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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78920 ***
+
+
+
+
+  Transcriber’s Note
+  Italic text displayed as: _italic_
+
+
+
+
+THE MONEY-SPIDER
+
+[Illustration: “_For a second the pair stared into one another’s eyes.
+There was defiance, even hatred, in the glance of both of them._”]
+
+
+
+
+  THE
+  MONEY-SPIDER
+
+  BY
+
+  WILLIAM LE QUEUX
+
+  _Author of “The Great God Gold,” “The
+  Red Room,” etc., etc._
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  RICHARD G. BADGER
+
+  THE GORHAM PRESS
+
+  BOSTON
+
+
+
+
+  _Copyright 1911 by William Le Queux
+  Entered at Stationer’s Hall
+  All Rights Reserved_
+
+  _The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._
+
+
+  _In this Life of many troubles, what pain is greater than this:
+  Desire without ability, when that desire turneth not away?_
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  PART I
+
+  CHAPTER                                      PAGE
+
+  1 Introduces a Red-Faced Man                    1
+
+  2 Concerns Certain Secrets                      8
+
+  3 The End of the World                         17
+
+  4 The Touchstone of Misfortune                 27
+
+  5 An Allegation                                35
+
+  6 Strange Matters of Fact                      43
+
+  7 The Captain Makes a Suggestion               53
+
+  8 Reveals the Shadow                           61
+
+  9 The Arctic Wilderness                        66
+
+  10 Towards the Doom                            72
+
+  11 Face to Face                                82
+
+  12 Love’s Shadow                               90
+
+  13 Faces in the Mist                           97
+
+  14 Is In Several Ways Mysterious              107
+
+  15 Lifts the Veil                             116
+
+  16 Bride and Lover                            123
+
+  17 Some Amazing Facts                         132
+
+  18 The Four Letters                           141
+
+
+  PART II
+
+  1 Bide Tryst                                  149
+
+  2 The Peril of Dick Jervoise                  158
+
+  3 Strangers in London                         166
+
+  4 Thyra Makes an Admission                    175
+
+  5 The Bond of Silence                         182
+
+  6 Contains A Problem                          190
+
+  7 The Problem Continued                       199
+
+  8 The Man Bourtzeff                           208
+
+  9 An Indiscreet Friendship                    217
+
+  10 A Curious Truth                            225
+
+  11 On the Ripley Road                         233
+
+  12 A Hammersmith Hero                         242
+
+  13 Another Problem                            253
+
+  14 A Warning is Uttered                       268
+
+  15 The Villa Sergio                           277
+
+  16 On the Adriatic                            284
+
+  17 A Question is Asked                        292
+
+  18 Father and Daughter                        299
+
+  19 In Black and White                         308
+
+  20 A Woman’s Honour                           322
+
+  21 Towards the Truth                          329
+
+  22 Alza Makes a Confession                    338
+
+  23 In Sound of Piccadilly                     345
+
+  Conclusion                                    354
+
+
+
+
+THE MONEY-SPIDER
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+INTRODUCES A RED-FACED MAN
+
+
+“And if the truth were ever exposed—what then?”
+
+“Bah! You never need fear that, my dear fellow. The people we are
+dealing with are discreet—silent in their own interests. This isn’t the
+first little piece of confidential business I’ve had with them.”
+
+“Well, I don’t like it.”
+
+“But you want money!”
+
+“Not if I’m compelled to commit a crime to obtain it.”
+
+“Ah, my dear Jorgen, you’re becoming really too scrupulous in your old
+age,” laughed the fat, pimply-faced man in a well-cut yachting suit, as
+he drew heavily at his cigar and lolled back in a long cane-chair on
+deck. “You should recollect that in these modern days of ours honesty
+spells poverty.”
+
+“Not always, Peter, not always,” protested the other, a
+broad-shouldered, burly, grey-bearded man in a well-worn suit of blue
+serge. “One can be honest and prosper, even now.”
+
+“Seldom, my dear fellow, seldom. Men to become millionaires must be
+unscrupulous,” replied Peter Sundt, the owner of that fine steam
+yacht, the blustering, red-faced man who had once been a fisherman,
+but who now practically controlled the great cod-fishing industry of
+Finmarken. For him hundreds of men toiled upon the deep, reaping the
+harvest of the Arctic Ocean, while he, wealthy and luxurious, lived in
+summer at his beautiful home near Christiania, and in winter at his
+splendid white villa among the palms at Ragusa, on the blue Adriatic.
+
+The man seated at his side, gazing thoughtfully across at the broken
+coast of the French Riviera lying purple in the spring sunset, was of
+an altogether different stamp. Big, broad-shouldered, with a kind,
+merry, furrowed face and a deep-toned voice, he was a typical sailor of
+the bluff, hail-fellow-well-met type. Indeed, for forty years he had
+sailed the Polar Sea in search of the whale, and in the days before
+Sven Foyn invented his deadly cannon-harpoon, he had had many thrilling
+adventures in the frozen North—adventures which, if written, would
+assuredly make a most fascinating book.
+
+Nowadays, however, he had given up whaling and had settled down in a
+snug appointment as harbour-master at Vardo, that far-off little town
+on the most northernly point east of the North Cape, a place beyond
+the pale of civilisation and where for many months each year the
+inhabitants lived in the perpetual Arctic night.
+
+He had known Peter Sundt, the millionaire of stock-fish, all his life,
+and had now sailed to the South with him on his magnificent yacht in
+order to keep a certain appointment at an obscure hotel—the Palmiers—at
+Monte Carlo.
+
+The cruise around the North Cape, past Hammerfest, down the long,
+broken coast-line of Norway, through the Straits of Dover, across the
+stormy bay and through Gibraltar, had been a most pleasant one. It was
+years since Berentsen had sailed a summer sea, nearly his whole life
+having been spent on the edge of the ice-pack, therefore he had greatly
+enjoyed his old friend’s hospitality.
+
+Yet now they were off Villefranche, with Beaulieu lying in its
+picturesque bay, and the Tete de Chien rising against the clear sky,
+with the brown rock of Monaco beyond, the old harbour-master had become
+suddenly thoughtful and apprehensive.
+
+Besides the crew—a hardy set of Norwegians and Danes—they were the only
+persons on board. Peter Sundt was a widower, and in no way a lady’s
+man. From small beginnings he had risen to become one of the wealthiest
+and most influential men in Norway, while his friend, Jorgen Berentsen,
+bluff old sailor that he was, had continued his life of the sea until
+his friend had been able to obtain for him the post of harbour-master
+of that far-away, dismal town, which was the outpost of civilisation.
+
+Jorgen had been appointed to Vardo at his own request. Born and bred
+within the Arctic Circle, he cared little for the South, and the
+pleasures of Christiania or Trondhjem had never held any attraction for
+him.
+
+Like most Norwegians, both men knew English, and, indeed, had been
+conversing in that language.
+
+“The meeting is at ten to-night, isn’t it?” asked the old
+harbour-master slowly, with a sigh, his deeply-furrowed face bearing a
+thoughtful, apprehensive expression.
+
+“Yes. Our friend said so in the wire I received at Marseilles,” replied
+his red-faced host.
+
+“I’m half inclined to withdraw, even now. I confess, Peter, I don’t
+like the affair.”
+
+“And after all the trouble you’ve taken!” exclaimed Sundt. “Why, you’ve
+planned every detail.”
+
+“I know; but I’m ready to sacrifice it all in order to preserve my
+innocence, my own honour.”
+
+“Honour, be hanged!” laughed his wealthy friend. “Who cares a jot for
+your honour except yourself? If I’d prided myself upon my honour I’d
+to-day still have been a fisherman. My advice to you, my dear Jorgen,
+is to get money wherever you can. Never refuse a good thing. You’ve
+taken my advice before, and you’ve profited, haven’t you?”
+
+“Yes,” replied the other, with a deep pull at his cigar. “I owe
+everything to you, Peter—everything. I’d still have been at sea now had
+it not been for your kind offices.”
+
+“Well, we’ve struck a bargain, you and I; and we’ve kept it. You’ve
+placed in your pocket a good many thousand kroners which you otherwise
+would not have had.”
+
+“And you also,” laughed Berentsen uneasily.
+
+“Certainly; and I hope we shall both make a good many more thousands.
+We shall, providing you don’t continue to suffer from these absurd
+fits of groundless apprehension. Self-exposure would mean exposure of
+myself—and I couldn’t afford that—as you well know!”
+
+“But to thus betray—”
+
+“Oh, rubbish!” laughed Sundt, interrupting him. “Let’s talk of
+something else. You’ve never been to Monte Carlo. You’ll be amused
+there, I can assure you.”
+
+“I’m thinking of Thyra. How would she judge me if she knew the truth?”
+he remarked in a low, intense voice, his bearded chin sunk upon his
+breast and a far-away look in his deep-set eyes.
+
+“Thyra will marry one day, I suppose, and you’ll want money to give
+her. Look at the practical side of life, man! Get the money now it’s
+within your grasp.”
+
+“Thyra would disown me as her father,” said the thick-set, old
+sea-captain in a strained tone.
+
+“As many another daughter would disown her father if she knew all his
+business secrets,” remarked Sundt, with a smile. “Ignorance is always
+bliss.”
+
+“Well, Peter, I don’t like it!” exclaimed old Jorgen, jumping from his
+long cane-chair, and taking three paces up the deck and three paces
+back again—his old habit of the bridge. His face had grown pale and
+rigid.
+
+Peter Sundt cast a curiously crafty glance at him while his back was
+turned. But the unusual expression only rested upon his countenance for
+a moment. Next second it had vanished, and with a smile full of forced
+bonhomie the millionaire said:
+
+“My dear fellow, put all worry behind you, as I do. Little Thyra
+believes you to be the most honest man in all Norway, as every daughter
+believes her father to be. Why should she ever be undeceived? All of us
+have one skeleton in our cupboard. Why should we go out of our way to
+exhibit it?”
+
+“But this mysterious person we are here to meet? What guarantee have we
+of his good faith? He might blackmail us!”
+
+“He will not do so. I’ll guarantee that.”
+
+“How can you stand guarantee for him?”
+
+“Well—I have had previous experience,” replied Pete, rather slowly.
+“The reason why the appointment for meeting is made here in Monte Carlo
+is to avoid suspicion. The place is so cosmopolitan that even though we
+might be watched, there would be nothing extraordinary in us meeting a
+stranger here. Besides, I always come here for a fortnight or so each
+Carnival, before going round to Ragusa.”
+
+“I somehow scent danger,” declared the Captain, halting and leaning
+with his back to the rail. “I don’t think I shall meet the mysterious
+person, whoever he may be or however much I may gain by the commission
+of the crime!”
+
+“What!” cried the owner of the yacht, starting in surprise and staring
+straight at his friend. “You surely don’t wish to back out of the
+bargain now? This isn’t like you, Jorgen.”
+
+“I see signs of a gathering storm,” he replied, heartily wishing he had
+never accepted his host’s invitation.
+
+“Where?”
+
+But the old harbour-master only shrugged his broad shoulders and, as he
+did so, cast his cigar-end into the water.
+
+A smart French steward appeared with a tray upon which was tea, and
+setting it near his master, retired.
+
+The two men did not speak. The silence of the sunset hour was unbroken
+save for the jar of the engines and the low swish of the calm, blue
+waters, as they steamed straight to the long, low Cap d’Ail.
+
+They were close enough to the rocky shore to distinguish the Corniche
+road, running like a white ribbon over the olive-clad Monte Bastis,
+while in the centre of the picturesque scene rose the ancient village
+of Eze, perched high-up upon its conical hill, with the white
+flower-embowered villas of the wealthy dotted everywhere over the
+sloping mountain-sides.
+
+To old Captain Berentsen the scene was an unfamiliar one. He knew
+the ice-bound coasts of Kolguev, Franz Josef Land, Spitzbergen, Nova
+Zembla. He lived far beyond the tree zone, in a dismal land of grey
+mists and snow blizzards, where nothing grew save the Arctic mosses.
+Therefore, the fairy-like scene before him was entrancing.
+
+Yet he gazed upon it all as a man gazes at his own open grave.
+
+His hands were clenched upon the iron rail, and as he looked seaward
+his teeth were set, his deep-lined brow clouded. His face was turned
+away from that man who, though his host, held him so irresistibly in
+his power. He was poor, and his poverty had compelled him to become, as
+he now was, the helpless puppet in that fat man’s hands.
+
+He was thinking of Thyra—his sweet-faced, neat-waisted little daughter,
+whom he had left at home in that far-away town, now plunged in the
+darkness of the long Arctic night. He had sacrificed his own honour in
+order that she should not want. What, however, would she, devoted child
+that she was, say if she knew the real reason of his present pleasure
+cruise with this coarse-handed, red-faced millionaire—the object of the
+secret meeting which Sundt had arranged for ten o’clock that night?
+
+“You’re a fool, Jorgen!” declared Peter Sundt, bluntly at last,
+“and ungrateful, too! I point out to you a mode by which money can
+be secured for Thyra and yourself, and you’re disinclined to take
+advantage of it!”
+
+“If the truth were exposed,” declared the unhappy man in a faltering
+voice, “I would never dare to look my daughter in the face again!”
+
+Peter Sundt laughed.
+
+“And have your hands been so very clean in the past, eh?”
+
+“That is just why I fear—why I fear always.”
+
+“You’re a coward, as well as a fool. You will never become a rich man.”
+
+“I’d rather remain poor and honest.”
+
+Sundt laughed again.
+
+“Honest!” he sneered. “Isn’t it rather late in the day, Jorgen, to
+talk of honesty? Rest assured that Thyra will never know. So just calm
+yourself, and make hay while the sun shines—as the English say.”
+
+But bluff old Jorgen Berentsen only buttoned his pilot-jacket tightly
+and paced backward and forward on the deck, his heart full of regret
+and poignant bitterness, yet held fettered and bound by the great crime
+he was being forced, against his will, to commit.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+CONCERNS CERTAIN SECRETS
+
+
+Monte Carlo at night.
+
+You who know the Riviera know well the scene. It never changes, the
+terrestrial paradise that is so near hell. The garish, noisy cafes,
+the expensive restaurants, full to overflowing with the smartest crowd
+in Europe, the myriad-coloured lights, the waving palms, the beds of
+sweet-smelling flowers, the well-dressed men, the pretty women in
+wonderful toilettes, and the centre of it all, the Casino with its
+red-carpeted steps, its wide portals, and its uniformed attendants. It
+was just before Carnival, and the place was crowded.
+
+The old harbour-master and his millionaire host had dined at the Hotel
+de Paris, amid a scene of luxury unfamiliar to Jorgen Berentsen. The
+artistically lit tables, the flowers, the gay laughter of the pretty
+women, and the soft strains of the Roumanian band, all combined to
+create an impression upon the case-hardened old whaling captain, who
+had spent the greater part of his adventurous life in the desolation of
+the Arctic. To him civilisation of that luxurious kind was a revelation.
+
+As they crossed the palm-lined Place to the Casino they could see
+the long white yacht, with its many lights, lying in the port, a
+magnificent craft that had been familiar to habitués of the Riviera for
+several seasons past.
+
+Peter Sundt was well known to the officials in the Casino, otherwise it
+is doubtful whether the entrance-card would have been issued to his
+burly companion, who carried with him so unmistakably the air of the
+Northern sea.
+
+But the door at the end of the atrium swung over, and a moment later
+the pair found themselves in the great world-famous gaming-room, where
+the roulette tables were already crowded by a smart, eager throng. It
+happened to be a Saturday night, and that is the evening of the week
+when the women dress well and put on their jewels.
+
+“_Rien ne va plus!_” The strident cries of the croupiers were
+incessant, mingled with the fascinating jingle of gold, the soft rustle
+of bank-notes, and the sharp click of the little ivory ball which, each
+moment, brought many of those standing by nearer to the verge of ruin.
+
+As Peter and Jorgen passed from table to table they found at each
+crowds four or five deep, eager to stake their money in the hope of the
+fickle goddess smiling upon them.
+
+Hot and close were the rooms, as they always are, with that
+indescribable odour which ever pervades the place—that fevered, fetid
+odour of mingled perspiration and perfume.
+
+Sundt, while standing at one of the roulette tables, handed a croupier
+a hundred-franc note to place upon the last dozen. Then old Jorgen,
+following his example and bitten by the contagious excitement, handed
+the same croupier a louis to place on the zero.
+
+The game was made, the ball spun, and gradually losing its impetus, it
+fell with a loud click.
+
+“Ze-r-ro!” announced the croupier.
+
+The old captain’s furrowed face brightened when a moment later he was
+handed a small handful of golden louis, which he at once pocketed, and
+then turned away, with Peter congratulating him upon his stroke of luck.
+
+But Jorgen smiled bitterly. He was dreading the fast-approaching
+hour—ten o’clock.
+
+As they were passing on to the next table, a tall, slim, dark-haired
+French girl, quite young, but most elegantly dressed in pale pink
+chiffon, unmistakably a creation of the Rue de la Paix, with a big
+black hat which suited her admirably, and a collar of gleaming
+diamonds, swept past them laughing gaily with an elderly woman in
+grey satin who accompanied her. Into her golden chain purse she was
+carelessly stuffing a number of thousand-franc notes, which she had
+just won by a lucky coup.
+
+Peter Sundt halted and stared at her for a second. His red cheeks had
+blanched, and he held his breath.
+
+She, however, had not noticed him, and passed on towards the great
+swing doors.
+
+As she walked down the room, two young Frenchmen, evidently Riviera
+loungers, bowed acquaintance with her, and she smiled upon them. She
+was not more than twenty, and her clear-cut, regular features were
+strikingly handsome.
+
+Jorgen Berentsen noticed his friend’s sudden surprise, but made no
+remark. He, however, wondered that the sight of that butterfly of
+fashion, that elegant little Parisienne, with her dark hair arranged
+in bandeaux across her white brow, should have produced such a curious
+impression upon him.
+
+The young girl went out, her skirts rustling as she walked, leaving
+Peter Sundt standing in the great salon gazing after her as though
+dumfounded.
+
+“Who’s that?” the Captain inquired a few moments later.
+
+“That girl? Oh!—oh, well only somebody I know. I am very surprised to
+meet her here, that’s all,” he responded, somewhat confused.
+
+“A friend of yours—eh?”
+
+“Well—no—not exactly,” replied the millionaire, now thoroughly
+recovered from the evident shock that her unexpected appearance had
+caused him.
+
+But the harbour-master saw plainly that the sight of that young
+Parisienne, flushed with the excitement of winning a large coup, had
+produced an extraordinary change in his companion, and that he knew
+more of her than he intended to admit.
+
+“Perhaps you’d like to follow and join her? If so, I’ll stay here for a
+little,” said the burly old sailor.
+
+“Join her!” echoed his companion, staring at him. “_Join her!_ No,
+thank you,” he said, laughing grimly. “No,” he added, with an apparent
+effort, as he braced himself up. “Let’s go into yonder room, and watch
+the _trente-et-quarante_.”
+
+And together they strolled in the great painted salon adjoining, where
+only gold was being played, and where the cards were being dealt in a
+quiet and serious manner.
+
+To the hardy old sea-captain gambling possessed little attraction.
+He had won a zero, and was therefore perfectly satisfied. Already he
+found the atmosphere stifling and the thousand perfumes of the women
+nauseating. The jingle of gold sounded everywhere, and above all the
+voices of the croupiers inviting the company to play, or declaring that
+no further stakes could be accepted, or announcing the winning numbers.
+
+“I’m ready to go,” he said at last, with a deep-drawn sigh as he looked
+at the big clock at the end of the great gilded gaming-room.
+
+It wanted but fifteen minutes to ten—the hour of the secret appointment
+which he had been so long dreading.
+
+At ten o’clock he was to commit a crime unpardonable!
+
+Together, they passed through the atrium, down the red-carpeted steps,
+and out into the moonlit Place.
+
+The manner of the red-faced man had changed. He gazed swiftly on every
+side, and looked eagerly across to the terrace of the Cafe de Paris, as
+though in search of that laughing, dark-haired girl, the sight of whom
+had caused him such great surprise.
+
+But she had gone; and upon his coarse face was a look of bitter
+disappointment.
+
+As they re-crossed the Place and walked on beneath the dark shadows of
+the palms, the old sea-captain, pale and agitated, suddenly halted,
+exclaiming in a determined voice:
+
+“No, Peter! I—I’ll not do this! I—I’ll go no further!”
+
+“What!” cried his companion, stopping aghast. “What are you saying?”
+
+“I say what I mean,” replied the bluff old fellow resolutely.
+
+“You can’t mean it! Why, it would be utterly absurd to withdraw now,”
+declared Peter Sundt.
+
+“Better withdraw now than be guilty of such an offence,” the Captain
+replied in the low, hoarse voice of a man struggling with his own
+conscience.
+
+“I’ve arranged it all and brought you here, yet you now go back upon
+your word, and make a fool of me!” cried the other.
+
+“You brought me here, Peter, as your catspaw—just as I have always
+been, ever since I took that first false step!” remarked the old
+fellow, who owed his present snug position to the man standing before
+him.
+
+“And what have you to complain of, pray? I’ve assisted you, exercised
+my influence on your behalf, yet this is how you thank me! You cast mud
+in my face!” exclaimed the wealthy man in quick anger.
+
+“I shall not do this,” said Berentsen. “I have decided.”
+
+“You shall! Come, it’s just on ten o’clock. We shall be late. Women are
+impatient creatures.”
+
+“Not a step further will I go in this dirty business, Peter—even for
+you.”
+
+“But I say you shall!” was Sundt’s determined response. “You’ve
+suddenly grown conscientious, a trait which in you, my dear Jorgen, is
+unusual. Conscientiousness is a very bad sign. No man who entertains
+such thoughts can ever hope to prosper in these bright days, believe
+me!”
+
+“I—I’d rather starve than do this to-night,” declared Jorgen, his eyes
+staring before him, as though confronted by his own terrible doom.
+
+“You can’t afford to starve, my dear friend,” replied the other with a
+short, harsh laugh. “Besides, think of little Thyra!”
+
+“It is of her that I’m thinking,” he said. “What would she say if she
+knew that her father was—was—a—— But enough! Let us part, Peter. Let us
+part now. I will get back to the north alone.”
+
+“Listen!” exclaimed the red-faced man angrily. “You are not going to
+play the fool like this. Come,” and he linked his arm in that of his
+friend. “Come, at once, and don’t show the white feather. I never
+before thought you were a coward, Jorgen.”
+
+“I’m no coward!” cried his companion fiercely. “No man has ever called
+me that. But I refuse to commit this crime at your bidding!”
+
+“You will act as I have arranged,” replied the other. “If not—well, you
+know the consequences.”
+
+“Yes,” said the old fellow in a low, strained voice, “imprisonment for
+me—and ruin for the child!”
+
+“You have to choose one or the other,” the coarse-faced man remarked.
+“As I told you not long ago, you must choose between prosperity and
+ruin. None but an imbecile would choose the latter—which must mean your
+exposure to Thyra.”
+
+The man addressed bit his lip. His hard hands were clenched. Within
+him a fierce struggle was taking place, for he knew alas! too
+well, that this man, who had amassed a huge fortune by his callous
+unscrupulousness, now held him entirely in his power.
+
+He was thinking of Thyra—his own little Thyra, to whom he was so
+entirely devoted.
+
+Peter Sundt, quick to notice his companion’s indecision, linked his arm
+in his again, and drew him slowly forward, saying:
+
+“Come, man. Don’t be a fool! You can’t draw back now. Why discuss such
+an unpleasant subject further? Come—or we shall be too late.”
+
+And the old harbour-master, his face pale, his eyes set straight before
+him at the long dark vista of the palms, allowed himself to be slowly
+led towards that fatal rendezvous, knowing, alas! that to refuse at
+that, the eleventh, hour would mean an exposure that he dare not face.
+
+He was as a fly in the web of the spider. The more he struggled, the
+more inextricable became his position. So he only sighed bitterly, and
+with set teeth bowed to the inevitable.
+
+It was not long before they reached the obscure little hotel, the
+Palmiers—a place in a narrow street which make a speciality of cheap
+table d’hôte luncheons and dinners. And into its small private entrance
+both men entered, Jorgen Berentsen holding his breath, terrified at the
+act which he was thus forced to commit.
+
+Five minutes afterwards Peter Sundt emerged alone, and retracing his
+steps, sauntered slowly back to the Place du Casino, where, beneath the
+dark shadow of the trees, he halted, anxiously awaiting the man over
+whom he exercised a baneful influence.
+
+For a full twenty minutes he idled up and down, impatiently smoking
+a cigar, until suddenly Jorgen’s big, square figure loomed up in the
+darkness.
+
+“Well?” inquired Sundt anxiously.
+
+“It’s done!” answered the old fellow breathlessly, in a low, hoarse
+voice. “Let’s get away from this horrible place—away anywhere.”
+
+“First let’s go across to the Cafe de Paris yonder. You want a drop of
+brandy, no doubt. Then we’ll go on board. By eleven, we’ll weigh anchor
+and be away.”
+
+They crossed to the big, brilliantly-lit cafe, where, at the small
+tables, many well-dressed men and women were drinking in the interval
+of staking their money on the tables of the Casino opposite.
+
+Upon the terrace outside Peter’s quick eye caught sight of the
+sweet-faced young Parisienne in pale pink chiffon and black hat, seated
+alone at a little table placed in the shadow against the wall.
+
+He therefore turned, and walking along the terrace both men took seats
+at a table near. So agitated was the old harbour-master that he, at
+first, did not notice her.
+
+It was only when he followed the direction of his companion’s eyes that
+he recognised the girl whom they had encountered in the Rooms. He saw
+that she had turned her head, and was staring straight at Peter Sundt
+with a wild, fixed look, as though she had seen an apparition.
+
+With her dark eyes still upon him, she drained her tiny liqueur glass.
+Then her pretty lips relaxed into a smile, half of recognition, half of
+defiance.
+
+Peter Sundt raised his hat politely, and was in the act of crossing to
+where she was seated in the shadow, when she half-rose from her seat.
+Her face suddenly became blanched and drawn, her jaws were fixed, and
+next instant, even before he could reach her, she had collapsed upon
+her chair and, reeling sideways, fell heavily upon the stone flooring.
+
+In a moment both men dashed across to her, and all became confusion,
+for there were many people seated in the vicinity.
+
+The first belief was that she had merely fainted, but next moment a
+terrible truth became evident. Upon the little marble table lay a tiny
+phial about two inches long, and empty. Jorgen took it up and smelt it.
+The odour was that of almonds.
+
+In a few seconds two agents of police were on the spot, not, however,
+before the old harbour-master had realized the ghastly fact.
+
+The unfortunate girl, like many another butterfly whose wings are
+singed in that gilded inferno opposite, had deliberately swallowed a
+fatal draught!
+
+The police wrested her lifeless body from Peter Sundt, who held it
+tenderly in his arms, and as they did so the red-faced man, now pale as
+the poor girl herself, placed his hand wildly to his brow, and shrieked
+aloud:
+
+“_Dead!_ My God!—she’s dead! This, then, is my punishment—the vengeance
+of Heaven!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+THE END OF THE WORLD
+
+
+“What secret can father have with Peter Sundt? Poor dad! He looked so
+scared and worried! What can have happened, I wonder, to bring Peter so
+far up here again to Vardo? It’s just seven months ago since dad went
+south with him.”
+
+The sweet-faced girl of twenty, whose soft, fair hair streamed out upon
+the icy wind, spoke thus to herself as, resting upon a great brown
+boulder, she fixed her big grey, wide-open eyes straight before her
+upon the limitless expanse of stormy Arctic Ocean.
+
+That wide waste of grey, tempest-tossed waters, the very edge of
+civilisation, were assuredly a sea of despair.
+
+Thyra Berentsen, the bright, merry girl of sweet, almost child-like,
+beauty, lived amid surroundings which were the most dismal and
+dispiriting in all that barren, ice-bound, Arctic land of Finmarken.
+
+The month was August, yet she wore a thick blue beret, a fur-lined coat
+of Astrakhan, and on her hands wool-lined mitts of leather, for there,
+far east of the North Cape, the thermometer was at freezing point.
+
+Upon a small rocky islet, bare of the slightest trace of vegetation,
+swept constantly by the cutting blizzards, and buffeted by the long,
+dark, oily-looking rollers of the Polar Sea, stands a tiny town of low
+wooden houses, mostly roofed by turf. Such is Vardo, the last post
+of civilisation in the Far North, and the point of departure of many
+Arctic explorers who have gone to their graves, and assuredly the
+most wretched, lonely, and inhospitable spot of any between the high,
+frowning Nordykn, standing sheer from the glacial ocean, to the White
+Sea.
+
+On the one side, from the rolling waters, rise the high grey cliffs of
+the mainland of Europe, while on the other lies the wide, open ocean,
+where the long breakers roll in from Nova Zembla, the ice-pack, and the
+unknown frozen Land of the No Return. The wind, the tearing, icy wind,
+swept that August afternoon straight from the unexplored regions of the
+Farthest North, causing the girl to button her fur coat tightly at the
+throat and thrust her mittened hands into her pockets.
+
+“I wonder,” she repeated to herself, “I wonder what it all means?”
+
+Ever and anon she glanced along the path in the direction of the
+wretched little log-built town, as though in expectation of someone
+whom she was awaiting.
+
+Behind her, across that narrow strait, lay the great lone land, where
+even the stunted Arctic willow was unable to take root, and where,
+indeed, nothing grew save the carpet of a myriad different species of
+wild flowers, the red cloud-berries, and the yellow reindeer-moss;
+the dismal uninhabited wilderness of barren rock and sky, of river
+and limitless tundra, snow-covered plains in winter, but in summer a
+treacherous, mosquito-infested morass.
+
+In all that wild Norrland beyond the Polar Circle no spot is more
+bleak or more desolate, nor is the climate with its grey fogs, its
+continuous blizzards and iron frosts, more terrible anywhere than
+here. Hammerfest, on the western coast, is the most northerly town in
+the world, but not the coldest, for it is sheltered by the island of
+Soro opposite. Vardo, on the contrary, standing out as it does in the
+Arctic Sea, is more open and exposed than any other inhabited point
+along that terrible rock-bound coast. Its community is, indeed, a hardy
+one of sturdy fisher-folk, who year in, year out, battle fiercely with
+the elements for their bare existence.
+
+Here, it is not the land, but the sea, that is ploughed. Men do not sow
+and wield the scythe in summer, but reap in mid-winter without having
+sowed. In the months in which the long night holds its undisputed sway,
+when the light of the sun has given place to that of the moon, and the
+rosy flush of dawn and sunset to the glow of the Northern Lights, then
+those dwellers in the Far North gather in the rich harvest of the sea.
+
+Yet the sky there is ever low and grey, the sea ever stormy, and
+the winds ever howling, while the temperature, even in August, is
+that of December in our own much-maligned England. The midnight sun
+which proves so attractive to European tourists who go in comfortable
+steamers, and entertained by string-bands, up as far as the North Cape,
+gives its continuous light in summer; yet, alas! is no compensation for
+those long months of the Polar night, when God’s blessed sunlight is
+entirely withheld from that dismal, grey, forgotten land.
+
+In such surroundings, and amid those rough, uncultured toilers of
+the sea, Thyra—the only daughter of old Captain Berentsen, the
+harbour-master—had been born, and now lived.
+
+The bleak monotony and stern wildness of everything was, alas! terribly
+gloomy. The tourist steamers never went so far as Vardo.
+
+Notwithstanding those tempestuous winds, the very air was polluted,
+for every now and then a breath of the sickening effluvia of the
+fish-drying houses, the fish-guano works, the whale boileries or the
+fish offal decaying everywhere in the streets, reached the girl’s
+nostrils where she sat.
+
+“I wonder why dear old dad is so troubled?” she repeated to herself,
+sighing as she gazed blankly around upon the cheerless scene, so
+colourless and so inhospitable. Across her mind at that moment flashed
+the recollection of Christiania, with all its brightness, its movement
+and its civilisation; the capital in which she had been for some years
+at school. But her schooldays being over, she had, three years ago,
+returned home—returned to an exile’s life among those rude, uncouth
+fisher-folk, an existence terribly galling to a girl so accomplished
+and so refined.
+
+She thought of her old schoolfellows living their happy lives,
+possessing friends and enjoying the sunshine of the south.
+
+And she sighed again.
+
+Hers, alas! was a life of dreary loneliness and cramped confinement
+upon that narrow, treeless islet, with its eternal odour of decaying
+codfish. Her life was as monotonous as the scene itself. All her
+day-dreams down in Christiania had come to naught. Her mother had died
+long ago, and her father’s household consisted only of herself and
+Feyia, the old Lapp woman who acted as housekeeper.
+
+In all Vardo there was no girl of similar age or similar education with
+whom she could associate, for the simple reason that no man would dwell
+with his family amid that savage sea if he could possibly avoid it.
+
+Reflecting upon this, and still wondering why the red-faced old Peter
+Sundt, the wealthy fish-exporter, had come up from the south to see her
+father, she saw on glancing towards the town the tall figure of a young
+man striding towards her.
+
+The quick flush of colour tinging her soft cheeks told its own tale. He
+waved his hand, and, smiling, she waved back to the man to whom she was
+secretly betrothed.
+
+“I am so sorry, darling, that I’m late!” he cried in French, lifting
+his cap as he took her mittened hand. “I hope you have not waited very
+long. The mail has just landed, and I was compelled to reply to an
+important letter.”
+
+“I have not been here long, Paul,” was her reply in the same language.
+“Have any strangers arrived by the mail boat?”
+
+“Only two Englishmen. They’ve come up from Tromso, the captain
+told me. I haven’t seen them yet. Really,” he added, “one is quite
+out-of-the-world up here, with only a mail once a fortnight to create a
+little excitement and to bring us news from the land of the sunshine.”
+
+They were standing together. He was looking into her raised beautiful
+countenance with his dark eyes full of passionate love, while the gaze
+of those blue unfathomable eyes that held him so irresistibly beneath
+their spell was fixed and unwavering.
+
+Paul Grinevitch was Russian. His knowledge of Norwegian, or of Finnish,
+was not very extensive, therefore they talked either in French or in
+English, both of which languages Thyra spoke extremely well. About
+thirty, tall, athletic, with a handsome, refined face and a small dark
+moustache, its ends trained upwards in German fashion, he was extremely
+courteous and gentlemanly, while his bearing was undoubtedly military,
+though at the moment he was wearing a suit of thick, rough tweeds.
+
+Six months before, he had landed one afternoon from the mail-steamer
+which had come up from Tromso, and becoming unaccountably attracted
+by the remoteness of the place from civilisation, had taken up his
+quarters in the turf-roofed house of an old fisherman, with whom he
+had made many excursions in the neighbourhood in search of sport.
+
+Any stranger landing at the little place is at once known to everybody;
+therefore, within a few hours of his arrival, Thyra had found herself
+introduced to him, and it had been, on the part of both of them, a case
+of love at first sight.
+
+Paul Grinevitch had pretended that the reason his visit had been so
+long protracted was because of the excellent fishing and shooting which
+the neighbourhood afforded. But truth to tell, the sole attraction was
+the beautiful Thyra, from whom he was unable to tear himself away.
+
+They met—again and again. She had possessed the young Russian, body and
+soul.
+
+He had told her little about himself, very little, save that he had
+been at college in Moscow, and that his parents lived away in the far
+south at Odessa. That he was a gentleman, old Jorgen Berentsen had
+known instinctively from the very first moment of their acquaintance
+and that he was comfortably off was likewise apparent. Letters came to
+him sometimes bearing on their envelopes a golden coronet and cipher,
+and it was whispered in Vardo that he was the son of a Russian Privy
+Councillor in the Czar’s _entourage_.
+
+Indeed, on one occasion he had, for one of the fish merchants,
+scribbled a note to the captain of the port of Archangel, and the
+bearer of the note had returned and told everybody how all-powerful the
+recommendation had been, and with what respect the Russian official had
+treated him.
+
+Therefore, all Vardo knew that Paul Grinevitch was a gentleman, even
+though they regarded the reason of his continued residence among them
+as something of a mystery. It was known that he was frequently in
+Thyra’s company—and everybody wondered.
+
+They were, indeed, a handsome pair, as they stood together at the edge
+of those cold, grim waters.
+
+He was in love with this beautiful daughter of the Arctic—in love with
+her honestly, deeply, completely. Paul, to whom the smartest salons
+of Petersburg, of Moscow, and of Paris were ever open, loved the
+sweet-faced daughter of the old weather-beaten sailor of the Polar seas.
+
+He had not released her hand, but stood with it held in his own, gazing
+into those deep, child-like eyes that held him ever in such fascination.
+
+“Thyra!” he exclaimed in a deep, low, earnest tone, as a sigh escaped
+him.
+
+“Well?” she asked, looking up into his face as she smiled
+mischievously, all trace of the troubled expression upon her
+countenance having vanished.
+
+“Thyra—my own darling!” he cried. “I—I—I want to tell you something,
+but—well, I—I can’t!” And he sighed again and drew himself up, his
+passionate gaze still fixed immovably upon her.
+
+“Why not?” she asked simply. “If it is a secret, surely you can trust
+me? Am I not your betrothed?”
+
+“Ah, yes!” he cried hoarsely. “It is just because of that—because we
+are to marry in a few weeks that I cannot tell you.”
+
+The girl stared at her lover in blank surprise. She had never before
+seen him so distressed. What could he mean? Had the mail just in
+brought him bad news?
+
+A serious, apprehensive look overspread her beautiful face—a face that
+was,—indeed, peerless in its perfection. The soft sweetness of her
+features, so well-cut and so regular, was such that it would assuredly
+have caused comment even among the women of the _haut monde_ in the
+Park or in the Bois. Hers was a type of rare, delicate beauty, with her
+unfathomable eyes, her well formed nose, her pointed chin and dimpled
+cheeks; a beauty that was delightfully innocent and child-like, without
+being insipid; a beauty the more remarkable considering the rigour of
+that terrible climate, and how soon, alas! the faces of the sturdy men
+and women of the Finmarken coast—the end of the civilised world—become
+hard, furrowed and weather-beaten.
+
+The long strands of fair hair blown out upon the wind were soft as
+floss silk, and as she smiled she disclosed an even row of pearly teeth
+behind dainty lips, bearing upon them the true bow of Cupid, and made
+for kisses.
+
+Yes, Thyra was lovely. The young Russian told himself that again, as
+indeed he had done a thousand times within those past six months.
+Among the girls he had met in Paris and in Petersburg, in Monte Carlo
+or in Rome, he had never met one so beautiful, so dainty, so full of
+inexpressible charm.
+
+And she was his—his very own. She had promised, three weeks ago, to be
+his wife, and old Jorgen, the bluff old retired Arctic sea-captain, had
+given his consent upon one condition—that the strictest secrecy was to
+be observed regarding the engagement.
+
+Why, they both wondered. What motive had the old fellow in withholding
+the news from that tiny, gossiping, rough-and-ready little world of
+Vardo?
+
+“Paul,” exclaimed the girl, slowly twining her soft arm around her
+lover’s neck, regardless of the fact that they might be observed. “Do
+tell me, dearest, what is troubling you. Why does our forthcoming
+marriage prevent you telling the truth to me—the woman who is to be
+your wife?” she asked in English in a low, persuasive tone, raising her
+lips to his and fondly kissing him with long, clinging caress. That
+kiss itself was assuredly enough to make any man’s head reel.
+
+The young man sighed. She noticed his brow contract as he bit his
+nether lip involuntarily.
+
+“Because, my darling—because it is a secret which, though I long to
+confide it to you, I—I dare not. Indeed, I must not. You are to be my
+wife—my own love—” And he held her with trembling hands and kissed her
+with the fierce passion of affection. “But there—I was a fool to have
+mentioned it—to have aroused your apprehension, my own dear heart. I so
+long to be able to tell you, and yet—and yet—”
+
+“Yet what, Paul?”
+
+“I cannot. I—I dare not.”
+
+“Not when I, Thyra, ask you to tell me? Not when I make an urgent
+request to you—the man who is to be my husband?” she asked in a voice
+of quiet, earnest reproach.
+
+“No, no!” he cried, in quick distress, his gloved hand clenched in
+desperation. “No, darling; don’t put it like that. Forget, I beg of
+you; forget my unpardonable foolishness in mentioning a matter which,
+after all, does not concern you, and has naturally aroused within you
+some grave forebodings. We love each other, surely that is sufficient?
+Come, let us put all gloomy thoughts aside.”
+
+“Then your thoughts are actually gloomy ones?” she exclaimed, in quick
+alarm. “Why do you try to conceal the truth from me, Paul? This is not
+like you.”
+
+“Because, my darling, in this matter it is, for the present, imperative
+that—that I should remain silent. Silence is best for you, and for me,”
+answered the young man. “One day you will know; but, Thyra, though I
+regret deeply that I cannot explain matters, you must, for the present,
+remain in ignorance. I cannot bring myself to tell you. No, I will
+not, even though I could. You love me, my own dear heart, therefore
+why should I bring upon you sorrow, apprehension, perhaps a great
+bitterness of heart? Let us live—let us be happy, even though our
+bliss may be fleeting as your summer snows. You are mine, my own sweet
+well-beloved—my own darling wife that is to be!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+THE TOUCHSTONE OF MISFORTUNE
+
+
+Thyra’s home was very plain and simple. Up there, in the far-away
+North, they are all simple folk, honest, hardy, strong of heart and
+strong of hand.
+
+The dismal little street of Vardo consisted of two rows of low,
+wood-built, inartistic houses, mostly without an upper floor, the
+majority being roofed with peat, upon which grew a varied assortment
+of the Arctic mosses. One or two of the houses were tiled, and one of
+these—one somewhat superior to the others, inasmuch as it possessed an
+upper storey, where curtains showed at the big, ugly square windows—was
+occupied by old Captain Berentsen.
+
+On the same evening that Paul had made that inexplicable declaration to
+Thyra the girl was seated in the upstairs dining-room with her father,
+her head bent beneath the lamp trying to read an English novel, while
+old Jorgen himself lounged in his easy chair near the stove, smoking
+his big Norwegian pipe.
+
+In Vardo those who possess a house of one storey live upstairs because
+the deep snows of winter too frequently shut out the light from the
+windows of the lower floor. The room wherein sat the pretty girl
+and her grey-bearded, weather-beaten father was not a particularly
+comfortable one, if judged by our southern standard of luxury. The
+floor was carpetless, the chairs were cane-bottomed, the walls were
+of wood, and upon them were one or two cheap Russian oleographs of
+brilliant colouring. Over the door hung a small _ikon_, or holy
+picture, for Thyra’s mother had been Russian, from Archangel.
+
+At one end of the room was the buffet of varnished pine, while at the
+other was a cottage piano, one of the very few in that most northerly
+point of Lapland. The windows were double, to keep out the cold, and
+before them were two or three sickly-looking flowers in pots.
+
+The pot-plant is the hobby of the people of Finmarken. In almost every
+house one will find a wretched little geranium or two, with their
+blooms dwarfed by the uncongenial climate and surroundings, or a pet
+rose, stunted and unhealthy, with its blossom drooping or its bud
+already fading before it had opened.
+
+As nothing grew out of doors in that high latitude, Thyra had brought
+up those plants with her from Christiania, a thousand miles south, when
+she returned from school, and she had carefully tended and nursed them
+ever since.
+
+With her elbows upon the table, she was deeply absorbed in the English
+sixpenny edition of a popular detective story which one of her old
+schoolfellows had sent her. In the zone of light from the small
+petroleum table-lamp her face, now that her cap was removed, showed
+even more perfect in its beauty, so sweet and so thoroughly feminine.
+
+Outside the storm howled fiercely, the tearing wind, its force unbroken
+from the ice-pack, shaking the windows and ever and anon causing the
+very house to tremble. But was it not the usual condition of things in
+August? Therefore neither father nor daughter made remark.
+
+Old Jorgen Berentsen, sitting there in the shadow watching his
+daughter as he smoked, was assuredly a fine figure of a man—a man of
+many adventures. On one occasion his vessel had been wrecked on the
+barren coast of Melville Land, in East Greenland, and after months
+of suffering and starvation, during which all his companions died
+except two, he had been rescued by another whaling vessel. On a second
+occasion the ship he commanded had foundered, and the crew managed to
+reach land at the terrible delta of the Lena, in Northern Siberia, near
+where De Long and the party of the _Jeannette_ had perished two years
+before.
+
+Little wonder was it, therefore, that his brow should be so deeply
+furrowed, that his hair should be grey, that his voice should be gruff,
+or that his strong hand should possess such an iron grip.
+
+Forty years of navigating the Arctic Ocean, first high up in the
+crow’s-nest and afterwards as captain, had stirred within him the call
+of the Polar Mystery as it stirs every man. Even now, retired as he
+was, with the sinecure of harbour-master, and acting as vice-consul
+for several foreign countries, he often closed his eyes and imagined
+himself back again upon the bridge of his grimy, evil-smelling whaler
+with the biting wind whistling through the rigging and the brilliant
+aurora waving across the northern sky.
+
+Living as he constantly had done in the land of the Great Night, his
+aid and advice had been sought by almost every Arctic explorer of
+the past twenty years. It was he who had provided the sled-dogs for
+Nansen and for Jackson; he who had given advice to Shackleton upon his
+equipment for the Antarctic; he who had been consulted by Peary, by
+the Duke of the Abruzzi, and by Wellman of airship fame. To him the
+ice-bound coasts of Franz Josef Land, of Nova Zembla, of Spitzbergen,
+and of Greenland, with their steel-blue glaciers and snow-covered
+bluffs, were all well known. Indeed, he knew far more of Arctic life,
+Arctic conditions, and Arctic mysteries than any Fellow of the Royal
+Geographical Society of England.
+
+Nowadays, however, his adventures were all of the past. His wife was
+dead and, with his daughter to bear him company, he led a frugal,
+quiet, uneventful life, a life that bored him somewhat in summer and
+became well-nigh intolerable in the three months of perpetual night
+from November to January. Those dead, dark, bitterly cold days, when
+the lamp burned perpetually and when the little town was silent as
+the grave, made him long for the old activity at sea and the keen
+excitement of hunting the leviathan of the deep.
+
+The last days before his retirement had been spent as captain of a
+passenger vessel between Bergen and New York, hence he had learned to
+speak English in addition to his native Norwegian, and Finnish and
+French.
+
+A ring at the door-bell below aroused them. Thyra raised her head from
+her book with a sigh. At that moment she did not wish to be disturbed.
+
+“Oh, I quite forgot, my dear,” the old man exclaimed. “The _Mercur_
+came in this afternoon, and I asked the captain to come in and bring
+his two passengers, young Englishmen. I met them on the quay. They seem
+to be gentlemen.”
+
+Thyra frowned slightly as she heard old Freyia, the Lap woman who acted
+as housekeeper and maid-of-all-work, go to the door, and next instant
+came the cheery voice of the captain of the _Mercur_, the black old
+cargo-boat which, trading between Vardo and Hamburg, and calling at
+all the ports down the Norwegian coast, brought them the mail from the
+south.
+
+When each six or seven weeks the _Mercur_, with her high black funnel
+and white bands, appeared through the driving mists and entered the
+harbour it was always a day of activity, for the captain was highly
+popular everywhere, and with the visits of the _Mercur_ came news of
+friends, and the stores without which the dwellers on that remote
+little island could not exist.
+
+“Well, Miss Thyra,” exclaimed the captain cheerily as he entered the
+room. “And how are you getting on up here, after Christiania, eh?”
+
+He was a tall, rather good-looking, fair-moustached man, well set-up,
+and extremely smart both in manner and dress. Well known to all along
+the Norwegian coast as something of a dandy, his uniform was always
+spotless, the braid upon it was untarnished, and his boots always well
+shined, even though he sailed those stormy seas. Besides, though he
+was Norwegian born and bred, his name, curiously enough was typically
+English—John Martin.
+
+“Well, Captain Martin,” exclaimed the girl, with a laugh, as she cast a
+furtive glance at the two strangers behind him, “here it is scarcely so
+gay as in Christiania, of course. Yet it is my duty to be here and look
+after dad, so, of course, I must not grumble.”
+
+“Allow me to introduce two friends of mine,” the captain said in fair
+English. Then, indicating the elder of the pair of Englishmen, a
+good-looking, dark-haired, merry-eyed fellow in a well-cut suit of blue
+serge, he said, “This is Mr. Jervoise—Miss Thyra Berentsen.”
+
+The other, a short, rather thick-set man of thirty-two, with a small
+moustache and wearing gold pince-nez, he introduced as Doctor Owen Odd,
+adding, “These gentlemen have been with me all the way from Bergen—my
+only passengers this trip.”
+
+“And a most delightful time we’ve had, Miss Berentsen,” declared Dick
+Jervoise. “Your friend the captain has been untiring in his efforts to
+make us comfortable in the heavy weather we ran into after rounding the
+North Cape.”
+
+Thyra raised her eyes to his, and regarding him for a second, saw
+honesty in his gaze. Then she smiled answering:
+
+“Everybody knows how pleasant Captain Martin makes a voyage. I’ve been
+with him twice down to the south.”
+
+“And I hope you’ll make many more trips with me, Miss Thyra,” declared
+the fair-haired man who, ashore, had exchanged his spotless uniform for
+thick grey tweeds.
+
+At old Jorgen’s invitation the trio sat down, the two Englishmen
+delighted with their experience. It was unique to be entertained in a
+house so far north—and by such a delightful hostess, with her beautiful
+face and her pretty broken English.
+
+The four men were soon chatting, while Thyra, instantly at ease with
+her English visitors, busied herself in setting out the little glasses
+for the vodka.
+
+Martin was explaining to his English friends the adventurous career
+of the old man who sat there smoking his long pipe with its carved
+meerschaum bowl, and they were listening, entranced by the captain’s
+story.
+
+The old fellow, however, modestly disclaimed all title to be classed
+among Arctic explorers.
+
+“I’m only a whaling skipper,” he declared, laughing. “My explorations
+have been done out of necessity, and were the outcome of mishap.”
+
+Dick Jervoise glanced around the small, plain room, devoid of any
+cosiness. He noted the small, sickly looking flowers, the double
+windows, the big stove roaring though it was an August night. All was
+so strange, so unusual, so extraordinary after the civilisation and
+luxury of London.
+
+He fixed his eyes upon the beautiful countenance of the girl who
+offered him the Russian cigarettes. In all his wide experience never
+had he seen a face so sweet, so entirely perfect. And he noticed that
+Owen was also gazing at her in wrapt admiration.
+
+She raised her big grey eyes from the box suddenly, and their gaze met.
+
+In the white lamplight Captain Martin saw the slight flush rise to the
+girl’s cheeks. He smiled within himself for, as a bachelor, he was
+never averse to a mild flirtation. He knew well how much the girl had
+been admired down in Christiania, and had heard how she might have made
+a most excellent match with one of the richest men in Norway if old
+Jorgen had not ordered her to return home to that life of grey monotony
+which was surely sufficient to crush all the gaiety and brightness out
+of any young girl’s heart.
+
+For nearly an hour they sat together chatting, Thyra explaining to the
+two visitors many interesting facts concerning the nomad Laplanders
+and their habits—some of whom, dressed in their reindeer skins, they
+had seen that afternoon—while the pair sat listening, entranced by the
+music of her voice.
+
+Presently the door-bell rang again, and a few seconds later a short,
+stout, pompous man with a red, pimply face, and a big diamond in his
+cravat, entered the room.
+
+It was Peter Sundt.
+
+Thyra held the man in distinct dislike. She had hated him ever since
+she was a child.
+
+Of late he had seemed to hold some irresistible power over her father,
+a power that was, to her, an entire and complete mystery.
+
+As he entered she did not fail to notice how uneasily her father
+stirred in his armchair, or that the greeting extended to him was not
+that genuine, hearty one with which he had met the captain of the
+_Mercur_.
+
+What secret was there between them?
+
+The Englishmen were introduced, and the coarse, red-faced, loud-voiced
+man tossed off his vodka at a gulp, and seemed to treat everybody with
+supreme disdain—even Thyra herself.
+
+Her eyes again met those of Dick Jervoise, and in them he discerned a
+mutely expressed disgust. To him it seemed that society in Vardo was
+not very refined, and he pitied her, compelled as she was to live amid
+such depressing, soul-killing surroundings.
+
+At last Martin and his friends rose to go, and Jervoise, promising to
+call again before the _Mercur_ sailed, bowed over the girl’s hand,
+followed by the doctor.
+
+She accompanied them downstairs to the door, leaving her father alone
+with Peter Sundt.
+
+The instant she had left the room the coarse-featured man rose, and
+approaching the grey-haired captain, bent and asked in a low, hard
+voice:
+
+“Well, have you decided? I’ve come here for your answer, remember.”
+
+The old man removed his pipe slowly from his lips and looked straight
+into the other’s face.
+
+“I—I haven’t had sufficient time to consider. I—”
+
+“But you will decide to-night—now—before I leave this house,” declared
+the man firmly. “If your answer is in the negative you know well what
+the result will be.”
+
+“Ah! I see,” cried the other fiercely. “You—you now hold the dagger at
+my throat, because you know that I am utterly in your hands. Are you a
+man that you should make this demand, Peter Sundt, or are you one of
+hell’s fiends?”
+
+But Peter Sundt, quite unperturbed by his victim’s outburst, coolly
+poured out another glass of vodka and tossed it off, a smile of triumph
+upon his pimply face as he did so.
+
+He knew that Jorgen Berentsen was as wax in his hands.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+AN ALLEGATION
+
+
+“That’s a very neat and dainty little girl, the harbour-master’s
+daughter,” remarked the doctor to his friend as, half an hour later,
+they were seated together in the narrow little saloon of the _Mercur_,
+having a cigarette prior to turning in. For a month the black old
+steamer, with its odoriferous cargo of dried fish, whale oil, and cod
+liver oil had been their home, and their stomachs had long ago grown
+used to the flavour. To the uninitiated, however, the effluvia was
+poisonous, especially in a rough sea.
+
+Dick Jervoise agreed, but remained unusually thoughtful. Truth to tell,
+the sweet face of Thyra Berentsen had so impressed him that he could
+think of nothing else. Those soft grey eyes, that slim, dainty figure,
+and that musical speech in three or four languages, had charmed him.
+Was it not entirely and utterly unexpected to find up there, so far
+north beyond civilisation, amid that rough, hard-handed fisher-folk, a
+girl so perfectly beautiful, so sweet and so child-like?
+
+“By Jove!” declared Owen Odd, “she’d make a sensation even in the park
+in town! Fancy a girl like that being doomed to live in this awful
+place, where codfish is the sole and staple food and industry. When
+we started, Dick, I never thought we’d get into so high a latitude as
+this.”
+
+“Well, we’ve taken Martin’s advice,” replied his friend. “He said if we
+rounded the North Cape we’d get into a part of the world that, though
+bleak and rugged, would interest us.”
+
+“It interests you, my dear fellow, because you’ve been such a
+traveller; but for myself, who’ve had to stay at home grinding at
+hospital for my degree, I confess I’d prefer a warm climate with palms
+and oranges and girls in black mantillas. You’re too _blase_ for
+that, I know. You spend every winter on the Riviera, or in the south
+of Spain, while I’m forced to practise medicine among the poor of
+Hammersmith.”
+
+Dick Jervoise was still staring straight before him, hardly conscious
+of what his friend the young doctor was saying.
+
+“Well,” he exclaimed at last, with a faint smile, “the air up here is a
+bit fresher than in King Street, Hammersmith, isn’t it? Why, they say
+that along this coast, though the wind is so keen and the climate so
+terrible, there are no cases of consumption.”
+
+“Because all the weaklings here die young, my dear old chap. Only the
+tough ones can survive. Fancy spending the winter here—three months of
+perpetual night—ugh!”
+
+Dick, his mind still fixed upon the girl to whom the captain had that
+evening introduced him, said:
+
+“I don’t know, Owen, whether it struck you to-night the same as myself,
+but somehow the face of Thyra Berentsen is, to me, a face of tragedy.”
+
+“Tragedy!” laughed the young doctor from Hammersmith. “I don’t quite
+follow you, Dick.”
+
+“Well, I scarcely know how to explain myself,” was the other’s reply.
+“In the countenance of some people I find their destiny portrayed
+quite distinctly. Perhaps other people do not possess the same faculty
+of—well, divination, shall we call it? But in the rare cases in which
+I have discerned the future in a person’s face I have seldom been in
+error.”
+
+“That’s curious,” exclaimed Odd, suddenly interested. “And so you
+foretell tragedy and unhappiness for the pretty Thyra, eh?”
+
+“Yes. I fear, alas! that unhappiness will be her lot, even though she’s
+now so merry and light-hearted.”
+
+The young medical man shrugged his shoulders. He was used to the quaint
+ideas, and sometimes rather eccentric whims, of his old friend.
+
+To him it seemed a quaint conceit to be able to foretell a girl’s
+future by her face. A woman’s past may often be read in her eyes, but
+to divine the future was something novel.
+
+Both men smoked on in silence.
+
+They had been at Eton together, and afterwards at Oxford. Subsequently,
+however, their ways in life had parted. Owen Odd, the fair-haired,
+thick-set young man, had studied medicine at Edinburgh, where he had
+taken his M. D. degree. He then expended what little capital he had
+in the purchase of a partnership in Exeter, but this did not turn out
+well. His partner bolted, and died abroad, and Odd, until he could pull
+himself together, had to be content with the not very lucrative post of
+assistant to a doctor living in Bridge Avenue, Hammersmith.
+
+With Richard Jervoise it had been different. For him life held all
+the sweets and but few of the sorrows. The second son of Sir James
+Jervoise, Baronet, ex-Lord Mayor of London and underwriter at Lloyd’s,
+his lot had always been cast in pleasant places. When he was twenty-two
+his father, who had amassed a fortune in the City, had died, leaving
+the snug little Hertfordshire estate to Richard’s elder brother James,
+who of course, also succeeded to the baronetcy, and to him bequeathed
+property which brought him in a clear two thousand a year.
+
+It was not much, as money goes nowadays, but it had enabled him to
+lead a life of easy luxury, travelling hither and thither just where
+his fancy willed, and now, at thirty-five, he found himself already a
+thorough-going cosmopolitan.
+
+He was of a quiet, studious nature, almost the exact opposite to his
+elder brother, James, who had married a vain, giddy little woman six
+years before and was generally believed to have run through the greater
+portion of his inheritance. In order to be near his friend Odd, Dick
+Jervoise occupied a cosy little flat in Castelnau Mansions, Barnes,
+that big red-brick building which lies just across Hammersmith Bridge,
+commanding a wide sweep of the Thames. When he was at home, but few
+evenings passed that they did not sit together smoking and gossiping.
+
+Owen’s practice lay mostly among the struggling poor in the back
+streets of Hammersmith, for his principal held the post of parish
+doctor, and often when he would relate some tale of distress—a sick
+widow with half a dozen hungry little ones, or an ailing father with
+a motherless family—Dick’s hand went instinctively to his pocket and
+never withdrew without a little gift for them.
+
+Though of such a wandering, restless disposition, and though he spent
+much of his time at the gay Continental resorts, the dark-haired,
+good-looking man’s chief hobby was the study of folk-lore, a book upon
+which he intended one day to write.
+
+Owen and he had long planned a trip together, but the absence of a
+doctor’s assistant for long periods is always difficult. At last,
+however, it had been arranged, a _locum tenens_ had been provided, and
+already the pair had been away from London seven weeks—weeks that had
+been extremely enjoyable, even though they were sailing that stormy
+Arctic sea.
+
+If the truth were told, the fair-haired Thyra had charmed both men,
+even though neither of them was very impressionable where the fair sex
+were concerned. Both had already had their little affairs of the heart
+long ago. That of Dick Jervoise had been a somewhat painful one, and in
+consequence he had, like so many other men before him, made a solemn
+vow of celibacy. His friend knew some of the facts though not all. They
+were unpleasant facts, hence he never mentioned or recalled them. He
+knew of the unfortunate affair and, with a true friend’s solicitude, he
+was careful always to avoid any reference whatsoever to the subject.
+
+He recollected Dick’s silent grief and unspoken bitterness; he
+remembered the great change that had been wrought in him by the
+now-buried episode.
+
+Thus were they smoking in silence when John Martin entered the little
+saloon, and taking down his long Norwegian pipe, slowly began to fill
+it, asking in his broken English:
+
+“Well, what do you think of Vardo, eh?”
+
+“Interesting for half a day, captain,” Jervoise replied; “but a
+terrible place.”
+
+“Yes,” admitted the captain, with a laugh. “Not much amusement here,
+is there? Poor old Berentsen! He must find it pretty dull, after his
+active life. But there, he’s an Arctic sailor, body and soul.”
+
+“Pretty hard on his daughter, to be doomed to live here,” the doctor
+remarked. “She told me she was at school at Christiania, and finds it
+deadly dull after the capital.”
+
+“I should think she does,” replied the captain as he lit his big pipe.
+“You should be up here in the long night. You’d never forget it.”
+
+“But what do the people do all the winter?” asked Dick.
+
+“Do? Well, they just manage to exist, and that’s about all,” was
+Martin’s reply. “Of course, a good many Lapps come down to the coast
+yonder, but beyond that all is still, and the place, five or six feet
+deep in snow, is silent as the grave.”
+
+“It’s really a shame that such a pretty girl should be buried in such a
+hole as this!” declared Jervoise.
+
+Instantly a strange look crossed the fair-haired captain’s face, and he
+stroked his yellow moustache. Then, a few moments later, he said:
+
+“Well, perhaps she’s better here than down in Christiania, after all.
+I’ve taken her backwards and forwards several times, and we’ve had some
+merry music on that piano. She’s a splendid player, you know.”
+
+“Why is she better here than in the capital, captain?” inquired Owen,
+his curiosity aroused.
+
+“Oh, for certain reasons,” Martin answered, with a smile. “After
+leaving school she lived with an aunt for a year, and tasted the social
+delights of the capital.”
+
+“You’re growing mysterious,” laughed Jervoise. “What’s the reason she
+is better here, in this awful place?”
+
+But the captain only puffed at his long pipe, while the curl of his lip
+betrayed that he knew more than he intended to tell.
+
+“Ah, a love affair, of course!” exclaimed Owen.
+
+“As an old friend of the family I happen to know the truth,” replied
+the captain, suddenly growing serious; “but I’m not permitted to tell
+you why she was not allowed by her father to remain in Christiania.”
+
+“A secret!” exclaimed Dick, bending towards the captain, very much
+interested. “Was it some schoolgirl love affair?”
+
+“Mr. Jervoise,” replied the Arctic skipper, in a tone of slight
+reproach, “that question is really not a fair one. Captain Berentsen
+and his daughter are my friends, remember, and I have no right to
+discuss their private affairs.”
+
+“Oh, pardon me,” Dick cried quickly. “I know I’m too inquisitive,
+only—well, the fact is that she’s delightful, and the mystery about her
+had only increased our interest.”
+
+“Let the mystery rest, Mr. Jervoise. It’s far best, I assure you,”
+declared Martin. “No good is ever served by raking up the past,
+especially where a woman is concerned.”
+
+The two Englishmen exchanged swift glances. What did the captain mean?
+
+The past? Surely that young girl with the grey eyes and sweet, innocent
+face could not have had “a past!”
+
+“Well,” remarked Owen, “whatever may be the reason of the girl’s recall
+from the south, certainly it’s very hard upon her that she should be
+exiled in this dreadful hole.”
+
+“Best for her, doctor, best for her, I assure you,” declared the
+captain emphatically, his pipe between his teeth.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“For reasons which, as I have already told you, are secret,” he
+replied, his face, still sphinx-like. “The story is a curious one, I
+admit. I’m sorry I’m not permitted to tell it to you. If I did it would
+certainly surprise you both.”
+
+“Why don’t you tell us, captain?” urged Jervoise persuasively. “You’re
+always so ready to explain everything. And we will both regard what you
+tell us as a confidence.”
+
+“No, I cannot tell you the reason of Thyra Berentsen’s return to
+Vardo,” responded Martin firmly. “Please, please don’t press your
+question. It’s a secret—you understand—one that I am not permitted to
+divulge. Captain Berentsen is one of my best friends.”
+
+Both the Englishmen were sadly disappointed. There was a reason—some
+strong reason, they realised—why the merry, easy-going Norwegian
+captain, who was always so merry and careless of everything, had so
+suddenly become obdurate, refusing to tell them anything.
+
+The secret concerning the pretty Thyra was—well, it seemed that it was
+not altogether creditable. What, they wondered, could it be?
+
+No explanation was forthcoming, therefore they both wished the captain
+good night and went along to their respective cabins.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+STRANGE MATTERS OF FACT
+
+
+When Thyra, bright and fresh-looking, entered their own small
+living-room on the following morning, she found her father seated in
+his armchair, bent, pale, and tired.
+
+The room, the double windows of which were seldom, if ever, opened,
+smelt strongly of the odour of overnight tobacco; the dirty vodka
+glasses were still upon the table, and as the grey, sunless light
+fell upon the rugged face of the burly old whaler the girl saw that
+something serious was amiss.
+
+The room with its wooden walls, its wooden ceiling, and its gaudy
+oleographs, presented a strangely bizarre appearance in the morning
+light, while it was at once apparent to her that her father had not
+been to bed.
+
+“Why, dad,” she cried in alarm, falling upon her knees before the
+seated man, “what’s the matter?”
+
+“Nothing, my child, nothing,” the burly old fellow replied hoarsely, as
+his hand wandered to her white brow and he tenderly stroked her fair
+hair.
+
+“But there is—I know there is!” she declared. “You haven’t been to bed
+at all!”
+
+“No,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out.”
+
+“What, were you out in all that storm? Why, it shook the house to its
+foundations.”
+
+“Yes; it blew hard in the night. It was fortunate for Martin that he
+anchored inside the breakwater. If not, the _Mercur_ would probably
+have dragged her anchor and come ashore.”
+
+She glanced out of the window, and saw that the neighbouring roofs were
+lightly covered with snow.
+
+“Now, dad,” the girl said, winding her soft arm about his neck
+persuasively, “I demand to know why you’ve been so upset these last two
+days. I’ve noticed a change in you, you know.”
+
+“Change in me, dear!” he exclaimed, pulling himself together with an
+effort at once. “Why, what change is there in me? It’s only your fancy.”
+
+“No, it isn’t. Ever since Peter Sundt arrived yesterday morning you’ve
+not been yourself. I’ve noticed it, so you can’t deny it!”
+
+The old fellow’s weather-beaten face, now pale and haggard, instantly
+changed. He bit his lip, but tried, nevertheless, to look unconcerned.
+His hand trembled nervously, and the girl detected in his deep-set
+eyes, with their grey overhanging brows, an expression such as she had
+never before seen there.
+
+Jorgen Berentsen was usually a deep-voiced, humorous, open-hearted man,
+whose beaming face and iron-hand grip were sufficient index to his
+honesty of character. But as he sat there, bending over his kneeling
+daughter, he presented the picture of a heart-broken, disappointed man.
+
+“I didn’t know that Peter’s landing had had any extraordinary effect
+upon me, dear,” he said, with a vain attempt to smile. “Perhaps I’m not
+very well,” he added in faint excuse.
+
+“You are worried about something, dad. You must tell me,” she urged.
+
+“It’s nothing, really nothing,” he assured her, stirring in his chair.
+“Freyia is late. Why hasn’t she prepared breakfast, I wonder.”
+
+“No, dad; it’s rather early. I got up because I intended to go out for
+a walk.”
+
+“To meet Paul, eh, dear? Ah!” and the old man sighed as his bony
+fingers entangled themselves in the girl’s silken tresses.
+
+“Why do you sigh like that, dad?” she ventured to ask, taking his other
+hand and raising it to her lips. “I love Paul, and I’m sure—quite
+sure—that he loves me.”
+
+“I know that, my dear. I’ve seen quite enough to be aware that you’re
+deeply in love with one another,” remarked the old man. Then, after a
+pause, he added, “I only wish—”
+
+“Wish what?”
+
+“I only wish, my dear, that we knew a little more about Paul
+Grinevitch. He is always so silent concerning himself. He has told me
+practically nothing.”
+
+“He is, at any rate, a gentleman, dad. And, further, he has ample
+means. You told me that only the other day, you know. Besides, what
+should I care if he hadn’t? I love him.”
+
+“Love!” the old man echoed in a hard voice. “Ah! yes, dear child, I
+know—I know, alas! what love means to you both. I loved—once.”
+
+And he sighed deeply at some recollection of long ago that stirred his
+memory to its depths. She was surprised, for she had never seen her
+father in that strange and somewhat sentimental mood before.
+
+More than ever was she convinced that some secret existed between him
+and that red-faced parvenu, Peter Sundt, the man who carried with him
+the odour of fish into the salons of Christiania society.
+
+“Yes, dad,” she said, raising her soft white hand and pushing his grey
+hair back from his brow. “You loved my dear mother—just as Paul loves
+me.”
+
+The old man sat staring before him. All the natural bonhomie had fled
+from his face. He was hard and silent, as though his very nature had
+been frozen by the bitter thoughts that now obsessed him.
+
+“Why don’t you try and induce him, my dear, to tell you more about
+himself,” he urged in a hoarse voice. “The fact is, Thyra, I don’t
+like you, my only child, marrying a man about whom I know practically
+nothing, and who, after all, may be only an adventurer.”
+
+“Oh, dad! you really shouldn’t talk of Paul like that!” she exclaimed
+quickly, in a voice of reproach. “Within your heart you know quite well
+he’s not an adventurer, or you would never have given your consent to
+our secret engagement.”
+
+“No, dear, I don’t say he is an adventurer. Personally, I believe him
+to be a very honest fellow. And certainly he would never remain here in
+Vardo were it not for you. Who would stay here if they could get away?”
+
+The girl blushed slightly. She knew that her father spoke the truth.
+
+“Then why may we not make our engagement public?” she asked. “Only
+yesterday Paul expressed a hope that you would soon allow us to make
+our love known.”
+
+But the lines in the old sailor’s brow grew perceptibly deeper, and he
+only drew a long breath without answering.
+
+“I know how lonely you will be when I am married and go south,” she
+said. “We shall live in Russia, I expect. Paul talks of Moscow; but I
+would prefer Petersburg, as in summer I could always come to Archangel
+by rail, and get here by the mail to see you. And perhaps after I’m
+married—perhaps you, dad, could get some appointment farther south,
+where there are sunshine and trees and flowers.”
+
+Her father shook his head sadly. Appointments as harbour-master were
+few and far between. There were always hundreds of applicants. For
+the office he held he had been the lucky candidate out of nearly three
+hundred retired seafaring men.
+
+“For myself, darling, I care nothing,” he said, looking into her grey
+eyes fondly. “It is your own future I am thinking of. I have lived my
+life, as hard a one as that of any man. What matters now if I die up
+here? Besides the hot summers of the south don’t suit me. I’ve lived
+almost my whole life here in the Arctic.”
+
+“But though I love Paul, father, I don’t feel happy if I have, after
+marriage, to leave you alone,” she said quickly, her eyes fixed upon
+his.
+
+“My dear, though I know so little of your lover’s position or of his
+past I’d—well,” he went on, with a strange catch in his voice, “I’d
+rather that you married him than—”
+
+“Than what?” she asked in quick surprise.
+
+“Oh—well, nothing, dear,” he declared. “I’m not very well this morning,
+that’s all.”
+
+“Now, dad,” she cried reproachfully, “that really isn’t fair. You have
+something upon your mind which you won’t tell me. Peter Sundt stayed
+talking with you for a long time last night after I went to bed. What
+has he been saying to upset you?”
+
+“Why, nothing, dear!” her father laughed faintly. “What ever caused
+you to imagine that? I’ve known Peter a great many years; indeed, ever
+since he used to live in a hut at Gamvik, behind the Sletnes, and go
+out fishing for cod.”
+
+“I’m aware of that. But why would you rather see me married? Tell me
+the reason,” she urged.
+
+“Well,” he laughed uneasily, “because you would, I know, be far happier
+with a good husband than living up in this dull place so full of
+the evil odours of decaying fish and so far beyond the culture and
+refinement amid which you were educated. I’ve always lived the rough
+life of the sea. With you, child, it is different. You are unfitted for
+this climate, its long darkness and its hardships. Surely you can see
+what a sacrifice it will be to me to allow your marriage, but——” and
+he paused. “Well, shall I tell you the truth?” he asked, staring again
+straight before him.
+
+“Yes, do, dear dad!” she cried suddenly, again flinging her sinuous
+arms about his neck.
+
+“Well, all to-night I’ve been thinking and wondering—wondering if I
+consented to your marriage with Paul at an early date, would you make
+your father a firm and definite promise?”
+
+“A promise! Why, of course, dad,” she declared, kissing his wrinkled
+cheek. “But do you really mean that I may marry Paul soon?” she asked
+excitedly.
+
+For a second the old fellow hesitated, almost as though he had not the
+courage to make such a promise.
+
+“I have decided, dear Thyra,” he answered in a deep, distinct voice,
+“that if Paul Grinevitch is willing, he may marry you as soon as ever
+he wishes.”
+
+The girl sprang up in a veritable delirium of joy.
+
+“Oh, dad, you are really too good!” she cried, bending and kissing him
+again and again. Then, on reflection, a few moments later she saw that
+this sudden decision must be due to some unexpected circumstance.
+
+What, she wondered, had happened to so change her father’s usual
+character, to cause him to remember his own love of long ago, and at
+the same time to induce him to allow her immediate marriage with Paul?
+
+“I give my permission, dear, on this one condition,” he said. “That you
+make a solemn promise to me—that you promise——” he added hoarsely,
+without, however, concluding his sentence.
+
+“Yes, dear dad; what am I to promise you?”
+
+Again he hesitated. It struck her curiously as though he were ashamed
+to speak.
+
+“I—I want you, Thyra, to promise me one thing,” he stammered.
+“Remember, I, your father, ask you to grant me this. After your
+marriage there may be some evil spoken of myself—a foul calumny spread
+by a blackguardly liar!” he cried, his eyes flashing suddenly. “If
+there is,” he said, looking straight at her with an almost imploring
+expression, “if there is, promise me that you will not believe one
+single word of it—promise me that you, my own Thyra, will not misjudge
+me!”
+
+“Father,” she answered quite quietly, for she saw how deadly earnest he
+was, “I promise you. Of course, I would never believe any allegation
+against you, who have been always so good and kind to me. When you
+brought me back up here from Christiania, I fretted and thought you
+unkind. But now I know different—you were cruel to me in my own
+interests. But,” she added, taking both his hard hands in hers, “tell
+me what is the nature of this calumny—what evil do you anticipate that
+people may say of you?”
+
+“It will be sufficient for you to know when you hear it!” was the old
+fellow’s broken reply. “As long as you close your ears to the lies of
+my enemy, then I do not fear. The world may seek to crush, humiliate,
+and ruin me with a disgraceful scandal which I am powerless to refute.
+Yet I am still a man—and I will face them and bear the indignity for
+your own dear sake, even though, at the same time, it will mean the
+loss of you to me.”
+
+Then the bluff, broad-shouldered man in silence took the girl’s
+soft hand in his own iron grip. And thus they sat for a long time;
+she joyful yet full of curiosity at what her father had hinted; he
+hard-mouthed, grave-faced, and broken.
+
+She felt vaguely that that moment was the crisis of her father’s life.
+He had an enemy who had threatened to encompass his ruin. Yet she was
+powerless to act, save to reassure him by repeating her promise of
+refusal to believe any word that might be uttered against him.
+
+At what had her father hinted? Why, indeed, had he so suddenly and so
+willingly given his consent to their engagement being known, and their
+marriage taking place? What had caused the change in him?
+
+These and a hundred other thoughts ran through her puzzled brain as she
+sat at his feet in silence, her hands in his, until they were at last
+interrupted by the entry of the faithful, flat-faced, bead-eyed old
+Lapp woman whose name, Freyia, meant in the Lapp tongue “the Goddess of
+Love.”
+
+Though she had left her encampment many years to take service in Vardo,
+Freyia still retained her national dress, the long jacket of reindeer
+leather falling below her knees, secured by a leather belt and edged
+with gay-coloured red, yellow, and blue cloth, while her legs were
+encased in leather moccasins. Many a time old Jorgen had tried to
+induce her to adopt civilised garb, but she had always refused. A Lapp,
+go wherever he or she may, clings ever to the dress of his nomad clan.
+
+Thyra, when the old woman entered to prepare breakfast, rose, and went
+to her own room to write a note to Paul announcing the good news, while
+her father turned to the window, and with hands clenched and teeth hard
+set, held his breath as he looked out upon the snow-covered roofs and
+the grey, stormy ocean beyond.
+
+He had made that sacrifice for Thyra’s sake. For him, in the evening
+of his days, the future held only a painful scandal which he must now
+face, and which would, more than probably, bring upon him ruin as well
+as disgrace.
+
+That same morning Dick Jervoise and his friend had, on rising, packed
+some eatables together and taken one of the big, high-prowed old boats
+out of the harbour and across the rough sea to the mainland, being
+anxious to ascertain what the bleak, treeless, inhospitable coast was
+like.
+
+In a deep hollow they found a Lapp encampment—a dozen or so miserable
+tents of reindeer skin, with their quaintly-garbed tenants in their
+curious, four-cornered caps stuffed with eider-down, and many of them
+in heavy furs, even though it were summer. The Lapp is an extremely
+friendly person, therefore they spent the morning photographing, buying
+spoons and other articles of reindeer horn, tobacco pouches, purses of
+skin and other Arctic souvenirs, in turn being invited by the head-man
+into his tent and given the place of honour beside the ever-burning
+fire.
+
+At five o’clock in the afternoon they returned to the ship to wash
+and make themselves respectable before having dinner, intending to go
+ashore to Vardo afterwards.
+
+In the saloon they found Captain Martin in mufti, taking his cup of tea
+and slice of lemon.
+
+“Well?” he asked cheerily. “And how have you fared to-day among the
+Lapps?”
+
+They both declared that their outing had been full of interest,
+whereupon the fair-moustached, dandified man exclaimed:
+
+“I’ve got some interesting news for you. Vardo is full of it.”
+
+“What’s that?” inquired the doctor. “We haven’t seen a newspaper for a
+month.”
+
+“Thyra Berentsen—the girl you both admire so much—is to be married.”
+
+“Married!” gasped Jervoise.
+
+“Yes. I’ve had orders this morning to go on to Archangel for half a
+cargo, after calling at Vadso and Kirkanaes. Therefore she and her
+father and the happy bridegroom sail with us when we go south in a
+fortnight’s time.”
+
+“But who is she to marry? Surely not one of these uncouth fishermen!”
+
+“No. He’s not at all uncouth. On the contrary, he’s a very refined,
+good-looking and wealthy young gentleman—a Russian from Moscow named
+Paul Grinevitch.”
+
+Jervoise stood staring at the captain, his mouth wide open.
+
+“Paul Grinevitch!” he echoed. “She has promised to marry him?”
+
+“Yes. The announcement has set all Vardo agog. Everybody is talking of
+it. Why?”
+
+The other’s teeth were clenched, his brows had contracted, and his
+cheeks had gone pale. Odd, standing with his back to him, did not
+notice the sudden change in his friend.
+
+“Oh, for no reason!” he managed to reply. “I—well I’m greatly
+surprised. Nobody told me that she was engaged. That’s all.”
+
+But as he turned away he muttered some words below his breath, though
+neither the captain nor the doctor heard him.
+
+“Paul Grinevitch! So I was not mistaken after all, when I thought I
+caught sight of you yesterday! You are hiding here, at the end of the
+world, and you intend to marry Thyra Berentsen! You—_you of all men_!”
+
+His blanched countenance grew rigid as he turned on his heel and left
+the narrow little saloon.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE CAPTAIN MAKES A SUGGESTION
+
+
+When, two days later, Dick Jervoise rose, dressed with difficulty
+owing to the heavy sea, and ascended to the deck, he found they were
+approaching a small bay where, through the drifting fog could be
+distinguished a line of low wooden houses, painted various colours,
+brown, white and blue, behind which, upon a small eminence, stood a
+tiny white church with pointed spire, while away on the horizon showed
+a range of low bare hills.
+
+A dispiriting scene, ineffably sad. A grey, wintry sky, a grey sea,
+a grey land, while so chill was the wind that even though he wore a
+heavy leather-lined motor-coat, he shivered. And it was the height of
+summer. They were far away now from the haunts of the twenty-guinea
+midnight-sun tourists—away in the great lone land.
+
+The _Mercur_ was approaching the little fishing station of Vadso, a
+lonely desolate little place on the Norwegian and Russian frontier.
+On the bridge stood Captain Martin, smart and spruce in his uniform,
+and without an overcoat, chatting to the big-bearded Norseman who had
+piloted them through the many dangerous channels beyond the Nordkap,
+and who was now keeping a wary eye upon the difficult course they were
+taking.
+
+For a ship to approach Vadso closely is impossible, therefore, while
+still a mile from the long breakwater, the pilot pulled three times
+at the cord of the siren, sounding the Morse-code signal, and then
+drew over the engine-room lever. The answering bell sounded, and the
+engines suddenly stopped.
+
+A shout, and down plunged the anchor with whirr and rattle.
+
+Owen had not yet risen. While Dick had remained on board all the
+previous day, pleading a slight indisposition, the young doctor and
+the Captain had been ashore at Vardo and spent the evening with the
+Berentsens. They had come on board again about four o’clock in the
+morning, and sailed at once, eastward for Vadso.
+
+Before turning in, Owen had come into his friend’s cabin to inquire
+how he was, and to explain how they had spent the evening at the
+harbour-master’s hospitable little house.
+
+“Thyra was there, of course?” asked Dick, suddenly interrupting him.
+
+“Certainly. And the young Russian too. It appears that their engagement
+was formally announced to-day, and it has created as great a sensation
+among the fisher-folk of Vardo as a similar announcement in the
+_Morning Post_ does in Mayfair. She’s being congratulated everywhere.”
+
+“And what sort of fellow is he?” inquired the man.
+
+“A gentleman, I believe,” replied the young doctor carelessly. “Speaks
+English as well as most educated Russians, is rather good-looking,
+but slightly disfigured by a white scar against his left ear. He’s
+evidently devoted to her, and seems quite a decent sort of fellow.”
+
+Dick turned over in his narrow berth without a word. He only sighed.
+Truth to tell, however, he had turned his head away lest his friend’s
+curiosity should be aroused by the expression upon his countenance.
+
+“Well,” exclaimed Owen after a slight pause; “you’re tired, old chap. I
+really ought not to have disturbed you, only—well, I thought you’d like
+to know all the news.”
+
+“Thanks, old chap. I’m not disturbed. But I’ll just have an hour or two
+longer.”
+
+“Right. We’re due off Vadso at nine,” Owen said cheerily, and he left
+the cabin, closing the door after him, and struggling unsteadily to his
+own berth, for the ship was already on her way, rolling heavily outside
+the harbour.
+
+After that, Dick Jervoise had slept but little. So it was really _the_
+Paul Grinevitch! The white scar that he remembered so well—the mark of
+Cain upon him—proved his identity.
+
+He was glad that after Martin had told him of Thyra’s engagement, he
+had not set foot in Vardo again. Surely he had pursued the only course
+possible?
+
+Yet the discovery had utterly staggered him.
+
+Even now, as he stood upon the black, greasy deck, slippery with the
+cod-liver oil which oozed from the many barrels lashed to the bulwarks,
+the strange and unexpected truth filled his mind. The Captain, from
+the bridge above, shouted a merry “Good-morning”; but he only replied
+mechanically.
+
+He was thinking of Thyra, and that man, her lover—of all men.
+
+Again he shivered, and even while half-frozen by that biting wind he
+was at the same time asphyxiated by the horrible effluvia wafted from
+the cod-curing and boiling-houses and poisonous odours from guano
+factories.
+
+A big, high-prowed boat rowed by six Lapp fishermen in furs with
+leather mitts upon their hands, came alongside, and into it was flung
+the small, half-filled mail bag from the south. Then the Captain,
+Dick and Owen Odd, together with the two officers, the engineer and
+mail officer—the same merry little company who had met there every
+morning for the past month—assembled for breakfast.
+
+“Well, Mr. Jervoise,” inquired the Captain cheerily from the head
+of the table, “what have you decided? We sail at ten to-night for
+Archangel. Shall you come with us, or do you intend taking a trip
+inland for a fortnight, and we’ll pick you up again at Kjelvik on our
+way south? As I said yesterday, you’d have a most interesting journey
+with the Lapps. Of course you’d perhaps be compelled to rough it a
+little, but you, as a traveller, wouldn’t mind that.”
+
+“I think it would be jolly good fun,” declared Odd enthusiastically.
+“I’ve been looking up the route on the map. Of course, Captain, you
+wouldn’t fail to call in for us? We don’t want to be left up here all
+the winter,” he added with a laugh.
+
+“We shall be at Kjelvik fifteen days from to-day,” answered the
+Captain. “The voyage from here along the Murman coast and up the White
+Sea is not at all interesting. You’d find much more enjoyment in a
+journey across country. Mr. Ackerman, your British consul here, would
+no doubt find you a reliable Lapp guide, and you wouldn’t have much
+trouble. The steward can give you some tinned food, and I daresay you
+can buy a little cooking-stove ashore. I did the journey once across to
+Kistrand, on the Porsanger Fjord, and had a most excellent time.”
+
+“How far is it?” inquired Jervoise.
+
+“About four hundred kilometres—the last two hundred through a
+magnificent mountain range. The country is a very wild one, and quite
+unknown to travellers. But you’ll find the Lapps exceedingly friendly,”
+the Captain said. “There are two routes from here to Kistrand. One
+is by road to a little place called Nyborg, across the Tana River,
+and then due east by the track in the valley of the Mats and over the
+Borgavarre to a tiny place called Laxelven, at the extreme head of the
+Porsanger Fjord and thence north for fifty kilometres to Kistrand.
+From there you can go in a boat down the fjord to Kjelvik, where we
+will pick you up. The other, which is longer, but more interesting,
+is to ascend the Tana from Seida to Karasjok in a Lapp boat for about
+two hundred kilometres, and drive thence due north to Laxelven and on
+to Kistrand. I should certainly recommend the latter route as less
+tedious. The Tana, as you know, divides Norwegian Lapland from that of
+Finland. Besides you’ll be able to see the Laplander at home.”
+
+Captain Martin’s description appealed to the adventurous spirit of Dick
+Jervoise. He had roughed it in many odd corners of the world, and his
+main object in going so far north now was in order to see the Lapps and
+their mode of life, to study a people about whom scarcely anything has
+ever been written.
+
+So there and then he and his friend decided to take the Captain’s
+advice and go by the longer route of Karasjok and up the Fjelma
+valley. The journey by road and river would occupy them about
+thirteen days, the Captain estimated. The _Mercur_ could not be in
+the Magerosund—behind the island of Magero on which the North Cape is
+situated—for at least eighteen or nineteen days, being compelled to
+call at all the tiny fishing stations between Vardo and the North Cape,
+those clusters of wooden huts sheltered beneath the bare rocks, such
+as Makur, Mehavn, Gamvik and Finkongkjeilen. Therefore they would have
+five or six days to spare, in case of untoward circumstances.
+
+The big map of Lapland was brought from the chart-room, spread upon
+the table of the saloon, and eagerly examined by the ship’s officers
+and the two Londoners. Then, when the route was decided, the steward
+was interviewed, and tinned provisions obtained from the store-room.
+There being no fresh food in the north, all the victuals on board the
+_Mercur_, including the vegetables, were preserved. The only thing
+fresh was the ever-present codfish, the very smell of which permeated
+everything on board.
+
+A couple of reindeer skin sleeping sacks were brought out of the
+store-room, as well as a tea-kettle, a cooking-pot or two, matches, a
+couple of drums of petroleum, and other necessaries.
+
+For several hours Dick and his friend were thus occupied in their
+preparations, packing warm clothing into two canvas mail-sacks.
+After luncheon they went ashore to interview the British consul, Mr.
+Ackerman, and to purchase a cooking-stove.
+
+The doctor was delighted. It was his first experience of travel upon
+an unbeaten track. Hammersmith and Hammerfest were indeed widely
+separated. He recollected the dust and stuffiness of King Street,
+Hammersmith, with its working-class crowds, now, as he gazed upon the
+quaint though evil-smelling little town of Vadso, so far removed from
+the bustle of the world.
+
+On landing at the breakwater, the Captain accompanying them, they
+found that the population of about a couple of thousand were mostly
+Laplanders. The few Norwegians occupied a central group of houses, one
+tiny street, while all around, in the rows of ramshackle sheds built
+of odds and ends of driftwood, old petroleum-tins and slabs of stone,
+lived the Lapps, or Kvaen, as they call themselves.
+
+Alongside the water stood a row of little wooden houses painted in
+bright colours, interspersed by old boats transformed into various
+uses, and black wooden sheds for the drying of the cod.
+
+In the centre of all was the little _torv_, or market, which at the
+moment of their arrival presented quite a picturesque scene. Around
+the stalls, where various wares were displayed, notwithstanding the
+cutting wind, was an unwashed crowd of all the races of the far
+North—Norwegian fishermen, Russian sailors, Finns, Russian Lapps in
+four-cornered caps, tunics of dark blue homespun ornamented by heavy
+embroideries in red and yellow cloth, Lapps of the Finmarken, short
+of stature, in ragged furs, with knitted blue caps with scarlet
+tassels, and knives in their belts, while Samoyeds from Archangel were
+distinguishable by their long caftans of reindeer hide. Truly a most
+remarkable crowd—a _melange_ of a dozen different languages and a dozen
+different costumes.
+
+Consul Ackerman proved to be a shipping-agent and agent of the
+universal Lloyd’s. Upstairs, in his comfortable wooden house, where
+stunted roses and geraniums struggled for life behind the double
+windows, the two Englishmen were introduced by the Captain, the usual
+glass of vodka was offered as sign of the hospitality of the North, and
+the conversation soon drifted to the ways and means of the projected
+journey across the Kistrand.
+
+Mr. Ackerman, a pleasant middle-aged man who had spent his life in the
+Arctic, and who had travelled in various parts of Lapland and also out
+across the terrible country of the Kola, sat for a full hour and gave
+them a number of useful hints regarding their proposed route.
+
+Eventually they descended to the ground floor, where a funny, bead-eyed
+little man wearing ragged furs, and whose face was of distinctly Mongol
+type, was introduced.
+
+“This is Henkela,” explained the consul. “You may place every reliance
+in him. He is a Lapp of the Finmarken, and has travelled your route
+several times. He often does odd jobs for me, for he speaks Russian as
+well as a little English.”
+
+At this, the brown-faced aborigine of those inhospitable tundras of the
+North grinned, nodded, and exclaimed:
+
+“Yes.”
+
+In Norwegian the consul explained the route which the travellers
+desired to take, and to every word Henkela listened most attentively.
+His age it was impossible to guess, for the average Laplander begins to
+look old at twenty-five.
+
+Both Dick and Owen noted that he was not particularly clean-looking,
+but the consul had already warned them that they must expect dirt in
+travelling so far from European civilisation. Dick was used to it, and
+possessed the practised traveller’s instinct of being able to keep
+himself clean under almost any circumstances. Odd, as medical man,
+however, regarded uncleanliness with horror.
+
+The remainder of that short grey day was occupied mostly in
+preparations, the wizened-faced Henkela being particularly active in
+adding to the stores various articles of necessity which had been
+forgotten.
+
+On the road from Vadso to Nyborg reindeer are only used with the sleds
+in winter, therefore Henkela obtained horses with two very shaky
+vehicles, while at the general store Dick and Owen each purchased, at
+the Lapp’s request, pairs of leathern mitts, and from a house in the
+Lapp town each a _pesk_, or huge coat of reindeer skin with the fur
+outside.
+
+That evening the pair, together with the Captain, dined with the
+consul, and afterwards Captain Martin bade them farewell and went off
+in the ship’s boat, promising to call for them at the little fishing
+station of Kjelvik within eighteen days.
+
+Half an hour later the siren, echoing across the dark fjord, announced
+the departure of the _Mercur_ for Archangel.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+REVEALS THE SHADOW
+
+
+The only road in Northern Lapland worthy the name is that which runs
+for fifty kilometres or so from Vadso, along the edge of the desolate
+Varangerfjord to Seida, on the broad Tana, one of the most noted salmon
+rivers in the world.
+
+Next morning, soon after it became light, Jervoise and his companion
+driving in one rickety old vehicle and the little beady-eyed Henkela in
+his ragged furs seated on the top of the impedimenta in the other, set
+forth upon the journey, the consul shouting them a cheery adieu.
+
+The whole of the little Lapp town seemed to have been made aware
+of the impending departure of the Englishmen, for a hundred or so
+quaintly-garbed men and women, mostly in leather or in furs, turned out
+to witness the triumphant start of Henkela, who was evidently a most
+popular person.
+
+During the night it had snowed, and the ground was still covered to
+the depth of perhaps an inch. All around the Varanger is a veritable
+wilderness. As they left Vadso a tree two yards high, growing in a
+sheltered corner of the town, was pointed out by Henkela to the two men
+in the cart behind as a vegetable prodigy. And as they went out upon
+the road, forth into that grey sad country of silence and solitude, an
+inexpressible feeling of melancholy fell upon them both.
+
+“How horribly depressing this place is!” Owen remarked when they got
+beyond the town, the road running close to the edge of the broad fjord,
+where, far across, showed the misty mountains in Russian territory.
+
+“Yes,” answered Jervoise mechanically. He was driving, but his thoughts
+were far from that scene of wintry desolation—away in a different
+vista of palms and olives, of sunshine and blue sky—a scene that was
+delightful to the eye, but full, alas! of bitter tragedy.
+
+Before him, as he drove from the drifting mists of morning, arose that
+peerless face of the fair-haired daughter of the old Arctic whaler—the
+tall, graceful girl with the grey eyes that had held him in such
+strange fascination—even before he became aware of the identity of her
+lover.
+
+He was thinking of her—thinking as he had done a hundred times during
+those past twenty-four hours—thinking, too, of that man whom she had
+promised to marry.
+
+And whenever he thought of him, whenever there recurred to him that
+scene among the gnarled grey-green olives of the south, he set hard his
+teeth, and his nails drove themselves into his palms.
+
+Owen noticed his friend’s silence, but attributed it to the impressive
+sadness of the scene. The road they were travelling was the most
+northerly in Europe, and was passable for wheeled vehicles only about
+three months in the year. In the country of the Great Night the sled
+and reindeer are the usual means of locomotion. The Laplander uses a
+_pulk_, or boat-shaped sled in which he sits and is drawn by reindeer,
+one of the most uncomfortable modes of travelling in the whole world,
+for the bottom of the _pulk_ being rounded, and not being on runners
+like the Russian sled, is constantly turning over, and its occupant
+usually finds himself beneath it.
+
+Winter had not, however, yet set in in earnest. Nevertheless, the
+ground was lightly covered with snow until the whole country, flanked
+on one side by the great grey expanse of the fjord and on the other
+by the sloping treeless waste, was the very acme of inhospitable
+desolation.
+
+Not a tree was visible, not a habitation—nothing but a long, straight
+road through a desert of intense white snow and grey water.
+
+The ravines were rich in polar flora, with a thousand different
+varieties of mosses, as well as the dwarf cloud-berry or “multebaer,”
+which, as every visitor to Scandinavia knows, is so dear to the
+Norwegian palate. No plant higher than a few inches, however, survived
+that terrible climate of that Arctic desert.
+
+It was freezing hard, and even in their mitts and heavy coats the two
+travellers soon began to be chilled to the bone. Therefore, after
+about five miles, at Henkela’s suggestion they pulled up and exchanged
+their motor-coats of European civilisation for the big Lapp _pesks_ of
+reindeer skin.
+
+Both laughed at the bulky figure each presented in that unaccustomed
+garb.
+
+As they travelled westward the snow became less until the stony road
+was only lightly powdered, the way, however, still keeping along the
+edge of the broad fjord, until, after five hours, they pulled up at a
+long, log-built house, alone in that treeless region, which proved to
+be the post-house of Bergeby.
+
+This, the most northerly skyds-station which the Norwegian government
+maintains, proved to be a curious little place. In the carpetless
+guest-room was a table and some chairs. That was all. Travelers
+supplied their own food and their own bedding.
+
+The post-house keeper produced his register for the Englishmen to sign,
+and having done so, they “killed” a tin of corned beef, off which they
+made a rough meal, handing the remainder to the faithful Henkela, who
+devoured it without much ceremony.
+
+As they sat together in that lonely little house so far removed from
+any human habitation, smoking cigarettes while the fresh horses were
+put to amid the shouts of Henkela, Owen remarked:
+
+“Well, old chap, when we set out from London we never anticipated this
+journey, did we?”
+
+“No,” responded his friend reflectively. “We’ve met with several
+unexpected incidents,” he added meaningly.
+
+Truth to tell, that journey did not interest Dick in the least. Usually
+he loved the excitement of travel, but at that moment it only bored
+him. He was on a route unfrequented and unknown to all save the Lapps
+of that district and the Finnish post-driver who passed along twice
+each month. Yet the pale, tragic face with the grey eyes was ever
+before his vision, blotting out every other thing and every other
+interest.
+
+Owen Odd was puzzled. His companion’s almost complete silence during
+that long drive had caused him considerable reflection. Dick Jervoise
+was always so full of dry humour that he began to wonder whether his
+friend’s present attitude was due to any annoyance he might have
+unwittingly caused him.
+
+“What’s the matter, Dick?” he ventured to ask at last.
+
+“Matter?” echoed the other, rousing himself suddenly. “Nothing. Why?”
+
+“Well—because you’re not exactly yourself to-day, old fellow. That’s
+all. I’m afraid you’re annoyed with me for going ashore the night
+before last when you were seedy.”
+
+“Annoyed, my dear Owen! What rubbish! Surely we are good friends enough
+not to quarrel over any childish disagreements,” he said, pulling
+himself together and bracing himself up with an effort. “Forgive me,”
+he added apologetically, “if I’m not quite as bright as usual. I’m
+sorry.”
+
+“My dear fellow, don’t be so foolish,” laughed the other. “As long as
+you’re not annoyed with me I don’t mind, I assure you.”
+
+Dick Jervoise suppressed a sigh. What would Owen think if he knew the
+truth? Yet he must never obtain knowledge of it—never—_never_.
+
+Paul Grinevitch would be sailing with them on board the _Mercur_
+for the south. He and his bride—his bride!—would be traveling to
+Christiania to be united as man and wife!
+
+On board the steamer they must meet. And then?
+
+Aye, and then?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+THE ARCTIC WILDERNESS
+
+
+Leaving the Varangerfjord just before darkness set in, the travellers
+struck across the wide, rolling tundra, and for many hours went
+forward, until about two o’clock in the morning they drove into an
+enclosure in the centre of which stood a small wooden hut, together
+with several other ramshackle out-buildings.
+
+It was the last resthouse on the road. Indeed, the road, or rather
+the track, ended there, for before it lay the broad, swift-flowing
+Tana river. The stockade kept out the wolves in winter, and the house
+itself, raised several feet from the ground, showed the depth of the
+snows which lay there for several months each year.
+
+Henkela banged loudly upon the wooden door, shouting something in
+Lappish, while Dick and Owen descended from the cart, cold and cramped,
+stamping their feet upon the frozen ground to promote the circulation.
+
+A deep, guttural response came from within, and after the lapse of
+five minutes or so, the door opened, and upon the threshold before the
+lamplight stood a tall, fair-haired Finnish Lapp, in his blouse of
+dark blue cloth heavily embroidered with red, and long fur boots with
+upturned toes.
+
+With a broad grin of amusement upon his fat face, he stretched out
+both his big hands to wish the travellers welcome, and a few moments
+later Dick and his friend found themselves inside a good-sized wooden
+room, bare and carpetless, of course, save for four truckle beds, an
+old couch, some chairs, and a stove, the warmth of which was indeed
+gratifying after the frosty night.
+
+“Senko, our host, asks whether the gentlemen would like some coffee?”
+asked Henkela in his very indifferent English, and at the same time
+there appeared a good-looking Finnish girl of fourteen, who was
+introduced as Senko’s daughter, and who busied herself in piling
+driftwood into the stove.
+
+She was a fresh-looking, blue-eyed girl, all smiles and bows. Her dress
+was typical of the civilised Lapp, fur boots like her father’s, a short
+homespun skirt with heavy blue ornamentation, and a Russian shawl of
+scarlet and white plaid around her shoulders.
+
+Dick replied that coffee would be welcome; therefore the girl at once
+retired into the back premises to prepare it. Coffee is a speciality
+with the Lapps, and wherever one may go, even among the half-civilised
+aborigines like Henkela, it is always quite drinkable.
+
+“By Jove!” remarked Owen, spreading his hands to the stove. “This is a
+weird place, isn’t it?”
+
+“Yes,” his friend answered. “We’re getting beyond civilisation now.
+This is the last resthouse.”
+
+Henkela explained that for the next seven days or so they would be
+compelled to throw themselves upon the hospitality of the nomad Lapps
+for shelter in their huts, while Senko, his big face beaming with
+pleasure at entertaining strangers from that almost legendary land,
+England—the first he had ever had—came forward and through the guide,
+answered their eager interrogations.
+
+He was a fine specimen of a man, six feet two in height, a perfect type
+of stalwart northerner. His blouse was held by a wonderful girdle of
+chased brass, and in a repousse sheath reposed the usual long knife
+used by the Lapp for the slaughter of reindeer.
+
+Henkela and Senko were in deep consultation, speaking in Lappic, of
+course. The subject of their conversation was the best means of getting
+up the river to Karasjok, and presently Henkela turned to the pair,
+saying:
+
+“Senko has a boat which will just suit us. We shall want three rowers,
+and he will get them from the encampment down in the ravine, two miles
+away. He will send there in the morning.”
+
+“Let us go, too,” suggested Owen. “We’ll then see the kind of men we
+are getting.”
+
+So that was arranged. Coffee was brought by the blue-eyed girl, who
+also bent and unlaced Dick’s boots, and the whole party sat down to sip
+the comforting beverage.
+
+“Well,” declared Owen, laughing, as he looked around, “this is really
+most quaint!”
+
+True, it was a curious experience. But curious experiences are of every
+day occurrence when one is travelling beyond the zone of our modern
+civilisation. Those people whom they were among were a race who fought
+the elements every day in order to live; a race who had never seen a
+tree or flower as we know them, who knew nothing of trains, tramways,
+or modern locomotion, and who cared not a jot how the world lived so
+long as they themselves obtained sufficient for their daily wants.
+
+While the coffee was being drunk and all smoked the cigarettes which
+Dick offered from his case, Senko entertained them with an account of
+how a bear had been killed close by on the previous day, concluding his
+narrative by showing them the skin.
+
+All the while he slapped his leg and laughed merrily, as though the
+arrival of two wandering Englishmen in the middle of the night at that
+outpost of civilisation was the greatest joke he could conceive.
+
+At last, however, tired out, Dick, Owen and Henkela, dressed just as
+they were, threw themselves down on the beds, blew out the smoking
+lamp, and all slept soundly until the dawn.
+
+After more coffee, and some ship-biscuits and ham from their stores,
+the humorous giant, who at every turn slapped the travellers heavily
+upon the back as a sign of good-fellowship, conducted them to the Lapp
+encampment.
+
+It consisted, they found, of a dozen or so roughly constructed
+conical-shaped huts covered with turf, a hole being left in the roof
+to allow the egress of the smoke. Beside each hut was a framework of
+sticks, upon which were stretched reindeer skins in process of drying,
+antlers, salmon from the river, and pieces of reindeer meat awaiting
+consumption, all placed high out of the reach of the many grey,
+wolf-like, Arctic dogs which barked vociferously and snapped viciously
+at their approach.
+
+Senko stooped, and pretended to take up a stone, whereupon the animals
+slunk away. It is the only method of quieting the ever-barking dog of
+the Laplander.
+
+A shout from Senko, and a little undersized native in ragged furs,
+wearing a cap similar to that worn by Henkela, emerged from one of the
+huts and shouted back what was evidently a welcome. Then the party
+entered the encampment, Henkela explaining that to enter without
+permission was, by his people, considered the gravest form of insult.
+
+To receive assistance or hospitality from the Lapp the traveller must
+always place himself in the position of being helpless. He will then be
+most kindly and considerately treated.
+
+They approached the hut of the head-man who had greeted Senko, and as
+they entered the narrow but not uncomfortable little dwelling, Henkela
+exclaimed:
+
+“_Rafthe vissui_” (Peace to your house).
+
+“_Ibmel addi_” (God grant it) was the man’s reply as, by dumb signs, he
+motioned the two Englishmen to a heap of furs placed on the right of
+the smouldering fire, the place of honour.
+
+In a Lapp hut the master and his family sleep on the skins spread on
+the right of the fire, and the servants on the left.
+
+A wizened, brown-faced little woman in furs, wearing a cap similar
+to the man, and dressed like him, was cleaning a cooking-pot, quite
+undisturbed by the intrusion, while the interior, with the suffocating
+smoke curling through the hole in the roof, dimly lit by the light from
+the doorway, presented a strange, unusual scene. Around the place were
+heaps of reindeer and fox skins, in one spot the cooking utensils, in
+another a heap of fur clothing, while close to where Owen sat lay a
+child of six or seven, calmly sleeping.
+
+A sharp-nosed dog rose, sniffed the two strangers inquisitively, and
+then, satisfied with his investigations, curled himself again before
+the fire.
+
+Henkela, a minute later, explained in his broken English that the
+head-man, having heard what the pair required, bade them welcome, and
+promised to let them have three of his best men as rowers to Karasjok.
+
+Then Dick handed round his cigarette-case, and all smoked, including
+the old woman. Presently the two Englishmen were taken to the stockade,
+where a herd of about eight hundred reindeer was enclosed against that
+arch-enemy of the Lapp, the wolf.
+
+Upon his reindeer the lonely Laplander practically subsists. He lives
+upon the flesh, he makes his tent and his clothing of its skin, his
+thread of its sinews, his cheese of its milk, his implements of its
+bones, and often his fire of its offal. All this Henkela explained.
+
+Dick, student that he was, soon discovered Henkela to be a man of more
+than average intelligence. In his youth he had been for some years
+at the government school at Vadso, and, possessing a rather musical
+voice, he had, he said, learned many of those ancient songs which
+for centuries past have been produced and orally spread among the
+Lapps—including many of the runes of the “Kalevala.”
+
+In a moment Dick Jervoise became interested. He had long ago closely
+studied the various works of Russian and Norwegian writers upon the
+traditional poetry of the Lapps and Finns, and here was an opportunity
+to gather much information at first hand which hitherto he had not been
+able to obtain.
+
+Henkela’s English was, of course, not very clear, but it was quite
+sufficient to act as a channel through which he could obtain knowledge.
+
+He had gone deeply into the subject. In the cosy comfort of his little
+flat at Barnes he had studied many translations of the Finnish and
+Lappish runes, those heroic or magic songs which have been handed down
+from the remote ages. The song of the “Origin of the Kantele,” those of
+the “Journey to Vipunen,” “Vainamoinen’s Wound,” and the “Expedition
+for the Sampo” were all well known to him; therefore, with much
+gesticulation and not without difficulty, he discussed them with the
+black-eyed little man in furs and knitted cap, as, after making final
+arrangements with the three Lapps who came forward as rowers, they
+walked back side by side to Senko’s house.
+
+At last Dick Jervoise seemed to take a keen interest in the journey;
+therefore Owen was gratified. Though the story of the ancient runes or
+of the “Kalevala” did not interest the doctor, yet he was delighted to
+see that in his friend, student that he always was, a new interest had
+been aroused.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+TOWARDS THE DOOM
+
+
+The ascent of the broad Tana in that big old black boat was slow,
+tedious, and terribly monotonous.
+
+For the most part the river, famous for its salmon and the particles of
+gold the water contains, flowed across a great, open, treeless tundra,
+and often the current was so strong that the three rowers required the
+assistance of Henkela, himself a fisherman, to keep her head to the
+stream.
+
+The distance from Seida to Karasjok was nearly three hundred
+kilometres, and most of the course lay due south through a barren land
+entirely uninhabited save where the Lapps had settled upon the banks to
+fish. And it was in these huts, in every way similar to the huts of the
+encampment near Seida, that each night they sought shelter and slept.
+
+Landing several times each day to cook food and stretch themselves was
+the only recreation they obtained; therefore Dick, seated in the stern
+of the boat hour after hour and day after day as they slowly ascended
+the stream, turned his main attention to Henkela, in order to improve
+his knowledge of the Lapp poetry.
+
+The weather was by no means propitious. Often they would be delayed
+for hours by those dense white mists which hung over the river each
+morning, and more than once snow fell heavily. Still, even Owen,
+matter-of-fact Londoner that he was, was compelled to admit that the
+journey was fraught with plenty of excitement and many humorous
+episodes.
+
+To enliven the voyage, and to encourage the rowers to their oars,
+Henkela, at Dick’s request, took to chanting the old runes. Sometimes
+he would sing of the beautiful Luonnotar, daughter of the air, of the
+supreme god, the ancient of years, Ukko, or of Vainamoinen, the eternal
+singer who was for thirty years imprisoned with his mother.
+
+Hour after hour, across those broad-flowing waters with their rippling
+shallows, would the voice of the dark-faced Lapp sound, with that soft
+sibillation peculiar to his own unwritten tongue, musical almost as
+Italian.
+
+As well as he could he would, after chanting the runes, explain what
+they meant in English.
+
+One day Henkela, as the rowers kept up the rhythm of the oars, was
+explaining the rivalry in magic between the Finns and Lapps which is so
+strongly marked in the magic and epic runes.
+
+“Lapp magic is not poetical,” he was explaining as well as he could in
+his somewhat indifferent English. “It is of that damnable kind, called
+by the Norse _seidr_. This word has not entered the Finnic tongue, but
+we Lapps have taken it and applied it to formless or rude images of our
+deities in wood, or in stone, because we used them years ago in our
+magic operations. We Lapps all believe in magic.”
+
+“But surely you are Christians!” Jervoise exclaimed.
+
+“We believe in magic, nevertheless,” Henkela declared. “Each day when
+I go forth fishing I make my song of prayer—my _rukouksia_. I say:
+‘Vellamo, mistress of waters, Queen of a hundred sea-caves, Arouse the
+scaly crowd, Urge on the fish flocks. Forth from their hiding-place.
+Forth from the muddy slime. Forth to this net-hauling. To the weights
+of the hundred-meshed. Take now thy beauteous shield. Shake the
+golden water-lily with which the fish thou frighten’st. And driv’st
+them towards the net. Beneath the plain so gloomy, Above the boulders
+black.’”
+
+“Most interesting!” declared Odd, who had been listening attentively.
+
+“Again,” exclaimed the Lapp with the sharp black eyes, as he puffed at
+his long pipe, setting his gaze straight towards the grey bank of mist
+before him. “Again, if I am ill, and I take waters as a medicine, I
+repeat the words: ‘O pure water, O Lady of the waters, Now do thou make
+me whole, Strong as before. For this I beg thee dearly, And in offering
+I gave thee, Blood to appease thee, Salt to propitiate thee.’”
+
+One morning, after passing an uncomfortable night in the hut of some
+nomad Lapps near the dreary Finnish settlement of Audagoski, they had
+been delayed from starting for several hours by the dense fog which
+hung over the river, and in which it was impossible to row.
+
+At length, however, about noon, they had made a start, and at the
+suggestion of Jervoise, Henkela had resumed his explanation of the
+land of Pohjola as being the seat of evils and darkness. In all the
+Lapp songs Pohja, or Pohjola, is conspicuous, and according to Henkela
+that mythical country of the far north beyond the eternal snows was
+inhabited by Lapps, and the lady of Pohjola was Lady of the Lapps.
+
+This Lady is one of the principal types among the heroines of the
+“Kalevala,” and from her mythic region, ill-omened in character and
+harbourer of ills, come forth all the evils that afflict the northern
+peoples, such as ice, snow, cold winds, and the darkness of winter.
+It is a remote region, existing they know not exactly where; but in
+what direction is clearly shown by the icy breath of Boreas which
+comes out of it. A country of fearsome imagination, an outer land on
+the northern confines of the earth (ulkomaa), essentially dark (pimea)
+and cold (kylma) the country of Pakkanen (icy coldness), a wretched
+land, fatal to men and heroes, where sun and moon are never seen, but
+visible in the eternal night is the “coloured cover” (kyrjokansi) or
+the star-studded vault of the sky.
+
+All this curious lore of a practically unknown people Dick Jervoise
+found peculiarly fascinating, and by the hour he sat chatting and
+learning from Henkela, whose broken English daily became clearer to the
+pair.
+
+That morning the little brown-faced man had, at Jervoise’s request,
+been chanting the “Kalevala,” the rowers keeping time with the runes as
+they passed through that dismal, depressing land. The quaint ancient
+poetry told how the daughter of the air, tired of her long solitude,
+came down from the vast untrodden regions of the air and settled on the
+surface of the waters, where for seven hundred years she floated hither
+and thither as Lady of the Waters.
+
+The runes told how the egg of a duck fell into the sea and broke, and
+the fragments underwent a transformation. From the two halves of the
+shell arose the vault of the sky, and the terrestrial hemisphere below
+it; from the yolk the sun took form; from the white the moon; from the
+more shining parts the stars; from the darker parts the clouds. The
+story was told of how every tree grew, save the oak, which Vainamoinen,
+the eternal rune-maker, at last made grow by a fire lit by five
+sea-maidens; how it rose so high as to darken the clouds, and how a
+giant was called to cut it down and fling it into the waters, where it
+was carried north to the shore of the dreaded land of Pohjola.
+
+He sang those five hundred or so lines of the quaint national song of
+ages long past in his curious plaintive chant, the rowers straining at
+their long oars and keeping time.
+
+And when he had concluded he translated portions of it into his
+indifferent English. The conclusion the two travellers understood to be
+as follows:—
+
+        Spake ancient Vainamoinen:
+    “Come now, thou dame of Pohjola,
+    Go we to share the Sampo,
+    To see the coloured cover,
+    On the point of the misty headland,
+    On the height of the fog-swathed island.”
+        Says of Pohjola the lady:
+    “I’ll not go to share the Sampo,
+    To see the coloured cover.”
+        Then ancient Vainamoinen
+    Sieved mist within a sieve
+    And around about fog sowed he
+    At the foggy headland’s ending;
+    And thus in words then spake he:
+    “Here ploughing and here sowing,
+    Here every kind of grain-crop
+    For the wretched north country,
+    For the widespread soil of Suomi.
+    Moons here, and here be suns,
+    Here stars be in the skies!”
+        Says of Pohjola the lady:
+    “To this I’ll find a hindrance;
+    A wondrous thing have found I
+    For thy ploughing, for thy sowing.
+    I’ll create a hail of iron,
+    Of steel a raging rain-storm,
+    To strike thy crops so tender,
+    To scourge and waste thy field!”
+        Spake ancient Vainamoinen:
+    “Create thy hail of iron,
+    Yea, cause to fall thy steel storm,
+    Upon the land of Pohjola,
+    On the crest of the cliff of clay.”
+
+The river mists had now lifted, disclosing the low, treeless banks of
+the broad-flowing waters—a wide, dreary, uninhabited wilderness. Here
+and there clumps of dwarf silver-birch, the trees only four or five
+feet in height, struggled for an existence. This was the edge of the
+tree zone. Travelling south, it was the first sign of vegetation in
+addition to the moss and lichen of the Arctic tundras.
+
+As next day and the next they continued their voyage up-stream the
+birches grew thicker and higher, their grey trunks adding to the
+general melancholy of the scene.
+
+At rare intervals they passed a few scattered Lapp huts near the river
+bank, when the rowers would shout their salutations, awakening a horde
+of dogs whose barking made exchange of greetings difficult. Sometimes
+they would land to allow the three rowers to rest, and receive the
+hospitality of a Lapp hut, and in exchange make presents to the chubby,
+brown-faced little children in furs.
+
+In that great lone, God-forgotten land, where fog and stretches of snow
+intensified the gloom, and where the only means of subsistence were the
+fish and the reindeer, those fur-clad wanderers of the tundra, dwarfed
+of stature and still savage of nature, only just managed to keep body
+and soul together. Many of the men went, in winter, down to the coast
+to work in the cod-fishing or in those strong-smelling “hjelder,” the
+timber-built sheds where the fish is dried for the European markets.
+The others remained in their turf-built settlements, herding their
+reindeer and awaiting the passing of the long night.
+
+Henkela one afternoon ordered the rowers to halt at a sharp bend of
+the river, now rapidly narrowing and more wooded on its banks, and,
+landing, conducted Jervoise and his friend to the “siedi,” or sacred
+oracle-stones of Lavvajok. The same day they passed three dangerous
+rapids, which roared and foamed, and as night closed in they found
+themselves at the junction of the Karasjokka (rapid river) with the
+Tana.
+
+Dick Jervoise had one thought, one fear. Each day, each hour, brought
+him nearer a crisis of his life. And that thought obsessed him during
+the whole journey through the monotonous gloom.
+
+They found a Lapp hut, where they spent the night wrapped in their
+furs, for it was snowing heavily and intensely cold; and next morning
+ascended the swiftly-flowing stream which ran through thick birch woods
+to the little Lapp town of Karasjok, where their boat journey ended.
+
+The time at their disposal was very limited, for they had already taken
+a day and a half longer in ascending the Tana than they had estimated,
+and now, in order to catch the _Mercur_, they would be compelled to
+travel in all haste due north again to the Porsanger Fjord.
+
+Though they found Karasjok and its three hundred or so inhabitants
+intensely interesting, they could only remain there six hours. Then,
+bidding adieu to their three rowers, they with Henkela, mounted into
+two ramshackle vehicles, each of which was driven by a Lapp in reindeer
+_pesk_, fur boots, and four-cornered cap stuffed with eider-down, and
+set their faces due north across the wide, rolling tundra, upon which
+snow had already fallen, though not so deeply as to enable them to use
+sleds.
+
+From Karasjok to Laxelven, at the extreme head of the fjord, was a
+distance of about a hundred kilometres. But progress was difficult
+owing to the bad state of the track. The route is a winter way used by
+the Lapps in their boat-sleds. Therefore, in autumn, before the heavy
+snow has fallen, it is in places almost impassable.
+
+On the road there was neither resthouse nor even Lapp huts, therefore
+the drivers were compelled to husband the strength of their horses, and
+progress was consequently very slow.
+
+Evening drew on with that curious steely light only seen within the
+Polar circle, that bright greyness which quite suddenly gives place to
+total darkness. They were slowly plodding their way around the base of
+a bare, giant, snow-covered mountain, known to the Lapps as the Gvornik
+and for ages regarded as sacred, owing to its form like a crouching
+man. The birches around were stunted, and ever and anon could be heard
+the dismal howling of the wolves which infest that district. Before
+them in the cheerless gloom lay the grey waters of the Lake of Igja,
+and Henkela explained that while in winter the sleds traversed its
+frozen surface from end to end, it was at that season necessary, in
+order to avoid the swamps, to make a long detour.
+
+For the thousandth time Dick Jervoise cursed himself that he had not
+continued in the _Mercur_, landed at Archangel, and gone south to
+Petersburg. The journey they were now completing must end in disaster.
+That was inevitable!
+
+The tired horses stumbled over the rough way, and the tearing wind in
+their teeth was bitingly cold. So sharp, indeed, was it that Dick and
+his friend had their faces half hidden by their big fur hoods and their
+hands in their mitts. All were hungry; therefore, after consultation,
+it was arranged to halt by the lakeside, light a fire, and have a meal,
+while the horses rested.
+
+In that lonely, dismal spot they remained, sheltered from the tearing
+wind as well as they could by the two Lapp carts, until about three
+o’clock in the morning, when, all having snatched a brief sleep
+reclining before the fire on their baggage, they struck camp and pushed
+again onward.
+
+“If we don’t turn up in time at Kjelvik,” laughed Dick, as he mounted
+into the rickety old vehicle, “then Martin must go on with the mails
+and we’ll be left up here to spend the winter! What would your patients
+in Hammersmith do then, my dear fellow—eh?”
+
+“They’d have to die happily, without my aid,” exclaimed the other, with
+grim humour.
+
+“Never fear,” interrupted the faithful Henkela, “you will be in Kjelvik
+in time. We have yet two days. We shall be at Laxelven to-morrow
+evening, and row down the fjord fifty kilometres to Kistrand, and then
+by another boat to Kjelvik.”
+
+“We leave it entirely to you, Henkela,” Jervoise said. “We must
+catch the _Mercur_ at all hazards. We couldn’t spend the winter here
+with you. We have no proper clothes or equipment, and could not, in
+consequence, withstand the cold.”
+
+“You would have to wear the dress of our people and live in our huts.
+You would not suffer,” answered the Lapp simply. “Our life, though so
+rough to you, is very healthful after all.”
+
+“We’ll return again next year—never fear,” Owen promised.
+
+He was just as anxious to rejoin the ship as his friend had been to
+leave it.
+
+Dick had grown more silent and thoughtful in the hours which slowly
+passed as they pushed forward towards the coast.
+
+How much would he give if he could but avoid travelling by the old
+_Mercur_? True, he could land in Hammerfest after they had rounded the
+North Cape.
+
+But it would then, alas! be too late.
+
+On board that black steamer, with its eternal smell of cod-liver oil,
+was Paul Grinevitch, the last man in the whole world he desired to
+meet. Had not Captain Martin told them he was to pick up Berentsen,
+Thyra, and the young Russian on his way back from Archangel?
+
+Alone in that terrible land of darkness and desolation all the winter
+it was impossible to remain.
+
+To meet that man to whom Thyra Berentsen was engaged was now absolutely
+imperative. There was no way by which to avoid him.
+
+On the morrow he must board the steamer; he must meet Paul Grinevitch
+face to face!
+
+He shrank, yet he set his teeth hard and his brows contracted at
+thought of what must ensue at that encounter.
+
+A name escaped his lips involuntarily, yet so low that his friend
+seated beside him did not distinguish it.
+
+“Thyra! Thyra!”
+
+Yes. He must act—act even at risk of his own honour—for her sake!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+FACE TO FACE
+
+
+Four days later.
+
+A cold, cheerless morning with grey sky, drifting snow and a biting
+wind.
+
+From Laxelven they had rowed the whole length of the wide Porsanger
+Fjord, first to Kistrand and then on to Kjelvik, the wretched little
+fishing station on the island of Magero, just behind the North Cape.
+
+The _Mercur_ was due that day.
+
+The fortnight of hard travel had fagged them both, and now, resting in
+a bare and rather uncleanly little hut belonging to a fisherman, the
+outlook over the grey narrow Magerosund, with the high, brown rocks,
+rising sheer on either side, was terribly dismal and dispiriting.
+
+Henkela had gone forth, and with the searching eyes of the fisherman
+was scanning the horizon eastward for any sign of the steamer. But
+there was none.
+
+A little cluster of miserable huts, together with the two or three
+drying-sheds, comprised the most northerly fishing station in Europe,
+being nearly one hundred kilometres north of Hammerfest.
+
+The climate at that point, exposed to the open Polar ocean, was even
+worse than at Vardo, while the stench from the cod-liver boilery was
+dreadful. The dwellers there, the hardy toilers of the sea, most of
+them Lapps, knew not a bright day of sunshine as we of the south know
+it, nor had they ever in their lives seen either tree or even flower
+other than those upon the mosses of the tundra. Never a cornfield or
+an olive grove, a vineyard or a grass pasture had they ever gazed upon.
+They knew of nothing but those storm-tossed waters of the glacial sea,
+the floating ice, the bare rocky land, and the bird-covered bergs from
+which, even as the two Englishmen gazed, countless thousands of gulls,
+penguins and auks came forth darkening the sky in their flight.
+
+Dick Jervoise, still in his big reindeer coat and with a fortnight’s
+growth of scrubby beard upon his chin, was sitting on an upturned
+barrel calmly smoking a cigarette.
+
+The moment he had been dreading through all those days of travel since
+they had left Vadso was now approaching.
+
+He was to meet Paul Grinevitch!
+
+Owen Odd, with an air of nonchalance, very different from that
+calm attentive attitude he adopted in his shabby little surgery in
+Hammersmith, was seated on a box impatient for the arrival of the
+_Mercur_.
+
+“By Jove, Dick!” he was saying. “I’ll be glad to get out of this
+stinking hole. It’s the worst place we’ve struck in the whole journey.
+Only fancy being doomed to live here and to work in the boilery yonder!
+Phew!” and he held his nose against the sickening stench.
+
+“Yes,” laughed his friend. “This is, I admit, rather different from
+other places—the perfume factory at Grasse, and the otto-of-rose
+distillery at Kazanlik, for instance. Yet surely ours is an experience
+never to be forgotten, an experience of the hard conditions of life on
+the edge of civilisation.”
+
+“This place, Henkela tells me, is one of the fishing stations belonging
+to that fat, red-faced old man Sundt whom we met at the Berentsen’s. He
+controls the fishing and boiling here, at Mehavn, Finkongkjeilen, and
+lots of other places.”
+
+“And is reputed to be a millionaire—eh?” added Dick.
+
+“They say so—and all out of cod-liver oil and stock-fish,” Owen
+laughed. “The more consumptives there are in the world, then the better
+for his pocket! Some men’s fortunes actually depend upon the spread of
+disease.”
+
+“Doctors included,” remarked Dick, with a mischievous smile.
+
+Whereat Odd laughed, and with impatience suggested they should go
+outside and join Henkela to scan the horizon for signs of the incoming
+_Mercur_.
+
+The whole of the wretched little colony of undersized men, in furs and
+mitts, unclean men, with pale brown faces of Mongol type, with small,
+narrow eyes, short, scrubby beards, full lips, and blunt noses, was
+agog with expectation. The rare visits of the steamer which brought
+them stores and took away their barrels of oil and the great packages
+of dried cod down to Hamburg, was always a red-letter day. The few
+Norwegians and Russians who worked there looked for letters and
+newspapers from the civilised land they had known in their youth. The
+others, the half-savage Lapps, loved the excitement of drawing their
+big black boat alongside the steamer in the heavy sea, and shipping
+their black, greasy barrels on board.
+
+The work was always very perilous, for the sea around that great
+frowning cliff, called the Helnes, was never calm, and the wind,
+straight from the ice, was always rough, bleak, and bitter. Many a life
+had been lost in the work of shipping the oil and the wind-dried fish,
+and many, alas! in the work of gathering the scaly harvest of the sea.
+
+The shingly beach, whereon the great breakers of the Arctic were
+lashing themselves into a boiling foam, was strewn with thousands of
+cod-heads and offal, while from the boilery came forth a dark vapour,
+poisoning the atmosphere for miles around.
+
+Some Lapps, in their grey, ragged furs, their dirty red-tasselled caps,
+and their fur boots, turned up at the toes, were busy packing the last
+bales of dried fish, shouting among themselves and hauling on the
+cords as they bound four or five hundred cod together. A Norwegian,
+one of Peter Sundt’s managers, in furs and mitts, stood by, directing
+operations.
+
+Outside some of the huts the Lapps were mending nets, others tarring
+and repairing their boats, while the flat-faced women within were busy
+cooking meals and attending to their household duties.
+
+Henkela, as they strolled along the shore, chatted here and there in
+his own soft tongue with the fur-clad fishermen, while as they passed
+the flag-staff the Norwegian flag was run up as signal of the approach
+of the steamer.
+
+Away on the grey horizon could be seen the sharp, rocky point of the
+Svoerholtklubben, standing out from the land eastward, and from behind
+this Henkela pointed out, the _Mercur_ would first be distinguished.
+
+That little colony, which, through those months of the great Arctic
+night, toiled and fished in a perpetual darkness, only broken by the
+occasional aurora borealis, and in snowstorms and blizzards almost
+continuous, was, Henkela declared, enjoying a “fine” day! “Fine” meant
+that there was no fog, no snow, and it was daylight.
+
+The eyes of the colony were even upon that far-off, indistinct horizon,
+and were so for several hours, until nearly midday, when a shout from a
+group of Lapps attracted the two Englishmen; and they saw emerging from
+behind the long, misty headland a thin trail of black smoke.
+
+The heart of Dick Jervoise fell. He bit his lip, uttering no word.
+Owen, however, set about packing their traps together and seeing that
+they were carried down to the boat which Henkela had engaged. They had
+paid off their faithful attendant, paid him well, and he had expressed
+his delight in many ways.
+
+For the next four months there would be no steamer to take him back
+to Vadso; therefore he explained that he would return to Karasjok by
+the way they had come, wait there until the Tana was frozen, and then
+travel in a reindeer _pulk_ over the surface of the river, and so back
+to his own settlement.
+
+Dick had scribbled a note to Mr. Ackerman, explaining how pleased they
+had been with the Lapp’s services, and there now remained nothing but
+to leave that damp, dreary, inhospitable land.
+
+The two friends stood watching the rapid approach of the black,
+battered old steamer, with its high black funnel bearing the three
+narrow white bands, the vessel that had been their home for so many
+weeks, and was now to bear them back to the civilisation and hustle of
+modern life.
+
+With the long trail from her smoke-stack, she steamed direct for the
+shore, until, when about three miles away, there sounded from the siren
+that well known warning note, the Morse code signal of long and short
+blasts, announcing its approach.
+
+Ashore all was bustle in the little place. Men, women, and children ran
+down to the beach to watch the only link they possessed with Europe,
+that unknown country of the sun, the country whence came the flour
+without which they must die—the country about which the men who had
+seen it told such marvellous stories.
+
+The Laplander is ever a child in his vivid imagination, and though he
+may be rough and uncouth he builds castles in the air and imagines
+that he has seen that wonderful city of which he had heard so much—the
+capital, Christiania, where lives King Haakon.
+
+At last the _Mercur_ suddenly altered her course, dropping anchor about
+half-a-mile from land, whereupon the boats, already laden with barrels
+and bales of fish until they appeared top-heavy, put off, followed
+by the boat with the two Englishmen and their impedimenta, Henkela
+insisting upon coming in order to see his charges safely on board what
+he termed “the Hamburger.”
+
+The crucial moment for Dick Jervoise had arrived. He knew that among
+the passengers on deck watching the arrival of the cargo would be Paul
+Grinevitch.
+
+In a few moments, too, he would bow over the white hand of Thyra
+Berentsen, the girl with the grey, child-like eyes, that he so
+admired—the eyes that now ever haunted him.
+
+The approach was difficult on account of the tremendous sea running,
+but at last Dick found himself on board, shaking hands with Captain
+Martin, who, smart in his well-kept uniform, was greeting the pair.
+
+“Well, how did you get on? Had a good journey—eh?” he inquired.
+
+“Excellent!” Owen declared. “It was all most interesting. And you?”
+
+“Oh, pretty bad weather in the White Sea; quite unusual at this
+season,” responded the captain. “But,” he added, “we have on board
+our friends from Vardo, the captain, his daughter, and the Russian
+gentleman. They go down with us to Trondhjem for the wedding. You will
+land there and go on to Christiania by train, I suppose?” he asked of
+Jervoise.
+
+“I—well, I really don’t know,” Dick replied, almost mechanically. “I
+may get off at Hammerfest or Tromso.”
+
+“Better not,” advised the captain. “The summer season is over now, you
+know, and winter is setting in. Up here it is not place in winter for
+you people from the south.”
+
+“Well,” declared Odd, “I’ll have to get back to Christiania and across
+to Hull as soon as I can, even though you stay here, Dick. I’ve my
+practice to return to, remember.”
+
+“We’ll discuss it all later on,” Dick said; and as he turned he found a
+burly man in yachting cap and thick blue pilot-jacket standing behind
+him. It was Jorgen Berentsen, whose face beamed with good-humour as
+they grasped hands.
+
+“I’m going down to Trondhjem,” he explained, “I go to be present at my
+daughter’s wedding. You land at Trondhjem, too, of course. I hope you
+and your friend the doctor will accept our invitation to the ceremony.
+You,” he added, addressing Owen, “have met Monsieur Grinevitch. You met
+him the night before you sailed.”
+
+“Yes,” replied the young doctor. “But my friend Jervoise has not yet
+done so.”
+
+“He’s on the upper deck, I believe, with Thyra. Of course they are
+inseparable!” he laughed merrily.
+
+Inseparable! Would they be, thought Dick Jervoise, if father and
+daughter knew the shameful truth.
+
+Above their heads rang out a peal of merry, girlish laughter.
+
+She was leaning upon the rail just over them. He could hear the man’s
+voice—a voice which he had, alas! bitter cause to remember.
+
+Her lover made a remark, whereat she laughed again.
+
+Dick Jervoise overheard what the man had uttered. His brows contracted,
+and, smiling a hard, tight-lipped smile, he turned away.
+
+Jorgen Berentsen held him, however, in conversation for a few moments
+longer, while Owen had already gone below to wash and make himself
+presentable.
+
+Then, just as he turned to descend to his cabin, he came face to face
+with Thyra and her lover.
+
+Dressed in neat blue serge, with a long seal jacket, a fine blue
+foxskin around her neck, and a small fur toque, she presented a
+delightfully dainty figure, as her grey eyes shone with delight at
+meeting the Englishman.
+
+“Ah, Mr. Jervoise!” she cried, holding out to him her hand in its
+leather mitt. “Here you are at last! We’ve been wondering ever since we
+left Vardo whether you would get across here in time.”
+
+“We arrived only this morning, Miss Thyra,” he answered, bending over
+her hand with his cosmopolitan courtliness. “It took us much longer to
+ascend the Tana than we had anticipated, and it seems we very nearly
+lost the steamer.”
+
+“Oh, Captain Martin intended to wait twenty-four hours for you,” she
+declared. “We could never have left you and Doctor Odd in this awful
+place all the winter! Allow me to introduce Mr. Grinevitch, my future
+husband—Mr. Richard Jervoise.”
+
+The Russian, in a suit of rough homespun, and wearing a thick, grey,
+half-military overcoat, reaching to his heels, and a golf cap, turned
+from gazing across at the land and faced him.
+
+For a second the pair stared into one another’s eyes. There was
+defiance, even hatred, in the glance of both of them.
+
+Thyra, however, did not detect Paul’s expression. Her usually quick
+intelligence had now become blinded by her intense and all-absorbing
+love for him.
+
+She did not notice that quick flash of anger, so cold and metallic.
+
+The two men bowed stiffly in silence. Neither uttered a word.
+
+Dick Jervoise, with an excuse that he was unpresentable, passed by them
+and went straight downstairs.
+
+The strife had begun. How would it end?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+LOVE’S SHADOW
+
+
+Evening fell rapidly; the shadows deepened into black, impalpable
+clouds.
+
+Slowly the _Mercur_ steamed up the narrow Magerosund behind the bare,
+rocky island of Magero, on which stands the North Cape. On either side
+rose, sheer from the rolling waters, the dark, black, inaccessible
+rocks, the home of thousands of sea-birds.
+
+As daylight faded the scene became inexpressibly grand. The merry
+little company had assembled below in the shabby little saloon, where
+somebody was playing the old piano. Only Paul and Thyra were on deck,
+standing near the chart-room, hand in hand, and watching the northern
+twilight fast deepening into night.
+
+Thyra, for the first time since leaving Vardo, felt a weight of sadness
+upon her soul. What was it? The gloom, the oppression of twilight in
+that remote and barren place through which destiny was carrying her; or
+was it the mere reflection of Paul’s unwonted seriousness?
+
+She spoke, raising her beautiful eyes to his, but he remained silent,
+his cigarette between his teeth, his gaze fixed straight before him.
+
+The light was being run up to the mast-head, the music ceased, and the
+only sound was the rhythmic throbbing of the engines and the hiss of
+the angry sea. An infinite sadness, a mystery of fearful shadow fell
+blacker and blacker from the heavens.
+
+Why had her father so suddenly and inexplicably allowed her marriage
+to Paul? This thought again recurred to her as she stood leaning upon
+the rail in silence. It was certainly most generous of him to make that
+sacrifice—to allow her to marry and leave him to lead his life alone in
+that dismal settlement of the Far North. Yet she felt that there was a
+reason—some strong reason—of which she was being kept in ignorance.
+
+True, she loved Paul with all her heart. Yet, somehow, when she came to
+analyse her feelings, she regarded the future, the embarrassments of
+the first days of marriage, with just the slightest trepidation.
+
+Surely her soul was becoming involved in the shadows darkening her!
+
+Together they paced the slippery deck, sometimes with difficulty, owing
+to the heavy roll of the Polar Sea. Her lover buttoned her coat tightly
+at the throat, and tightened the splendid blue fox around her throat,
+for the wind was biting.
+
+The ship’s bell clanged out the time of day, and the mast-head light
+showed brighter in the darkness.
+
+A strange sense of oppression had fallen upon her. She was not guilty
+of folly in action, but certainly her words were strange. Paul found
+them amusing, yet they distressed him.
+
+Though seemingly calm, Thyra could not hide that she was under the
+dominion of some fixed idea. What was she thinking about?
+
+He halted, and at a point secluded from the view of any sailor who
+might be on deck, he embraced her tenderly, imprinting a fond kiss upon
+her soft, white cheek. And yet, even as he held her in his arms, he
+felt her far, immeasurably far, away from him.
+
+What could it mean?
+
+“Aren’t you happy, my darling?” he asked at last.
+
+Paul’s searching question had its echo in her soul also. What was it
+that they lacked? They were both of them strong and young, the girl
+told herself. Paul loved her ardently, blindly; he lived only for her;
+and he was so good-looking. His fine, passionate eyes, his soft white
+hands, his clear-cut features possessed a magic which intoxicated her.
+
+Since leaving Vardo, three days before, they had been skirting that
+northern iron-bound coast, spending greater part of their time on deck,
+standing or sitting hand in hand. The stern grandeur of the scenery was
+everywhere impressive; the gloom of that silent coast alternated with
+the gaiety of Captain Martin and his officers, and the merry strains
+of the old piano below. True, the sea was rough, but was she not
+essentially a child of the sea?
+
+As they steamed along in the gathering gloom, black masses of rock
+reared themselves perpendicularly out of the waters, rising directly
+from the deeply cut fjords, and, riven and cleft, towered precipitously
+upwards or leaned threateningly over. On their heads lay masses of ice
+stretching for miles, covering whole districts and scaring away all
+life save the torrents to which they themselves gave birth.
+
+The midsummer sun had disappeared. No longer at midnight it stood large
+and blood-red on the horizon, its veiled brilliance reflected alike
+from the ice-covered mountains and from the ocean, as Dick and Owen had
+witnessed it, for the brief summer in that dread wilderness of rock and
+icy sea had passed.
+
+There is a bewildering, overwhelming charm about that northern
+latitude—that region of silence and mystery—a charm that is unlike
+any in the whole wide world. It is a charm that grips the heart
+unconsciously, and yet so firmly that all who have sailed the Arctic
+seas, or travelled on those barren lands of the far north, strangely
+enough, are ever eager and ever long to return once again to those
+islands and skerries and that maze of bays, sounds and straits of
+the northern coast of Lapland, which possesses for the southerner an
+attraction as magnetic as they do for the compass of the mariner.
+
+As the darkness deepened, the steamer slowly passed beneath a high
+black cliff rising sheer from the water, which, the girl pointed out to
+her lover, was one of the largest bird-covered bergs of the district,
+the home of millions of eider-duck.
+
+“How strange it is,” she remarked for want of something to say, for
+she saw that he seemed troubled, “that only two causes can move the
+sea-birds—the eider-ducks, auks, gulls, terns, oyster-catchers, and the
+rest—to visit the land: the joyous springtime sense of new-awakening
+love, and the mournful foreboding of approaching death.”
+
+“I was not aware of that,” he said, gazing up at the towering wall of
+black rock. “You have studied the birds, I suppose?”
+
+“A little,” she laughed. “It’s curious that not even winter, with its
+long night, its cold, and its storms, can drive them to the land; they
+are proof to all the terrors of the North. They may alight, but only
+for a short time, often on a solitary island in the sea to oil their
+feathers more thoroughly than can be done in the water. But when with
+the sun’s first brightness love stirs in their breasts, all—young and
+old alike—though they may have thousands of miles to swim and fly,
+strive to reach the place where they themselves first saw the light of
+day. And if, in mid-winter, months after the breeding-places have been
+left desolate, a sea-bird feels death in his heart, he hastens, as
+long as his strength holds out, that he may, if possible, die in the
+place where he was cradled.”
+
+“It is surely much the same with us,” he said, holding her hand. “We
+would all of us, if we could, die in the place where we were born.”
+
+He spoke mechanically. The truth was that his thoughts were far away
+from that gloomy solitude. Before him had arisen a vision of the past—a
+recollection of sunshine and brightness, of sweet-smelling violets
+and carnations, of pretty women and well-dressed men; of a land where
+man had enhanced the beauties of nature until it seemed almost a
+terrestrial Paradise. And as he gazed upon the scene he saw two faces—a
+man’s and a woman’s—faces that he had believed until an hour ago he
+would never again recall.
+
+The man—that man who alone knew the terrible truth—had risen against
+him, risen as though from the sea! He had come on board, and had met
+him face to face!
+
+Thyra, in ignorance of the reason of her lover’s silence, stood by his
+side in uneasiness.
+
+Try how she would, she could not account for that strange feeling of
+oppressive sadness, precursory of evil. Something was not right. Of
+that she felt convinced.
+
+And yet what could it be? Her father, devoted as he was to her, was
+taking her to her aunt’s in Trondhjem, where she was to be married to
+Paul. Afterwards they were to live in St. Petersburg. They had decided
+upon the Russian capital in preference to Moscow. Before they had left
+Vardo, Paul and her father had spent some hours together, and what her
+lover had said had apparently entirely satisfied the old captain.
+
+“Soon,” Paul was saying, as with her soft hand in his they both fixed
+their gaze upon the dark waters, “soon you will be mine, my own dear
+wife. Then we shall be happy—so happy,” he added in a strange voice.
+
+“Aren’t we supremely happy now, Paul?” she asked. “Surely this journey
+should be the happiest in all our lives!”
+
+He bit his lip. But in the darkness she could not see the hard
+expression upon his countenance.
+
+“It is. Of course it is,” he assured her with an uneasy laugh. Yet his
+thoughts were all of that man. Richard Jervoise, in the saloon below,
+the man with whom he must sit and eat at the same table in half an
+hour. Then a moment later he said: “I never anticipated, dearest, that
+we should be traveling south so soon. All this seems a dream, Thyra—a
+dream too sweet to be a reality.” And his fingers closed tightly upon
+hers.
+
+“Yes,” she declared, turning her face, half buried as it was in her
+furs, towards his with a passionate look in her eyes, filled with the
+light of unshed tears. “I know, Paul, how fondly you love me. Need I
+say that I love you, dearest, just as fervently, and that I am very,
+very happy?”
+
+“Are you?” he cried quickly. “Do you know that from your attitude
+to-day I began to suspect that you had been filled by some grave
+apprehensions—that something had caused you uneasiness.”
+
+“Did you?” she laughed with well-feigned carelessness. “How absurd!
+Why, Paul, I’m the happiest girl in all the world. I have your love.
+What more can I desire?”
+
+“That’s right,” he exclaimed cheerily. “Love, peace, happiness—all
+that makes life worth living lie before us. Therefore why let these
+dispirited surroundings influence our thoughts? In Petersburg my
+friends will welcome you warmly, and you will soon be mistress of your
+own home.”
+
+“And you, dear heart,” she said, clinging to him, “will be my husband.
+Ah! Paul, my Paul, I want nothing else in all the world—only you.”
+
+He bent until his lips touched hers.
+
+Yet as she returned his passionate caress his conscience smote him.
+What would she, who trusted him so entirely and implicitly, she so
+innocent of the world and its pleasures and its pitfalls, think of him
+if she knew the shameful truth?
+
+She clung to him, for where they stood no one could witness their
+embrace. He loved her, yet he feared—feared that tall, athletic,
+straight-eyed Englishman who had once before crossed his path in that
+far-off southern land, and who now, at the very moment of his triumph,
+had risen a living witness of his dishonour!
+
+As he held her slim form close to his breast, covering her dainty mouth
+with his kisses, yet standing unsteadily on the slippery deck owing to
+the long roll of the sea, he reflected. His brain was awhirl. True,
+Dick Jervoise could, if he chose, tell a strange and bitter truth. Yet
+was not that hateful Englishman utterly in his power, after all?
+
+Could he not, if he so wished, crush him so completely that any word he
+uttered in retaliation would be disbelieved?
+
+And his lips tightened into a hard smile, even as he pressed them again
+to those of the sweet, innocent girl whose pure soul he possessed and
+whose intense love was all-consuming.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+FACES IN THE MIST
+
+
+The evening meal in the small saloon of the _Mercur_ was bright and
+pleasant, even though it consisted of tinned provisions and many
+varieties of cheese in Norwegian style.
+
+Captain Martin, his uniform carefully brushed, his linen spotless,
+and his fair moustache carefully curled, sat at the head of the table
+smiling brightly, while Berentsen, the bluff old whaler, and Owen Odd
+were the life and soul of the little party.
+
+Paul Grinevitch had been allotted a place opposite Jervoise, but as he
+seated himself the Englishman had smiled affably and remarked that it
+was the first civilised meal he and his companion had enjoyed since
+leaving Vadso. The Russian having replied with equal affability, none
+of the party guessed that the two men had met on a previous occasion in
+circumstances both remarkable and tragic.
+
+Indeed, Thyra, her lover, and Dick Jervoise were soon in animated
+conversation, the last-named describing their journey to Karasjok and
+relating many of the humorous incidents of the road.
+
+Now and then the two men exchanged glances—quick, covert glances—each
+wondering what was passing at the back of the other’s mind, while Owen
+was laughing heartily with Martin and the grey-bearded harbour-master,
+the hunchback mail officer and the engineer joining in the hilarious
+chorus. Captain Berentsen’s broad smile lighting his weather-beaten
+face, told of unruffled good humour, that easy-going good-fellowship of
+the true-born sailor. Full of amusing anecdote and possessor of a keen
+sense of humour, he kept the little company in fits of laughter as he
+related to them some of the ludicrous experiences during his whaling
+days. He had, just before his appointment as harbour-master, been
+second in command of the copy of the Viking ship built by the Norwegian
+Government and sent over for exhibition at the World’s Fair in Chicago.
+
+The voyage of the weird-looking craft across the Atlantic and the
+sensation it caused aboard the various vessels met on the way, he
+described most humorously. Some skippers, discovering it looming up on
+the horizon, believed that Noah’s Ark was still afloat, while others
+fancied it was one of the Armada vessels risen from the deep, or the
+Flying Dutchman himself.
+
+“You should have been on board with me!” he was saying in English. “We
+had the greatest fun, I assure you. We would refuse to answer signals,
+and they would heave-to and come on board to see who and what we really
+were. The crews of some craft were evidently frightened, for they stood
+away directly they sighted us. They believed Old Nick himself to be
+aboard.”
+
+“Yes,” remarked Captain Martin; “no doubt it was a most unusual looking
+vessel, and must have given a good many people a turn! One doesn’t meet
+Viking ships on the high seas very often in one’s life.”
+
+“Well, we, of course, acted suspiciously in order to puzzle every ship
+we met,” laughed Berentsen. “And in mid-Atlantic we experienced some
+very bad weather into the bargain.”
+
+The meal was enlivened throughout by nautical and other reminiscences,
+and afterwards, at Dick’s request, Thyra went to the piano and, smiling
+sweetly, sang one or two of the gay French songs she had learned from a
+book, called “Les Chansons de Paris,” which Captain Martin had brought
+her up from the south a year before.
+
+The first she sang was “Heures d’Ivresse,” the popular ditty which
+Leontine Deschamps sang for so long at the Folies Bergere, and the
+refrain of which was:—
+
+    Veux-tu, toi que j’adore,
+    Me dire encore, encore,
+    Ces mots voluptueux,
+    Tendrement amoureux?
+    Ces phrases si grisantes,
+    Si folles, si troublantes.
+    Viens me les dire encore,
+        Toi que j’adore!
+
+This she followed by the dainty chansonette of Denoisy, “Les Refrains
+du Printemps”:—
+
+    Quand le printemps dans les buissons
+    Met un bouquet de fleurs nouvelles,
+    Il apporte aussi des chansons,
+    Dedans le coeur des demoiselles;
+    Les p’tits jeun’s gens sont plus legers,
+    Et trottinant, l’amour en tete,
+    Ils chantent d’un air degage.
+    Un gai refrain de chansonette:
+
+            Titine,
+            Mutine,
+        N’a pas dix-huit ans,
+            Et chante,
+            Contente,
+        Voici le printemps!
+
+Sweetly she sang, with a tuneful verve and a pronunciation full of
+charm, and when she had ended all the party applauded her again and
+again, bringing a slight flush of embarrassment to her soft cheeks.
+
+Captain Berentsen, a fine burly, grey-bearded figure as he stood at
+the table, his body swaying easily with the motion of the ship as
+became the sailor, gave a humorous recitation in Norwegian, while
+Dick Jervoise, now thoroughly reassured by the Russian’s attitude of
+pretended disregard of the past, gave one of the Ingoldsby Legends.
+
+Thus passed the first evening of the southward voyage, Martin and
+Berentsen smoking their long, Norwegian pipes with the huge bowls, and
+everyone contributing to the general entertainment. Captain Martin had
+but little to do with the navigation of the ship, for so dangerous
+are the channels and fjords right down to Bergen that the vessel was
+constantly in charge of the two pilots which she always carried to and
+from the North.
+
+Paul Grinevitch’s turn came. He seated himself at the piano and, with a
+quick glance at Jervoise first, ran his fingers over the yellow keys,
+and then, in a rather good tenor voice, began:—
+
+    On la nomme la Fanchonnette,
+      Elle est blondes, comme les bles,
+    Elle a la voix d’une fauvette,
+      Les yeux noirs, les cheveux boucles;
+    Elle est frele, mignonne et blanche,
+      Exhale un parfum embaume;
+    Nous nous connumes un dimanche,
+      Et depuis mon coeur fut charme.
+
+            Ma Fanchonnette
+            Svelte et simplette
+        Revets tes atours gracieux;
+            A la folie,
+            Fais-toi jolie,
+        Et le charme de tous les yeux
+            Ma favorite
+            Profitons vite
+        Car les beaux jours n’auront qu’un temps,
+            Et dans la fete
+            Des amourettes
+        Sachons depenser nos vingt ans,
+            Ma Fanchonnette!
+
+Fanchonnette! Those words, that haunting refrain of the cafe concerts,
+brought back to the eyes of Dick Jervoise the vision that he would fain
+forget—the vision of that sweet-faced girl with whom he had walked in
+the olive groves at sundown and in the bright moonlight by the tideless
+southern sea! He tried to close his ears to the words, but, alas! it
+was impossible. He sat rigid, staring towards that man seated at the
+piano, that man who was taunting him, torturing him with a refinement
+of cruelty of which those about them never dreamed.
+
+It was a pretty song. Ah! yes; but they knew not the tragic memories
+which that tune awakened within the heart of the tall Englishman.
+Before him rose a grey mist, and from it a woman’s face gazed forth,
+at first with a look of bitter reproach in her big, blue eyes, to be
+succeeded a moment later by an expression of terrible haunting horror,
+the face of a woman who was gazing into eternity.
+
+Once, while singing, Paul Grinevitch, turned from the instrument and
+again glanced at Jervoise. Their eyes met. The singer recognised by the
+Englishman’s countenance the effect of the song upon him, and, after a
+pause, commenced the last verse.
+
+It was _her_ song! Had not they both sat and witnessed her triumphs;
+had they not both joined their plaudits with those of the after-dinner
+crowds at the Alcazar d’Ete, the Ambassadeurs, Olympia, the Parisiana,
+and that gilded casino beside the Mediterranean? Ah! yes. It was her
+song—the one he remembered so well, the one she had sung at his request
+on that last never-to-be-forgotten night.
+
+His nails drove themselves into his palms and the perspiration stood
+upon his brow at thought of it all. There was a grim fatality, surely,
+that he should meet Paul Grinevitch face to face—that Grinevitch
+himself should sing that song out upon that chill Arctic sea!
+
+He sat staring straight before him, not moving a muscle. His attitude,
+though none noticed him save the Russian, was that of a man fascinated
+by a peep into the future.
+
+Strange how a simple song, the scent of some common flower, the mention
+of a name, recalls in both men and women after long years the vivid
+recollection of a tender affection of a forgotten love. For one brief
+moment the heart strings are touched, and respond in sympathy. Then,
+disregarding the present, we live again for a short space beside the
+one we loved and, more often than not, drink our fill of the tragedy of
+the past.
+
+Fanchonnette! The very name caused a big lump to rise in the throat of
+Dick Jervoise. The torture of it all was beyond endurance. He could
+have risen and struck down that grinning man who, singing her song,
+knew that he was cutting deeply into his enemy’s heart more cruelly and
+relentlessly than by a knife thrust. Scenes, some sweet and tender,
+some—alas! tragic and terrible, arose in quick succession before his
+clouded vision. In all he saw her countenance—that pale, wan face, with
+the shadow of death upon it—that face upon which he had, alas! looked
+for the last time!
+
+Ah! it was cruel—too cruel of Grinevitch to sing that song. It was
+inhuman to thus torture him, well knowing that he dare not raise his
+voice in complaint.
+
+At last the singer sang the concluding refrain, and then turned to his
+victim. But the latter dare not raise his gaze. He was sitting pale and
+erect, glaring before him at that hideous ghost of the past.
+
+“What a charming little song!” Thyra declared; and as her lover rose
+from the piano and rejoined her she gazed into his eyes with an
+expression of fervent devotion.
+
+As soon as he could, Dick Jervoise escaped from the saloon and,
+followed by Owen, ascended to the deck. The night was now dark, with a
+tearing wind straight from the ice-pack, causing the vessel to labour
+heavily in the long rollers, for they were now out in the open Polar
+Sea again, and would remain so until they reached Hammerfest.
+
+Behind the canvas wind-screen on the bridge the pilot, in heavy fur
+coat and mitts, paced up and down, his keen, deep-set eyes ever upon
+his difficult course. From the high funnel sparks flew out far across
+the angry waters, while ever and anon a huge wave would strike the
+bows, causing the ship to shiver from stem to stern.
+
+“Ah!” cried Dick to his companion, as he bared his head to the wind,
+“it is more pleasant up here than down there in that stuffy saloon.”
+
+“Yes,” answered the Doctor, “I noticed just now that you were a bit
+pale, Dick. What’s the matter?”
+
+“Nothing, my dear fellow—nothing,” laughed the other. “I’m tired,
+perhaps.”
+
+“Better turn in early to-night,” the doctor suggested. “But, I say, the
+young couple seem most devoted, don’t they? Thyra has been engaged to
+the Russian for quite a long time, I hear, though the secret, for some
+reason or other, hasn’t been allowed to leak out. Then, all at once,
+it is announced, and the marriage hurried on as quickly as possible.
+Rather strange, isn’t it?”
+
+“Yes,” responded Jervoise, as they walked together towards the stern,
+careful to avoid stumbling against the piles of miscellaneous deck
+cargo. “You said, I think, that the Russian has been staying in Vardo
+for some time. What took him up to such an out-of-the-world place, I
+wonder?”
+
+“Who knows? What took us there, for example? Only just our wanderings.
+Same with him, I suppose. He met her, and fell in love with her—just
+as you or I would probably have done had we been first on the scene.
+Myself, I have no hesitation in saying that she’s one of the most
+charming and intelligent girls I’ve ever met.”
+
+“We were agreed on that point on the first evening we went to the
+harbour-master’s house,” said Dick slowly. “What do you think of the
+man?”
+
+“Well, rather a good sort, I should call him,” was Owen’s deliberate
+reply. “I know there’s a prejudice against Russians all the world over.
+People believe they treat their wives badly. But I can’t imagine him
+treating Thyra—or, in fact, any woman—badly. He’s completely devoted to
+her, that’s quite apparent, and she has eyes only for him. They make a
+very smart pair.”
+
+Dick Jervoise smiled.
+
+“Love-making is always amusing and sometimes ludicrous—when you
+are only a witness,” he said. “The lover always puts on his best
+behavior before his enchantress. It is certainly so in this case. Paul
+Grinevitch is, I admit, good-looking, courteous, well-spoken, and
+essentially a ladies’ man; but——” And he paused. His mouth shut with a
+snap.
+
+“But what? Don’t you think he’ll make a good husband for our little
+Thyra? I call her ours because we seem to have discovered her.”
+
+“Husband!” echoed his companion quickly. “Thyra would be better off in
+her grave than to marry such a man.”
+
+“Why do you anticipate unhappiness for her?” asked Owen in quick
+suspicion.
+
+“Because that man, like most of his race, conceals the claws within the
+velvet paw. When powerless, he is humble and humiliated; but give him
+power over a woman and he will tire of her and crush the heart—nay, the
+very life—from her. Ah! you don’t know, old chap—you don’t know.”
+
+“Why, what’s the matter with you to-night, Dick?” inquired his friend.
+“You don’t seem to have a very good opinion of Paul Grinevitch.”
+
+“No,” Jervoise snapped, “I have not. Thyra will regret the day of her
+marriage to that man—depend upon it.”
+
+“Don’t you think your condemnation—well, rather premature, old fellow?
+You’ve only been with him a few hours.”
+
+“I’ve seen sufficient to know the truth,” was the other’s hard response.
+
+Could it be that Dick was jealous of the Russian, his friend wondered.
+He had noticed his curious pre-occupied demeanour all through their
+journey across from Vadso. Prior to their meeting with Thyra he had
+been his sane, rollicking, easy-going, cosmopolitan self. Could it
+mean that Dick had fallen desperately in love with the daughter of the
+harbour-master, and now, discovering that she already had a secret
+lover, he hated him?
+
+That was the only solution of the problem. Dick, dear old Dick
+Jervoise—who was to him almost as a brother—was deeply in love! This
+Russian, with his courtly airs and piercing eyes so full of passionate
+glances, was his rival for the hand of the beautiful Thyra.
+
+Owen Odd was silent. The position was both painful and difficult. He
+had never suspected it, for he had long ago believed Dick to be proof
+against a woman’s smiles, case-hardened against feminine blandishments,
+as most men who lead cosmopolitan lives at last become. But his words
+were sufficient proof of the hatred and bitterness in his heart.
+
+“You don’t appear to like Paul Grinevitch, eh?” he repeated a few
+moments later.
+
+“Like him!” cried Dick. “I—I hate him.”
+
+“Because she loves him?” slowly suggested Owen in a softer voice.
+
+“Not for one reason alone I hate him,” declared Dick frankly, “but for
+many.”
+
+At that moment he would have given worlds to have been able to unburden
+his heart to his friend. But, alas! it was quite impossible.
+
+Fanchonnette! Fanchonnette! That name, the haunting music, the face
+of that man seated at the piano was still before him, until he almost
+cried aloud to the wind in agony of soul.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+IS IN SEVERAL WAYS MYSTERIOUS
+
+
+Owen and Dick spent a pleasant hour on deck next morning with the
+dainty grey-eyed girl, while Paul and Captain Berentsen smoked and
+chatted in the deck-house.
+
+In her neat serge gown, long sealskin travelling coat, and fur toque
+she was a delightful little companion. Anticipation of the coming event
+in Trondhjem filled her with intense, almost childish, excitement,
+and she had already made both the Englishmen promise to remain to be
+present at the marriage feast. To Paul—her Paul—she was utterly and
+entirely devoted. She spoke of him almost with every breath.
+
+Leaning against the rail on the upper deck, she chatted merrily in
+English with the two men, always piquante and always amusing, as the
+ship rounded the high rocky headland of the Island of Kyalo. Suddenly,
+pointing with her mittened hand to the grey distance, she exclaimed:
+
+“Look! There’s Hammerfest—the most northerly town in the world. You saw
+it on your journey north, of course.”
+
+“We didn’t land,” Dick replied. “We put in there at night and left at
+dawn. Captain Martin said there was very little to see, and promised us
+a longer stay on our return.”
+
+“I heard him say this morning that we’ll remain six hours there,” she
+replied. “I know the place quite well. I have an uncle who owns one of
+the boileries yonder.”
+
+“And his factory contributes to the unpleasant effluvia, of course,”
+laughed Owen.
+
+“I suppose so,” she answered. “But all these places must really seem
+very terrible to both of you after the sunshine and warmth and trees
+and flowers of your southern land. I love Christiania. Everything there
+is so bright and gay—and life altogether so very different.”
+
+“You ought to see London,” Dick remarked. “There’s far more movement
+and bustle there than in Christiania.”
+
+“Ah! yes. I have read so much of your great London, where the railways
+run underground. I would love to see it. Paul has promised to take me
+there some day.”
+
+Jervoise held his breath. Paul! She spoke ever of that man. In her
+ignorance and inexperience she believed in him; believed all the lies
+he had told her. She worshipped him as a god.
+
+Gradually they approached the small bay where the northernmost little
+wood-built town nestled at the foot of its stony hill. In the harbour
+were moored rows of small Russian schooners, which had come round from
+the White Sea for fish, together with some whalers, distinguishable by
+the white crow’s-nest upon their mast. Along the shore stood a row of
+wooden drying-houses and boileries for making cod-liver oil, all of
+them emitting an effluvia that already caused them to hold their noses.
+Above the other roofs rose the pointed wooden spire of the church
+against the rocky background. There, as at Vardo, Thyra explained,
+the sun never set from the middle of May until the end of July, and
+never rose from the middle of November until the end of January.
+On going ashore they found it a quaint and very interesting little
+place, notwithstanding the noxious odour of boiling cod that pervaded
+everything. In the Gronnevold Gaden were a number of stores and shops,
+and from the post office—built high from the ground on account of the
+deep snows experienced for so many months each year—the two Englishmen
+obtained their mail, which had been lying there for some weeks,
+together with a London newspaper or two, the most recent a month old.
+
+Captain Berentsen, with Thyra, took Paul to introduce him to his
+brother-in-law, and not until a few moments before sailing did they
+scramble back on board.
+
+Then, in the grey evening light, the vessel stood south for the Loppen
+Sea.
+
+During that week’s voyage south to Tromso, and eventually to Trondhjem,
+calling at Lodingen, on the Lofoden Islands, at the rocky little island
+of Skjervo, threading the narrow Raftsund and the dangerous channels
+between the thousand islands north of Bodo, obtaining glimpses of the
+great pale-green glaciers of the Svartisen, they passed through the
+finest fjord scenery of Norway, and as each day succeeded day the air
+grew perceptibly warmer. They were returning to the European summer.
+
+One afternoon, not long after leaving Bodo, with its background of
+irregular snow-capped mountains, they crossed the Polar Circle, their
+small signal-gun being fired to mark the event, while in the saloon a
+bottle of champagne was opened, and the future prosperity was wished to
+the happy pair now so soon to become man and wife.
+
+Paul Grinevitch curiously enough, displayed no further animosity
+towards the Englishman. Ever since singing that song of Fanchonnette he
+had, indeed, showed a marked cordiality towards his fellow passenger,
+frequently chatting with him, and even on one or two occasions taking a
+hand at bridge. It was as though he had thrown down the gauntlet, and
+now stood defiant and triumphant.
+
+Two passengers, bearded Norwegian merchants, had joined the ship at
+Tromso, and as they skirted the rocky coast, a grand panorama day
+after day, the merriment grew greater. The oppression of that terrible
+desolation of the bleak Nordland was being lifted from them all now
+that upon the land, right down to the sea shore, grew the firs and
+pines, while the houses and smiling villages of civilisation nestled
+beneath the brown rocks.
+
+They were entering the Norway of the tourist, the picturesque fjords of
+the twelve-guinea-yachting-folk and the fjields of the tweed-attired
+personally-conducted. But the season was over. The last tourist steamer
+had gone south, and even though it was early September, winter was
+creeping on; in those latitudes there is no autumn.
+
+Thyra’s gay, rippling laughter rang everywhere throughout the vessel
+as one afternoon they steamed up the beautiful Trondhjem Fjord towards
+the busy Northern port. All was excitement and bustle, and the deck was
+heaped with baggage. The girl had, in her lover’s presence, repeated
+the invitation to the two Englishmen to remain in Trondhjem and be
+present at the wedding, and as Grinevitch had added his cordial request
+with hers, Dick and Owen both accepted. Captain Martin, whom Berentsen
+and his daughter pressed to remain, had promised to do his best to
+anchor for three days before proceeding down to Hamburg.
+
+Owen Odd was still sorely puzzled. He could not for the life of him
+decide whether, after all, Dick was really in love with Thyra or
+whether his friend, by some extraordinary intuition, believed Paul
+Grinevitch unfitted to be her husband.
+
+Many times during walks along the oily deck with his friend he had
+reverted to the subject, but Dick had always declined to discuss the
+matter.
+
+“I hope she will be very happy,” was all he would say. Never once
+did he again betray his animosity towards the man who was to be her
+husband. It was that very fact which mystified the doctor so completely.
+
+Thyra and her lover had spent most of their time together seated in
+cosy corners out of the wind, chatting and discussing the future. When
+he was nigh the love-look was ever in her eyes—that expression which in
+a woman is so unmistakable.
+
+On landing at last Dick and Owen took up their quarters at the
+Britannia Hotel, Paul having announced his intention of going to the
+Grand, where he had stayed on a previous occasion. Thyra went at once
+with her father to her aunt, the widow of a Government official, who
+occupied a large house facing the fjord, about a mile from the town.
+The house Thyra had pointed out to Jervoise as they approached the
+landing stage.
+
+Trondhjem, surrounded by its green hills, proved to the travellers a
+pleasant little place with fine main streets broadly built in order to
+diminish the danger of fire, even though they were perhaps a little too
+full of shops of false curios and those rubbishy souvenirs prepared for
+English and German tourists who land there, and purchase articles of
+reindeer-horn, Lapp “skaller,” knives and caps, and make believe they
+have visited the North.
+
+As at Hammerfest, on their journey north they had put in at night
+and sailed at dawn; therefore, after so much knocking about in the
+Arctic, Dick and his companion were glad to bid adieu to their rather
+narrow quarters on the storm-battered old _Mercur_, to sleep again in
+a civilised bed, and eat food that had not been tinned. A few days’
+sojourn there, they resolved, would prepare them for the journey home.
+Therefore in the hotel they took their ease and waited for the wedding
+feast.
+
+Martin they frequently met in mufti in the streets, but Paul
+Grinevitch, it appeared, was mostly with Thyra out at her aunt’s house.
+At first it had been uncertain whether the necessary formalities prior
+to the marriage could be completed within the three days at Martin’s
+disposal, but a note from old Jorgen Berentsen delivered at the hotel
+told them that all was in order, and that the wedding, which was to be
+of the quietest nature, was to take place in the quaint old cathedral
+of Trondhjem, wherein repose the relics of St. Olaf, and which is
+probably familiar in photographs to many readers of this drama of the
+Arctic seas.
+
+That same evening the two Englishmen met Paul emerging from a
+jeweller’s in the Dronningens Gaden. At first the Russian endeavoured
+to avoid them, and seemed a trifle flurried at the encounter.
+
+“No,” laughed Owen good-humouredly. “Now you might just as well
+confess! You’ve been to buy your bride a present. May we not be allowed
+to see it?”
+
+With some reluctance the Russian at last handed the doctor a leather
+case, which, on being opened, disclosed a pretty hair-ornament in
+diamonds of chaste design in the form of three ears of barley.
+
+The keen eyes of Grinevitch met Dick’s. In them was that same look of
+bold defiance and of triumph.
+
+The Englishman lowered his gaze, made a remark of admiration of the
+present, and then spoke of something else.
+
+“Well,” exclaimed the Russian presently, “you will be at the church,
+both of you, to-morrow at twelve.” And he rushed off, for he had, he
+said, to visit his _fiancee_.
+
+“You hate that man, Dick—and he hates you!” Owen declared the instant
+Paul was out of hearing. “I saw it in the fellow’s eyes.”
+
+Jervoise started at his friend’s words. Then he had noticed!
+
+“Yes,” he replied, with a feeble attempt to laugh it off. “I—well,
+I suppose he’s jealous of me. Yet I can assure you he has not the
+slightest cause.”
+
+Next day was bright and brilliant as Dick Jervoise passed from the warm
+sunlight into the grey, sombre interior of the great cathedral with its
+wonderful windows. That day he acted as though in a dream.
+
+He saw the little group in the shadow before the altar, the pair
+kneeling, the pastor speaking in low, impressive tones in the Norwegian
+tongue. Not more than a dozen people were present in that vast edifice
+and all seemed attired in black. Owen whispered something, but he sat
+unheeding his friend’s words. Then there was a short prayer, and Thyra
+Berentsen and Paul Grinevitch rose from their knees man and wife. He
+saw the passionate love-look in her eyes, as arm in arm they walked
+out. Yes. She loved him entirely and devotedly; she believed in him as
+other women had believed! Ah! it was all tragic—horrible.
+
+Dick drove to the Hotel Angleterre, where the feast was to be held
+and where he stood to congratulate the bride and bridegroom, though
+his words almost froze upon his lips. The food he afterwards took
+almost choked him. He had been compelled to stand by and see that
+sweet-faced innocent girl, so full of plans for the future, sacrificed
+to that man whom he dare not rise up and denounce—that man who had sung
+“Fanchonnette,” and who stood triumphant.
+
+At the feast there was much merriment. Old Jorgen, beaming with
+good-fellowship and satisfaction at the match made by his daughter,
+related some of his best stories, throwing his sister-in-law and the
+other guests into fits of laughter, while on every hand the bride and
+bridegroom received congratulations and toasts in their honour until
+Dick Jervoise could no longer bear it. He rose, making an excuse that
+he must send a telegram, and, going out, did not return.
+
+That night at seven he and Owen took their seats in the express for
+Christiania, his intention being to cut himself adrift in future from
+the newly-wedded pair. That man’s presence was to him a perpetual
+torture. His evil, crafty face brought back all the bitter past. Owen
+was aware of the deadly hatred existing between the men, but of course
+believed it to be owing to jealousy. He suspected that his friend loved
+the beautiful Thyra.
+
+Dick had sent a hurried note to the Grand, wishing Paul Grinevitch a
+cold adieu, and was greatly surprised, while he and Owen were seated
+together in their compartment at the moment of departure, to see Paul
+and his bride upon the platform, followed by old Jorgen and Captain
+Martin, the latter more spruce and dandified than ever.
+
+“Why, of course, I quite forgot!” cried Owen. “They go to the capital
+to spend their honeymoon! I didn’t expect, however, they’d be
+travelling by our train.”
+
+A compartment at the rear had been reserved for the pair; therefore the
+two Englishmen descended, and, having greeted them, promised to see
+them on their arrival in Christiania next morning.
+
+Then the train moved off, and through the brilliant, moonlit night
+wound due southward among those fertile valleys of the Hedenmark,
+until, at ten o’clock next morning, the travellers found themselves in
+the Norwegian capital.
+
+On alighting, the Englishmen greeted the happy pair, Paul promising
+to send his address in Petersburg to Dick’s club in London. They had,
+he said, decided to go to the Hotel Victoria, at the corner of the
+Raadhus-Gaden, for a few days, as Thyra wished to visit her relations
+and one or two of her old schoolfellows. The Englishmen, in reply,
+said they were putting up at the Grand.
+
+“We may perhaps meet again before you leave Christiania,” the young
+wife exclaimed merrily as she held out her hand, and Dick Jervoise bent
+over it gallantly.
+
+As he did so he whispered:
+
+“Remember your promise! Make excuses to him to get away, for I shall be
+awaiting you. Be careful to arouse no suspicion.”
+
+Then, with a quick, meaning glance, a glance of bitter hatred at her
+husband, who was standing near, he raised his hat, and, turning upon
+his heel, walked across to the fiacre, whereon the baggage was already
+piled.
+
+“Well, Dick, old chap,” remarked Owen, with a slight sigh, as they
+drove together out of the station, “that little incident of our lives
+has, I suppose, ended. By Jove! how lovely she looks!”
+
+“Yes,” responded his friend hoarsely, “it has ended—but badly for her,
+poor little girl, I fear—very badly.”
+
+“You seem to know something, Dick!”
+
+“Yes,” replied his friend, “I do; I could tell a story that would amaze
+you.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+LIFTS THE VEIL
+
+
+Husband and wife drove at once to the Hotel Victoria, situated near the
+harbour.
+
+Thyra felt happy again at Paul’s side, squeezed in the corner of
+the fiacre. Yes, certainly, Christiania was the dream-city, full of
+gardens, fountains, grand buildings; a city great and splendid by
+day and by night! She felt joyous, as if she had drunk wine; she
+chattered with feverish animation. Never afterwards did she succeed
+in remembering what she said in that first hour of arrival; she
+did remember, however, that her pleasure was marred by the strange
+thoughtful look upon Paul’s face, a look she had never noticed there
+before.
+
+They reached the hotel at last. The manager came forth, bowing,
+and Thyra was impressed by the grand entrance-hall and the marble
+staircase, which seemed a continuation of the splendours of the street.
+
+The suite of rooms reserved for them was on the first floor, a pretty
+sitting-room, two bedrooms, a dressing-room, and bath-room, and when
+their baggage was deposited and the porters and chambermaid had left,
+Grinevitch clasped his wife in his arms and fondly kissed her.
+
+“Paul,” she said, “you don’t, somehow, seem your old self to-day. How
+is it?”
+
+“I don’t know,” he laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I was unusually
+uninteresting.” And he assumed an air of gaiety which she, with her
+woman’s quick perception, detected was forced and false.
+
+She took off her hat and cloak; her little face, all eyes and lips,
+seemed suddenly pale and frightened under the waves of her abundant
+hair.
+
+He grasped her hand and raised it tenderly to his lips, saying:
+
+“Tell me, little one, what’s the matter? You, who seemed so very happy
+as we drove from the station, are now worried and pale.”
+
+“Why, I’m sure I’m not, Paul!” she protested. “I’m so delighted to be
+back again in Christiania. I want this afternoon to go and see my old
+schoolfellow, Aslang Anderson, if you’ll let me. I sent her a postcard
+from Trondhjem.”
+
+“Of course, dearest, go and see her, if you wish. I have letters to
+write, so I’ll remain in after luncheon.”
+
+Thyra, who had sought permission to be absent not without some
+apprehension, breathed more freely when her husband gave his consent.
+Would he have done so so readily, she wondered, if he had known her
+real intention?
+
+When she had washed and redressed her pretty hair, they sat down to
+_dejeuner_ in their little salon, both laughing merrily while they ate
+their meal.
+
+Paul, who had been rather surprised at her change of manner, attributed
+it to her excitement at again finding herself back in the capital,
+where she had spent so many happy days of her girlhood.
+
+“My friend has no idea I’m here,” she was saying. “I did not telegraph
+to her, as I want to give her a surprise. She doesn’t even know I’m
+married.”
+
+But Paul listened to her chatter only mechanically. His mind was full
+of other things. A cloud had arisen upon the horizon, and he was now
+wondering if it would pass over, as so many clouds had passed over, or
+if it would burst.
+
+If it did, what then? Well, he would be instantly overwhelmed. The
+truth would be out! He held his breath at the mere thought of such ugly
+contretemps.
+
+Their marriage had been a strange one, it was true, but its result was
+foredoomed to be stranger, with a _denouement_ undreamed of.
+
+About two o’clock Thyra put on her furs, and for the first time since
+her marriage wished her husband “Au revoir!” promising to be back in
+a couple of hours at most. She knew her way well about the capital;
+therefore, before leaving Paul, she kissed him and begged him not to be
+apprehensive on her behalf.
+
+“Get through all your horrid letters, dearest,” she urged, “and we will
+go out to the theatre this evening. It will be such a great treat to
+me, you know.”
+
+So he promised her, and, with a ripple of light, happy laughter, she
+left him, and disappeared with a frou-frou of her skirts down the great
+staircase.
+
+From the window he watched her turn the corner out of sight, for she
+preferred not to take a cab. She loved to walk in Christiania, she
+declared.
+
+Then, when she had gone, the man drew a long breath, and, as he stood
+in the centre of the room, he gasped:
+
+“My God! if she knew! Ah! if she knew, what would she think? But she
+must never know the truth—never!”
+
+He lit a cigar to steady his nerves, and then passed out upon the
+balcony, where he seated himself, staring moodily down into the street.
+
+Afterwards, agitated and unnerved, he rose and, returning to the room,
+sat at the writing-table for a short time. The three letters he had
+written with a fountain-pen, he took in his hand, and, descending to
+the bureau, asked that they might be sent to the post office to be
+registered. He also remarked to the manager that any visitor who should
+chance to call should be shown to his room at once.
+
+Then he re-ascended the broad staircase and paced the room in quick
+agitation. The expression upon his countenance showed that he dreaded
+something—that a dark cloud overwhelmed him.
+
+Shortly before half-past three a waiter tapped at the door of the
+sitting-room and ushered in a tall, slim young woman in deep mourning,
+and wearing a veil.
+
+“Well, Paul,” she exclaimed in a hard voice, the moment the man had
+gone, “this is a curious situation, is it not? So you are married!”
+
+She spoke in Russian, though by her dress and manner she presented the
+appearance of a Frenchwoman. She was dark, and, when she raised her
+veil, revealed well-cut regular features.
+
+He had risen, but had scarcely greeted her. Indeed, he had not even
+offered her a chair.
+
+“Ah!” she laughed, “I see that my presence here is not altogether
+welcome, eh? You are devoted to your bride from the snows, of course,”
+she added with a sneer.
+
+“Cannot we leave Thyra out of this discussion?” he asked coldly,
+indicating a chair, in which she seated herself.
+
+“It seems that she’s gone out and left you. Have you quarrelled
+already?”
+
+“It was fortunate, perhaps, that she wished to go and visit an old
+schoolfellow.”
+
+“Fortunate for you. She would not have approved of this meeting.”
+
+“I can’t think why you assume this attitude, Alza,” he cried angrily.
+“Surely it is only to torture me that you recall the past?”
+
+She laughed triumphantly.
+
+“Is the past so very bitter, then? I did not know you possessed a
+memory. I don’t.” She laughed airily. “It was not always so. You have
+tasted the sweets, you now have the dregs.”
+
+“Yes,” he said, in a hoarse, bitter voice, “I know, alas! And you are
+carrying out your threat. You intend to expose me—to tell Thyra the
+truth.”
+
+“I am here to do so,” was the woman’s calm response. “It is only right
+that she should be informed. She little knows whom she has married,
+poor girl.”
+
+“And you!” he cried fiercely, advancing a few paces towards her. “You!
+What if I tell the truth—that you are the woman who——”
+
+“My dear friend!” she exclaimed, interrupting him, “you are perfectly
+at liberty to make whatever charge you like against me. I am quite
+capable of taking care of myself.”
+
+“Not always. Remember what you owe to that white-livered Englishman!”
+
+“He was at least a gentleman, Paul,” she declared, “and, if he had
+chosen, he could have made matters very awkward for both of us.”
+
+“If we had allowed him.”
+
+“We could not have prevented it. I was caught like a rat in a trap.”
+
+“Yes, I know,” laughed Paul Grinevitch, “but isn’t it best to drop the
+subject? Why are you here in Christiania—on the old game, I suppose?”
+
+“My business here is my own affair,” she replied with an air of
+defiance. “You and I are not friends, so it is scarcely probable that
+I shall tell my secrets to my enemy, is it?” Then, suddenly catching
+sight of Thyra’s photograph on the writing-table, she crossed and took
+it up. It was a cabinet portrait in a plain silver frame.
+
+For some time she regarded it in silence, then she replaced it with
+just a suspicion of a sigh. It was a pretty picture, one which Paul had
+himself taken up at Vardo, showing the girl in furs standing beside one
+of the high-prowed fishing-boats.
+
+Afterwards, when she turned again to the man at her side, there was a
+curious hard expression in her eyes. It was evident that she held him
+in distrust. She had come there at his invitation, but, nevertheless,
+in order to make a statement to the woman who was now his wife.
+
+“Well?” he asked; “don’t you think it’s time you left? Thyra may return
+at any moment.”
+
+“I thought you wished to see me?”
+
+“I did. I believed that you were better disposed towards me than you
+are. I wanted to ask you a favour.”
+
+“A favour of me—eh?”
+
+“Yes, Alza,” he said in an earnest, altered voice, “since that
+scoundrel Bourtzeff has spoken we are both sailing in the same boat.
+You know my position—penniless.”
+
+“You’ve married Thyra, and haven’t a sou!”
+
+“That is unfortunately true. I’ve been a fool, an absolute fool, but I
+loved her. I went too far, and I couldn’t draw back.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I want money—money to take us to England. You have plenty, I know.
+That last little affair with the French bonds must have brought you at
+least a hundred thousand francs. Will you lend me some?”
+
+The well-dressed young woman sighed slightly, her dark eyes still fixed
+upon him.
+
+“You want me to assist you to carry this grim comedy of marriage still
+further?”
+
+“Yes. Why expose me? It would break the girl’s heart. You yourself have
+suffered sufficiently, I know; at least spare her—I beg of you.”
+
+She hesitated for a few moments.
+
+“Yes, Paul, as you appeal on the girl’s behalf, I’ll remain silent, and
+I will help you, only on one condition.”
+
+“What’s that?”
+
+“You will resume your friendship with me—your business friendship, if
+we may so put it,” she said, her eyes still upon his.
+
+“But, Alza—I—could never do that! It wouldn’t be fair to Thyra.”
+
+“Fair or not,” replied the young woman with determination, “if I help
+you, then you must in return give me your assistance.”
+
+“And run the risk of arrest?”
+
+“Are you not doing so now—each hour since Bourtzeff has betrayed us?
+Come, you will write a letter to Enderlein, agreeing to assist us
+again, and I will telephone to the Norsk Credit Bank for funds for you.”
+
+“But I—I really can’t. I’ve done with that kind of thing—done with it
+for ever.”
+
+“Very well,” she laughed, “then we, on our part, have done with you,
+and shall regard you still as an enemy.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+BRIDE AND LOVER
+
+
+Owen and Dick, on their arrival after the night journey from
+Trondhjem, idled about the Grand Hotel and took a stroll up the broad
+Karl-Johans-Gaden, smoking and inspecting the shops.
+
+The young doctor did not fail to notice that, with Thyra’s departure,
+Dick’s manner had entirely changed. He had now become listless and
+careless, and once or twice had remarked, with a deep sigh, upon the
+tragedy of the girl’s union with the young Russian.
+
+The life and movement of the capital was pleasant enough after their
+long sojourn in the silent north, yet both men were now anxious to get
+back to London.
+
+As Dick strolled at his friend’s side up the principal street his mind
+was full of Thyra, and of apprehensions regarding her future. His blood
+boiled when he realised the full consequence of her marriage to Paul
+Grinevitch. That she should have married that man—of all others!
+
+Through his brain surged a thousand bitter thoughts. The past arose
+before him, hideous as a bad dream. He saw nothing of the scene before
+him. His thoughts were far away in the south—away in another land. The
+face of another woman—one almost as fair as Thyra—arose before him—the
+woman who had loved the Russian better than her own life.
+
+He bit his lip, and tried to brace himself up. Beneath his breath he
+uttered a fierce imprecation.
+
+“What’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Owen. And only then Dick
+realised that he was making a fool of himself before his friend.
+
+They lunched together in the big restaurant of the hotel, and, soon
+afterwards, Dick, with a somewhat lame excuse that he wanted a little
+exercise—for they had not been able to get any during the past month or
+so—put on his overcoat and went out.
+
+Owen, not in walking mood, preferred to lounge about with a new
+Tauchnitz he had bought earlier in the morning.
+
+“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Jervoise said as he left the hotel,
+and then, passing up the street for some distance, he took from his
+pocket the plan of the city which he had torn from his Baedeker, and,
+having studied it for a few moments, continued his walk right up to
+the royal palace, situate, as it is, on an eminence, in the centre of
+a pretty park. Then, taking the road through the royal grounds to the
+right, he emerged into the suburb of Homansby.
+
+Walking some distance, he found himself in a small, rather secluded
+square, the name of which he noted upon it, and there he halted, lit a
+cigarette, and waited in expectation.
+
+His countenance was pale, and his eager apprehension was apparent. Not
+a soul was to be seen in the vicinity, therefore the spot was eminently
+adapted as a place of rendezvous. A full quarter of an hour he waited,
+until at last around the corner came a smart, slim, female figure in
+furs—that of Thyra, the newly-wedded bride.
+
+He raised his hat as he advanced, while her sweet countenance lit in a
+glad smile of welcome.
+
+“I—I’m so glad you were able to get away,” he exclaimed quickly. “Where
+can we go, so that we may talk? I have something very important to say
+to you.”
+
+“It is very wrong of me to have done this, Mr. Jervoise,” she said. “I
+was compelled to tell my husband an untruth—that I was going to visit
+an old schoolfellow.”
+
+“You can go to see her afterwards,” laughed the Englishman. “Shall we
+go back into the park? We shall not be disturbed there.”
+
+“As you wish,” was her reply, and, strolling at her side, they turned
+and retraced their steps along the Holbergs-Gade into the well-wooded
+royal demesne which nowadays is thrown open to the public.
+
+“Doctor Odd does not suspect that you are meeting me, I hope?” she
+asked apprehensively.
+
+“Certainly not. Our meeting must be kept a most profound secret—at all
+costs, and for several reasons.”
+
+“I, on my part, shall never admit having seen you,” she smiled.
+
+“Nor I. You may depend upon that.”
+
+“But if you wished to speak to me, Mr. Jervoise, why didn’t you do so
+when we were on board the _Mercur_?” she asked, puzzled.
+
+“There were reasons why I could not,” he said, rather evasively. And as
+they walked on in silence he glanced at her face, and could not help
+remarking her striking beauty. She, the sweet, pale-faced, innocent
+Thyra, was the victim of that man who was now her husband!
+
+The very thought caused his nails to press themselves deeply into his
+palms.
+
+At last, after entering the park and traversing one of the byways, they
+found a seat away from the more frequented paths. Then, when they were
+seated side by side, he turned to her, and, looking very seriously into
+her face, he said:
+
+“Madame Grinevitch—for I suppose I must now call you by that name——”
+
+“No,” she said; “Thyra to you, Mr. Jervoise—always Thyra,” and she
+smiled.
+
+“Very well, then,” he said, “I will continue to call you Thyra. I first
+want you to forgive me for daring to presume to speak to you upon a
+subject which is—well, very painful to me.”
+
+She stared at the Englishman in wonder. She did not follow his meaning.
+
+“I—I think it was ill-advised for me to have met you,” she said,
+stirring uneasily. “What would Paul say if he knew?”
+
+“Paul will never know—nobody must ever know. Understand that!” he
+cried. “I have my own honour, my own safety, at stake—as well as yours.”
+
+“Your safety!” she echoed. “What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that if the secret of this meeting were ever betrayed, it might
+prove disastrous for us both. You do not know Paul Grinevitch as well
+as I do.”
+
+“You surely do not insinuate anything against my husband!” she
+exclaimed, looking straight at him.
+
+“I—oh, no!—well, I mean this,” he stammered. “But of course, it would
+not be my place to make any remark. Paul Grinevitch is your husband,
+after all.”
+
+“Yes,” she said, and in a slow, distinct voice she added, “And I love
+him.”
+
+Dick Jervoise drew a deep breath. He wanted to speak to her, but
+could not find a way. He realised that in asking her to that secret
+rendezvous he was only making a fool of himself.
+
+“‘Love is blind’ is an old and true saying, Thyra,” he remarked.
+
+“And you think I am blind—eh?” she asked quickly.
+
+“Certainly not—except towards myself.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“You do not realise that in asking you to meet me here—for the
+last time—that I wish to act sincerely in your interests, but—but,
+unfortunately, am debarred from so doing.”
+
+“Please explain further,” she urged with a slight frown of
+thoughtfulness.
+
+“I intended to speak to you, but—well, Thyra, I—I haven’t the courage!
+You are married now. Therefore it is, alas! too late.”
+
+He was longing to warn her against the man whose wife she had become,
+but she, unfortunately, misunderstood his words. She believed that his
+intention had been a declaration of love.
+
+“Yes, Mr. Jervoise,” she said with a slight sigh. “It is, as you say,
+too late. I am already Paul’s wife.”
+
+“Ah, that is the cruel tragedy of it all!” he cried, starting up
+suddenly. “If—if I only dared to tell you the truth—to speak openly.
+But I see that I was wrong in asking you here, in attempting to tell
+you the truth. If I did, you would never believe me.”
+
+“I think, Mr. Jervoise, it would be better if I left you,” she said
+quietly. “This interview is as painful to me as to you.”
+
+“Thyra!” he said. “You are in ignorance of the tragedy that lies before
+you—ignorant of the past of Paul Grinevitch. If you but knew, you would
+hate him with as deep and fierce a hatred as I do!”
+
+In an instant her cheeks flushed crimson with anger.
+
+“How dare you ask me here in order to make vague allegations against my
+husband!” she demanded resentfully.
+
+“I want to tell you the truth, but you will not allow me,” he answered
+quickly. “Ah! do not misunderstand me, Thyra. I am acting in your
+interests, because, even though you are now married to this man, I—I
+still hold you in sincerest regard. If—if I cannot be your husband—I
+can at least stand your friend!” he blurted forth.
+
+“My husband should be my best friend,” she said, her eyes downcast, for
+she saw in this speech of the Englishman’s a covert declaration of love.
+
+“Your husband!” he cried. “Go to him, and ask him if he knows poor
+Helene Marquet.”
+
+She turned and faced him with a strange look in her wide-open eyes. For
+a moment she held her breath in surprise.
+
+“What is it—what do you really allege against Paul?”
+
+“I allege,” he said, “that he is not what he represents himself to
+you to be. I have tried to remain silent, Thyra, for your sake. But I
+cannot any longer. I know that I ought to have spoken before, but—well,
+I did not wish to destroy your confidence in that man, lest you should
+think that I did it for my own personal ends and in order that I might
+take his place in your heart. But now it can no longer be alleged that
+I have any ulterior motive, except to warn you against him; I have met
+you here to speak with you and place you upon your guard.”
+
+She was silent. His words had confused her. What could he mean?
+
+“Tell me, Mr. Jervoise,” she asked in a hard strained voice, “who is
+this woman Marquet?”
+
+“Ask him,” was Dick’s response. “Go back to him, and tell him that
+you know a friend of Helene Marquet’s, and that this friend has told
+Nicholas Bourtzeff of his whereabouts. Then watch the effect of your
+words upon him.”
+
+“And this on the first day of my marriage!”
+
+“Better to-day than later—when you are numbered among his victims,” was
+Dick’s earnest reply. “Only I beg of you to regard the source of your
+information as a secret one.”
+
+“Then you fear Paul?”
+
+“Fear him!” cried Dick in furious anger. “I do not fear him! He fears
+me, rather. I hate him, and if ever we meet again I—I’ll crush the life
+from him with as little compunction as I’d kill a viper!”
+
+“You would kill Paul?” she gasped.
+
+“It would only be what he richly deserves—and, alas! Thyra, you will
+agree with me some day—when you know the truth!”
+
+The girl was silent. What the Englishman had told her caused her
+to reflect deeply. Could it really be true that Paul—her Paul—her
+husband—was only an adventurer after all?
+
+No. It could not be. She refused to believe. What proof had she against
+him? She was his wife, and it was not just to him that she should
+listen to such calumny.
+
+Who was Helene Marquet? At least she would know that, and would demand
+a reply from his own lips. Oh! why, she thought, had not the Englishman
+told her this before her marriage, instead of waiting until it was too
+late?
+
+No word was spoken between the pair for a full five minutes. Then,
+suddenly stirring herself, she said, rising from her seat:
+
+“I wish to go, Mr. Jervoise.”
+
+“Why so quickly?”
+
+“I have got my girl friend to call upon, in order to justify my
+absence.”
+
+“Ah! You fear your husband,” he remarked bitterly. “But it will not be
+for long, I venture to think.”
+
+She noticed the strangeness of his manners, and wondered.
+
+Then she bowed, her eyes filled with tears, and refusing to remain
+longer with him wished him adieu, and hurrying away down the path was
+quickly lost to sight.
+
+A few minutes later Dick, with his pale drawn face hard set, turned
+upon his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
+
+“At any rate,” he muttered between his teeth, “I’ve told her the truth
+and unmasked the scoundrel!”
+
+And he strode along, not knowing whither his footsteps led him.
+
+About three hours later he returned to the hotel, distrait and
+thoughtful, and slowly dressed for dinner. The latter was not by any
+means a cheerful meal, and Owen noticed how gloomy his friend had
+become.
+
+In order to liven him up a little he suggested a music-hall, and not
+until midnight did they return to the Grand.
+
+About half-past twelve, just as they were leaving the big, noisy cafe
+which occupied the ground floor of their hotel, to ascend to their
+rooms, a page-boy approached them asking for Mr. Jervoise, and saying
+that a gentleman was in the bureau desiring to see him instantly.
+
+Filled with curiosity as to who his visitor might be at that hour, Dick
+found a tall, thin-faced, elderly man, who, speaking in fairly good
+English, said:
+
+“I have been sent, sir, by Madame Grinevitch, at the Hotel Victoria.
+Would you kindly go to her at once.—She is in greatest distress, poor
+young lady!”
+
+“Distress at what?” he gasped, his face in an instant pale as death.
+
+“Ah! then you have not heard—you have not read the newspaper this
+evening?” said the man. “You are unaware of the mysterious occurrence.
+Madame’s husband is dead!”
+
+“Dead!” the two gasped in one breath, staring at each other.
+
+Dick’s face was blanched to the lips. Owen noted how his hands were
+trembling, and how his eyes seemed starting from his head.
+
+“Ah, gentlemen!” exclaimed the thin man who stood before them holding
+up his hands. “It is indeed a most annoying matter for our hotel,
+and calculated to greatly injure us. Poor little Madame! She has
+been out alone all the afternoon, and returning a little after six
+found her newly-wedded husband lying dead upon the floor of their
+sitting-room—_murdered_!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+SOME AMAZING FACTS
+
+
+The announcement electrified them.
+
+“What can have happened?” gasped the doctor, staring at his friend,
+who, standing rigid, could utter no word. “We must go at once to her.”
+
+Dick Jervoise hesitated. He was trembling like a leaf. He tried to
+articulate some words, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.
+
+“The matter is already in the hands of the police,” exclaimed the
+thin-faced Norwegian, who explained that he was manager of the
+hotel. “The poor lady is distracted. For nearly two hours she
+remained unconscious. Then she only sat moaning her dead husband’s
+name—Paul—Paul! Afterwards she asked me to find Mr. Jervoise, and to
+inform him of the terrible tragedy. Ah! gentlemen,” the man added, “it
+is most unfortunate for my brother’s hotel. Business is bad enough just
+now, without this damaging occurrence.”
+
+“Is it an entire mystery?” asked Jervoise. “Is nobody suspected?” he
+managed to inquire.
+
+“Nobody,” was the reply. “But, gentlemen, we are wasting time,” added
+the man. “I have a fiacre; let us go to her.”
+
+Outside it had been raining for the past three hours. Christiania was
+drowned in mire and gloom. As the rickety fly rumbled over the stones
+up the broad Karl-Johans-Gaden, the principal street of the city,
+to where the great arc lamps of the station shed their cold white
+brilliance, Dick Jervoise sat as a man in a dream. The announcement had
+staggered him. Why had she sent for him. Why had she dared to do that?
+There was a danger, a peril to her and to him. He knew that it would
+now require all his self-possession, all the cunning he possessed, in
+order to avert suspicion of the truth.
+
+She had loved that man who was now dead—the man struck down by an
+unsuspected hand.
+
+His teeth were tightly clenched, and he held his breath. It was fate.
+In her presence he had felt the burning, the fragrant, the intoxicating
+whirlwind of life. She was everything his youth, his instinct, his soul
+had yearned for of maddest and sweetest. How many years had he not
+travelled and dreamed of that one pale, sweet face—the one woman who
+would fill the void within his heart! The delicious expectation was
+already beginning to be shrouded in his cosmopolitan world, weariness
+was beginning to seem altogether gone when she had appeared in that
+out-of-the-world place.
+
+And then—and then——
+
+He bit his lip as the vehicle, with the rain pelting against the
+closed windows, turned from the zone of brilliant light around the
+station into one of the long, narrow, ill-lit streets on the right, the
+Dronningens-Gaden, and presently they drew up before the hotel-entrance.
+
+They found the dead man’s bride huddled up in a chair in a small
+sitting-room on the first floor, a pale, pathetic little figure whose
+face, turned towards them as they entered, had strangely changed.
+
+Jervoise crossed to her, and, bending, spoke softly, humbly, almost
+sweetly, but with that sweetness one employs towards a sick and
+fractious child.
+
+For a moment it seemed that Thyra was unconscious of his presence, but
+next instant, with a curious haunted look in her fine eyes, she shrank
+from him.
+
+A grave-faced, elderly man was standing at her side—the doctor who had
+been summoned to her when she had fallen unconscious beneath the blow.
+To both Englishmen it was apparent that the unfortunate girl’s mind had
+become slightly unbalanced by that sudden shattering of all her hopes,
+of all her love—that love born of dreams and enchantments.
+
+Dick Jervoise still stood before her in silence, his eyes fixed upon
+hers, as though he read into her very soul. Why, if she had called him,
+did she now shrink from him?
+
+Owen looked from the sweet, wan face with the dishevelled hair, to that
+of his friend. The attitude of the pair puzzled him. Why did she, who
+on board the steamer had been so friendly with Dick, now glance at him
+with eyes so full of dread and terror?
+
+“Madame,” he exclaimed at last, “we are here to assist you. We have
+heard the terrible, appalling news. What can we do?”
+
+“Do!” she answered hoarsely, raising her pointed chin from her breast.
+“Do! Why, find the man who, in my absence, killed my Paul!”
+
+And Owen noticed that, as she spoke, she fixed her eyes upon those of
+his friend.
+
+The scene was indeed a sadly pathetic one—the slim, white-faced
+girl-wife, seated in that small, rather shabbily furnished room to
+which she had been moved after the tragedy, the man who loved her so
+intensely standing before her, bowed and undecided.
+
+Owen Odd saw that, for some unaccountable reason, Dick feared her just
+as much as she feared him. What, he wondered, had really occurred? In
+a flash the recollection of his friend’s long absence that afternoon
+crossed his mind. She, too, had been absent from her husband—out
+making a call upon one of her old schoolfellows, it was said. Had Thyra
+and Dick met—and spoken?
+
+Suspicions—dark, grave suspicions—arose within him, but, being Dick’s
+friend, he resolutely put them aside. Yet he could not conceal from
+himself his friend’s bitter hatred of the man now dead; nor could he
+forget that Dick himself, in a moment of anger, had denounced the
+murdered man.
+
+“Paul! Paul!” cried the poor girl suddenly in English, lifting her
+white arms into space, now believing in her delirium that her husband
+still stood before her. “Ah! you are still sad!” she went on. “You
+think it a mere passing caprice. If you could only know the truth—how
+many days, how many weeks, how many months even, I had thought it over,
+examined it all, tortured my conscience with it! If you knew how many
+times I have tried to express in words what I want to tell you.... I
+have never found it possible to speak; some tyrannous force has always
+prevented me from opening my heart to you. And now you are my husband,
+dearest, we two, by ourselves, far from every molesting voice, we two
+alone, shall decide our destiny. Hear me! I will try and explain....
+More than ever, at this moment, I love you. I am united to you for
+my whole life—and for the life beyond. I—I was crying, and I fancied
+I saw your eyes clouded too; it was at that moment I realised that I
+loved you above everything in the world, and I decided then to make the
+sacrifice for you. I—I——”
+
+Her rambling sentences were too painful to the listeners—painful to
+Dick most of all.
+
+The grey-bearded man standing by her motioned to them, and they left
+the room, feeling themselves powerless to assist. Even Owen, a medical
+man himself, recognised that the case was better left in the hands of
+a doctor of her own people.
+
+In the corridor outside they met the thin-faced Norwegian who had
+conducted them there, and another rather stout, fair-haired man, whom
+the other introduced as a commissary of police.
+
+“The whole affair is a complete mystery,” explained the thin-faced
+hotel manager in English. “Yonder is the room in which the tragedy
+occurred—if you care to see it.”
+
+And he conducted them along the passage to the farther end, where, on
+opening a door, they found themselves in a good-sized salon, rather
+well furnished with two long French windows overlooking the small,
+tree-lined square and the harbour beyond.
+
+As the electric light was switched on, they saw at one end of the room
+a high carved sideboard, and on the walls each side long gilt mirrors.
+Across near the windows was a restful-looking couch with a big yellow
+silk cushion, in the centre a square table, and in a corner, set
+cross-wise, a small escritoire.
+
+On the table, in a big vase, was the splendid bouquet of white flowers
+which Captain Martin had presented to the bride as she had entered the
+train on the previous night, the odour of them heavy and oppressive,
+now that they were drooped and fading.
+
+Jervoise tried to blot the scene from his vision. Had he dared, he
+would have refused to enter there.
+
+Those words of Thyra’s, as in her delirium she believed that her
+husband still lived, haunted him. His, indeed, was an agony of soul.
+
+Her sacrifice—what had been her sacrifice?
+
+“See!” exclaimed the commissary of police in Norwegian, pointing to the
+dark green carpet behind the table.
+
+Owen bent, and upon it saw a large brown patch, still damp—the
+life-blood of Paul Grinevitch. On the yellow silk cushion which the
+official turned over was another ugly stain, and again upon the
+couch, to which it was apparent the unfortunate man had crawled after
+receiving the mortal wound.
+
+“Explain to us all that is known concerning the affair,” urged the
+young doctor, turning to the hotel proprietor’s brother.
+
+The other shrugged his shoulders, exchanged a few words in Norwegian
+with the stout police official, and then answered:
+
+“There are several very remarkable features about the case, the
+commissary says. As far as we in the hotel know, what happened was
+this: The young gentleman sent a telegram last night from Trondhjem,
+engaging a suite of rooms for himself and wife. When they arrived we at
+once saw they were newly-wedded, and gave them this suite, the best in
+the hotel. They took their _dejeuner_ up here at eleven, after which,
+according to the waiter who served them, it seemed as though the young
+lady had been crying bitterly. At two o’clock the chambermaid, who
+was called to button the young lady’s blouse, heard her say that she
+was going over to the Hegdehaugen quarter to visit a friend, while he
+declared that he would remain in and write some important letters. He
+sat down and wrote three. Then he lounged in a chair in the balcony and
+smoked for some time. Afterwards he descended to the bureau, bringing
+his letters, asking me to have them registered, and telling me that
+if anyone called they were to be shown up to his room directly. At
+half-past three, or thereabouts, a young lady in deep mourning, wearing
+a veil and speaking with a distinctly foreign accent, called, and
+inquired for Monsieur Grinevitch. She held in her hand a letter, as
+though a letter of introduction, and was at once taken up in the lift
+and ushered into the salon.”
+
+“A woman!” gasped Dick Jervoise, interrupting. “Was she French?”
+
+“We cannot tell,” the man went on. “All we know is a statement by the
+waiter who, a few moments afterwards, heard voices raised in anger. The
+pair were speaking in some foreign tongue—probably Russian. The lady
+went to the telephone yonder and rang up somebody—whom we don’t know.
+The communication is direct with the exchange, which, unfortunately,
+does not keep a note of the numbers inquired for. The waiter heard
+her speaking for some time—the gentleman prompting her what to say.
+Then she rang off, and seemed to be persuading the gentleman to act
+somewhat against his inclination. Eventually he sat down at the table,
+scribbled a letter, which he sealed with wax, using the gold seal upon
+his watch-chain. Then, their disagreement having apparently ended, she
+laughed merrily, wished him adieu, and the gentleman saw her along to
+the lift.”
+
+“Then there are people who saw this woman!” Dick demanded eagerly.
+“They could recognise her again, I mean?”
+
+“They say so. I did not see her.”
+
+“She wore a veil,” remarked Owen. “She therefore evidently meant to
+conceal her identity.”
+
+“No doubt. Is that to be wondered at, with the bride’s absence in
+view?” remarked the brother of the hotel proprietor, the latter, they
+understood, being absent in the Telemarken.
+
+“And what occurred afterwards?” demanded Jervoise quickly, now
+breathless in curiosity.
+
+“His actions afterwards were most mysterious. The lady having left, he
+called the waiter, and, announcing his departure by the Wilson steamer
+which sailed at ten to-night for Hull, order his bill to be prepared.
+He then called the hotel messenger-boy, and, writing a note, told him
+to take it to an address behind the Royal Park, and there wait for a
+reply. The note was addressed to a man named Nystrom, who chanced to be
+out; therefore the boy waited there for hours, until this evening, when
+he returned, having failed to deliver the note.”
+
+The stout police officer, who evidently understood English, like so
+many officials in Norway, interrupted the hotel manager with some rapid
+words.
+
+“These gentlemen,” the other explained, “are intimate friends of the
+poor young lady.”
+
+“And also of the dead man,” added Doctor Odd. “Therefore we wish to
+know the most complete details, in order, if possible, to throw some
+light upon them.”
+
+“The authorities are entirely puzzled,” declared the thin-faced man.
+“They do not suspect anybody—at present.”
+
+“But what happened after the unfortunate man had sent the boy on the
+message?” Dick inquired.
+
+“He wrote a telegram addressed to Captain Berentsen, in Trondhjem,
+announcing his immediate departure for England, and giving his address
+in London at 108, Keppel Street, Russell Square.”
+
+“Did he give no reason for his sudden departure?” asked Owen.
+
+“None. His wife, remember, was not aware of this decision, which we
+think must have been arrived at in consequence of the unwelcome visit
+of the lady in black.”
+
+“But apparently he expected her,” said Dick.
+
+“No. I understood him in the bureau to say that a gentleman would call.”
+
+“Ah!” remarked Owen. “Then the lady called and found him unawares.
+She, however, knew Madame was absent, or she would scarcely have dared
+to visit him, I think.”
+
+“But the assassination!” exclaimed Jervoise anxiously. “What led to it?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+THE FOUR LETTERS
+
+
+“How can we tell?” asked the Norwegian as he stood beside that ugly
+stain upon the carpet.
+
+“It could not have been suicide?” suggested Owen Odd.
+
+“Impossible. Both doctors have unhesitatingly pronounced it a case
+of murder. The victim was struck down from behind, they declare, and
+very considerable force must have been used,” was the reply. “After
+the despatch of the telegram it is probable that the young Russian
+destroyed a quantity of papers, for, as you see, in the stove yonder
+there has been a fire, and there still remains a quantity of tinder,
+all of which will to-morrow be carefully examined by the police.”
+
+Both Englishmen turned, and saw inside the open door of the high, tiled
+stove a quantity of burnt paper.
+
+“It is as though he wanted to get rid of some documents that were
+incriminating,” declared the doctor to his friend.
+
+“Exactly. Yet what had he possibly to fear? He was crossing to England
+in a few hours,” Dick said.
+
+“He probably did not wish to take them to London. He no doubt had
+reason.”
+
+The round-faced official interrupted, whereupon the hotel manager added:
+
+“The police theory is that the documents were burned by the assassin.”
+
+“Most probably,” exclaimed Jervoise.
+
+“Yet shortly afterwards, when he ordered some tea, the waiter says that
+in the room there was a strong smell of burning paper, combined with
+a curious choking odour, like some chemical—which he had never before
+smelt in all his life.”
+
+“Then that would surely lend colour to the theory that he himself
+destroyed the papers,” remarked Owen.
+
+The fat commissary elevated his broad shoulders with an expression of
+stupefaction.
+
+“A chambermaid, passing along the corridor about five o’clock, declares
+that she heard voices in this room,” went on the hotel manager, “and
+believed that Madame had returned. One voice, she asserts, was a female
+one. But,” he added, “the servants are scared, and therefore one cannot
+believe all the statements that have been made.”
+
+“Was that the last known of Mr. Grinevitch?” inquired Owen.
+
+“Yes, except that he again descended to the bureau, and, obtaining a
+copy of the _Petit Parisien_, returned to his room.”
+
+“After the lady’s voice was heard there?”
+
+“Yes, ten minutes afterwards. That is why we disbelieve the
+chambermaid. The police have closely questioned her, and now discount
+her allegation. She is not now certain whether it was a woman or only
+the young gentleman speaking aloud to himself. At any rate, when he
+came down for the newspaper, I spoke to him, and he was perfectly calm.
+‘I may be out when my wife returns,’ he said. ‘If I am, kindly tell
+her I have only gone along to the telegraph office and will be back
+immediately.’ He ascended again in the lift, and that was the last I
+saw of him alive.”
+
+“What else is known?” anxiously inquired Dick, his blanched face drawn
+and haggard.
+
+“Nothing—or practically nothing,” was the prompt reply. “Madame
+returned in a fiacre just after six. As she passed through the hall I
+noticed that she seemed very flurried, and anxious to get upstairs.
+I spoke to her, giving her her husband’s message, but she scarcely
+heeded me, and flew upstairs without waiting for the lift. She dashed
+along the corridor and opened the door. Then a loud, piercing shriek
+alarmed us, and the terrible truth was quickly apparent. I was called
+instantly, and on entering here my eyes met a ghastly scene. The poor
+fellow was lying beside the couch over there, with life extinct, while
+on the floor beside him his girl-bride had fallen in a dead swoon.”
+
+“And was no stranger seen to enter or leave the hotel?” asked Owen with
+knit brows.
+
+“Absolutely nobody.”
+
+“How many entrances are there here?”
+
+“Only one—by the main hall. There is, of course, a kitchen entrance,
+but it is shut off from the visitors by a locked door, the key of
+which hangs in my office. The door has been examined, and has not been
+unlocked.”
+
+“And the only visitor was the young lady in mourning?”
+
+“She was the only visitor. Of that we are quite certain.”
+
+“Then who committed the crime?” asked Jervoise.
+
+“Ah! that is an absolute and complete mystery—one which is rendered
+even the more remarkable by certain extraordinary facts which have been
+discovered since the grim occurrence.”
+
+“And what are they?” demanded the young Hammersmith doctor.
+
+“Several,” replied the hotel manager. “One is, perhaps, more curious
+than all the rest. You will recollect that the deceased gentleman,
+before his death, sent our messenger with a note to a certain person
+named Nystrom. That note was not delivered. But the police have just
+ascertained that the man in question is an adventurer who is wanted in
+Copenhagen on a very serious charge, and whose arrest was only this
+afternoon applied for by telegram by the Danish police.”
+
+“Curious.”
+
+“The authorities believe that the note sent by the unfortunate man was
+a preconcerted signal, or warning.”
+
+At that moment two police officers in uniform entered the room, and
+handed to the commissary several letters.
+
+“Ah! here are the letters I sent to the post office to be registered
+this evening—the letters which Mr. Grinevitch brought down to me after
+his wife’s departure!” exclaimed the manager. “See, they are all
+addressed to persons in Russia. It is fortunate that they had not been
+despatched.”
+
+The fat commissary laid the three sealed letters upon the table, and,
+taking his penknife, slit them all open, being eagerly watched by all
+assembled.
+
+“Zo!” he ejaculated as he took out the contents of the first.
+
+“Extraordinary! The same as the mysterious letter to Nystrom!”
+exclaimed the hotel manager.
+
+And to the two Englishmen were exhibited three sheets of the hotel
+notepaper—blank!
+
+“Most curious!” declared Odd, turning again to his friend. “What can
+they all mean?”
+
+“Who knows?” replied Jervoise in a hoarse, inert voice. “That there’s
+no suspicion against anyone is also very strange. The destroying of
+papers, the sudden resolve to cross to England, and the unwelcome visit
+of the woman in black, all point to suicide. And yet——”
+
+“It was murder—crafty and deliberate murder, I tell you,” the manager
+declared. “The poor young man was, according to both doctors and
+police, struck treacherously in the back as he was seated at the little
+escritoire over there. He rose, reeled across to the spot where that
+stain appears on the carpet, and in his dying agony dragged himself
+here to the sofa. It is their belief that in his dying moments he was
+trying to reach the window in order to call for assistance.”
+
+“I see no sign of any struggle,” Owen Odd said, glancing around the
+scene of the tragedy.
+
+“There was none,” answered the Norwegian. “He was struck down before he
+could turn to defend himself. He probably never even saw his assailant.”
+
+Dick Jervoise pursed his hot lips. There was a strange, stony look
+upon his countenance—a look which his friend Odd had never seen there
+before. Was it possible that he knew something more about the tragedy
+than the police knew? Was it possible that he had, on that same
+afternoon, met Thyra in secret?
+
+He recollected the strange glance in the girl’s eyes when he had
+entered to where she sat—that look of undisguised terror—of abhorrence.
+
+Yes. Dick was concealing from him some facts which, if divulged, would
+place that amazing affair in a very different light. Of that he felt
+convinced.
+
+Knowing his friend so well, and being acquainted with his every mood,
+he saw quite plainly that he was strenuously endeavouring to conceal
+some knowledge which he possessed.
+
+Was he shielding the woman with those wonderful grey eyes? Or was he
+withholding, for his own purposes, a guilty secret?
+
+The pale cheeks with just a spot of colour in the centre, the dry,
+half-parted lips, the contracted brows, the haggard deep-set eyes,
+were all most unusual to Richard Jervoise. Besides, had he not been
+absent from the Grand Hotel during the whole time of the bride’s
+absence from her husband?
+
+But why should he sit in judgment upon his friend—his oldest, his
+dearest friend, he reflected. No. A thousand times no. He would believe
+nothing against him, even if the suspicion were so strong—even if,
+after the first shock, it was Dick whom the bereaved bride had summoned.
+
+He set his teeth, steeling himself against all that horrible suspicion.
+Within himself he declared that Dick could in no way be an accessory to
+the fact of that most terrible and mysterious crime.
+
+“And what is now being done?” asked Owen of the hotel manager.
+
+“Everything that is possible,” he replied. “The police have removed
+the body. The scene was a most painful and tragic one. When the poor
+young lady recovered consciousness after the shock, she returned to the
+body of her husband and refused to leave him. She believed him to be
+still alive, and, kneeling by him, made all sorts of strange and wild
+statements.”
+
+“What did she say?” gasped Dick in breathless anxiety.
+
+“Oh, all sorts of curious things. She made an allegation against
+some man, but would not name him. She said she knew now who was her
+husband’s enemy.”
+
+“Then the police are in possession of some suspicious fact?” exclaimed
+Owen with a side glance at his friend.
+
+“The doctors did not consider her in a fit state to be questioned. Her
+statements were so very contradictory.”
+
+Jervoise breathed again. He longed to get away from that room where the
+floor still bore traces of the horrible crime.
+
+“But,” the young doctor went on, “what are the police doing? Surely it
+is known by what means the assassin gained access to Grinevitch’s room?”
+
+“We cannot tell,” answered the thin-faced Norwegian. “The hall-porter
+saw no stranger enter or leave, though he was at his post the whole
+time. Neither did the servants see anyone go into the room, even though
+several of them, their curiosity aroused by the happenings of the
+previous couple of hours, were almost constantly on the watch. There
+were whispers among the servants that the bridal pair had quarrelled;
+hence the whole staff on this floor had become instantly inquisitive,
+as was but natural. Yet the assassination was committed swiftly and
+surely by invisible hands.”
+
+“Could anyone have climbed up from the street—or come along the
+balcony?” Owen suggested.
+
+“See for yourself,” replied the other, throwing open one of the long
+windows.
+
+Both men, followed by Dick, stepped out upon the spacious balcony into
+the rain. But at a glance all saw that entrance by the window was
+entirely out of the question.
+
+“No,” Owen said, reassured. “The assassin must have entered by yonder
+door, for if the victim had been sitting writing, then the murderer
+could have crept across the carpet noiselessly and struck the blow ere
+the other could realise his danger.”
+
+“That is exactly the police theory. They are doing all in their power
+to obtain some clue. Already they have taken away certain things—the
+door knobs, as you see, and other small articles—in the hope of finding
+fingerprints. The whole of the Christiania detective force are at this
+moment engaged in trying to solve the mystery, and endeavouring to
+trace Nystrom and the dead man’s unknown visitor. You can do nothing,
+gentlemen, I fear—nothing except to try and console the poor young
+lady. Let us return to her.” And the hotel manager led the way back to
+the room where Thyra was still sitting silent, crushed, lifeless.
+
+The grey-bearded doctor stood near the window, looking out gloomily
+upon the wet night.
+
+As they entered he held up a warning finger. They halted.
+
+In the slim girl-widow’s grey eyes they detected a strange, wild
+expression as her gaze fell upon Dick Jervoise.
+
+“Ah!” she gasped with sudden surprise, stretching forth both her thin,
+white hands. “You—Mr. Jervoise! I—I must speak to you—alone! Come in
+for a few moments, and send all these people away. I—I want to speak
+with you—alone!”
+
+Owen and Dick exchanged glances. Then the grave-faced doctor, who had
+been watching her, spoke something in Norwegian, and all withdrew—all
+save Richard Jervoise.
+
+They closed the door softly, leaving the pair alone. The Englishman
+stood in the centre of the room trembling, staring, pale as death, his
+chin sunk upon his breast. To her he dare not lift his stony eyes; he
+dare not utter a single word.
+
+For several moments there was dead unbroken silence.
+
+Then, bending forward and looking straight at him with those great,
+wide-open eyes, she said in a hard, distinct voice:
+
+“Mr. Jervoise, you lied to me! _I know the truth!_”
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+BIDE TRYST
+
+
+The grey light of the brief December afternoon had deepened into
+darkness.
+
+The Woodland Pytchley had enjoyed a splendid day across South Rutland.
+Meeting at Stockerston Hall, they had found in Great Easton Park, and
+after a sharp run across Holyoaks Lodge, the fox had crossed the Eye
+brook to the Uppingham road, where the kill had taken place.
+
+Another brush had been secured in that long little spinney behind
+Seaton Grange after a hard chase, and a third, an old dog-fox, had been
+given to the hounds in Laxton Park.
+
+The smart crowd of men and women who had followed—people who hunted
+with the Quorn, with Lord Exeter’s, or with the Fitzwilliam three
+or four days a week—had agreed that it had been the best run of the
+season. Then, after mutual adieux, they had, in the falling light, all
+separated to ride home, each his own way, some for many a weary mile.
+
+Dick Jervoise’s road back to Ingarsby Hall, his aunt’s splendid old
+place, lay by bridle-paths which he knew well, paths which he had
+ridden ever since a boy. That morning he had gone to the meet with his
+cousin Harry, a young Yorkshire landowner, but the latter had been
+thrown out at a spot north of Uppingham, where he had had a spill in
+a brook, and Dick had not seen him since. Therefore he rode on alone,
+his tired bay mare stumbling ever and anon, and causing him to utter
+language scarcely suited to a drawing-room.
+
+His way lay across bare ploughed lands, and through Harrington Wood,
+leafless and dismal in the fading light, until close to the old mansion
+of Kirby, gaunt and grim in its loveliness and decay, he was compelled
+to dismount and lead the mare.
+
+Thus he trudged onward for nearly five miles, sometimes across ploughed
+land, or over broad pastures and along muddy lanes, every inch being
+known to him. The shortest cut is not always the easiest, for on his
+way he found a brook so swollen that he had to remount in order to
+cross it.
+
+Fox-hunting ran in Dick Jervoise’s blood. His father had been one of
+the most noted followers to hounds in the grass country, and one of the
+fastest cross-country riders of his day. Before his death he had been
+M. F. H., and more than once had received tempting offers to write his
+reminiscences of the Belvoir and the Grafton. In the hunting season
+Dick frequently stayed with the Dowager Countess of Corby at Ingarsby,
+and rode with both the Woodland Pytchley and Mr. Fernie’s.
+
+In his well-worn hunting pink he looked a fine athletic fellow, an
+ideal English sportsman, as indeed he was. Though a student who loved
+to pore over his dry-as-dust books in his little flat overlooking the
+river at Hammersmith Bridge, yet no sooner had cub-hunting commenced
+than he was down at Ingarsby and up and out at four o’clock in the
+morning, riding with the huntsman and his pack through the mists before
+daybreak.
+
+“A chip of the old block,” old hunting-men had dubbed him long ago. In
+his teens he had earned his laurels by breaking his collar-bone in a
+bad fall over at Cold Overton, and even other accidents of minor count
+had never deterred him from enjoying hot runs over that ideal country
+north of his late uncle’s fine ancestral domain.
+
+As he entered the great old-world stableyard, Chapman, the groom,
+touched his cap, and, glancing at the mare, exclaimed:
+
+“Gone lame, sir—eh?”
+
+“Yes,” Dick replied, handing over his mount. “We’ve had a pretty hard
+day, but we killed three times, so we mustn’t grumble.” And he entered
+a door, traversing many stone corridors of the magnificent old Tudor
+mansion, worn hollow by the feet of many generations, until he passed
+into the great hall, with its high windows of stained glass, its oaken
+roof, its rich carpets, stands of armour of bygone Corbys, and the
+splendid old Gibbons carvings.
+
+Before the wide, open hearth, where blazed huge logs, the tea-table had
+been set, and around it, with the well-preserved, white-haired Countess
+presiding, were several gay, gossiping young men and women of the
+house-party.
+
+Dick’s entry was hailed with delight, and news of the run eagerly
+demanded.
+
+“And where’s Harry?” inquired her ladyship, pouring out Dick’s tea from
+the silver pot.
+
+“Don’t know, aunt,” replied her nephew airily. “Last I saw of him was
+in a ditch, looking a bit muddy and rather the worse for his fall. I
+saw he wasn’t hurt, and rode on.”
+
+“You hunting men are really extremely selfish,” declared the old lady,
+when at the same moment Burton, the elderly butler, handed Dick a
+telegram on a salver, saying:
+
+“It came for you, sir, about twelve o’clock.”
+
+Jervoise tore it open, read its contents, and thrust it carelessly into
+the pocket of his scarlet coat. Then, turning to a pretty girl in blue,
+the daughter of a Yorkshire banker, he began to chaff her regarding
+something he had heard in the hunting-field that day anent her latest
+swain. The girl blushed, declaring that what he said was both cruel and
+untrue.
+
+“Well, that’s what Teddie Mills told me to-day as we rode together. And
+he’s your cousin, isn’t he?” asked Dick, good-humouredly.
+
+Ingarsby was a splendid old Tudor place, with battlemented towers,
+turrets, buttressed walls, and noble oriel windows originally glazed
+with beryl, and imposing structures with numerous shields of arms and
+heraldic devices upon the masonry. On the painted glass of the high
+mullioned windows of the hall beneath where Dick stood were emblazoned
+the shields of the various families with whom the Earls of Corby had
+intermarried; and straight before him, at the rear of that great,
+open fireplace with its shining dogs, was a secret chamber, in which
+twenty persons could comfortably dine, as well as the entrance to a
+subterranean passage to a house three miles distant.
+
+The white-haired Countess had led a lonely widowhood in that beautiful
+old place for twenty odd years, dividing her life between there and
+her snug, little house in Curzon Street. She was a very charming,
+well-preserved woman, essentially aristocratic in bearing, whose “turn
+out” was always one of the smartest in the park, whose hospitality was
+unbounded, and who at Ingarsby delighted in surrounding herself with
+young people, for there was plenty of hunting and some of the finest
+shooting in the Midlands.
+
+Sir James Kingwell, first Earl of Corby, who died three years after the
+Restoration, was a typical old cavalier, who spent twenty years of his
+life as a prisoner in the Tower. Many of the portraits in the hall, in
+the dining-room, and in the splendid ball-room were historical, among
+them being the picture of the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was slain in the
+notorious duel by the second Duke of Buckingham. Indeed, the old place
+was full of interesting relics, but practically unknown because her
+ladyship, preferring privacy, had closed her doors rigorously to all
+sightseers, prying archæologists, or photographers of the illustrated
+papers.
+
+There was much merry chatter over the tea cups around the huge, blazing
+logs. About a dozen young men and women had assembled, and were
+discussing in anticipation the ball which Lady Exeter was giving at
+Burghley on the following night, and to which the house-party had been
+invited.
+
+Dick, however, managed to slip away up to his room, the great,
+old-fashioned apartment which he always occupied, and was known as
+Henry VII’s room, as that monarch, when Earl of Richmond, was said to
+have ridden from Bosworth Field to seek refuge at Ingarsby, then a
+monastery. It was a quaint, old-world room, the mullioned windows of
+which looked out across the terrace, the monks’ fish ponds, and the
+great park beyond. In the centre was an old, carved, four-poster bed,
+the counterpane of which was of silk embroidered by hands dead three
+centuries ago.
+
+So frequent a visitor was he at his aunt’s that he kept some books
+there, and the big writing-table in the corner Burton had provided for
+him specially.
+
+Entering his room, he threw off his hunting coat, drew off his riding
+boots, and then re-read the telegram which had been handed to him in
+the hall.
+
+“I wonder!” he exclaimed to himself aloud, as he crushed the message in
+his hand, standing staring at the fire, the light of which illuminated
+the room. “I wonder if I dare?”
+
+He drew a long breath, standing in indecision.
+
+“By Jove!” he went on. “If it’s not dangerous—then I may, after all,
+see her again. I may——”
+
+But he did not finish his sentence, for a second later, with sudden
+impetuosity, he tossed the telegram into the flames, and with a changed
+expression on his face lit a cigarette, and flung himself into the big,
+cretonne-covered armchair to think.
+
+“No!” he cried aloud at last. “She was a fool—an absolute fool. Her
+words aroused suspicion. Owen suspects—everybody suspects!” And he gave
+vent to a harsh, bitter laugh as he leaned back in his shirt sleeves
+and blew a cloud of smoke from his lips.
+
+Presently, after half an hour, his man Carter, a smart, clean-shaven
+man, entered to arrange his master’s evening clothes. Without a word
+the servant crossed to the wardrobe, and busied himself in getting out
+the suit and spreading it, with the dress-shirt, collar and tie, upon
+the bed.
+
+“Shall you dress now, sir?” he inquired at last.
+
+“No, Carter,” was his master’s reply. “Perhaps I shan’t dress at all
+this evening. At eight I want you to send word to her ladyship that I’m
+not very well—caught a chill out hunting to-day—and ask her to excuse
+me from coming down to dinner. Pretend I’m in bed, and have some food
+brought up here. I’m going out this evening, and I don’t want anyone to
+know I’ve been absent. You understand?”
+
+“Exactly, sir,” answered the well-trained man.
+
+“I don’t know when I’ll be back—before the house is closed, I hope. If
+I’m not, watch Burton to bed, and then go down to the ball-room, and
+leave one of those two end windows unfastened for me. I shall go out
+that way—as I went once before.”
+
+“Very well, sir.”
+
+“And if my cousin Harry or anyone wants to see the invalid, say I’m
+asleep, and have told you I didn’t wish to be disturbed. You’ll stay on
+duty up here all the evening, and eat my dinner for me.”
+
+“Yes, sir.” And the man stood awaiting further commands, without moving
+a muscle of his aquiline face.
+
+“Remember, not a soul must know of my absence. A lady’s good name may
+perhaps be at stake. If I’m back early I may dress and join the men in
+the billiard-room. I don’t know yet. Be discreet, that’s all.”
+
+“I shall be, sir. No one shall know you are absent.”
+
+Then Dick Jervoise exchanged his hunting breeches for a rough suit
+of country tweeds, and, putting on a golf cap and taking a stick, he
+glanced at the little silver travelling clock upon the dressing-table.
+It was, he saw, nearly seven.
+
+He felt in his hip pocket, as though to reassure himself that he had
+something there. Then, with parting instructions to his man, he left
+the room, descending by the stairs at the end of the corridor, and by
+an intricate route threaded those endless stone passages and reached
+the great ball-room.
+
+It was in darkness, but in order to make sure he was alone he touched
+the electric switch, and next second the magnificent room with its
+polished floor and splendid portraits, the scene of so many brilliant
+gatherings, was flooded with a bright light from a dozen crystal
+electroliers. After a hasty glance around, he extinguished the hundreds
+of lamps, and then, walking to the further end of the huge apartment,
+opened one of the long, lead-paned windows, and, climbing through it,
+dropped softly upon the grass outside.
+
+Then, keeping in the shadow as much as possible, he slipped across the
+stone bridge that spanned the lake in front of the house—the ancient
+fish pond of the Carthusian brothers—and struck out straight across the
+park to the dark woods beyond.
+
+The night was moonless, with heavy clouds precursory of rain; but the
+way being known to him, he walked on without hesitation, and was soon
+within the wood, taking a narrow footpath, which, in twenty minutes or
+so, brought him out into a ploughed field, which he skirted, passing in
+turn across a wide pasture, and at length gaining a narrow lane full of
+deep cart ruts, where walking in the darkness was somewhat difficult.
+
+Presently, however, he came out upon a broad highway, the many
+telegraph lines beside which denoted that it was a main road, and,
+turning to the left, walked along for a full half-hour, passing on his
+way a small hamlet consisting of half a dozen or so tiny cottages with
+dormer windows peeping forth from their thatch.
+
+By the light from one of the windows he glanced at his watch, and
+seeing that he was late, quickened his pace up a long hill. A big motor
+car with a long bonnet and a single searchlight glaring in front, came
+swiftly down, and, passing him, bespattered him with mud from head to
+foot. He recognised that it was the Ingarsby car—the six cylinder—which
+was conveying an arrival guest, the Honourable Walter Bryant, a friend
+of his, from Ashley station, on the Market Harborough line, to the Hall.
+
+Rockingham Hill, one of the steepest in the Midlands, he climbed, and
+presently turned into a road by the left, which at length brought him
+in sight of the lighted windows of a village. He avoided the village
+street, for, passing the inn on the outskirts, he turned again into a
+dark, muddy lane on the left.
+
+Walking still farther for about a quarter of a mile, he halted against
+a gate standing white in the darkness, and next moment a figure loomed
+up out of the night.
+
+It was a woman—a woman who uttered his name in greeting.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE PERIL OF DICK JERVOISE
+
+
+“You sent me no reply, therefore I feared lest you might not come,”
+exclaimed the woman, speaking rapidly in French, with an accent purely
+Parisian.
+
+Her voice was soft and refined, yet so dark was it that her features
+were scarcely distinguishable. That she was young and rather handsome,
+with a somewhat oval face, was, however, apparent; and wearing a short
+fur bolero and neat, felt travelling hat, she presented quite the
+average _chic_ appearance of the Frenchwoman.
+
+“Well,” he asked as he leaned upon the gate, “why do you wish to see me
+so urgently after our last meeting in London?”
+
+“To tell you something, _mon cher ami_—something curious which I have
+discovered.”
+
+“Well, and what’s your latest discovery, eh?” he asked in a half-mused
+tone.
+
+“That he is living in hiding in this neighbourhood.”
+
+“Whom?”
+
+“Bourtzeff.”
+
+“Bourtzeff!” echoed Jervoise in amazement. “Bourtzeff here? Impossible!”
+
+“I tell you he lives in Great Easton,” she responded calmly. “I’ve been
+lodging near by for the past ten days—watching. Something serious is in
+progress. Of that I am absolutely convinced.”
+
+“But is it not dangerous for you, of all women, to be here, in the
+vicinity, and alone? Remember he’s not a man to stick at trifles!”
+
+“Bah! I do not fear him, monsieur,” laughed the young woman defiantly.
+
+“But how did you trace him?”
+
+“By patience,” she replied. “You know how he fled from Keppel Street
+the instant the news became known. At that time we were not even aware
+of his identity. We had no suspicion—nothing but a mere address in
+London to guide us. We commenced investigations, you and I. I admired
+your careful methods, but you relinquished the inquiry too early—you
+were, my dear friend, just a trifle too impatient. I waited and
+watched, day by day, week by week, for I knew that the landlord of that
+house was a consummate liar, and that he was endeavouring to shield
+some mysterious person whom he had sheltered. The matter was difficult,
+because of your friend Doctor Odd’s constant inquisitiveness. I don’t
+like that man, for he has, I feel confident, strong suspicions.”
+
+“And surely not exactly unnaturally?” he remarked in a strained voice.
+
+“Ah, yes!” she snapped impatiently. “I know you believe him to be your
+friend. But mark me, M’sieur Dick, that man will prove your enemy.”
+
+“You always say so, I know. But I venture to think you entertain a
+rather unfair prejudice against him,” Jervoise said.
+
+“Time will prove that,” replied his companion. “At present it is
+sufficient to know that I waited in patience until, late one evening,
+about a fortnight ago, I was watching the house in Keppel Street, more
+out of curiosity than anything else, when a hansom drew up, and from
+it alighted a man, who ascended to the door and quickly let himself in
+with a latch-key. It was Nicholas Bourtzeff! From that moment until
+now I have never lost sight of him.”
+
+“And he does not suspect?”
+
+“Not in the least.”
+
+“You say he is in hiding over in Great Easton. I know the place quite
+well—about a couple of miles from here.”
+
+“He is the guest of a certain Doctor Larcombe, who lives in a house at
+the extreme end of the village.”
+
+“I know him,” Jervoise said, much surprised. “Larcombe rides to hounds
+sometimes.”
+
+“He is apparently living there as a paying guest in the name of
+Siegler.”
+
+“Are you sure it is Bourtzeff?”
+
+“Absolutely. I have seen him a dozen times or more. I know him rather
+too well, alas!” replied the woman.
+
+“Bourtzeff! Bourtzeff!” he repeated to himself.
+
+“Then what is your theory?” he asked.
+
+“Theory!” she exclaimed, speaking still in French. “I have none, my
+dear m’sieur. I regard his movements, as strange, very strange—that is
+all. Paul Grinevitch telegraphed to Jorgen Berentsen that he intended
+to leave Christiania at once, and go direct to 108, Keppel Street,
+Russell Square. An hour later he was killed. Then when inquiries are
+made at the address in question, a mysterious lodger, who only returned
+that day, instantly disappears. Now this mysterious person turns out to
+be Nicholas Bourtzeff who had gone into hiding in the name of Siegler.
+Surely there is an object—and that object is fear of something. But
+what it is, how can we tell?”
+
+“Be careful that he doesn’t discover you, mademoiselle.”
+
+“I shall take very good care of that,” was her reply. “I have taken
+lodgings with a good woman in Middleton village, and am supposed to
+be a governess waiting for a family to return from India. Yesterday I
+had news from Christiania. The police have made an arrest—the fools!
+They’ve thrown one of the hotel waiters into prison.”
+
+Dick Jervoise was silent. What mademoiselle had told him caused him
+the greatest surprise. Why had Nicholas Bourtzeff fled from one
+hiding-place to the other on hearing the news of Paul’s death? What
+connection, indeed, could the two men have had, except that they were
+compatriots?
+
+“But he was in London at the time of the affair?” remarked Dick, after
+a long pause.
+
+“Ah! That is just the point,” replied mademoiselle quickly. “He was not
+at Keppel Street on that day, nor did he return there until four days
+after the tragedy.”
+
+Jervoise was again silent. The circumstance was suspicious.
+
+The woman who stood there—a woman who was in many ways remarkable—had
+become his friend. His acquaintance with her was a clandestine one, it
+was true. She was not a person in whose company he would care to be
+seen publicly; but though unscrupulous and full of clever subterfuge,
+yet she was, nevertheless, acting in his interests.
+
+More than a month ago she had called at his flat overlooking the river
+beyond Hammersmith Bridge, and for several hours they had been engaged
+in earnest conversation. It was then that Dick Jervoise had told the
+young, dark-eyed, foreign lady, Alza Dresler, of the remarkable death
+of Paul Grinevitch, and she had started to her feet on hearing the
+amazing story.
+
+She had placed her black-gloved hand in Dick’s as sign of friendship,
+and from that moment to the present had, alone and quite unaided, been
+pursuing a somewhat erratic course.
+
+She was one of those women whose age it was quite impossible to
+determine, and whose exact nationality was as equally uncertain.
+In certain circles in London and in Paris she was well known as a
+struggling artist, with sufficient private means to support herself.
+In her own artistic set she was extremely popular. Until two years
+before she had occupied a studio high up in the roof of one of those
+old houses in the Rue Madame, in Paris, but of late her headquarters
+had been in a shabby house in a mean street off the Tottenham Court
+Road. She travelled a good deal, notwithstanding her limited means,
+and outside her artistic set she had quite a wide acquaintance in both
+capitals.
+
+Good-looking, always neatly dressed, and quite ladylike and refined,
+she was at home in almost any grade of society. Yet Dick Jervoise, who
+in common with certain others who knew the truth concerning her, always
+avoided being seen with her in public.
+
+Owen Odd, on the other hand, had been attracted towards her from
+the first moment of her introduction by Dick, and, notwithstanding
+the latter’s veiled warnings, he had managed to snatch two or three
+evenings away from his practice to take her to theatres. He found the
+romance surrounding her particularly fascinating, for was she not to
+the world a mystery?
+
+“The affair becomes more complicated, Alza,” Dick exclaimed at last.
+“Somehow I can’t quite conceive that Bourtzeff has ever had any
+dealings with Paul.”
+
+“That remains to be seen,” she said. “You know Bourtzeff almost as well
+as I do.”
+
+“And for that reason I do not think it wise for you to live here alone
+and watch him. Remember he has spies ever about him.”
+
+“My dear M’sieur Jervoise, I am quite capable of taking care of
+myself,” she cried, laughing his fears to scorn. “Already I am trying
+to ascertain why Grinevitch decided to come to London, and I hope soon
+to learn something.”
+
+“Ah! Yes. It will be interesting,” said the man. “But do you suspect
+Bourtzeff?”
+
+“At present I suspect nobody. First, let me discover the reason of Paul
+Grinevitch’s sudden decision. Then, perhaps, we can form some theory.
+At present, I can only watch.”
+
+“Rather dull for you in Middleton,” he laughed. “The place is never
+very exciting even in summer, but at this time of year it must be
+pretty quiet.”
+
+“As an artist, my dear m’sieur, I can adapt myself to any mode of
+life,” she declared with a light laugh. “In this affair I have an
+object, you will recollect—a personal interest.”
+
+“A personal vengeance,” he said, correcting her, in a low, meaning
+voice.
+
+“Well, if you choose to put it so,” she said in a changed voice. Then
+she added: “Though you were unaware of my presence, I’ve seen you in
+the neighbourhood of Ingarsby on two or three occasions. I saw you
+walking with two young ladies on the Bulwick road one afternoon, and
+twice you’ve passed me in a motor car without recognising me.”
+
+“Ah! you wore a veil, I suppose!”
+
+“Certainly. Mourning always suits me well, you know!” she laughed.
+
+“And how does this Siegler pass his time?” he inquired. “The doctor, of
+course, has no idea of his identity?”
+
+“No. Everyone believes him to be a German professor of botany. He is
+friendly with several people in the neighbourhood. In fact, he’s dining
+out this evening at a house about two miles from here. When I leave
+you, I’m going across there to try and discover something concerning
+these friends of his.”
+
+“What’s their name?”
+
+“Sedgwick, I believe it is. They are a father, mother, and two
+daughters, and live in a big, old-fashioned, ivy-covered house lying
+back from the road not far from a place called the Holy Well. Some fine
+cedars stand on the lawn.”
+
+“Sedgwick!” exclaimed Dick Jervoise. “I happen to know the Sedgwicks,
+of Blaston! Does he know them?”
+
+“He went there to dine this evening, I tell you. He and the doctor
+drove over in the dog-cart. They passed me on this road.”
+
+“My dear Alza, you’re a very remarkable woman!” he ejaculated. “By
+Jove! nothing seems to escape you.”
+
+“When my mind is set upon accomplishing something, no power on earth
+turns me against it. You know me well enough,” was her answer. “In
+this affair I have an object in view—a distinct object. Whether I
+remain here for a day, or for a year, it is, to me, immaterial. I shall
+accomplish it. You asked me for advice—you asked my assistance. As for
+advice, I urge you once again to beware of that man who calls himself
+your friend—Doctor Odd.”
+
+“But why? I don’t understand.”
+
+“I need not go into details, M’sieur Dick,” answered the woman,
+standing there in the darkness. “Indeed, that is not my habit. I am
+working in your interests—in those of Thyra; and also—well, I do
+not deny it; why should I?—in my own. Since I saw you last, sixteen
+days ago, I have again seen your friend the doctor. Oh! he was
+very charming. He took me to the play, and to the Savoy to supper
+afterwards. I accepted his invitation that evening for one reason
+alone. I wanted to ascertain something.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I was successful. I discovered what I wanted to know. I discovered
+that he was not your friend.”
+
+“Not my friend? How can you tell that?”
+
+“He has seen Thyra,” was her slow reply. “He slipped across the Channel
+to meet her—to tell her of his suspicions, I expect.”
+
+“You think so?” gasped Jervoise, standing rigid before her. “He
+suspects me!”
+
+“Yes. That is my surmise. But I had one truth—from his own lips—that he
+loves her!”
+
+“Loves her!” echoed her companion in a hollow voice. “Why, he has
+always given me to understand——”
+
+“My dear M’sieur Dick,” interrupted the mysterious woman, whose face he
+could only indistinctly distinguish. “That’s just it! You are so very
+confiding, so easily misled. It is your failing, if I may be forgiven
+for saying so. That man loves Thyra; hence he is no longer your friend,
+but rather your most bitter enemy! Ah! yes. You will discover the truth
+ere long. He loves her—_loves her_!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+STRANGERS IN LONDON
+
+
+In one of the luxurious pale blue and white sitting-rooms in the Hotel
+Ritz in Piccadilly, Peter Sundt, the millionaire of stock-fish, lounged
+lazily by the fire, smoking an expensive cigar.
+
+His well-cut frock coat, smart fancy vest, carefully-trimmed moustache,
+and hair arranged with care, gave him a somewhat gentlemanly
+appearance, though his red and rather pimply face was coarse, his hands
+rough, and his manner betrayed his plebeian birth and the struggles of
+his fisher days.
+
+The man for whom thousands were at that moment netting those cold, dark
+icy seas, whose nauseous-smelling boileries supplied three parts of the
+whole world’s produce of that boon to the consumptive, cod-liver oil,
+whose fishing fleets were spread all across the Arctic seas, and whose
+influence in Norway was almost equal to that of the Prime Minister
+himself, sat regarding his visitor with narrowed brows.
+
+Upon the hand holding his cigar a fine diamond flashed in the
+firelight, and removing his gaze from the pale, drawn face of the man
+seated opposite him, he thoughtfully contemplated the ash, waiting for
+a reply to his question.
+
+His visitor was the grey-bearded, bluff old sailor, Jorgen Berentsen.
+
+Outside in Piccadilly the short, grey, January afternoon was drawing to
+a close. The great arc lamps were already lit, though it was not yet
+dark, and the roar of the traffic reached the two men, notwithstanding
+the double windows. One window of the room looked away across the Green
+Park towards Buckingham Palace, the other upon the life and movement of
+Piccadilly itself.
+
+“Well?” asked Sundt at last, speaking in Norwegian. “I invited you to
+come here because I want to know the truth, Jorgen. You know it. Come,
+tell me.”
+
+“I have already replied. I do not know the truth.”
+
+“You mean that you refuse to tell me!” cried the red-faced man, his
+dark eyes flashing angrily. “Do you recollect what I told you in your
+own house up at Vardo?”
+
+“I do—perfectly,” replied the other in a strained voice quite unusual
+to him.
+
+“Then why have you not heeded? If you had taken my advice long ago you
+could have become a rich man, left your wretched northern tomb, and
+lived away in the south in the sunshine and flowers, as I do.”
+
+“Thank you,” replied the old sailor. “I am perfectly happy as I am.
+Thyra is returning with me—to live as we lived before.”
+
+“You’re mad, man. Do you actually intend to take the girl back to the
+rough Arctic life in that most dismal hole on all our coast?”
+
+“She wishes it.”
+
+Sundt shrugged his shoulders in impatience, and drew heavily at his
+cigar.
+
+“Then all I have to say, Jorgen, is that you are very foolish. She
+would be far better in Christiania, or even in Paris. You have a sister
+living there. I remember her when I was a boy.”
+
+“My child wishes to go north with me. Therefore I shall agree. Surely
+her married life was brief enough, and fraught with sufficient
+ill-fortune.”
+
+“Yes,” sighed the cod-liver oil manufacturer. “It was a most painful
+and mysterious affair. I was at Havre at the time, and didn’t hear of
+it until nearly a week later. The French papers are somehow always slow
+in reporting events in Norway. As soon as I read about it I telegraphed
+to you, and to her, my condolences.”
+
+“We received them,” replied the old harbour-master quietly.
+
+“My yacht took me from Vardo on the morning following my call upon you,
+and I was fortunate in catching the mail boat south from Hammerfest.
+Otherwise I suppose I should have travelled down by the _Mercur_ with
+you all. But it must have been a most painful affair!” he declared with
+a sigh. “Poor girl! she has no doubt felt it terribly—after only a few
+hours of marriage.”
+
+“The mystery of it all is most puzzling,” declared the elder man. “You
+read the details afterwards, I expect, in the Norwegian papers.”
+
+“I did. It was most extraordinary. Every feature of the case seemed
+mysterious. Even Thyra did not, on that fatal afternoon, pay the visit
+she was supposed to have made; or, at least, that is what one of the
+papers, which assisted the police in their inquiries, declared.”
+
+“That fact is, I fear, correct,” answered Berentsen with a sigh.
+
+“And has your daughter ever told you the true story of her movements on
+that fatal afternoon?” inquired the red-faced man with a curious look
+in his searching eyes.
+
+“Unfortunately, she refuses. It is her own affair, she says. She
+resents any inquisitiveness as to where she went during her absence
+from her husband.”
+
+“Has it not struck you, my dear Jorgen, as somewhat curious that she
+should, on the very first day of her marriage, make an excuse to her
+husband, and go forth to keep some clandestine appointment—for that it
+was, without a doubt?”
+
+“Whatever her movements were, they were in no way dishonourable,
+Peter,” replied the bluff old man. “Thyra would never deceive the man
+she loved.”
+
+“But, my dear friend, she did deceive him. Even you, her father, must
+acknowledge that. She made an excuse to meet somebody. And she has kept
+her secret from the police, and from everybody.”
+
+“You speak as though her secret, as you call it, were a guilty one!”
+cried her father, reddening with anger.
+
+“My dear Jorgen, please do not misunderstand me! I have viewed the
+whole of the tragic and mysterious circumstances from every standpoint,
+and have arrived at one conclusion—the only one possible in the
+circumstances—that Paul Grinevitch was murdered through jealousy. And
+the man loved Thyra—still loves her, without a doubt. That man is the
+assassin, depend upon it. The natural theory is that she consented
+to meet him for the last time in Christiania that afternoon, to bid
+adieu. They met. Then the lover, seized by a paroxysm of hatred towards
+the bridegroom, hastened to the hotel, before she could reach it, and
+struck him down.”
+
+“But the visitor—that woman in black! The sending of the blank message
+to Nystrom, and the sudden decision to cross to London. Did they have
+no connection whatever with the crime?”
+
+“None, I think,” Sundt replied slowly, twisting the diamond ring around
+his finger. “The crime was undoubtedly committed by some man who was
+passionately in love with your daughter, and who believed, by ridding
+her of Grinevitch, he might eventually take the dead man’s place.”
+
+“No man will ever take Paul Grinevitch’s place in my child’s heart,”
+declared the old harbour-master vehemently, as he sat staring straight
+before him. “It is all so cruel and bitter! As though my poor girl had
+not sufficient to bear, the gossips in Christiania spoke all sorts of
+hard things of her, hinting at some love affair while she was still at
+school there, and declaring, as you have just declared, that she had
+a secret lover, by whose hand her husband had been struck down. Ah!”
+he cried. “It is cruel—too cruel! Christiania is the most gossiping
+place in all Europe. Why, some evil-natured person actually made an
+allegation that my poor child was privy to her husband’s death—that she
+went out purposely while the dastardly deed was accomplished!”
+
+“Yes, Jorgen, I, too, heard that same report,” remarked the great man
+slowly. “Scandalous though it was to invent such a theory, yet——”
+
+“Yet what?” asked the grey-bearded man quickly.
+
+“Well, there are so many unsolved mysteries connected with the young
+man’s death, that one does not know really where to commence. I think
+I’m correct in saying that not a single one of those mysteries has yet
+been elucidated—not even the identity of the young lady in mourning.”
+
+“The police bungled the inquiry from the very beginning. The
+intelligence of our police of Norway cannot be compared with that of
+even Denmark.”
+
+“To me it is very curious that a woman could have gone boldly to the
+room of a man just married during his wife’s absence, remain there
+in consultation for a considerable period, and be seen to the lift,
+and then leave the hotel, and disappear completely off the face of
+the earth,” declared the man with the pimply face. “It seems utterly
+incredible. Either the Christiania police are utter blockheads, or else
+the whole affair was a most marvellous conspiracy.”
+
+“The latter, I’m inclined to think, Peter. My own opinion is that
+jealousy had nothing whatever to do with the death of Paul Grinevitch.”
+
+Peter Sundt smiled incredulously, blew some particles of tobacco ash
+from his coat sleeve, and raised his eyes to the man before him.
+
+“Tell me, Jorgen,” he demanded at last. “What did you know about young
+Grinevitch? What did he explain to you concerning himself?”
+
+The grey-bearded old sailor regarded his questioner uneasily. Then,
+after some hesitation, he answered:
+
+“Well, the fact is, he told me very little, except what I had already
+discovered. When he asked for my daughter’s hand, he explained that his
+family was a highly influential and respected one in Moscow, that his
+father’s estates were in the Government of Tula, that his mother was
+dead, and that he had one sister living, married to the Governor in
+Kiev.”
+
+Peter Sundt nodded with evident satisfaction.
+
+“But as regards his means?”
+
+“Beyond his pay as a lieutenant in the Imperial Guard, he had an
+allowance from his father of twenty thousand kroners a year.”
+
+“H’m! A little over a thousand a year in English money,” remarked
+Peter. “They might have lived comfortably upon that. Was there no other
+source of income?”
+
+Old Jorgen started quickly, and looked the stock-fish millionaire
+straight in the face.
+
+“What—what do you mean?” he inquired.
+
+“Paul Grinevitch told you the truth, I suppose? He surely would not
+deceive the father of the woman he was about to make his wife.”
+
+“I have no reason to disbelieve anything that he told me.”
+
+“Then he explained to you something in confidence, eh?”
+
+“Well, he did,” admitted the elder man.
+
+“And yet you allowed him to marry Thyra,” observed the other
+reproachfully.
+
+“They loved each other.”
+
+“Bosh! The fellow’s good looks attracted her. That was all. He was her
+first love.”
+
+“Then you apparently know more of Grinevitch than you’ve ever admitted,
+Peter,” Jorgen remarked at last.
+
+A dead silence fell. From without came the dull roar of the London
+traffic in Piccadilly, with the occasional “honk” of the horns of
+taxi-cabs. But within the luxurious room the two men sat on either side
+of the fire, each knowing that the other was his bitterest enemy.
+
+Jorgen Berentsen had not forgotten the hard meaning words which Peter
+Sundt had uttered on the last occasion when he had come to see him at
+Vardo. Neither had Sundt forgotten the harbour-master’s open defiance.
+
+“Paul Grinevitch was not exactly what he represented himself to be,
+eh?” Sundt declared decisively.
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“Because I took the trouble to institute some inquiries in Russia. You
+have told me that Thyra loved him. Well, if she did, then she may,
+after all, congratulate herself upon her freedom.”
+
+“I don’t quite follow you.”
+
+“Then let me speak a little plainer, shall I? Let me point out one fact
+which you, and everyone else, have overlooked; a fact that is patent,
+and may possibly lead to a clue to the assassin.”
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“You will remember that on your journey south you had as
+fellow-passengers two Englishmen—one a doctor named Odd, and the other
+a man named Jervoise.”
+
+“Perfectly. Very pleasant young fellows.”
+
+“Both were very friendly with Thyra, were they not?”
+
+“I believe so. She used to chatter with them in English, and, moreover,
+they came to the marriage feast, invited by Grinevitch.”
+
+“I am aware of that,” said the other. “I am aware, too, that they
+travelled to Christiania by the same train as the pair, and that
+Richard Jervoise was greatly attracted by Thyra. That Englishman loved
+your daughter, Jorgen.”
+
+“And what of that? She is very beautiful, as you yourself have many
+times acknowledged. Many men in various walks of life have been
+attracted by her.”
+
+“None more so than this Richard Jervoise,” was the red-faced man’s hard
+reply. “And there are certain facts which are, in themselves, very
+remarkable.”
+
+“What facts?”
+
+“The two Englishmen were in Christiania together on the day of Paul’s
+death,” Sundt said. “Well, yesterday I called upon Doctor Odd at his
+surgery, and after some careful questioning, established the fact that
+all the afternoon of the tragic affair Jervoise was absent from the
+Grand Hotel.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Thyra was absent from her husband, and——”
+
+“What!” cried the old man, starting up angrily. “What, you insinuate
+something against my daughter’s good name. You, who——”
+
+“I insinuate nothing, my dear Jorgen,” replied the man who supplied the
+world with its cod-liver oil. “I merely point out two facts which are
+indisputable. And I would add two others—namely, that it happens to be
+within my own personal knowledge that Paul Grinevitch was not at all
+the person he represented himself to be, and, secondly——”
+
+He paused, without concluding his sentence.
+
+“And secondly what?” demanded the old harbour-master with a frown.
+
+“Secondly, Richard Jervoise and Paul Grinevitch met several years ago,
+and they were the bitterest of enemies. This man Jervoise found the
+young Russian on the eve of marriage with the girl with whom he had so
+suddenly fallen desperately in love. And—and,” he added. “Well, I leave
+you, Jorgen, to form your own conclusions.”
+
+The old harbour-master sank back in his silken chair, as though he had
+been smitten a staggering blow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+THYRA MAKES AN ADMISSION
+
+
+That same afternoon Dick Jervoise had stood for a considerable time
+watching at the long window of his sitting-room in that great block of
+red-brick flats at Castelnau, on the Barnes side of Hammersmith Bridge.
+
+The view across the wide reservoirs and up the Thames beyond old-world
+Chiswick and its Mall was one of the most extensive and picturesque
+in the immediate environs of London. His were cosy quarters. He had
+chosen them for two reasons; first to be near Owen, whose surgery was
+in Bridge Avenue, just over the long suspension bridge, and second
+because it was an open spot, with plenty of light and fresh air both
+back and front. His rooms were not extensive, but quite sufficient
+for the simple wants of a bachelor. The sitting-room was a square,
+good-sized apartment papered a dark red, with well-filled book-cases,
+a big, old-fashioned sideboard, whereon were two or three pieces of
+antique silver, and in a corner a large, roll-top writing-desk with the
+telephone instrument upon it.
+
+On the table in the centre stood a big epergne of sweet-smelling
+mimosa, bringing with it a fragrance from the Riviera, and before the
+bright fire stood two inviting armchairs. That room, as were also the
+dining-room and the bedroom, was the very acme of bachelor comfort, for
+he had furnished them with considerable taste in order to make cosy
+quarters for himself when in London.
+
+One room beyond the kitchen was, indeed, piled with battered
+travelling cases and the impedimenta he sometimes used on his longer
+expeditions, the articles ranging from a tent to a luggage label.
+
+The titles of the books lining that well-warmed, little den were
+sufficient index to the character of its owner. They were mostly works
+on archæology or folk-lore, and many of them, being extremely rare, he
+had purchased at high prices.
+
+Standing at the long French window which opened upon a narrow balcony,
+where a row of variegated laurels flourished in long boxes, he stood
+eagerly watching every vehicle as it crossed the bridge from the
+Hammersmith side.
+
+His face was pale and serious, and it was apparent that his nerves were
+at their highest tension.
+
+Time after time he glanced back anxiously at the Chippendale clock upon
+the mantelshelf, and then stood breathlessly waiting.
+
+The roadway below was one of the chief highways out of the metropolis,
+and led to Wimbledon, Richmond, Kingston-on-Thames, and the open
+country beyond. Hence, as he watched, hundreds of motor cars and motor
+’buses whirred along over the bridge, and away along the broad road
+towards Barnes Common and Mortlake.
+
+Slowly the light faded. Already the lamps on the great bridge had
+begun to glimmer, and lights were shining on the river bank across at
+Chiswick.
+
+Suddenly a taxicab slowed up after it had crossed the bridge, and came
+quietly towards the kerb. Dick caught sight of a face within, and next
+instant dashed down the stairs.
+
+In the entrance he grasped the hand of the visitor he had been so
+anxiously awaiting.
+
+It was Thyra.
+
+Together they ascended to the second floor, and he ushered her into his
+sitting-room. She entered the flat timidly, for was not her visit a
+clandestine one!
+
+Within, he helped her off with her fur coat and boa, and pulled one of
+the big armchairs before the fire, saying:
+
+“I began to fear that you could not get away, or that you didn’t
+receive my message.”
+
+“I was compelled to wait until my father went out. He had an
+appointment with somebody.”
+
+“With whom?”
+
+“He did not tell me. As soon as he had gone I slipped out, hailed a
+cab, and gave the driver your address. But oh! how utterly bewildering
+is your great London! I have driven miles and miles. I had no idea that
+London was so huge.”
+
+He smiled at her as, standing with his back to the fire, he gazed upon
+her, noting how extremely handsome she was. Her neat mourning enhanced
+her pale beauty, yet as she raised her great grey eyes to his, he saw
+them shadowed, and full of weariness.
+
+He had not seen her since that grey afternoon when, four days after the
+tragedy, he had called upon her in Christiania to wish her adieu. They
+had written to each other several times until she had announced her
+impending arrival in London, and he had sent her that urgent message to
+come and see him.
+
+“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he stammered, after a painful pause.
+
+“And I, too, have been longing to see you, Mr. Jervoise,” she said.
+“There were things I wished to speak about which I dare not write in
+letters.” And instinctively she glanced at the closed door.
+
+“You need have no fear,” he assured her. “My man is out, and we are
+entirely alone.”
+
+She glanced round the room with her great wide-open eyes, so full of
+childish innocence. Everything English was so new to her, everything
+interested or astonished her. She had regarded Christiania, with real
+trees in its streets, as a terrestrial paradise, but London, with its
+great parks, miles of streets, and bustling millions, was assuredly a
+universe in itself.
+
+“Nobody must know that we have met,” she said in an anxious tone.
+“Remember our secret!”
+
+“Your secret is entirely safe with me, Thyra—if I may be permitted to
+call you by your Christian name,” he answered in a deep, earnest voice.
+
+“I know it is! I feel I can trust in you, Mr. Jervoise. You are indeed
+my friend.”
+
+“Yes. I am your friend,” he repeated, looking straight into those eyes,
+so wonderfully clear and yet wearing that strange, hunted look that he
+had never before seen in them.
+
+“Nobody suspects?” she asked the next moment in a hoarse whisper,
+bending forward in her chair towards him.
+
+“Nobody. Our secret is quite safe.”
+
+She stirred, and rearranged her skirts, his words having reassured her.
+
+London! When, three days ago, she had landed at Tilbury with her
+father from Gothenburg, she had been filled with childish joy at the
+mere thought that London was near. London! The long-dreamed-of city
+of wonders, the world’s metropolis, the home of all splendours, all
+delights—London, the home of Richard Jervoise.
+
+She had, however, dreaded that meeting. She knew that to see him
+again was imperative, yet she anticipated the encounter with fear and
+misgiving—nay, with something akin to horror. Nevertheless, on receipt
+of his dreaded demand, she had braced herself up, and now faced the
+ordeal unflinchingly.
+
+As Dick Jervoise stood still looking into those splendid eyes, he read
+what was passing in her mind.
+
+“Thyra!” he said slowly, in a very low, impressive voice. “You are
+apprehensive—far too apprehensive. You are unnerved, I fear. Pray calm
+yourself, or your very attitude may excite suspicion.”
+
+“Ah!” she cried, putting her gloved hands out before her. “How can I
+act otherwise? How can I remain calm with this terrible torture of
+conscience upon my mind?”
+
+And she rose from her chair, tall and willowy, and stood before him,
+her fair head bowed.
+
+“Come,” he said, placing his hand upon her slim shoulder tenderly, “you
+must learn to conceal all these fears of yours if you would hide our
+secret from the world.”
+
+“But somehow—well, somehow I cannot!” she declared wildly, her face now
+pale and drawn. “Heaven knows what a struggle I constantly have with my
+own heart—my own conscience!”
+
+“No, no!” he said, firmly yet gently. “Dismiss all that from your
+mind. Nobody is aware of our meeting in Christiania on that fateful
+afternoon, and——”
+
+“Ah! If I had only had the courage to refuse to keep that appointment
+with you! It was not right—it was unjust—unjust to Paul.”
+
+“No,” he said quite frankly. “What I did was entirely in your
+interests, Thyra. You have already admitted that. Our secret is
+safe—therefore why need we trouble further?”
+
+“I had no proof of what you told me,” she protested quickly. “It was
+a remarkable story, but you could not bring the slightest evidence to
+substantiate a single word of it.”
+
+“You will have ample proof in due course,” he said. “I promise you
+that.”
+
+“Somehow you never seem to realise our mutual danger,” she exclaimed.
+“I am a woman, and perhaps I can see further ahead than you. Has it
+never struck you that your friend Dr. Odd may have suspected our secret
+meeting on that afternoon?”
+
+“And, pray, what if he does? The suspicion cannot be substantiated. I
+have already taken very good care of that. The police are still making
+inquiries,” he added with a grim smile. “They arrested some poor devil
+of a waiter the other day, I hear, and had to release him after a few
+hours’ detention.”
+
+“You laugh!” she cried, her eyes flashing in quick protest. “_You!_”
+
+“I laugh because you and I know he is innocent,” was his brief yet
+indefinite answer. “But,” he added, “tell me one thing, Thyra. Did
+Paul ever mention to you the name of a friend of his called Nicholas
+Bourtzeff?”
+
+“Bourtzeff? No. I never heard him mention the name,” she responded,
+shaking her head.
+
+“And he never mentioned any friend of his living in London—at that
+address in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, which he telegraphed to your
+father?”
+
+“Never. I had not the slightest idea of his intention of coming to
+London, or that he possessed any friend here.”
+
+Dick Jervoise smiled within himself when he recollected Alza’s dogged
+tenaciousness to the clue which she believed she had discovered. When
+the fire of vengeance once burns in a woman’s heart, it is indeed
+unquenchable.
+
+It had grown quite dark now, and the room was only illuminated by the
+uncertain flicker of the fire.
+
+“Are you positive that your friend, the doctor, is still unsuspicious?”
+she asked him in a low, strained voice at last.
+
+“Of course. Whatever causes you such ridiculous apprehension?”
+
+“Because—well, because I am not convinced yet that our secret is
+absolutely safe,” was her reply. “Suppose the truth were ever
+discovered, the truth of what occurred that evening? Where should we
+both be? You remember your words!”
+
+The man standing with her against the mantelshelf bit his lips, but he
+remained silent.
+
+The shadow of a guilty secret was upon his brow.
+
+He held his breath, and the hand that sought hers trembled.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE BOND OF SILENCE
+
+
+Two days later Dick Jervoise called upon Captain Berentsen and his
+daughter at the house in Talbot Road, Bayswater, where they had
+established themselves in apartments. The first-floor rooms of the
+usual London lodging type had been recommended to them by some friends
+in Christiania, and as Dick was shown up by the maid-of-all-work he
+greeted Thyra, in pretence that they had not already met in secret.
+
+The old captain invited him to remain and have tea. They expected to
+stay in London for a month at least, he said—indeed, until the long
+Arctic night at Vardo had passed, when they would return to their
+treeless coast again.
+
+In his thick, blue reefer suit, and with a distinctly nautical air, the
+old fellow looked strangely out of place in a Bayswater lodging. He had
+made no mention to Thyra of his visit to Peter Sundt. He was absent on
+many occasions “doing business,” as he had explained to her.
+
+Dick offered to show London to Thyra, an offer which was gladly
+accepted. Therefore, on the following day, he again called, and,
+finding her alone, they went forth together.
+
+Her attitude towards him was at once friendly and mysterious. It seemed
+as though, while she held him in distinct disfavour, in abhorrence, yet
+somehow he exercised over her a power which was inexorable, as though,
+almost, he held her beneath a spell.
+
+That her mind was full of the terrible tragedy of a few months before
+was shown by the frequent sighs that would escape her, and by her
+constant dread of their secret being suspected.
+
+In that dread secret between them lay the power and influence which
+Dick Jervoise possessed over her. And, somehow, in those covert
+glances of hers there was another and yet more curious expression—the
+expression of admiration, even of devotion.
+
+How full of strange incoherence and contradiction is the soul of woman!
+
+Thyra was thankful to Dick for his offer to take her to see London. The
+few days she had spent in that Bayswater lodging with her father absent
+had been very dismal and dispiriting. It rained almost incessantly;
+the sitting-room with the lace curtains, the cheap ornaments upon
+the mantelshelf, and the strong-smelling apples upon the mahogany
+sideboard, was oppressed the whole day long by a grey twilight.
+
+Occasional hansoms or tradesmen’s carts passed along the melancholy
+street into the square beyond, and the tempestuous wind, which made
+the room draughty, howled incessantly, the whole making on Thyra an
+impression of unutterable dreariness.
+
+The splendid city of her dreams, the great and brilliant London, seemed
+pervaded by this howling wind, that had followed her from the icy sea
+at Vardo, through which sounded the roar of a thousand other voices,
+the ceaseless roar of the traffic, the booming of toilsome life, dismal
+under never-ending rain.
+
+With profound tenderness Dick Jervoise took her forth to show her
+some of the principal “sights”—the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham
+Palace, the National Gallery, and such-like institutions of which
+London boasts, but of which the average Londoner knows nothing. The
+first morning they spent in the British Museum, after which he gave her
+luncheon at the Trocadero, where the life, movement, and music brought
+back to her some of her old brightness.
+
+Many of her naive remarks filled him with amusement. On the night of
+her arrival in London she had, it appeared, believed the asphalte
+roadways to be polished; but now they were drying she had discovered
+her mistake.
+
+The weather had cleared after luncheon, and they walked down Regent
+Street and through the Strand to the law Courts, where for a few
+moments they sat listening to counsel making an able defence in some
+Chancery action. Then they took a motor-omnibus to Trafalgar Square,
+where he showed her the lions and the Nelson monument, after which they
+entered the National Gallery and took a cursory glance at some of the
+art-treasures preserved there.
+
+She examined everything with the keen inquisitiveness of a child, while
+he, on his part, took the greatest interest in showing and explaining
+everything.
+
+The crowds and hustle of the Strand bewildered her. More than once, as
+they passed along, he noticed men’s heads turned to admire her striking
+beauty. But, all unconscious of the sensation she created, she walked
+on at his side listening intently to his explanations.
+
+There was a bond between them—a bond that was unbreakable. She could
+not disguise that fact from herself. Were it not for that one thought,
+grim and terrible, she would have been happy, perhaps even been able to
+forget the black shadow that had so suddenly fallen upon and clouded
+her young life.
+
+Along Pall Mall they went, and up St. James’s Street. He pointed out
+Marlborough House, St. James’s Palace, the various clubs—including his
+own, a great, dark, smoke-blackened building close to Piccadilly.
+
+As they passed, the liveried hall-porter, who chanced to be standing
+upon the steps, recognised and saluted him.
+
+She peered within the hall with curiosity, and inquired what the place
+was like inside. She had never seen a club before.
+
+“It looks very old,” she declared, gazing at the sombre but handsome
+exterior.
+
+“Over a century and a half ago it was opened,” he answered. “At that
+time it was the principal gaming-club in London, and huge sums were
+lost and won here every night. Nowadays it is a place where men dine
+and smoke and chat, and into which no lady is ever allowed to set her
+foot.”
+
+“Isn’t that rather selfish?” she laughed.
+
+But he explained to her that there were also ladies’ clubs, known to
+the irreverent men as “catteries.”
+
+As they turned into Piccadilly she half closed her eyes, and before
+her there arose a vision of the man so suddenly snatched from her.
+Instantly she hated the tall Englishman striding along at her side. Her
+depression reasserted itself.
+
+Twilight was falling. The people passed rapidly along the pavements,
+umbrellas under their arms; here and there the lights were springing
+up in the shops, and through the moist air strayed the odours of the
+stream of motor-omnibuses and private cars with the confused noise that
+dulled her senses.
+
+That man, walking by her side in silence, gave her a vague sensation of
+terror.
+
+She fixed her great eyes upon the crowd, fascinated by the coming and
+going, as by the flowing of a stream. Dick, the man who, with her, held
+the secret, uttered some words, but she did not heed them. Casting her
+eyes upward, she saw the network of telegraph wires hiding the grey
+sky, and it renewed her oppression.
+
+The elegance of the women who passed her caused her envy. It was
+impossible that there could be so many shapely or beautiful women in
+London. They were all painted and padded and powdered, and some had
+false hair. Oh, yes—she knew! Those London women were artificial,
+unreal, “made up” by their hairdressers, their tailors and their maids.
+They were women of falsity, corruption and hidden misery.
+
+And this was London!
+
+Dick fixed his enamoured eyes upon her, and seeing the strange
+expression upon the beloved features, fell to wondering.
+
+He hailed a passing taxicab at the corner of Park Lane, and drove to
+Westbourne Grove, for she had expressed a desire to look at the windows
+of the drapers’ shops there. Besides, it was close to her home.
+
+For a long time she enjoyed the delights of the goods so temptingly
+displayed in the windows. A hat she saw there—the latest French
+creation—interested her far more than the Madonna of Raphael, while
+over an evening gown in cream lace she went into ecstasies. How would
+she herself look in it, she wondered?
+
+Before those gaily lit windows her oppression again vanished.
+
+“Look!” she cried in childish delight. “Look at that lovely lace. How
+exquisite! And that _robe de chambre_—you call it tea-gown. Is it not a
+lovely colour? It would suit a blonde to perfection. Ah! I have never
+seen in Christiania such lovely things as these! Very costly. I suppose
+they are—far too costly for me.”
+
+And she ran on in that strain, while her companion stood behind her,
+much amused at her excitement and at her pretty broken English.
+
+At the side of one of the windows was a long mirror, in which she
+examined herself from top to toe. He noticed it, and smiling, forgave
+her the little feminine vanity.
+
+They turned down a dark street of private houses, and the moment they
+had left the shops Thyra felt the weight of sadness again upon her soul.
+
+There arose that phantom of the past—the white face of the man
+now lying in his grave. She shuddered, and went on down the dull,
+melancholy street in silence. The man at her side was no longer the
+tall, good-looking Englishman she had met at Vardo, but an evil shadow
+that haunted her everywhere.
+
+Yet she could not evade him. How could she?
+
+“What if the world knew!” she reflected as she walked along at his
+side. “What if the shameful truth ever became known? How would the
+world judge her—and him?”
+
+In the cheaply furnished upstairs drawing-room in Talbot Road they
+found that the Captain had not returned. Therefore Thyra rang for the
+tea, while her companion stirred the fire and lit the gas. Then she
+went into the next room to remove her hat.
+
+When alone, he stood staring blankly into the fire in deep reflection.
+Was he not playing a very dangerous game? he asked himself. Were not
+they both in equal peril? What if Owen discovered his visits, and that
+he was her constant escort about the town? Already his friend, he knew,
+entertained certain suspicions which might very easily be confirmed by
+this too frequent companionship.
+
+And yet, when he thought over it all—when he came to reflect—how
+could he keep apart from her? True, her husband had only been
+dead a few brief months. Yet there were circumstances quite
+exceptional—circumstances which none knew beside their own two selves.
+
+A few moments later, having taken off her hat and furs, she re-entered
+the room and poured out his tea.
+
+He watched all her movements with eyes full of admiration. She had
+sipped her tea in silence, her gaze fixed upon the flames.
+
+Then, of a sudden, she raised her face to his. He saw it was pale and
+anxious. Upon her countenance the shadows had deepened, like a black,
+impalpable cloud. She glanced across at the door, as though to reassure
+herself that it was closed.
+
+Then, looking him in the face, she whispered:
+
+“I have just been thinking that if you are in my company too much, your
+friend, Doctor Odd, might suspect!”
+
+He started. She had voiced his own thoughts of only a few moments
+before.
+
+“Well—let him suspect,” her companion answered, laughing quietly. “Of
+what can he accuse us?”
+
+She placed her white hand upon his; he felt it trembling.
+
+“Ah, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “Do not let us discuss it! Let us
+both take every precaution. We are in peril—you have said so yourself.
+We have enemies—both of us. Therefore it behoves us to beware!”
+
+“I know,” he said, placing his hand upon her shoulder reassuringly.
+“But you are too apprehensive, Thyra. Leave all to me. No one knows the
+truth—and no one shall ever learn it.”
+
+Thus, ignorant of Peter Sundt’s statement to the Captain—ignorant,
+indeed, that the ruler of those northern settlements was in London, or
+that he had discovered Dick’s previous knowledge of the dead man—the
+pair remained conversing and exchanging confidences, Thyra receiving
+from her companion certain instructions how to act.
+
+Notwithstanding all these precautions they were taking to avoid any
+revelation of a ghastly truth, the pitfall—a secret and well-concealed
+one—now lay open before them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+CONTAINS A PROBLEM
+
+
+It was just past ten o’clock one bitterly cold night about ten days
+later.
+
+Owen Odd was in his narrow, stuffy little surgery, bending over
+a memorandum-book in which he was making some notes with his
+fountain-pen. For four mortal hours—ever since six o’clock indeed—his
+waiting-room had been crowded by lower-class patients, many of them in
+receipt of medical relief from the parish of Hammersmith; others club
+patients, mothers with peevish babies, and honest working men suffering
+from various ills.
+
+Now, however, he had dismissed the last one, washed his hands, and was
+putting down certain addresses to add to his visits next morning, prior
+to eating his lonely evening meal in the shabby dining-room upstairs.
+
+The surgery was reached by a basement door at the side, over which
+burned the red lamp. Dr. Maureward, his principal, lived over at
+Chiswick, where he had another practice, while Odd occupied that small
+and poky house in the centre of a street in which nearly every window
+bore the legend “Apartments.”
+
+Owen was an indefatigable worker. He loved his profession, even though
+the work among the poor was terribly fagging, and his daily visits
+extended over a wide and populous area from the Hammersmith infirmary
+over at Wormwood Scrubbs, away to private patients at West Kensington
+and Barnes Common.
+
+He closed his book with a sigh, and was about to turn down the gas when
+an elderly maidservant entered, saying:
+
+“You’re wanted, sir.”
+
+“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed irritably. “Am I never to have a moment’s
+peace? Who is it now?”
+
+“A young woman, sir.”
+
+“Well, show her in; and, Margaret, keep my dinner warm—it may be
+nothing.”
+
+The next minute a tidily dressed maidservant was ushered into the
+surgery. Her white apron and cuffs showing beneath the jacket she was
+wearing, and her hat somewhat awry, gave evidence of the haste with
+which she had come.
+
+“Good-evening,” said Owen, rising. “What can I do for you, pray?”
+
+“Would you come at once, the missus says; the master has been taken bad
+again very sudden.”
+
+“Ah! What’s the matter? And where does your master live?”
+
+“’Eart, I fancy it is. He went queer like all on a sudden, and can’t
+get his wind. And our flat’s No. 2, Plevna Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush,
+and will you come at once, please?”
+
+“Heart, is it? Well, I’ll come,” said Owen with a sigh, as the thought
+of his delayed, and probably spoilt, dinner flashed across his mind.
+“Tell your mistress I’ll be there almost as soon as you are,” opening
+the surgery door for the girl. “By the bye, what is your master’s name?”
+
+“Major Gordon, please, sir.”
+
+“All right; I’ll come.” And, shutting the door, he turned to the
+shelves that lined the surgery, and selected two or three phials
+containing the drugs applicable to cases of “heart,” and placed them
+in the brown leather hand-bag which so often accompanied him on his
+professional rounds; and then, as he wrapped a comforter round his
+throat and put on his thick overcoat, he called out some further
+directions to Margaret anent his dinner, and left the house.
+
+He knew Plevna Gardens, a turning out of the Shepherd’s Bush Road,
+though he never had had a patient there previously. The houses had
+originally been private dwellings, but of recent years had been altered
+into flats; and though the neighbourhood could not be regarded as
+exactly aristocratic, they, in their new guise, had found a very good
+class of tenants to whom the question of rent was of importance.
+
+No. 2 lay on the north side of the street, and entering the hall, he
+found by the board that “Major Gordon” occupied the second floor. In
+answer to his knock the door was opened instantly, as though someone
+had been awaiting his advent.
+
+“Oh, doctor, how good of you to come so quickly! And yet I somehow felt
+you would. Please come in. My father seems a little better now, I am
+happy to say, but I’m very uneasy about him.”
+
+For a moment Owen found a difficulty in replying. He was startled
+out of speech by the vision of beauty that stood before him. It was
+no servant that had opened the door, but a lady whose right to the
+designation was written on every line of her gloriously moulded
+features. Never before had such a vision of radiant beauty dazzled him
+and compelled him to silence.
+
+A wealth of light-brown hair, now somewhat in disorder, hung low over a
+broad forehead, and the ripples and waves seemed to catch and imprison
+the gleams that fell from the overhanging electric lamp. Her dark blue
+eyes, gazing into his own, appeared unnaturally large owing to the
+anxiety that pervaded them, and this same anxiety was indicated in
+the lines of the little mouth, which struck Owen as being a perfect
+representation of Cupid’s bow.
+
+“I’m delighted to hear it, Miss—Miss——” stammered Owen, for once shaken
+out of his professional sang-froid.
+
+“Gordon,” replied the girl, for she was little more. “It is my father
+who is ill.”
+
+“So I understood from your servant. May I ask is he liable to these
+seizures?”
+
+“No; I can hardly say that, but he has had one before, more than a year
+ago, and they always make me so nervous.”
+
+“Naturally—naturally,” said Owen, stepping into the small hall, and
+rapidly recovering his professional air. “Perhaps I had better see him
+at once, when I may be able to afford him some relief.”
+
+“Oh, yes; please come this way,” and the doctor, having removed his
+wrap and coat, followed the girl to a bedroom situated at the end of a
+rather narrow passage. There, lying on a couch, he found his patient, a
+man of some fifty years of age, whose handsome face was white and drawn
+with pain. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily.
+
+“Father, here is Doctor Odd. Isn’t it good of him to have come so
+quickly? Mary had hardly got back before he was here. We are both most
+grateful to him, I am sure.”
+
+A faint smile flickered round the sick man’s mouth, and, opening his
+eyes, he held out his hand to Owen, saying:
+
+“I’m much obliged to you, doctor, and am sorry to have had to give you
+the trouble.”
+
+“Don’t mention it, major. We doctors don’t regard it as trouble when we
+can be of use. I’m glad to hear you’re already feeling a little better.”
+
+“Thank you, yes. The sharpness of the pain has decreased. Amy, my
+child, leave us for a little. We will call you if anything is wanted.”
+
+“Very well, papa. Now, mind and be a good patient,” with an attempt
+at a smile. And then, turning to Owen, “I shall be in the next room,
+doctor, and shall hear you if you call. You will see me before you
+leave?” And as she spoke the anxious look took the place of the smile.
+
+Alone with the major, Owen made a thorough examination of his patient,
+at the same time asking such questions as might help him in diagnosing
+the case, and even as this was in progress he could mark a rapid
+improvement. In the end he came to a conclusion in his own mind which
+he had no hesitation in imparting to his patient.
+
+“Well, major,” he said, “I’m delighted to be able to tell you I don’t
+think there is anything seriously amiss. Your heart is weak, certainly,
+and you will have to be careful; but, beyond this, there is no organic
+disease, and there is no reason why you should not be as strong as ever
+again. You’ve been in India, I understood you to say?”
+
+“Yes, for some years.”
+
+“Ah! That terrible climate plays Old Harry with a good many men, and,
+besides that, I fancy you have been worrying about something or other
+lately. Eh?”
+
+At these words the major turned his head sharply, scanning Owen’s face
+intently; and then, in a tone affecting indifference, “Well, perhaps I
+have. We all have our little worries, doctor, don’t we?”
+
+“Oh, we do; but the less we make of them the better it is for us.”
+
+“Excellent advice, which we cannot always follow. However, in this case
+I’m _going_ to follow it.” And the words were spoken with an air of
+decision that struck Owen as peculiar.
+
+“Well, major,” he replied, “I’ll run in and see you again to-morrow,
+and in the meantime will send you round some medicine. Get to bed
+early, and don’t get up till I’ve seen you to-morrow morning. My
+report to Miss Gordon, I’m sure, will give her satisfaction. I’ll see
+her as I go out, and give her one or two small directions, and now,
+good-night—and, above all, don’t worry.”
+
+“Good-night, doctor, and many thanks. I’m going to obey you. You’ll
+find Amy in the dining-room. Good-night.”
+
+As Owen left the room Miss Gordon was waiting in the passage for him.
+Silently she drew him into the dining-room, and it was not till the
+door was shut that she uttered the one word, “Well?”
+
+“Miss Gordon, I am delighted to be able to say it _is_ well—or nearly
+so. I mean there is nothing seriously amiss with your father beyond
+a weakness of the heart, from which so many business men and others
+suffer.”
+
+“Thank God for that, doctor. You don’t know what your words mean to
+me.” And her eyes were brimming over with tears, the result of the
+sudden relaxation of the strain she had undergone. And she laid her
+hands on Owen’s arm as she continued: “I shall never be able to thank
+you enough for what you have done for my father.”
+
+“Really, Miss Gordon, you are making far too much of my poor services.
+I have done nothing. You must thank Nature and a good constitution; but
+now it lies with you to help them both by taking care of your father
+and keeping him from worrying—at any rate for a time.” But while he was
+belittling his services Owen found the thanks of this lovely girl very
+pleasant to his ears.
+
+“You may be sure, doctor, I shall do all in my power to carry out your
+instructions.” But as she uttered these words her companion fancied he
+could detect a tone of doubt that belied the assertion, which caused
+him to continue:
+
+“Of course, Miss Gordon, I do not wish to appear inquisitive, but is
+there anything that you know of that has been troubling your father of
+late?”
+
+He put the question in as casual a way as he was capable of, but he did
+not fail to detect the hesitance with which the girl answered “N-o,
+nothing particular,” and, feeling that he was perhaps trespassing on
+delicate ground, he continued:
+
+“Well, I prophesy that to-morrow will show a great improvement in our
+patient.” It was a pleasure to make use of the word “our”; it seemed to
+couple his companion and himself together in a way that he had perhaps
+no right to do more openly.
+
+“So, doctor,” and a bright smile lit up the face before him, “you, too,
+venture to prophesy at times?”
+
+“Certainly. But why do you say that?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. Only doctors are generally supposed to be so
+matter-of-fact.” And the smile was still there.
+
+“Not always, Miss Gordon. They are only men, after all, and must relax
+at times. But before I entirely lose my character, let me give you one
+or two directions regarding your father and his diet.” And then, in the
+most matter-of-fact way, Dr. Owen Odd proceeded to lay down certain
+rules and regulations with regard to the patient, while Miss Gordon,
+seated at a side table, made notes on a little tablet.
+
+At length he concluded with the words: “There, I think that is all I
+have to say—nothing very appalling, is it?”
+
+“No, doctor. You may rely on your directions being carried out, at any
+rate as long as I am here.”
+
+“Here? Then don’t you live here? Excuse me asking.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I live here, but I’m out a good deal; still, if it were
+necessary I _would_ remain at home while my father was unwell.”
+
+The idea of this lovely girl going out to earn her living came rather
+as a shock to Owen. It had not occurred to him that such could be the
+case. The room he was in, and, indeed, the flat generally, so far as
+he had seen, was furnished luxuriously, and gave no indication of lack
+of means in the possessors. He glanced across at her, and there was
+something in his look that caused her to burst into a merry laugh, as
+she said:
+
+“I’m afraid, doctor, you take me for one of the butterflies that
+neither work nor spin. If so, you’re quite wrong.”
+
+“I beg your pardon, Miss Gordon; I did not presume to think anything of
+the kind—that would only be impertinence on my part.”
+
+“Not at all, doctor. Let me confess at once I earn my own living and,
+in a measure, that of my father as well.”
+
+“And every credit is due to you, I’m sure. If more women only did the
+same it would be a bad thing for the fashionable doctors. But in—excuse
+me, I was forgetting myself.”
+
+“Don’t mention it, pray. You would say how do I earn it? I look at
+hands.”
+
+“Ah! A manicurist?”
+
+“No. Not a manicurist. Something better than that.” And the eyes that
+were regarding him were sparkling with fun.
+
+“Then, Miss Gordon, I confess I’m quite at sea.”
+
+“I wonder if you’ll be horrified when I tell you, for I hold with the
+saying that one should be quite open with one’s lawyer and doctor.”
+
+“There could not be a truer saying, and whatever you may choose to tell
+me, Miss Gordon, you may be quite sure will go no farther.”
+
+“Then, Doctor Odd, you see before you Madame Juliette!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE PROBLEM CONTINUED
+
+
+“Madame Juliette!” gasped Odd, staring with fixed astonishment at the
+graceful, girlish figure before him.
+
+“I thought I should astonish you, Doctor,” laughed Miss Gordon. “You
+have never consulted her, I think?”
+
+“Never. But there must be some mistake. We cannot be alluding to the
+same person.”
+
+“Oh, yes, we are.”
+
+For a moment or two Owen remained silent, lost in doubt, and then
+continued:
+
+“The Madame Juliette I refer to is the woman who has taken all the West
+End by storm by her wonderful exhibitions of clairvoyance and psychic
+powers. Her rooms at 103A, Bond Street, are crowded daily by those who
+go to consult her, and who come away in every case convinced of her
+mysterious attributes. As I said, I have never been there myself, but
+I know several who have, and they have given me a minute description
+of what has taken place, and it certainly appears to me that she must
+be gifted with some occult powers unknown to the generality of people.
+The Madame Juliette I mean is undoubtedly a factor in London society of
+to-day.”
+
+“Really, Dr. Odd, you are giving me a most flattering character—one I
+am afraid I hardly deserve,” said Miss Gordon with a smile.
+
+“And you mean to tell me you are this person?”
+
+“Without a doubt.”
+
+“But, from the descriptions given me, she is stout, and
+middle-aged—very unlike you, Miss Gordon,” continued Owen, still far
+from being convinced. “And she poses as an Indian, and looks it—at
+least, so my friends tell me.”
+
+“Your friends appear to be close observers with graphic powers of
+description, for they have painted a very true picture of me in my
+professional guise.”
+
+“You are not joking, Miss Gordon?” said Owen, with his eyes still fixed
+on his companion’s face, for as yet he felt hardly able to believe
+what he had just heard. The idea of this slim, graceful girl, with
+the pink-and-white complexion of the Anglo-Saxon race, being able to
+pose and take in the fashionable world as a dark-skinned, obese-bodied
+Oriental, was more than he could momentarily grasp.
+
+The smile on the girl’s face showed how she was enjoying his
+perplexity, and she continued:
+
+“I am afraid, doctor, you hardly grasp what can be done with judicious
+padding, an artistic make-up, and suggestive surroundings. I can assure
+you the native origin of Madame Juliette has never yet been questioned,
+and all her clients are content to take her as they find her, and to
+believe, more or less, in what she tells them.”
+
+“Well, Miss Gordon, I can only say you astound me, and yet, if it is
+necessary that you should make money, the _role_ you have selected is
+probably as good as any other, providing—well, providing that——” And
+here Owen stammered, for he hesitated to finish the sentence he had
+commenced.
+
+“Providing I am honest in my business, you intend to say—eh, doctor?”
+
+“Yes, that is what was in my mind, I confess,” replied Owen.
+
+“Naturally. It is the first idea that would occur to you, and I’m
+glad you mentioned it. We have not known each other long, but when our
+acquaintance is a little older, I am sure, doctor, you will not regard
+me as a cheat and charlatan, as are so many of those who profess the
+same powers as I do.”
+
+“My dear Miss Gordon, don’t imagine for a moment that I am presuming to
+judge you. I have not the faintest right or groundwork on which to do
+so. You startled me at first, I admit, and this must be my excuse for
+saying what I did.”
+
+“Oh, I quite understand. But, you see, doctor, I spent a good many
+years of my life in India, and as it happened, I had exceptional
+opportunities of meeting and learning from one who was deeply versed in
+the mysteries and secrets of—well, call it what you will, the science
+of orientalism. It has been given to few to be favoured as I was, and
+now, when occasion demands, I see no harm in putting my knowledge to
+account.”
+
+“Certainly not, Miss Gordon. I now begin to understand a little more
+clearly.”
+
+“The facts of the case are shortly these: my father was able to do a
+kindness to a certain man in India, and he was much at our bungalow.
+From the first he appeared to take a great fancy to me; I was but
+a child at the time, and he endeavoured to show his gratitude by
+instructing me in much that he knew himself, and is jealously guarded
+from Europeans as a rule. This new path of knowledge took my youthful
+fancy at once, and I gave more attention to it than I did to my
+ordinary lessons. My memory is a good one, and I forgot nothing that
+I was taught, and at the same time was ever eager to learn more. My
+aptitude and diligence so pleased my teacher that there was no trouble
+that he would not take to help me forward, till at last, I may say,
+I knew nearly as much as he did himself, and even then he and I
+continued to study together, for—like other sciences—there is no limit
+to Oriental mysticism, and the more one learns the more there is to
+know.”
+
+“And I can quite understand that you found it a most fascinating study,
+Miss Gordon.”
+
+“I did indeed——But stop a moment, please; I think I hear my father
+calling.” And as she rose from her chair Owen said:
+
+“Really, Miss Gordon, I ought not to have detained you talking in this
+way. I’ll be going.” And he, too, rose.
+
+“No, doctor; if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes longer I should
+like to tell you a little more, as I have commenced.”
+
+While she was absent Owen could not help marvelling at the incidents of
+the last hour and a half. Previous to that he had little to engage his
+thoughts beyond his practice and the matters connected with his friend
+Jervoise; and now, in answer to an apparently casual summons, he found
+himself chatting familiarly with, and listening to the confession of,
+a girl who, besides being dowered with a beauty such as he had never
+before had the fortune to come across, was armed with powers that had
+won her one of the first places in the talk and tattle of the West
+End drawing-rooms. It was all so strange and inexplicable. And then
+the curious fact flashed across him that he should have been summoned
+when there were a score of doctors nearer to Plevna Gardens than his
+surgery. Everything this evening seemed more or less of a mystery and
+with a shrug of his shoulders he left the matter there, just as the
+door opened to admit his hostess.
+
+“You’ll forgive me, I know. My father has got into bed, and seems quite
+comfortable and likely to sleep. He wished me to thank you for staying
+with me for a little time, for he said he was sure I should be dull all
+by myself.”
+
+“Oh, don’t mention it, Miss Gordon. I have been far too interested to
+want to go.”
+
+“I must say you are an excellent listener, doctor. But what was I
+saying when my father called? Oh, I know. Well, after a time my father
+and mother and myself left India——”
+
+“Your mother? I was not aware that——”
+
+“She died some years ago,” said the girl in a saddened tone, and then
+suddenly raising her eyes, she fixed them on Owen’s face with an
+intensity that made him feel strangely ill at ease. He felt he could
+not endure their penetrative power; it was as though she was viewing
+his inmost thoughts, reading the secrets of his brain, and he dropped
+his eyes till, with a faint sigh, she continued:
+
+“We resided for a time in the West of England, and, when my father had
+retired, came to London. Here, owing to financial misfortunes, our
+circumstances were not as comfortable as they had been, and then it
+was that the thought occurred to me to make use of the knowledge I had
+gathered while a girl in India.”
+
+“I had a little money of my own, and this I expended in taking and
+fitting up in Oriental style a suite of rooms in Bond Street, and
+in advertising pretty largely. At first my father was much against
+my plan, and it was only on my undertaking to adopt a disguise that
+he gave his consent. I was familiar with Hindustani, and it was no
+difficulty to me to assume the character of a mysterious woman of the
+East. Hence the appearance of Madame Juliette on the London stage.
+And, Doctor Odd, you have no idea of the superstition, and love of
+the mysterious and occult in the fashionable circles of to-day. It is
+rampant, I assure you, and if I were to lower myself, and condescend to
+tricks, my clients would swallow them without a grain of suspicion. But
+that I will never do; I give them just what I am able to do honestly,
+and no more, and with that they must be content.”
+
+“And now I think I have fulfilled my promise to make a full confession,
+and have only to thank you for listening to me so patiently.”
+
+“My dear lady, the thanks are all due from me. You have interested me
+more than I can tell you. Previous to this evening I regarded these
+matters as pure humbug.”
+
+“But they’re not, I can assure you, doctor. There is a certain amount
+of humbug mixed up with them in some cases, but the true practitioners
+would ignore such subterfuges. At times we do employ ‘suggestion’ as
+an aid to bring the client’s mind into a proper condition, but beyond
+this—no, no.”
+
+“Oh, that is quite legitimate. We doctors are equally guilty in that
+respect; indeed, ‘suggestion’ in some cases does more in effecting a
+cure than all the drugs in the pharmacopœia could do. But there is one
+thing I should like to ask you, Miss Gordon, if you will not think me
+too inquisitive?”
+
+“Oh, no, no. Ask me what you like.”
+
+“Then what caused you to send for me this evening, when there were so
+many doctors nearer you?”
+
+“Doctor, you’ve asked me a question I cannot answer, beyond saying that
+something told me to send. I had seen your name on the brass plate,
+but, as far as I know, previous to this evening my eyes had never
+rested on you; and yet——” And once more, as the words came to an end,
+the eyes of the girl became fixed on the face of the man before her
+with an intensity that was startling. But it was only for a second or
+two, and then, as on the previous occasion, with a little sigh she
+became herself again.
+
+“It’s curious,” said Owen. “I don’t understand it.”
+
+“No more do I,” replied the girl. “But in occultism there is much
+that in our normal condition we are not able to grasp. But if I cannot
+satisfy your curiosity in this respect, I may perhaps in another. Would
+you like me to look at your hand.”
+
+“By all means. It would be interesting.” And Owen drew his chair nearer
+that of the girl, and held out his hand.
+
+She took it gently in her own, and, bending over it, examined it
+intently. For a time she did not speak, and then, almost in a whisper,
+muttered something in a language unfamiliar to him, breaking off to
+look up with a bright smile saying:
+
+“Forgive me. I am so accustomed to this little trick of the trade, I
+forgot you were in a sense behind the scenes, as it were. But do you
+mind coming to the table; there is one point on which I am not quite
+clear.” And while she spoke she moved across the room, and from a
+cabinet took a shallow crystal dish, into which she poured some thick,
+inky fluid from an Oriental clay vase, and set it on a table beneath
+the electric light.
+
+“Kindly sit opposite me, and gaze intently into the fluid. You will see
+nothing, but it will be an aid to me.”
+
+Owen did as he was bid, and for a few minutes there was silence, broken
+at last by his companion’s voice:
+
+“Your early life was uneventful and happy. You did fairly well at
+school and college. You have travelled far, and seen strange sights.
+You have been in the company of criminals—yes, yes—more than one; and
+yet this is not clear. There is something that betokens a murder.
+Still, I—no, it is not clear even now.”
+
+At these words Owen gave a very palpable start as his suspicions of
+his friend flashed across his mind. With an effort he pulled himself
+together and his companion gave no sign of having observed his action,
+but continued:
+
+“It is not clear. It is not clear.” And, passing her hand across her
+eyes, she rose, saying, “Doctor, I can do no more to-night. I ought
+not to have attempted even this much. I have had a hard day; and my
+father’s attack has tried me more than I thought. You must excuse me,
+please.”
+
+“Certainly—certainly. I’m sorry that I should have put you to this
+trouble. It was very good of you.”
+
+“You must not judge me by this evening, doctor. As I say, I’m not
+myself, and under these circumstances I never do myself justice.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. The first part was quite true, and as for the
+criminals—well, I suppose we doctors do occasionally come in contact
+with them. But the murder——” And Owen smiled, as though politely
+contravening the suggestion.
+
+“Ah, don’t take any notice of that. It was there I may have failed.
+I could not see clearly; everything was indistinct. Forget my words,
+doctor. It would have been better if I had remained silent. What? Must
+you be going?”
+
+“I really must, and am ashamed of having taken up so much of your time.
+I’ll call in to-morrow morning, and after that I hope your father will
+have no further need of my services.”
+
+“I trust not—professionally; but I am sure he will always be pleased to
+see you as a friend, when you can find time to look in on him. You see,
+I’m obliged to be a good deal away from him. Good-night, and once more
+let me thank you for what you have done.”
+
+“Good-night, Miss Gordon, and please don’t mention it.” And Owen made
+his way down the stairs and out into the night, while Amy Gordon
+returned to the room they had just left, and, seating herself before
+the fire, gave herself up to her thoughts. What they were none can
+tell. At times a happy expression rested on her fair features, soon to
+be chased away by a troubled look of perplexity, which in its turn gave
+place to a smile.
+
+Meanwhile Owen was making his way back, to his solitary rooms, almost
+unconscious of those who passed him or of those he passed.
+
+“Is it possible she can know anything?” he muttered. “It’s most
+extraordinary! And yet—well, time will show.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+THE MAN BOURTZEFF
+
+
+The next morning Owen called at Plevna Gardens, as he had promised, and
+found his prognostication had proved true, and that the major had had a
+good night and was practically himself again. Miss Gordon had waited to
+see him before leaving for Bond Street, but she had little conversation
+with him, and yet in the few sentences she uttered he thought he
+noticed a change from the previous evening. She seemed more shy and
+reserved, and yet at the same time cordial and friendly.
+
+After hearing his report she vanished for a few minutes, and, returning
+dressed for outdoors, shook hands with him, saying:
+
+“I’m afraid you must excuse my not staying any longer, doctor. I’ve a
+busy day before me—many appointments; but don’t hurry away if you can
+spare a few minutes, for I am sure my father will be glad of a chat
+with you. Good-morning.” And, kissing her father and telling him she
+would be back as soon as she was free, she left the flat.
+
+Owen stayed talking for a short time, and then, at the major’s request,
+promising he would look in again one evening shortly, left as he too
+had a heavy day before him.
+
+It was two or three days after this, when he had finished his entries
+and was about to go upstairs to supper, that old Margaret entered the
+surgery saying:
+
+“Mr. Jervoise is in the dining-room, sir.”
+
+Owen pursed his lips. For a moment his brows contracted.
+
+Then he ascended at once to where his friend was awaiting him.
+
+“Halloa, old chap!” exclaimed Dick in his usual cheery manner. “I
+haven’t seen anything of you for nearly a fortnight, so thought I’d
+just run over and look you up.”
+
+“Good. Have a bit of supper,” exclaimed the doctor, blinking at his
+friend through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. “I rang you up on the ’phone
+several times, but got no reply. Suppose you were out.”
+
+“I’ve been out quite a lot of late,” answered Jervoise, though he did
+not say that Thyra was in London, or that he had been almost daily in
+her company.
+
+Jervoise could not conceal from himself the fact that his friend’s
+manner was unusually strained. True, they sat down to the table
+together and commenced the cold supper which had already been laid. Yet
+there was not in the doctor’s greeting that old warmth of some months
+ago. Why?
+
+Their conversation was mostly upon a topic in which both took a keen
+interest—motor-racing.
+
+Presently, however, Owen, as he raised his glass of claret to his lips,
+asked:
+
+“Have you heard any more of Alza?”
+
+“No. I believe, however, she’s still in England.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+Dick shrugged his shoulders, answering:
+
+“Her movements are usually mysterious, I fancy.”
+
+“A rather dangerous woman, I’ve heard.”
+
+“What—as far as good looks go, you mean?” Jervoise laughed.
+
+“In several ways—if what I hear be true.”
+
+“What do you hear?”
+
+“That she’s scarcely a person in whose company one should be seen.”
+
+Dick did not answer for a moment. He was reflecting upon the fact that
+his friend had taken her out on several occasions, and yet he now
+denounced her as an undesirable person. Had they quarrelled?
+
+“Well, old chap, didn’t I tell you something of the sort long ago?”
+
+“Yes, but you didn’t tell me all that you might have done concerning
+her.”
+
+“A man never wishes to say hard things about a woman—especially if
+she’s pretty,” Dick laughed.
+
+“Yes, but you might at least have told me what you knew.”
+
+“You admired her, my dear fellow, so I left you to find out for
+yourself.”
+
+“She’s a very mysterious young person. What can have induced her to so
+closely watch that house in Keppel Street?”
+
+“Nothing, except that I explained that that address was the one given
+by Grinevitch immediately prior to his death.”
+
+“You know Alza well—eh?”
+
+“I have known her for several years, both here in London and in
+Paris. I thought that perhaps, with her unique knowledge—and it is no
+doubt unique—she might assist us in elucidating the reason why Paul
+Grinevitch intended so suddenly to travel to London. I therefore told
+her the whole of the strange story, as you are quite well aware. When
+I had finished, some curious idea apparently occurred to her, though
+she would explain nothing to me. But an hour later she embarked upon a
+campaign of vigilant surveillance, which, I presume, she is pursuing at
+this moment.”
+
+“But why?”
+
+“For her own ends. That’s my firm opinion.”
+
+“Then she’s not acting in your interests?”
+
+“Why should she? She has no motive in assisting me. Yet she may, of
+course, have a personal motive in entertaining the suspicion which it
+is now quite certain she does entertain.”
+
+Owen looked at his friend through his glasses with a glance of distinct
+suspicion, and went on eating.
+
+Truth to tell, he had been charmed by the good-looking young
+Frenchwoman to whom Dick had introduced him. He had found her bright
+and vivacious, and it had been to him a distinct pleasure to take her
+out to theatres on several evenings. But this was before his summons to
+Plevna Gardens.
+
+Why she had been engaged in so closely watching that dark house in
+Keppel Street was to him a complete mystery. She had told him that she
+had acted on behalf of her “old friend M’sieur Jervoise,” yet Dick had
+now declared that he had no claim upon her whatsoever.
+
+That curious telegram sent by Paul immediately prior to his death
+had, of course, been the subject of inquiry, at the request of the
+Christiania police, by Scotland Yard. But the detective-inspector who
+had called at Keppel Street had admitted that he could make out nothing
+from the landlord’s reply. It was true that he had received a telegram
+from Norway, signed Paul Grinevitch, but as the name conveyed nothing
+to him he had kept it a couple of days, and, hearing nothing further,
+had destroyed it, and dismissed his expected arrival from his mind.
+
+People who let lodgings in London frequently receive telegrams and
+letters from people who either change their minds at the last moment or
+who do not arrive in the metropolis after all.
+
+Thus, when Scotland Yard’s cursory inquiry had failed, this bright-eyed
+young Frenchwoman had openly declared her intention of ascertaining
+the truth. Owen had himself visited that quiet street at night on more
+than one occasion, and, though unnoticed by her, had seen her waiting
+in the vicinity patiently watching.
+
+This action of hers had surprised him. It seemed as though she was
+keeping that silent surveillance on Dick’s behalf.
+
+Suddenly Owen raised his eyes from his plate, and, looking straight at
+his friend, asked:
+
+“Among your many acquaintances have you ever known a man named Nicholas
+Bourtzeff?”
+
+Dick held his breath. Had Alza told him the truth, he wondered?
+
+“Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t know him very intimately. I met him in
+Paris once.”
+
+“With Alza, I suppose?”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because he is, I hear, a friend of hers.”
+
+“And who is your informant?”
+
+“Alza herself.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“The man is an undesirable, is he not?” asked Owen.
+
+“Perhaps so,” was his friend’s reply. “You see, I know so very little
+of him that I can say nothing.”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“A Russian, as his name implies—a refugee who lives mostly in Paris, I
+believe.”
+
+“Refugee is a synonym for revolutionist. Is he one?”
+
+“In his case I think it is an exception,” Dick replied. “As far
+as I know, his flight from Russia had no connection whatever with
+politics. He was persecuted by drastic police methods, and simply
+left the country in order to obtain freedom. Ask any Russian, and he
+will mention to you dozens of men who have left the country from the
+same cause. To the public mind every Russian residing abroad must be
+either a Nihilist or a spy, which is simply absurd. In certain of the
+Governments of the Empire the police are so utterly unscrupulous in
+making arrests nowadays that the better-class people prefer to obviate
+disaster by residence abroad.”
+
+“Then this Bourtzeff is not a revolutionary?” asked the other quickly.
+
+“I know nothing against him,” was the other’s quick response.
+
+“And what is Alza?”
+
+“An artist. I daresay she has shown you some of her water-colours. She
+often designs covers for some of the illustrated magazines.”
+
+“I asked what she is, not what she’s supposed to be.”
+
+“I repeat—an artist.”
+
+Owen Odd smiled incredulously, in a manner which showed Dick that he
+was aware of something concerning the girl’s real profession.
+
+“Is it not a fact,” asked the fair-haired man in pince-nez, “that a
+very curious story is told concerning this Alza Dresler?”
+
+Dick laughed.
+
+“Many stories are told of women which are cruel and untrue,” he
+declared. “Why, my dear fellow, the penalty paid by a pretty woman is
+the scandal talked of her. The more beautiful the girl the more bitter
+the gossip.”
+
+“I know that,” said Owen impatiently. “But, Dick, I am simply asking
+you a question. You introduced the girl to me, and I believed her to be
+what you represented her—an artist.”
+
+“And so she is.”
+
+“Admitted. But she is something more,” he said. “I have discovered that
+a very grave suspicion attaches to her, as being the associate—indeed,
+the decoy, and at times the spy, of certain very dangerous characters—a
+gang of swindlers well known to the police both in Paris and London.”
+
+Dick laughed again, even though his amusement was forced.
+
+“My dear fellow,” he cried, “whoever told you that romantic story?”
+
+“I was noticed in her company—as a matter of fact at the Gaiety
+Theatre—by a sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department who
+lives in Brook Green Road, and whose wife happens to be a patient of
+mine. He came here and warned me against her.”
+
+Dick suddenly grew thoughtful.
+
+“What did the detective say? If she’s such a dangerous character, why
+didn’t he arrest her?”
+
+“He had no warrant, I understood. He explained that she was one of a
+most dangerous gang of international thieves, who carry on their clever
+depredations for the most part on the Continent.”
+
+“That’s extremely interesting,” Dick said. “I had no idea hers was
+such a romantic story. Personally, I’ve never met any of these daring
+friends of hers whom you mention. What strikes me as curious is that if
+our little friend is known, as you declare, she has not been arrested
+ere this.”
+
+“I said, my dear fellow, that grave suspicion attaches to her. Perhaps
+there is insufficient evidence for the French police to demand her
+extradition.”
+
+“Didn’t your friend the police officer make any further explanation?”
+
+“Well, he did. He stated that about twelve months ago, when she was
+in London on the last occasion, she was with a young Frenchman, named
+Laurillard, at supper at a small restaurant close to Leicester Square,
+when my friend arrested her companion on a warrant from France,
+charging him with obtaining a very large sum by blackmail from a
+wealthy landowner near Toulon. The allegation afterwards was that the
+girl had been used by the gang as decoy, and that the landowner in
+question had proposed marriage to her. The Paris police telegraphed for
+Alza’s arrest, but she had already left London.”
+
+“I don’t believe it!” declared Dick abruptly, pretending utter
+unconcern. “Her whereabouts in Paris is well known. She lives in the
+Rue Madame, and could be found almost instantly.”
+
+“The charge against her was afterwards withdrawn, I’m told. Her
+companion, however, is now serving seven years.”
+
+“He was one of her associates, I suppose,” Dick remarked with perfect
+calmness as he refilled his claret-glass.
+
+“Of course,” responded Owen. “And a further fact which I have
+established is that this man Bourtzeff, whom she followed so closely,
+is not a Russian gentleman, as you suppose, but a very clever
+criminal who was long wanted by the police. He was once a member
+of the association to which she belongs, but he denounced them and
+their doings to Monsieur Hamard, of the Paris police, and came
+over to England. She followed, and has discovered him. She intends
+mischief—vengeance for the betrayal of herself and her friends.”
+
+Dick sat silent. It amazed him that Owen should have found out so much.
+What else did he know, he wondered?
+
+“Now,” added the doctor, “does it not strike you as a most remarkable
+coincidence that only one hour before Paul Grinevitch met his death he
+should have sent a mysterious warning to the man Nystrom—who, it has
+since been discovered, was a well known criminal wanted for a serious
+crime—and should also have intended to seek refuge at that very same
+house in Keppel Street where Nicholas Bourtzeff was living in hiding?”
+
+“Yes,” replied Jervoise in a strange, hard voice, twisting his cigar in
+his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. “It is a problem which seems to admit
+of no solution.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+AN INDISCREET FRIENDSHIP
+
+
+“Dieu! Why are you here, M’sieur Dick? You are an imbecile! If you are
+seen here, in Bournemouth, you may spoil everything.”
+
+“It was imperative, Alza, that I should come here,” Jervoise answered
+in French. “I have come to give you warning.”
+
+“Warning!” cried the good-looking young Frenchwoman. “Of what, pray?”
+
+They were seated together in a corner of the winter-garden of the Royal
+Bath Hotel at Bournemouth.
+
+Arriving from London half an hour before, he had found her lolling
+lazily in one of the wicker armchairs, displaying a neat ankle and just
+a suspicion of finest _lingerie_ for the admiration of a clean-shaven
+young fellow in blue serge, who had the unmistakable bearing of a naval
+officer. Dressed with quiet elegance in black, with a big black hat and
+some fine sables around her neck, she presented a very ladylike and
+refined appearance, her _chic_ being that of the true Parisienne.
+
+The meeting was quite unexpected on her part, yet Dick for the last
+week, ever since that evening at Owen’s house, had been endeavouring
+to trace her whereabouts. He had hastened next day down into Rutland,
+only to discover that she had left for Edinburgh. North he went, and
+on making inquiries at the Caledonian Hotel, learnt that, after a
+week, she had gone to London, leaving an address at Baron’s Court,
+Kensington, for letters to be forwarded. At this address, a house at
+which she had lodged on one or two occasions, he had ascertained her
+whereabouts at Bournemouth, and had that morning arrived in order to
+consult her.
+
+There were several idlers in the winter-garden, including an old
+Anglo-Indian and his wife; therefore Dick suggested that they might
+walk out and talk where there were no eavesdroppers. None who chanced
+to see that well-dressed and essentially refined young lady, who always
+kept herself aloof from everybody, and who passed her lonely hours in
+reading fiction or doing fancy needlework, would have for one moment
+guessed that she was actually what Owen Odd had declared her to be.
+
+None, indeed, would believe that she was at that watering-place with a
+fixed purpose, and that that purpose was an evil one.
+
+For the past ten days or so she had been at the hotel, living there
+in the name of Duveen, and half the men were longing to make her
+acquaintance. But she disregarded them all, and remained entirely apart
+from everybody. The other guests noticed that she seldom went out,
+but attributed it to the fact that the weather had turned bitterly
+cold, and if she were weak-chested the East winds were the reverse of
+beneficial.
+
+The advent of Dick Jervoise, therefore, surprised those tea-table
+gossips, who spent the greater part of the day in the winter-garden, a
+kind of great conservatory with palms, fishponds, and tropical birds.
+Therefore, Alza, quick to note any impression upon her neighbours,
+rose, fastened her furs, took up her muff, and they both passed out and
+down the hill leading towards the pier.
+
+“Fortunately, he has gone motoring with two men to Salisbury
+to-day,” she said as they went along. “Otherwise I dare not be seen
+out—especially in your company.”
+
+“Then Bourtzeff is here—eh?” he asked quickly.
+
+“Of course—at the Grand. If he were not here I should not be. I prefer
+my own Paris, cher M’sieur Dick, I assure you! This place—ugh!” and she
+made a wry face and shuddered.
+
+Her companion laughed.
+
+“It must be very dull for you to be so much alone, of course.”
+
+“I need not be alone, but unfortunately I cannot afford to make
+chance acquaintances. They always have a habit of turning up just at
+the moment when one does not desire them. You know,” was her answer,
+“I nearly met with complete disaster once, owing to an indiscreet
+friendship.”
+
+“Ah! Alza,” he said as they passed the pier entrance and continued
+along the cliffs. “You are an exceedingly clever woman.”
+
+“You have more than once made that remark before,” she replied,
+smiling, at the same time drawing her furs closer about her throat;
+for, though the day was bright, yet the winter wind was strong and
+exceedingly cold. There were few people about, for on such a day
+visitors prefer the shelter of the Invalid’s Walk to the rough wind of
+the cliffs.
+
+“I have not come to seek you to pay you compliments, my dear
+mademoiselle,” he said seriously when they had strolled some distance.
+“As I have already said, I am here to warn you—to warn you seriously.”
+
+She turned her dark, luminous eyes towards him, and with an air of
+careless merriment exclaimed:
+
+“Good! Tell me—what’s the danger now?”
+
+“My friend Odd has discovered who and what you are. He knows
+practically everything!”
+
+She stared at him, a trifle paler, holding her breath.
+
+“Then I hope he is interested,” she said briefly.
+
+“But you do not seem to realise your danger!” he pointed out. “You were
+seen in his company, and recognized by a detective. The officer told
+him who you were.”
+
+She pursed her shapely lips, and twisted her skirt more tightly about
+her shapely hips.
+
+“You think I ought not to remain in England—eh?” she asked in a hard
+voice.
+
+“I certainly think there is a grave peril if you do,” he said. “Why are
+you still watching Bourtzeff?”
+
+“For reasons of my own—personal reasons.”
+
+“He is your enemy, that I know. But if he discovers you will he not
+again turn upon you—as he did once before?”
+
+“He will not have a chance,” responded the girl in a determined tone,
+still speaking in French. “He gave information to the Prefecture of
+Police which sent the man I love to Cayenne, remember! Because he
+turned police informant he fancies himself safe. But he is unaware of
+the fate that I—I, Alza Dresler—have marked out for him!” she cried,
+her dark eyes flashing with a fire which plainly showed her hatred.
+
+“You are safe neither in England nor in France, Alza,” the man said
+quietly. “You once did me a great service—one that I have never
+forgotten, and have ever thanked you for. You——”
+
+“Oh! enough, mon cher Dick!” she declared, interrupting him and putting
+up her black-gloved hand to stay his words. “You forget how deeply I
+regard you for that great kindness, that generosity you showed to me.
+You could have handed me over to the police, but you let me go free
+because I was a woman. I know I’m bad—I can’t help it! My father was a
+thief, and, as you know, I have lived among thieves all my life. My
+whole existence has been one of fraud, subterfuge, and deception. My
+friends are the worst and most unscrupulous in all Europe. I admit it
+all—all. Yet how can I change it?”
+
+“I know, mademoiselle,” said Dick in a low, sympathetic voice. “I
+entirely understand your position and appreciate your difficulty.
+You are an associate of certain undesirable persons through no fault
+of your own. You were born in criminal surroundings, and taught
+dishonesty from childhood. Your intelligence has been sharpened by
+long association with keen, clever men and women who live upon their
+wits, until now you are as expert as they. You can assume refinement
+and innocence so marvellously that your victims become as wax in your
+hands. I know it all, mademoiselle, and no one more regrets your
+position than I do myself.”
+
+A serious expression was upon her dark, handsome face. She had always
+liked the tall Englishman, always respected him, and had ever been
+ready to listen to his advice.
+
+At that moment there arose before her eyes the recollection of one
+day, a few years before, when they had met at the Hotel du Parc, at
+Vichy, and a month later at the Sudbahn Hotel, at Semmering in Austria;
+of their long walks together in the mountains, and of the friendship
+that sprang up between them. Then, of that fateful night when, at the
+instigation of a certain man living in the hotel, she had managed to
+step into the little _salon_ occupied by the pretty French actress,
+and, on searching, had discovered the string of fine pearls she was
+known to possess.
+
+Could she ever forget that moment? She had taken them from their velvet
+case, and was holding them in her hand beneath the green-shaded lamp
+when she heard a movement behind her, and, turning in alarm, saw the
+tall Englishman, who happened to be a friend of the actress, standing
+there! He knew the truth. He barred her passage, and charged her with
+the theft. He had caught her red-handed! “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I
+followed you here, and I have seen you take the pearls. Your friend is
+that stout man in spectacles who speaks German, and who has been here
+for the past fortnight, yet whom you have pretended not to know. He
+is your accomplice. I have seen you meet in secret. I shall ring, and
+hand you over to the police.” His finger was already upon the electric
+button near the door, when she had dashed across, and, flinging herself
+wildly upon her knees before him, begged forgiveness—begged his
+silence, begged his protection—even though she were a thief.
+
+In those brief, exciting moments, as they now walked together, she
+recollected his hesitation, his deep, earnest, reproachful words, and
+how, taking her hand, he had assisted her to rise. He had taken the
+pearls from her, returned them to their case, and, with a generosity
+she had seldom found in men, had given her his word of honour to remain
+silent.
+
+The next moment she slipped along the corridor to her room, and half
+an hour later faced the actress in the big _salon_, smiling as though
+nothing had happened.
+
+Her German-speaking friend was already at the station, on his hurried
+departure for Vienna, while she, later that same night, had written
+a brief note of heartfelt thanks to the Englishman, and, giving her
+address in Paris, promised that if ever he wanted a friend he had but
+to write to her. “All my friends are in future your friends,” she
+wrote in that note. “We all owe you a deep debt of gratitude for your
+generosity towards me.”
+
+As she walked along that broad, sandy pathway, with the grey sea
+stretched deep below, she was wondering if he, too, were thinking of
+the same strange, almost romantic circumstances—that startling incident
+which had sealed their curious friendship.
+
+Had he denounced her that night, her fat friend, who was wanted on
+half a dozen different charges of placing certain forged bonds into
+circulation, would have also fallen into the drag-net of the police.
+Ugly revelations would, no doubt, have ended, and the identity of the
+various members of that circle of unscrupulous undesirables would have
+been exposed.
+
+As it was, he had urged her to reform. Ah! she recollected too well
+those deep, earnest words of his! How they had rung in her ears ever
+since. They recurred to her now. And after that brief but bitter
+reproach, he had allowed her to pass out. She owed her liberty to the
+silence of Richard Jervoise.
+
+And now her present visit to England had been at his request. He had
+written to her asking her to redeem her promise, and perform him a
+service. The same day she had received his letter she had crossed the
+Channel, and next morning called at his flat at Barnes.
+
+In his own snug den he had told her the story of the strange death of
+Paul Grinevitch—a story to which she had listened with the deepest
+interest. She had written down the address in Keppel Street, and,
+having discovered that Nicholas Bourtzeff visited the house in
+question, her vigilance had never for one instant been relaxed.
+
+Dick knew that this Russian was her bitterest enemy, yet it was by no
+means plain why she should exercise that constant surveillance upon his
+movements. That he had been travelling from place to place was clear
+from her own erratic journeys, yet why she should be ever at his heels,
+and why she should risk detection and betrayal, as she no doubt was
+daily risking, remained to him a complete enigma.
+
+“My duty was to come here and warn you, mademoiselle,” he went
+on as he strode at her side. “For aught you know, the police are
+making inquiries concerning your whereabouts, now that you have been
+recognized with Owen.”
+
+“And your friend the doctor, of course, believes what he has been told
+concerning me,” she remarked very quietly.
+
+“Without a doubt. I have tried to cast disbelief upon the statements of
+the police officer, but denial in the circumstances, is, as you see,
+rather difficult.”
+
+“You need not deny it, M’sieur Jervoise,” she answered in a low, bitter
+voice. “One day, ere long, I know I must find myself under arrest. I
+have had many narrow escapes in my career; therefore I can’t always
+hope for success.” And she smiled sadly, looking into his grave eyes.
+
+“But why run this risk?” he cried. “Surely it is unnecessary? Why
+not slip away to Germany, Holland, Denmark—anywhere save here and in
+France?”
+
+She was silent for a few moments. Then, halting and turning her eyes to
+his, she said in a calm, thoughtful tone:
+
+“M’sieur Dick! Did you not ask me to perform for you a service? You
+love the Norwegian lady, Thyra. Is not that so? Tell me the truth.”
+
+“Yes,” he stammered after a brief pause, the colour rising to his face.
+“I do not hide the truth from you—my friend. Why should I? I love her.”
+
+“Then if you do,” she answered quickly, “if you do—then please allow
+me to remain here—and act in your interests. I am your friend, as you
+have declared—your sincere friend, M’sieur Dick, and one who owes her
+liberty to you!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+A CURIOUS TRUTH
+
+
+The pair had walked on beyond Alum Chine, towards Canford Cliffs.
+
+For a long time the man had remained silent, while his well-dressed
+companion, holding her skirts daintily with one hand, her sable muff
+swinging in the other, strolled at his side.
+
+When in those warm summer days she had first met him, in that smart
+hotel in Vichy, she had admired him with an admiration almost akin
+to affection. But she had discovered that his heart belonged to that
+pretty French singer whom she had followed to Semmering, and whose
+pearls she had, at the instigation of her friends, attempted to secure.
+
+That theft had, she had afterwards admitted to herself, been prompted
+a good deal by jealousy, for she saw the singer constantly in the
+Englishman’s company, and had been told that they were lovers.
+
+The woman was beautiful, it was true. Her photographs were constantly
+appearing in the illustrated Press. She was the idol of Paris, where
+she reigned as queen of the variety stage, while in winter she lived
+in her pretty white villa on those sheltered, olive-clad slopes above
+Beaulieu—that quietest and most lovely spot on the whole of the Cote
+d’Azur.
+
+More than once, indeed, Alza had shed silent tears because of the
+Englishman’s infatuation for this woman. But she had always hidden the
+secret of her heart. She had hidden it until now.
+
+He had told her—confessed to her—that he loved Thyra.
+
+What had really occurred on that afternoon in Christiania puzzled her,
+and at the same time aroused her suspicion. She knew too well that Paul
+Grinevitch and Richard Jervoise were bitter enemies. Had not Grinevitch
+arrived suddenly at Semmering, and had she not overheard the quarrel
+between them, from which she had learnt to her surprise that they were
+rivals for the hand of the pretty French singer?
+
+What had occurred afterwards she knew not. The young Russian had left
+suddenly for Italy next morning, while the singer still remained in her
+apartments. Six months later she had heard a strange story, which she
+could hardly believe. But Love is a purblind, and Justice a squinting
+deity.
+
+It seemed that the two men had, by a strange vagary of circumstance,
+again become rivals for the hand of the same woman. Grinevitch had
+died. What more natural than by the hand of the tall Englishman?
+
+That thought had occurred to her more than once. Yet her suspicion was
+not confirmed by the confession her friend had made regarding his love
+for the fair-haired Norwegian.
+
+“Alza,” he exclaimed at last, “I do urge you to have a care of
+yourself. If Bourtzeff discovers you he will certainly seek to protect
+himself.”
+
+“He is your friend, M’sieur Dick,” she pointed out. “He knows that you
+allowed him to escape from Semmering, where he was posing as Professor
+Max Krause of Cologne, and has more than once referred to your
+generosity to us both.”
+
+“That does not alter his attitude towards you, mademoiselle. He has
+already turned police informant, and at any moment he may denounce you.
+I suppose, if he chose, he could make some revelations—eh?”
+
+“Yes,” sighed the girl, “ugly ones. I have been, nay, am still, their
+catspaw, as you know.”
+
+“Because of your good looks,” he remarked quietly. “Men admire you,
+and——”
+
+“And afterwards regret the folly of falling in love with me,” she added
+bitterly in French, at the same time sighing. “Ah, M’sieur Dick! How
+can I help it—how can I avoid it? They hold me in bondage—a bondage
+from which I can never free myself.”
+
+“Except by reforming—by becoming an honest woman,” he suggested very
+quietly.
+
+“An honest woman,” she echoed, her gaze fixed blankly upon the grey,
+wintry sea, her oval, purely French face pale and drawn. “How can
+I ever become that? So habituated am I to a life of movement and
+excitement that I could never exist without it.”
+
+“Unless you loved a man, and became his wife.”
+
+“And who, pray, would ever love me, or would respect me if they knew
+the truth concerning my past?” she cried. “No, M’sieur Dick, that is
+impossible—quite out of the question. I may love, but I can never be
+loved in return. My future is hopeless—only shame and imprisonment.
+I know it. Therefore I make the best of my liberty while I may. Ah!”
+she went on, “you do not know how full of subterfuge and adventure
+is my life; how, sometimes, I meet unexpectedly men who have much
+bitter cause to recollect the day when they declared their love to me.
+Sometimes I am threatened with exposure and prosecution; I am upbraided
+and cursed by those who have fallen victims of those heartless
+blackguards who, speaking a dozen languages and travelling everywhere,
+direct my actions. Yet I am defiant, even though at heart I am full of
+compassion, of compunction and regret.”
+
+“I know, Alza,” he said, still sympathetically. “Your position is a
+tragic and regrettable one. You are a thief and an adventuress against
+your will, against your better nature. Your father was a thief, and
+you were trained to be one from your early youth. Not a woman in all
+London, or in all Paris, is cleverer than you. You can gauge a man’s
+intellect and read his thoughts, and you can exercise over him a power
+almost hypnotic. I know it—I have seen it. And I know how, to you,
+reform and honesty must seem well-nigh impossible.”
+
+“I loved—once,” she exclaimed hoarsely, “you know.”
+
+“Victor Laurillard.”
+
+“Yes—the man who, through Nicholas Bourtzeff, is now at hard labour in
+Cayenne because, at Bourtzeff’s own direction, he assisted me!” she
+said hoarsely. “I dare not appear at the Assize Court of the Seine to
+give evidence in his defence.”
+
+“But why did Bourtzeff treat you thus? At Semmering all his craft and
+cunning were directed towards assisting you. From what you afterwards
+told me, I understood that the operations of the association of
+criminals were directed by a man named Enderlein and himself.”
+
+“So they were. But Bourtzeff quarrelled with Enderlein—who is a
+landowner and lives unsuspected on his estate near Cochen, on the
+Moselle. The disagreement arose over the divisions of the proceeds of
+a big hotel robbery at Cannes. Victor took sides with Enderlein, with
+the result that Bourtzeff severed himself from us and gave information
+to the police. Poor Victor was arrested for an affair at Toulon, and
+condemned. And on the night of his sentence Bourtzeff came to my studio
+and laughed in my face. I swore vengeance,” she added, with clenched
+hands, “and I am here in England for that purpose!”
+
+“But are you perfectly confident of your own power?” asked Dick
+seriously, fixing his eyes upon the girl, who, though an adventuress,
+was nevertheless his friend.
+
+“If I go to prison he will go also,” she responded. “He is ignorant of
+the true extent of my knowledge.”
+
+Jervoise was silent for a few moments. They had nearly arrived at the
+new hotel on the summit of the Canford Cliffs.
+
+“And as regards the connection of Grinevitch with this man?” he asked
+presently. “What is your surmise?”
+
+She looked at him quickly. The mention of Paul’s name reawakened all
+those terrible suspicions within her heart.
+
+“How can I surmise anything?” she stammered, in an endeavour to evade
+his question.
+
+“What connection had Grinevitch with Bourtzeff?” he asked.
+
+“They were both Russian,” she said, “and they were friends.”
+
+“How do you know that?”
+
+“Because, when Grinevitch arrived at Semmering, Bourtzeff recognised
+him in the hotel garden, and coming to me quickly declared that
+neither of us must be seen. Don’t you recollect that we both suddenly
+disappeared from the hotel, and were absent four or five days? He
+evidently did not wish to meet the new arrival.”
+
+“It seems much as though Grinevitch had made his peace with Bourtzeff,
+and intended to join him.”
+
+“Certainly. That is my theory.”
+
+“You have no knowledge of the relations which previously existed
+between the two men?” asked Jervoise, recollecting how vigilant had
+been her watch upon the house in Keppel Street, and how, from the
+first moment, she had been ready to assist him in prosecuting his
+inquiry.
+
+She hesitated. On her part she was still suspicious that the story
+he had told her regarding the events in Christiania was not exactly
+the correct one. He loved Thyra, and had been the bitter enemy of
+Grinevitch.
+
+Alza Dresler was a girl of exceptionally keen intellect. To practise
+any deception upon her was, indeed, difficult, for her own life was
+wholly a fraud and a deception. In Dick’s story she had from the very
+first recognised a flaw. He had not told her everything, and that fact
+piqued her; for was she not his friend, was she not acting wholly
+and entirely in his interests, acting in disregard of her own peril,
+performing for him a service in return for his own generosity when he
+had caught her a thief red-handed?
+
+“Bourtzeff was evidently in fear lest your friend should recognise
+him,” the girl remarked at last. Then, when they paused together in
+their walk a few moments later, she turned her eyes to his again,
+saying:
+
+“You were very devoted to Helene Marquet in those days, M’sieur
+Dick. What happened afterwards? She no longer sings her song, ‘Ma
+Fanchonnette,’ I suppose? Do you remember how fond you were of it?”
+
+        “Ma Fanchonnette,
+        Svelte et simplette.
+
+    Revets tes atours gracieux;
+          A la folie,
+          Fais-toi jolie,
+    Et le charme de tous les yeux.”
+
+And she glanced again into her companion’s troubled face.
+
+“Yes,” he answered, in a thick, husky voice. “I remember, alas! I
+remember only too well.”
+
+“And you are recollecting—as I, alas! am recollecting—those moments
+when you found me in her salon,” she said, in a slow, pensive voice.
+
+“No, Alza; I am not,” he protested. “No. That is a memory long past and
+forgotten. I am thinking of something else—of what happened afterwards.”
+
+“And what did happen?” she inquired, recognising from his drawn
+features that whatever was the memory it was a painful one. “I know
+that you and Paul Grinevitch were rivals in Helene’s affections.”
+
+He started, staring at her.
+
+“How did you know that?” he gasped.
+
+“I overheard your quarrel in the hotel on the day I returned,” she
+answered frankly.
+
+He stood rigid, as though turned to stone. Even she, the woman criminal
+and a thief though she be, had become suspicious—she was reading in his
+eyes the tragic truth!
+
+“Where is Helene?” repeated the girl, without affecting to notice his
+agitation.
+
+“Surely you know? Why ask me?” he protested in the same hoarse voice.
+
+“I do not know. I have never seen her since you and she left Semmering.”
+
+He was silent, his face turned to the low-lying coast across Poole
+Harbour.
+
+“Helene is dead,” he answered in a low tone scarce above a whisper.
+
+“Dead!”
+
+“Ah! yes, Alza!” he cried despairingly. “You knew her—you knew that she
+was once my dearest friend; therefore you may know the end. That winter
+she went to her villa on the hillside at Beaulieu, while I lived at the
+Bristol, down on the bay. She went there to rest, prior to fulfilling
+an engagement in New York. Well—how shall I explain it? Paul Grinevitch
+came unexpectedly, and lied to her about me, as he had lied before.
+In consequence I was dismissed. She, to whom I was devoted, gave me
+my _conge_, and Paul usurped my place in her affections. He proved
+heartless and cruel, like all his race, who would rule their women with
+the knout. I know it, for she wrote me a pitiful letter of farewell,
+and in it told me the painful truth. I have that letter now, Alza,” he
+added, looking straight at the girl who stood facing him. “The hand
+that penned it was, half an hour later, lifeless! She took her own
+life with chloral, because Grinevitch—the accursed blackguard that he
+was—had wrecked her life and afterwards deserted her!”
+
+“And that man,” remarked the girl in a slow voice, full of hidden
+meaning, “has received his deserts! The debt is paid!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+ON THE RIPLEY ROAD
+
+
+Owen Odd worked hard through the early part of March, for it was his
+busiest season. An epidemic of influenza had again broken out, and in
+all the districts of the metropolitan area that of Hammersmith was the
+most affected.
+
+Therefore, being out both night and day, he saw but little of Dick,
+who, seated in his high-up flat on the opposite side of the long
+suspension bridge, pursued his studies.
+
+He ran up to Perthshire for a fortnight’s curling, and to play in a
+match on Corsbreck, but returned earlier than he intended, for Thyra
+was still in London, and he longed to be again beside her.
+
+Their constant association constituted in itself a grave danger. They
+were both only too well aware of that. Yet somehow there existed a
+magnetic attraction which drew them towards each other. Those grey eyes
+held him in fascination now just as they had done on the first evening
+they had met.
+
+Whatever suspicions had been aroused in the mind of Jorgen Berentsen by
+Peter Sundt had apparently been allayed by Dick’s frank, open manner.
+Only Jorgen knew of Sundt’s presence in London. The man, living at his
+ease in the best suite at the Ritz, had extracted a solemn promise from
+Jorgen to tell no one of his whereabouts, hinting as the reason that in
+the City were some busy speculators who were worrying him to sell his
+fishing interests in the north to a public company; and who, if they
+knew him to be in London, would allow him no peace.
+
+Hence, old Jorgen kept the secret, and had not even told his widowed
+daughter.
+
+There being a spell of dry, frosty weather, Dick had on a good many
+occasions hired a motor car, and taken Thyra and her father for runs to
+various places around London, such as Hitchin, St. Albans, Chelmsford,
+Guilford, and down to the Metropole at Brighton.
+
+To the girl-widow, who had spent most of her days in the bleak Arctic,
+motoring along those country roads was a new sensation in which she
+delighted. Hitherto her only experience had been that of taxi-cabs, but
+in a “forty” the run was so much more exciting and exhilarating.
+
+The old whaler, too, grew fond of travelling by car, and many pleasant
+days they thus passed together. Father and daughter had decided to
+remain on in London until the warmer weather, the old fellow having
+obtained further leave of absence from his post as harbour-master.
+
+The character of the mysterious “business” upon which he was so often
+absent from Talbot Road was never revealed. The truth was, however,
+that, aided by Sundt, both financially and otherwise, he was making
+diligent inquiries in Russia concerning the antecedents of Paul
+Grinevitch.
+
+Peter had telegraphed to his agent at St. Petersburg, and in
+consequence the man had duly arrived at the Ritz. Then, after several
+interviews, at which Jorgen was present, the Russian had received
+instructions to proceed to Tula, Kiev, and other places, and make
+inquiries. The result of these both men were now awaiting.
+
+Notwithstanding the grave suspicion cast upon Richard Jervoise by
+Peter, the old captain, nevertheless, liked him. He had taken to him
+from the very first day when Martin had introduced him at Vardo.
+
+On several occasions, when he had arrived at Talbot Road with the car,
+Dick had found that the Captain was unavoidably absent “on business,”
+but Thyra was always there to welcome him warmly. Of late she had, it
+seemed, grown fonder of his company than hitherto, though at times he
+was quick to notice the slightly thoughtful frown which clouded her
+white brow.
+
+One morning, when he called with the car, and found the Captain out, he
+proposed that they should wait till his return after luncheon. But she
+pointed out that it would be too late to go for a run of any length,
+and suggested that they should travel down to Guilford and lunch
+together at the inn where they had lunched a week previously.
+
+This they did, going by way of Kingston and Ripley, duly arriving at
+the inn, where they had a pleasant _tete-a-tete_ meal, no one else
+happening to be present.
+
+After a few sentences on indifferent matters when the waiter had left,
+the pair had fallen silent. They exchanged glances, but Thyra spoke
+within herself, as was her habit, and made note of a sudden and sad
+discovery. Dick was changed! No; this time it really was not mere
+fancy! He was changed.
+
+She became puzzled. What could it mean? She held her breath when she
+recollected all the past—that bitter, never-to-be-forgotten past.
+
+She sighed for that free life at Vardo, with the fresh wind from the
+ice-pack, those rolling, open seas, and the brilliant Northern lights
+that so often lit the sky. Ah, how happy was her life there! How very
+different from that stifled existence on a drawing-room floor at
+Bayswater.
+
+And yet? She looked into her companion’s face, and her gaze wavered.
+And yet, alas! there was that bond which she could not now break!
+
+He was proposing to take her father and herself to a play at the
+Garrick on the following evening. But she said, almost mechanically:
+
+“Is it wise? Remember that you should not be seen with me so much! You
+never know who may be watching.”
+
+He laughed—a scoffing laugh that was new to him. He was scornful. Was
+it of herself?
+
+Fancies! Folly! Peril!
+
+“My dear Thyra,” he said, “you are so full of apprehension. What have
+we to fear? Our secret is surely safe—as it always will be.”
+
+And he looked at her again with that strange, unusual gaze that caused
+her to shudder.
+
+Half an hour later they were seated together in the closed car
+travelling back over that well-kept, open road towards Ripley.
+
+Yes. He was changed, she thought, as she sat at his side, gazing at the
+ever-winding road and bare trees rising straight before her.
+
+She had noticed how his expression had transformed. A woman is always
+quick to read a man’s face, and certainly she was no exception.
+Something gloomy, something deprecating, had come into his eyes. Had he
+really lost faith in her?
+
+To remove all vestige of her fear she spoke to him again, a smile in
+her great grey eyes as they fell upon his. Her heart thumped wildly,
+for he did not answer. He remained plunged in thought, his mouth hard
+and rigid, still regarding her fixedly.
+
+“Mr. Jervoise!” she exclaimed, as her gloved hand involuntarily fell
+upon his and an unexplained anxiety took possession of her. It was
+about as bad as the inexpressible terror of that night after the sudden
+discovery of her widowhood. “Speak to me,” she urged. “What’s the
+matter? At the inn you were defiant and scornful, yet now you seem just
+as full of apprehension as I am.”
+
+“I was thinking,” he said, his eyes fixed upon hers. “Nothing,” he
+added. “Don’t be alarmed.”
+
+“But——”
+
+She did not conclude her sentence. The car roared on through the grey,
+threatening afternoon, and with a sudden swerve sped through the
+village street of Ripley and out again into the country roads.
+
+“Why do you ask?” he murmured at last. His voice was hardly a breath,
+but a breath in which Thyra felt the raging of a storm of resentment.
+
+Again she was afraid.
+
+She now became conscious of a mysterious transformation. Only a day,
+nay, only an hour, previously it was her own soul which had escaped
+that of Richard Jervoise, hiding itself behind a world of littleness,
+of vanity, of vain desires and ambitions; now, on the contrary, it was
+his soul which some occult, unseen, but violent, force was trying to
+wrest away from her. She attempted to fathom the mystery. It was weird
+and inexplicable.
+
+What is it? she asked herself. Does he mistrust—is he afraid of me? Why
+is this?
+
+“Thyra,” he said at last, “you must explain to me what you intend to
+do. You seem mysterious to-day.”
+
+“As soon as my father is ready we go back to Vardo,” she answered quite
+simply.
+
+“Without further thought of me—eh?” he asked in a voice of reproach.
+
+“I did not say that. I shall always remember you as a very kind and
+very dear friend of my father and myself,” she faltered, not quite
+understanding the drift of his conversation. The car roared on.
+
+“Nothing else?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes fixed upon hers.
+
+Again she was silent. What, indeed, could she say?
+
+He repeated his question in a low, intense voice.
+
+“You know already,” was her answer at last.
+
+“I don’t—I don’t understand,” he exclaimed.
+
+But he could get no word from her lips. There was a whole gulf between
+them, an immense expanse of cold, colourless water, perfidiously
+silent, like that of the broad lake along the edge of which the car was
+at that moment travelling.
+
+“Thyra,” he exclaimed suddenly, after another long silence, “yesterday,
+as I was leaving the club, I saw a friend of your father’s coming down
+St. James’s Street in a hansom.”
+
+“A friend of my father’s?” she echoed. “Whom?”
+
+“That stout, red-faced man to whom I was introduced in your house,” he
+replied.
+
+“What, Peter Sundt!” she cried. “Why, he cannot possibly be in London.
+He’s always at his villa at Ragusa all the winter!”
+
+“I’m quite certain it was the man. One cannot forget a pimply face like
+his!” he laughed lightly.
+
+“No,” she declared. “But are you quite certain you were not mistaken?”
+
+“Absolutely.”
+
+“Then,” she said reflectively, “if he really is in London, my father’s
+mysterious absences on business are easily accounted for. He goes to
+see him.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+Her breast heaved slowly, and fell.
+
+“Well—I believe there is some secret between them. I’ve thought so
+for months past. When you met him at Vardo he had come up there
+expressly to consult my father upon some point. They held several long
+consultations in private.”
+
+“What is the nature of their secret, do you imagine?”
+
+“How can I tell? Except——” And she hesitated, a slight flush rising
+upon her pale cheeks.
+
+“Except what?”
+
+“Well,” she faltered, when he had repeated his question, “the secret is
+mine alone. The fact is that we had met in Christiania before I left
+school, and I had been invited to a garden fete he had given. My father
+and he being very old friends, he used to send me pretty presents at
+Christmas and on my birthday.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+She was again silent. The car, with horn sounding ever and anon, was
+rushing onward towards London.
+
+“About a year ago he came to Vardo on his yacht, and stayed with us for
+several days,” was her reply. “One afternoon, when we were out together
+walking, he took my hand, and—and he declared that he loved me; and,
+despite the great difference of our ages, that if I would consent he
+would make me his wife.”
+
+“That man?” Dick gasped, staring at her in surprise. “He proposed to
+you?”
+
+“Yes,” she answered blankly. “It was only a week before I met Paul. I
+told him frankly that I could never marry a man whom I did not love.
+But he refused to take my refusal for an answer, and said he hoped
+that I would reconsider my decision. With the pride of the parvenu he
+pointed out to me the social position I might occupy, and the means
+that would be at my command, if only I became his wife. And further, he
+promised that on my marriage he would place to my father’s credit such
+an amount that would secure for him a competency, so as to allow him
+to resign his appointment at Vardo and come to live somewhere in the
+south.”
+
+“In fact, he wished your father to sell you to him just as though you
+were a barrel of cod-liver oil—eh?” he asked grimly.
+
+“Yes—almost,” she laughed uneasily.
+
+“Was your father aware of this?” Dick quickly asked.
+
+“I told him. But he only replied that he would never wish to influence
+me in any way regarding my marriage, and urged me not to marry until I
+could honestly love. But——”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“My surmise is that the secret between Peter and my father is still in
+regard to my marriage—as it has always been,” she replied in a strange
+voice.
+
+“You think, then, that this rough, red-faced fisherman still desires to
+marry you?” asked Dick, with quick resentment.
+
+“Yes,” she answered very slowly. “Though my father has never once
+referred to the subject since, I somehow entertain a vague suspicion
+that Peter has again approached him upon the subject. Marriage with
+that man, with his fine house in Christiania, his villa on the
+Adriatic, and his immense wealth, would be regarded by the world as a
+splendid match I suppose,” she added, laughing bitterly.
+
+“But you surely will never marry him, Thyra!” he urged earnestly,
+taking her hand tenderly in his. “You do not love him—do you?”
+
+“I do not,” was her prompt answer, as with a sudden movement she pushed
+her hair back from her brow, as though its weight oppressed her. “But
+who knows what the future may bring?” and she stared at the white,
+winding road before her.
+
+“It will bring you happiness, I hope.”
+
+“Happiness!” she echoed hoarsely. “I married for love, alas!—for
+happiness! But what did I receive in return? Ah! _You!_” she cried,
+staring at him, and suddenly drawing herself away from his contact in
+repulsion. “You—you speak to me of happiness—_you_—of all men!”
+
+And, unable to restrain herself longer, she burst into a flood of
+bitter tears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+A HAMMERSMITH HERO
+
+
+Owen Odd’s time seemed to him more occupied than ever since his summons
+to Plevna Gardens that winter’s night. His practice was a large, if not
+a very remunerative, one, and the patients, though they did not expect
+to be charged large fees, looked for as much attention as if they paid
+in guineas instead of shillings. Dr. Maureward’s assistant was not one
+to neglect his duties; he was as attentive and considerate to the cases
+where the fees were very doubtful as to those where he knew the bill
+had only to be sent in to be paid at once.
+
+For one thing, it was his nature to do with all his might what his
+hands found to do; and, beyond this, there was an incident in his past
+that was ever present to his mind emphasising the dangers of duty
+neglected.
+
+From the time of his becoming assistant to the Hammersmith practitioner
+he had never found much time that he could honestly call his own in
+which to mix with such friends as he had in London. Now that small
+circle was enlarged by the occupants of the second floor flat at No.
+2, Plevna Gardens, he was not inclined to forego the pleasure their
+society gave him.
+
+His professional calls there had been followed by others of a purely
+social nature. Both the major and his daughter had pressed him to come
+in when he could spare the time in an evening, and smoke a pipe and
+have a chat without any ceremony—invitations which he was only too
+ready to accept, though it entailed more strenuous work earlier in the
+day to obtain the necessary leisure.
+
+On further acquaintance Owen had found the major a most interesting
+and amusing companion, well read and broad-minded, with whom it
+was a pleasure to converse, and his stories of his Indian life and
+adventures, in which his daughter, Amy, would often join, were always
+worth listening to; so that those evenings, when the young doctor,
+having worked at high pressure for the greater part of the day, found
+himself free for an hour or two, were red-letter ones in his calendar.
+
+But Owen did not try to beguile himself into the belief that it was
+the major’s society alone that drew him to Plevna Gardens. There was a
+greater attraction than the old soldier’s stories, good as they were.
+
+Amy Gordon, the Madame Juliette of the West End, had taken up an
+all-absorbing position in his life and thoughts.
+
+He loved this beautiful girl with all the passion of his nature. Since
+that first evening she had been the one woman in the whole world for
+him. She had come into his life in such an extraordinary and mysterious
+way, in a way that even she herself could not account for, that he
+saw in their acquaintance something more than lay upon the surface.
+That it was preordained he had not a shadow of a doubt, and he read
+in the fact a happy issue to what at the outset was nothing more than
+a professional call. But at the moment he did not see how this was to
+come about. He was a poor man, with nothing, as far as he knew, save
+his work to depend upon; and in his present position that did not
+promise much. The post of assistant in a second-rate practice never
+meant affluence; and, beyond that, Amy Gordon was making money fast,
+and he was not one to marry—as the saying is—for money: he would scorn
+to be a hanger-on to his wife. No, when he married he must have an
+income equal to that of the woman he sought as his life-long companion.
+But for the moment he could afford to let matters drift. Outwardly they
+were only acquaintances, and, as far as he could see, Amy regarded him
+as nothing more.
+
+She always seemed pleased to see him, and, as visit followed visit,
+grew to treat him more and more as a friend; but at times there was
+something in her manner that he could not fathom. She might be talking
+to him in the most natural and unconcerned way, and then suddenly she
+would become utterly absent and oblivious of the present, with her gaze
+fixed on space, and deaf to any remark he might make.
+
+He could not help noticing this only occurred in connection with
+himself, and he one day taxed her with the fact.
+
+“Is that so, doctor? I’m very rude, I’m afraid; but you must forgive
+me. I can’t help myself. It is the result of my life in India, I
+expect. At times my thoughts seem to escape me, and wander off in a
+manner that I cannot control.”
+
+“But this is never the case when you are talking to the major; it is
+only with respect to me.”
+
+“Really? Doctor Odd, you must see I am not as other girls; there
+is something strange about me. No, no; it is so,” as Owen made a
+deprecatory movement. “I think I have told you before there are many
+things about myself that puzzle me. I seem to possess a second nature,
+over which I can exercise no control. It is something altogether beyond
+me, and I can merely obey.”
+
+“If I might give you my professional opinion, I should say you were
+working too hard up at Bond Street, and required rest and a change. You
+are threatened with nerves, Miss Gordon. And nerves are nasty things
+when they are thwarted or ignored.”
+
+“Yes, a change would be nice, no doubt, but it is out of the question
+just now, with the season in full swing and one’s waiting-room crowded.
+No, I must wait a little time for that.”
+
+“Then all I can say is, get as much rest as you can, Miss Gordon,
+together with outdoor exercise. There’s nothing like fresh air, after
+all.” And the major returning to the room just then the conversation
+took a different turn.
+
+It was shortly after this, as Owen was returning one evening from
+visiting a patient in New Street, near the Creek, that the laughter
+and shouts of some children playing on the muddy, shelving bank of the
+river attracted his notice, and he stopped to watch them. Not that he
+could see much—the night was closing in, and objects in the distance
+were becoming indistinct. His outdoor work was over for the day, and
+taking his case from his pocket he committed the unprofessional act
+of lighting a cigarette. He stood there, lazily smoking, when in a
+moment the tone of the shouting changed from merriment to horror and
+dismay, and he became aware of a small form rushing towards him,
+bawling something he could not catch, and pointing towards the knot of
+youngsters lower down.
+
+“What’s the matter, Tommy?” asked Owen, laying his hand on the boy’s
+shoulder as he passed and stopping him.
+
+“Jem Blain’s in the water, and drowning,” screamed the boy; and would
+have rushed on if Owen had not detained him. “’Ere, leave go, will yer?
+I’m going to tell his mother,” with a further struggle to get free.
+
+“Where is he? Can you see him?” And Owen hurried down to the lad’s
+companions at the water edge as his informant dashed off into the gloom.
+
+The tide was running out fast, and some twenty yards from the shore the
+doctor could just make out something on the surface of the river, but
+the next moment it had disappeared.
+
+“There he is! There he is! He’s been down once already, and he can’t
+swim.” And the boys moved along the mud bank as the object was carried
+down towards the bridge.
+
+Owen recognised that there was not a moment to delay—it was a case of
+life or death within the next minute or two; and, tearing off his coat
+and waistcoat as he ran, he dashed into the river somewhat in advance
+of the drowning lad, hoping to be able to get far enough to intercept
+him as he passed.
+
+He was a good swimmer, but he soon found that, weighted with the thick
+clothes he was wearing, he had no easy task before him. Striking out as
+rapidly as he was able, he reached the spot he had made for, only to
+see the boy for a moment through the gloom some four or five yards from
+him, nearer the center of the river. And then it was only an arm and
+hand that caught his eye; the rest of the small body was submerged.
+
+And now it became a race, muscle against tide, and the owner of the
+muscle _meant_ to win.
+
+During the next few moments Owen experienced all the fascination that
+is felt by those engaged in a great struggle in which determination
+comes to their aid. He had often fought death before, but it had been
+in a quieter, though not less determined, manner. Then there had been
+waiting, watching, and expectation. Now all this was compressed in one
+gigantic effort—all he could do must be done at once, or it would be
+useless. Death had got his grasp on his victim, and unless he could
+tear him from his grip before his fingers tightened his opponent must
+prevail.
+
+Owen swam as he had never swum before. Every ounce of his strength and
+willpower he put into his strokes. He _would_ win, he would not be
+beaten. The boy’s life was not so much to him—he hardly thought of that
+as a life—it was the act of snatching it from destruction that filled
+his mind through those moments of intense concentration.
+
+He was gaining. There was little to guide him now. All had disappeared
+save one small hand.
+
+Half a dozen strokes and he would be up to it. He felt he had the
+strength of three men as he cut through the muddy tide.
+
+He had been swimming on his side, using the powerful overhead stroke,
+and now he turned his head to grasp his prize.
+
+The hand had disappeared. There was nothing before him but the rippled
+surface of the river. He was too late, after all.
+
+“He’s just in front of yer, master. He’s gone under. Can’t yer grab
+him?” came the shout from the bank from the drowning lad’s companions.
+
+Owen’s breath was almost gone, swimming as he had been had taxed him
+to the uttermost; but he was not beaten yet. Taking a long breath, he
+dived. He could see nothing beneath the surface—the light was too dim
+and the water too thick. But if the sense of sight failed he still
+retained that of touch, and he had not progressed more than a couple of
+yards when he felt something in contact with his hand. He grabbed it,
+and, coming to the surface, dragged it with him.
+
+As he shook the water from his eyes he could have shouted, had breath
+remained, in exultation. He had got the boy!
+
+For the moment victory was with him, but the struggle was not over yet.
+
+The tide was running strongly, and each moment drew him farther from
+the shore. It was useless to attempt to fight his way back—he had not
+the strength. All he could do was to keep himself and his prize above
+water. Fortunately, the boy was unconscious, and did not struggle. He
+held him as he had learnt to hold a rescued person in the old days
+of his swimming instruction, and trod water, suffering himself to be
+carried on by the tide, and reserving his strength as much as possible.
+
+Meanwhile the shouts of the boys on the bank had given notice that
+something was amiss, and attention had been called to the river,
+so that by the time Owen and his burden drew near the bridge at
+Hammersmith a fringe of excited watchers lined the up-river side,
+peering into the gloom in the hope of catching sight of rescued
+and rescuer; and as a small dark object could be made out, to all
+appearance helplessly floating on the surface, a mighty cheer went up.
+At the same time a boat shot out from the shadows on the Middlesex side.
+
+That cheer reached the ears of the swimmer and infused new courage
+through his weary limbs. He had been feeling he could not hold out much
+longer. He was chilled to the bone, and his legs and arms felt like
+lead; his grasp on his prize was relaxing. But now he knew his position
+was seen and that help was at hand.
+
+He would _not_ give in. Life was worth a further struggle. And during
+those dark moments the face of Amy Gordon seemed to smile on him
+through the gloom, and he felt brave and confident once more.
+
+But it was the final effort. The will was there, but the body was weak.
+It had been taxed to the uttermost, and could do no more.
+
+Again he felt the remains of his strength vanishing, and this time he
+knew it would not return.
+
+“Keep up! Keep up! There’s a boat coming!” rang the cry from overhead.
+“Keep up!” And Owen almost smiled as it reached his ears. It was so
+easy to shout directions from dry land.
+
+The boat _was_ coming. He had caught sight of it. Would it be in time?
+It was a long way off yet, and he was so weary, so weary. One more
+effort. He tried to make it. He could not. His arms and legs refused to
+act. He was beaten at last, after all. It seemed hard, but——Darkness
+came down on him, and he knew no more.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was the evening following the events just related.
+
+Amy Gordon had entered the dining-room at Plevna Gardens to find her
+father seated in front of the fire, with a paper in his hand. He looked
+round as she approached to kiss him, as she always did first thing on
+her return from business.
+
+“So you’ve got back all right, dear.”
+
+“Yes, father, and very glad I am to be home once more. I’ve had an
+awfully busy day. They’ve been coming in in shoals. I could not see
+them all, and disappointed a dozen or more by telling them they would
+have to write for appointments.”
+
+“Then you’ve not seen the paper, I expect?”
+
+“Not I. Why, I had hardly time to swallow my lunch, much less amuse
+myself by reading.”
+
+“Well, go and get ready for dinner, and afterwards I’ll show you
+something that will interest you.”
+
+“Why, father, what secret have you got for me—eh?”
+
+“Never mind now. Go and do as I tell you,” and there was an amused
+smile on the major’s face.
+
+Dinner was over and had been cleared away. The servant had placed the
+decanters on the table at the end nearest the fire, and Amy and her
+father had turned their chairs towards the blaze, when the girl said:
+
+“And now, father, for your wonderful secret.”
+
+“Look at that!” said the major, handing his daughter a copy of the
+_Reflector_ of that day’s date. “What do you think of that? It seems we
+number a hero among our friends.”
+
+Amy took the illustrated sheets, and was glancing at them carelessly
+when her eyes suddenly became fixed on the representation of a man, in
+ordinary professional costume, above the heading, “A Hammersmith Hero.”
+
+“Why, it’s Doctor Odd, surely?” she exclaimed.
+
+“Yes, it’s the doctor right enough, though it’s a precious bad
+likeness. But read what they say about him. It was a plucky thing to
+do.”
+
+Without answering, Amy rapidly read the glowingly worded description of
+Owen’s adventure the previous evening.
+
+It gave a more or less accurate account of what had taken place, and
+concluded as follows:
+
+  “Jem Smith, the bargee, with his companion, forcing their boat
+  against the swiftly flowing tide, only managed to reach the gallant
+  rescuer just in time. The brave doctor was in the act of sinking,
+  and had already disappeared save for his head, when Smith, throwing
+  his oars aside, leant over the gunwale and grabbed him by the hair
+  with one hand, while with the other he seized the unconscious lad.
+  This was all he could do, and though his companion quickly came
+  to his aid, they were compelled to await the arrival of a second
+  boat before the doctor and the boy he had so gallantly risked his
+  life to save could be lifted from the water and brought to land.
+  Both were unconscious, and for a long time resisted all efforts to
+  restore animation; but at length these proved successful, and the
+  two recovered sufficiently to allow of their being removed to their
+  respective homes. On our representative calling later in the evening
+  he had the satisfaction of hearing both were going on as well as
+  could be expected, and that the gallant doctor would probably be
+  quite himself again in the course of a few hours.”
+
+  “We congratulate Hammersmith on numbering among its inhabitants a
+  gentleman who, while giving his time and strength to the alleviation
+  of pain and suffering, does not hesitate to risk his life in the
+  cause of humanity. It is understood that the attention of the Royal
+  Humane Society will be called to the heroic action of Dr. Owen Odd.”
+
+“Well, Amy, what do you think of that, eh?” asked the major, as,
+watching her eyes, he saw that she had reached the last line.
+
+“The doctor’s a brave man, father. It isn’t everyone who would have
+done what he did.”
+
+“No, it isn’t. I think it would be nice if we sent round to ask how he
+was getting on. What do you say, Amy?”
+
+“As you like, father. But I should fancy he will be coming very shortly
+to see you. He hasn’t been for more than a week now.”
+
+“No, he hasn’t,” and while he was speaking the major had kept his eyes
+on his daughter’s face, for resting on it was an expression he could
+not understand. Her eyes had remained glued on the portrait of the
+“Hammersmith Hero,” and yet they seemed to be looking _through_ it
+rather than at it.
+
+Her father made one or two further remarks, which drew monosyllables
+in reply, and, seeing she was lost in thought, he took up a book, and
+silence reigned in the room.
+
+When at length his daughter spoke it was to make a remark on an
+entirely different matter, and the subject of the doctor’s exploit was
+not again referred to.
+
+On the major retiring at half-past ten, his usual hour, his daughter,
+after seeing him to his room and that all his things were put out
+ready, returned to the dining-room, and taking up the _Reflector_
+again, opened it, spread it out upon the table, and leaning her head
+upon her hands, gazed at the illustration.
+
+Some minutes passed in this manner, and then, rising quickly, she
+exclaimed in a tone ringing with conviction:
+
+“At last I have it. Of course it was _he_. I knew I should remember.”
+And switching off the light she left the room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+ANOTHER PROBLEM
+
+
+It was about ten days after the evening of which mention has been
+made in the last chapter, and Amy was again seated by herself before
+the fire in her cosy dining-room. In her hand she held a letter, the
+writing and spelling of which left much to be desired. She had found it
+on her arrival home that evening, and, having opened it, had said to
+her father:
+
+“Oh, it’s from old Martha; she seems to have got another place, and
+thinks it is going to suit her.”
+
+“I’m sure I hope it may. At her age she is not everyone’s servant.
+Where has she gone to now?”
+
+“Chippenham, with one old lady, who has a small house where there are
+few stairs, so it won’t be such a trial for her legs as at her last
+place.”
+
+“Sounds better,” said the major, returning to his paper. “She isn’t
+begging, I hope?”
+
+“Oh, no; old Martha would have to come very low indeed before she did
+that, poor old soul! Even after Carry’s death, when she was so long out
+of a place, she did not do so. I think she would almost starve before
+her pride would allow her to ask for charity.”
+
+“Yes, yes; she’s a good old thing. You might do worse than have her
+here with us.”
+
+“I have thought of that, but I’ve no fault to find with Mary, and when
+we were wanting a servant Martha was engaged. So I hope things will
+go on all right with her now.” And Amy left the room to change her
+things, placing the letter in her pocket. She had only glanced at it
+hurriedly, and it was not till her father had retired for the night,
+and she had the dining-room to herself, that she read it carefully.
+Ignoring the bad grammar and curious spelling, it ran as follows:
+
+    “Spring Cottage,
+    Chippenham,
+    Tuesday.
+
+  “DEAR MISS AMY,—I thank you for your letter, and hope this will find
+  you as it leaves me at present. I am in a comfortable place as above,
+  and few stairs, with a Miss Warnford, who has plenty of money, but
+  no legs, not to speak of, through rheumatism. Likewise her temper
+  is awkward at times when it’s bad. But I can put up with that, and
+  humouring her she soon comes round.”
+
+  “You ask me about your cousin, Miss Carry Dean. As you will remember,
+  I was only with her a fortnight before she was taken bad for the
+  last time. It was very good of you to get me the place, and I should
+  have been very happy and comfortable there if things had gone right.
+  But it was not to be, and, poor soul, she’s gone, so I say nothing
+  against her. She was took bad one evening after her supper at seven
+  o’clock, and not liking the looks of her I ran to the cottage next
+  us, and sent Tom Harris, who lodged there, for her doctor, Mr. Duke,
+  who lived in the village. He was away at a case, and they did not
+  know when he would be back. Tom came and told me, and, Miss Carry
+  getting worse, I told him to get a horse or something and go to
+  Exeter and fetch one of the doctors there. He said he knew one what
+  had cured a mate of his—a Doctor Hodge, I think it was—so I told him
+  to fetch him. Off he goes, and Miss Carry was getting worse and
+  worse; and there was I awaiting and awaiting, till at last I heard
+  the horse outside. Tom had come back and no doctor. He’d seen him, he
+  said, and he would be here well-nigh as soon as he was. But he didn’t
+  come. I waited an hour or more, and my mistress getting worse and
+  worse; and then I was going down to see Tom and send him off again,
+  when she just gave a great sigh and was gone. And the strangest thing
+  was that when they came to call Tom next morning he was dead, too.”
+
+  “When Mr. Duke came that morning he said nothing could have saved my
+  mistress, but that I did quite right to send Tom off to Exeter; but
+  he made a rare fuss about no doctor coming, but Tom being dead no
+  one knew what doctor he had been to. I thought Hodge was the name he
+  said, but being that flustered I couldn’t be sure; and then it turned
+  out there was no doctor of that name in the town. They didn’t have
+  an inquest, as Dr. Duke could sign for her, and everything went off
+  quietly, and I stayed and took care of the house till matters were
+  settled up; and then, as you know, Miss, I was out of a place for
+  some time, and that’s all I can tell you; but if you want to know
+  anything more, and will drop me a line, I’ll try and tell you. So no
+  more at present from—Yours respectful—MARTHA GREEN.”
+
+Having finished the perusal, Amy laid the two sheets in her lap and sat
+motionless, staring into the fire. There was a hard look on her face,
+and her brows were contracted into deep lines. She was thinking, and
+her thoughts were not of the pleasantest.
+
+“I’m certain that picture in the _Reflector_ was taken from the
+likeness I saw in the photographer’s in Exeter,” she muttered. “I had
+completely forgotten it till I saw the reproduction in the paper, and
+then it came to my mind in an instant. It’s curious that though I had
+seen him several times, the fact that I had seen his photograph at
+Exeter never occurred to me until I saw his portrait in the paper, and
+that not a good one. And then—then if it were he. And yet I can’t—no,
+I can’t—think that he would do such a thing. Still, what I saw in the
+lines of his hand that first evening he came to see my father——” And
+again there was silence, broken only by a deep sigh.
+
+Once again the girl spoke. She had a habit of talking to herself when
+alone. It had commenced during her studies in the mystic in India, and
+lately she had found it growing upon her.
+
+“It wouldn’t be fair to judge him on a supposition only; and yet I
+cannot put the question to him, for, after all, it has nothing to
+do with me. He would resent it, naturally. He has attended father
+professionally, and has called once or twice since, but that is all.”
+And she shrugged her shapely shoulders in a manner that conveyed much.
+
+Still she sat on, gazing into the fast dying fire.
+
+“Had this man, Tom, lived everything would have been explained, no
+doubt; as it is, the uncertainty remains, and, considering the time
+that has passed since then, it is not likely to be cleared up—at any
+rate, down there.” She gave a little laugh as the idea of what some of
+her clients would think of her powers did they know how uncertain and
+ignorant she felt at that moment. And that laugh seemed to break the
+thread of her cogitations for she rose and, switching off the light,
+left the room.
+
+But she could not switch off her thoughts as easily as she did the
+light, and for hours she lay awake, turning over and over in her mind a
+problem that refused to be solved.
+
+It was with very mixed thoughts and a feeling of resentment against
+herself that she rose the following morning, after a disturbed and
+wakeful night. She was angry with herself at the interest she found she
+was taking in this acquaintance she had formed with a young suburban
+doctor, whose portrait, she was now convinced, she had first come
+across a long time previously in a photographer’s shop during a casual
+visit to Exeter.
+
+She had been strolling down the main street, and pausing to glance in
+the window had been struck by a collection of portraits in a pierced
+mount, in a single frame, and headed, “The Committee” of something or
+other—she could not remember what. She had paid no particular attention
+to it, and not one of the other likenesses remained in her mind; and
+yet, directly she had seen the illustration in the _Reflector_, she had
+felt sure she had seen somewhere the original portrait of which it was
+a reproduction, and gradually it came to her that it was in the Exeter
+shop.
+
+It was curious, inexplicable.
+
+There was something here that she could not fathom. When her father had
+been taken ill, why had she selected as the doctor to be called in a
+man whose name she had only seen on a brass plate some distance from
+where they lived? And why had she felt so confident that he was the
+_one_ man she ought to send for? And again, why, on that evening, when
+her father was better, had she so far departed from her rule of strict
+incognito when away from business as to reveal herself to him and
+attempt to give him a specimen of her powers? Had she been prompted by
+pride or a feeling of curiosity, and a wish to gather something of his
+former life?
+
+These were questions she could not answer. All she knew was that there
+was something at the back of her mind that was defying her and causing
+her uneasiness. And, try as she would, she could not drive out thoughts
+of the young doctor.
+
+That morning, before leaving Plevna Gardens for business, she did two
+things. She looked out in an old album a portrait of her dead cousin,
+Carry Dean, and, fitting it into a silver frame, from which she removed
+the likeness of an old schoolfellow, placed it on a side table; and she
+wrote the following note, to be posted on her way to Bond Street:
+
+    “2, Plevna Gardens, W.,
+    Thursday.
+
+  “DEAR DOCTOR ODD,—It is now some time since we had the pleasure
+  of seeing you. Why is this? My father has often wondered when you
+  were coming to have a chat with him again, and both he and I are
+  anxious to have the chance of offering you our congratulations on the
+  performance of a very brave action, and of hearing further and fuller
+  details at first hand. As you know, we are almost invariably at home
+  in the evening, so come when most convenient to yourself. My father
+  unites with me in kind regards.—Sincerely yours,”
+
+    “AMY GORDON.”
+
+She had just finished this, and was placing it in an envelope, when
+her father entered the room. In walking round the table to take up the
+paper his eye caught sight of the photo of his dead niece.
+
+“Why, my dear, what’s the meaning of this? What have you brought out
+poor Carry for?”
+
+“Fancy, father, fancy. I thought I should like to have her there for a
+time, at any rate.”
+
+“Very well, dear, by all means.” And taking up the frame and walking to
+the window: “Poor thing, poor thing; she went very suddenly, didn’t
+she? and only old Martha with her. Very sad, very sad, and she was such
+a bright, merry girl when she was young;” and, replacing the frame,
+“just off, dear? Well, take care of yourself. I think I shall run up to
+the club this morning, it’s such a fine day.”
+
+“The very thing; it would do you good. By the bye, father, I’ve sent a
+line to Dr. Odd, suggesting he should look us up when he has time.”
+
+“That’s right. I’m longing for a chat with him. He’s one of the best.
+Good-bye, child, good-bye.” And with a kiss to her father Amy left the
+room.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+“And now you’re feeling none the worse for your efforts, eh, doctor?”
+said the major.
+
+“No, thank you. I was a little stiff the next morning, but that was
+all. If it had been ten years ago I don’t suppose I should have noticed
+it. And really, I hate all the fuss that was made over it, for the fact
+that I am a good swimmer—I don’t say this in self-praise—reduces my
+action to nothing out of the ordinary.”
+
+“No, no; we don’t admit that, do we, Amy? It _was_ something very much
+out of the ordinary, something that not one man in ten would have taken
+on.”
+
+“Then more shame for the ten, either for not having learnt to swim, or,
+having done so, being afraid to put their powers to a proper use.”
+
+“Well, well, I’m glad it was you and not I to whom the chance came.”
+
+Owen Odd had looked in on the major and his daughter, and the trio were
+seated round the fire, for the evening was chilly, the two men enjoying
+their pipes.
+
+“It was kind of you, Miss Gordon, to write to me, though without your
+invitation I had meant to call; but I fear you are tired this evening,
+are you not?” for the girl had spoken little.
+
+“Oh, no, nothing to speak about. I had rather a full day, certainly,
+but I’m thankful to say I often have.”
+
+“Then I ought not to stay,” replied Owen, making a movement to rise.
+
+“No, no; don’t think of such a thing. Please go on talking; I was
+anxious to hear all about it,” and a smile drove away the somewhat
+constrained look that had rested on her face.
+
+“Oh, yes, doctor, sit still. Amy and I were quite excited about it.
+But, tell me, you were precious near done when they got you out, were
+you not?”
+
+“I was, I admit. You see, I haven’t had much practice of late, and
+to keep oneself afloat in one’s clothes takes some exertion, to say
+nothing of having to support the dead weight of a body as well. But one
+does not think of that at the time. I don’t quite know what one does
+think about, except there is the feeling that one won’t be beaten, and
+you keep on going to the last gasp.”
+
+“And how is the boy you saved?” asked the girl.
+
+“Oh, I have called at his house since, and found him as well as ever,
+the young rascal. And didn’t I give him a rare jacketing for all the
+trouble he has caused?”
+
+“Was he duly penitent?”
+
+“Not as he ought to have been; he seemed to regard it as a joke, and
+considered himself more of a hero than anything else. However, I think
+he’ll be precious careful in future when playing on the banks.”
+
+“They certainly did not flatter you in the _Reflector_ portrait,” said
+Amy, joining in the conversation once more.
+
+“No; wasn’t it awful. And how those journalistic folk manage to get
+hold of the portraits they do is a puzzle to me. That one was from a
+photo I had done in Exeter some years ago, and it was considered rather
+a good one at the time.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I know it. At least, I’ve seen it before,” said the girl,
+raising her eyes and looking Owen straight in the face.
+
+“You know it, Miss Gordon!” and Amy fancied she detected a look of
+uneasiness as he uttered the words in a constrained tone.
+
+“Yes, I think I saw it in a shop in Exeter.”
+
+“Then you know the place?”
+
+“I can’t say I do, not really. I’ve been there once or twice, but it is
+some time ago. I have no friends there.”
+
+“Ah, wasn’t the water cold that night!” said the doctor with a shudder,
+changing the trend of the conversation abruptly. “It was that that
+tried me as much as anything, I think.”
+
+“It must have been. I wonder you did not get the cramp. If you had——”
+
+“I should not be enjoying myself here to-night,” replied Owen with a
+laugh. “But it is not a matter to joke about, and I’m most thankful
+things turned out as they did, and that I was able to save a life that
+in the end may do some good in the world.”
+
+“Yes; that must be a splendid feeling, and one you doctors have more
+opportunities of experiencing than laymen,” said the major. “Speaking
+as a military man, our object is to take life, while yours is to save
+it. What a difference! And yet we are both doing our duty, in opposite
+ways.”
+
+“It seems to me that the doctor’s feeling must be the higher of the
+two, though as a soldier’s daughter perhaps I ought not to say so.”
+
+“I don’t know that, my dear,” replied the major. “Duty is duty in
+whatever direction it may lie.”
+
+“And how many of us can truthfully say we have always performed it,”
+said the girl, with her eyes still upon Owen. “By the bye, doctor, did
+you know a practitioner in Exeter of the name of Hodge?” she continued.
+
+“Hodge, Hodge, not while I was there. But, of course, that was some
+time ago,” and again Owen turned the conversation by some remarks to
+the major, and for a time Amy remained silent. Nor did Owen try to draw
+her into the conversation. He had a feeling that all was not right;
+there was a cloud over the gathering that he had never noticed on
+former occasions. In some way a barrier had arisen between the girl and
+himself. Outwardly there was nothing that could be noticed, and yet it
+was there, and he was convinced she was aware of it as well as himself.
+He could not account for it, nor was it of his raising; therefore, it
+must be her doing. It worried him, and he was ill at ease.
+
+For some time longer he sat talking to the major, but on his part the
+conversation was forced, and he feared it might be noticed.
+
+At length, in connection with a remark that had been made respecting
+some well known man, Miss Gordon said:
+
+“May I trouble you, doctor, to hand me ‘Who’s Who’? You’ll see it on
+that side table.”
+
+Owen rose at once, and in order to take it had to move the photo that
+Amy had recently placed there. She was watching him closely. A strong
+light fell upon it, and as he moved it she saw him glance at it in a
+casual way and put it aside, but without any sign of recognition or
+interest.
+
+“That is a cousin of mine who died,” she said. “Do you see any likeness
+to me in it?”
+
+He handed her the book, and, returning to the table, took up the frame
+and brought it under the light, examining it closely.
+
+“Not the slightest, Miss Gordon. She looks very delicate,” and he
+replaced it. He did not resume his seat, but, after talking for a
+few minutes, shook hands with his host and hostess and bade them
+“Good-night.”
+
+The major soon after this retired, leaving his daughter still sitting
+before the fire.
+
+Again she was deep in thought. She had laid a little plot, and it had
+not come off; or had there been no groundwork on which to construct it?
+She was uncertain, and this it was that was exercising her mind. As she
+thought over the events of the evening she grew angry with herself.
+
+She blamed herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell on a man she knew
+so little of, and whose acquaintance she had so recently made, for she
+could not hide from herself the fact that they certainly did circle
+round one point in a way they had never done previously.
+
+Again and again, during her interviews with her clients in Bond Street,
+she found his strong, virile features rising between her eyes and the
+hand she was examining; and the fact lowered her self-esteem. In her
+own mind she called it weakness, and determined to conquer it. He had
+been kind to her father, and she liked him. His society made pleasant
+break in their evenings _a deux_, but it should remain at this. She
+would draw a line over which he should not pass.
+
+Every girl at a certain age has the intuitive knowledge when a man
+finds in her something more than he finds in other girls, and Amy was
+no exception to the rule. She knew that she had already become a very
+important factor in the life of Owen Odd. In a measure the knowledge
+gave her pleasure, yet, on the other hand, she was not sure that she
+would allow matters thus to remain. Her character, owing to her
+experiences in India, differed a good deal from that of a homebred
+girl. She was accustomed to read more beneath the surface, and she
+was convinced that there was something in the past connected with her
+father’s friend that was hidden from the world; and this, in spite of
+her Yogli training, she was unable to arrive at.
+
+On arriving at his rooms Owen was surprised to find Dick awaiting him.
+The two friends had not met for some little time, for both had been
+much engaged on their own affairs.
+
+“Hallo, my gallant Leander,” exclaimed Dick, rising from the armchair
+in which he had been lounging. “I felt I must come and see if you had
+wrung yourself dry again by now after your swim.”
+
+“Now, then, no chaff, Dick. That’s an old story, and, as far as I am
+concerned had better be forgotten. I’m about sick of it. One can have
+too much of a good thing.”
+
+“All right, old fellow; I quite understand. You always were so modest,”
+and Dick laughed loudly as he slapped his friend on the back. “And,
+apart from that little incident, how have things been going with you,
+eh?”
+
+“Fairly well. I haven’t made a fortune yet, if that is what you mean.
+They’re not to be picked up in Hammersmith—at least, not every day. And
+you——?”
+
+“Oh, much the same as usual. I’ve been doing a bit of motoring now and
+then, and knocking about generally. You know Thyra and her father are
+in town, I suppose?”
+
+“No, I didn’t.”
+
+“Well they are, and Peter Sundt as well.”
+
+“Really, we only want one or two more, and the whole of our Arctic
+Circle will have come south,” replied Owen, with a laugh. “I suppose
+you’ve been showing them round?”
+
+“Some of them. But new friends don’t blot out old ones, there’s room in
+my heart for both, and I want you to give me a little of your company
+to-night.”
+
+“New friend. Great Scot! I didn’t know you placed that scarlet-faced
+Sundt in that category.”
+
+“I don’t. The beast! I hate that fellow, Owen, hate him like poison.
+Bah! it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth even to mention his name, so
+let’s drop him. Keep your coat on, and let’s be off to more habitable
+regions for an hour or two. I hate Hammersmith.”
+
+“You appear to have a wave of general hate flooding you this evening,
+Dick. What’s the matter?”
+
+“I’m hanged if I know. I feel I’ve got the hump, but for no particular
+reason. I do get like that sometimes, as you know. I tell you
+what; we’ll take the Tube to Leicester Square and look in at the
+Empire—there’s a turn I rather want to see. It may be rotten, but the
+fellows are talking about it a bit, so I must see it. What do you say?”
+
+“I’m game, if you think we shall be in time. When does it come on?”
+
+“Ten forty-five.”
+
+“Then we can do it if we look sharp. The Empire will be a bit of
+a change after this confounded place,” and, after giving some
+instructions to Margaret, the two friends left the house and made their
+way to the Tube station in the Broadway.
+
+During the journey their conversation was limited, for the “pipes” that
+now riddle subterranean London do not tend to promote conversation; but
+arriving towards the conclusion of the ballet, and having made their
+way to the promenade, they were able to chat to their heart’s content,
+and at the same time watch the show.
+
+The turn Dick was anxious to sample came on directly afterwards, and
+neither of them was particularly struck with it.
+
+It merely exemplified the knots into which the female body may, by
+early and consistent training, be tied and was more curious than
+graceful.
+
+“Well,” exclaimed Dick, as the curtain hid the panting performer, “I
+hope she’ll get something to eat now; she can’t have had much before
+the show. What do you say, doctor?”
+
+“Probably not. These people must have hard lives. It’s wonderful what
+some of us will do for money.”
+
+“It is, and there are many less honest ways of making it than the one
+that girl follows.”
+
+Owen turned sharply at these words, and looked hard at Dick, but he was
+lighting a cigarette at the moment, and did not notice the action of
+his friend. “Have you had enough? Well, then, come on, and we’ll look
+in at the club and have a drink before travelling West again.”
+
+“Right you are—an excellent programme. Let’s walk; I want a breath of
+fresh air after all this smoke, and it isn’t far.”
+
+They had left the glare of the lights in front of the Empire behind
+them, and were proceeding along Coventry Street, when Dick said:
+
+“Did you notice those two fellows we passed just now? One of them
+seemed to know you, Owen.”
+
+“No. Where are they?” looking round.
+
+Dick also turned. “They’ve vanished. I thought as we passed them they
+didn’t want to be seen. They’d a shifty, hang-dog look.”
+
+“Did you know them?” asked Owen.
+
+“Don’t think so; and yet I almost fancy I’ve seen one of them before
+somewhere.”
+
+Several times, as they made their way through the Circus, either Dick
+or his friend looked round, but noticed nothing unusual, and by the
+time they reached the club they had forgotten the incident.
+
+They stayed there chatting till it was time to make their way to Dover
+Street for the last train to Hammersmith, and then, as they were just
+about to cross Piccadilly, Dick exclaimed:
+
+“There’s one of those fellows!” and dashed back, threading his way
+quickly through the gaily bedizened throng that lingered on the
+pavement.
+
+Owen was too startled to move for a moment, and had hardly turned to
+follow his friend when he found him again at his side.
+
+“Missed him. He dodged me, and disappeared somewhere. I’m certain he
+was following us, or he wouldn’t have bolted as he did when he saw he
+was spotted. But come along, Owen, or it will mean a cab. We’ve only
+got a minute or two.” And hurrying on, the friends just managed to
+catch their train, and eventually parted in the Broadway.
+
+As Owen walked to his rooms he several times looked back over his
+shoulder. He was fearful lest he should be followed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+A WARNING IS UTTERED
+
+
+A few evenings after Dick and Owen’s visit to the Empire, on the
+latter’s return home at the end of his afternoon round, Margaret met
+him in the surgery and handed him the slate with the names of the
+callers during his absence. He glanced through it, making one or two
+remarks, and then, as he laid it down, she pointed to a note lying on
+the table. The envelope was dirty and thumb-stained.
+
+“Who brought this?” he inquired.
+
+“A little boy, sir. I asked him who it was from, and he didn’t seem to
+know. He said a man had given it to him, and told him to leave it here.”
+
+“Oh, all right,” and the servant left the room as Owen tore open the
+envelope. Inside was half a sheet of paper, as dirty and crumpled as
+the cover, and on it, written in pencil, were the following lines:
+
+  “OWEN ODD,—You seem to be getting on; I am not. I’m hard up. Meet me
+  this evening, at eight-thirty, under the third lamp-post on the south
+  side of Brook Green, and, for the sake of old times, bring some money
+  in your pocket. You will then recognise the writer.”
+
+“Infernal cheek!” muttered Owen, as he crumpled up the missive and
+threw it into the fire, immediately afterwards making a grab at the
+paper, but too late to save it.
+
+“Hang it! I never thought of that; I might have recognised the writing.
+Well, it can’t be helped now, and, in any case, I shouldn’t have gone.
+It was only a try on.” And he dismissed the matter from his mind, more
+especially as the evening turned out a very busy one for him, and it
+was late when he found himself finally disengaged.
+
+Some two or three days later another note arrived in the same manner,
+but the tone of it was different. There was no formal commencement—it
+began straight away:
+
+  “You took no notice of my first letter. I give you another chance. Be
+  at the place I first mentioned at eight-thirty this evening. If you
+  cannot come then, come to-morrow night at the same time, and mind and
+  bring what I asked you for. If you fail me again I shall know how to
+  act. I am watching you daily. Be wise in time.”
+
+“Who in the name of wonder can have sent this?” muttered Owen, holding
+the dirty paper under the gas and examining the writing. “A feigned
+hand, I’m certain, and yet an educated hand. I don’t think it can
+be one of my patients. Well, I shan’t go. But if this kind of thing
+continues I shall have to stop it. I’m not going to be badgered and
+threatened for nothing. But the police shall do it, not I,” and for the
+second time he put the matter aside and did not allow it to worry him.
+He, however, took the opportunity of running over to Barnes and showing
+the last missive to his friend Dick.
+
+“Look here, Owen, do you think it can have anything to do with those
+fellows we saw following us from the Empire the other evening?” said
+Jervoise, after glancing over it.
+
+“I should think not; but then, you remember, I did not see them.”
+
+“No, you didn’t. If you should get another of these things you might
+let me have it, and I’d keep the appointment and see what kind of a man
+your correspondent is. It would be rather a joke.”
+
+“All right; the next one that comes I’ll send on to you, but it may be
+only meant as a sell by some fellow who thinks himself devilish clever
+and funny.”
+
+“Of course it may, there are such heaps of fools about. But now come
+along with me; I’m going to run up to the club.”
+
+“Can’t, old fellow. Sorry, but I’m far too busy. I must be off,” and
+the two friends parted.
+
+No more dirty notes arrived for Owen, and he had concluded he was right
+in setting it down as a sell when one morning, just as he was preparing
+to start on his round, the surgery bell rang, and on his opening the
+door he found the major standing outside.
+
+“Ah, doctor, I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you might have gone.”
+
+“You are only just in time, major. But what is it? Nothing wrong, I
+hope?”
+
+“Not with me, I’m glad to say. But I wanted a word or two with you, if
+you can give me a few minutes,” replied his visitor, entering.
+
+“Certainly. Come in and sit down.”
+
+“We shan’t be overheard here?”
+
+“Oh, no. The surgery is as secret as a confessional.”
+
+“Good. Well, I’ve received a most extraordinary communication referring
+to you, and though I don’t believe a word of it I thought it was only
+fair you should see it. Just glance your eye over that,” and the major
+drew a letter from his pocket and passed it across the table.
+
+Owen smiled as he picked it up. A glance at the direction was
+sufficient to convince him that it came from the same quarter as those
+he himself had received.
+
+“Read it, doctor, read it,” said the major, closely watching Owen’s
+face as he drew out the usual half sheet, containing the following
+words:
+
+  “MAJOR GORDON,—As a friend I warn you against Doctor Odd, who has
+  insinuated himself like a snake in the grass into your flat! He is
+  no fit companion for your daughter or yourself. You have merely to
+  ask him about Exeter, and my words will be proved. A doctor given to
+  drink is one to be avoided.”
+
+“This is getting beyond a joke!” exclaimed Owen hotly, as he finished
+reading. “I shall place the matter in the hands of the police at once.”
+
+“Well, I really think you ought to, though, mind you, I don’t believe a
+word of the insinuation in it. And I ask you nothing.”
+
+“Oh, for my own sake, I can’t leave it there, though I confess I am not
+quite clear what the blackguard is driving at in mentioning Exeter. I’m
+very glad you came round, major, and showed me this, for it is not the
+first I have seen.” And Owen gave his visitor an account of the receipt
+of the two previous notes, and then said:
+
+“About Exeter. I certainly was in practice there, and was grossly
+deceived in my partner. It is true I did not pay much for my share of
+the practice, because I was given to understand that it was a small
+one, but that it only required working up. The books, such as they
+were, seemed all right, and showed a certain amount of profit, but the
+patients were anything but high class, save in one or two instances.
+Still, as a young man, I had hope that by sticking to work I might
+in the end make a good thing of it. But it was not long before I
+discovered what kind of a man my partner was. He was more frequently
+to be found in the public house than the surgery, and his character
+was well known in the town. But when all right he was clever as an
+operator. I had invested most of my capital in the venture, so I could
+not well withdraw, and for some years I fought on. I have every reason
+to believe that as far as I was concerned I was respected and liked,
+and I obtained several public appointments. But in the end I found it
+would not do. I should never be any better. My partner was a millstone
+round my neck that I could not shake off, so I determined to ‘cut my
+loss,’ and start once more. I dissolved the partnership, and for a time
+took _locum tenens_, till I came here as assistant to Doctor Maureward.”
+
+“It seems hard on you, doctor, but I suppose you were not sufficiently
+careful in making inquiries at first, eh?”
+
+“No, I was young and green, and too anxious to get to work and make
+money, and I looked on people as honest till I found them the reverse.”
+
+“And what was your partner’s name, if it’s fair to ask?”
+
+“Jakes, Benjamin Jakes, and about as big a walking beer-barrel as
+you’ll come across in a day’s march. But he soon came to the end of his
+tether.”
+
+“I expect so.”
+
+“He had relied on me, and when I left him he rapidly went to utter
+grief, was sold up, and, I heard, left the place; and since then I’ve
+entirely lost sight of him.”
+
+“Did you part good friends? I expect not.”
+
+“Well, not exactly bad ones. He didn’t like my going, but he could not
+stop me, and so had to make the best of it.”
+
+“And you’ve never heard of him since?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“Do you think he is the sender of these letters?”
+
+“I can’t say. It is not his writing, but, at any rate, they are from
+someone who is acquainted with Exeter.”
+
+“Well,” continued the major, rising, “you will take what steps you
+think best, and the sooner you get hold of the blackguard the better.
+I’m glad I came round to you first thing; and remember this, doctor,
+what you have told me will make no difference in our relations, and
+both my daughter and myself will always be glad to see you at our house
+when you can spare the time to run in.”
+
+“Thank you, major, thank you. Will you mention this matter to Miss
+Gordon?” as Owen remembered some words had fallen from her lips that
+first evening he had been in her company, when she had been examining
+his hand.
+
+“Just as you like.” And then, after a pause, “No, I don’t think I will.
+Some girls are quick to get silly notions into their heads—not that Amy
+does. Still, perhaps it would be better not,” and the two men left the
+surgery together.
+
+On Owen’s return, some hours later, he had not been in the surgery many
+minutes when the telephone bell rang.
+
+“Well?” he shouted, taking up the receiver.
+
+“Are you Doctor Odd?”
+
+“Yes. Who are you?”
+
+“Never mind. But you see I have kept my promise, and this is only the
+commencement——”
+
+“You thundering scamp! I only wish I was at your end of the line for a
+couple of minutes,” growled Owen, trembling with rage.
+
+A light laugh rang in the receiver by way of answer. “Don’t get raggy,”
+continued the voice. “You know how you can put an end to it all.
+To-night at the place and time I named, and mind and bring plenty with
+you.”
+
+“I’m hanged if I do. You don’t get a penny from me.”
+
+“All right, old man; I shall have to try stronger measures. Ta-ta,” and
+the speaker was cut off.
+
+Without moving from the instrument Owen rang and gave Dick’s number at
+Barnes. He was at home, and his friend gave him a hurried account of
+what had taken place.
+
+“This is better, old fellow. We shall get hold of the villain now,
+or I’m a Dutchman,” answered Dick. “But who are this Miss and Major
+Gordon? You have never mentioned them before.”
+
+Owen had somehow brought Amy’s name into the story without thinking,
+and replied in as careless a way as he could assume:
+
+“Patients of mine.”
+
+“The former beautiful and the latter gallant, I’ll be sworn,” and Owen
+could hear an amused chuckle as he replied, “Now, no fooling, Dick;
+this is a serious matter.”
+
+“It is, my boy, it is, and I’m going to help you if you want me. I’ll
+be with you about seven, if you’ll be in, and then I’ll take the job
+on. Miss Gordon wouldn’t like you to run any risks, eh? But, I say,
+what about the little Alza—what will she have to say?”
+
+“Shut up, and don’t be an ass. I’ll be in at seven, and show you this
+last effusion. Good-bye,” and he rung off.
+
+Dick turned up punctually at the time mentioned, and the two friends
+had a long conversation, when it was decided that Jervoise should go
+alone to the rendezvous and see if he could recognise any one, Owen
+remaining at home till his return.
+
+Brook Green is not a particularly lively spot at any time, and on
+this exceptionally cold spring evening it attracted few loiterers.
+One or two couples of lovers huddled close together on the seats,
+but everyone else seemed more intent on getting along as quickly as
+possible than lingering about. There was, of course, a stream of
+pedestrians passing along the west side, where is the road leading from
+Shepherd’s Bush to Hammersmith; but there was no lingering here either.
+
+Dick rather enjoyed the idea of doing some amateur detective work, and
+set about it in what he considered the orthodox way. Making his way to
+the north side he walked briskly along, stopping opposite the third
+lamp-post on the other side the Green, presumably to light his pipe,
+but at the same time taking a glance over the grass to see if there was
+anyone waiting about.
+
+Beyond a man who was walking in the direction of London as quickly as
+he himself had been he could see no one.
+
+He continued his pace, keeping level with this individual, until the
+end of the Green was reached, and then saw him disappear down one of
+the adjoining streets.
+
+Waiting a few moments, to ascertain if his actions were a blind, and
+he would return, Dick crossed to the south side and made his way back
+again. Three or four people passed him, but there was nothing about any
+of them to call for attention, and he was fain to admit that he was at
+a serious disadvantage, and with small hope of discovering anything,
+unless the opening movement came from the other side.
+
+Again and again he passed the indicated lamp-post, and once, when a
+man, about whom he had his doubts, overtook him there, he stopped him
+and asked him for a light. His request was civilly complied with, but
+nothing further came of it; and after an hour of this kind of work Dick
+threw up the sponge and returned to the surgery.
+
+“Well, what luck?” was Owen’s greeting.
+
+“None; I’ve drawn blank. No one came, or else I was spotted and my
+presence not appreciated,” and he proceeded to give his friend an
+account of his wanderings.
+
+They had been talking some ten minutes when there was a rattle at the
+letter box in the outer door, and Owen going to it found another of
+the dirty thumb-stained envelopes. Returning with it, and scanning the
+contents, he exclaimed:
+
+“Confound the fellow! Listen to this:
+
+  “‘It’s no use your playing this fool-game. Old birds are not caught
+  with that kind of chaff. Either you come yourself or leave it alone.
+  Your friend, Dick Jervoise, is about as poor hand at aping a “tec” as
+  I’ve seen. I’ll try something stronger now, so look out, and then you
+  may hear from me again.’”
+
+“Umph! That’s pleasant,” growled Dick. “Not content with doing me he
+chaffs me. By Jove! I should like to get at him.”
+
+“Oh, I’m not going to stand any more of this!” exclaimed Owen angrily.
+“I’ll put it in the hands of the police at once. Come along, old man,
+we won’t humbug about it any more,” and together the two friends made
+their way to the Hammersmith police station.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+THE VILLA SERGIO
+
+
+Spring—April, the month of the flowers, on the blue, sunny Adriatic.
+
+Along that ruggedly beautiful coast, one of the most picturesque in
+the whole world, with its green palm-clad islands, its winding inlets,
+sharp, rocky promontories, and steep, brown cliffs, there is surely no
+place more delightful nor more full of interest than grey, old-world
+Ragusa.
+
+Back behind a long, green, rocky island, it nestles at the foot of the
+steep slopes of Monte Sergio, once an important port in the days of the
+Republic of Venice, but now silent and almost forgotten, save by those
+who have recently begun to know and enjoy the glorious natural beauties
+of the Adriatic, in preference to the gambling, landscape gardening,
+and unhealthy life of the now played-out Mediterranean shore.
+
+Zara, whence comes the maraschino, Spalato, and Lussimpiccolo are
+quaint, charming little places, rapidly gaining public favour with
+Austrians and Hungarians, but are as yet practically unknown to English
+people. Yet of them all Ragusa is assuredly the most pleasant and the
+most interesting.
+
+Peaceful, undisturbed by traffic, and entirely mediæval, it reminds
+the traveller who knows his Riviera of one of those old towns on the
+Italian side—those unfashionable ones that you only visit if you chance
+to motor from Monte Carlo along to Genoa.
+
+Difficult it is to realise that this sleepy, antique little place,
+where everybody speaks Italian, was the port of the Balkan hinterland
+in those brilliant days when Venice was queen of the sea. To-day, it is
+a tiny decaying town of cyclopean walls, of narrow streets and queer
+crooked byways. Across its dry moat and through its ponderous gateway
+with the crumbling coat of arms carved in the stone, carriages are
+unable to pass. Hence there is an absence of bustle which one finds
+in other towns. Quaint Bosnian, Dalmatian and Montenegrin costumes
+are worn by many of the people, the shops sell genuine antique
+embroideries, old silver and old arms. While almost as soon as one
+enters the main street by the Porta Pille or land-gate, one seems out
+again at the water-gate.
+
+The stranger who strolls about those small piazzas, inspecting the
+Duomo, the sixteenth century churches, with their long flights of steps
+and their celebrated Madonnas, the fine Renaissance Rector’s Palace,
+the splendid old mediæval fountain and the rest of the relics of an
+age bygone, will be struck by the peaceful air of it all. The world
+has progressed with rapid strides these last three centuries, but it
+has passed Ragusa by unaltered. The same to-day as in the seventeenth
+century, the town within its huge walls still remains, a place of deep
+shadows with glimpses of bright blue sea at the ends of dark crooked
+alleys.
+
+Here may the wandering Englishman linger and reflect, for is it not
+full of historic associations; is not that beautiful, palm-clad island
+of Lacroma opposite, the gem of the Adriatic, associated indisputably
+with the heart of Richard Cœur de Lion?
+
+And if the traveller, retracing his steps along the Corso to the Porta
+Pille and crossing the dried-up moat to the splendid avenue of mulberry
+trees outside the walls—the quarter of the villas and hotels—chances
+to glance upward at the green hillside behind, he will notice,
+dominating the town, a huge white villa in Italian style, with red roof
+and two long rows of green-painted sun-shutters standing embowered in
+its palms, roses and tangles of climbing geraniums. By a single glance
+it will be recognised as the finest villa on all that beautiful coast,
+more palatial, indeed, than that of a certain royal personage which
+stands on the mulberry-lined boulevard below.
+
+If inquiry be made of the owner’s name, the traveller will be told in
+Italian that it belongs to a great foreign signore, a signore “molto
+ricco”—the Cavaliere Sundt.
+
+The fine steam yacht, with its yellow funnel and white hull, lying
+yonder beyond the molo and flying the bargee of the Royal Norwegian
+Yacht Club, is his, while you will also hear stories of the Signor
+Cavaliere’s colossal wealth and lavish hospitality to the great people
+who sometimes stay at the Villa Sergio as his guests. Ragusa knows
+nothing of the source of the great signore’s income, and cares less.
+
+That bright sunny afternoon Thyra, in a white gown girdled with pale
+grey, was seated alone in a long wicker chair upon the marble terrace,
+her sad eyes fixed away upon the green, picturesque island, and the
+blue sea beyond, its calm surface ruffled only now and then by the
+slight flower-scented zephyr from the land.
+
+How different were those surroundings—that glorious garden, with its
+luxuriant vegetation, its agaves, cypresses and palms, its violets,
+carnations and roses, and that calm sapphire sea—to those of her own
+home in the far-off Arctic! Here, surely, was paradise itself.
+
+Yes, she lay back with her head upon the great cushion of pillow silk,
+and gazed thoughtfully with half-closed eyes out to sea. She was
+thinking—ever thinking. Her father had put to her a question three
+days ago—a question which she had not yet answered.
+
+She sat there a prey to puerile terrors and unwholesome thought. She
+was wrapped in frozen shadows; a mysterious force drove her towards
+a glacial atmosphere where all was dizziness and grief. Her vision
+clouded, she seemed suspended in a twilight heaven, wafted towards some
+unknown land, like those little white, drifting clouds before her, the
+grey birds migrating without hope of rest.
+
+Even this world of joy, of sunshine, of flowers, had become small,
+melancholy, even tiresome. After a week its novelty had worn off; she
+was no longer at her ease in it. She was thinking—thinking ever of the
+tall Englishman who had raised her hand to his lips for the last time.
+She was driven to confess herself a melancholy thing. It was not the
+world that had changed. Ah, no; it was her own self.
+
+On that evening of her return from Guilford with Dick Jervoise she had
+charged her father with concealing from her the fact that Peter Sundt
+was in London, and he had been compelled to plead guilty.
+
+Next day, Peter had called upon them, and invited both father and
+daughter to spend a week or two at Ragusa, and afterwards to return to
+Christiania in the yacht, an invitation which, after some hesitation,
+the girl-widow had accepted.
+
+Her acceptance was, as a matter of fact, only on the point of economy.
+Her father had pointed out that the expense of remaining in London much
+longer would be too great for his slender purse, while if they went as
+Peter’s guests, they would not only see a part of the world which they
+had always longed to see, but also get back to Norway when the bright
+weather commenced.
+
+Therefore, two days later she had, in secret, taken a taxicab to Dick’s
+flat, and there wished him farewell.
+
+The scene between them had been both painful and touching. The sweet
+scent of those carnations growing in profusion about her, greeted her
+nostrils, and stirred a bitter memory. Upon his table that afternoon
+there had been a small bunch. He had placed them there in honour of her
+visit.
+
+She recollected the strange, hopeless expression upon his face when
+she announced her immediate departure. He had inquired whither she was
+going, and she had told him.
+
+Then his chin had sunk upon his breast, and for a long time he had
+remained silent. With a sigh he crossed the room and arranged some
+papers upon his open writing-table. It was because she should not see
+the expression of pain upon his features. That she knew quite well.
+
+At last he faced her and spoke frankly, his voice only faltering once.
+She heard him to the end—to the bitter end.
+
+Yet did he speak the truth? Were his words sincere? He had spoken, but
+what proof had he? He could give her none—none! His excuse was but a
+lame one, after all; yes, one unsupported by any single vestige of
+proof. And so, after half an hour—perhaps the most painful half-hour in
+all her life—she had risen from that big armchair by the fire to take
+leave of him.
+
+Now, as she sat alone staring at those slowly drifting clouds, she
+remembered it all—the silence of that room at Barnes, unbroken save by
+the whirr of a passing motor ’bus, the musical chimes of his clock, and
+his hoarse earnestness when he had bent over her hand and kissed it for
+the last time.
+
+She was a fool for ever revealing Peter Sundt’s proposal of marriage.
+She saw it now, alas! that it was too late. She had seen in the eyes of
+Richard Jervoise such flow of tenderness, of regret, of dream, that
+she had at first not the heart to rob him of it.
+
+But the one dread thought had occurred to her—that same bitter thought
+that had for so long oppressed her, that had held her apart from him
+always. The words he had spoken were full of deep and tragic meaning.
+Yet, in face of her better judgment, how could she believe him to be
+in real earnest? No. She had effectually concealed her sadness and
+disquiet, and in silence allowed him to kiss her hand in farewell.
+
+A shout of laughter from the mulberry avenue below filled the perfumed
+silence, awakening her to a sense of her surroundings.
+
+Ah, yes. She recollected. His words had soothed her sick heart as a
+balsam soothes a wound. And yet, a moment later, she had wished him
+adieu, and passed down the stairs—and out of his life.
+
+Did he still recollect her? she was wondering. Did he think of her—did
+he ever recall the past?
+
+These and other thoughts were fleeting through her mind when, of a
+sudden, she heard a footstep, and turning saw her father approaching.
+
+“Why, my child!” he cried, “why are you sitting here alone? We’ve been
+hunting everywhere for you!”
+
+“I thought you went out after luncheon, dad,” exclaimed the girl-widow,
+rising to her feet with a slight sigh of weariness.
+
+“So I did. But I was only away half an hour. Run and get a thicker
+dress on, child. The weather is so good that Peter has decided to take
+us to Lesina on the yacht. We shall dine on board, and be back by
+eleven o’clock, or so. It will be a full moon, too.”
+
+She hesitated.
+
+“I don’t think I’ll go, dad. I can amuse myself quite well here. Will
+you make excuses for me; say I’m not well, or anything,” she urged.
+
+“But my dear child, why? It will be most enjoyable. You know how
+pleasant it was when the yacht met us at Trieste and brought us down
+here; you were delighted.”
+
+“Yes. But—well now it is different.”
+
+“Why? Tell me, child. Something is troubling you,” inquired the sturdy
+old fellow. “Tell me what it is,” he added in a lower voice.
+
+She was silent, her white, hard-set face turned from his.
+
+“He has spoken to you again, eh?” asked the sturdy old fellow, in a
+changed tone.
+
+She held her breath, but her silence was to him sufficient indication
+of the truth.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+ON THE ADRIATIC
+
+
+The evening light was falling.
+
+The freshness and sweetness of the calm sea ruffled only by the wake of
+the vessel vivified the air; all was peace, transparence, purity.
+
+Thyra, in a perfect-fitting costume of blue serge with a blue beret, a
+cap which always became her, leaned over the rail of the long, spotless
+deck of the yacht with her back to the sunset, watching the sky grow
+pale, diaphanous, tender green like a delicate crystal, flecked with
+the night clouds now beginning to appear from over the land.
+
+After long persuasion by her father she had consented to embark, and
+now they were hugging the broken coast, and threading their way in and
+out among the many green islands, some of them with white lighthouses
+standing high upon them.
+
+Peter, in a smart yachting suit and white shoes, had been lounging
+at her side, pointing out the many objects of interest along that
+picturesque route. First the mouth of the Ombla which comes down out
+of Herzegovina, then the great bare rock rising sheer from the sea,
+the Daksa, the tiny town of Malfi in its deep bay, and Valdinoce, a
+picturesque cluster of houses among the olives and almonds on the green
+mountain side.
+
+Beneath the great island of Calamotta they passed the incoming mail
+steamer from Trieste, the big old red-funnelled _Graf Wurmbrand_, the
+passengers of which crowded to the side to see the splendid yacht, and
+to wonder who might be its owner.
+
+Thyra heard the man’s constant chatter in Norwegian, but to her it was
+without interest. Only once, indeed, did she ask a question.
+
+They were passing what is known as the stag islands, the tiny islets of
+Jaklan, Giuppana and Mezzo, when, between the last-named and Calamotta
+he pointed out the narrow channel.
+
+On either side of the strait rose the land, beautifully wooded, with
+here and there clumps of palms, and even from the yacht could be seen
+profusions of flowers.
+
+“See, up there, yonder—that ruined fortress!” he was saying. “That’s
+the ‘Scoglio Sant’Andrea’, where Margherita Spoletano’s lover was
+imprisoned by the Ragusans.”
+
+“And who was she?” inquired the girl-widow, gazing at the ruined walls
+perched high up on the cliff.
+
+“A woman who sacrificed her life for the man she loved,” was his reply.
+“She lived on the island of Calamotta, and as her brothers forbade her
+to row across to meet her lover and took their boats away, she nightly
+swam across to visit him, and to take him news of what was transpiring
+in old Dubrovnik, as Ragusa was called at that time.”
+
+“How romantic!” exclaimed the girl, glancing at the two islands and at
+the strong, swirling current running between them. “She must have been
+an expert swimmer.”
+
+“The story is quite authentic,” Peter exclaimed. “For many weeks she
+swam to and fro, until one night she was discovered by her two brothers
+who, on her attempting to land, hurled her back into the stream, and
+she was carried away and drowned in the darkness.”
+
+“How sad,” Thyra had remarked, and then the yacht, suddenly altering
+her course, steered to the Strait of Meleda, past the high lighthouse
+at the end of the island, and the ruined tower became hidden from view.
+
+Within that belt of islands the water was almost as a millpond, while
+from the stern of the vessel lay out a long, widening wake for a mile
+or so behind.
+
+Peter Sundt, smoking his cigar, had left her side to join her father,
+who was upon the bridge talking to the Norwegian captain. And now she
+was again alone to reflect and to ponder.
+
+As the light fell over the land, the afterglow grew deeper. The ship’s
+bell tolled the hour, after which she raised herself from the rail and
+strolled slowly up and down the fine, long deck kept so spotless.
+
+The vessel was truly a palatial one. Ocean-going in every sense of the
+word, with powerful engines and built for heavy seas, old Peter each
+year sailed down from Christiania, across the Bay of Biscay, up the
+Mediterranean, and through the Straits of Messina, returning north
+when the spring had ended. Fitted with every luxury and kept up in
+splendid style, he had purchased it five years before when its owner, a
+royal prince, had died, and he had since crossed the Atlantic in it on
+several occasions.
+
+Thyra had seen it lying at the quay at Christiania and at Vardo, but
+had never been on board until at Trieste when they had descended
+from the sleeping-car that had brought them through from Calais, and
+embarked for Ragusa.
+
+The deck chairs with the monogram “P. S.” upon them, the shining
+brasswork, the blue and gold deck saloon, with its flowers and silken
+lounges, which she entered a moment later to get her jacket, all
+betrayed immense wealth. The artistic taste had, of course, been that
+of the previous owner, for what artistic temperament could be expected
+of that ex-fisherman, who ruled the cod-liver oil and stock-fish market?
+
+Having obtained her jacket Thyra sighed as she went forth on deck
+again. All that display of luxury, both on board the yacht and at the
+Villa Sergio, only irritated her. Old Peter’s red face and rasping
+voice jarred upon her. She wished she had been firm with her father,
+and refused her host’s invitation. The evening cruise did not interest
+her in the least.
+
+She wished to be alone—alone amid the flowers, amid the sweet scent of
+those carnations in the garden, to think—and to reflect upon the past.
+
+Old Jorgen called to her in his loud, nautical voice, and she was
+compelled to ascend to the bridge and join the two men who sat in deck
+chairs in the full enjoyment of their cigars.
+
+They had run past Meleda, with its numerous chasms and gorges, and
+had come to an island whereon stood a lonely monastery, which Peter
+explained was the Benedictine house of Santa Maria, now turned into a
+forester’s residence.
+
+Thence, with the girl leaning back against the rail, her hair blown
+out upon the wind as she chatted with feigned merriment, the vessel’s
+course lay through the narrow Canale di Curzola, between the fertile
+islands of Curzola and Sabbioncello, and out again towards Lesina,
+lying low and purple in the distance against the darkening afterglow.
+
+All was so silent, so peaceful, so beautiful; not a sound reached
+the bridge save the low throbbing of the engines, as the vessel sped
+through the unruffled waters, straight for that distant island.
+
+How different was the life on board the grimy old _Mercur_, and yet did
+she not prefer Captain Martin’s round, cheery face and blue, kindly
+eyes and those rough-and-ready days in the boisterous Arctic seas?
+
+A smart steward came to announce that dinner was served. Then,
+descending to the saloon, they found the table laid with fine napery,
+splendid silver, and bright with flowers.
+
+Carnations were among them. Their scent caused her to start—it brought
+the past to her vision and to her mind. The remembrance of that
+afternoon at Barnes when she had parted from the tall Englishman who
+had been her friend.
+
+She was friendless now—utterly and completely friendless.
+
+She took off her beret and jacket, and casting them upon a lounge, took
+the seat which the pimply-faced man offered her. She seated herself
+just as mechanically as she ate her dinner—just as mechanically as she
+joined in the conversation between her father and their wealthy host.
+
+The meal, delicate and well-cooked, was served with a quiet seriousness
+that would have become the table of his royal highness, the previous
+owner. Indeed, Peter congratulated himself that several of the men who
+waited upon him had been royal servants who had afterwards entered his
+service. On the plates the princely crown still remained, and probably
+he was not at all anxious to remove it.
+
+While at table the twilight darkened into night, and the vessel’s
+bows, when within a mile of Lissa, were turned and the return journey
+began outside the island, the route taken by the Austrian Lloyd mail
+boats. There was not much sea—not sufficient to cause either of those
+case-hardened sailors, or even Thyra herself, to notice it.
+
+True, the vessel began to labour and roll a little ere they rose from
+table, but Thyra, when she ascended to the deck, saw that the moon was
+rising and that the night was one of those clear, brilliant ones so
+often experienced in the Adriatic in the springtime.
+
+Old Jorgen and Peter sat in the fumoir, over their coffee and cigars,
+while she obtained her fur-lined travelling coat which her father had
+thoughtfully brought for her, and took a seat in one of the long chairs
+upon the deck.
+
+She rested her chin upon her hand, and gazing straight across the
+moonlit waters, recalled the past. It had become a habit with her now—a
+habit that was gradually revealing itself traced upon her beautiful
+face, causing a darkness beneath her eyes and an unusual pallor upon
+her cheeks.
+
+Those last words—that last wild appeal of Richard Jervoise—was still
+ringing in her ears. He loved her! Could she close her eyes to that
+most patent of all facts? Could she say within her own heart that he
+had lied to her?
+
+He had confessed his love that afternoon, at the moment when she had
+told him of her departure. With her woman’s intuition she had guessed
+his secret from the first. Those words of his were wild and uncurbed as
+he had blurted forth the truth—words which had constantly recurred to
+her ever since.
+
+Of Paul she was gradually ceasing to think. When she remembered him
+it was not with love—only with regret that he had not lived to allow
+her to discover the truth. She knew, alas! that he was not what he
+had pretended to be—that he had deceived her! Something that had come
+to her knowledge had in a single moment swept away her widow’s tears,
+had caused her to remember him only as a mysterious person, and not as
+lover or husband.
+
+True, she bore his name by law. That was all. Her marriage had been a
+mere incident, which in a few hours had come to a termination.
+
+Richard Jervoise—Dick, the quiet, studious, slow-speaking Dick—had
+come into her life at the very moment of her husband’s tragic death.
+Sometimes she reproached herself with having allowed him to seek her
+company so soon after widowhood. Yet was it not imperative—did he not
+hold the strange secret which she shared with him?
+
+At first it had been mere friendship; now it was true, passionate
+affection. He had confessed his love to her. But had she been just in
+her disbelief? Had she been right in her refusal to hear him, knowing
+what she did?
+
+Richard Jervoise loved her! He, of all men in the world!
+
+“What greater tragedy could befall a woman than this that has befallen
+me!” she cried bitterly to herself, her great eyes fixed upon the
+waters as they rippled past in the clear moonlight. “Dick—Dick loves
+me! Do I love him? Ah!” she sighed. “Yet how could I ever marry that
+man? No, never, never! I will not sell my soul to the devil for love.
+Rather would I become the wife of this red-faced hog, who has invited
+me into the gilded cage he has already prepared. Rather let me become
+the chattel of this man older than my own father, than the wife of
+Richard Jervoise, the man who——”
+
+She paused. Her face showed hard and white beneath the moonbeams. Her
+small, delicate hands were clenched as she stared straight before her,
+seated there rigid as a statue.
+
+“Do I love Richard?” she asked herself aloud, for there was none to
+hear. “Ah! no!” she cried the next second. “I must not ask myself that
+question. I loved once, but may not love again. The Devil tempted me in
+London, and, thank Heaven! I had the strength to draw back. No, Dick
+and I have parted for ever. I will never consent to see him again—never
+in all my life! His wife! God! No; never could I become the wife of
+that man, even though we may love each other. His love-kisses would
+blister me.”
+
+“Ah! why is my future so black, so utterly hopeless? Why must I suffer
+these agonies of conscience!” Then she paused for a moment, and added:
+“My duty is plain. It now lies towards my dear old father. I must
+protect myself from Richard Jervoise by—by consenting to marry the man
+I do not love! It is imperative, hateful though it be. I will make the
+sacrifice for my father’s sake, and also to save myself from Richard
+Jervoise. I must become the wife of this man I despise and hate—the man
+who, as Dick so very justly put it, will purchase my body and soul! How
+strange it all is! Surely no other woman had ever found herself forced
+to marry the man she detests, in order to save herself from the man she
+loves! But I must”—she whispered to herself hoarsely—“I must. I can
+never become the wife of Richard Jervoise. It would be too awful—an
+offence before God!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+A QUESTION IS ASKED
+
+
+Thyra’s nature was a complex one. She was the embodiment of youth and
+health. She was essentially an outdoor girl. She was very good to look
+upon, and every man who saw her wished to see her oftener.
+
+In her soul she possessed that beautiful sense of reserve and personal
+isolation which is innate in the best type of woman, an isolation
+which she was not only prepared to surrender lavishly—when the time
+came—but to surrender once and for all. She had the gold to give,
+but she would not fritter away her treasure in the small change of
+passing flirtations. A woman’s consciousness of isolation is her only
+protection. No man dared to look into the big grey eyes of Thyra and
+think for an instant of familiarity. The respect that women of her
+character earn of men is their great reward. Man is a savage barbarian,
+and has no “bloom” to knock off, but his homage is unbounded to the
+beautiful woman who has many admirers, but who, without effort, stands
+apart as something almost sacred. That homage is given to the woman who
+keeps herself isolated and alone in the hidden chambers of her soul
+until she meets the one man who holds for her “the key of darkness and
+of morn.”
+
+Such a woman—sweet, lovable, and yet isolated—was Jorgen Berentsen’s
+daughter.
+
+In the elegant little fumoir aft, a cabin hung with dark green silk,
+with parquet flooring, and with a real fireplace where coal could be
+burnt in winter, and cosy corners as though one were on land, Peter
+Sundt and his guest were smoking.
+
+Jorgen Berentsen’s host had apparently been asking a serious question,
+for he was seated in silence, his cigar between his teeth, his eyes
+fixed upon the silk-panelled wall opposite, his big, hard hand stroking
+his grey beard.
+
+“Whatever you may say, Jorgen,” exclaimed the red-faced man at last,
+his gaze fixed upon the harbour-master of Vardo, “I shall go to her
+to-night—now—to make one last appeal.”
+
+“My girl has views of her own upon marriage—especially so soon after
+Paul’s death,” responded his friend. “Suppose she again refuses?”
+
+Old Sundt’s manner changed in an instant.
+
+“Refuses! She will not refuse this time. She will consent to marry
+me—for her father’s sake,” he said meaningly.
+
+“You—you would tell her!” gasped the other, starting from his chair.
+
+“Jorgen,” said the other very quietly, “I love your daughter—and I
+intend to marry her.”
+
+“You have said that before,” exclaimed the captain in a low tone of
+distress.
+
+“You have never pleaded my cause!” snapped the ruler of the Arctic
+fisheries.
+
+“I allow my daughter to act exactly as her heart dictates,” was his
+slow but determined response.
+
+“Heart? Rubbish! Marriage is a mere matter of convenience. Would it not
+be better for her to be my wife, and wealthy, than to live with you up
+in that out-of-the-world corner, where she sees nobody except sailors
+and fishermen? You—too—would be better off in the south, in a nice
+house with a garden. There’s a little villa just outside Ragusa which
+belongs to me, and in which you might live, so as to be close to us.”
+
+“Peter!” exclaimed the bluff old fellow, looking straight into his
+face, “why tempt me like this? I have told you and I repeat my words,
+that I will not attempt to use any influence with Thyra. She married
+the man she loved—and tragedy was the result. Let her act now as
+she thinks best. What affection can a girl in her present pitiable
+circumstances have in her heart?”
+
+“I don’t want her affection now,” he declared; “that will come in due
+course. You will remain here and give me permission to go and speak to
+her.”
+
+“She will refuse. Why trouble her?” queried her father, who, be it
+said, had no great love for this man who had risen from a common
+fisherman to the position he now held. He knew, alas! the hundreds of
+lives that had been sacrificed in those boiling seas in the gathering
+of the harvest which had made old Peter Sundt the wealthy man he was.
+He knew well, too, the hardness of the man’s heart, and how, times
+without number, he had refused succour to the poor widows and little
+children of the men who had been swallowed up by the sea in his
+service. He was a callous man, whose one thought was money, and from
+whose heart every spark of human sympathy had long ago been crushed
+in his desperate fight for fortune. Sitting there at his ease, the
+splendid diamond glistening upon his coarse, red hand, and his yachting
+cap pulled over his eyes as he lay back smoking, he presented the
+picture of the typical parvenu.
+
+“Why are you so certain of her refusal, Jorgen?” he asked, removing the
+cigar from his hard mouth. “Her love match brought her only sorrow.
+I can’t think what possessed you to allow her to marry that man.
+Recollect what our inquiries have revealed!”
+
+“Yes,” sighed the captain; “but she loved him—therefore I gave my
+consent.”
+
+“And brought about her unhappiness,” he added grimly.
+
+“I was not to know. It was not my fault.”
+
+“No; you were not to know that Paul Grinevitch had been met at Vardo by
+a man who was his worst enemy, and that he would be followed by him to
+Christiania,” he said bitterly.
+
+“Then you still maintain your theory?” asked Berentsen. “You still
+think that the hand that struck down Grinevitch was the Englishman’s?”
+
+“There seems no doubt. The result of our inquiries all point to it
+unmistakably.”
+
+“I confess I am not yet convinced.”
+
+“Recollect what his friend the doctor told me when I called upon him.
+He was full of suspicion at the time. There is no doubt that on that
+fatal afternoon Thyra met the Englishman, and—well, we may easily guess
+the rest.”
+
+“Then you believe that Jervoise went in secret to the hotel and killed
+his enemy?”
+
+“Yes, of that I feel confident,” exclaimed Peter Sundt. “He had a
+double motive—first revenge, and secondly, by killing Thyra’s husband,
+he removed the object of his jealousy. He was deeply in love with
+her—he admitted that to Doctor Odd.”
+
+After a few moments’ silence, Jorgen said:
+
+“I don’t think we need discuss that painful affair any further, Peter.
+The police have made every inquiry, but have failed to establish any
+clue to the assassin.”
+
+“Because they are ignorant of many of the true facts—facts which we
+ourselves have discovered. The police of Christiania are utterly
+incompetent—a set of fools!”
+
+“If you are so confident that your theory is the correct one, why did
+you not go to Scotland Yard when in London, and place your evidence
+before them?”
+
+“And cause the arrest of Richard Jervoise?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Because, my dear Jorgen, I wished to save you and Thyra from
+disgrace,” was the man’s answer. “Cannot you see that by such a course
+Thyra’s secret meeting with Jervoise would have been exposed—that her
+conspiracy with the Englishman would have been revealed?”
+
+“What!” cried the captain; “do you actually accuse my daughter of
+conniving at her husband’s death?”
+
+“Of course not, my dear friend. You quite misunderstand me. I only
+point out what the world would naturally conclude from the facts,” he
+answered. “But, as you wish, let’s drop the painful subject. Let us
+commence afresh. I will go to her, and hear her decision.”
+
+“It will be as before,” declared the captain. “I spoke to her only this
+afternoon before we came aboard.”
+
+“Well, what did she say?”
+
+“That her decision was irrevocable.”
+
+Peter Sundt slowly knocked the ash from his cigar, and then drained his
+small glass of Benedictine.
+
+“A very foolish declaration, Jorgen—as far as you are concerned.”
+
+“Ah! Then you still throw the onus upon me, eh?”
+
+“Have I not told you a dozen times? Have you not had sufficient
+opportunity? Remember, you tried once to evade me. I do not forget
+that!”
+
+“You are as inexorable to-night as you ever were, then?” remarked
+Berentsen in a deep, earnest voice.
+
+“Quite. I am not a man to depart from my word. You know me well
+enough,” was the answer of the other.
+
+“Very well, go to her,” exclaimed the bluff old whaler. “Go and speak
+to her if you wish. I am prepared to abide by my girl’s decision!” And
+he set his teeth, and gazed out through the porthole upon the moonlit
+sea.
+
+“But you say she will refuse,” the elder man exclaimed. “What then?”
+
+“Then act as you have already threatened,” he cried with a sudden
+boldness. “Surely you cannot think that I will be a party to compelling
+my child to marry you in order to save myself! No! I will never do
+that, Peter, never! My girl shall choose her own husband.”
+
+“She chose before—and a pretty mess she made of it!” sneered the other.
+“If she will marry me I’ll give her all the freedom and the means she
+desires. She shall have a life of happiness and pleasure in whatever
+circle of society she desires. Birth counts for nothing in these days,
+when barons of ancient lineage have to earn their bread as waiters and
+counts become hairdressers. No; it is men like myself who rule society,
+and rule the world. The only thing that tells nowadays is hard cash. I,
+who began life as a fisherboy, have entertained royalty on board this
+very yacht, and more than one royal highness has dined at my table.” He
+laughed. “And why? Merely because even those of royal blood bow down
+before the golden calf and turn their backs upon the penniless portion
+of their own aristocracy. Oh, life is an amusing game with men like
+myself, I can assure you,” he added.
+
+“Amusing, because you hold men’s destinies in the hollow of your
+hand—just as you hold mine!” Jorgen remarked in a hoarse voice of
+bitter reproach.
+
+“Mine is a fair bargain, surely?”
+
+“In which either my child or myself pays the penalty!”
+
+“When a man commits a folly he must expect to bear the punishment,” was
+Sundt’s abrupt reply, as he put down his cigar-end and rose, adding: “I
+am going to her. If you wish to precede me, and to speak to her on my
+behalf, you are at liberty to do so.”
+
+“I shall not,” Jorgen blurted forth. “I have already told you
+that she will refuse, and that I am ready to accept the burden of
+responsibility.”
+
+“Remember that there will be no drawing back,” said Peter in earnest
+warning. “I gave you full opportunity.”
+
+“And I have not, and will not, avail myself of it. If you have marked
+me out for ruin, as you seem to have done—well, so be it. My child
+shall never be forced into marriage with you in order to effect my
+escape.”
+
+“Good!” exclaimed the red-faced man, straightening his cravat before
+the mirror. “Remember, Jorgen, that upon Thyra’s decision to-night
+rests your own future.”
+
+And, with an expression of dark determination, he strode out upon
+the deck, forward to where sat the girl-widow in the long chair, the
+brilliant moonlight falling upon her, bright almost as day.
+
+At her side he halted, bent over her, and uttered a word.
+
+But she turned her white face from him, without response.
+
+So he straightened himself and stood in silence, his hand resting upon
+the back of her chair.
+
+That moment was the crucial one of Thyra’s life. Her decision meant
+either her own unhappiness or to her beloved father—even though she
+were ignorant of it—disaster worse than death itself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+FATHER AND DAUGHTER
+
+
+It was past midnight.
+
+Thyra stood leaning upon the marble terrace of the Villa Sergio, still
+gazing upon the moonlit sea.
+
+Below, a few lights twinkled in the town, while across on the headland
+of the island of Lacroma shone out the warning beacon. The feathery
+palms and bamboos above her whispered in the faint breeze, but the dead
+silence of the night was over everything.
+
+Alone, standing there in silence, it seemed to her that some mysterious
+being, black in the night shadows, had smitten her heart. She had
+awakened from the evil stupor of the past few hours. She was making
+a supreme effort to rid herself of the shadow, of the weight of the
+incubus, or else she felt that she must fall beneath its weight,
+crushed by the black shadow upon her. She must die.
+
+This hour of conflict she had dreaded. From day to day she had put it
+from her like a bitter cup, but she had at last faced the ordeal—and it
+was over.
+
+Yet she still felt a mysterious fear. What would Richard Jervoise
+say—what would he do when he learnt the ghastly truth? She was in the
+maze of an evil dream.
+
+A footstep sounded close to her. It was her father, come to her again
+at that same spot where he had stood in the afternoon.
+
+“My child!” he said softly, placing his big hand upon her shoulder.
+“Peter has told me. I—I have come to offer you my congratulations,
+dearest.”
+
+“Thank you, dad,” she answered coldly, her face still turned from him.
+
+“You do not know, Thyra—you cannot know—all that I feel—all that your
+marriage to Peter Sundt means to me,” he faltered in a low tone. “Ah!
+my child, I hardly dared to hope that, after all, you would give him
+your hand.”
+
+The girl turned suddenly, and, burying her face upon her father’s
+shoulder, burst into tears.
+
+“I know! I know!” he exclaimed in a low, sympathetic voice,
+endeavouring to comfort her. “I know all that you must feel—with the
+man you loved only dead so short a time. But, child, you must forget
+him—after all—he deceived you—he was worthless.”
+
+“Who told you that?” she asked suddenly, drying her tears and raising
+her face to his. “Who makes any allegations against Paul?”
+
+Her father was silent. Her question was a distinctly awkward one.
+
+“Well,” he said uneasily, “there are curious rumours current, my dear.
+They say that Paul Grinevitch was not an officer, as he declared, and
+that his parentage was not what he made it out to be—that’s all.”
+
+“But do you think, even though it be so, that his memory is any the
+less vivid to me, father?” she asked reproachfully.
+
+“No, I do not,” he answered. “Indeed, that is just why your decision
+to-night was to me so unexpected—and so mysterious.”
+
+She did not speak. He held her around the waist, while her head fell
+upon the shoulder of his thick pea-jacket, which, on landing, he had
+not removed.
+
+“I have promised to marry Peter Sundt—to become mistress of this
+place—for one single reason, father,” she said at last in a toneless
+voice.
+
+“Go on.”
+
+His voice resounded in the silence of the night.
+
+“There is nothing more to say,” she declared.
+
+“Ah! I know, Thyra,” he whispered, holding her closer to him. “You have
+done this for my sake, child—to save me!”
+
+“To save you, dad—I—I don’t understand!” she cried, looking into his
+face, puzzled, white, and haggard in the moonlight.
+
+“Did Peter tell you nothing, then?”
+
+“Nothing, dad. He only asked me once again to become his wife—and—and I
+consented.”
+
+Jorgen Berentsen held his breath. At least this man who had been
+the friend of his youth had not betrayed him to his daughter. He
+had threatened, it was true, but he had been too loyal to his old
+friendship to carry out his threat.
+
+“I—I can only congratulate you, my dear child,” her father ejaculated
+uneasily.
+
+“But what should he tell me?” she asked. “How could it be that I could
+save you, dad? Please explain yourself.”
+
+“Oh, nothing, dear—really nothing,” he declared. “I only wondered
+whether Peter had told you something—well, something that is
+confidential between us, that’s all.”
+
+“Then if I am to be Peter’s wife I may surely know the secret?” she
+said quickly, at once interested. That secret which she had guessed
+long ago had, for months, caused her to ponder.
+
+“One day, perhaps,” he said, with an attempt to laugh; “at present
+place your mind entirely at rest. It is nothing very serious, I assure
+you.”
+
+But she was not satisfied.
+
+“Dad,” she exclaimed in a low, intense voice, “you and Peter have
+had a secret together for a long time. I have known of your constant
+consultations. Why did you go so often to see him at the Ritz in
+London?”
+
+“I went to him often, it is true,” replied the sturdy old fellow, “but
+it is not in connection with—with my secret,” he answered lamely.
+
+“Then why—why didn’t you tell me at the time that Peter was in London?”
+
+“Well, because he and I were engaged in making inquiries concerning
+your dead husband.”
+
+“What interest had Peter in him, pray?”
+
+“Only because he loved you, I think.”
+
+“Love!” she echoed quickly, in a tone of disgust and reproach. “Please
+do not utter that word again, dad.”
+
+“Then—then it is true,” the old man whispered in her ear, “you do not
+love him, eh?”
+
+“I hate him, father!” was her frank response; “yet, though I hate him,
+I must nevertheless marry him.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“For reasons of my own. I loved once, remember—I cannot love again.”
+
+“Except one man,” he remarked very quietly as he bent to her ear.
+
+“Whom do you mean, father?”
+
+“Mr. Jervoise.”
+
+She drew a deep breath, but no word escaped her lips. Jorgen Berentsen
+knew that he had spoken the truth. He had seen love in Dick Jervoise’s
+eyes when he came to Bayswater. Sometimes he had been secretly glad
+that his heart-broken daughter had won the affection of the clean,
+long-limbed Englishman, yet a moment afterwards he would reflect
+upon the admission Doctor Odd had made to Peter, and the proof that
+Thyra and Jervoise had met clandestinely on the very first day of her
+marriage.
+
+Why? Ah! that was the problem. A thousand times he had reflected upon
+it—a thousand times, as he had sat with Dick at table, in the car, at
+the theatre, he had tried to learn from his demeanour the true nature
+of his secret accord with his daughter. But the Englishman, ever upon
+his guard, had remained silent as the sphinx.
+
+The sweet breath of the flowers filled the night air where they stood.
+The soft musical bell of the Convent of San Francesco came up from the
+town below, followed by the deep-toned notes of those of the Duomo, of
+San Biagio, and the Orologio; the slight zephyr from the sea stirred
+the feathery branches above—a scented night of spring in beautiful
+Dalmatia.
+
+On the left, the open French windows of the villa let forth a flood
+of light across the splendid garden. But Peter Sundt remained in his
+Arabesque fumoir at the further end of the house, for at his suggestion
+had Jorgen gone forth to find his daughter.
+
+“Thyra,” exclaimed her father very tenderly, “I want to ask you one
+question, dear. Now that the painful affair in Christiania is all of
+the past and forgotten by everyone save yourself, perhaps, I think
+that I have a right as your father—as a man who loves his daughter
+devotedly—to know the truth.”
+
+“What truth, dad?” she asked, turning to him in quick surprise.
+
+“I know, child,” the man went on, his hand placed lovingly upon her
+slim shoulder; “I know that what I am about to ask must cause you pain.
+But I cannot avoid it—where the honour of you, my dear daughter, is at
+stake!”
+
+“I don’t understand, father,” she ejaculated, turning her face to his.
+
+“Then, listen, child,” he said in a low, serious tone. “It is
+alleged that you met Richard Jervoise on the afternoon of Paul’s
+death—that—that you are aware of the identity of his assassin!” he
+blurted forth.
+
+“Father!” gasped the girl, falling back as though she had been struck a
+blow. “Who says this—who makes such an allegation?”
+
+“Your enemies, my child.”
+
+“Then if my enemies say this,” she answered, holding her breath,
+“surely you, my father, should not heed them! Am I to have no peace of
+mind?” she sobbed bitterly. “Is this the latest charge against me—that
+I am an accessory to my husband’s murder?”
+
+“I do not believe it, my dear child,” he assured her. “How can you
+think that I could ever believe any ill of you?”
+
+“Does—does this man Peter Sundt believe it?” she asked in a dry, hard
+voice.
+
+“Why, of course not—or he would never have asked you to become his
+wife,” was the man’s response, not, however, without just a moment’s
+hesitation. Was it not Peter himself who had made the startling
+allegations? he reflected.
+
+Father and daughter stood together in silence for a long time. At last
+she said:
+
+“Peter has to-night told me something of which I was hitherto unaware,
+father. He is, it seems, a widower.”
+
+Jorgen Berentsen drew a deep breath.
+
+“Ah! he has told you that, has he? Well, perhaps, child, it is better
+for you to know now than afterwards that he has been married before.”
+
+“You, who have known Peter nearly all his life, knew his wife, of
+course, dad. What was she like?” asked the girl with some curiosity.
+
+“Oh, it was so many years ago that I scarcely recollect her, save
+that she was a pretty, dark-haired girl, Marguerite Meunier—a French
+governess in the household of a prominent member of the Storthing.
+That was, well, fully twenty-five years ago. They lived for about two
+years in Tromso, for in those days Peter was not wealthy. Then the
+rigours of the climate were too severe for her, and he took her to live
+in Christiania, and afterwards, I think, to Copenhagen. She died of
+phthisis, in Mentone, I believe, three years after her marriage. Peter
+was devoted to her, and after her death was like a man demented.”
+
+“Did he treat her well?” asked the girl, gazing thoughtfully upon the
+long line of the moon’s brilliance across the rippling sea.
+
+“He lived, it seemed, only for her,” declared her father. “I remember
+how they used to be pointed out as a model pair, for both of them were
+young and both were handsome. It was our climate of the north that
+killed her, poor fragile little woman. She had been born and bred in
+the south—in the Jura, I have heard.”
+
+“And she went back to France to die!” sighed the girl.
+
+“Since her death Peter has devoted his whole time and energies to the
+amassing of wealth,” remarked her father. “His case is not unique. In
+the past of many a man who is to-day hard and embittered will be found
+a similar hidden episode. Look at myself, Thyra! I have never been
+the same man since God thought fit to take your dear mother from me.
+When I lost her, I, alas! lost everything that was dear to me in this
+world—except you,” he sighed. “And now—and now you are to leave me!”
+and he swallowed the big lump that rose in his throat.
+
+“Not of my own free will, dad,” she assured him, twining her long arms
+about his neck and kissing him fondly.
+
+“Then what has induced you to consent to this marriage?” asked the
+sturdy old man, much puzzled. “Why have you made—well, this sacrifice?”
+he blurted forth again.
+
+“I have reasons—reasons that are mine alone,” was her ambiguous answer,
+as her breast rose and fell slowly—“reasons rendered the stronger now
+that I know the cruel allegations made against me and—and against——”
+She could not finish the sentence. She burst again into tears.
+
+“And against the man you love, child,” he added very softly. “Ah, yes!
+I know. I know all that you must feel—all that this must have cost you
+to give your hand to this man. Believe me, I have tried to prevent it
+all, but, alas! I have been powerless. I deeply regret, now, that we
+ever accepted his invitation to come to this gilded palace of his.”
+
+“I do not. It is for the best undoubtedly. Marriage with Peter Sundt,
+though he is older than you, my father, will perhaps save me from a
+worse fate, now that love and happiness are in future utterly debarred
+me.”
+
+“No, child; don’t speak so despondently. You are still young, with all
+your life before you. Come, dry your dear eyes,” he urged, drawing her
+tenderly to him. “It’s late; let me see you to your room.”
+
+She restrained her emotion, but in the light he saw that the expression
+upon her face had entirely changed. She seemed years older. The
+light of youth had faded from her lovely countenance; her eyes were
+hard and stony, and upon her mouth was an expression which showed
+the determination with which she had made her self-sacrifice, had
+renounced her love, and with it all in the world she had held most dear.
+
+That night she did not close her eyes. Instead, she wrote a long letter
+of many pages to Dick Jervoise.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+IN BLACK AND WHITE
+
+
+We must return to London, and more particularly to Hammersmith.
+
+Owen’s action in placing the matter of the annoying letters in the
+hands of the police had led to nothing, so far as the discovery of the
+writer was concerned. He still remained unfound. And the authorities
+owned themselves baffled.
+
+But there seemed to be one good result from his so doing: the letters
+had ceased as suddenly as they had commenced. After the one that
+arrived on the evening of Dick’s amateur effort at detective work, Owen
+had received no more, and the annoyance was fading from his mind, the
+more so as his friend was away in France, and he had no one with whom
+to discuss the incident, as for certain reasons of his own he would not
+revert to the matter with the major.
+
+At first he had worried himself a good deal over it, but when the
+infliction ceased he grew to look on it as the work of some lunatic who
+had wished to have a joke at his expense, and was satisfied with the
+result.
+
+And there was another matter which occupied his mind a good deal. His
+relations with the Gordons were not as pleasant as they had been at
+first. Not that he could complain of anything on the part of the major;
+he was always friendly and glad to see him. But with the daughter
+it was different, and yet Owen could hardly say in what way the
+difference lay, except that he appeared to be making no headway with
+her. She was coolly polite when they met, and when he spent the evening
+at their flat she would remain in the room working, but her share in
+the conversation would be very slight.
+
+As he expressed it, “she suffered him,” and he could find nothing
+definite in her manner with which to find fault, at least openly. Her
+father did not seem to notice anything, so what could he say? Yet a
+lover is more exigeant than a man in his right senses, and looks for
+more. Owen was far from contented, the thing worried him, he felt there
+was no reason for her thus to treat him, and that she was not dealing
+fairly with him.
+
+He did not care to allude to the matter to the major; it was something
+between Amy and himself, and between themselves it should remain.
+
+At last his mind was made up, and, having a few hours to spare, he took
+the “Tube” up to Bond Street and paid a call on Madame Juliette. He
+found the waiting-room unoccupied, and her attendant informed him that
+she had a client with her, but that she would see him next.
+
+It was the first time he had paid a visit to her professional
+apartments, and he was struck with the semi-oriental manner in which
+they were furnished. All the luxuries and glamour of the East seemed
+to be gathered there, and in the subdued light shed by the shaded
+lamps—for the daylight was excluded by thick hangings over the
+windows—it was easy to imagine he had been transported to the heart of
+India.
+
+But he had not long to wait before he was summoned by the
+silent-footed, dark-skinned boy to follow him along a short passage,
+at the end of which he drew back a door, and, raising a thick curtain,
+Owen found himself in the presence of Miss Gordon. She rose from a low
+divan upon which she had been sitting and bowed, but did not offer her
+hand.
+
+Owen took his cue from her, and, waiting till he heard the door close,
+said:
+
+“I trust you will excuse my calling on you here, Miss Gordon, but
+there is a matter on which I wished to have a few words with you, and
+I thought we might find more privacy here than at Plevna Gardens.” Amy
+made no reply, merely bowing again, and Owen continued:
+
+“It is impossible for me, Miss Gordon, to have failed to notice the
+change in your manner towards me. When I had the honour of making your
+acquaintance you were most kind and friendly, and I will not hide from
+you the pleasure this gave me; but since then, from some cause, I know
+not what, you have entirely changed, and, to speak honestly and openly,
+I don’t think you are treating me fairly. I may have done something to
+offend you, but, if so, it has been unwittingly, and I am entitled to
+know what it is.”
+
+Beyond a slight increase in colour which showed plainly beneath the
+stain with which her face was darkened, Amy had heard him apparently
+unmoved, but now that he paused she said quietly:
+
+“What you say is quite true, Dr. Odd. For a time your acquaintance gave
+me great pleasure, I admit; but does not your own conscience give you a
+clue to the change you have remarked in me?”
+
+“Honestly and truthfully, it does not. I am utterly and completely
+unable to account for it.”
+
+“I did not say anything to you,” she continued, “because the change
+arose from a professional incident, which I felt in a sense no concern
+of mine, and concerned you before we came to know you. Besides that, at
+first it was only a conjecture on my part of which I had no proof.”
+
+“And now you have?” replied Owen.
+
+“I think so.”
+
+“Then I demand to know what it may be,” said Owen sternly.
+
+There was silence for a few moments while the girl was thinking deeply,
+and then she continued:
+
+“You were in practice in Exeter?”
+
+“I was.”
+
+“And your practice had not a high reputation?”
+
+“I don’t think you have a right to say that, Miss Gordon. Unfortunately
+my partner turned out far from what I had hoped, since he did not bear
+the highest character for sobriety, but I don’t think anyone could say
+anything against me.”
+
+The girl nodded, then said: “You knew a Miss Dean, I believe?”
+
+“I don’t recall the name.”
+
+“Miss Carry Dean.”
+
+“No, I think not.”
+
+“Think again, Dr. Odd. She died.”
+
+“No,” after a moment’s thought; “I’m sure I did not know her.”
+
+“It may be so. Yet you were called in by her.”
+
+“I think not.”
+
+“Did you ever go by the name of Hodge?”
+
+A smile flickered over Owen’s face at these words as he replied:
+
+“I have certainly been called by that name by some of my poorer
+patients. You see, my own name is an uncommon one, and the other would
+be more familiar to them. But what has this to do with it?”
+
+“Doctor, I have perhaps been hardly fair to you, and ought not to
+have remained silent, but for my father’s sake I took a course which
+I considered best, seeing he had made a friend of you, and your
+society gave him pleasure. But now I will be quite open.” And Amy gave
+her visitor a full account of her cousin’s sudden death between the
+promised visit of the “Dr. Hodge” and the arrival of her own attendant,
+continuing, “Since the letter I received from Martha Green, I have made
+inquiries in Exeter, but the incident took place some time ago, and the
+information I was able to gather was vague and unsatisfactory, and did
+not serve to satisfy my mind.”
+
+“It would have been much more fair had you applied to me as the
+fountain head in the first place, I think,” replied Owen hotly.
+
+“I see it now. It would have been. However, I did not. And lately I
+have received from an unknown quarter a letter which went some way
+further in confirming the suspicions that were in my mind.”
+
+“I demand to see that letter. You owe me that at least,” said Owen
+sternly. And Amy had never liked the man so well as now, when, with
+anger blazing in his eyes, he was fighting for his character and
+reputation. Gazing at him she hesitated for a moment or two, and then,
+going to a drawer in her bureau, took from it a sheet of paper, and
+handed it to him.
+
+A single glance was sufficient. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “another of these
+vile innuendos. I am sorry—very sorry, you should have allowed yourself
+to be influenced by a thing of this kind. A stab in the back, given by
+a coward.”
+
+The girl had no answer ready. Her conduct was now placed before her in
+its true light, and she saw where she was miserably at fault.
+
+“But it shall not rest here,” continued Owen. “I have been traduced,
+and you have sided with my traducer without giving me a chance of being
+heard. Apart from my friendship with your father, this must be cleared
+up. As a medical man I will not suffer this stain on my character to
+go unchallenged. Now, Miss Gordon, putting aside all thoughts of the
+friendship which I had hoped might perhaps in time have grown into
+something stronger and closer between us, I ask from you the fullest
+particulars regarding the death of your cousin, and my supposed summons
+to her bedside.”
+
+The girl’s answer was a burst of passionate tears. The lawful
+indignation, and the straightforward accusation against herself by the
+man in whom she was taking a greater interest than she cared to admit,
+was more than she could bear in silence, and she broke down miserably.
+
+Her tears gave Owen the sharpest pain, but he would not give way. She
+had been unfair to him, and must take the consequences. He waited till
+she had regained command over herself, and then quietly put to her
+question after question till he was thoroughly conversant with all the
+details. And then, as he was preparing to leave, he said:
+
+“And now, Miss Gordon, you must leave the matter with me. I shall not
+hesitate to apply to you if I see that you can in any way assist me,
+but till I can get to the bottom of this foul charge I shall not accept
+either your or your father’s hospitality. I do not wish to appear hard
+or cruel to you, but you must see the case in its true light, and how
+it is absolutely essential that I should clear myself. Good afternoon,”
+and he would have left the room; but Amy, holding out her hand to him,
+said:
+
+“One moment, doctor. You have been far kinder to me than I deserve;
+extend your kindness a little longer. Do not be too hard on me. As I
+once told you, I am not like other girls, my training in the East has
+made me suspicious and easily influenced. You will come to the truth,
+ay, sooner than you think—I feel it, I know it——”
+
+“How do you know it?” asked Owen sharply.
+
+“I cannot tell, but I do know it. It is my mind.”
+
+“If you can _know_ these things, why did you not know that you were
+thinking wrongly of me?” asked Owen, with a sneer, for which he was
+sorry directly afterwards. “Forgive me,” he continued, “I should not
+have said that. Till I have come on the truth I must keep away from
+you,” and, hesitating no longer, he left the apartment.
+
+Taking the “Tube” to Shepherd’s Bush, he set out to walk from there to
+his rooms. He wished to think.
+
+He had learnt something, he had learnt the secret of Amy’s behaviour
+towards him. He thought he had learnt something more, namely that,
+in spite of what passed, there was deep hidden in her heart a warmer
+feeling towards him than she was disposed to admit even to herself.
+And then came the thought that even if she were in time to return the
+passion which, in spite of her conduct, he still felt towards her, how
+could he, with his indefinite prospects and meagre resources, aspire to
+her hand? But—well, “sufficient for the day,” etc., and he strode on.
+
+By the time he reached Hammersmith evening had fallen, and the electric
+lamps were lit. He was approaching a poor side street when there
+emerged from it a figure of a man, bent as though with weakness and
+tottering in his steps. It caught Owen’s eye, and he was thinking
+something must be amiss, when, after swaying a moment, the legs
+collapsed, and the figure sank in a heap on the pavement.
+
+Owen hurried up, and, raising the head, from which the hat had fallen,
+from the stone, exclaimed:
+
+“Good heavens! Jakes, it is you!”
+
+There was no answer. The man was unconscious. At first Owen thought him
+dead, but, ascertaining his heart was still beating, he appealed to
+some of the crowd that had quickly gathered to help to carry him to his
+surgery, which was only a few yards distant. Laying him on the couch,
+and having got rid of the helpers, with the exception of the policeman
+who stayed for the doctor’s verdict, he applied restoratives, and soon
+the colour began to return to his face, and his eyes slowly opened.
+
+“He’ll do now, constable. You can leave him with me; I’ll look after
+him till he’s better. You might give me a call later to hear how he
+gets on. But for the present what he requires is absolute quiet.”
+
+“Right, sir, I’ll look in on my way to the station on going off duty,
+so that I can make my report. Good evening.”
+
+Left alone with his former partner, Owen sat by his side, watching
+him carefully. The change in him was so great he had been startled at
+first. The last time he had seen him he had been a stout man; now he
+had shrunk away to almost nothing. His cheeks had fallen in, and his
+eyes were hollow, while his skin, a sallow colour, hung in folds about
+his jaws.
+
+It was some time before he was sufficiently recovered to speak, and
+when he did it was in anything but a pleasant manner.
+
+“Odd! is that you? Curse you! What am I doing here? I’m not going to
+let you——” and he made an effort to rise.
+
+“Lie still, old man,” said Owen, pushing him back. “It’s all right. I’m
+looking after you. You’ve not been well, but you’ll soon be better.
+Here, drink this,” handing him a glass. “It’s not whisky,” with a
+smile. “You shall have some of that later on.”
+
+The sick man looked up doubtfully at the face that was bending over
+him, and then, having taken the draught, sank back with a sigh and
+closed his eyes.
+
+Owen waited patiently, for the man seemed to have fallen asleep. At
+length the eyes opened once more. “Now you’re feeling a bit better,
+aren’t you? Eh, old man?”
+
+“Yes; but what have you got to do with me? Where am I?”
+
+“In my surgery. You fainted in the street, and I was passing and had
+you brought here. I’ll take care of you.”
+
+“I’ll be hanged if you do. I’m going,” and once more he tried to rise,
+but sank back with a groan.
+
+“Don’t be a fool, Jakes. You’re not fit to move yet, and you’re all
+right here.”
+
+“Honour bright? Is it all square?”
+
+“Rather. What do you take me for? Surely I can look after an old chum?”
+
+“You always were about as good as they make ’em, Odd, and I’ll take
+your word.”
+
+“That’s right. You just trust me, and I’ll soon have you on your legs
+again.” Though in his heart Owen much doubted his ability to do so.
+
+It was an hour later, and Jakes was sitting up. He was better, but far
+from right.
+
+“Look here, Odd,” he was saying, “I can’t stand this—your doing all
+this for me.”
+
+“Nonsense, man, you’re in my hands now, and, what’s more, you’re not
+going to leave this place to-night. Where are you living. I’ll send
+round for your things; I’ve got a spare room you can have, and then I
+can keep my eye on you. Old fellow, you want tinkering up a bit. Where
+am I to send?”
+
+Jakes gave vent to a bitter laugh. “You can send to 10, Milton Street,
+but they won’t let you have anything of mine. I owe them a couple of
+weeks’ rent, and, after all, I’ve got nothing but a pair of worn-out
+boots and a shirt or two there. I’m on my beam ends, fair stony, Odd.”
+
+“All right, old chap, I can lend you what you want for the time, so
+we won’t trouble them. My supper will be ready soon, and you’re going
+to have a little soup then, and after that off to bed with you. A
+good night’s rest will be everything,” and Owen left the room to give
+directions to Margaret.
+
+He was away five minutes or more, and when he re-entered the surgery
+it was to find his late partner leaning forward, with his head on his
+hands, sobbing like a child.
+
+“Steady, old fellow, steady; this won’t do. Drink some of this at once.
+You’re over-strained. Lie back again. We’ll have our supper here, and
+then it will only be one move to your room.”
+
+Jakes did as he was told, and gradually regained command of himself.
+Owen would not suffer him to talk much, but he could not stop him from
+saying:
+
+“If you knew what an infernal cur I am, Odd, you wouldn’t be doing all
+this for me; you’d kick me into the street, and I deserve it.”
+
+Owen looked at him sharply for a moment or two, and then said, with a
+laugh:
+
+“Should I? Wait and see. But to-night I listen to nothing. To-morrow
+will be soon enough to hear your story. And now, if you’ve finished,
+I’ll help you to your room, and put you to bed, for I’ve got to go out
+to a patient.”
+
+“Ah, you’re not one to neglect a summons; I remember that in the old
+days.”
+
+“I hope not. Now come along,” and together the two men slowly made
+their way to the upper storey.
+
+Owen’s call did not take him long, and when he got back he paid a visit
+to his patient, and found him sleeping calmly. He returned to the
+surgery to smoke his last pipe, and sat for a long time wondering and
+thinking.
+
+Jakes spent a good night. Owen had been able to make a thorough
+examination of him, but the result had not been satisfactory. In his
+own mind, Jake’s fate was sealed. He was suffering badly from Bright’s
+disease, and it was only a question of—it might be—days.
+
+Owen had broken the fact to him as kindly as he could, and Jakes had
+been prepared for it.
+
+“Just what I expected,” he said. “A fellow couldn’t live as I’ve done
+without something of this kind, and I’ve gone it pretty warmly since
+you and I parted. I’ve been down on my luck for some time, and have
+lived on drink, not _food_, when I’d anything to buy it with, and, damn
+it, man, you’ve behaved like a trump to me, and I can’t keep it any
+longer. It was I who sent you those letters, meaning to get something
+out of you, but you weren’t to be drawn.”
+
+“You, Jakes?”
+
+“Yes, I. Now kick me out.”
+
+“Kick you out? Not I. No, I don’t treat an old friend like that, for
+we _were_ friends in the old days; but there is one thing I am going
+to do, and that is get you into a hospital, where you will be properly
+looked after and nursed far better than you could be here.”
+
+“I’ll go, Odd. I shan’t be a burden to anyone long, but I’ll be none at
+all to you; you’ve been too good to me as it is.”
+
+Owen made no answer; he was thinking. Suddenly he said:
+
+“Jakes, do you know a Miss Gordon?”
+
+“Yes, I do. Your Miss Gordon. I traced her out, and sent her a letter.
+I’m going to hide nothing. I meant to queer your pitch there, to spite
+you, and make you attend to my demands.”
+
+“Do you know who she is?” asked Owen, rising and pacing the room, for
+he felt his temper was in danger of giving way.
+
+“Yes, a cousin of that Miss Carry Dean who sent for you, or, as the man
+she sent called you, Dr. Hodge. I answered in your name, and promised
+to go at once, but I’d had more than enough then, and forgot all about
+it till the next morning; and then when I drove over to the village and
+asked for her house and I was told she was dead, I saw the best thing
+was to lie low and say nothing about it. I often wondered why there was
+no row about that afterwards.”
+
+“The man who came for you died as soon as he got back, that’s why,”
+said Owen.
+
+“What luck!”
+
+“But how was it I knew nothing about this?”
+
+“You were away in France, on that one holiday you took.”
+
+“Are you sure of this?”
+
+“Certain.”
+
+“Will you put it down in black and white?”
+
+After a moment’s hesitation: “Yes, I owe it to you; but make it as easy
+for me as you can, Odd.”
+
+“It won’t be used against you, if you mean that. I only want to clear
+myself.”
+
+“Get a sheet of paper and write what I dictate; I’ll sign it.”
+
+Owen readily did as requested, and within a few minutes was in
+possession of a document that he felt sure would set him right in the
+eyes of the girl he loved so passionately.
+
+As to the wreck of humanity, Jakes, the following day Owen was enabled
+to gain him admission to an hospital where, after lingering for a week,
+constantly visited by his former and forgiving partner, he died.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Once more Owen was in the sanctum of Madame Juliette, in Bond Street,
+but with what different feelings from those he had experienced on the
+former occasion!
+
+Miss Gordon was seated on the divan, with a paper in her hand which she
+had been reading.
+
+“Forgive me, Doctor Odd. I can say no more,” she murmured, looking up,
+her lovely eyes bright with unshed tears.
+
+“Your suspicions are at rest, Miss Gordon?” inquired Owen calmly.
+
+“Completely. They should never have arisen.”
+
+“They should not but, as they did, you should have applied to me at
+once to allay them. But I will not say any more. We are all apt to make
+mistakes, and that you of all people in the world should have done so
+in the matter hurt me more than I can tell you. There, I have had my
+say, and shall not refer to it again. We will bury the incident, and
+try to forget it. And we are friends once more?”
+
+“If in your generosity you can really overlook what I have done, and
+can accord me that privilege,” continued the girl, her countenance
+showing plainly the emotion she was suffering.
+
+“My heart contains no dearer wish,” said Owen, taking the hand she had
+all unconsciously held towards him. “And at some future time, should
+Fortune smile more kindly on me than she has done in the past, it
+may be that you will——But at present I have no right to ask anything
+further. I must be content with what I already possess, to me a most
+precious guerdon.”
+
+At these words the eyes of the girl fell, and a deeper colour suffused
+her cheeks and neck, but she made no answer, only allowing her hand to
+remain where it rested. They stood thus for some moments in absolute
+silence, and then Owen said:
+
+“And now I may resume my visits as formerly?”
+
+“As often as you care to come. My father—and I—will always be delighted
+to see you, you may be sure.”
+
+“Thank you, Miss Gordon, it will be a pleasure on my part that I have
+sadly missed of late. I shall take advantage of your permission and
+look in this evening. For the present Au revoir, Amy,” and without
+another word Owen left the room, and the girl sank back on the divan
+with a happy sigh that told of the lifting of a cloud that for some
+time past had overshadowed her otherwise happy life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+A WOMAN’S HONOUR
+
+
+London. London—the giant metropolis of the universe—in the month of May.
+
+London, the ever-moving, ever-extending, the smiling paradise of the
+rich, the pitiless wilderness of the poor, the desolate world of
+misfortune and disappointment of the struggling middle-class; the city
+of broken hopes and of sudden fortunes, the shameless, wanton city
+of blazing wealth, of sinful waste, and, alas! at the same time the
+stony-hearted city of abject suffering, of pathetic self-sacrifice, and
+of slow starvation. The city of sharp contrasts, where to retain life
+one must possess money, where men purchase titles and honours as easily
+as they do their dinners, where blackguards loll in the windows of the
+best clubs, where notorious women cover their misdeeds by their titles,
+and laugh behind their fans at the common world—the City of the Great
+Sin.
+
+It was seven o’clock. A bright, pleasant evening, as Dick Jervoise
+drove out of Charing Cross Station in an open taxicab, along Pall Mall,
+and up St. James’s Street, where he called at his club for his letters.
+Then he drove along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge to his flat at Barnes.
+
+He wore a grey travelling coat, and before him was a well-worn and
+much-labelled suit-case, for he had just arrived from the Continent,
+and was in haste to get home. As he went along he read the letters he
+had just received, tearing them, one after the other, into fragments
+which he cast to the winds.
+
+Carter, who opened the door to him, said:
+
+“Doctor Odd rang up an hour ago, and asked if you were home, sir. I
+told him I would ask you to ring up when you came in.”
+
+“Very well, Carter. Anyone else rung or called?”
+
+“No one particular, sir. Only that young French lady. She came last
+Tuesday week, I think it was, expecting that you had returned. She left
+a note for you. It’s on your desk.”
+
+Dick, without removing hat or coat, entered his sitting-room and,
+tearing open the note, read it. His face fell. For a second he
+hesitated, then, tearing it up, dropped it into the waste-paper basket.
+
+“Carter, tell the doctor I’m back, and would like to see him if he can
+run across,” he said. “I’m going to have a wash—for, by Jove! I want
+one after three days and nights in that confounded wagon-lit!”
+
+The man went to the telephone as he was bid, while his master passed
+into his dressing-room.
+
+A quarter of an hour later Owen Odd entered, greeted his friend, and
+sank into the armchair beside the fireplace.
+
+“Well?” asked Dick, standing on the hearthrug with his hands deep in
+his trousers pockets.
+
+“Well?” said the doctor, blinking at his friend through his pince-nez.
+“What’s the result?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“You’ve had a fruitless errand, eh?”
+
+“Entirely. I’ve been on the move these last six weeks, travelling
+almost incessantly, but all, alas! to no purpose,” he sighed.
+
+“Sundt is back at the Ritz,” Owen remarked. “They arrived from Ragusa a
+week ago. The captain and Thyra are at their old quarters in Bayswater.
+I called there three days ago—to congratulate her.”
+
+“Well, what did she say? How did she look?” inquired Jervoise
+listlessly.
+
+“She looked as bright as ever, but said very little regarding her
+engagement, except that she was busy, ordering dresses and hats and
+other fittings. I suppose you’ll call?” he added, watching him.
+
+“No, Owen; I don’t think I shall.”
+
+“She will expect to see you, surely?”
+
+“She won’t know I’m back in town.”
+
+“I told old Sundt of your impending arrival. I saw him yesterday.”
+
+“I wish you had left me out of the question, old chap,” exclaimed Dick.
+
+“He invited me to the Ritz—on purpose to inquire your whereabouts, it
+seemed to me.”
+
+“Why, what do my movements concern him, pray?”
+
+“How should I know? He seems, however, to take an unusual interest in
+you,” Owen answered. “Perhaps—perhaps he has guessed your affection for
+Thyra.”
+
+“The old man can know nothing.”
+
+“Unless she has told him.”
+
+“Why should she tell him anything?”
+
+“Well,” said Owen, “whether she has made any statement to him or not,
+he is in possession of some facts which are—well, to say the least,
+extraordinary, and I tell you frankly, Dick, they have caused me
+considerable surprise and misgiving.”
+
+Jervoise, for the first time, noticed the curious expression upon his
+friend’s face.
+
+“Why? What has he been telling you?”
+
+“He has been questioning me again—concerning that afternoon when you
+were absent from the hotel in Christiania.”
+
+“And what did you tell him?”
+
+“What could I tell him—except the truth? Look here, Dick,” added the
+man in pince-nez, “I may as well tell you openly, and at once, that he,
+and others too, apparently, entertain a grave suspicion of you.”
+
+“Of what?”
+
+Owen Odd was silent. At last, with an effort, he said:
+
+“Of being the murderer of Paul Grinevitch.”
+
+Dick’s face was blanched, his brows narrowed, and he bit his lip.
+
+“And you share that suspicion, eh?” he asked hoarsely.
+
+The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Come,” his friend said, “you may just as well admit it. We are
+friends, therefore I give you leave to speak quite frankly.”
+
+“Well, Dick, to be perfectly open, I do not consider your explanations
+have been at all satisfactory. You’ve more than once contradicted
+yourself, remember.”
+
+“I admit it,” was the other’s rather lame answer; “but I regret if you,
+my friend, entertain any doubt concerning me.”
+
+“You declared to me on the morning of the wedding that Paul Grinevitch
+was a scoundrel. Yet later, when I asked you if you had known him
+before you met in Vardo, you evaded the question.”
+
+“I did so with an object.”
+
+“The object of revenge, it seems,” retorted his friend bitterly.
+
+“My dear fellow, both you and that man Sundt may make what allegations
+you wish; charge me with being the assassin, if you will. I know well
+that in your heart you believe me to be the murderer. Ever since our
+return from the north you’ve shunned me, and made excuses for not
+calling. Yet I am powerless to defend myself from such attacks.”
+
+“Why powerless? An innocent man can always prove his innocence!”
+
+“Except when the guilt cannot be established,” replied Dick boldly,
+looking his friend straight in the face.
+
+“But surely you can make explanation, man, when this fellow Sundt is
+working so diligently to bring you to justice?”
+
+“Justice!” he echoed, with a short laugh. “Let the man who has robbed
+me of my love rob me of my liberty—my life, if he wishes; but he cannot
+rob me of my honour, or my own self-respect.”
+
+“To tell you the truth, Dick, I fail to discern any motive in this
+indefatigable inquiry which Peter Sundt has instituted. It seems that
+he has sent detectives over half Russia to try to find out the truth
+concerning the dead man’s past.”
+
+“I know. I, too, have just been over the same ground.”
+
+“What’s his motive?”
+
+“Hatred of me, no doubt,” he answered. “He probably knows that Thyra
+loves me.”
+
+“She does love you, then?” asked his friend anxiously.
+
+“Of that there is no doubt. And I love her in return. Why should I
+conceal the truth from you, my friend?”
+
+“From his conversation with me he has, it seems, established a point
+which in any event is unfortunate, both for Thyra and for you. He has
+discovered that on the fatal afternoon you met her in secret in the
+Slotsparken, and were seen walking with her in the direction of the
+Oscars Gade.”
+
+He started perceptibly.
+
+“Well,” he asked, “and what else?” He held his breath, as though in
+sudden terror of what was to follow.
+
+“He reserves the full extent of his knowledge to himself, knowing that
+I am your friend. Indeed, he tried to extract from me a promise to
+make no mention of this matter to you.”
+
+“H’m! And he called you to the Ritz in order to try and ascertain
+exactly where I was, eh?”
+
+“He called me to tell me that, in consequence of certain admissions
+made by Thyra, he had caused further inquiries to be made in
+Christiania, the result of which practically established your guilt.”
+
+Dick’s chin had fallen upon his chest, as he stood in silence before
+the man who had been his friend. He made no remark. He neither sought
+justification, nor did he make explanation.
+
+“And now,” Owen went on, “it surely is for you to relate the true facts
+of what occurred that afternoon—or—or else I fear that this fresh
+information will be placed before the police.”
+
+“My dear fellow, all these secret inquiries on the part of Peter Sundt
+only go to prove one thing—how bitter is his hatred of myself.”
+
+“Admitted. Thyra may, I fear, have been slightly indiscreet,” he
+replied. “Yet if she loves you, as you appear to think, is it not
+very strange that she should consent to marriage with this coarse old
+parvenu?”
+
+“I alone am aware of the reason, Owen,” he said very seriously. “On
+the night she became engaged she wrote and told me all. I do not blame
+her,” he cried bitterly. “Ah! I only pity her!”
+
+“Peter has apparently been employing someone to watch your movements,”
+the doctor went on. “He asked me if I knew anything concerning your
+little friend, Alza Dresler.”
+
+“You—you told him the truth, of course?”
+
+“I told him nothing; but he admitted to me that he had asked Thyra if
+she knew her.”
+
+“He has asked Thyra!” gasped the unhappy man. “He has told Thyra of my
+friendship with Alza!” he cried, white to the lips.
+
+“It seems so.”
+
+“Then she will believe——”
+
+“Believe what?”
+
+“Why, she will believe that I have lied to her—that I’ve betrayed her!”
+
+“Why don’t you make a clean breast of the whole affair, Dick? Surely it
+would be best!” urged his friend, looking straight at him.
+
+“Owen,” he said, fixing his dark, serious eyes upon the doctor, “my
+secret is hers. Cannot you see that in this a woman’s honour is at
+stake—the honour of the woman I love!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+TOWARDS THE TRUTH
+
+
+Several days had passed—pleasant May days in London.
+
+Yes; Miss Berentsen was at home—for Thyra had again retaken her maiden
+name soon after the tragic affair—and Richard Jervoise followed the
+rather saucy maidservant up to the drawing-room in Talbot Road.
+
+The grey-eyed girl, seated near the window, reading, rose as he
+entered, but her greeting was cold and strained. He was dressed in
+frock coat, and carried his silk hat in his hand, for his visit there
+was a formal one, and he had therefore dressed for formality.
+
+“I’ve called, Miss Berentsen, to offer you my—my congratulations,” he
+stammered. “I have just heard of your return to London.”
+
+“Thank you very much,” she replied in a low voice. “Won’t you sit down?”
+
+He took the straight-backed chair she indicated, and began to inquire
+how she had enjoyed herself on the Dalmatian coast.
+
+“I know Ragusa quite well,” he remarked. “I’ve stayed there twice on my
+way down to Cattaro for Montenegro. It’s quite charming. I think I know
+the Villa Sergio, too—a big white place on the hill. And so you are
+very soon to be its mistress! Where does the wedding take place?”
+
+“In Christiania. Mr. Sundt leaves London to-morrow in order to make
+the arrangements. Meanwhile”—she laughed uneasily—“look at all these
+things that are continually arriving!” and she pointed to a pile of
+dressmakers’ and milliners’ boxes at the further end of the room.
+
+“Well,” he sighed sadly, “I hope, Thyra, that you will be very, very
+happy. I hesitated before I came to call upon you, but I felt that I
+must at least bid farewell to you once again.”
+
+“Once again!” she echoed bitterly. “Do you recollect our farewell that
+fatal afternoon in Christiania—and what occurred afterwards?”
+
+“Why recall it?” he faltered, raising his hand. “Why remember the past,
+now that the future is so bright for you?”
+
+“Can I ever forget it?” she asked. “Can you ever forget it?”
+
+He shook his head in silence, his overburdened heart too full for
+words. He loved her as he loved his own life.
+
+“Richard,” she said at length in a changed voice, “I think you really
+ought not to have come here. You might at least have spared me this!”
+
+“I had no desire to offend you,” he assured her quickly. “I recollect
+all that you wrote in your letter, and I thought——”
+
+“You thought that I was ignorant,” she exclaimed in sudden indignation,
+interrupting him. “Since I wrote that letter, however, I have heard
+of your intimate friendship with a woman—a certain Frenchwoman of bad
+character, named Alza Dresler.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I hear that this woman who is such an intimate friend of yours is an
+adventuress of the very worst type?”
+
+“She is undoubtedly judged by the world as such,” he said.
+
+“Then you defend the woman?”
+
+“She is my friend.”
+
+“You admit it—even—even while you have pretended to love me!”
+
+“Friendship and love are entirely different feelings,” he declared.
+“The woman, though she may be what you allege, is nevertheless my
+friend.”
+
+Thyra rose impatiently. Her heart was full of indignation that he
+should admit friendship with a mere adventuress.
+
+She turned upon him quickly, and in a few forcible words expressed
+surprise that he should have dared to declare his love for her on that
+day prior to her departure for Ragusa.
+
+“I told you my heart’s secret, Thyra,” he answered in a low, hoarse
+whisper, “because—because I could restrain the truth no longer.”
+
+“The truth!” she cried indignantly, her jealousy overcoming her. “Why,
+at the same time you told me that, you were actually meeting this
+Frenchwoman in secret!”
+
+“With an object,” he exclaimed. “With one distinct object, Thyra. If
+you were aware of the whole of the facts you surely would never speak
+thus to me.”
+
+“Then tell me the facts,” she urged. “Tell me the truth.”
+
+“Not from my lips shall you hear it—but from hers.”
+
+“From hers? What do you mean?”
+
+“I anticipated your misjudgment of my actions, therefore I have asked
+the woman herself to call upon you.”
+
+“To call here—a person of her character? You must be mad!”
+
+“Whatever may be her character, Alza Dresler has a good heart. And,
+further, let me tell you that though she has never met you, she is
+nevertheless your friend.”
+
+“My friend? Why?”
+
+“Be patient, and you will see.”
+
+At that moment Captain Berentsen entered the room, surprised to find
+Thyra’s visitor, yet eager to leave the pair alone. Too well he knew
+the heart’s secret of his daughter, who had, alas! now sacrificed
+herself. And yet did not that sacrifice mean his own salvation?
+
+Ah! the bitterness of it all. Many a night had that sturdy old whaler
+spent in secret tears. He foresaw his daughter’s doom. What could be
+expected of a loveless marriage between such a pair—the girl cultured
+and refined, with artistic taste and artistic temperament; the man a
+rough boor, bloated with the egotism begotten of great wealth.
+
+The suspicions sown in his mind by Peter Sundt regarding the tall
+Englishman had caused him much reflection. Certain it was that his
+daughter and Richard Jervoise were in secret accord. Was it not proved
+by his visit there at that moment?
+
+As he had entered he saw that something had passed between them in the
+nature of a secret.
+
+“Mr. Jervoise had called to congratulate me, dad,” the girl explained
+rather lamely.
+
+“I heard you were abroad,” the captain exclaimed, addressing the
+Englishman, who in his well-cut frock coat looked taller. “We have not
+long been back from the Adriatic.”
+
+“So Thyra has just told me,” Dick replied. “But, captain, I called here
+for a second purpose,” he added. “I called in order to introduce to you
+and to your daughter a friend of mine—a lady.”
+
+“Oh! Who’s she?” inquired Jorgen quickly. Old salt that he was, he
+rather prided himself upon his engaging ways with the fair sex.
+
+As he uttered the words the maid opened the door, announcing:
+
+“There’s a lady called to see you, Miss. Her name is Dresler.”
+
+Thyra held her breath. She had no desire to meet the woman, yet of
+sheer necessity she gave orders for her to be shown up.
+
+A moment later Alza, neat in black, with a large feather boa about her
+neck, entered, while behind her stood a man, a perfect stranger to them
+all.
+
+“Ah, M’sieur Dick!” cried the pretty Frenchwoman. “I only arrived in
+London this morning at five o’clock, and received your note. I went at
+once to Barnes, but you were out, so I came on here as you desired.”
+
+“This is Miss Berentsen,” Dick said. “Allow me to introduce her, and
+also Captain Berentsen.”
+
+Thyra bowed coldly. The woman was, she had been told, one of the most
+clever and unscrupulous adventuresses in Europe.
+
+“This gentleman,” Alza explained in turn, indicating the rather
+well-dressed man about thirty, tall, with a fair, somewhat bristly
+moustache, “is a person of whom you have no doubt all heard in
+connection with the unfortunate death of mademoiselle’s husband—Mr.
+Oscar Nystrom.”
+
+“Nystrom!” echoed Dick. “Then, sir, you are the mysterious
+correspondent of Paul Grinevitch?”
+
+“I am,” he answered in rather indifferent English, bowing courteously.
+Alza explained that he was a Dane, and until that moment, because he
+was wanted by the police, he had not dared to come forward. Indeed, he
+had been in hiding in Seville, until she had, after long inquiry, found
+him and induced him to risk a journey to London in order to explain
+certain matters.
+
+“I told M’sieur Nystrom of your estrangement from Mr. Jervoise,
+mademoiselle,” she explained, turning to Thyra, “and it was that which
+induced him to place himself in his present peril.”
+
+“It is really extremely kind of him,” remarked Thyra rather coldly.
+
+“Ah, mademoiselle!” cried Alza, “you do not understand—you cannot
+understand. You doubt my good intentions, because you have perhaps
+heard what I am. But I tell you at once that M’sieur Dick is my good
+friend. He was once very kind to me, and in consequence I owe him a
+service, one which to-day I hope to repay.”
+
+“In what way, Alza?” he asked, for it was apparent that he had no idea
+that the man Nystrom would accompany her on that visit.
+
+“Listen, and I will tell you,” she said. “You love mademoiselle—you
+told me so,” she went on. “You sought my assistance, the assistance of
+a bad woman. Oh, yes,” she laughed, turning towards Thyra, her dark
+eyes dancing, “I know I am an adventuress—a woman of no character!
+But in consequence I am enabled to move in quite a different circle
+from yours, I can seek and obtain information in the undercurrents of
+life that are unsuspected by respectable folk like yourselves. But I—I
+was respectable once, as respectable as you yourself, mademoiselle,”
+she faltered; “M’sieur Dick knows. Some day he may tell you my true
+history—the history of an unfortunate woman!”
+
+“Mademoiselle!” cried Thyra, advancing towards her with sudden emotion
+and taking her hand, “are you really my friend? Are you speaking the
+truth?”
+
+“I am,” was the Frenchwoman’s reply. “Your friend—and his.”
+
+“Then forgive me, please forgive me,” pleaded the grey-eyed
+girl. “Only a moment ago I uttered hard words concerning you,
+because—because—well, perhaps I was jealous of you.”
+
+“Ah! then you do love M’sieur Dick still?” she inquired quickly. “You
+have no love for Peter Sundt?”
+
+There was no reply. The girl’s chin had sunk upon her breast. Her
+silence, however, was sufficiently indicative of the true state of her
+mind. Her father had placed his hand tenderly on her shoulder.
+
+“Good!” Alza cried, her black-gloved hands held behind her back. “Then
+I will tell you something which will probably surprise you all. M’sieur
+Dick telegraphed to me in Paris long ago, and asked me to redeem the
+promise I once made to him under rather strange circumstances. Well, I
+have redeemed it. I have had more than one narrow escape of detection
+and arrest, for, as you may probably guess, the police are anxious
+for closer acquaintance with me. Nevertheless, though I may probably
+be convicted and spend some years in prison, I have nevertheless the
+satisfaction of knowing that I have at least done one good action in my
+life in ascertaining the truth concerning the death of Paul Grinevitch,
+the man who belonged to the same set as myself. The man who, like
+myself, unfortunately, was a thief and a swindler.”
+
+“My husband—a thief!” gasped the unfortunate girl. “What are you
+saying? What proof have you of this?”
+
+“My poor mademoiselle,” Alza exclaimed, “that man deceived you, as he
+had deceived M’sieur Dick long ago. He told you a picturesque story as
+to his antecedents and his high family connections, but I tell you he
+was one of us. He was an adventurer, it seems, and, soon after poor
+Helene’s death, became actively associated with us. The reason he went
+north to Vardo was in order to be out of the way. Inquiries were being
+made concerning certain forged French bonds, which had been printed
+in London and had been placed in circulation in Cologne, as well as
+the theft of the Countess de Magnan’s jewelry from the Gare de Lyon in
+Paris. The fact was that he had been betrayed, together with my lover
+and Oscar Nystrom here, by a man who was a member of our gang, but who
+had turned police informant. My lover was arrested and sent to Cayenne,
+but Paul managed to escape to the Arctic and get off scot-free, while
+Oscar went to Russia. The man who denounced them both was a compatriot
+of Paul’s, a man named Nicholas Bourtzeff.”
+
+“Quite true,” remarked the fair-moustached Dane, interrupting, “quite
+true! Mademoiselle’s lover was sent to Cayenne by information furnished
+by that accursed police-spy,” a statement which seemed to cause Thyra
+to regard Alza with greater cordiality.
+
+“But what is the truth concerning my unfortunate husband’s death?”
+asked the young widow, pale-faced and anxious, still half expecting
+that this good-looking Frenchwoman was endeavouring to remove the
+suspicion from Dick Jervoise. They were friends, old Jorgen also
+reflected, and therefore the woman was not likely to implicate him.
+
+“Mademoiselle, the facts are extremely curious—amazing,” she answered.
+“Only yesterday, very far from here—in the town of Orleans—did I learn
+the one fact which gave me a clue to the remarkable truth. And I
+hastened to London at once, to find M’sieur Dick, and to place before
+you both the true and remarkable story. I have said that I am your
+friend, as well as M’sieur Dick’s. Listen, and I will prove to you the
+truth of my assertion. I do not ask you to believe me without absolute
+proof, but I do ask you not to allow yourself to be prejudiced against
+me merely because of the unfortunate fact that I am, alas!—what I am.”
+
+Dick and old Jorgen stood aside in silence and wonder. Both watched
+that woman whom the world denounced as an adventuress—the woman who for
+months had been ever active in the interests of the man to whom she
+owed her liberty.
+
+“Speak, Alza,” Dick said in a quiet, intense tone, looking from her to
+the man at her side. “Do not keep us in suspense longer. What discovery
+have you made?”
+
+For answer she handed him a small, folded, yellow paper.
+
+He opened it, glanced at it for a few seconds, as though unable to
+believe his eyes.
+
+Then he stood staring at her, speechless and rigid.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+ALZA MAKES A CONFESSION
+
+
+Slowly refolding the paper, Dick Jervoise handed it back to the young
+Frenchwoman, who, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, asked: “What does
+that convey to you?”
+
+“Everything,” he answered.
+
+“Then you had better tell mademoiselle the truth.”
+
+“The truth! Who can prove it?” he cried. “I have been suspected—nay, I
+am still suspected—of being the assassin of the man I hated.”
+
+“And really not without good cause, Mr. Jervoise,” the old whaler
+remarked quietly. “Remember, it has been long ago proved that upon that
+afternoon you met my daughter in secret.”
+
+“Proved by Peter Sundt—the man who is madly jealous of me!” declared
+Dick with sarcasm.
+
+“But the fact remains, nevertheless,” remarked the captain slowly.
+
+“There need be no further concealment of it,” Thyra interrupted in a
+low, pained voice. “It is quite true that, at Mr. Jervoise’s request,
+I met him in secret that afternoon. He met me for two reasons—in order
+to bid me adieu, and also to reveal to me something—something that both
+astounded and horrified me.”
+
+“Horrified you? What was it?” gasped her father.
+
+“Mr. Jervoise told me the truth about my husband’s treatment of the
+poor unfortunate cafe concert singer, Helene Marquet, who had committed
+suicide after he had deserted her,” she went on. “He showed me a
+cutting from the _Petit Nicois_ giving the facts of the tragedy. Ah!
+imagine my feelings when I knew that I, in my ignorance, had married
+such a man! He might soon treat me the same—desert me! For a long
+time we walked together—how long I have no idea. Mr. Jervoise told me
+the truth now, alas! that it was too late, that he had never had an
+opportunity of previously warning me against Paul Grinevitch. He told
+me the whole sad story of poor Helene Marquet. I became beside myself
+with indignation and fear. I saw how he hated Paul, and with a just
+hatred, too, for the man who was my husband had robbed him of the woman
+he loved. At last I asked him to leave me. He went, but as he did so
+he vowed a terrible vengeance upon the man who had caused the death of
+poor Helene. I did not heed his words, so entirely was I wrapped in my
+own thoughts. I wandered on and on until evening, when I returned to
+the hotel—to charge my husband with the terrible allegation. And when
+I entered the room,” she cried, “I—I saw that murder had been done. An
+unknown hand had meted out to him his just deserts!”
+
+“And you naturally supposed, child, that the avenging hand was Mr.
+Jervoise’s?” remarked her father.
+
+She nodded in the affirmative.
+
+“Just as Peter Sundt has supposed,” added Dick bitterly. “I admit that
+the evidence against me was circumstantial and convincing. That’s the
+reason why your daughter and myself have preserved the secret of our
+meeting, for has not her own honour been at stake? What would the world
+have thought of a woman who, on the first day of her marriage, had made
+an assignation with another man?”
+
+“Ah! yes,” cried the girl. “I saw, immediately after I had consented
+to meet you, that I was doing wrong, but my curiosity got the better of
+me, and you promised to reveal something to me concerning Paul.”
+
+“Why did you not speak in Trondhjem—before the marriage?” inquired Alza.
+
+“Had I done so, my words would only have been regarded as the outcome
+of jealousy, and, besides, I had another reason,” he replied. “I
+was therefore compelled to wait till after the marriage, when my
+denunciation and warning could be made without ulterior motive. Ah! I
+assure you that my position throughout has been a most difficult one,
+more especially because from the first my friend, Dr. Odd, suspected
+me, and when Peter Sundt approached him he expressed his views very
+strongly.”
+
+“Then it is not true, Richard!” cried Thyra wildly; “not true that when
+you left me you went to the hotel—to——”
+
+“I tell you it is not true; I am not guilty of your husband’s murder,”
+he replied in a firm, calm voice. “I admit that I had a motive in
+committing such a crime—the avenging of the death of poor Helene; but,
+thank God, I did not carry out my threat!”
+
+“Then who did—_who did_?” demanded the pale-faced girl, looking wildly
+about her. “Cannot you see that, until we know the truth, suspicion
+must still rest upon you, Richard, notwithstanding your denials?”
+
+“I know that full well,” was his answer. “Yet I can bear whatever
+allegation may be made against me. Paul Grinevitch sinned before God,
+and he received his punishment at the hand of man.”
+
+“At the hand of a man unknown,” added Captain Berentsen.
+
+“Pardon,” interrupted Nystrom; “unknown to you, but known to others.”
+
+“Known!” cried Thyra, turning to him and speaking in Norwegian. “Who
+committed the crime? Tell me quickly. It was not Mr. Jervoise—speak!”
+
+“No, Miss Thyra,” answered the stranger. “Your friend is innocent.”
+
+“I would like to ask Captain Berentsen a question, M’sieur Dick,” Alza
+interrupted. Then, turning to the old whaling captain, she asked him if
+he had ever, many years ago, met a young Frenchwoman named Marguerite
+Meunier, at the same time exchanging a significant glance with Dick.
+
+“Meunier!” repeated the old fellow. “The only lady named Meunier I
+remember was the wife of Peter Sundt.”
+
+“She died fully twenty-five years ago, eh?”
+
+“I believe so. She died somewhere in France.”
+
+The Frenchwoman nodded, while her companion—the man wanted by the
+police—whispered something to her in an undertone.
+
+“I don’t understand the reason of that question,” Thyra remarked.
+
+“Perhaps not,” replied Alza. “But first let me make a confession,
+let me explain certain facts which are a mystery to you all, even to
+M’sieur Dick himself. You will recollect that it was proved that at the
+Hotel Victoria, in Christiania, a lady visited Paul Grinevitch shortly
+before his death? Well, I was that visitor.”
+
+“You!” gasped Dick. “You never told me this!”
+
+“Because I deemed it best to withhold the information until I obtained
+something tangible,” was her answer. “I did not come forward and make
+any statement, for a very obvious reason. It was, I saw, quite within
+the range of possibility that a woman of my character would at once be
+suspected of the crime. So I slipped away to Paris on that same night,
+as soon as I read of the startling discovery in the papers. Your
+telegram, a week later, found me there. You asked me to assist you, and
+I of course knew more concerning both the victim and the tragedy than
+you did. I recognised in what direction to work if I would discover the
+truth, and lost no time in instituting my secret inquiries, which, from
+that moment until the present, I have never relaxed.”
+
+“Why did you call upon my husband during my absence?” inquired Thyra,
+surprised.
+
+“I had business with him. Remember, he had been an associate of mine
+in several rather crooked affairs. He had telegraphed to me, asking
+me to come to Christiania to meet him, he having emerged from his
+hiding-place in the north. I stayed at the Grand Hotel, and actually
+passed M’sieur Dick in the entrance on that fatal day, though he did
+not recognise me.”
+
+“But what was the nature of your business with Paul?” demanded his
+widow.
+
+“Financial. He required funds for his immediate necessities and to
+take him to England, where he intended to settle down amid respectable
+surroundings, while at the same time preserving his connection with
+us—to be our agent in Russia, as a matter of fact. At first we had
+a few words regarding a little occurrence immediately prior to his
+escape to the north. Afterwards he expressed regret at the arrest of
+my lover, Victor Laurillard, and I told him at whose instigation the
+arrest had been made, and warned him against the informer Bourtzeff.
+Then, as agent of our principal, Herr Enderlein—who, by the way, is
+never known in connection with us, though it is his active brain which
+evolves our plans—I discussed ways and means with him. The amount he
+wanted was larger than I had with me, therefore I telephoned to the
+Norsk Credit Bank to ask how long it would take to obtain money by
+telegram from Frankfort. The answer was that it could not be paid for
+four days. What I had told him regarding Bourtzeff appeared to cause
+him considerable thought, and must, after I left have induced him to
+resolve to go to London and face the man who had turned informant.
+That’s the only reason I can see for the despatch of that telegram to
+Captain Berentsen.” Then she added: “Before I left he showed me your
+photograph, mademoiselle, and declared that he was deeply in love with
+you.”
+
+“Love!” cried Thyra indignantly. “How grossly he deceived me!”
+
+“Unfortunately he did,” sighed the dark-eyed Frenchwoman. “I expressed
+surprise that he should have married, but he merely replied that he had
+resolved upon that step as one towards respectability.”
+
+“But the hotel people stated that when you came down in the lift you
+carried in your hand a letter.”
+
+“Certainly. He wrote that in order to make my visit appear one of
+legitimate business, for we knew that the whole eyes of the hotel were
+upon us, and he indeed expressed regret that he had not appointed our
+meeting elsewhere.”
+
+“But what happened afterwards?” asked Thyra frantically. “What occurred
+after your departure?”
+
+“He sent a telegram to his father-in-law, giving his address in London;
+he burned a quantity of compromising papers he carried, including a
+quantity of spurious French bonds, and he booked passages for himself
+and his wife by the next Wilson steamer for Hull.”
+
+“But those letters which he addressed to persons in Russia?” asked
+Dick. “They only contained blank sheets of paper.”
+
+“They were blank to the eyes,” laughed Alza, “but not to us. They were
+messages announcing his impending arrival in St. Petersburg, written in
+invisible ink.”
+
+“He wrote to me also,” added the stranger standing at Alza’s side, “but
+I did not receive his letter. I had already left.”
+
+“What was that paper you showed Mr. Jervoise a few minutes ago?”
+inquired Thyra of the neat-waisted Frenchwoman.
+
+Alza and Dick exchanged meaning glances, by which the others knew that
+some further secret existed between them, and they felt that in that
+secret was an amazing, yet unsuspected, truth.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+IN SOUND OF PICCADILLY
+
+
+At the little writing-table set in the window at the Ritz Hotel,
+overlooking the Park, the stout, pimply-faced man with a choice cigar
+between his teeth sat scribbling letters with his fountain-pen.
+
+The evening gloom was falling, but he had not troubled to rise to
+switch on the light.
+
+He had dressed early, for he was going forth to dine with a friend, a
+Norwegian diplomat, at the Carlton Club, and a small glass of vodka,
+his favourite spirit, stood at his elbow.
+
+The door opened, and, thinking it was his man, he snappishly gave
+several orders regarding his clothes without deigning to look up.
+
+“Mr. Sundt,” exclaimed a firm, manly voice, “I make no apology for this
+intrusion on your privacy. I am here to demand by what right you have
+denounced me to Captain Berentsen and his daughter as a murderer!”
+
+Peter started, his brows contracted, and he rose indignantly to his
+feet, recognising in his visitor Richard Jervoise.
+
+“And pray, sir, by what right do you force your way into my room like
+this?”
+
+“To demand an apology,” said the tall Englishman, “an apology to myself
+and to Miss Berentsen.”
+
+“To Miss Berentsen!” he echoed. “Are you mad, my dear sir?”
+
+“Mad! Perhaps I am; but, if I am, it is your blackguardly insinuations,
+your cruel and unjust allegations that have made me so.”
+
+“Well, really, sir,” exclaimed the other pompously, “if your attitude
+is so insulting, I must ask you to leave my rooms at once. You appear
+to be labouring under some misunderstanding, that the suspicion upon
+you as the assassin of Mr. Grinevitch is due to me.”
+
+“You have made that allegation! Can you deny it?”
+
+“I cannot deny it any more than you can deny that you met the man’s
+wife in secret—that you, her lover, had an assignation with her on
+the afternoon of the tragedy,” was his answer as he stood near the
+fireplace, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his trousers.
+
+“And you actually say this of the pure, good woman whom you have asked
+to become your wife!” cried Dick, his blood boiling.
+
+“I merely repeat what is the truth. My dear sir, I always believe in
+facing the truth unflinchingly.”
+
+Dick Jervoise laughed in the man’s face.
+
+“Good!” he said. “Then let me recall an incident which may, perhaps,
+have passed from your mind. Do you recollect our first meeting that
+evening up at Vardo? On that night you came to Captain Berentsen’s
+house for a distinct purpose—to ask him for his daughter’s hand.”
+
+“And instead he gave her in marriage to a man who was a thief, and for
+whom the police were searching,” observed the red-faced plutocrat.
+
+“Granted,” Dick said; “but do you recollect your conversation with
+the harbour-master after we had all left? Do you remember how you
+threatened him with exposure, nay, with ruin, if he refused to compel
+his daughter to contract an odious marriage with you?”
+
+“What are you saying, sir? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
+
+“No, I’m telling you the plain truth,” was Jervoise’s answer. “Shall
+I recall you something further? Well, I will. It was you who, by
+your influence, obtained for Jorgen Berentsen his appointment as
+harbour-master of Vardo. Why? Because you knew he would be a tool
+in your hands to falsify the harbour accounts, and to cheat the
+Government out of dues leviable on your fishing-fleet. For years you
+have compelled him to do this, but of a sudden, you, knowing your
+strong position, turned upon him and threatened him with exposure and
+prosecution if he would not compel Thyra to marry you. For that reason,
+in order to strengthen your hand, you contrived to compel him to sell
+to an agent of the Russian Government at Monte Carlo a plan of the
+defences of the harbour of Vardo.”
+
+“You’re a liar!” exclaimed the other with growing uneasiness. How, he
+wondered, could this Englishman know that if Jorgen had not told him?
+
+“Listen,” Dick went on; “Captain Berentsen, determined to allow his
+daughter to marry the man she loved, defied you, and you returned south
+in your yacht to Havre.”
+
+“She married that scoundrel Grinevitch, and you were jealous of him!
+Come, why don’t you admit it?” asked Sundt, his anger rising. He was
+unused to be spoken to in so bold a manner.
+
+“You repeat your allegations, then?” cried Dick. “You assert that I was
+her husband’s assassin?”
+
+“The evidence I have collected certainly points most conclusively to
+that.”
+
+“And you, at the same time, cast evil report upon the very woman who
+has given you her hand! Peter Sundt,” he cried, “you are as big a
+blackguard as—nay, bigger than—Paul Grinevitch himself!”
+
+“You—you call me a blackguard?” cried the Norwegian in his rather
+broken English.
+
+“I repeat my words. Your actions have already proved it.”
+
+“Bah! you are jealous that Miss Berentsen should marry me!” he sneered.
+“Alas! it is the penalty of wealth for poor men to be jealous of one.”
+
+“I am not jealous of you, sir. I should be very sorry indeed to be
+in your shoes—you who would, by such means, coerce a father into
+compelling his daughter to enter into a marriage with the man she
+hates.”
+
+“You lie! She does not hate me!” he cried fiercely.
+
+“I say she does, for to-day, Peter Sundt, she has learnt the truth.”
+
+“What truth?”
+
+“A truth which you will probably deny, of course. You were married
+before—to a Frenchwoman, Marguerite Meunier.”
+
+“Well? Is it such an extraordinary thing that a man should be a
+widower?”
+
+“You admit that the poor woman died, somewhere in the south of France,
+of a slow wasting disease, but that she left a daughter?”
+
+“Why should I deny it?”
+
+“If you do it would be useless,” he said with a smile, “for here”—and
+he produced the yellow paper which Alza had given him—“here I have the
+copy of her certificate of birth.”
+
+The red-faced man bit his lip. The shadows had gathered in that blue
+and gold room, but its occupier still did not switch on the light. He
+had no desire to reveal his face to the young man who had so suddenly
+arisen as his deadly enemy.
+
+The reason why Jorgen Berentsen had confessed the conspiracy to
+defraud the Norwegian Government puzzled him. In that fact alone
+he foresaw that the tables had already been turned upon him,
+notwithstanding his great wealth and influence.
+
+“You having acknowledged the existence of your daughter, who must be a
+grown woman by now, will perhaps extend the courtesy of a meeting with
+an old friend—providing, of course, that I am not trespassing upon your
+time,” he added with mock courtesy.
+
+“Friend!” he snapped. “What friend?”
+
+For answer he walked to the door, and, throwing it open, admitted Oscar
+Nystrom.
+
+The man’s red face fell. He stared at the stranger as though he saw an
+apparition, yet puzzled to recognise him.
+
+The Dane’s face broadened into a wide grin as, advancing into the room,
+he exclaimed in Norwegian:
+
+“I did not expect to have the pleasure of meeting you again so soon.”
+
+“Again!” exclaimed Sundt. “Why? I do not recollect ever setting eyes
+upon you before! For what reason do you claim acquaintanceship with me?”
+
+“In order to recall to you certain facts which you may have forgotten,”
+was the other’s hard, distinct answer.
+
+“What facts?”
+
+“Facts concerning the death of my friend, Paul Grinevitch. My name is
+Oscar Nystrom, the man to whom he wrote only half an hour before his
+death.”
+
+“Nystrom!” cried Sundt, suddenly brightening. “Why, you are the man for
+whom the police are in search! I—I’ll ring for the hotel people, and
+give you into custody.” And he made a movement towards the electric
+bell, adding, “I wish for no conversation with gaol-birds.”
+
+“Ring! Do!” laughed the Dane, urging him to raise the alarm.
+
+“Well,” Sundt asked roughly after a pause, staying his hand, “what do
+you want? This is some blackmailing scheme or other, I suppose? It
+won’t be the first time I’ve been bled. Every rich man is, more or
+less,” he said, laughing harshly.
+
+“I am not here to bleed you, Mr. Sundt,” answered the Dane, speaking
+in his indifferent English. “I am here to tell you something—something
+that has apparently slipped your memory. Paul Grinevitch, thief though
+he was, had one friend—and it was myself.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Turn up the light, and see if you recognise me!”
+
+“It is unnecessary. I don’t know you in the least,” snapped the other.
+
+“Then I’ll turn it up, and you shall have a better look,” replied
+the man quickly, as next instant the pretty room was flooded with a
+brilliant light.
+
+Sundt’s coarse, red face was livid. Dick saw plainly the effect that
+Nystrom’s presence had had upon him.
+
+“Now,” exclaimed the Dane determinedly, “listen to what I have to say.”
+He spoke again in Norwegian, but Dick could nevertheless follow, for
+had he not previously related, in his broken English, the same facts
+to that little assembly in Talbot Road? “You believed that your wealth
+would place you, Peter Sundt, above suspicion, and at the same time,
+by the possession of your private yacht, you were able to establish an
+alibi that you were not in Christiania on the day in question.”
+
+“Alibi! What do you mean?” gasped the unhappy man, the colour fading
+instantly from his fat, flabby face.
+
+“Just this, that one of my companions, a girl named Alza Dresler, has,
+after long search and tedious inquiry, discovered certain facts, and
+these, in conjunction with what I myself saw with my own eyes, are
+sufficient to make plain the truth.”
+
+“What truth?”
+
+“Patience, and I will explain,” cried the man, looking him straight
+in the face. “I had received a telegram from Grinevitch, dated from
+Tromso, saying that he would be at the Hotel Victoria at Christiania
+with his bride on a certain date. I wished to see him privately, and
+therefore at once took train from Copenhagen and engaged a room at the
+Victoria, as well as a room in a private lodging. Remember, I knew
+the police were in search of me, and I took two lodgings, so that, if
+watched at one, I could take refuge in the other. We do that sometimes,
+when we know that watch may be set upon the railway stations. Well, on
+the morning in question, seated in my room above theirs, I witnessed
+the pair arrive with their trunks, but, not seeing Paul go out again,
+I hesitated to intrude upon their privacy. All the afternoon I waited.
+I saw Alza come, and I saw her leave. Then it struck me at last that
+my friend must be alone. I dared not inquire of the waiter if madame
+were out, as I did not wish my acquaintanceship with Paul to be known.
+At last I resolved to slip down upon the floor below, and see if he
+were alone. I tapped at the door of the sitting-room, but as I did
+so I heard a scuffle. So I pushed it open, and I saw you—you—Peter
+Sundt! You had a knife in your hand, and you were standing over Paul’s
+prostrate body! _You had killed him!_”
+
+“It’s a lie!” cried the stout man, his face now blanched to the lips.
+“I—why, you never saw me! It’s a lie! An absolute lie!”
+
+“In an instant I recognised the truth. Paul had been killed, yet what
+could I do? If I raised the alarm I should only be compelled to tell
+my story to the police, and so betray both the dead man and myself.
+His poor widow, too! I recollected what a double blow it would be to
+her if she learnt that the man whom she had married only the day
+previously was an expert thief! Therefore I slipped back upstairs.
+Nobody saw me—not even you, Peter Sundt; but I had met you face to face
+in the corridor only an hour previously.”
+
+“And who, pray, will believe this absurd story of yours?” he asked with
+well-feigned arrogance.
+
+“I need only tell you that a week ago Alza returned to the Hotel
+Victoria at Christiania and showed your photograph to the hotel
+servants. They have recognised you as the man who gave his name as
+Stenersen, who represented himself as a commercial traveller, and who
+occupied the room next to the little _salon_ where the tragedy was
+enacted. Peter Sundt, it is proved up to the hilt that you, too, went
+first to Havre in your yacht, and then travelled with all speed by
+Frederikshavn and Gothenburg back to Christiania to await your victim.
+The police of Christiania have already been informed. An agent of
+police was with me only at ten o’clock this morning, and I made the
+same statement to him as I have made to you.”
+
+The man with the pimply face, the plutocrat of the North, stood with
+his hand resting unsteadily upon the back of the chair. His blanched
+countenance at last broadened into a forced smile.
+
+“Utterly ridiculous, my dear sir!” he exclaimed in a hollow voice.
+“What motive do you allege I had in killing this gaol-bird who was your
+friend?”
+
+“Motive!” echoed the man Nystrom. “You had the strongest motive a man
+could have—the motive of a fierce and bitter revenge.”
+
+Sundt made a gesture of quick impatience.
+
+“Then, if you deny it, hear my proof!” he went on. “You had, by
+accident, discovered that Helene Marquet, the beautiful cafe-concert
+singer who had been deserted by her lover and had in consequence
+committed suicide before your eyes in the Cafe de Paris at Monte Carlo,
+was your daughter. Your wife, because of your ill-treatment of her, had
+placed her child with her sister, a poor woman living in a back street
+in the Montmartre in Paris. Your daughter had become famous, and had
+died without knowing that you were her father. But you found out the
+name of the man who had been responsible for her death—you afterwards
+discovered him in hiding in Vardo—and, with craft and cunning, you
+followed him down to the capital and carried out your plan. You
+took the man’s life for two reasons—one because he had caused your
+daughter’s untimely end, and the other because he had married Thyra
+Berentsen, whom you had intended should become your wife. Now,” he
+added, looking the quivering man straight in the face, “do you deny it?”
+
+The accused hung his head in silence. What could he say? He tried to
+utter some words—words of extenuation—but they froze upon his lips.
+
+The denunciation by the actual eye-witness was complete, admitting of
+no defence, no argument, no forgiveness.
+
+Dick Jervoise stood watching the unhappy wretch, whose wild terror next
+moment was, indeed, fearful to behold. He, however, remained silent.
+
+Enough surely had been said by Oscar Nystrom.
+
+The quiet was complete. The little clock ticked softly upon the
+mantelshelf, the cab-bells tinkled outside in Piccadilly, and the
+“honk!” of motorhorns mingled with the dull roar of the London traffic.
+
+But the man by whose hand Paul Grinevitch had fallen stood motionless,
+staring as though he were already gazing into eternity.
+
+
+
+
+CONCLUSION
+
+
+On that fateful night, after Oscar Nystrom’s denunciation of the
+assassin, Alza Dresler, accompanied by the fair-moustached Dane, sat
+for a long time with Dick Jervoise and Owen Odd in the former’s flat
+at Barnes, explaining how, while watching Nicholas Bourtzeff with evil
+intent, it became apparent to her that Nystrom might possibly have met
+Grinevitch in Christiania. From the letter sent to him by the victim
+before his death, it was apparent that Paul knew of his friend’s
+presence in the Norwegian capital. She had therefore spared no effort
+to find the Dane, who had so successfully concealed himself from the
+police, and had at last run him to earth in the south of Spain. She
+knew long ago that poor Helene Marquet had committed suicide because of
+Paul, and recollection of that fact set her wondering whether in that
+could be any motive for revenge.
+
+At risk of her own liberty she approached Bourtzeff, explained her
+theory, and sought his assistance. In consequence of the fact that his
+compatriot had been killed so mysteriously, and that Dick Jervoise, his
+friend, was suspected, he consented, and the pair thereupon made up
+their differences. Bourtzeff went to Paris, and, after diligent inquiry
+and search, was at Orleans rewarded by the discovery of Helene’s
+parentage, and consequently the motive for the crime.
+
+Peter Sundt had acted throughout with the greatest foresight and that
+marvellous cunning that had characterised his whole successful career.
+Yet he had believed that the parentage of the beautiful singer who had
+taken her own life was a secret from all save himself, and that the
+terrible truth could never be discovered.
+
+“When you recognised Paul at Vardo, why didn’t you denounce him to the
+Berentsens?” asked Odd of his friend.
+
+“Well, because I was not altogether certain of what might be the
+result,” was Dick’s reply. “My motives might have been entirely
+misjudged, and, besides, Paul Grinevitch, heartless scoundrel that
+he was, had intercepted a letter which I wrote to poor Helene on the
+Riviera only a few days before she took her life—a letter which I
+feared that, if driven into a corner, he might attempt to make use of
+to implicate me in the tragedy of her death and besmirch a dead woman’s
+honour. And so I remained silent until—until at last I could no longer
+keep my secret from Thyra, his latest victim; but, alas! it was then
+too late!” Then, turning to Alza, he took her hand, saying in deep
+earnestness: “To you, dear friend, both Thyra and myself owe a great
+debt which we can never, never repay.”
+
+“It is already repaid,” replied the young woman, flushing slightly
+and then hesitating. “And—and M’sieur Dick, I want to tell you both
+something—something you suggested to me a long time ago. Do you
+remember? Well, it is this. Oscar and myself have decided to have in
+future nothing further to do with Enderlein and his friends. Yesterday
+we agreed to marry, and try—if it is possible—to settle down to a
+respectable and honest life.”
+
+“It is possible, I am sure it is!” declared Dick. “And I congratulate
+you both. If at any time in the future, Alza, you want a friend, you
+know there is at least one man who is ready and anxious to assist you.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The others had gone, leaving Dick and his friend with the pince-nez
+alone.
+
+“And so it’s all clear at last, and the sun seems likely to shine on
+some of us once more. It’s not a bad old-world after all, is it, Owen?”
+the former was saying.
+
+“In my eyes it’s turning out an infernally good world,” replied the
+doctor, and there was a particularly merry and knowing smile gleaming
+through the glittering gold ovals.
+
+“That’s right. You always were sympathetic, old boy, and could enter
+into another fellow’s happiness as though it were your own.”
+
+“Think so! P’raps you’re right. When one is happy oneself one joins
+more readily in the happiness of others.”
+
+“What do you mean, you old rascal? You’ve got something up your sleeve,
+I expect.”
+
+“It hasn’t troubled you much lately if I have. You’re about as selfish
+as they make them, Dick.” But the laughter in his eyes died away with
+the sting of the last remark.
+
+“Oh, shut up, and tell me what you _do_ mean.”
+
+“Well, do you fancy you’re the only fellow in the world worthy of Dame
+Fortune’s smiles? Aren’t there hundreds of others fifty times as good
+as you who are entitled to a bit of luck now and then?”
+
+“Of course there are; but what the devil are you driving at? The
+cryptic _role_ does not fit you, Owen. If you’ve got any news, out with
+it, man. You’ll feel better afterwards,” and Dick laughed joyously.
+
+“Well, I didn’t mention the matter before because you were so full of
+your own affairs that I doubted if you were capable of even taking
+it in, or at any rate appreciating the full significance as regards
+myself. The fact is, Dick, I’ve come in for a tidy bit of money.”
+
+“You have? Bravo! bravo! old chap. I’m delighted to hear it,” and Dick
+sprang up and shook his friend’s hand till the latter winced. “You
+deserve it, every penny of it. And I hope there are a good many of
+them.”
+
+“A tidy few. How many are there in £15,000?”
+
+“Fifteen thousand! By Jove! that’s a piece of luck worth having. I
+congratulate you, old man, ’pon my soul, I do. But where has it all
+come from? Where is the patient blind enough to leave such a sum to the
+man who has done his best to kill him?”
+
+“It was no patient, but my mother’s brother, my Uncle Roger, whom I
+haven’t seen since he went to the Transvaal ten years ago. I always
+liked him, and he seemed to take to me, and now he’s dead—poor old
+fellow—he’s left me a pretty substantial proof of the fact.”
+
+“I should think he had, the old brick! He was something like an uncle.
+There aren’t many of that kind knocking about, worse luck! Well, Owen,
+the next thing you must do is to find a wife.”
+
+“I’ve found one.”
+
+“Great Scot! What next? Go gently; I can’t stand too much of this all
+at once. Do you mean to tell me in cold blood you’re engaged to be
+married?”
+
+“Something very like it,” replied Owen, smiling.
+
+“And you never gave me a hint, you mean beggar! I’m ashamed of you. But
+who is it? A real good one, I hope, and worthy of one of the best?” And
+again Dick made an onslaught on his friend’s hand.
+
+“Yes, Dick, she _is_ a good one. You won’t find another like Miss
+Gordon in a long day’s march.”
+
+“Miss Gordon! By Jove! I remember now. You mentioned her name some time
+ago. I’d forgotten all about her.”
+
+“Naturally; she’s English, not Norwegian.”
+
+“Now, then, drop it. No chaff. I want to hear your story. You know
+mine.”
+
+And we will leave Owen to tell it. The two men were both deeply in
+love, and we can imagine the nature of the conversation, which they
+found a great deal more interesting than perhaps the reader would.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A brief telegram which appeared in the newspapers six days later
+conveyed but little to the millions of newspaper-readers throughout the
+United Kingdom, and yet, like so many other paragraphs in our daily
+journals, it contained the last scene of a hidden life-drama.
+
+From Lloyd’s agent at Lisbon, the intelligence was to the effect
+that the captain of the Italian cruiser _Livorno_ had put in there
+to report that at night, while in a dense fog about eighteen miles
+south-south-west of Cape Finisterre, he had come into collision with a
+Norwegian steam yacht, belonging to Mr. Peter Sundt, of Christiania,
+the owner on board. The vessel, cut in two, had foundered immediately,
+and only four persons had been saved, the first officer and three
+able seamen. The concluding words of the telegram were: “Mr. Sundt
+controlled the cod-fishing industries of the Lofoden Islands and the
+Arctic coast of Finmark.”
+
+Only at New Scotland Yard, at the Prefecture of Police in Paris,
+in the bureau of the Pubblica Sicurezza in Rome, and in the police
+headquarters of the other European capitals did the announcement convey
+a true meaning. The hue and cry was cancelled, and the little folding
+cards, with the photographs upon them, were placed among the “warrants
+withdrawn.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The fetters of black winter again lay heavily upon the Arctic coast.
+
+The fierce north-west wind swept dark clouds across the frozen land,
+and the snow was drizzling down in small flakes. The mountains had
+already thrown on their snow mantles, and the low ground of the immense
+tundra, stretching away a thousand miles to the south, had put on its
+garment of dazzling whiteness.
+
+It was white and frozen everywhere, save for that grey, bleak,
+tempestuous sea which beat upon the ice-covered rocks where Thyra and
+Dick Jervoise, wrapped to their eyes in their Lapp coats of reindeer
+skin, stood together, hand in hand.
+
+At that self-same spot she had stood with Paul Grinevitch just over
+a year ago. She had just recalled that fact to the man to whom, only
+a month before, she had been wedded in London. They had accompanied
+the captain on his last journey up there in the old _Mercur_, prior
+to retiring to live in the south, and were again in those same bleak,
+dismal surroundings wherein they had first met.
+
+That great grey sea, wreathed in its drifting white mists, was,
+however, no longer to them the sea of despair as it once had been. On
+the contrary, as they stood together, her fur-mittened hand gripped
+warmly in his, and their gaze fixed on one another’s eyes, their true
+hearts beat in unison with an all-absorbing affection.
+
+Surely no pair in the whole universe were happier than they! Standing
+upon the very edge of the world, they faced the north, the great region
+of the unknown, with the knowledge that the future held for them only
+joy and brightness and perfect peace.
+
+The snow whirled about them, the keen frost made their faces tingle,
+but they heeded not. A thin cloud swept over the white ground—formed by
+the whirling snow. Then the wind suddenly became a tempest; the cloud
+rose to heaven, bewildering even to those most weather-hardened, and
+dangerous in the extreme to all things living—the snow-hurricane was
+upon them.
+
+Bent against the tearing storm, themselves covered with snow, they with
+difficulty made their way to a low stone hut—for they were fully half
+a mile from Vardo—and beneath its wall sought shelter from the Arctic
+blizzard.
+
+The long night was rapidly approaching, for the sky was dark, though it
+was but midday.
+
+“My love,” he said, placing his arm tenderly about her, “as the storm
+passes, so pass the dark, clouded days of our lives. Very near have we
+both been to disaster and shipwreck upon the quicksands of life, but by
+God’s grace we have both been spared to enjoy each other’s affection.
+To-morrow we shall leave here for the blue skies and sunshine of the
+distant south—for the little villa among the olives at Bordighera which
+I have rented for the winter.”
+
+“Ah! Dick, my own dear Dick!” she cried, burying her face in his furs.
+“You can never realise all that I suffered in those dark days of
+distress and suspicion—those days when I loved you, and yet dared not
+to show it. But”—she sobbed for joy—“it has all ended, now we are at
+last man and wife. You fought a brave fight for me; you rescued me from
+the hands of an assassin. I am yours to-day, for always—my husband—my
+love—for ever!”
+
+He pressed her to his breast in silence, a silence far more eloquent
+than mere words.
+
+And as they stood there the storm cleared quite suddenly, as do the
+fierce blizzards of the Arctic, and they walked back through the snow
+to the harbour-master’s wooden house, hand in hand, childishly blissful
+in all the sweet ecstasy of each other’s perfect and abiding love.
+
+
+
+
+  Transcriber’s Notes
+
+  pg 22 Changed: That he was a gentlmen
+             To: That he was a gentleman
+
+  pg 23 Changed: The soft sweetness of her feaures
+             To: The soft sweetness of her features
+
+  pg 29 Changed: equipment for the Antartic
+             To: equipment for the Antarctic
+
+  pg 43 Changed: seated in his armchair, bent, pale, and tried
+             To: seated in his armchair, bent, pale, and tired
+
+  pg 50 Changed: encased in leather mocassins
+             To: encased in leather moccasins
+
+  pg 61 Changed: driving in one ricketty old vehicle
+             To: driving in one rickety old vehicle
+
+  pg 68 Changed: fought the leements every day
+             To: fought the elements every day
+
+  pg 117 Changed: who had been rather suprised
+              To: who had been rather surprised
+
+  pg 117 Changed: back in the captial, where she had spent
+              To: back in the capital, where she had spent
+
+  pg 193 Changed: Miss—Miss——” stammmered Owen
+              To: Miss—Miss——” stammered Owen
+
+  pg 196 Changed: use of the word “our”; it semed
+              To: use of the word “our”; it seemed
+
+  pg 213 Changed: Is is not a fact
+              To: Is it not a fact
+
+  pg 215 Changed: Her wherabouts in Paris
+              To: Her whereabouts in Paris
+
+  pg 228 Changed: I undestood that the operations of the association
+              To: I understood that the operations of the association
+
+  pg 297 Changed: She choose before—and a pretty mess
+              To: She chose before—and a pretty mess
+
+  pg 326 Changed: my life, it he wishes
+              To: my life, if he wishes
+
+  pg 334 Changed: quite a different cricle from yours
+              To: quite a different circle from yours
+
+  pg 336 Changed: theft of the Countess de Magnan’s jewelery
+              To: theft of the Countess de Magnan’s jewelry
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78920 ***