E. Phillips Oppenheim - The Betrayal

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"Tell us, Mr. Ducaine," Lord Chelsford said, "what your reasons were
for making such a statement."

I took a piece of red tape and a newspaper from the table before which I
stood. I folded up the newspaper and tied the tape around it.

"When I put those documents away," I said, "I tied them up with a knot
like this, of my own invention, which I have never seen used by anybody
else. In the morning I found that my knot had been untied, and that the
tape around the papers had been re-tied in an ordinary bow."

"Will you permit me for a moment," the Duke interposed. "The safe, I
believe, Mr. Ducaine, was secured with a code lock, the word of which
was known to-whom?"

"Yourself, sir, Colonel Ray, and myself."

The Duke nodded.

"If I remember rightly," he said, "the code word was never mentioned,
but was written on a piece of paper, glanced at by each of us in turn,
and immediately destroyed."

"That is quite true, sir."

"Now, do you believe, Mr. Ducaine," the Duke continued, "that it was
possible for any one else except us the to have attained to the
knowledge of that word."

"I do not sir," I admitted.

"Do you believe that it was possible for any one to have opened the safe
without the knowledge of that word?"

"Without breaking it open, no, sir."

"There were no signs of the lock having been tampered with when you went
to it in the morning?" "None, sir."

"It was set at the correct word, the word known only to Colonel Ray,
myself, and yourself?" "Yes, sir."

The Duke leaned back in his chair and addressed Lord Cheisford.

"For the reasons which you have heard from Mr. Ducaine himself," he
said drily, "I came to the conclusion that he was mistaken in his
suggestion. I think that you will probably be inclined to agree with
me."

These men had learnt well the art of masking their feelings. From Lord
Chelsford's polite bow I could gather nothing.

"I am forced to admit," he said, "that no other conclusion seems
possible. Now, Mr. Ducaine, with regard to the execution of your work.
It is carried out altogether, I believe, at the 'Brand'?"

"Entirely, sir."

"Your only servant is the man Grooton, for whom the Duke and I myself
are prepared to vouch. You are also watched by detectives residing in
the village, as I dare say you know. I also understand that you have no
private correspondence, and receive practically no visitors. Now tell
me the only persons who, to your knowledge, have entered the 'Brand'
since you have been engaged in this work."

I answered him at once.

"Colonel Ray, Lady Angela Harberly, Lord Blenavon, the Prince of Malors,
and a young lady called Blanche Moyat, the daughter of a farmer in
Braster at whose house I used sometimes to visit."

Lord Chelsford referred to some notes in his hand. Then he leaned back
in his chair, and looked at me steadfastly.

"Is there any one," he asked, "whom you suspect to have visited you for
the purpose, either direct or indirect, of gaining information as to
your work?"

"Yes, sir," I answered promptly.

A little exclamation escaped from the Commander-in-Chief. Lord
Chelsford never removed his eyes from my face, the Duke had still the
appearance of a tolerant but slightly bored listener.

"Who?" Lord Chelsford asked.

"The Prince of Malors," I answered.

There was a moment's silence. Lord Cheisford turned again to his notes.
Then he looked up at me.

"Your reasons?" he asked.

I told them the story carefully and circumstantially. When I had
finished Colonel Ray left his seat and whispered something in Lord
Chelsford's ear. The Duke interposed.

"I wish," he said, "to add a brief remark to the story which you have
just heard. I have known Malors since he was a boy, my father knew his
father, and, as you may know, our families have been frequently
connected in marriage. I do not wish to impugn the good faith of this
young man, but the Prince of Malors was my guest, and the accusation
against him is one which I cannot believe."

"The story, as I have told it, sir, is absolutely true," I said to Lord
Cheisford. "There was no room for any mistake or misapprehension on my
part. I am afraid that I haven't been a great success as your
secretary. Colonel Ray gave me to understand, of course, that your
object in engaging an utterly unknown person was to try and stop this
leakage of information. It is still going on, and I cannot stop it. I
am quite prepared to give up my post at any moment."

Lord Chelsford nodded towards the door.

"Will you be so good as to step into the next room for a few minutes,
Mr. Ducaine?" he said. "We will discuss this matter together."

I departed at once, and found my way into a bare waiting-room, hung with
a few maps, and with uncarpeted floor. The minutes dragged along
slowly. I hated the thought of dismissal, I rebelled against it almost
fiercely. I had done my duty, I had told the truth, there was nothing
against me save this obstinate and quixotic loyalty of the Duke to an
old family friend. Yet I scarcely dared hope that there was a chance
for me.

At last I heard the door open, and the sound of friendly adieux in the
passage. Lord Cheisford came in to me alone. He took up a position
with his back to the fire, and looked at me thoughtfully.

"Well, Mr. Ducaine," he said, "we have discussed this matter
thoroughly, and we are all practically agreed that there is no reason
why we should ask you to give up your position."

I was almost overcome. It was a wonderful relief to me.

"But surely the Duke--" I faltered.

"The Duke is very loyal to his friends, Mr. Ducaine," he said, "but he
is also a man with a nice sense of justice. You and he regard two
incidents from entirely different points of view, but he does not for a
moment suggest that your account of them is not an honest one. He looks
upon you as a little nervous and overstrung by your responsibilities and
disposed to be imaginative. He will not hear anything against the
Prince of Malors."

"My story is as true as God's Word," I declared.

"I am inclined to believe in it myself, Mr. Ducaine," said Lord
Chelsford. "There are indications of a strong revival of Royalist
sentiment amongst the French people, and it is very possible that the
Prince of Malors may wish to ingratiate himself by any means with the
French army. This sort of thing scarcely sounds like practical
politics, but one has to bear in mind the peculiar temperament of the
man himself, and the nation. I personally believe that the Prince of
Malors would consider himself justified in abusing the hospitality of
his dearest friend in the cause of patriotism. At any rate, this is my
view, and I am acting upon it. All danger from that source will now be
at an end, for in an hour's time the Prince will be under the
surveillance of detectives for the remainder of his stay in England."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I am to go back to Braster, then?" I asked.

"To-night, if possible," Lord Chelsford answered. "Go on living as you
have been living. And, listen! If you should have further cause to
suspect the Prince of Malors or anybody else, communicate with me or
with Ray. The Duke is, of course, a man of ability and an honourable
man, but he is prejudiced in favour of his friends. Some of us others
have had to learn our lessons of life, and men, in a sharper school.
You understand me, Mr. Ducaine, I am sure."

"I perfectly understand, sir," I answered.

"There is nothing more which you wish to ask me?"

"There is a suggestion I should like to make, sir, with regard to the
disposal of my finished work," I told him.

"Go on, Mr. Ducaine. I shall be glad to listen to it."

There was a knock at the door. Lord Chelsford held up his finger.

"Send it me in writing," he said in a low tone, "to-morrow.--Come in!"

Ray entered.

CHAPTER XIX

MRS. SMITH-LESSING

Ray and I left the building together. As we turned into Pall Mall he
glanced at his watch.

"You have missed the six o'clock train," he remarked. "I suppose you
know that there is nothing now till the nine-twenty. Will you come to
the club with me, and have some dinner?"

It was less an invitation than a command. I felt a momentary impulse of
rebellion, but the innate masterfulness of the man triumphed easily. I
found myself walking, a little against my will, down Pall Mall by his
side. A man of some note, he was saluted every minute by passers-by,
whom, however, he seemed seldom to notice. In his town clothes, his
great height, his bronzed face, and black beard made him a sufficiently
striking personality. I myself, though I was little short of six feet,
seemed almost insignificant by his side. Until we reached the club he
maintained an unbroken silence. He even ignored some passing comment of
mine; but when once inside the building he seemed to remember that he
was my host, and his manner became one of stiff kindness. He ordered an
excellent dinner and chose the wine with care. Then he leaned a little
forward across the table, and electrified me by his first remark.

"Ducaine," he said, "what relatives have you with whom you are in any
sort of communication?"

"None at all!" I answered.

"Sir Michael Trogoldy was your mother's brother," he remarked. "He is
still alive."

"I believe so," I admitted. "I have never approached him, nor has he
ever taken any notice of me."

"You did not write to him, for instance, when Heathcote absconded, and
you had to leave college?"

"Certainly not," I answered. "I did not choose to turn beggar."

"How much," he asked, "do you know of your family history?"

"I know," I told him, "that my father was cashiered from the army for
misconduct, and committed suicide. I know, too, that my mother's people
treated her shamefully, and that she died alone in Paris and almost in
poverty. It was scarcely likely, therefore, that I was going to apply
to them for help." Ray nodded.

"I thought so," he remarked grimly. "I shall have to talk to you for a
few minutes about your father."

I said nothing. My surprise, indeed, had bereft me of words. He sipped
his wine slowly, and continued.

"Fate has dealt a little hardly with you," he said. "I am almost a
stranger to you, and there are even reasons why you and I could never be
friends. Yet it apparently falls to my lot to supplement the little you
know of a very unpleasant portion of your family history. That rascal
of a lawyer who absconded with your money should have told you on your
twenty-first birthday."

"A pleasant heritage!" I remarked bitterly; "yet I always wanted to know
the whole truth."

"Here goes, then," he said, filling my glass with wine. "Your father
was second in command at Gibraltar. He sold a plan of the gallery forts
to the French Government, and was dismissed from the army."

I started as though I had been stung. Ray continued, his stern
matter-of-fact tone unshaken.

"He did not commit suicide as you were told. He lived, in Paris, a life
of continual and painful degeneration. Your mother died of a broken
heart. There was another woman, of course, whose influence over your
father was unbounded, and at whose instigation he committed this
disgraceful act. This woman is now at Braster."

My brain was in a whirl. I was quite incapable of speech.

"Her real name," he continued coolly, "God only knows. For the moment
she calls herself Mrs. Smith-Lessing. She is a Franco-American, a
political adventuress of the worst type, living by her wits. She is
ugly enough to be Satan's mistress, and she's forty-five if she's a day,
yet she has but to hold up her finger, and men tumble the gifts of their
life into her lap, gold and honour, conscience and duty. At present I
think it highly probable that you are her next selected victim."

For several minutes Ray proceeded with his dinner. I did my best to
follow his example, but my appetite was gone. I could scarcely persuade
myself that the whole affair was not a dream--that the men who sat all
round us in little groups, the dark liveried servants passing noiselessly
backwards and forwards, were not figures in some shadowy nightmare, and
that I should not wake in a moment to find myself curled up in a railway
carriage on my way home. But there was no mistaking the visible
presence of Colonel Mostyn Ray. Strong, stalwart, he sat within a few
feet of me, calmly eating his dinner as though my agony were a thing of
little account. He, at least, was real.

"This woman," he continued, presently, "either is, or would like to be,
mixed up with the treachery that is somewhere close upon us. Sooner or
later she will approach you. You are warned."

"Yes," I repeated vaguely, "I am warned."

"I have finished," Colonel Ray remarked. "Go on with your dinner and
think. I will answer any question presently."

There were only two I put to him, and that was when my hansom had been
called and I was on the point of leaving.

"Is he--my father--alive now?" I asked.

"I have reason to believe," Ray answered, "that he may be dead."

"How is it," I asked, "that you are so well acquainted with these
things? Were you at any time my father's friend?"

"I was acquainted with him," Ray answered. "We were at one time in the
same regiment. My friendship was--with your mother."

The answer was illuming, but he never winced.

"Indirectly," I said, "I seem to have a good deal to thank you for. Why
do you say that you can never be my friend?"

"You are your father's son," he answered curtly.

"I am also my mother's son," I objected.

"For which reason," he said, "I have done what I could to give you a
start in life."

And with these words he dismissed me.

* * * * *

I received Ray's warning concerning Mrs. Smith-Lessing, the new tenant
of Braster Grange, somewhere between seven and eight o'clock, and barely
an hour later I found myself alone in a first-class carriage with her,
and a four hours' journey before us. She had arrived at King's Cross
apparently only a few minutes before the departure of the train, for the
platform was almost deserted when I took my seat. Just as I had changed
my hat for a cap, however, wrapped my rug around my knees, and settled
down for the journey, the door of my carriage was thrown open, and I saw
two women looking in, one of whom I recognized at once. Mrs.
Smith-Lessing, although the night was warm, was wearing a heavy and
magnificent fur coat, and the guard of the train himself was attending
her. Behind stood a plainly dressed woman, evidently her maid, carrying
a flat dressing-case. There was a brief colloquy between the three. It
ended in dressing-case, a pile of books, a reading lamp, and a
formidable array of hat-boxes, and milliner's parcels being placed upon
the rack and vacant seats in my compartment, and immediately afterwards
Mrs. Smith-Lessing herself entered. I heard her tell her maid to enter
the carriage behind. The door was closed and the guard touched off his
hat. A minute later and we were off.

I was alone with the adventuress. I had no doubt but that she had
chosen my carriage with intent. I placed my dispatch-box on the rack
above my head, and opened out a newspaper, which I had no intention of
reading. She, for her part, arranged her travelling light and took out
a novel. She did not apparently even glance in my direction, and seemed
to become immersed at once in her reading. So we travelled for half an
hour or so.

At the end of that time I was suddenly conscious that she had laid down
her book, and was regarding me through partially-closed eyes. I too
laid down my paper. Our eyes met, and she smiled.

"Forgive me," she said, "but did I not see you one day last week upon
the sands at Braster with Lady Angela Harberly?"

"I believe so," I answered. "You were riding, I think, with her
brother."

"How fortunate that I should find myself travelling with a neighbour!"
she murmured. "I rather dreaded this night journey. I just missed the
six o'clock, and I have been at the station ever since."

I understood at once one of the charms of this woman. Her voice was
deliciously soft and musical. The words seemed to leave her lips
slowly, almost lingeringly, and she spoke with the precision and slight
accent of a well-educated foreigner. Her eyes seemed to be wandering
all over me and my possessions, yet her interest, if it amounted to
that, never even suggested curiosity or inquisitiveness.

"It is scarcely a pleasant journey at this time of night," I remarked.

"Indeed, no," she assented. "I wonder if you know my name? I am Mrs.
Smith-Lessing, of Braster Grange. And you?"

"My name is Guy Ducaine," I told her. "I live at a small cottage called
the 'Brand.'"

"That charming little place you can just see from the sands?" she
exclaimed. "I thought the Duke's head-keeper lived there."

"It was a keeper's lodge before the Duke was kind enough to let it to
me," I told her.

She nodded.

"It is a very delightful abode," she murmured.

She picked up her book, and after turning over the pages aimlessly for a
few minutes, she recommenced to read. I followed her example; but when
a little later on I glanced across in her direction, I found that her
eyes were fixed upon me, and that her novel lay in her lap.

"My book is so stupid," she said apologetically. "I find, Mr.
Ducaine," she added with sudden earnestness, "the elements of a much
stranger story closer at hand."

"That," I remarked, laying down my own book, and looking steadily across
at her, "sounds enigmatic."

"I think," she said, "that I am very foolish to talk to you at all about
it. If you know who I am, you are probably armed against me at all
points. You will weigh and measure my words, you will say to yourself,
'Lies, lies, lies!' You will not believe in me or anything I say. And,
again, if you do not know, the story is too painful a one for me to
tell."

"Then let us both avoid it," I said, reaching again for my paper. "We
shall stop at Ipswich in an hour. I will change carriages there."

She turned round in her seat towards the window, as though to hide her
face. My own attempt at reading was a farce. I watched her over the
top of my paper. She was looking out into the darkness, and she seemed
to me to be crying. Every now and then her shoulders heaved
convulsively. Suddenly she faced me once more. There were traces of
tears on her face; a small lace handkerchief was knotted up in her
nervous fingers.

"Oh, I cannot," she exclaimed plaintively. "I cannot sit here alone
with you and say nothing. I know that I am judged already. It does not
matter. I am your father's wife, Guy. You owe me at least some
recognition of that fact."

"I never knew my father," I said, "except as the cause of my own
miserable upbringing and friendless life."

"You never knew him," she answered, "and therefore you believe the
worst. He was weak, perhaps, and, exposed to a terrible temptation, he
fell! But he was not a bad man. He was never that."

"Do you think, Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, struggling to keep my voice
firm, though I felt myself trembling, "that this is a profitable
discussion for either of us?"

"Why not?" she exclaimed almost fiercely. "You have heard his story
from enemies. You have judged him from the report of those who were
never his friends. He sinned and he repented. Better and worse men
than he have done that. If he were wholly bad, do you believe that
after all these years I should care for him still?"

I held my peace. The woman was leaning over towards me now. She seemed
to have lost the desire to attract. Her voice had grown sharper and
less pleasant, her carefully arranged hair was in some disorder, and the
telltale blue veins by her temples and the crow's feet under her eyes
were plainly visible. Her face seemed suddenly to have become pinched
and wan, the flaming light in her strangely coloured eyes was a
convincing assertion of her earnestness. She was not acting now, though
what lay behind the storm I could not tell.

"You seem afraid to talk to me," she exclaimed. "Why? I have done you
no harm!"

"Perhaps not," I answered, "yet I cannot see what we gain by raking up
this miserable history. It is both painful and profitless."

"I will say no more," she declared, with a sudden note of dignity in her
tone. "I can see that I am judged already in your mind. After all, it
does not really matter. No one likes to be thought worse of than they
deserve, and women are all--a little foolish. But at least you must
answer me one question. I have the right to ask it. You must tell me
where he is."

"Where who is?" I asked.

Again her eyes flamed upon inc. Her lips parted a little, and I could
see the white glimmer of her teeth.

"Oh, you shall not fence with me like a baby!" she exclaimed. "Tell me,
or lie to me, or refuse to tell me! Which is it?"

"Upon my honour," I said, looking at her curiously, "I have no idea whom
you mean!"

She looked at inc steadily for several moments, her lips parted, her
breath seeming to come sharply between her teeth.

"I mean your father," she said. "Whom else should I mean?"

CHAPTER XX

TWO TO ONE

I looked across at the woman, who was waiting my answer with every
appearance of feverish interest.

"What should I know about him?" I said slowly. "I have been told that
he is dead. I know no more than that."

She started as though my words had stung her.

"It is not possible!" she exclaimed. "I must have heard of it. When he
left me--it was less than three months ago--he seemed better than I had
known him for years."

"All my life," I said, "I have understood that my father died by his own
hand after his disgrace. To-night for the first time I was told that
this was not the fact. I understood, from what my informant said, that
he had died recently."

She drew a sharp breath between her teeth, and suddenly struck the
cushioned arm of the carriage by her side with her clenched hand.

"It is a lie!" she declared. "Whoever told you so, it is a lie!"

"Do you mean that he is not dead?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean that you
have not seen him yourself--within the last few months?" she demanded
fiercely. "He left me to come to you on the first day of the New Year."

"I have never seen him to my knowledge in my life," I answered.

She leaned back in her seat, murmuring something to herself which I
could not catch. Past-mistress of deceit though she may have been, I
was convinced that her consternation at my statement was honest. She
did not speak or look at me again for some time. As for me, I sat
silent with the horror of a thought. Underneath the rug my limbs were
cold and lifeless. I sat looking out of the rain-splashed window into
the darkness, with fixed staring eyes, and a hideous fancy in my brain.
Every now and then I thought that I could see it--a white evil face
pressed close to the blurred glass, grinning in upon me. Every shriek
of the engine--and there were many just then, for we were passing
through a network of tunnels--brought beads of moisture on to my
forehead, made me start and shake like a criminal. Surely that was a
cry! I started in my seat, only to see that my companion, now her old
self again, was watching me intently.

"I am afraid," she said softly, "that you are not very strong. The
excitement of talking of these things has been too much for you."

"I have never had a day's illness in my life," I answered. "I am
perfectly well."

"I am glad," she said simply. "I must finish what I was telling you.
Your father was continually talking and thinking of you. He knew all
about you at college. He knew about your degree, of your cricket and
rowing. Lately he began to get restless. He lost sight of you after
you left Oxford, and it worried him. There were reasons, as you know,
why it was not well for him to come to England, but nevertheless he
determined to brave it out. It was to find you that he risked so much.
He left me on New Year's Day, and I have never heard a word from him
since. That is why I came to England."

"The whole reason?" I asked, like a fool.

"The whole reason," she affirmed simply.

"I do not wish to see my father," I said. "If he comes to me I shall
tell him so."

"He wants to tell you his story himself," she murmured.

"I would never listen to it," I answered. She sighed.

"You are very young," she said. "You do not know what temptation is.
You do not know how badly he was treated. You have heard his history,
perhaps, from his enemies. He is getting old now, Guy. I think that if
you saw him now you would pity him."

"My pity," I answered, "would never be strong enough to suffer me to
open the door to him--if he should come. He has left me alone all these
years. The only favour I would ever ask of him would be that he
continues to do so."

"You will believe the story of strangers?"

"No one in the world could be a greater stranger to me than he." She
sighed.

"You will not even let me be your friend," she pleaded. "You are young,
you are perhaps ambitious. There may be many ways in which I could help
you."

"As you helped my father, perhaps," I answered bitterly. "Thank you, I
have no need of friends--that sort of friends."

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