealing doubly with them. Bridwell’s commercial ingenuity in the matter has been his undoing, hence his death. Whether Masini was attached to Fisher, or to the schemes of the other two, it is impossible to say, but I believe he was an accomplice on one side or the other.”

“I built up a similar theory, Wigan; not with the completeness you have, of course, because I knew nothing of the suspicions concerning Bridwell, but when I had made it as complete as I could, I began to pick it to pieces. It fell into ruins rather easily, and you do not help me to build it again.”

“It seems to me the main facts cannot be got away from,” I said.

“Zena assisted in the ruining process by saying, ‘Cherchez la femme.'”

“You see, Murray, you do not account for the woman and the bag,” said Zena.

“They are extraneous incidents belonging to his private life. It is remarkable how distinct he kept his private from his political life.”

“Very remarkable,” Quarles said. “Yet the woman is also a fact, and she seems to me of the utmost importance. We must account for her, and your explanation brings me no sense of satisfaction. Let me tell you how I began to demolish my theory, Wigan. I started with Masini. Now, he seemed honest to me. He was very ready to repeat Fisher’s exact words, and the very fact of my asking for them would have made him suspicious and put him on his guard had he possessed any guilty knowledge, whether it concerned Fisher or the two visitors. Further, had he been in league with the two visitors and knew they had murdered his master, he would hardly have been so ready to block suspicion in other directions. He would not have said his master’s visitors came chiefly from his constituency, and he certainly would not have scouted the idea of a woman caller. He would have welcomed such a suggestion, fully appreciating how valuable a woman would be in starting an inquiry on a false trail.”

“But you mustn’t attribute to an Italian servant all the subtlety you might use under similar circumstances,” I said.

“I am showing you how I picked my own theory to pieces,” he answered. “I next considered the visitors. I assumed they were there for an unlawful purpose–your facts go to show that my assumption was right–and I asked myself why and how they had murdered Bridwell. If he were a schemer with them, there would be no need to murder him, no need to silence him; were he to talk afterwards he would only injure himself, not them. If they were there to force papers from their host, it seems unlikely that he would be so unsuspicious of them that he would have asked them to dinner, and, even if he were, a moment must have come during, or after dinner, when they must have shown their hand. A man who deals in this kind of commerce does not easily trust people. Bridwell’s suspicions would certainly have been aroused; he would in some measure, at any rate, have been prepared, and we should have found some signs of a struggle.”

“I admit the soundness of the argument,” I answered. “For my part I incline to Reynolds’ opinion that it was suicide after all.”

“Oh, no; it was murder,” said Quarles.

“A tablet–” I began.

“I know it was murder,” returned the professor sharply, “and the manner of it has presented the chief difficulty I have found in demolishing my theory altogether. Bridwell was poisoned by an injection. The hypodermic needle was inserted under the hair at the back of the head, here in the soft part of the base of the skull, the hair concealing the small mark it made. I believe the secret of the poison used is forgotten, but you may read of it in books relating to the Vatican of old days and concerning the old families of Italy. I might mention the Borgias particularly. So you see my difficulty, Wigan. The crime literally reeked of Italy, and we had two Italians amongst our dramatis personæ.”

“A significant fact,” I said.

“Of course I am letting the doctor know of my discovery; that is the good turn I shall do him. He will be considered quite smart over this affair. Now consider this point. It would surely have been very difficult, once the host’s suspicions had been aroused, to make the injection without a struggle on the victim’s part.”

“No suspicion may have been aroused,” I said. “Masini has told us of a map. The murderer might have been leaning over his victim examining it.”

“That is true. You pick out the weak point,” said Quarles.

“Even then there would have been some sort of struggle, surely,” said Zena. “The poison can hardly act instantaneously.”

“Practically it does,” Quarles answered. “I have read of it, of the different methods of its administration, and of its results, and no doubt any one acquainted with old Italian manuscripts would be able to get more detailed information than I have; but it produces almost instant paralysis, acts on the nerve centers, and stops the heart’s action, leaving no trace behind it. What straggle there was could be overcome by the pressure of a man’s hand upon the victim’s chest, to keep him from rising from his seat, for instance. I found signs of such a detaining hand on Bridwell’s shirt front. Of course, Wigan, while pulling my theory to pieces I knew nothing of your facts about Bridwell, but now that I do know them, the theory is not saved from ruin. Have you ever watched trains rushing through a great junction–say Clapham Junction?”

“Yes; often.”

“And haven’t you noticed how the lines, crossing and recrossing one another, seem to be alive, seem to be trying to draw the train to run upon them, to deviate it from its course, until you almost wonder whether the train will be able to keep its right road? There seems to be great confusion; yet we know this is not so. We know those many lines are mathematically correct. If you want to keep your eye on the main line, you mustn’t be misled by the lines which touch and cross it, which seem to belong to it, until they suddenly sweep off in another direction. In this Bridwell affair we have to be careful not to be misled by cross lines, and I grant there are many. You say the woman is an extraneous episode; but is she? She left a bag, which is not to be found. Had Masini known of her existence I do not think he would have denied all knowledge of her, for the reasons I have already given, and I argue that her visit to the flat was timed to occur when the servant was out, so that he should know nothing about her. The hall porter knew nothing; about a lady visiting the flat at any time, so we must assume the woman was not a constant visitor. Moreover, we know that she had something to hide, some secret, or she would not have ceased speaking directly she found she was addressing a stranger. She probably belonged to Bridwell’s private life. Now Zena says, ‘Cherchez la femme,’ but there is no need to look for her; she forces herself upon our notice. We know that Bridwell was alive at seven o’clock: we know his visitors did not leave him until eight. It is hardly conceivable that the woman came to the flat after that to commit a crime, impossible to believe that she would leave her bag there to be evidence against her, and then telephone about it to a man she knew to be dead. We may dismiss from our minds any idea that she committed murder.”

“I can see a possibility of immense subtlety on her part,” I said.

“That is to be deceived by a crossing line, which ought not to deceive you, which leads only into a siding,” said Quarles. “We have to remember that there was a bag, and that it has disappeared”

“She may have made a mistake and left it somewhere else,” said Zena.

“I think we may be sure it was left there, because she states distinctly where it was left–on the Chesterfield. There was something in her mind to fix the place. Moreover, she says, ‘Better not send it.’ Very significant, that. Bridwell is to keep it until she comes again. Therefore there was some person she would not have know of her visit to the flat, some person who might possibly find out if the bag were returned. I suggest that person was her husband.”

“I think you have struck the side line,” I remarked.

“Let me continue to build on the private life of Mr. Bridwell,” Quarles went on. “I find a foundation in his literary work–no mean work, absorbing a great part of his life. There would be constant need to refer to libraries, to pictures and other works of art, some of them in private collections. A great deal of this work could be done by an assistant. Shall we say the name of this assistant was Fisher? I observe you do not think it likely.”

“I certainly do not.”

“But a secret agent engaged in stealing Government information would hardly advertise his movements to his landlady; he would surely have been more secret than that. On the other hand, the places Fisher mentions have famous libraries and picture galleries. What would a secret agent want at Oxford? A man bent on research would be going to the Bodleian. Country seats with famous works of art in their galleries would account for Fisher’s presence in other places mentioned by the landlady.”

“Is it not strange the Italian servant knew nothing about this wonderful assistant?” I said.

“No doubt Bridwell usually saw him in town, at his club, or elsewhere, or communicated with him through the post; but on this occasion Masini was purposely sent to be out of the way when the lady came. We know there was some need for secrecy, and I suggest that Bridwell was in love with another man’s wife. In passing, I would point out that the answer Fisher sent back bears out my idea of the assistantship.”

“It may,” I answered.

“Now Bridwell’s work on the Italian Renaissance no doubt has much information concerning the Vatican, and much to say about the prominent Italian families. As a student, Bridwell would be likely to know all about the romances of poisoned bouquets, gloves, prepared sweetmeats, and the rest of the diabolical cunning which existed.”

“But we know that he didn’t kill himself,” I said.

“Exactly. We have to find some one who shared the knowledge with him. Let me go back to the missing bag for a moment. Since it was on the Chesterfield, Bridwell must have seen it. What would he do with it? What would you have done with it, Wigan? I think you would have just put it on a side table or in a handy drawer; yet it had gone. The fact of its disappearance stuck in my mind from the first, although I did not at once see the full significance of it. On the cover of the telephone directory there were two or three numbers scribbled in pencil; I made a note of them with the idea that the woman might be traced that way. However, arguing that a man would be likely to know the telephone number of a woman he was in love with, and have no necessity to write it down, I took no trouble in this direction. I went to see Bridwell’s solicitor instead. I led him to suppose that I was interested in the study of the Renaissance, and asked him if Bridwell had had a companion during his wanderings in Italy three years ago. For part of the time, at any rate, he had–a partner rather than a companion, a man named Ormrod–Peter Ormrod. I knew the name at once, because Ormrod has written many articles for the reviews, and all of them have been about Italy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Ormrod’s telephone number is 0054 Croydon, and he is married, and I think it was his wife who spoke to you over the telephone. My theory is that Ormrod had discovered that his wife was in love with his friend, and used his knowledge of this poisoning method, which could not be detected, remember, to be revenged. I think he came to the flat that evening after Bridwell’s guests had gone, perhaps he expected to find his wife there. I do not think he quarreled with his false friend. I think he showed great friendliness, talked a little of the past perhaps; and then, in examining some book or paper, leant over his friend as he sat at the table, and the deed was done. If the bag was lying on a side table he saw it and took it away; if it was lying in a drawer no doubt he found it while he was looking for letters from his wife to Bridwell, or for her photograph–anything which would connect her name with Bridwell. Somehow, he found it and took it away. There is no one else who would be likely to take it.”

This was the solution. It was proved beyond all doubt that Bridwell had been dealing in Government secrets, and changes had to be made to ensure that the information he had sold should be useless to the purchasers; but this crime had nothing to do with his murder. The dénouement was rather startling. When we went to Ormrod’s house next day we found that he had gone. His wife, after fencing with us a little, was perfectly open. She had arranged to go away with Bridwell and had visited him that day to talk over final arrangements. It was the first time she had ever been to the flat. Yesterday, a telegram had come for her husband. He opened it in her presence, and told her he was going away at once, and for good. Then he gave her the bag, saying he had found it in Bridwell’s rooms on the previous evening. Bridwell was dead, that was why he was going away.

The solicitor Standish was a friend of Ormrod’s, and after Quarles had gone had suddenly realized what the inquiry might mean, so had telegraphed a warning.

CHAPTER VII

THE STOLEN AEROPLANE MODEL

It was probably on account of the acumen he had shown in solving the mystery of Arthur Bridwell’s death that the government employed Quarles in the important inquiry concerning a stolen model. For political reasons nothing got into the papers at the time, but now there is no further need of secrecy.

You would have been astonished, I fancy, had you chanced upon us in the empty room at Chelsea on a certain Friday afternoon. No trio of sane persons could have looked more futile. On a paper pad the professor was making odd diagrams which might have represented a cubist’s idea of an aeroplane collision; Zena was looking at her hands as if she had discovered something new and unfamiliar about them; and I was turning the leaves of my pocket book, hoping to get an inspiration.

“The man-servant,” said Zena, breaking the silence, which had lasted a long time.

“You have said that a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours,” Quarles returned rather shortly, adding after a moment’s pause, as if he were giving us valuable information, “and to-day is Friday.”

“It is simply impossible that the servant should know so little,” she persisted. “His ignorance is too colossal to be genuine. He doesn’t know whether he was attacked by one person or by half-a-dozen; he is not sure that it wasn’t a woman who seized him; he has no idea what his master kept in the safe or in the cupboard. Well, all I can say is, I do not believe him.”

I was inclined to agree with her, but in silence I went on looking through the notes I had made concerning the extraordinary case which must be solved quickly if the solution were to be of any benefit to the country. Quarles was also silent, continuing his work as an amateur cubist.

He had expressed no definite opinion since the case had come into his hands, nor had he laughed at any speculation of mine, a sure sign that he was barren of ideas. I had never known him so reticent.

It was his case entirely, not mine, and the fact that the government had considered he was the only man likely to get to the bottom of the mystery was a recognition of his powers, which pleased him no doubt. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had been put in possession of the facts, and although they had been spent in tireless energy by both of us–for he had immediately sent for me–we seemed as far from the truth as ever.

On the previous Tuesday Lady Chilcot had given a dance in her house in Mayfair. Her entertainments always had a political flavor, and on this particular evening her rooms seemed to have been full of conflicting influences.

There was considerable political tension at the time, consequent upon one of those periodical disturbances in the Balkans, and people remarked upon the coolness between the Minister for War and certain ambassadors who were all present at Lady Chilcot’s.

Imagination may have had something to do with this conclusion, but two apparently trivial incidents assumed importance as regards the case in hand. The Silesian ambassador was seen in very earnest conversation with a young man attached to the Silesian Embassy; and the Minister of War had buttonholed young Lanning.

Of course, we did not know what the Silesians had talked about, but to Lanning the minister had remarked that, in view of the political situation, the experiments which had been witnessed that day might prove to be of supreme importance. Lanning expressed gratification that the experiments had been found convincing, and ventured to hope the government would not delay getting to work.

With the minister’s assurance that the government was keen, Richard Lanning went to find Barbara Chilcot, Lady Chilcot’s daughter, but not to talk about the Minister of War or about any experiments. He was in love with her, and had every reason to believe that she liked him.

She was, however, very cool to him that evening, and sarcastically inquired why he was not in attendance upon Mademoiselle Duplaix as usual. She only laughed at his denials, and when he suggested that she should ask his friend, Perry Nixon, whether there was any ground for her suspicions, said that when she danced with Mr. Nixon later in the evening she hoped to find something more interesting to talk about than Mademoiselle Duplaix.

Lanning comforted himself with the reflection that if Barbara were indifferent to him she would have said nothing about Yvonne Duplaix, and as he had another dance with her at the end of the program hoped to make his peace then.

When this dance came, however, he could not find her, and afterwards discovered that she had sat it out with the young Silesian. He was angry and felt a little revengeful, but he did not mention Barbara to Perry Nixon when they left the house together and walked to Piccadilly.

He left Nixon at the corner of Bond Street and went to his flat in Jermyn Street.

He found his man, Winbush, lying on the dining-room floor, gagged and half unconscious. The safe in his bedroom had been broken open, important papers had been stolen from it, and a wooden case, which he had locked in a cupboard there, had been taken away.

Fully alive to the gravity of the loss, and oblivious of the fact that neglect would be attributed to him, he immediately telephoned to the Minister of War.

Then he ‘phoned to Nixon’s rooms in Bond Street, and Nixon came round at once. Up to that time Lanning had said nothing about the experiments to his friend; now he told him the whole story.

Richard Lanning belonged to the Army Flying Corps, and was not only a good airman, but was an authority upon flying machines. For some time past there had been secret trials of various types of stabilizers, and one invention, somewhat altered at Lanning’s suggestion, had proved so successful that safety in flight seemed assured in the near future.

Detailed plans had been prepared, a working model constructed, and only that afternoon these had been secretly exhibited by Lanning in London to a few members of the government and some War Office officials.

Only four men at the works knew anything about the secret, and even their knowledge was not complete, so it seemed impossible that information could leak out, yet the plans and the working model had been stolen.

Of course Lanning was blamed for having them at his flat; he ought to have taken them back to the works. The fact that this would have meant missing Lady Chilcot’s dance was an added mark against him, and suggested a neglect of duty.

Under the circumstances publicity was not desirable, and Christopher Quarles was asked to solve the mystery. Instructions were telegraphed to the various ports with a view to preventing the model and the plans being taken out of the country, and, as I have said, the professor and I entered upon a strenuous time.

All our preliminary information naturally came from Lanning, who appeared quite indifferent to his own position so long as the stolen property was recovered.

The man Winbush could throw little light upon the affair. He was in his own room when he had heard a noise in the passage and supposed his master had returned earlier than he expected. To make sure, he had gone to the dining-room, but before he could switch on the light he had been seized from behind, a pungent smell was in his nostrils, and he was only just beginning to recover consciousness when his master found him.

He had not seen his assailants, he could not say how many there were, and he was inclined to think one of them was a woman, he told Quarles, because when he first entered the dining-room there was a faint perfume which suggested a woman’s presence.

“It was like a woman when she is dressed for a party,” he said in explanation.

He had seen his master bring in the wooden case that afternoon, but he did not know what it contained.

As Zena said, it sounded a lame story, but Lanning believed it. Winbush had been connected with the family all his life, was devoted to him, and it was not likely he would know what the case contained. Lanning could only suppose that some man at the works had turned traitor, while Mr. Nixon gave it as his opinion that either France or Germany had pulled the strings of the robbery.

Acting under Quarles’s instructions, I had an interview with Miss Chilcot. She corroborated Lanning’s story in every detail so far as she was concerned, and incidentally I understood there was no more than a lover’s quarrel between them. She had sat out with the young Silesian on purpose to annoy Richard. Certainly they had talked of aeroplaning; it was natural, since two days before she had seen some flying at Ranelagh, but Lanning’s name had not been mentioned. Miss Chilcot knew nothing about the experiments which had taken place, nor was she aware that her lover was responsible for some of the improvements which had been made in stabilizers. Rather inconsequently she was annoyed that he had not confided in her. Miss Chilcot carried with her a faint odor of Parma violets. Quarles had told me to note particularly whether she used any kind of perfume.

I was convinced of two things; first, that she was telling the truth without concealing anything, and, secondly, that Mr. Lanning was likely to marry a very charming but rather exacting young woman. When I said so to Quarles he annoyed me by remarking that some women were capable of making lies sound much more convincing than the truth.

I did not attempt to get an interview with Mademoiselle Duplaix, but I made inquiries concerning her, and had a man watching her movements.

Apparently she was the daughter of a good French family, and was making a prolonged stay with the Payne-Kennedys, who moved in very good society. You may see their name constantly in the _Morning Post_. It was whispered that they were not above accepting a handsome fee for introducing a protégée into society, a form of log-rolling which is far more prevalent than people imagine. Whether the girl’s entrance into London society had been paid for or not I am unable to say, but she had quickly established herself as a success. It was generally agreed that she was both witty and charming, the kind of girl men easily run after, but not the sort they usually marry.

She had evidently managed to cause dissension in various directions, so the suggestion that there was something of the adventuress about her might be nothing more than a spiteful comment. It justified us in keeping a watch upon her, but I had no definite opinion in the matter, not having seen the lady, and, as Quarles said, a fascinating foreigner is easily called an adventuress.

I also made careful inquiries concerning the young Silesian, and had him pointed out to me. He had recently come from his own capital, and was remaining in London only for a short time. He was a relative of the ambassador, and was not here in any official capacity, it was stated. This might be true so far as it went, but at the same time he might be connected with the secret service.

The professor said very little about his investigations, and I concluded he had met with no success. He had spent some hours with Lanning at the works, I knew, but if he had tapped any other sources of information he did not mention them.

He was still engaged in his cubist’s drawings when the telephone bell rang.

“I’ll go,” he said as Zena jumped up; “I am expecting a message.”

He went into the hall, and when he returned told us that Lanning and Nixon were on their way to Chelsea.

“I told them to ‘phone me if anything happened,” he said.

“And you expected to hear from them?” I asked.

“My name is Micawber when I am in a hole, and I wait for something to turn up. Waiting is occasionally the best way of getting to the end of the journey. We will hear what they have to say, Wigan, and then we shall possibly have to get a move on.”

Evidently he had a theory, but he would say nothing about it. He amused himself by explaining that mechanical action, such as drawing meaningless lines and curves, as he had been doing, had the effect of giving the brain freedom to think, and declared that it was during times of this sort of freedom that inspiration most usually came.

He was still engrossed with the subject when Lanning and Nixon arrived.

Quarles introduced them to Zena, saying that she always helped him in his investigations.

“Oh, no, not as a clairvoyant,” he said with a smile as both men looked astonished. “She just uses common sense, a very valuable thing in detective work, I can assure you.”

“Are you any nearer a solution?” Lanning asked.

“I thought you had come to give me some information,” Quarles returned.

“I have, but–“

“Sit down, then, and to business. I am still wanting facts, which are more useful than all my theories.”

“Mademoiselle Duplaix telephoned to me this morning,” said Lanning. “A man called on her to-day, a mysterious foreigner. He gave no name, but she thinks he was a Silesian, although he spoke perfect French. He talked to her in French, his English being of a fragmentary kind. He asked her to give him the plans of the new aeroplane. You can imagine her surprise. When she said she had got no plans he expressed great astonishment and plunged into the whole story of how I had been robbed. Until that moment Mademoiselle knew nothing of what had happened in my flat, but this foreigner had evidently got hold of the whole story.”

“Who had told him to call upon her?” Quarles asked.

“In the course of an excited narrative he mentioned two or three names entirely unknown to her, but the man seemed to think that I should have sent her the plans.”

“Very curious,” Quarles remarked.

“He then became apologetic,” Lanning went on, “but all the same left the impression that he did not believe her; in fact, she describes his attitude as rather threatening. It wasn’t until after he had gone that she thought she ought to have him followed, and then it was too late. He was out of the street. Probably he had a motor waiting for him. Then she telephoned to me, but I was out, and have only just received her message. What do you make of it?”

“It gives a new turn to the affair,” said Quarles reflectively. “It leaves an unpleasant doubt whether Mademoiselle Duplaix is as innocent as she ought to be, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would she have telephoned to Lanning if she were guilty?” said Nixon.

“My experience is that where women are concerned it is very difficult to tell what line of action will be followed. Women are distinctly more subtle than men.”

Then after a pause the professor went on: “It is difficult to understand how this foreigner could have made such a mistake. You have told us, Mr. Lanning, that there is nothing between you and this lady, but Miss Chilcot had her suspicions, remember, which suggests that, without intending to do so, you have paid her attentions which other people have misunderstood. Now, do you think you have given Mademoiselle Duplaix a wrong impression, made her believe, in short, that you cared for her, and so caused her to be jealous and perhaps inclined to be revengeful?”

“I am sure I have not.”

“Think well, it is a very important point. For instance, has she ever given you any keepsake, a glove, a handkerchief, something–some trifle she was wearing at a dance when–when you flirted with her? Girls do that kind of thing, so my niece there has told me.”

Zena smiled and made no denial.

“Nothing of the kind has happened between Mademoiselle and myself,” said Lanning.

“And yet there seems to be a distinct attempt on some one’s part to implicate you.”

“That is true, and I am quite at a loss to understand it.”

“I have wondered whether it is not a clever device to put us off the trail,” said Nixon. “Your investigations may have led you nearer the truth than you imagined, Mr. Quarles, and this may be an attempt to set you off on a wrong scent. It seems such an obvious clue, doesn’t it? They would guess that Lanning would communicate with you.”

“That hardly explains why they went to Mademoiselle Duplaix, does it?”

“But the fact that she is French may,” Nixon answered. “Perhaps I am prejudiced, but I believe Silesia has pulled the strings of this affair, and that would be a very good reason for trying to implicate France. It has occurred to Lanning whether the plot might not be frustrated at the other end of it, so to speak. Lanning thinks it would be a good idea if we went to Silesia.”

“What do you think of the idea?” Lanning asked. “I should have our Embassy there behind me, and I should probably manage to get in touch with the men who are active in Silesia’s secret service. I mentioned it to my chief this morning, and he thought there was a great deal in it, but advised a consultation with you first.”

“I think it is a good idea,” said Quarles, “and it suggests another one. I am still a little doubtful about Mademoiselle Duplaix, and I have a strong impression that she could at least tell us more if she would, but that she is afraid of hurting you.”

“It is most unlikely.”

“Well, let me put it to the test, Mr. Lanning. Just write–let me see, how will it be best to word it? ‘I am going to Silesia–‘ By the way, when will you go?”

“I thought to-night.”

“It is as well not to waste time,” said Quarles. “Then write, ‘I am going to Silesia to-night. I want you to be perfectly open with the bearer of this note and do whatever he advises. If you would be a true friend to me, tell him everything.’ Put your ordinary signature to it. With that in my possession I will get to work at once, and if I discover anything of importance, and it should be necessary to stop your journey, I will meet your train to-night.”

“It seems like an impertinence,” Lanning said as he wrote the note.

“When there is so much at stake I shouldn’t let that worry you,” said Nixon.

No sooner had they gone than Quarles became alert.

“Now we move, Wigan. First of all, we have an appointment in Kensington, at the Blue Lion, near the church, quite a respectable hostelry.”

“Not to meet Mademoiselle Duplaix, surely?”

“No, she can wait. Respectable as it is, I do not suppose Mademoiselle frequents the Blue Lion, but we may find there the man who called upon her this morning.”

We took a taxi to Kensington. Every moment seemed to be bursting with importance for Quarles now.

The first person I caught sight of at the Blue Lion was Winbush, evidently waiting for some one. He recognized us, and Quarles went to him.

“You are waiting for Mr. Lanning.”

The man hesitated.

“I know,” Quarles went on, “because I have just left your master. He is in trouble.”

“In trouble!”

“Oh, we shall get him out of it all right. There is some mistake. _I_ have a message for you. Come inside.”

We found a corner to ourselves, and the professor, having ordered drinks, showed Winbush the note which Lanning had written to Mademoiselle Duplaix. It was not addressed to her, and was so worded that it might be meant for any one. Winbush read it and looked at Quarles.

“While your master is in Silesia I have certain work to do here, and to do it I must have your complete story,” said the professor. “You appreciate the fact that Mr. Laiming looks upon you as a friend and wishes you to tell me all you know.”

“I do, sir, only I don’t see how my story is going to help him.”

“It is going to help us to put our hand on the man who is really guilty.”

“It has all been very mysterious,” said Winbush, “and I have not been able to understand my master at all. What I have said about hearing a noise in the passage and being seized before I could switch on the light in the dining-room is all true, but the stuff which was put into my face and made me unconscious wasn’t there before I had time to call out.”

“You called out, then?”

“No, I didn’t, because the man spoke to me.”

“Oh, it was a man–not a woman?”

“It was Mr. Lanning himself,” said Winbush.

This was so unexpected that I nearly exclaimed at it, but Quarles just watched the speaker as if he would make certain that he was telling nothing but the truth.

“He spoke quickly and excitedly,” Winbush went on. “Said it was necessary that the flat should appear to have been robbed. I should presently be discovered bound. I was to say that I had been attacked in the dark and that I did not know by whom nor by how many. I was not to speak about the matter to him again under any circumstances, and even if he questioned me alone or before others I was to stick to my story of utter ignorance. I had just said that I understood and heard him say that he would probably question me to prove my faithfulness, when he put the stuff over my mouth and nose, and I knew no more until he found me there later on.”

“Has he questioned you since?”

“Not since he first found me lying on the floor. He did then, and I obeyed his instructions just as I did when you talked to me afterwards.”

“Did he suggest you should say a woman was present?”

“No, sir.”

“That was a little extra trimming of your own, eh?”

“No, it was a bit of truth that crept in. I thought a woman was there.”

“By the perfume?”

“Yes, sir.”

Quarles brought from the depth of a pocket a tissue-paper parcel, from which he took a handkerchief.

“Was that the perfume?”

Winbush smelt it.

“It may have been. It was the perfume that hangs about a woman in evening dress.”

“That’s Parma violets, Wigan,” said the professor, waving the handkerchief towards me. It was one of his own, so had evidently been specially prepared for this test. “I wonder what percentage of women use the scent? It is not much of a clue for us, I am afraid.”

He put the handkerchief away, and then from another pocket produced a second handkerchief, also wrapped in tissue paper.

This time it was a fragile affair of lawn and lace.

“Smell that, Mr. Winbush.”

“That’s it!” the man exclaimed; no hesitation this time.

“You can swear to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather a pleasant scent but peculiar, Wigan. I do not know what it is.”

Nor did I, but the handkerchief interested me. Worked in the corner were the letters “Y.D.”

“I can get to work now, Mr. Winbush,” said Quarles. “Your master tells you to do whatever I advise. Of course, I understand that in keeping these facts to yourself you were acting in your master’s interests, but were it generally known that you had suppressed the truth you might get into trouble. Have you any relatives in town?”

“I have a married nephew out Hampstead way.”

“Most fortunate. You go straight off and see him, get him to put you up for the night, but whatever you do keep away from Jermyn Street until to-morrow morning. You will spoil my efforts on your master’s behalf if you turn up at the flat before then.”

Winbush promised to obey these instructions, and Quarles and I left the Blue Lion.

“After hearing that Lanning was coming to see me this afternoon, I telephoned a telegram to Winbush,” explained the professor when we were outside. “He thought it came from his master telling him to meet him at the Blue Lion. Lanning will have to do his own packing for once. Winbush’s story is rather a surprising one, eh, Wigan?”

“And most unexpected,” I said.

“Well, no, not quite unexpected,” he answered in that superior manner which is so exasperating at times. “I got that note from Lanning for the purpose of getting the man to tell me the truth.”

“At any rate, you were mistaken in supposing that Mademoiselle’s mysterious foreigner would be at the Blue Lion,” I returned.

“Not at all. He was there.”

“Winbush!” I exclaimed.

“No, Christopher Quarles. I called on Mademoiselle Duplaix this morning. I thought she would communicate directly or indirectly with Lanning; that is why I was expecting a message from him. I was also fortunate enough to appropriate her handkerchief. To-night I become the distinguished foreigner again; you had better be an elderly gentleman with a stoop. We are traveling to Harwich. Don’t forget a revolver; it may be useful. We must get to Liverpool Street early; we shall want plenty of time at the station.”

He left me without waiting to be questioned. I was annoyed, and was pretty certain that he had overlooked one important fact. Surely Lanning must have realized how dangerous it was to give such a note to Quarles? Knowing the story Winbush could tell, he would not have been deceived by the statement that the letter was intended for Mademoiselle Duplaix. He was far too clever for that. He and Winbush were no doubt working together, and the man’s story was no doubt part of an arranged scheme. It seemed to me that the immediate recognition of the second scent was suspicious. The man was probably prepared for the test.

I thought it likely that Quarles had met his match this time, and I did not expect to see Richard Lanning at the station.

However, he was there with Mr. Nixon.

“Are they both in it?” I asked Quarles as we watched them.

“No, I don’t think so,” was his doubtful answer.

We were still watching them as they spoke to the guard, when I started and called the professor’s attention to a tall, military-looking man who was hurrying along the platform.

“That is the young man at the Silesian Embassy,” I said. “He is evidently going back. Are we to see Mademoiselle Duplaix come along next?”

“We are only concerned with Lanning for the present,” Quarles answered, “and we have got to travel in the same carriage with him and Nixon. I expect they have tipped the guard to get a carriage to themselves. You must use your authority with him, Wigan, and show him that we are Scotland Yard men. Suggest that he put us into the carriage at the last moment with many apologies because there is no room elsewhere. In these disguises they will not recognize us.”

The two Englishmen and the Silesian did not approach each other, and apparently were quite ignorant of the fact that they were traveling by the same train. I made the necessary arrangements with the guard, and just as the train was starting we were bundled into the carriage, Quarles blowing and puffing in a most natural manner.

“Sorry,” he panted, speaking in broken English; “it is a train quite full, and I say to the man I must go. He put us in here. I am grieved to disturb you.”

Nixon said it didn’t matter, but Lanning looked annoyed.

Quarles talked to me chiefly about a wife he was returning to at Bohn. He became almost maudlin in his sentiment, and at intervals he raised his voice sufficiently to allow our traveling companions to overhear the conversation.

Presently Quarles leaned towards me in a confidential manner, and said in a whisper which was intentionally loud enough for the others to hear:

“From Bohn I go to Silesia to see the new flying machine.”

“What flying machine?” I asked.

“Ah, it was a secret what Silesia have got hold of. It was wonderful. I myself tell you so, and I know. I–“

“What do you know about it?”

Lanning was leaning from his corner looking at Quarles.

“Steady,” said the professor. “If your hand does not from your pocket come in one blink of an eye you are a dead man. This is a big matter.”

Quarles had covered him with a revolver, and following his lead I covered Nixon.

For a moment it was a tableau, not a sound nor a movement in the carriage.

“As you say, it is a big matter,” said Lanning, taking his hand from his pocket.

He was for diplomacy rather than force, or perhaps he was a coward at heart. Nixon showed more courage and was quicker in his movements. His revolver was halfway out before I had slid along the seat and had my weapon at his head.

“It is of no use,” said Quarles. “It is not by accident we are here. We know, no matter how, but we know for certain that the plans of a wonderful aeroplane which cannot come to harm, and a model of it, are traveling by this train to-night. We came here to take them. We are sorry to disturb you, but it is necessary.”

Lanning laughed.

“Would it astonish you to hear we are after the very same things?”

“It would, because I tell you they are in this carriage.”

“Where?” asked Lanning, still laughing.

“There, in that big portmanteau.” And Quarles pointed to one on the rack above Nixon’s head.

I was only just in time to bring my weapon down on Nixon’s wrist as he whipped out his revolver.

“Hold him, Wigan; he is dangerous,” said Quarles, speaking in his natural voice. “We will have a look in that portmanteau, Mr. Lanning.”

The plans and the model in its wooden case were there. Lanning was too dumbfounded to ask questions, and Nixon offered no explanation just then. I had wrested the revolver from him, and he sat there in silence.

“It was very cleverly thought out, Mr. Nixon,” said Quarles. “You see, Mr. Lanning, your friend, having stolen these things, intended to allow time to elapse before attempting to get them out of the country, but his hand was forced when Mademoiselle Duplaix telephoned to you. The foreigner who called upon her for the plans puzzled him. There was something in the plot he did not understand. Two things were clear to him, however; first, that he must act without delay, and secondly, that mademoiselle’s visitor would implicate her and cause us to make minute inquiries in her direction–that a false trail was laid, in fact. So, aware that he would find difficulty at the ports, he carefully suggested to your mind that a journey to Silesia would be a useful move. Your mission would be known at the ports, and you and your friend would pass through without special examination.”

“That is so,” said Lanning.

“And you would have been cleverly fooled,” said Quarles, “As for Mademoiselle Duplaix, I confess I should have watched her keenly had I not been the mysterious foreigner.”

“But my note to her?” said Lanning.

“Was exceedingly useful, but I used it to get the truth out of Winbush,” and Quarles told the man-servant’s story in detail. “Winbush, you see, was in a dazed condition, and was deceived. In the dark Nixon pretended to be you. I suppose it was a sudden inspiration when he found himself disturbed, and his instructions to Winbush stopped your servant from questioning you. Had he done so a suspicion concerning your friend might have been aroused in your mind. Winbush, however, went a little beyond his instructions, and said he thought a woman was present, because of a perfume he noticed when he first entered the room. That particular perfume is used by Mademoiselle Duplaix, and I should hazard a guess that Mr. Nixon had stolen her handkerchief that evening, not a criminal offense, but a matter of flirtation.”

“But he was at Lady Chilcot’s, and left there with me,” said Lanning.

“If he has kept his program. I expect you will find some consecutive places in it blank. Until this afternoon, Mr. Lanning, I confess that I was uncertain whether you had been your own burglar or not, for it was evident to me that your man knew something. I was convinced you were innocent when you wrote that note for me, I rather wonder Mr. Nixon did not realize the danger, but I suppose he felt confident that Mademoiselle’s visitor had entirely put me on the wrong trail. I do not think Mademoiselle Duplaix is in any way a party to the theft, but I think it is up to Mr. Nixon to make this quite clear.”

It is only doing Perry Nixon justice to say that he did clear up this point, but not by word of mouth.

At Harwich he ingeniously gave us the slip, but in a letter to Lanning, received from Paris a week later, he said that he alone was responsible for the theft, and that neither Mademoiselle Duplaix nor any one else had any hand in it, nor any knowledge of it.

From some remarks Lanning had let fall he concluded that some important development had occurred in the stabilizing of flying machines–a matter his employers were interested in–and he had watched his friend’s movements. He guessed that secret experiments had been tried that day when he saw Lanning take the wooden case to his flat, and during the evening he had slipped away from Lady Chilcot’s dance, returning when he had deposited the model and the plans in a safe place.

He did not say where this safe place was, and since he had persistently suggested that either France or Germany had pulled the strings of the robbery, he was probably working for neither of these countries.

Shortly afterwards Richard Lanning’s engagement to Miss Chilcot was announced, and I imagine he is still working to perfect a stabilizer, for, although the model appears to have done all that was required of it, the actual machine proved defective, I understand.

CHAPTER VIII

THE AFFAIR OF THE CONTESSA’S PEARLS

I think it was when talking about the stolen model that Quarles made the paradoxical statement that facts are not always the best evidence. I argued the point, and remained entirely of an opposite opinion until I had to investigate the case of a pair of pearl earrings, and then I was driven into thinking there was something in Quarles’s statement. It was altogether a curious a if air, and showed the professor in a new light which caused Zena and myself some trouble.

The Contessa di Castalani occupied rooms at one of the big West End hotels, a self-contained suite, consisting of a sitting-room, two bedrooms, and vestibule. She had her child with her, a little girl of about three years old, and a French maid named Angélique.

Returning to the hotel one afternoon unexpectedly, she met, but took no particular notice of, two men in the corridor which led to her suite. Hotel servants she supposed them to be, and, as she entered the little vestibule Angélique came from the contessa’s bedroom. There was no reason why she should not go in there; in fact, she carried a reason in her hand. She had been to get a clean frock for the child. The one she had worn on the previous day was too soiled to put on.

That evening the contessa wished to wear a special pair of pearl earrings, but when she went to get the little leather case which contained the pearls, it was missing.

Although her boxes and drawers were not much disarranged, it was quite evident to her that they had been searched, but nothing else had been taken apparently.

It did not occur to her to suspect the maid, partly, no doubt, because she remembered the men in the corridor, and she immediately sent for the manager.

The police were called in. The men in the corridor could not be accounted for, but a search resulted in the finding of the leather case under the bed. The earrings had gone.

Naturally police suspicion fell on the French maid, but the contessa absolutely refused such an explanation. Angélique, who was passionately fond of her and of the child, would not do such a thing.

The case looked simple enough, but it proved to be one in which facts did not constitute the best evidence. Indeed, they proved somewhat misleading.

Beautiful, romantic, eccentric, superstitious, and most unfortunate according to her own account, the Contessa di Castalani was the sensation of a whole London season.

As a dancer of a bizarre kind, she had set Paris nodding to the rhythm of her movements and raving about the beauty of her eyes and hair. Her reputation had preceded her to London, and when she appeared at the Regency it was universally admitted that she far surpassed everything that had been said about her.

The press had duly informed the public that Castalani was one of the oldest and most honored names in Italy. There had been a Castalani in the Medici time, a close friend of the magnificent Lorenzo, it was asserted. One paper declared that a Castalani had worn the triple tiara, which a learned don of Oxford took the trouble to write and deny. And it would appear that no one who had ever borne the name had been altogether unimportant.

How the family, resident in Pisa, liked this publicity, I do not know. They made no movement to repudiate this daughter of their house, and I have no reason whatever to doubt that the lady had a perfect right to her title. I never heard any scandalous tale about her which even seemed true, and if she and her husband were happier going each their own way, it was their affair.

So much mystery was woven round her during her appearances in the European capitals, that I do not guarantee the correctness of my statements when I say she was of humble origin, a Russian gipsy, I have heard, seen in a Hungarian village by young Castalani, who immediately fell in love with her and married her.

Although in the course of this investigation I saw her many times and she talked a great deal about herself, she was always vague when she was dealing with facts.

I am only concerned with her appearance in London. She attracted overflowing houses to the Regency. A real live countess performing bizarre and daring dances was undoubtedly the attraction to some, the woman’s splendid beauty charmed others, while a third section could talk of nothing but her wonderful jewelry.

At least two foolish young peers were said to be in love with her, and there were tales of a well-known Cabinet Minister constantly occupying a stall at the Regency when he ought to have been in his seat in the House.

Had I not taken Christopher Quarles and Zena to the Regency one evening I should probably never have known anything further of the contessa, but it so happened that the professor was very much attracted by her.

He went to the Regency three times in one week to study the inward significance of her dances, he declared. He treated me to a learned discourse concerning them, and was furious when one journal, slightly puritanical in tone, perhaps, said that they were generally unedifying, and in one case, at any rate, immodest.

Zena and I began by laughing at the professor, but he did not like it. He was quite serious in his admiration, and declared that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than an introduction to the dancer.

To his delight he got what he wanted, and incidentally solved one of the most curious cases we have ever been engaged in together.

In the ordinary way the case would never have come into my hands. It was at Quarles’s instigation that I asked to be employed upon it, and since small and insignificant affairs are sometimes ramifications of big mysteries, no surprise was caused by my request.

I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that it was the introduction to the woman which interested Quarles rather than her pearls. Indeed, he appeared to think of nothing else beyond making himself agreeable.

It seemed to me she was just as interested in him, talked about herself in a naive kind of way, and was delighted when her little girl, Nella, took a tremendous fancy to the professor, demanding to be taken on his knee and to have his undivided attention.

Christopher Quarles, in fact, presented quite an unfamiliar side of his character to me, and I do not think he would have bothered about the pearls at all but for the fact that the contessa was superstitious about them.

“They were given to me by a Hungarian count,” she said in her pretty broken English; “just two pearls. I had them made into earrings. It was the best way I could wear them. They are perfect, and they have a history. They were a thank-offering to some idol in Burmah, but were afterwards sold or stolen–I do not know which. It does not matter; it was a very long time ago; but what does matter is that they bring good luck. I shall be nothing without them, do you see?”

“That I will not believe! You will always be–“

“Beautiful,” she said before Quarles could complete the sentence. “Ah, yes, I know that. I have been told that when I cease to be beautiful I shall cease to live. A gipsy in Budapest told me so. But what is beauty if you have no luck?”

“When were they given to you?” Quarles asked.

“A year after I married. Listen, I will tell you a secret. It was the beginning of the little difference with my husband. He was jealous.”

“It was natural.”

“No, it was not,” she answered. “My Hungarian friend, he loved me of course. That is the natural part. I was born like that. Some women are. It is not their fault. It just is so, and yet people think evil and say, shocking! It is in their own mind–the evil–and nowhere else, and I say ‘basta,’ and go my way, caring not at all. Why, every night in my dressing room at the Regency there is a pile of letters–like that, and flowers. The room is full of them–all from people who love me–and I do not know one of them. I like it, but it makes no difference to me. I told my husband that it was nothing, but no, he went on being jealous. He was very foolish, but I think some day he will grow sensible. Then I shall very likely say it is too late. The world has said it loves me, and that is better than one Castalani. You do not know the Castalanis?”

“No.”

“Ah, they are what you call thoughtful for themselves, very high, and very few people are quite as good, so we had little quarrels, and then a big one, because he said he would throw my pearls into the Arno. I hid them, and he could not find them. If he had found them and thrown them away I would have killed him.”

Quarles nodded, as if such a tragedy would have been the most natural thing possible.

“His mother made it worse,” the contessa went on, “so we have one fierce quarrel and I speak my mind. I say a great deal when I speak my mind, and I am not nice then. I went away with my little girl. It was very unfortunate, but what could I do? I love dancing, so I go on the stage, and–and I have lost my pearls. See, there is the case, but it is empty.”

Quarles looked at it, but I was sure he was not thinking of what he was doing, and he did not even ask the most obvious questions.

I did that, and received scant answers. She was not a bit interested in me.

“My pearls,” she went on, “I want my pearls. There are some women pearls love. I am one. When I wear them a little while they are alive. The colors in them glow and palpitate. They are never dull then. I do not wear them always, only on certain days–on feasts, and when I am very happy.”

“We must find them,” said Quarles.

“Of course. That is why I come to know you, isn’t it?”

The professor was full of her as we left the hotel.

“A most charming woman,” he said.

“I doubt if you will find her so when you fail to restore her pearls.”

“I shall restore them,” he said, with that splendid confidence which sometimes characterized him, but, having no faith in his judgment on this occasion, I went my own way. I searched the maid’s boxes and found that she had purloined many of the contessa’s things–garments which had hardly been worn, silk scarves, laces–in fact, anything which took her fancy, and which her mistress would not be likely to miss. Of the two men in the corridor I could find no trace. The manager said there were no workmen about the hotel at that time, and the only description I could get from the contessa was so vague that it would have fitted anybody from the Prime Minister to the old bootlace-seller at the end of the street. One of the hotel servants was confident that he had seen the French maid speak to a man in the street outside the hotel on more than one occasion, but he was not inclined to swear to anything. However, the French maid was finally arrested on suspicion.

I knew that Quarles had been to see the contessa once or twice by himself, and when I went to the Brunswick Hotel on the day after Angélique’s arrest, I found him there.

“Ah, you have taken an innocent woman,” the contessa exclaimed.

“I think not.”

“What you think does not matter at all, it is what I know. I asked her, and she said she had not taken the pearls. Voila! She would not tell me anything that was not true.”

“But, contessa–“

“I say there is no evidence against her. You just find two or three of my stupid things in her room, but that is nothing. French maids always take things like that–one expects it. But I am not angry. You think what is quite–quite silly, but you do something which is quite right.” And then, turning to the professor, she went on, “But you–you do nothing at all. You come to tea. You come and look at me, and think me very beautiful, which is quite nice and very well, but it does not give me back my pearls.”

“It will,” said Quarles.

“I have no opinion. I only know I have not the pearls. I gave you the empty case. I want it back with the earrings in it. I have heard that Monsieur Quarles is very clever–that he finds out everything, but–“

“It takes time, contessa,” he said, rising. “There is one thing I want to see before I go.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“The dress the maid was wearing that afternoon, and if she wore an apron I want to see that too.”

The contessa fetched them, and for some minutes Quarles examined them closely.

I did not think he had started a theory. I thought the contessa’s words had merely stung him into doing something. He had probably come to the conclusion that he had been making rather a fool of himself.

However, he was theoretical enough that night in the empty room at Chelsea.

“I think the arrest was a mistake, Wigan,” he began.

“Surely you are not influenced by the contessa’s opinion?”

“Well, she probably knows more about French maids than you do. I am inclined to trust a woman’s intuition sometimes. The contessa is delightfully vague. It is part of her great charm, and it is in everything she does and says. She tells you something, but her real meaning you can only guess at. She dances, but the steps she ought to do and doesn’t are the ones which really contain the meaning.”

“Can she possibly be more vague, dear, than you are at the present moment?” laughed Zena.

“I think this is a case in which one must try to get into the contessa’s atmosphere before any result is possible. You will agree, Wigan, that her point of view is peculiar.”

“I should call it idiotic,” I answered.

“Your opinion is all cut and dried, I presume?”

“Absolutely,” I answered. “I believe the maid took the jewels and handed them to her confederates who were waiting in the corridor.”

“It is possible,” said Quarles, “but it seems curious that the contessa should return just in time to see, not only the men in the corridor, but also the maid leaving her room. Have you considered why only the earrings were stolen?”

“There was nothing else to steal,” I answered.

“Why, everybody has talked of her jewels!” Zena exclaimed.

“All sham.”

“Who told you so?” asked Quarles.

“The maid.”

“She didn’t suggest the pearls were sham?”

“No.”

“That was thoughtless of her, since suspicion rests upon her. I am not much surprised to hear that the much-talked-of jewelry is sham. There is a vein of wisdom in the contessa, and we shall probably find she has put her jewelry into safe keeping, and wears paste because it has just as good an effect across the footlights. I should judge her wise enough not to take risks, and to have an eye for the future. It was only her superstition, and the fact that she wore the earrings fairly constantly, which prevented her depositing them in a safe place too. Zena asked me yesterday whether I should consider her a careless person. What do you think, Wigan?”

“It occurred to me that she might have put the case away when it was empty and carelessly put the pearls somewhere else,” said Zena.

“Such, a vague kind of person is capable of anything,” I returned. “But there is no doubt that a search in her room was made, and it is significant that things were not tossed about anyhow, as one would expect had a stranger made that search.”

“True,” said Quarles, “but if the maid took them there would have been no disarrangement at all. She would have known where to look. If she had wanted to suggest ordinary thieves she would have thrown things into disorder on purpose.”

“Naturally she did not know exactly where to look,” I said.

“Why not? The contessa evidently trusts her implicitly. In any case, I fancy we are drawn back to the supposition that the contessa is careless. When Zena asked the question, I was reminded of one or two inconsistencies in her surroundings. I should not call her orderly. Her carelessness must form part of my theory.”

“I am surprised to hear you have formed one,” I said.

“I have found the woman far more interesting than the pearls,” he admitted, “but I am pledged to return the earrings, Wigan. You will find her smile of delight an excellent reward.”

I shrugged my shoulders a little irritably.

“Now I will propose three propositions against yours. First, the jewels belonged to an idol, and were either sold or stolen–the contessa does not know which. Such things are not usually sold, so we may assume they were stolen. Their disappearance from the hotel may mean that they have merely been recovered. The idea is romantic, but such happenings do occur. Your French maid may have been pressed into the plot either through fear or by bribery.”

“My facts would fit that theory,” I said.

“Secondly, the husband may be concerned,” Quarles went on. “There may be real love underlying his jealousy, he may think that if he can obtain possession of the pearls his wife will return to him. Again, your French maid may have been employed to this end.”

“That theory would not refute my facts,” I returned.

“Thirdly, the contessa herself. It is conceivable that for some reason she wished to have the pearls stolen, perhaps for the sake of advertisement–such things are done–or for the sake of insurance money, or for some other reason which is not apparent. This supposition would account for the contessa refusing to believe anything against the maid. It would also account for the men in the corridor, seen only by the contessa, remember, and therefore, perhaps, without any real existence.”

“Of the three propositions, I most favor the last,” I said.

“So do I,” Quarles answered. “The first one is possible, but I fail to trace anything of the Oriental method in the robbery, the supreme subtlety which one would naturally expect. The second, which would almost of necessity require the help of the maid, would in all likelihood have been carried out before this, since the contessa has always had the pearls at hand. If she had only just got them out of the bank I should favor this second proposition. You remember the contessa suggested that her husband might at some time become more sensible. I should hazard a guess that she is still in communication with him. The death of the strife-stirring mother may bring them together again.”

“That is rather an ingenious idea,” I admitted.

“Now, the third proposition would appeal to me more were I not so interested in the woman,” Quarles said. “Is she the sort of woman, for vain or selfish reasons, to enter into such a conspiracy with her maid? I grant the difficulty of plumbing a woman’s mind–even Zena’s there; but there are certain principles to be followed. A woman is usually thorough if she undertakes to do a thing, and had the contessa been concerned in such a conspiracy, we should have had far more detail given to us in order to lead us in another direction. This third proposition does not please me, therefore.”

“It seems to me we come back to the French maid,” said Zena.

“We do,” said Quarles. “That is the leather case, Wigan. Does it tell you anything?”

I took it and examined it.

“You seem to have got some grease on it, Professor.”

“It was like that. Greasy fingers had touched it–recently, I judge–although, of course, the case may be an old one, and not made especially for the earrings. It is only a smear, but it could not have got there while the case was lying in a drawer amongst the contessa’s things. Now open it. You will find a grease mark on the plush inside, which means that very unwashed fingers have handled it. That does not look quite like a dainty French maid–for she is dainty, Wigan.”

“That is why you examined her dress, I suppose.”

“Exactly! There was no suspicion of grease upon it. Facts have prejudiced you against Angélique. I do not see a thief in her, but I do see a certain watchfulness in her eyes whenever we meet her. She knows something, Wigan, and to-morrow I am going to find out what it is. I think a few judicious questions will help us.”

Quarles had never been more the benevolent old gentleman than when he saw the French maid next day.

He began by telling her that he was certain she was innocent, that he believed in her just as much as her mistress did.

“Now, when did you last see the pearls?” Quarles asked.

“The day before they were stolen.”

“Your mistress was wearing them?”

“No, monsieur, but the case was on the dressing table. It was the case I saw, not the pearls.”

“So for all you know to the contrary, the case may have been empty?”

“I do not see why you should think that,” she answered, and it was quite evident to me that she was being careful not to fall into a trap.

“Just in the same way, perhaps, as you speak of the day before they were stolen. We do not know they are stolen. Were the pearls very valuable?”

“I do not know. The contessa valued them.”

“She wears one or two good rings, I noticed,” said Quarles, “but I understand the jewels she wears on the stage are paste.”

“Yes, monsieur, all of it.”

“Her real jewelry being at the bank!”

“That is so, monsieur.”

“It is possible that the contessa has deceived us,” Quarles went on, “and wants to make us believe the earrings are stolen.”

“Oh, no, monsieur!”

“Why not?”

“I am sure.”

“Come, now, why are you so sure? Tell me what you know, and we will soon have you back at the Brunswick Hotel. Had you told the men in the corridor that all the contessa’s jewelry was sham?”

“I know nothing of–“

“Wait!” said Quarles. “Think before you speak. You do not realize how much we know about the men in the corridor. The contessa saw them, remember.”

The girl began to sob.

Very gently Quarles drew the story from her. One of the men was her brother. She had been glad to come to England to see him, but she found he had got into bad hands. She had helped him a little with money. She had talked about the contessa, and when he had spoken about her wonderful jewels she had told him they were sham.

“Did he believe you?”

“No, monsieur, he laughed at me because I did not know the real thing from paste. I said I did, and, to prove it, mentioned the pearls.”

“Was this before you knew he had fallen into bad hands?”

“Yes, monsieur. On the afternoon the pearls were stolen he came to see me at the hotel with a friend. How they got to our rooms I do not know. I opened the door, thinking it was the contessa. My brother laughed at my surprise, and said he and his friend wanted to see whether the contessa’s pearls were real–they had a bet about them. He thought I was a fool, but I was quickly thinking what I must do. ‘She is here,’ I said. ‘Come in five minutes, when she is gone.’ This was unexpected for them, and they stepped back, and I shut the door. To get the door shut was all I could think of. I was afraid. I waited; then I went to the bell, but I did not ring. After all, he was my brother. Then Nella called out from my room; I was on my way to fetch a clean frock for her from the contessa’s room when my brother came. Now I fetched it, and as I came out of the room the contessa came in. It was a great relief.”

“Did she say anything about the men in the corridor?”

“Not then–not until afterwards, when she found the pearls had been stolen.”

“And you said nothing?”

“No, it was wrong, but he was my brother. How he got the pearls I do not know.”

“Where is he now?”

“I do not know.”

“But you are sure he stole the pearls?”

“Who else?” and she began to sob again.

“Perhaps when he hears you have been arrested, he will tell the truth.”

“No, no, he has become bad in this country. I do not love England.”

“Anyhow, we will soon have you out of this,” said Quarles, patting her shoulder in a fatherly manner. “I am afraid your brother is not much good, but perhaps the affair is not so bad as you imagine.”

We left her sobbing.

“A woman of resource,” said Quarles.

“Very much so,” I answered. “You do not think the arrest was a mistake now, I presume?”

“Perhaps not; no, I am inclined to think it has helped us. It is not every woman who would have got rid of two such blackguards so dexterously.”

“It is the very thinnest story I have ever heard,” I laughed.

We walked on in silence for a few moments.

“My dear Wigan, I am afraid you are still laboring under the impression that she stole the pearls.”

“I am, and that she handed them to the men in the corridor, one of whom may have been her brother or may not.”

“She didn’t steal them,” said Quarles.

“Why, how else could the men have got in?” I said. “You are not likely to see that rewarding smile on the contessa’s face which you talked about.”

“I think I shall, but first I must face the music and explain my failure. We will go this afternoon. Perhaps she will give us tea, Wigan.”

I am afraid I murmured, “There’s no fool like an old fool,” but not loud enough for Quarles to hear.

When we entered the contessa’s sitting-room that afternoon the child was playing on the floor with a small china vase, taken haphazard from the mantelpiece, I imagine.

Whether our entrance startled her, or whether she was in a destructive mood, I cannot say, but she dashed down the vase and broke it in pieces.

“Oh, Nella! Naughty, naughty Nella!” exclaimed her mother.

The child immediately went to Quarles.

“I want to sit on your knee,” she said.

“If mother will give you such things to play with, Nella, why, of course, they get broken, don’t they?” said Quarles.

“I thought you had brought my pearls,” said the contessa.

“I have come to talk about them.”

“That will not help–talk.”

“It may.”

“Will it bring Angélique back? I am lost without Angélique.”

“She will soon be back.”

I smiled at his optimism.

“We saw her to-day,” Quarles went on; and he told the girl’s story in detail, and in a manner which suggested that my mistake in having her arrested was almost criminal.

The contessa seemed to expect me to apologize, but when I remained silent she became practical.

“Still, I do not see my pearls, Monsieur Quarles.”

“Contessa, your maid says you were looking at the earrings on the day before the robbery. She saw the case on your dressing-table.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you remember putting the case back in your drawer?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, is there any circumstance which makes you particularly remember doing so?”

“No.”

“Was Nella crawling on the floor?”

“Why, yes. How did you guess that?”

“Didn’t you meet the maid coming out of your room on the next afternoon? She had gone to fetch a clean frock.”

“Ah! yes, Nella got her frock dirty,” said the contessa.

“Pretty frock,” said the child.

“Was she playing with anything–anything off the mantelpiece?” asked Quarles.

“No.”

“Are you sure? You give her queer things to play with,” and he pointed to the fragments on the floor.

“It does not matter,” said the contessa, a little angry at his criticism. “I shall pay for it.”

“Pretty frock,” said the child again.

“Is it, Nella? I should like to see it.”

The child slipped from his knee.

“Where are you going?” asked the contessa.

“To fetch my dirty, pretty frock.”

“Don’t be silly, Nella.”

“I should like to see it,” said Quarles.

“I wish you would take less interest in the child and more in my pearls.”

“Humor the child and let her show me the frock, then we will talk about the pearls.”

With a bad grace the contessa went with Nella into the maid’s room.

Quarles looked at me and at the fragments of the vase on the floor.

“Do you find them suggestive?”

“I am waiting to see the contessa in a real temper,” I answered.

The child came running in with the frock, delighted to have got her own way.

“Aye, but it is dirty,” said Quarles, and he became absorbed in the garment, nodding to the prattling child as she showed him tucks and lace.

“And now about my pearls,” said the contessa.

Quarles put down the frock and stood up.

“There is the case,” he said, taking it from his pocket; “we have got to put the pearls into it, Contessa, may I look into your bedroom?”

The request astonished her, and it puzzled me.

“Why, yes, if you like.”

She went to the door, and we all followed her.

“A dainty room,” said the professor. “It is like you, contessa.”

She laughed at the absurdity of the remark, and yet there was some truth in it. The room wasn’t really untidy, but it was not the abode of an orderly person. A hat was on the bed, thrown there apparently, a pair of gloves on the floor.

“I can always tell what a woman is like by seeing where she lives,” said Quarles. “There is no toy on the mantelpiece which Nella could break. A pretty dressing-table, contessa.”

He crossed to it and began examining the things upon it–silver-mounted bottles and boxes.

He lifted lids and looked at the contents–powder in this pot, rouge in that–and for a few moments the contessa was too astonished to speak.

Then there came a flash into her eyes resenting the impertinence.

“Really, monsieur–“

“Ah!” exclaimed Quarles, turning from the table with a pot in his hand.

“I want it,” said the child, stretching herself up for it.

“Evidently Nella has played with this before, contessa. A French preparation for softening the skin, I see. I should guess she was playing with it as she crawled about the floor that afternoon. You didn’t notice her. I can quite understand a child being quiet for a long time with this to mess about with. There was grease on her frock, and look! the smoothed surface of this cream bears the marks of little fingers, if I am not mistaken. It is quite a moist cream, readily disarranged, easily smoothed flat again. Let us hope there is no ingredient in it which will hurt–pearls.”

He had dug his fingers into the stuff and produced the earrings.

“You will find a grease mark on the case,” he went on. “It is evident you could not have put the case away. Nella possessed herself of it when your back was turned, and, playing with this cream, amused herself by burying the pearls in it–just the sort of game to fascinate a child.”

“I remember she was playing with that pot. I did not think she could get the lid off.”

“She did, and somehow the case got kicked under the bed.”

“Naughty Nella!” said the contessa.

“Oh, no,” said Quarles. “Natural Nella. May I wash my hands?”

Well, we had tea with the contessa, and I saw the smile which rewarded Christopher Quarles.

I suppose he had earned it.

“When did you first think of the child?” I asked him afterwards.

“From the first,” he answered; “but I was too interested in the mother to work out the theory.”

How exactly in accordance with the truth this answer was I will not venture to say. That he was interested in the woman was obvious, and continued to be obvious while she remained in London.

Zena and I were rather relieved when her professional engagements took her to Berlin.

CHAPTER IX

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MADAME VATROTSKI

I firmly believe the contessa had succeeded in fluttering the professor’s heart, and I think it was fortunate that he was soon engaged upon another case. The fact that it was also connected with theatrical people may have made him go into it with more zest. The contessa had given him a taste for the theater.

The three of us were in the empty room, and after a lot of talk which had led nowhere, had been silent for some time.

“I never believe in any one’s death until I have seen the body, or until some one I can thoroughly trust has seen it,” said Quarles, suddenly breaking the silence.

“You have said something like that before,” I answered.

“It still remains true, Wigan.”

“Then you think she is alive?” Is it the advertisement theory you cling to, or do you suppose she is a Nihilist?”

“I suppose nothing, and I never cling; all I know is that I have no proof of death,” said the professor, and he launched into a discourse concerning the difficulties of concealing a body, chiefly, I thought, to hide the fact that he had no ideas at all about the strange case of Madame Vatrotski.

The rage for the tango, the sensational revue, for the Russian ballet, was at its height when Madame Vatrotski’s name first appeared on the hoardings in foot-long letters.

The management of the Olympic billed her extensively as a very paragon of marvels, but most of the critics refused to endorse this opinion. Perhaps they were anxious to do a good turn to the home artistes who had been rather thrust aside by the foreign invasion of the boards of the variety theaters; at any rate, they declared her dancing was a mere pose, not always in the best of taste, and that her beauty was nothing to rave about.

I had not seen this much-advertised dancer, but the Olympic management could have had no reason to regret the expense they had gone to. Whether her dancing was good or bad, whether her beauty was real or imaginary, the great theater was full to overflowing night after night; her picture, in various postures, was in all the illustrated papers, and paragraphs concerning her were plentiful.

From beginning to end actual facts about her were difficult to get; but allowing for all journalistic exaggeration, the following statement is near the truth.

She was an eccentric rather than a beautiful dancer, and if she was not actually a beautiful woman there was something irresistibly attractive about her. Her origin was obscure, possibly she was not a Russian, and if she had any right to the title of madame, no husband was in evidence. She was quite young; upon the surface she was a child bent on getting out of life all life had to give, and underneath the surface she was perhaps a cold, calculating woman, with no other aim but her own gratification, utterly callous of the sorrow and ruin she might bring to others.

All other statements concerning her must at least be considered doubtful. Her friends may have been too generous, her enemies unnecessarily bitter. Personally I do not believe she was in any way connected with one of the royal houses of Europe, as rumor said, nor that she was the morganatic wife of an Austrian archduke.

I have said that I had never seen her. I may add that I was not in the least interested in her.

Even when I read the headline in the paper, “Mysterious disappearance of Madame Vatrotski,” I remained unmoved; indeed, I had to think for a moment who Madame Vatrotski was, and when the paragraph concluded that the disappearance was probably a smart advertisement I thought no more about the matter.

Before the end of the week, however, I was obliged to think a great deal about this woman. It was a tribute to the dancer’s popularity that her disappearance caused widespread interest not only in London, but in the provinces, and it speedily became evident that her friends were legion.

She had dined, or had had supper, at various times, with a score of well-known men; she had received presents and offers of marriage from them; she had certainly had two chances of becoming a peeress, she might have become the wife of a millionaire, and half a dozen younger sons had kept their families on tenter-hooks.

It was said the poet laureate had dedicated an ode to her–that Lovet Forbes, the sculptor, was immortalizing her in stone, and Musgrave had certainly painted her portrait.

From all sides there was a loud demand that the mystery must be cleared up, and the investigation was entrusted to me.

From the outset it was apparent that Madame Vatrotski had played fast and loose with her many admirers. She had not definitely refused either of the coronets offered her, nor the millions. I say her behavior was apparent, but I ought to say it was apparent to me, because many of those who knew her personally would not believe a word against her.

This was the case with Sir Charles Woodbridge, a very level-headed man as a rule, and also with Paul Renaud, the proprietor of the great dress emporium in Regent Street, an astute individual, not easily deceived by either man or woman.

Both these men were pleased to believe themselves the serious item in Madame Vatrotski’s life, and Sir Charles in hot-headed fashion, and Renaud, in cold contempt, told me very plainly what they thought of me when I suggested that the lady might not be so innocently transparent as she seemed.

Up to a certain point it was comparatively easy to follow Madame’s movements. After the performance on Monday evening she had gone to supper with Sir Charles at a smart restaurant, and many people had seen her there. His car had taken her back to her rooms, and he had arranged to fetch her next morning at half-past eleven and drive her down to Maidenhead for lunch.

When Sir Charles arrived at her rooms next morning he was told she had gone out and had left no message. He was annoyed, but he had to admit it was not the first time she had broken an appointment with him.

It transpired that she had gone out that morning soon after ten, and half-an-hour afterwards was at Reno’s. Paul Renaud did not see her there and had no appointment with her.

She made some trivial purchases–a veil, some lace and gloves, which were sent to her rooms later in the day, and she left the shop about eleven. The door-porter was able to fix the time, and was quite sure the lady was Madame Vatrotski. She would not have a taxi, and walked away in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Since then she had disappeared altogether.

A taxi-driver came forward to say he believed he had taken her to a restaurant in Soho, but after inquiry I came to the conclusion that the driver was mistaken.

She sent no message to the theater that night, she simply did not turn up. To appease the audience it was announced that she was suffering from sudden indisposition; but, as a fact, the management did not know what had become of her, and the maid at her rooms confessed absolute ignorance concerning her mistress’s whereabouts. I have no doubt the maid would have lied to protect Madame, but on this occasion I think she was telling the truth.

It was after I had told Quarles the result of my inquiries, and we had argued ourselves into silence, that he burst out with his remark about the body, and of course what he said was true enough. Still, I was inclined to think that Madame Vatrotski was dead. I did not believe she had disappeared as an advertisement: there was no earthly reason why she should, since her popularity had shown no signs of being on the wane, and to attribute the mystery to a Nihilist plot was not a solution which appealed to me.

“She may have returned to her rooms and met Sir Charles,” Zena suggested, after a pause. “Perhaps she found him waiting in his car at the door and went off at once.”

“Why do you make such a suggestion?” asked Quarles.

“She had plenty of time to keep the appointment; indeed, it almost looks as if she had arranged her morning on purpose to keep it. If she had gone with him at once her maid would not know she had returned.”

Quarles looked at me.