Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

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"Yes," she said, "I heard that also."

"You don't seem to care very much, Louise," remarked the woman. "And
yet, he's such an awfully nice young fellow."

"You've said that dozens of times before," was Louise's abrupt reply.

"And I mean it. You could do a lot worse than to marry him, remember,
though he is a bit hard-up nowadays. But things with him will right
themselves before long."

"Why do you suggest that?" asked the girl resentfully.

"Well--because, my dear, I know that you are very fond of him," the
woman laughed. "Now, you can't deny it--can you?"

The girl, who had travelled so widely ever since she had left school,
drew a deep breath and, turning her head, gazed blankly out of the
window again.

What Mrs. Bond had said was her secret. She was very fond of Hugh. They
had not met very often, but he had attracted her--a fact of which both
Benton and his female accomplice were well aware.

"You don't reply," laughed the woman for whom the Paris Surete was
searching everywhere; "but your face betrays the truth, my dear. Don't
worry," she added in a tone of sympathy. "No doubt he'll write as soon
as he is back in England. Personally, I don't believe he really cares a
rap for the Ranscomb girl. It's only a matter of money--and Dorise has
plenty."

"I don't wish to hear anything about Mr. Henfrey's love affairs!" cried
the girl petulantly. "I tell you that they do not interest me."

"Because you are piqued that he does not write, child. Ah, dear, I
know!" she laughed, as the girl left the room.

A quarter of an hour later Louise was seated in the car, while Mead
drove her along the broad highway over the Hog's Back into Guildford.
The morning was delightful, the trees wore their spring green, and all
along in the fields, as they went over the high ridge, the larks were
singing gaily the music of a glad morning of the English spring, and the
view spread wide on either side.

Life in Surrey was, she found, much preferable to that on the Continent.
True, in the Rue Racine they had entertained a great deal, and she
had, during the war, met many very pleasant young English and American
officers; but the sudden journey to Switzerland, then on into Italy,
and across to New York, had been a whirl of excitement. Mrs. Maxwell had
changed her name several times, because she said that she did not want
her divorced husband, a ne'er-do-well, to know of her whereabouts. He
was for ever molesting her, she had told Louise, and for that reason she
had passed in different names.

The girl was in complete ignorance of the truth. She never dreamed that
the source of the woman's wealth was highly suspicious, or that the
constant travelling was in order to evade the police.

As she was driven along, she sat back reflecting. Truth to tell, she was
much in love with Hugh. Benton had first introduced him one night at
the Spa in Scarborough, and after that they had met several times on the
Esplanade, then again in London, and once in Paris. Yet while she,
on her part, became filled with admiration, he was, apparently, quite
unconscious of it.

At last she had heard of Hugh's infatuation for Dorise Ranscomb, the
daughter of the great engineer who had recently died, and indeed she had
met her once and been introduced to her.

Of the conditions of old Mr. Henfrey's will she was, of course, in
ignorance. The girl had no idea of the great plot which had been formed
by her foster father and his clever female friend.

The world is a strange one beneath the surface of things. Those who
passed the imposing gates of the beautiful old English manor-house never
dreamed that it sheltered one of the most notorious female criminals in
Europe. And the worshipful magistrates and their wives who visited her
would have received a rude shock had they but known. But many modern
adventuresses have been able to bamboozle the mighty. Madame Humbert
of Paris, in whose imagination were "The Humbert Millions," used to
entertain Ministers of State, aristocrats, financiers, and others of
lower degree, and show them the sealed-up safe in which she declared
reposed millions' worth of negotiable securities which might not see the
light of day until a certain date. The avaricious, even shrewd, bankers
advanced loans upon things they had never seen, and the Humberts were
the most sought-after family in Paris until the bubble burst and they
fled and were afterwards arrested in Spain.

Molly Maxwell was a marvel of ingenuity, of criminal foresight, and of
amazing elusiveness. Louise, young and unsuspicious, looked upon her as
a mother. Benton she called "Uncle," and was always grateful to him
for all he did for her. She understood that they were cousins, and that
Benton advised Mrs. Maxwell in her disastrous matrimonial affairs.

Yet the life she had led ever since leaving school had been a truly
adventurous one. She had been in half the watering places of Europe, and
in most of its capitals, leading, with the woman who now called herself
Mrs. Bond, a most extravagant life at hotels of the first order.

The car at last ran into the station yard at Guildford, and at the
bookstall Louise exchanged her books with the courteous manager.

She was passing through the booking-office back to the car, when a voice
behind her called:

"Hallo, Louise!"

Turning, she found her "uncle," Charles Benton, who, wearing a light
overcoat and grey velour hat, grasped her hand.

"Well, dear," he exclaimed. "This is fortunate. Mead is here, I
suppose?"

"Yes, uncle," replied the girl, much gratified at meeting him.

"I was about to engage a taxi to take me up to the Manor, but now you
can take me there," said the rather handsome man. "How is Mrs. Bond?" he
asked, calling her by her new name.

"Quite well. She's expecting you to lunch. But she has some impossible
people there to-day--the Brailsfords, father, mother, and son. He made
his money in motor-cars during the war. They live over at Dorking in
a house with forty-nine bedrooms, and only fifteen years ago Mrs.
Brailsford used to do the housework herself. Now they're rolling in
money, but can't keep servants."

"Ah, my dear, it's the same everywhere," said Benton as he entered the
car after her. "I've just got back from Madrid. It is the same there.
The world is changing. Crooks prosper while white men starve. Honesty
spells ruin in these days."

They drove over the railway bridge and up the steep hill out of
Guildford seated side by side. Benton had been her "uncle" ever since
her childhood days, and a most kind and considerate one he had always
proved.

Sometimes when at school she did not see him for periods of a year or
more and she had no home to go to for holidays. Her foster-father was
abroad. Yet her school fees were paid regularly, her allowance had been
ample, and her clothes were always slightly better than those of the
other girls. Therefore, though she called him "uncle," she looked upon
Benton as her father and obeyed all his commands.

Just about noon the car swung into the gates of Shapley, and soon they
were indoors. Benton threw off his coat, and in an abrupt manner said to
the servant:

"I want to see Mrs. Bond at once."

Then, turning to Louise, he exclaimed:

"I want to see Molly privately. I have some urgent business to discuss
with her before your profiteer friends arrive."

"All right," replied the girl cheerily. "I'll leave you alone," and she
ascended the broad oak staircase, the steps of which were worn thin by
the tramp of many generations.

A few moments later Charles Benton stood in the morning-room, where Mrs.
Bond still sat before the welcome log fire.

"Back again, Charles!" she exclaimed, rising to greet him. "Well, how
goes it?"

"Not too well," was his reply as he closed the door. "I only got back
last night. Five days ago I saw The Sparrow at the Palace Hotel in
Madrid. He's doing all he can in young Henfrey's interests, but he is
not too hopeful."

"Why?"

"I can't make out," said the man, apparently much perturbed. "He wired
me to go to Madrid, and I went. But it seems that I've been on a fool's
errand."

"That's very unsatisfactory," said the woman.

"It is, my dear Molly! From his attitude it seemed to me that he is
protecting Henfrey from some secret motive of his own--one that is not
at all in accordance with our plans."

"But he is surely acting in our interests!"

"Ah! I'm not so sure about that."

"You surprise me. He knows our intentions and approved of them!"

"His approval has, I think, been upset by the murderous attack upon
Yvonne."

"But he surely will not act against us! If he does----"

"If he does--then we may as well throw up the sponge, Molly."

"We could give it all away to the police," remarked the woman.

"And by so doing give ourselves away!" answered Benton. "The Sparrow has
many friends in the police, recollect. Abroad, he distributes a quantity
of annual _douceurs_, and hence he is practically immune from arrest."

"I wish we were," laughed the handsome adventuress.

"Yes. We have only to dance to his tune," said he. "And the tune just
now is not one which is pleasing to us--eh?"

"You seem strangely apprehensive."

"I am. I believe that The Sparrow, while making pretence of supporting
our little affair, is in favour of Hugh's marriage with Dorise
Ranscomb."

The woman looked him straight in the face.

"He could never go back on his word!" she declared.

"The Sparrow is a curious combination of the crook--chivalrous and
philanthropic--as you already know."

"But surely, he wouldn't let us down?"

Benton paused. He was thinking deeply. A certain fact had suddenly
occurred to him.

"If he does, then we must, I suppose, do our best to expose him.
I happen to know that he has quarrelled with Henri Michaux, the
under-secretary of the Surete in Paris, who has declared that his
payment is not sufficient. Michaux is anxious to get even with him. A
word from us would result in The Sparrow's arrest."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Molly. "If we fail we can, after all, have our
revenge. But," she added, "would not he suspect us both, and, in turn,
give us away?"

"No. He will never suspect, my dear Molly. Leave it to me. Are we not
his dearest and most trusted friends?" and the man, who was as keenly
sought by the police of Europe, grinned sardonically and took a
cigarette from the big silver box on the little table at his elbow.

THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

POISONED LIPS

Week after week passed.

Spring was slowly developing into summer and the woods around Blairglas,
the fine estate in Perthshire which old Sir Richard Ranscomb had left to
his wife, were delightful.

Blairglas Castle, a grand old turreted pile, was perched on the edge
of a wooded glen through which flowed a picturesque burn well known to
tourists in Scotland. Once Blairglas Burn had been a mighty river which
had, in the bygone ages, worn its way deep through the grey granite down
to the broad Tay and onward to the sea. On the estate was some excellent
salmon-fishing, as well as grouse on Blairglas Moor, and trout in
Blairglas Loch. Here Lady Ranscomb entertained her wealthy Society
friends, and certainly she did so lavishly and well. Twice each year
she went up for the fishing and for the shooting. Old Sir Richard,
notwithstanding his gout, had been fond of sport, and for that reason
he had given a fabulous price for the place, which had belonged to a
certain Duke who, like others, had become impoverished by excessive
taxation and the death duties.

Built in the fifteenth century as a fortress, it was, for a time,
the home of James V. after his marriage with Mary of Guise. It was
to Blairglas that, after his defeat on Solway Moss, he retired,
subsequently dying of a broken heart. Twenty years later Darnley,
the elegant husband of Mary Stuart, had lived there, and on the level
bowling green he used to indulge in his favourite sport.

The grim old place, with its towers, its dimly-lit long stone corridors,
cyclopean ivy-clad walls, narrow windows, and great panelled chambers,
breathed an atmosphere of the long ago. So extensive was it that only
one wing--that which looked far down the glen to the blue distant
mountains--had been modernised; yet that, in itself, was sufficiently
spacious for the entertainment of large house-parties.

One morning, early in June, Dorise, in a rough tweed suit and a
pearl-grey suede tam-o'shanter, carrying a mackintosh across her
shoulder, and accompanied by a tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven man
of thirty-two, with rather thick lips and bushy eyebrows, walked down
through the woods to the river. The man, who was in fishing clothes,
sauntered at her side, smoking a cigarette; while behind them came
old Sandy Murray, the grizzled, fair-bearded head keeper, carrying the
salmon rods, the gaff, creel, and luncheon basket.

"The spate is excellent for us," exclaimed George Sherrard. "We ought to
kill a salmon to-day, Dorise."

"I sincerely hope so," replied the girl; "but somehow I never have any
luck in these days."

"No, you really don't! But Marjorie killed a twelve-pounder last week,
your mother tells me."

"Yes. She went out with Murray every day for a whole fortnight, and then
on the day before she went back to town she landed a splendid fish."

On arrival at the bank of the broad shallow Tay, Murray stepped forward,
and in his pleasant Perthshire accent suggested that a trial might be
made near the Ardcraig, a short walk to the left.

After fixing the rods and baiting them, the head keeper discreetly
withdrew, leaving the pair alone. In the servants' hall at Blairglas it
was quite understood that Miss Dorise and Mr. Sherrard were to marry,
and that the announcement would be made in due course.

"What a lovely day--and what a silent, delightful spot," Sherrard
remarked, as he filled his pipe preparatory to walking up-stream, while
the girl remained beside the dark pool where sport seemed likely.

"Yes," she replied, inwardly wishing to get rid of her companion so as
to be left alone with her own thoughts. "I'll remain here for a little
and then go down-stream to the end of our water."

"Right oh!" he replied cheerily as he moved away.

Dorise breathed more freely when he had gone.

George Sherrard had arrived from London quite unexpectedly at nine
o'clock on the previous morning. She had been alone with her mother
after the last guest of a gay house-party had departed, when, unknown
to Dorise, Lady Ranscomb had telegraphed to her friend George to "run up
for a few days' fishing."

Lady Ranscomb's scheme was to throw the pair into each other's society
as much as possible. She petted George, flattered him, and in every way
tried to entertain him with one sole object, namely, to induce him to
propose to Dorise, and so get the girl "off her hands."

On the contrary, the girl's thoughts were for ever centred upon Hugh,
even though he remained under that dark cloud of suspicion. To her the
chief element in the affair was the mystery why her lover had gone on
that fateful night to the Villa Amette, the house of that notorious
Mademoiselle. What had really occurred?

Twice she had received letters from him brought to her by the mysterious
girl-messenger from Belgium. From them she knew how grey and dull was
his life, hiding there from those who were so intent upon his arrest.

Indeed, within her blouse she carried his last letter which she had
received three weeks before when in London--a letter in which he
implored her not to misjudge him, and in which he promised that, as soon
as he dared to leave his hiding-place and meet her, he would explain
everything. In return, she had again written to him, but though three
weary weeks had passed, she had received no word in reply. She
could neither write by post, nor could she telegraph. It was far too
dangerous. In addition, his address had been purposely withheld from
her.

Walter Brock had tried to ascertain it. He had even seen the mysterious
messenger on her last visit to England, but she had refused point-blank,
declaring that she had been ordered to disclose nothing. She was merely
a messenger.

That her correspondence was still being watched by the police, Dorise
was quite well aware. Her maid, Duncan, had told her in confidence quite
recently that while crossing Berkeley Square one evening she had been
accosted by a good-looking young man who, having pressed his attentions
upon her, had prevailed upon her to meet him on the following evening.

He then took her to dinner to a restaurant in Soho, and to the pictures
afterwards. They had met half a dozen times, when he began to cleverly
question her concerning her mistress, asking whether she had letters
from her gentleman friends. At this Duncan had grown suspicious, and she
had not met the young fellow since.

That, in itself, showed her that the police were bent on discovering and
arresting Hugh.

The great mystery of it all was why Hugh should have gone deliberately
and clandestinely to the Villa Amette on the night of the tragic affair.

Dorise was really an expert in casting a fly; also she excelled in
several branches of sport. She was a splendid tennis-player, she rode
well to hounds, and was very fair at golf. But that morning she had no
heart for fishing, and especially in such company. She despised George
Sherrard as a prig, fond of boasting of his means, and, indeed, so
terribly self-conscious was he that in many circles he was declared
impossible. Men disliked him for his swagger and conceit, and women
despised him for his superior attitude towards them.

For a full hour Dorise continued making casts, but in vain. She changed
her flies once or twice, until at last, by a careless throw, she got her
tackle hooked high in a willow, with the result that, in endeavouring
to extricate it, she broke off the hook. Then with an exclamation of
impatience, she wound up her line and threw her rod upon the grass.

"Hallo, Dorise!" cried a voice. "No luck, eh?"

Sherrard had returned and had witnessed her outbreak of impatience.

"None!" she snapped, for the loss of her fly annoyed her. She knew that
she had been careless, because under old Murray's careful tuition she
had become quite expert with the rod, both with trout and salmon.

"Never mind," he said, "I've had similar luck. I've just got hooked up
in a root and lost a fly. Let's have lunch--shall we?"

Dorise was in no mood to lunch with her mother's visitor, but,
nevertheless, was compelled to be polite.

After washing their hands in the stream, they sat down together upon
a great, grey boulder that had been worn smooth by the action of the
water, and, taking out their sandwiches, began to eat them.

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Sherrard suddenly, after they had been gossiping
for some time. "Have you heard from your friend Henfrey lately?"

"Not lately," replied the girl, a trifle resentful that he should
obtrude upon her private affairs.

"I only ask because--well, because there are some jolly queer stories
going about town of him."

"Queer stories!" she echoed quickly. "What are they? What do people
say?"

"Oh! They say lots of extraordinary things. I think your mother has done
very well to drop him."

"Has mother dropped him?" asked the girl in pretence of ignorance.

"She told me so last night, and I was extremely glad to hear it--though
he is your friend. It seems that he's hardly the kind of fellow you
should know, Dorise."

"Why do you say that?" his companion asked, her eyes flashing instantly.

"What! Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"The story that's going round the clubs. He's missing, and has been so
for quite a long time. You haven't seen him--have you?"

The girl was compelled to reply in the negative.

"But what do they say against him?" she demanded breathlessly.

"There's a lot of funny stories," was Sherrard's reply. "They say he's
hiding from the police because he attempted to murder a notorious woman
called Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. Do you know about it?"

"It's a wicked lie!" blurted forth the girl. "Hugh never attempted to
kill the woman!"

Sherrard looked straight into her blue eyes, and asked:

"Then why was he in her room at midnight? They say the reason Henfrey
is hard-up is because he spent all he possessed upon the woman, and on
going there that night she laughed him to scorn and told him she had
grown fond of a rich Austrian banker. After mutual recriminations,
Henfrey, knowing the woman had ruined him, drew out a revolver and shot
her."

"I tell you it's an abominable lie! Hugh is not an assassin!" cried the
girl fiercely.

"I merely repeat what I have heard on very good authority," replied the
smug-faced man with the thick red lips.

"And you have of course told my mother that--eh?"

"I didn't think it was any secret," he said. "Indeed, I think it most
fortunate we all know the truth. The police must get him one day--before
long."

For a few moments Dorise remained silent, her eyes fixed across the
broad river to the opposite bank.

"And if they do, he will most certainly clear himself, Mr. Sherrard,"
she said coldly.

"Ah! You still have great faith in him," he laughed airily. "Well--we
shall see," and he grinned.

"Yes, Mr. Sherrard. I still have faith in Mr. Henfrey. I know him well
enough to be certain that he is no assassin."

"Then I ask you, Dorise, why is he hiding?" said her companion. "If he
is innocent, what can he fear?"

"I know he is innocent."

"Of course. You must remain in that belief until he is found guilty."

"You already condemn him!" the girl cried in anger. "By what right do
you do this, I ask?"

"Well, common sense shows that he is in fear lest the truth should come
to light," was Sherrard's lame reply. "He escaped very cleverly from
Monte Carlo the moment he heard that the police suspected him, but
where is he now? Nobody knows. Haynes, of Scotland Yard, who made the
inquiries when my flat in Park Lane was broken into, tells me they
have had a description of him from the Paris police, and that a general
hue-and-cry has been circulated."

"But the woman is still alive, is she not?"

"Yes. She's a hopeless idiot, Haynes tells me. She had developed
homicidal mania as a result of the bullet wound in the head, and they
have had to send her to a private asylum at Cannes. She's there in close
confinement."

Dorise paused. Her anger had risen, and her cheeks were flushed. The
sandwich she was eating choked her, so she cast it into the river.

Then she rose abruptly, and looking very straight into the man's eyes,
said:

"I consider, Mr. Sherrard, that you are absolutely horrid. Mr. Henfrey
is a friend of mine, and whatever gossip there is concerning him I will
not believe until I hear his story from his own lips."

"I merely tell you of the report from France to Scotland Yard," said
Sherrard.

"You tell me this in order to prejudice me against Hugh--to--to----"

"Hugh! Whom you love--eh?" sneered Sherrard.

"Yes. I _do_ love him," the girl blurted forth. "I make no secret of it.
And if you like you can tell my mother that! You are very fond of acting
as her factotum!"

"It is to be regretted, Dorise, that you have fallen in love with a
fellow who is wanted by the police," he remarked with a sigh.

"At any rate, I love a genuine man," she retorted with bitter sarcasm.
"I know my mother's intention is that I shall marry you. But I tell you
here frankly--as I stand here--I would rather kill myself first!"

George Sherrard with his dark bushy brows and thick lips only laughed at
her indignation. This incensed her the more.

"Yes," she went on. "You may be amused at my distress. You have laughed
at the distress of other women, Mr. Sherrard. Do not think that I am
blind. I have watched you, and I know more concerning your love affairs
of the past than you ever dream. So please leave Blairglas as soon as
you can with decency excuse yourself, and keep away from me in future."

"But really, Dorise----!" he cried, advancing towards her.

"I mean exactly what I say. Let me get back. When I go fishing I prefer
to go alone," the girl said.

"But what am I to say to Lady Ranscomb?"

"Tell her that I love Hugh," laughed the girl defiantly. "Tell her that
I intend to defeat all her clever intrigues and sly devices!"

His countenance now showed that he was angry. He and Lady Ranscomb
thoroughly understood each other. He admired the girl, and her mother
had assured him her affection for Hugh Henfrey was but a passing fancy.
This stubborn outburst was to him a complete revelation.

"I have no knowledge of any intrigue, Dorise," he said in that bland,
superior manner which always irritated her. She knew that a dozen
mothers with eligible feminine encumbrances were trying to angle him,
and that Lady Ranscomb was greatly envied by them. But to be the wife of
the self-conscious ass--well, as she has already bluntly told him, she
would die rather than become Mrs. George Sherrard.

"Intrigue!" the girl retorted. "Why, from first to last the whole thing
is a plot between my mother and yourself. Please give me credit for just
a little intelligence. First, I despise you as a coward. During the war
you crept into a little clerkship in the Home Office in order to save
your precious skin, while Hugh went to the front and risked his
life flying a 'bomber' over the enemy's lines. You were a miserable
stay-at-home, hiding in your little bolt-hole in Whitehall when the
Zepps came over, while Hugh Henfrey fought for his King and for Britain.
Now I am quite frank, Mr. Sherrard. That's why I despise you!" and the
girl's pale face showed two pink spots in the centre of her cheeks.

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