Her Majesty's Minister

Chapter Thirty Five

In which Edith Speaks Plainly

After luncheon, when Miss Foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to take her afternoon nap, Edith managed to escape and accompany me for a walk. The hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly English, who had come South in search of sunshine. The Battle of Flowers was to be fought that day. The little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and irresponsibility that Carnival lends to every Italian town. In Carnival Bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festà is fast and furious, without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at Nice.

Edith had, however, seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice in the previous week, having gone over there for the day. As this was so, we resolved to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. Up a steep road on the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny Ospedaletti we climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered the beautiful olive-groves. Seen through the grey-green trees with their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful, the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand, the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep sapphire of the glassy sea. Although February, it was like a May day in England, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk in overcoats or wraps was impossible.

“Well,” I said at length, when we had halted a second time to turn back and admire the view, “you are displeased with me, Edith? Why am I so unwelcome?”

“You are not unwelcome,” she declared quickly. “I am certainly not displeased.”

“I begin to think that during the months you’ve been here you have forgotten those words you uttered to me in Paris, just as you forgot your vow made to me beneath the willows at Ryburgh.”

“I have forgotten nothing,” she protested. “This is cruel of you, Gerald, to reproach me thus.”

“You told me then that you reciprocated my affection, yet you allow this man Bertini to follow you everywhere. He is here.”

“Here?” she gasped in alarm, her face pale in an instant. “Are you certain?”

“I have seen and spoken with him this morning.”

I did not tell her the nature of our conversation, or how I had given him twelve hours in which to decide whether he preferred to reveal the truth or take the consequences of arrest; neither did I tell her that I had called at the police-office and that the spy was already under close observation, the police believing him to be an undesirable visitor from Monte Carlo.

“You’ve spoken with him? What did he tell you?”

“Very little of consequence. I know that you are his victim, and I am seeking to release you from the thraldom,” I answered gravely.

“Ah!” she cried wistfully, “if you only could! If you only could, then I should commence a new life and be happy! The awful suspense is killing me.”

“Suspense of what?”

She was silent for a moment.

“I fear his threats,” she faltered. “I know he would have no compunction whatever in causing my ruin when I am no longer of further use to him.”

“Now, tell me plainly and honestly, Edith,” I asked, looking straight into her white, anxious face. “Do you love him?”

“Love him!” she echoed wildly. “Why, I hate him! Have I not already told you so?”

“But he loves you.”

“Of that I am not certain. If he does, it is through no fault whatever of mine. I detest and hate him!”

“Will you not tell me how he managed to obtain this irresistible power over you? Can you not help me in my search for the truth?”

“I must not speak; I dare not, Gerald,” she answered in a hoarse whisper, as though the very thought of exposure filled her with alarm.

“You fear his revenge?”

She nodded, adding in a low tone, “He knows my secret.”

“And I, your lover, do not,” I observed reproachfully. “Well,” I continued, “answer me truly one question. Tell me whether, when you called upon me on the last occasion in Paris, you stole a letter from my desk – a letter from the Princess von Leutenberg?”

“From the woman who loves you?” she cried huskily. “Yes, I did.”

“And you stole it at Bertini’s instigation? He told you where it would be found, the colour of the envelope, and the coronet and cipher upon it, did he not?”

She nodded in the affirmative.

“And that same night you met him in a small café at Batignolles, and handed him the letter? He was with his accomplice, Rodolphe Wolf.”

“It is just as you say,” she answered. “But how did you know this?”

“Because I myself watched you,” I answered. “That letter was stolen to be used against the Princess.”

“And if it is, what then? That woman who offered to betray her country in return for your love is my rival!” she cried fiercely.

“The theft of that letter was committed with quite another motive,” I replied. “That adventurer Wolf desires to marry the Princess, and with his accomplice has made you his catspaw to obtain the letter, and thus compel her to marry him. If she refuses, he threatens to denounce her.”

“Has he actually threatened this?” she cried in surprise. “I never dreamt that such was his motive.”

“She is in Paris, suffering from this scoundrel’s tyranny. As the man is an adventurer and spy, marriage between them is out of the question.” She turned to me, and, looking into my eyes, earnestly demanded:

“Tell me, Gerald, do you love her, as they told me that you do? You visited her at Chantoiseau, and it is said that you often went long walks in the forest together. Besides, in Paris you met often at various receptions and dances.”

“True,” I admitted. “We met often, and I have more than once been her guest at the château; but as to loving her, such an idea has never entered my head. She is a smart and attractive woman, like many others in the circle in which I am compelled to move; but I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that I never loved her in the past, and that to-day is as yesterday.”

“She loves you. That letter is sufficient proof of it.”

“It was written in a moment of madness,” I assured her. “She regretted it a few hours afterwards, and asked me to destroy it. The fault is entirely my own, for I neglected to carry out her wish. By my own culpable negligence she is placed in this position.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Forgive me, Gerald; I acted under compulsion, as I have always been compelled to act.”

“Certainly I forgive,” I answered. “But will it not be humane conduct on your part to rescue the Princess from this terrible doom? Wolf wishes to marry her for her money alone, and will force this step upon her if we can find no means to save her.”

She paused. Hitherto she had been jealous of Léonie, but now, upon my assurance that I had no love for her, I saw that she inclined towards mercy.

“If I could,” she said at last, “I would assist her. But I cannot see that it is possible.”

“You can do so by explaining your own position to me,” I said. “Despicable though it may seem, the ghastly truth is, that you are actually a spy in the service of France. If you do not seek to clear yourself now, you may be condemned with your accomplices Wolf, Bertini, and Yolande de Foville.”

“That woman!” she cried quickly. “It was she who plotted against you.”

“Then you have met her!” I exclaimed, surprised at this revelation.

I had never believed that they had met.

“Yes,” Edith replied, “I met her in London; and while dining one night at the Carlton with Wolf and Bertini she told me how she had misled you into the belief that she loved you passionately, in order to obtain from you certain official information which had been of the greatest use to them at the Quai d’Orsay. She little dreamed that I knew you and loved you, and the three of them laughed heartily over what they called your gullibility.”

I pursed my lips, for I now saw that woman’s motive in responding to my declaration of love long ago. At the time I would not believe the whispered condemnation of the Countess and her daughter as secret agents, but of late the truth had been shown me all too plainly.

“And did she mention an incident last year in Paris as the result of which she nearly lost her life?” I inquired.

“Yes; she told us a long story of how a mysterious attempt had been made to poison her in her own apartment in Paris by some subtle poison being placed upon the gum of the envelopes in her escritoire. She wrote a letter, and licked the envelope in order to seal it, when she was seized suddenly by excruciating pains, followed by coma and a state so nearly resembling death that even the doctors were at first deceived. Only by an antidote administered by an English doctor – a friend of yours, I believe – was her life saved. Because of your efforts she had, she said, been seized by remorse, and ceased to mislead you further, because of the debt of gratitude she owed you.”

“Very kind indeed of her,” I laughed.

A silence fell between us. We were both looking seaward, far away over the great expanse of clear bright blue, to where a distant steamer was leaving a trail of smoke upon the horizon. Down in the carnation-gardens some girls were singing an old Italian folk-song while they cut and packed the flowers for the London market; at our feet were violets everywhere.

“Can you tell me absolutely nothing, in order to lead me to a knowledge of the truth, Edith?” I asked again. “Remember that our love and our future depend upon you alone. At present you are a spy, liable to arrest as a traitress.”

“I know – I know!” she cried, bursting into a flood of tears. “It was not my fault. I could not help it. I was compelled – compelled!”

“You are aware of the channels through which knowledge of our diplomatic secrets have been obtained by our enemies. Will you not make amends by telling me the truth?” I asked in a low, persuasive, earnest tone, my arm about her slim waist.

“I dare not!” she sobbed – “I dare not! They would kill me, as they have sworn to do if I betrayed them!”

During the hour that followed, as we wandered together among the olives, I ascertained a few unimportant facts from her – facts which threw considerable light upon the ingenuity of the spies with whom she had been compelled to ally herself. But upon the secret of how their great coups had been accomplished her lips were sealed.

I gave her to understand that Bertini was now within an ace of arrest, and that in less than an hour he would, if I willed it, be inside the Prefecture, charged with treason against his own Government; but in such terror did she hold him that even my assertion that his power over her had ended did not induce her to disclose anything.

At first it had seemed to me almost impossible that she, living in the country with the strictly prim and proper Miss Foskett, could at the same time be a member of the secret service of our enemies. But I had witnessed her midnight meeting with Bertini, and that had convinced me.

“And if you cause his arrest,” she exclaimed reflectively, as we descended the mule-path on our return, “what will be the result?”

“The only result will be, as far as I can tell at present, that his evil influence over you will be ended, and you will be free.”

“No,” she responded, sighing, “there are the others. His arrest would only bring their wrath upon me, for they would believe that I had betrayed them.”

“They are spies and enemies of our country and our Queen, Edith,” I urged. “To betray them is your duty as an Englishwoman.”

“To disclose their secret would mean to me a swift and terrible death,” she answered.

I saw that all my efforts at persuasion were unavailing. As we retraced our steps the silence between us was a sad and painful one.

“You do not love me sufficiently to sacrifice all for my sake, Edith,” I said at last gravely; “otherwise you would help me to unravel the mystery.” We were just descending a narrow winding path to the high road as I spoke, and she halted suddenly in indecision.

“I do love you, Gerald,” she cried with sudden resolution. She flung her arms about my neck; she buried her face upon my shoulder; she burst again into tears. “I love you – I have never loved any man except yourself!” she declared passionately, lifting her face to me until our lips met.

“Then will you not make this sacrifice, if you really love me so well?” I asked. “Will you not tell me the truth, and allow me to be your champion?”

She hesitated, and I saw the terrible struggle going on within her.

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely at last, “I will – I will! and if they kill me, you will at least know that I loved you, Gerald – that I loved you deeply and dearly!”

“I am convinced of that, darling,” I said. “But in this affair your interests are my own. Tell me the truth, and give me freedom of action. If you will, we may yet overthrow our enemies.”

For a few moments she did not speak, but sobbed convulsively upon my breast. Then, suddenly holding her breath, she raised her tear-stained face to mine. At last, her love for me conquering all else, she said in a low whisper, as though fearful lest someone should overhear:

“Go to the little village of Feltham, near London, the next station to Twickenham, and find Cypress Cottage. You will discover the secret there.”

Feltham! It was the place mentioned by Wolf when I had listened to that conversation in the dingy little café at Batignolles.

“What is there?” I inquired quickly. “What secret does the cottage contain?”

“Have a care in approaching the place. Obtain the assistance of the police – surround it – search it – and see.”

“Is there sufficient evidence there to justify the spy’s arrest?”

“Certainly. Go and ascertain for yourself. I have betrayed their secret – that is enough. If their revenge falls upon me, then I am content to bear it, Gerald, for your sake. Tell me, however, that you have forgiven me all the past; that you will believe no word of any vile scandal that may be uttered against me by that pair of adventurers. Promise me,” she cried in deep earnestness.

“I will believe nothing without proof,” I answered, kissing her fondly. “I love you to-day, darling, just as passionately as I did when first we met long ago. I start for London by the Calais express at six to-night, and will at once follow your directions.”

“And Bertini, what of him?” she asked in alarm. “He is here, in Bordighera, for an evil purpose, without a doubt. If he knows, I shall be in deadly peril.”

“Have no fear,” I assured her. “Before I leave he will be in the hands of the police. My plans are already matured.” We walked back through the orange-grove down to the hotel hand-in-hand, both resolved to act firmly and fearlessly. As we walked along we seldom spoke with our lips; but our hearts discovered a beautiful language in the silence; and used it.

I loved her and she had proved her affection for me. The betrayal of their secret made it plain that after all she was really mine; for she had now defied her enemies and had placed her life in deadly jeopardy for my sake.

Chapter Thirty Six

The Secret

The village of Feltham is a sleepy little place standing in the centre of a bare, flat country half-way between Twickenham and Staines. It is still quite a rural spot, even though only a league outside the twelve-mile radius.

When I alighted from the train which had brought me down from Waterloo on the third day after leaving the sunshine of the Mediterranean, a cold cast wind was blowing, and the platform was covered with finely powdered snow. I had as companions three plain-clothes officers from Scotland Yard, one of whom was Inspector Chick of the special political branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. Application for assistance to the Commissioner had quickly been responded to, and outside the station we were met by the local plain-clothes constable of the T Division, who had been informed by telegraph of our advent. On my arrival in London that morning I had received a telegram from the police at Bordighera stating that Paolo Bertini was already under arrest.

We at once inquired the whereabouts of Cypress Cottage, and the local officer explained that it was a lonely house, situated nearly three miles away across the plain beyond Ashford, towards the valley of the Thames. We therefore obtained a wagonette at the station inn, and were very soon driving in company over the snow-covered road towards the spot indicated.

About a mile beyond Ashford village Chick, who directed the operations, ordered the coachman to stop, and he and I descended. In the distance we could see outlined against the gloomy, snow-laden sky a small, whitewashed cottage, standing where the road we were traversing made a junction with the high road between Staines and Kingston. This the local constable pointed out as our goal. It was a truly lonely place of residence, for there seemed no other house within a radius of several miles.

Chick, nimble of wit and resourceful, decided that we both should approach the place on foot, investigate, and endeavour to enter upon some pretext, while our three companions, at the moment of our entry, should drive up, leave the wagonette, and surround the place.

As soon as we had arranged our plan of operations, I buttoned my coat and strode on beside the inspector, who now took from his hip pocket a police-revolver and placed it in readiness in the outside pocket of his overcoat. With what resistance we might meet, or what was to be the nature of our discovery, we knew not. The revelation made by Edith was, to say the least of it, one of the strangest in my experience.

At last, after trudging through the snow, which lay thickly upon that road, we reached the cottage, a rather ill-kept place of about six rooms, and walked up the pathway to the door. That it was inhabited was shown by the smoke ascending from one of the chimneys and the stunted geraniums which screened the windows on the inside.

Chick knocked at the door, but for some anxious moments no response was made to his summons. Both of us listened attentively, and distinctly heard the shuffling of feet within, accompanied by an ominous whispering and the low growl of a dog, which was apparently being ordered to remain quiet.

“I hope these good people are not out,” Chick exclaimed in a loud voice, with a meaning look. “It’s evident we’ve lost our way.”

His words were heard by those within, and apparently at once disarmed suspicion, for in a few seconds the door was thrown open, and a tall, bony-faced woman of middle age confronted us with a look of inquiry. She was grey-haired, with a face which bore evident signs of the burdens of life.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” explained the inspector. “But we have unfortunately lost our way. We are strangers here. Could you direct us to the road to Littleton?”

“Certainly, gentlemen,” she answered. “Take the road along here to the left, and the Littleton road is the first on the left again. You can’t mistake it. There’s a sign-post up.”

Scarcely had the woman finished her sentence, however, before Chick pushed her aside and entered the place, I following close behind. The height of the woman was uncommon, and it occurred to me that she was the mysterious female who had watched me on the Calais boat some months before.

She gave a warning shout, and an ugly bulldog, released from the room beyond, came bounding fiercely upon us. Quick as thought Chick drew his revolver and shot the brute dead. The woman screamed “Murder!” So well-timed was our raid that at this very moment we heard outside the shouts of our companions, telling us that they had surrounded the place.

Those moments were full of wild excitement. From one room to another we dashed quickly, but discovered absolutely nothing to arouse any suspicions until we started to ascend the narrow flight of stairs, when, on doing so, we were suddenly confronted by the dark figure of a man standing at the head, with a revolver pointed straight at us. He spoke no word, but I was amazed to recognise him as the man who had once before made a dastardly attempt upon my life – Rodolphe Wolf! Then I knew that that cottage, as Edith had declared, contained the key to the mystery.

“If you attempt to come up here, I shall shoot!” cried the spy in English.

“I call upon you, in the name of the law, to surrender as my prisoner,” responded Chick firmly in his loud, ringing voice. “I don’t know your name, but I arrest you all the same.”

“His name is Wolf,” I explained breathlessly. “He is Rodolphe Wolf, the French spy!”

It seemed that then for the first time did the fellow recognise me, for, peering down, he cried: “It is you – you! Gerald Ingram!”