"I'll try, if you like, boy. But for Heaven's sake clear out of this infernal city, or you'll go to jail sure," urged Edward Patten, his friend.

"Where shall I go, Ted? What's your advice?"

"Get over to Calais or Ostend, or by the Hook into Holland. Then slip along to some quiet spot, and let me know where you are. Lie low until I send you some oof. You can go on for a week or so, can't you?"

"For a fortnight."

"Good. Meanwhile, I'll touch her ladyship for a bit more."

"Yes. She's a perfect little gold-mine, isn't she?"

"Quite. We've had about four thousand from her already, and we hope to get a bit more."

"You worked the game splendidly, Ted," Hoggan declared. "What fools some women are."

"And you acted the part of lover perfectly, too. That night when I caught you two together on the terrace at Monte Carlo—you remember? She was leaning over the balustrade, looking out upon the moonlit sea, and you were kissing her. Then I caught you at supper later, and found that you were staying at the hotel where she was staying. All very compromising for her, eh? When I called on her a week afterwards, and suggested that she could shut my mouth for a consideration, I saw in a moment that she was in deadly fear lest her husband should know. But I was unaware that her husband had no idea that she had been to Monte, but believed her to be staying with her sister near Edinburgh."

"She's paid pretty dearly for flirting with me," remarked Silas P. Hoggan with a grin.

"Just as one or two others have, boy. Say, do you recollect that ugly old widow in Venice? Je-hu! what a face! And didn't we make her cough up, too—six thousand!"

"I'm rather sorry for the Michelcoombe woman," remarked Hoggan. "She's a decent little sort."

"Still believes in you, boy, and looks upon me as a skunk. She has no idea that you and I are in partnership," he laughed. "We'll get a thousand or two more out of her yet. Fortunately, she doesn't know the exact extent of my knowledge of her skittish indiscretions. Say, we struck lucky when we fell in with her, eh?"

Hoggan reflected. It was certainly a cruel trick to have played upon a woman. They had met casually in the Rooms at Monte Carlo, then he had contrived to chat with her, invited her to tea at a famous cafe, strolled with her, dined with her, and within a week had so fascinated her with his charming manner that she had fallen in love with him, the result being that Patten, who had watched the pair, suddenly came upon them, and afterwards demanded hush-money, which he divided with his friend.

Such instances of blackmail are much more frequent than are supposed. There is a class of low-down adventurer who haunts the gayer resorts of Europe, ever on the look-out for young married women who have been ordered abroad for the benefit of their health, and whose husbands, on account of their social, Parliamentary, or business duties, cannot accompany them.

Hunting in couples, they mark down a victim, and while one, giving himself the airs of wealth, and assuming a title, proceeds to flirt with the lady, the other carefully watches. Too often a woman at the gay watering-places of Europe finds the gaiety infectious and behaves indiscreetly; too often she flirts with the good-looking young stranger until, suddenly surprised in compromising circumstances, she realises that her husband must never know, and is filled with fear lest he may discover how she has allowed herself to be misled.

Then comes the blackmailer's chance. A hint that it would be better to pay than court exposure generally has the desired effect, with the result that the woman usually pawns what jewellery she possesses, and pays up.

Many an unfortunate woman, though perfectly innocent of having committed any wrong, has paid up, and even been driven to suicide rather than allow the seeds of suspicion to be sown in her husband's heart.

It was so in Lady Michelcoombe's case. She was a sweet little woman, daughter of a well-known earl, and married to Viscount Michelcoombe, a man of great wealth, with a house in Grosvenor Square and four country seats. Already the pair of adventurers had compelled her to pawn some of her jewels and hand them the proceeds. She was quite innocent of having committed any wrong, yet she dreaded lest her husband's suspicions might be excited, and had no desire that he should learn that she had deceived him by going to Monte Carlo instead of to her sister's. The real reason was that she liked the gaiety and sunshine of the place, while her husband strongly disapproved of it.

Certainly her clandestine visit had cost her dear.

"Well," exclaimed Hoggan, the perfect lover, "you'd better see her ladyship as soon as possible. Guess she's still in London, eh?"

"I'll ring up later on and ask the fat old butler. But you clear out right away, boy. There's no time to lose. Write to me at the Poste Restante in the Strand. Don't write here, the police may get hold of my mail."

"If her ladyship turns on you, I guess you'll have to look slick."

"Bah! No fear of that, sonny. We've got her right there."

"You can't ever be sure where a woman is concerned. She might suddenly throw discretion to the winds, and tell her husband all about it. Then you, too, would have to clear right away."

"Guess I should," replied Patten. "But I don't fear her. I mean to get another thousand out of her. Women who make fools of themselves have to pay for it."

"Well, I must say you engineered it wonderfully," declared Hoggan.

"And I'll do so again with a little luck," his friend declared. "Come and have another cocktail, and then shake the dust of this infernal city off your feet. Every time you have a drink things look different."

The two men passed into the inner room, where the bar was situated, and after a final Martini each, went out together into the handsome hall of the hotel.

"Wal, so long, old pal! Clear out right away," whispered Patten, as he shook his friend's hand.

And next moment Silas P. Hoggan passed across the courtyard and into the busy Strand, once more a fugitive from justice.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE GREEN TABLE.

One afternoon a fortnight later Ralph Ansell, well dressed, and posing as usual as a wealthy American, who had lived for many years in France, stood at the window of his room in the expensive Palace Hotel at Trouville, gazing upon the sunny plage, with its boarded promenade placed on the wide stretch of yellow sand.

In the sunshine there were many bathers in remarkable costumes, enjoying a dip in the blue sea, while the crowd of promenaders in summer clothes passed up and down. The season was at its height, for it was the race week at Deauville, and all the pleasure world of Paris had flocked there.

Surely in the whole of gay Europe there is no brighter watering place than Trouville-sur-Mer during the race week, and certainly the played-out old Riviera, with the eternal Monte, is never so chic, nor are the extravagant modes ever so much in evidence, as at the Normandie at Deauville, or upon the boarded promenade which runs before those big, white hotels on the sands at Trouville.

Prices were, of course, prohibitive. The casino was at its gayest and brightest, and the well-known American bar, close to the last-named institution, Ansell patronised daily in order to scrape acquaintance with its chance customers.

Having been up playing cards the greater part of the night before, he had eaten his luncheon in bed, and had just risen and dressed.

He gazed out of his window down upon the sunny scene of seaside revelry, as a bitter smile played upon his lips.

"What infernal luck I had last night," he muttered, between his teeth. Then glancing at the dressing-table, his eyes fell upon the hotel bill, which had come up on the tray with his dejeuner. "Fourteen hundred and eighteen francs," he muttered, "and only those three louis to pay it with."

Those last three louis had been flung carelessly upon the table when he had undressed at six o'clock that morning.

He took them in his palm and looked at them.

"Not a word from Ted," he went on, with a sigh. "I wonder what can have happened. Has he got a bit more out of the Michelcoombe woman and cleared out? No," he added, "he's a white man. He'd never prove a blackguard like that."

Ralph Ansell had not recalled his own dastardly action when he robbed, deserted, and trapped his accomplice, Adolphe Carlier.

For a long time he remained silent as slowly he paced the small, well-furnished room, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. His fertile, inventive brain was trying to devise some subtle means to obtain money. He was a genius regarding schemes, and he put them before his victims in such an inviting and attractive way that they found refusal impossible. For some of the wildest of schemes he had been successful in subscribing money—money which had enabled him to live well, to travel up and down Europe, and pose as a man of considerable means.

Railway concessions in the Balkans, the exploitation of oil in Roumania, of tin in Montenegro, and copper in Servia, had all been fruitful sources of income, and now when they had failed he had fallen back upon his skill at cards.

On the previous night, at a disreputable but luxuriant gaming-house situated only a few dozen paces from the hotel, he had met his match. His opponent was too wary, and he had lost very considerably. Indeed, all that remained to him were those three golden louis.

And with that slender capital he intended that night to retrieve his lost fortune. It is usually easy for the cheat to retrieve his fortune. So with a laugh he lit a fresh cigarette, put his three louis in his pocket, and muttered, "I wish to Heaven Ted would come over here. We might work something big. I'll wire him."

Then, examining himself in the glass, and settling his tie, he walked out at three o'clock in the afternoon, his first appearance that day.

Emerging from the lift into the hall, he passed through the low-built lounge, where a number of summer muslin-dressed idlers were chatting and laughing, and strode out upon the boards placed upon the golden sea-sands outside the hotel.

Trouville is unique. Other watering-places have a drive along the sea-front, but the gay little bathing "trou" has no sea-front. The hotels abut upon the actual sands, just as Arcachon abuts upon its shallow oyster-beds.

Ansell had not gone half-a-dozen yards along the plage before he met a young Englishman whose acquaintance he had made in a night cafe on the previous evening—a young cavalry officer, who greeted him merrily, believing him to be the well-known American financier. Even the men who are "British officers and gentlemen" in these days are prone to bow the knee to American dollars, the golden key which unlocks the door of the most exclusive English society. Only the old-fashioned squire of the country village, the old-fashioned English hunting gentleman, will despise the men who aspire to society because they can buy society's smiles.

He walked with the young fellow as far as the casino. Ansell did not even know his name, and as he had already summed him up as living on his pay, with a load of debts behind, he did not trouble even to inquire. Only wealthy "mugs" interested him.

Entering the casino, they had a drink together, then smoked and chatted.

Ansell was half inclined to tell a tale and borrow a "fiver," but so clever was he that he feared lest the young fellow might speak of it in Trouville. Therefore he stood at the bar laughing merrily, as was his wont, and keeping a watchful eye upon any man who entered. He could fascinate other men by cheery good humour, his disregard for worry, his amusing optimism, and his brightness of conversation.

His training as a crook had surely been in a good school, yet there were times when, before his vision, arose the face of the true, honest girl whom he had married, and whom he had so cruelly treated. Sometimes, just as at that hour when he stood at the bar of the great gilded casino, laughing gaily, he would reflect upon his married life, and wonder where Jean was and how she fared.

The young Englishman, Baldwin by name, was spending the season at Trouville with his mother, who rented a pretty villa in the vicinity, and he, being on leave, was idling amid the mad gaiety of Paris-by-the-Sea.

He was much taken by the manners and airy talk of the rich American, whom he found much less vulgar than many he had met in London society. He made no ostentatious show, though it was whispered throughout Trouville that he was one of the wealthiest men in Wall Street. What would young Baldwin have thought if he had seen those three precious louis?

Until five o'clock Ansell chatted and smoked with him, all the time his brain busy to invent some fresh scheme to obtain funds. Then, punctually at five, he took leave of his friend, and entering a fiacre, drove along to Deauville, that fashionable village of smart villas, with its big, white casino and its quaintly built but extremely select Hotel Normandie.

At the latter he descended and, entering, passed through the big lounge where the elegant world and the more elegant half world were chattering and taking their tea after the races. He knew the big hotel well, and many men and women glanced up and remarked as he passed, for Silas P. Hoggan had already established a reputation.

Finding nobody to speak to, he took a seat in a corner, drank tea because it was the correct thing to do, smoked a cigarette, and became horribly bored.

Those who saw him reflected upon the great burden which huge wealth as his must be, little dreaming that, after all, he was but a blackmailer and an ingenious swindler.

Presently he looked in at the casino, where he found a French Baron whom he knew, and then, after a further hour in the cafe, he returned to his hotel in Trouville, where he dressed carefully and later on appeared at dinner.

Whenever funds were especially low, Ralph Ansell always made it a rule to order an expensive dinner. It preserved the illusion that he was wealthy. He was especially fond of Russian Bortch soup, and this having been ordered, it was served with great ceremony, a large piece of cream being placed in the centre of the rich, brown liquid.

The dinner he ate that night was assuredly hardly in keeping with the ugly fact that, within the next four days, if funds were not forthcoming, he would find himself outside the hotel without his newly-acquired luggage.

Truly his luck was clean out.

After dinner he sat outside the hotel for an hour, watching people pass up and down the plage. The evening was close, and the sand reflected back the hot rays of the sun absorbed during the day.

He was thinking. Only those three louis remained between him and starvation. He must get money somehow—by what means it mattered not, so long as he got it.

Suddenly, with a resolve, he rose and, passing along the plage, arrived at a large, white house overlooking the sea, where, on the second floor, he entered a luxuriously-furnished suite of rooms where roulette was in full swing.

Many smartly-dressed men and women were playing around the green table—some winning, some losing heavily.

The room, filled to overflowing, was almost suffocating, while, combined with the chatter of women and the lower voices of men, was the distinctive sound of the clink of gold as the croupier raked it in or paid it out.

To several acquaintances Ralph nodded merrily as he strolled through the room, until suddenly he came upon two men, wealthy he knew them to be, with whom he had played cards on the previous night.

"Ah, messieurs!" he cried, greeting them merrily. "Are you prepared to give me my revenge—eh?"

"Quite, m'sieur," was the reply of the elder of the men. "Shall it be in the next room? There is a table free."

"At your pleasure," was "The American's" reply. The man who had proved so shrewd on the previous night was absent, but the two other men were, he knew, somewhat inexperienced at cards.

They passed into the adjoining room and there sat down, a stranger joining them. Others were playing in the same room, including at least a couple of "crooks" well known to Ansell—one man an elegantly-dressed Italian and the other a Spaniard. The summer resorts of Europe prove the happy hunting-ground for the knights of industry.

The cards were dealt, and the game played.

At the first coup Ralph Ansell won three hundred francs, though he played fairly. Again and again he won. His luck had returned.

In half an hour he had before him a pile of notes and gold representing about three hundred pounds.

His face, however, was sphinx-like. Inveterate gambler that he was, he never allowed his countenance to betray his emotion. Inwardly, however, he was elated at his success, and when the stranger, a middle-aged Russian Baron, proposed to stake an amount equal to his winnings, he quickly welcomed the proposal.

In an instant he was on the alert. Now was the moment to perform one of his clever card-sharping tricks, the trick by which he had so often won big sums from the unsuspecting.

He placed two one-hundred franc notes aside in case he should lose; then the cards were dealt, and the game played.

Only at that moment did the "crook" realise what an astute player the stranger was.

He tried to cheat, and, though he performed the trick, nevertheless his opponent actually beat him.

He bit his lip in anger.

Then, pushing the money across to the Baron, he rose from the table and bade his companions good-night, though the sun was beginning to shine in between the drawn curtains of the stuffy room.



CHAPTER XXII.

DISCLOSES A SCHEME.

At noon next day, while Ansell was lying lazily in bed in the Palace Hotel reading the Matin, a page entered with a letter.

He tore it open, and found that it was dated from the railway buffet at Calais-Maritime, and read:

"DEAR RALPH,—Impossible to send oof. Lady Michelcoombe squeezed dry. Husband knows. So lie low.—TED."

He crushed the letter in his hand with an imprecation. His mine of wealth had suddenly become exhausted.

From the address it was plain that Ted Patten was flying from England. Lord Michelcoombe had discovered the truth. Probably his wife had confessed, and explained how she had been trapped and money extracted from her. Well he knew that the penalty for his offence was twenty years' penal servitude.

It was all very well for Ted to advise him to "lie low," but that was impossible without ample funds. The "crook" who is big enough to effect a big coup can go into safe retirement for years if necessary. But to the man who is penniless that is impossible.

He rose and dressed even more carefully than usual. Afterwards he took his dejeuner in the big salle-a-manger and drank half a bottle of Krug with it. Like all men of his class, he was fastidious over his food and wines. The afternoon he spent idling in the casino, and that night he again visited the private gaming house with his two hundred francs, or eight pounds, in his pocket.

It proved a gay night, for there was a dance in progress. In the card-room, however, all was quiet, and there he again met the Russian, who, however, was playing with three other men, strangers to him.

After he had critically inspected the company, he at length accepted the invitation of a man he did not know to sit down to a friendly hand. In those rooms he was believed to be the wealthy American, as he represented himself to be.

The men he found himself playing with were Frenchmen, and very soon, by dint of "working the trick," he succeeded in swindling them out of about fifty pounds.

Then suddenly his luck turned dead against him. In three coups he lost everything, except two coins he had kept in his pocket.

Again, with a gambler's belief in chance, he made another stake, one of five hundred francs.

The cards were dealt and played. Again he lost.

His brows knit, for he could not pay.

From his pocket he drew a silver case, and, taking out his card:

SILAS P. HOGGAN, San Diego, Cal.

handed it to the man who had invited him to play, with a promise to let him have the money by noon next day.

In return he was given a card with the name: "PAUL FORESTIER, Chateau de Polivac, Rhone."

The men bowed to each other with exquisite politeness, and then Ralph Ansell went out upon the moonlit plage with only two pounds in his pocket, laughing bitterly at his continued run of ill-luck.

That night he took a long walk for miles beside the rocky coast of Calvados, through the fashionable villages of Beuzeval and Cabourg, meeting no one save two mounted gendarmes. The brilliant moon shone over the Channel, and the cool air was refreshing after the close, stuffy heat of the gaming-house.

As he walked, much of his adventurous past arose before him. He thought of Jean, and wondered where she was. Swallowed in the vortex of lower-class life of Paris—dead, probably.

And "The Eel"? He was still in prison, of course. Would they ever meet again? He sincerely hoped not.

As he walked, he tried to formulate some plan for the future. To remain further in Trouville was impossible. Besides, he would have once more to sacrifice his small belongings and leave the hotel without settling his account.

He was debating whether it would be wise to return to Paris. Would he, in his genteel garb, be recognised by some agent of the Surete as "The American"? There was danger. Was it wise to court it?

At a point of the road where it ran down upon the rocky beach, upon which the moonlit sea was lapping lazily, he paused, and sat upon the stump of a tree.

And there he reflected until the pink dawn spread, and upon the horizon he saw the early morning steamer crossing from Havre.

He was broke!

Perhaps Ted Patten had treated him just as he had treated Adolphe. That letter might, after all, be only a blind.

"He may have got money, and then written to frighten me," he muttered to himself. "Strange that he didn't give an address. But I know where I shall find him sooner or later. Harry's in Paris is his favourite place, or the American Bar at the Grand at Brussels. Oh, yes, I shall find him. First let me turn myself round."

Then, rising, he walked back to Trouville in the brilliant morning, and going up to his room, went to bed.

Whenever he found himself in an hotel with no money to pay the bill, he always feigned illness, and so awakened the sympathies of the management. In some cases he had lain ill for weeks, living on luxuries, and promising to settle for it all when he was able to get about.

He had done the trick at the Adlon, in Berlin, till found out, and again at the Waldorf-Astoria, in New York. This time he intended to "work the wheeze" on the Palace at Trouville, though he knew that he could not live there long, for the short season was nearly at an end, and in about three weeks the hotel would be closed.

But for a fortnight he remained in bed—or, at least, he was in bed whenever anyone came in. The doctor who was called prescribed for acute rheumatism, and the way in which the patient shammed pain was pathetic.

This enforced retirement was in one way irksome. Wrapped in his dressing-gown, he, after a week in bed, was sufficiently well to sit at the window and look down upon the gay crowd on the plage below, and sometimes he even found himself so well that he could appreciate a cigar.

The manager, of course, sympathised with his wealthy visitor, and often came up for an hour's chat, now that the busiest week of his season was over.

All the time Ansell's inventive brain was busy. He was devising a new scheme for money-making, and concocting an alluring prospectus of a venture into which he hoped one "mug," or even two, might put money, and thus form "the original syndicate," which in turn would supply him with funds.

He knew Constantinople, the city where the foreign "crook" and concession-hunter abounds. Among his unscrupulous friends was an under-official at the Yildiz Kiosk, with whom he had had previous dealings. Indeed, he had paid this official to fabricate and provide bogus concessions purporting to be given under the seal of the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire. For one of these concessions—for mining in Asia Minor—he had paid one thousand pounds two years ago, and had sold it to a syndicate in St. Petersburg for ten thousand. When the purchasers came to claim their rights they found the document to be a forgery.

He was contemplating a similar coup. He had written to Youssof Effendi asking if he were still open for business, and had received a telegram answering in the affirmative. Therefore, after days of thought, he had at last decided upon obtaining a "concession" for the erection and working of a system of wireless telegraphy throughout the Turkish Empire, and opening coast stations for public service.

His ideas he sent in a registered letter to his accomplice in Constantinople, urging him to have the "concession" prepared in his name with all haste.

And now he was only waiting from day to day to receive the document by which he would be able to net from some unsuspecting persons a few thousand pounds.

True, the bogus documents concerning the mining concession had borne the actual seal of the Grand Vizier, but though an inquiry had been opened, nothing had been discovered. Corruption is so rife in Turkey that the Palace officials ever hang together, providing there is sufficient backsheesh passing. Ralph knew that, therefore he was always liberal. It paid him to be.

A few days before the date of the closing of the hotel a large, official envelope, registered and heavily sealed, was brought up to Mr. Hoggan's room by a page, and Ralph, opening it, found a formidable document in Turkish, which he was unable to read, bearing four signatures, with the big, embossed seal of the Grand Vizier of the Sultan.

With it was an official letter headed "Ministere des Affaires Etrangers, Sublime Porte," enclosing a translation of the document in French, and asking for an acknowledgment.

The imitation was, indeed, perfect. Ralph Ansell rubbed his hands with glee. In Berlin he could obtain at least ten thousand pounds for it, if he tried unsuspicious quarters.

But he wanted ready money to pay his hotel bill and to get to Germany.

An hour later, when the manager came up to pay his usual morning visit, he expressed regret that he had to close the hotel, and added:

"We have still quite a number of visitors. Among them we have Mr. Budden-Reynolds, of London. Do you happen to know him? They say he has made a huge fortune in speculation on the Stock Exchange."

"Budden-Reynolds!" exclaimed Ralph, opening his eyes wide. "I've heard of him, of course. A man who's in every wild-cat scheme afloat. By Jove! That's fortunate. I must see him."

The introduction was not difficult, and that same evening Mr. Budden-Reynolds, a stout, middle-aged, over-dressed man of rather Hebrew countenance, was ushered into the "sick" financier's room.

"Say, sir, I'm very pleased to meet you. I must apologise for not being able to come down to you, but I've had a stiff go of rheumatism. I heard you were in this hotel, and I guess I've got something which will interest you."

Then, when he had seated his visitor, he took from a drawer the formidable registered packet, and drew out the Turkish concession.

The speculator, whose name was well known in financial circles, took it, examined the seal and signatures curiously, and asked what it was.

"That," said Silas P. Hoggan, grandly, "is a concession from the Sultan of Turkey to establish wireless telegraph stations where I like, and to collect the revenue derived from them. Does it interest you, sir?"

Hoggan saw that the bait was a tempting one.

"Yes, a little," replied the speculator grandly.

"It's a splendid proposition! I'm half inclined to go with it straight to the Marconi Company, who will take it over gladly at once. But I feel that we shall do better with a private syndicate, who, in turn, will resell to the Telefunken, the Goldsmidt, or Marconi Company."

"I think you are wise," was the reply.

"There's a heap of money in it! Think of all the coast stations we can establish along the Levant, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea, to say nothing of the inland public telegraph service. And this, as you will see by the French translation, gives us a perfectly free hand to do whatever we like, and charge the public what we like, providing we give a royalty of five per cent. to the State."

Then he handed Mr. Budden-Reynolds the letter from the Sublime Porte, together with the French translation.

The letter the speculator read through carefully, and then expressed a desire to participate in the venture.

Ansell's bluff was superb.

The two men talked over the matter, "The American" drawing an entrancing picture of the enormous sums which were bound to accrue on the enterprise until, before he left the room, Mr. Budden-Reynolds declared himself ready to put up three hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary expenses if, in exchange, he might become one of the original syndicate.

Upon a sheet of the hotel notepaper a draft agreement was at once drawn up, but not, however, until Ansell had raised many objections. He was not eager to accept the money, a fact which greatly impressed the victim.

An hour later, however, he took Mr. Budden-Reynolds' cheque, signed a receipt, and from that moment his recovery from his illness was extremely rapid.

Early next morning he handed in the cheque to a local bank for telegraphic clearance—which would occupy two days—and then set about packing.

On the second day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, he drew the money, paid his hotel bill with a condescending air, and prepared to depart for Constantinople, for, as he had explained to his victim, there were several minor points in the concession which were not clear, and which could only be settled by discussion on the spot.

Therefore he would go to Paris, and take the Orient Express direct to the Bosphorus.

He had been smoking with Budden-Reynolds from four till five, and then went out to the American bar for an aperitif.

When, however, he returned and ascended to his room to dress for dinner, he was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the door, and his friend Budden-Reynolds bustled in.

Facing "The American" suddenly, he said, purple with rage:

"Well, you're about the coolest and most clever thief I've ever met! Do you know that your confounded Turkish concession isn't worth the paper it's written upon?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ansell, with an air of injured innocence.

"I mean, sir," cried the speculator, "I mean that you are a thief and a swindler, and I now intend to call in the police and have you arrested for palming off upon me a bogus concession. As it happens, my son is in the British Consulate in Constantinople, and, having wired to him to investigate the facts, he has just sent me a reply to say that the Grand Vizier has no knowledge of any such concession, and that it has not been given by him. Indeed, the concession for wireless telegraphy in Turkey was given to the Marconi Company a year ago, and, further, they have already erected two coast-stations on the Black Sea."

Mr. Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal., unscrupulous as he was, stood before his irate visitor absolutely nonplussed.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE FALLING SHADOW.

The country chateau of the Earl of Bracondale, though modestly named the Villa Monplaisir, stood on the road to Fecamp amid the pines, about half a mile from the sea, at St. Addresse, the new seaside suburb of Havre.

St. Addresse is, perhaps, not so fashionable as Etretat or Yport, being quieter and more restful, yet with excellent sea-bathing. Along the broad plage are numerous summer villas, with quaint gabled roofs and small pointed towers in the French style—houses occupied in the season mostly by wealthy Parisians.

Monplaisir, however, was the largest and most handsome residence in the neighbourhood; and to it, when the British statesman was in residence, came various French Ministers of State, and usually for a few days each year the President of the Republic was his lordship's guest.

It was a big, modern house, with wide verandahs on each floor, which gave extensive views of country and sea, a house with a high circular slated tower at one end, and many gables with black oaken beams. Around was a plantation of dark pines, protecting the house from the fierce, sweeping winter winds of the Channel, and pretty, sheltered flower-gardens, the whole enclosed with railings of white painted ironwork.

Over the doorway was a handsome semi-circular roof of glass, while from the west end of the house ran a large winter garden, full of palms and exotic flowers.

Before his marriage, Bracondale had been inclined to sell the place, for he went there so very little; but Jean, being French, expressed a wish that it should be kept, as she liked to have a pied-a-terre in her own land. At Montplaisir she always enjoyed herself immensely, and the bathing had always been to little Lady Enid of greatest benefit.

One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.

"How delightful it is here!" exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse of distant sea.

"Ah!" he laughed. "You always prefer this place to Bracondale—eh? It is but natural, because you are among your own people."

At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car, raised his soft felt hat to them.

"Halloa!" exclaimed the Earl. "Here's Martin! Left Downing Street last night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest."

"Yes, but you'll come with us, won't you?"

"Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought," was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife's side, passed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty's Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.

"Mornin', Martin!" exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. "Nice passage over?"

"Yes, my lord," was the traveller's response. "It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday."

And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked "On His Britannic Majesty's Service."

The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.

Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King's Messenger took it with a word of thanks.

"When do you go back?" he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.

"To-night, at midnight."

"Will you call here at eight for despatches?"

"Certainly."

"They'll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople."

"Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey—to Petersburg—on Friday," he added, speaking as though a journey to that Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.

"Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no objection, I suppose?"

"None," laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but few short spells of leave. The life of a King's Messenger is, indeed, no sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy wagonlits of the European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office, had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy in Europe, and to every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.

"And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street, Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera," added Lord Bracondale. "I wish you would bring it over next time you come."

"Certainly," Martin replied.

"Then, at eight o'clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here," his lordship said.

So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box—a steel one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas—upon a side table, and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.

Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.

During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no delay.

Upon Bracondale's brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned Charlton's letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.

But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.

In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and were quickly driven through the pines and out upon the sea-road until, when on the railed esplanade at St. Addresse, the car pulled up suddenly at some steps which led down to the sands.

Just before he did so his lordship, addressing Jean, said:

"I know you will excuse me staying with you this morning, dear, but I must attend to those despatches Martin has brought. And they will certainly take me till luncheon. So I will see you down to the beach and then go back. The car shall come for you at half-past twelve."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Jean, regretfully. "But I know, dear, how worried you are. So I'll forgive you. I shall spend a quiet morning with a book, and Enid will enjoy herself."

Then the car stopped, he got out, helped Enid and Miss Oliver down, and then gave his hand to Jean, who, with her dark cloak thrown over her white dress, looked extremely dainty, and much younger than her years.

While the car waited for them, all four descended to the beach, where little Enid with her governess went forward, while Bracondale and his wife walked along to a secluded corner in the rocks, where it was Jean's habit to read while awaiting her little girl.

Then, after he had seen her comfortably settled in the shadow, for the sun was hot, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to where the car awaited him, absorbed in the international problem which had, according to Charlton, so suddenly arisen.

As he sat in the car and was whirled along the sea-front towards Monplaisir, he passed a clean-shaven, well-dressed man in a dark suit with carefully-ironed trousers, his handkerchief showing from his jacket pocket, patent leather boots, grey spats, and a light grey Tyrolese hat. The stranger gave him a curious, inquisitive glance as he passed, then, looking after him, muttered some words beneath his breath.

The idler stood and watched the car disappear in the dust along the wide, straight road, and then he walked to the steps over which Jean had passed and followed in her footsteps.

As a matter of fact, this was not the first occasion upon which the stranger had watched her ladyship.

On the previous day he had been passing along a street in Havre when a big red car had passed, and in it was her ladyship with little Lady Enid.

In a second, on looking up suddenly, he had recognised her.

But she had not seen him. At the moment she had been bending towards the child, buttoning up her coat.

The stranger, who had only the day previous arrived in Havre, and was awaiting a steamer to America, turned upon his heel and, chancing to meet a postman face to face, pointed out the car and asked in French whose it was.

The veteran, for he wore his medal, glanced at the car and replied:

"Ah! That is the automobile of the English lord. That is the Countess of Bracondale, his wife."

"Do they live here?"

"At the Villa Monplaisir, m'sieur, out on the road to Fecamp."

"Are they rich?" he asked unconcernedly.

"Oh, yes; Lord Bracondale is the English Minister for Foreign Affairs."

"Bracondale!" echoed the stranger, recognising the name for the first time. "And that is his wife?"

"Yes."

"And the child?"

"His daughter."

"Is Lady Bracondale often here, in Havre?" he inquired eagerly.

"Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping," replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his letters.

"Look here, my friend," exclaimed the stranger. "Tell me something more about that lady." And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man's hand.

"Ah! I fear I know but little—only what people say, m'sieur."

"What do they say?"

"That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife, although she is such a great lady—one of the greatest ladies in England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and are enormously wealthy."

"Rich—eh?" remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. "You know nothing more?"

"No, m'sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do."

"Bien. Bon jour," said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries.

And the stranger, whose name was "Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.," was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE BLOW.

With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had disappeared.

Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly into his jacket pocket.

His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone.

"What luck!" he murmured. "I wonder how she'll take it? To think that I should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she was living here. I've got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if you are cute, Ralph Ansell," he said, addressing himself, "you won't want to use that ticket."

He chuckled and smiled.

"The Countess of Bracondale!" he muttered. "I wonder what lie she told the Earl? Perhaps she's changed—become unscrupulous—since we last met. I wonder?"

And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be.

He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present.

It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed—different indeed to the black gown and print apron of those Paris days.

He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English:

"Well, Jean!"

Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed. The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand.

"Yes, it's me—Ralph Ansell, your husband!"

"You!" she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. "I—I——The papers said you were dead—that—that——"

"I know," he laughed. "The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California."

"Hoggan!" she echoed, looking about her in dismay.

"Yes—and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean."

She was silent. What could she say?

Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her in all its evil hideousness—the past which she had put behind her for ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.

And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!

Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!

She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.

"Well—speak! Tell me who and what you are."

The word "what" cut deeply into her.

He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard, remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.

"It seems long ago since we last met, doesn't it?" he remarked, in a hard voice. "You left me because I was poor."

"Not because you were poor, Ralph," she managed to reply; "but because you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back."

"Adolphe!" he cried in disgust. "The swine is still in prison, I suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river—the safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned, but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I've had a most pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself into the Seine."

She looked at him with a strange expression.

"True; but his deeds still remain."

"Deeds—what do you mean?"

"I mean this!" she cried, starting to her feet and facing him determinedly. "I mean that you—Ralph Ansell, my husband—killed Richard Harborne!"

His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.

He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:

"Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing? Harborne—oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in England."

"Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the authorities know that he died by your hand," was her slow reply. "It is known that you acted as the cats'-paw—that it was you who tampered with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time—at the time when I, in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!"

"Then you love me no longer—eh, Jean?" he asked, facing her, his brows knit.

"How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?"

"Murderer!" he cried, in anger. "You must prove it! I'll compel you to prove it, or by gad! I'll—I'll strangle you!"

"The facts are already proved."

"How do you know?"

"From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband's possession—locked up in his safe."

"Your husband!" repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.

"Yes," she said hoarsely. "I have married, believing that you were dead."

"And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!" he laughed, with a sneer.

She said nothing.

At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single blow—that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last fallen to crush her.

No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother, but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an assassin to boot.

Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her breath.

The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.

"I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again," she said simply.

"Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he knows how you've deceived him."

"I have told him no lie!"

"No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes."

"Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes," she replied. "The affair is not forgotten, I assure you. And a word from me will sentence you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve."

"Good. Do it!" he laughed, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I wish you would. You would be rid of me then—the widow of a murderer!"

"You killed Richard Harborne because you were paid to do so—paid by a spy of Germany," she said, very slowly. "The report which my husband possesses tells the truth. The British Secret Service has spared no pains to elucidate the mystery of Harborne's death."

"Then they also know that I married you, I suppose? They know you are wife of the guilty man—eh?"

She bit her lip. That thought had not recently occurred to her. Long ago, when it had, she had quickly crushed it down, believing that Ralph was dead. But, on the contrary, he was there, standing before her, the grim vision of the long-buried past.

"Well," she asked suddenly, "what do you want with me now that you have found me?"

"Not much. I dare say you and I can come to terms."

"What terms? I don't understand?"

"You are my wife," he said. "Well, that is your secret—and mine. You want to close my mouth," he said roughly. "And of course you can do so—at a price."

"You want money in return for your silence?"

"Exactly, my dear girl. I am very sorry, but I have been a trifle unfortunate in my speculations of late. I'm a financier now."

She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne, who had been such a platonic friend to her.

"I wish you to understand, now and at once," she said, "that you will have nothing from me."

He smiled at her.

"Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean," was his reply. "Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely—even for the sake of your charming little girl."

"Yes," she said angrily. "You taunt me with my position—why? Because you want money—you, a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I will go to the police and have you arrested."

"Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P. Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy Countess of Bracondale. Say—what a sensation it would cause in the halfpenny papers, wouldn't it?"

Jean shuddered, and shrank back.

"And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne—you, the hired assassin of the Baron," she retorted. "Oh, yes, all is known, I assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale's papers, and read it—every word."

"And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?"

"Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and, further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay's aeroplane. You can't deny it!"

"Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same time I was rid of a rival."

"He was not my lover!" she protested, her cheeks scarlet. "I loved you, and only you."

"Then why don't you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to me?"

"Return!" she gasped. "Never!"

"But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband."

"That I cannot deny," she said, her hands twitching nervously. "But I read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true," she added in despair.

"Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have been living in London all the time?"

"Mostly."

"I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person."

She shrank at the word "wife." That surely was the most evil day in all her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview—how to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen—how best to hide her dread secret from Bracondale.

"Well," she said at last, "though you married me, Ralph, you never had a spark of affection for me. Do you recollect the last night that I was beneath your roof—your confession that you were a thief, and how you raised your hand against me because I begged you not to run into danger. How——?"

"Enough!" he interrupted roughly. "The past is dead and gone. I was a fool then."

"But I remember it all too well, alas!" she said. "I remember how I loved you, and how full and bitter was my disillusionment."

"And what do you intend doing now?" he asked defiantly.

"Nothing," was her reply. Truth to tell, she was nonplussed. She saw no solution of the ghastly problem.

"But I want money," he declared, fiercely.

"I have none—only what my husband gives me."

"Husband! I'm your husband, remember. I tell you, Jean, I don't intend to starve. I may be well dressed, but that's only bluff. I've got only a few pounds in the world."

"I see," she said. "You intend to blackmail me. But I warn you that if those are your tactics, I shall simply tell Bracondale what I know concerning Richard Harborne."

"You will—will you!" he cried, fiercely, advancing towards her threateningly. "By Heaven, if you breathe a word about that, I—I'll kill you!"

And in his eyes shone a bright, murderous light—a light that she had seen there once before—on the night of her departure.

She recognised how determined he was, and drew back in fear.

Then, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, he drew forth a small leather wallet, much worn, and from it took a soiled, crumpled but carefully-preserved letter, which he opened and presented for her inspection.

"Do you recognise this?" he asked, with a sinister grin.

She drew back and held her breath.

"I'll read it," he said with a triumphant laugh. "I kept it as a souvenir. The man you call husband will no doubt be very pleased to see it." Then he read the words:

"In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer longer. Certain hidden things in your life frighten me. Farewell. Forget me.—JEAN."

For a few seconds she was silent. Her face was white as paper.

Then, with a sudden outburst, she gasped, in a low, terrified voice, and putting up her arms with a wild gesture:

"No, no! You must not show that to him. You won't, Ralph—for my sake, you won't. Will you?"



CHAPTER XXV.

TO PAY THE PRICE.

"Well?" asked Ansell, looking at his wife with a distinctly evil grin.

"Well?" she answered blankly, for want of something else to say.

"What will you give me for this letter?" he asked, carefully replacing it in his wallet and transferring it to his pocket with an air of supreme satisfaction.

"I have nothing to give, Ralph."

"But you can find something quite easily," he urged, with mock politeness. "Your ladyship must control a bit of cash-money. Remember, I've already made enquiries, and I know quite well that this man Bracondale is extremely wealthy. Surely he doesn't keep too tight a hold on the purse-strings!"

"I have already told you that I have no money except what Lord Bracondale gives me, and he often looks at my banker's pass-book. He would quickly ask me where the money had gone to."

"Bah! You are a woman, and a woman can easily make an excuse. He'll believe anything if he is really fond of you, as I suppose he must be. You wouldn't like him to have that letter—would you, now?"

"No. I've told you that," she replied, her pale, dry lips moving nervously.

"Then we shall have to discuss very seriously ways and means, and come to terms, my girl," was his rough rejoinder.

"But how can I make terms with you?"

"Quite easily—by getting money."

"I can't!" she cried.

"Well, I guess I'm not going to starve and see you living in luxury—a leader of London society. It isn't likely, now, is it?"

"No; knowing you as well as I do, I suppose it isn't likely."

"Ah! You do me an injustice, Jean," he said. "I only want just sufficient to get away from here—to America—and begin afresh a new life. I'll turn over a new leaf—believe me, I will. I want to, but I haven't the cash-money to do it. To be honest costs money."

"Yes," she sighed. "I suppose it does. And to be dishonest, alas! is always profitable in these days, when honour stands at a premium."

"Well, how much can you get for me?" he asked roughly.

"Nothing," she replied, holding out her hands in despair. "Where am I to get money from?"

"You know best, Jean. I don't. All I know is, I want money—and I mean to have it."

"But I tell you I can't get any," she protested.

"You'll have to. You don't want Bracondale to know the truth, do you?" he asked.

She shook her head. Her eyes were wild and haggard, her cheeks as pale as death.

"Well, look here," he said, again thrusting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Give me five thousand pounds, and you shall have your letter. I will be silent, and we will never meet again. I'll go back to America, and give my firm promise never to cross to Europe again."

"Five thousand pounds!" echoed the distracted woman. "Why, I can't get such a sum! You must surely know that."

"You will do so somehow—in order to save your honour."

"What is the use of discussing it?" she asked. "I tell you such a proposal is entirely out of the question."

"Very well. Then you must bear the consequences. If you won't pay me, perhaps Bracondale will."

"What!" she gasped. "You would go to my husband?"

"Husband!" he sneered. "I'm your husband, my girl. And I mean that either you or Bracondale shall pay. You thought yourself rid of me, but you were mistaken, you see," he added, with a hard laugh of triumph.

"I was misled by the newspapers," she said, simply, as she stood with her back against the grey rocks. "Had I not believed that you had lost your life in the Seine I should not have married Lord Bracondale."

"Deceived him, you mean, not married him," he said harshly. "Well, I haven't much time to wait. Besides, that governess of yours may come back. It won't be nice for that little girl to be taken from you, will it?" he said. "But when Bracondale knows, that's what will happen."

"Never. He is not cruel and inhuman, like you, Ralph!" she responded, bitterly.

"I'm merely asking for what is due to me. I find that another man has usurped my place, and I want my price."

"And that is—what?" she asked, after a few minutes' pause, looking him straight in the face.

"Five thousand, and this interesting letter is yours."

"Impossible!" she cried. "You might as well ask me for the crown of England."

"Look here," he said, putting out his hand towards her, but she shrank from his touch—the touch of a hand stained with the blood of Richard Harborne.

"No. I won't hurt you," he laughed, believing that she stood in fear of him. "I want nothing but the cash-money. I'll call at Monplaisir this evening for it. By Jove!" he added. "That's a nice, comfortable house of yours. You've been very happy there, both of you, I suppose—eh?"

"Yes," she sighed. His threat to call at the villa held her appalled. She saw no way to appease this man, who was now bent upon her ruin. The present, with all its happiness, had faded from her and the future was only a grey vista of grief and despair.

"You know quite well," he went on, "that when you tell me that you can't get money, I don't believe you. You surely aren't going to stand by and see your husband starve, are you? I've had cursed bad luck of late. A year ago I was rich, but to-day I'm broke again—utterly broke, and, moreover, the police are looking for me. That's why I want to get away to America—with your help."

"But don't I say I can't help you?" she protested. "Ah!" she exclaimed, a second later. "You can have my brooch—here it is," and she proceeded to take it from the breast of her white gown.

"Bah! What's the good of that to me?" he laughed. "No. Keep it—why, it isn't worth more than fifty pounds! You surely don't think I'm going to let you have your affectionate letter for that sum, do you?"

"I've got nothing else."

"But you have at home," he urged. "What other jewels have you got?"

"Nothing of great value here. The Bracondale jewels are at Bracondale," she replied slowly, after a few seconds' deliberation. "I have nothing much here, except——"

And she drew herself up short.

"Except what?" he asked sharply.

"Nothing."

"Oh, yes, you have," he said, in a hard voice. "Now tell me. What have you got of real value?"

"I tell you I have nothing."

"That's a lie," he declared. "You've got something you don't want to part with—something you value very much."

She was silent and stood there pale and trembling before him. He saw her hesitation, and knew that his allegation was the truth.

"Come, out with it! I mustn't stay here any longer. We shall be seen," he said. "What have you got?"

She bit her blanched lip.

"My pearls," she replied in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"What pearls?"

"Matched pearls which my husband gave me for my birthday."

"Valuable—eh?"

"Yes," she sighed. "But you can't have them. I prize them very much."

"Greater than your own honour?" he asked, seriously.

"You shall never have them. What excuse could I make to Bracondale?"

"Leave that to me. Pearls are easier negotiated than diamonds. I can sell them at once. If they are the good goods I'll give you the letter in exchange for them. That's a bargain."

"They cost several thousands, I know."

"Good! Then we'll conclude the business to-night."

"No, no!" she protested. "What could I tell my husband?"

"I wish you wouldn't keep referring to him as husband, Jean, when he is not your husband."

"To the world he is. I am no longer Jean Ansell, remember," she protested.

"Well, we won't discuss that. Let's arrange how the exchange shall be made. Now, around your house is a verandah. You will accidentally leave the pearls on the table in one of the rooms at midnight, with the long window unfastened, and I'll look in and get them. You will be in the room, and we can make the exchange. Next day you will discover your loss and tell the police that burglars have visited you. By that time I shall be in Amsterdam. It's quite easy. Only keep your nerve, girl."

"But——"

"There are no 'buts.' We are going to carry this thing through."

She hesitated, thinking deeply. Then she openly defied him.

"I will not let you have those pearls. He gave them to me, and I won't arrange a mock burglary."

"You won't give them to me as price of your honour—eh? Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for. I dare say they won't fetch more than a thousand—perhaps not that. So it's a sporting offer I am making you."

"You can have anything except that."

"I don't want anything else. I want to do you a good turn by getting away from here—away from you for ever. I quite understand your feelings and sympathise with you, I assure you," he said, his manner changing slightly.

But she was obdurate. Therefore he at once altered his tactics and resorted again to his bullying methods. He was a low-down blackguard, although he was dressed as a gentleman and cultivated an air of refinement. Yet he was a prince among thieves and swindlers.

"All this is mere empty talk," he declared at last. "I tell you that if you refuse to do as I direct I shall call upon Bracondale this evening and ask for alms. Oh," he laughed, "it will be quite amusing to see his face when I show him your letter, for he no doubt believes in you. Are you prepared to face the music?"

And, pausing, he fixed his cruel, relentless eyes, beady and brilliant as those of a snake, upon his trembling victim.

She did not answer, though she now realised that he held her future in his remorseless hands. This man whom she had once loved with a strong, all-consuming passion, had risen to smite her and to ruin her.

"Will Bracondale be at home to-night?" he asked presently.

"No," she responded in a low whisper. "He will be at his club. He has arranged to play bridge with M. Polivin, the Minister of Commerce. You won't see him."

"Good. Then you will be alone—to meet me and take the letter in exchange for the pearls, which I shall take," he said, confidently. "I had a look around the house early this morning before anyone was about. It would be very easy to enter there—quite inviting, I assure you. I wonder you don't take precautions against intruders. I speak as an expert," and he laughed grimly.

But she made no response.

"I notice," he went on—"I notice that the room on the left of the front entrance is a small salon. It has a long window leading to the balcony. Leave that unlatched, and I will come there at midnight. If you are there, leave the light on. If there is danger then put it out. I shall know."

"But I can't—I won't."

"You will! You want that letter, and I will give it to you in exchange for the pearls! He will suspect nothing. A thief got in and stole them. That was all. He is rich, and will buy you another set. So why trouble further?"

"No—I——"

"Yes—ah, look! That woman is coming back with the child. I must clear. Remember, it is all arranged. At midnight to-night I'll bring you the letter. Au revoir!"

And next moment the evil shadow of her life disappeared around the corner of the rock and was gone.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A CHILD'S QUESTION.

At luncheon Jean met her husband, but so agitated was she that she scarce dare raise her eyes to his.

Before entering the dining-room where Bracondale awaited her she halted at the door, and with a strenuous effort calmed herself. Then she went forward with a forced smile upon her lips, though her cheeks were pale and she knew that her hand trembled.

His lordship had spent a strenuous morning with the papers Martin had brought from the Foreign Office. At least two of our Ambassadors to the Powers had asked for instructions, and their questions presented difficult and intricate problems which really ought to have gone before the Cabinet. But as there would not be another meeting just yet, everyone being away on vacation, it devolved upon Bracondale to decide the question of Britain's policy himself.

In the pretty, cosy room, outside which the striped sun-blinds were down, rendering it cool and pleasant after the midday heat on the beach, the Foreign Minister stood thoughtfully stroking his moustache.

"Well, Jean," he asked, "had a quiet morning, dear?"

"Yes, delightful," was her reply. "The heat is, however, rather oppressive."

"I'm awfully sorry I could not come down to fetch you, dear," he said; "but I've been dreadfully busy all the morning—lots of worries, as you know. I've only this moment risen from my table. There are more complications between France and Austria."

"Oh, I know how busy you are," she replied as she seated herself at the daintily set-out table, with its flowers, bright silver, and cut glass.

Their luncheons tete-a-tete were always pleasant, for on such occasions they sat at a small side-table, preferring it to the big centre-table when there were no guests.

"Did you see anyone you knew?" he asked, carelessly, for often Mme. Polivin, the rather stout wife of the Minister of Commerce, went to the sands with her children.

"Well, nobody particular," was her reply, with feigned unconcern. "Enid enjoyed herself immensely," she went on quickly. "She didn't bathe, so I told her to make a sand castle. She was delighted, especially when the water came in under the moat."

And then, as he seated himself opposite her, old Jenner entered with the hors d'oeuvres.

Jean was thankful that the room, shaded as it was, was in half darkness, so that her husband could not see how pale she was. Through the open windows came the scent of flowers borne upon the warm air, and the silence of the room was over everything.

He began to discuss their plans for the autumn.

"Trevor asks us to go a cruise in his yacht up the Adriatic in October," he said. "I had a letter from him this morning, dated from Stavanger. You remember what a good time we had with him when we went to Algiers and Tunis two years ago."

"I've never been to the Adriatic," she remarked.

"I went once, about nine years ago, with that financial fellow Pettigrew—the fellow who afterwards met with a fatal accident in a lift at the Grand in Paris. It was delightful. You would be interested in all the little places along the beautiful Dalmatian coast—Zara, where they make the maraschino; Sebenico, Pola, the Bay of Cattaro, and Ragusa, the old city of the Venetian Republic. Shall we accept?"

"It is awfully kind of your brother-in-law," she replied. "Yes, I'd love to go—if you could get away."

"I could come overland and join you at Venice or Trieste, and then we could put into Brindisi or Ancona for any urgent despatches. You see, there's no convenient rail on the Dalmatian side. Yes, I think I could manage it."

"Then accept by all means. I love the sea, as you know. Where do they sail from?"

"Marseilles. You will join the Marama there. She will then touch at Genoa, Naples, and go through the Straits of Messina, and I'll join you in the Adriatic."

"Helen is going, I suppose?" she remarked, referring to Trevor's wife. "Of course, and the two Henderson girls, and little Lady Runton. So we shall be a merry party."

Jean was delighted. In the excitement of the moment she forgot the dark cloud that had fallen upon her.

Yet next second she reflected, and wished that her departure upon that cruiser was immediate, in order that she could escape the man who had so suddenly and unexpectedly returned into her life.

"We shall go to Scotland after our return," he said. "Remember, we've got house parties on the eighth, seventeenth, and thirtieth of November."

"And Christmas at Bracondale," she said. "I love spending it there."

"Or perhaps on the Riviera? Why not? It is warmer," he suggested.

"It may be, but I really think that nowadays, with the change in the English climate, it is just as warm in Torquay at Christmas as at Nice."

"Yes," he replied with a smile. "Perhaps you are right, after all, Jean. If you want warmth and sunshine from December to April you must go to Egypt for it. People have begun to realise that it is often colder in Monte Carlo than in London. And yet it used not to be. I remember when I was a lad and went to Nice with the old governor each winter, we had real warm sunshine. Yes, the climate of the south of Europe has become colder, just as our English climate has become less severe in winter."

And he ate his lobster salad and drank a glass of Chablis, thoroughly enjoying it after the hard mental strain of the morning.

"I think I shall go for a run in the car this afternoon. I feel to want some fresh air. Will you come?" he asked.

"I think not, dear," was her reply. "I have a little headache—the sun, I think—so I shall rest."

"Very well. I'll have a drive alone."

"Let's see," she exclaimed; "didn't you say you were going out to-night?"

"Yes, dear, to Polivin's. There's a man-party this evening. You don't mind, do you? I promised him some time ago, and for political reasons I desire to be friendly. I shan't go till ten o'clock, and no doubt you will go to bed early."

"By all means go, dear," she said, very sweetly. "I—I had forgotten the day."

It was not often he left her alone of an evening when they were together during the recess. In the London season she was, as a political hostess, often compelled to go out alone, while he, too, had frequently to attend functions where it was impossible for her to be present. Sometimes, indeed, days and days passed and they only met at breakfast. Frequently, too, he was so engrossed in affairs of State that, though he was in the house, yet he was closeted hours and hours with Darnborough, with some high Foreign Office official, an ambassador, or a Cabinet Minister.

That big, sombre room of his in the dark, gloomy London mansion was indeed a room of political secrets, just as was his private room at the Foreign Office. If those walls could but speak, what strange tales they might tell—tales of clever juggling with the Powers, of ingenious counter-plots against conspiracies ever arising to disturb the European peace, plots concocted by Britain's enemies across the seas, and the evolution of master strokes of foreign policy.

"Are you quite sure you prefer not to go for a drive this afternoon?" he asked, looking across at her.

"No, really, dear. I don't feel at all fit. It is the excessive heat. It was awfully oppressive on the beach."

"Very well, dear. Rest then, and get right by the time I get in for tea."

She looked at him from beneath her half-closed lashes.

Why had he asked her whether she had met anyone she knew that morning? It was not a usual question of his.

Could he know anything? Had he been present and seen the meeting?

No, that was impossible. He had been at home all the morning. She had made enquiry of Jenner as she came in, so as to satisfy herself.

Yet there was a strange suspicion in his manner, she thought. It may have been her fancy, nevertheless he seemed unduly curious, and that question of his had set her wondering.

For some moments she ate her dessert in silence.

Before her arose all the horror of that amazing meeting. The words of the criminal who was her husband rang in her ears, cruel, brutal, and relentless. He had threatened to call there at the villa, and hand her letter to Bracondale, a threat which, she knew, he would carry out if she did not appease him and bow to his will.

She was to exchange those pearls, Bracondale's valued gift, for the silence of a blackmailer and assassin! Ah! the very thought of it drove her to desperation. Yet she was about to do it for Bracondale's sake; for the sake of little Enid, whom she so dearly loved.

Every word the brute had uttered had burned into her brain. Her temples throbbed as though her skull must burst. But she fought against the evil and against a collapse. She put on a brave front, and when Bracondale addressed her she laughed lightly as though she had not a single care in all the world.

The meal over, she took a scarlet carnation from the silver epergne between them, broke the stem and, bending, placed it in the lapel of his coat, receiving as reward a fond, sweet kiss, old Jenner having finally left the room.

"Now go and rest, dearest," his lordship said. "I have a few letters I will write before I go out."

And he was about to cross to the door when it suddenly opened, and little Enid in her white muslin dress danced into the room, rushing up to her mother's outstretched arms.

Bracondale caught the child and, taking her up, kissed her fondly.

Then, when he set her down again, she rushed to Jean, and in her childish voice asked:

"Mother, I was so afraid this morning when I saw you talking to that nasty man!"

"Nasty man!" echoed Jean, her heart standing still.

"Yes, mother. I ran across from Miss Oliver and was coming to you, but when I got round the rock I saw—oh, I saw a nasty man raising his hands, and talking. And you were so frightened—and so was I. So I ran back again. He was a nasty, bad man."

For a second a dead silence fell.

Then Jean, with a supreme effort, collected her thoughts and exercised all her self-control.

"What was that, Jean?" inquired Bracondale quickly.

"Oh, nothing. A man came along begging—rather a well-dressed man he seemed to be. And because I refused to give him anything he commenced to abuse me. But I soon sent him away."

"The child says you were afraid."

"Afraid!" she laughed, with a strange, hysterical little laugh. "If I had been I should have called for help. He was only some loafer or other who, finding me alone, thought he could get a franc, I suppose." And then, after a pause, she added, "I had a similar experience one day last year. The police really ought to keep the sands clear of such persons."

"What was he like? I'll tell the chief of police about it."

"Well, really, I didn't take very much notice," she replied. "I was reading, and looking up suddenly found him standing before me. I had no idea that Enid saw him. He asked me for money in a very rough manner. And naturally I declined, and told him that if he did not clear off I would shout for help. So—well, after a few more abusive words, he slunk away."

"He might have stolen your brooch," Bracondale remarked.

"He might, certainly," she said. "Not until after he had gone did I realise how helpless I had been."

"Yes, mother," exclaimed the little girl, "but you were frightened, weren't you? I thought he was going to hit you, for you put up your hands, and he clenched his fists and put his face right into yours. Oh! it did frighten me!"

"Didn't you tell Miss Oliver?" asked her father.

"No; but I will. I went digging, and forgot all about it."

"If I were you, Enid, I shouldn't tell Miss Oliver," her mother said, very quietly. "You were frightened for nothing. It was only a man who wanted money."

"But he was such a nasty man—he had a horrid face, and such big, big eyes!" declared the child, and then, turning, she danced away out of the room, leaving Bracondale facing Jean in silence.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE INTRUDER.

That afternoon Jean remained in her room in a fierce fever of anxiety, while Bracondale drove his car along the winding, shady road to Yvetot, and home by St. Valery-en-Caux, and the sea-road which commences at Fecamp.

Did he suspect? she wondered.

She could not help feeling mortified that the child should have made that unfortunate remark. She felt also that her excuse was a lame one. Did he really believe her story?

From the steel safe in her daintily-furnished room, with its silken upholstery in old rose, she took the big, square, velvet-lined case, and, opening it, gazed upon the string of splendid pearls. She took them out tenderly and, standing before the long cheval-glass, put them round her neck—for the last time.

As she examined herself in the mirror she sighed, her face hard, pale, and full of anxiety and distress.

Would Bracondale notice the change in her?

She put away the pearls, and, replacing the case in the safe, locked it.

Bates, her rather sour-faced maid, entered at the moment. She was a thin, angular person, very neat and prim, an excellent hairdresser, and a model of what a first-class maid should be.

"Why, you don't look well this afternoon, madam," she said, glancing at her inquiringly.

"No, Bates. It's the heat, I think. Will you bring me my smelling-salts?" she asked, as she sank into an arm-chair, a pretty figure in her pale-blue silk dressing-gown.

The maid brought the large, silver-topped bottle across from the dressing-table and handed it to her mistress, who, after sniffing it, dismissed her.

Then Jean sat for a full half-hour staring straight before her, looking down the long vista of her own tragic past.

At midnight that letter would be safe in her hand. She consoled herself with the thought that, by acceding to Ansell's demand, as she had done, she would rid herself of him for ever.

Her honour would be preserved, and Bracondale would never know. For the sake of her child, how could she confess to him?

He joined her in the petit salon, where she gave him tea, and then, till dinner, he retired into the study to complete the despatches for which Martin was to call and take to Downing Street.

At dinner she wore a pretty gown of cream lace, the waist and skirt being trimmed with broad, pale-blue satin ribbon, fashioned into big, flat bows; a Paris gown of the latest mode, which suited her admirably. It was rather high in the neck, and all the jewellery she wore was a single brooch.

He also looked smart in his well-cut dinner jacket, with a light grey waistcoat and black tie; and as they sat opposite each other they chatted merrily. She had composed herself, and was now bearing herself very bravely.

It was, however, a relief to her when, just as they had finished dessert, Jenner entered, saying:

"Captain Martin is in the study, m'lord."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the great statesman, rising at once. Then, turning to Jean, he said: "You'll excuse me, dearest, won't you? I must get Martin off. I've finished. Have you?"

"Yes, dear," was her reply. "You go. I'm just going to see Enid for a little while."

"After I've got Martin off I shall go along to Polivin's. I'm sorry to leave you this evening. But you won't mind, dear, will you?"

"Not at all," was her prompt reply. "I know it is a duty."

"I shall certainly not be back till one or two o'clock. They are a very late lot—the men who go there," he remarked.

"I shall go to bed, so don't hurry, dear."

"Good night, then," he said, crossing to her and bending till he touched her lips with his. Then he went along to the study, where the King's Messenger was waiting.

"Halloa, Martin!" exclaimed his lordship, cheerily. "You're up to time—you always are. You're a marvel of punctuality."

"I have to be, constantly catching trains, as I am," laughed the nonchalant traveller, as he unlocked his despatch-box and took the seven big sealed letters from the Foreign Secretary's hand.

Then he scribbled a receipt for them, packed them in a little steel box, and carefully locked it with the tiny key upon his chain. That box often contained secrets which, if divulged, would set Europe aflame.

"Don't forget my camera next time you come over," Bracondale urged. "And tell Sir Henry that if Bartlett is back from Persia I would like him to run over and report to me."

"I won't forget," was Martin's reply; and then, with a word of farewell, he took up his precious despatch-box and left the room.

The evening was dark and oppressive, with black clouds threatening thunder. Those hours passed very slowly.

Jean tried to read, but was unable. Then she went to the big salon and, seating herself at the grand piano, played snatches of Grand Opera. But she was too anxious, too impatient for midnight to come and end all the suspense.

Miss Oliver joined her, as usual, about ten o'clock for half an hour's chat. But the presence of the governess irritated her, and she was glad when she retired. She wondered whether Enid had told her anything. The child's chatter had, indeed, been extremely unfortunate.

Eleven o'clock!

She sat in her boudoir trying to occupy her mind by writing a letter, but she could not. She had to go through the terrible ordeal of seeing that man again.

At one moment she felt impelled to confess all to Bracondale, yet at the next she thought of his honour, and of the child. No, at all hazards, at all costs, even if it cost her her life, she must preserve her secret.

For wealth or for position she cared nothing—only for Bracondale's love.

The little clock struck the quarter. It wanted fifteen minutes to midnight.

With knit brows she rose quickly. The whole household had now retired; all was silence, and she was alone. Outside Ralph was no doubt watching for the light in the little salon.