The attendants released MacTaggart, and turned to face this new foe.
The fight began all over again.

It was Homeric, for Mr. Gimp had once been a bantam champion of the
ring. There were bloody noses and broken teeth; there were curses
and cries of pain; there were black eyes and bruised ribs before the
indomitable two, overwhelmed by numbers, were carried to the door. The
fray had lasted a quarter of an hour.

“Weel,” said MacTaggart that night as they sat in Quinto’s, “I’m
thinkin’, Gimpy, auld man, we’ve lost oor tickets. We’ll no’ daur show
oor faces in that place ony mair.”

“No,” said Mr. Gimp, “the spell’s broken at last. I’m a free man.
To-morrow I’m off to the land where the handshake’s warmer.”

“An’ me fur Strathbungo. Eh, man, they got us oot, but it took a score
o’ them tae dae it. An’ by Goad! we laft oor mark on every mither’s
son.”

CHAPTER THREE

TEMPTATION

1.

Hugh continued to be haunted by thoughts of Mrs. Belmire. At times he
felt he would throw up everything to follow her; at others he consigned
her to the devil. He had resolved to let her make the first advance and
carefully avoided meeting her.

One day on returning home, Margot handed him an envelope bearing the
initials M. B. He was not altogether pleased and put it in his pocket
until he should be alone. He tore it open later and read:

“_How could I be so horrid to you the last time we met? Can you forgive
me enough to meet me this evening at Ciro’s at ten o’clock? It will
probably be adieu. I am leaving for Vichy on Friday._”

The humility of the note touched him. She had put herself in the wrong.
Nothing like a show of indifference with women, he thought. His vanity
was flattered. A sentiment of generosity akin to tenderness glowed in
him. Quite eagerly he awaited the evening.

She arrived a little late, wearing a very exquisite evening gown.
She rightly believed that her shoulders and arms added to her charm.
She took his hand in a firm, good-fellow grip. As she sat down he
was conscious of the perfume she affected. She seemed to him to be
stunning, the real thing, a _femme de luxe_.

Her manner was subdued to the point of mournfulness. It was one
of her favourite moods and was in harmony with the melancholy of
the restaurant. The orchestra played dispiritedly. Two teams of
professional dancers shimmied in a forlorn fashion. Even the waiters
looked listless.

“This place will be closing soon,” she sighed. “Monte is dying. All the
right sort have gone already. I feel almost like a derelict. I’m bored
to the verge of tears. For God’s sake do something to console me. Buy
me a bottle of Cliquot.”

When the waiter brought it in its silver bucket of ice, the bottle
looked very comforting. As they sipped, she grew more cheerful.

“Thank goodness I’m going. I say, why don’t you come, too? Do the giddy
round,--Paris for the Grand Prix, Deauville, Biarritz,--one meets the
same crowd at all these places, the world that lives to enjoy itself.
Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“I don’t belong to that world. I’m a quiet chap. I want a quiet life.”

“And I--I want a gay one. But I’m lonely. God! at times I’m so lonely,
I could shoot myself or get drunk. I say, let’s get drunk to-night.”

“You’re joking.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. But that’s just how I feel. I don’t know why.
Perhaps its because I won’t see you again. Oh, I say,--be a priceless
darling. Do come.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He felt her power, the melting appeal of her
eyes, the caress of her hand. Passion was invading him. He wanted to
seize her, crush her, hurt her. “Why not,” he thought, “a month of that
gay life! It would cost a good deal, but perhaps it would be worth it.
A delirious month....” Then he heard himself saying:

“No, it’s no use. I can’t go.”

She stamped her foot pettishly. The spell was broken. After a little
she resumed:

“Well, if you won’t come with me, you won’t refuse to help me. I’m
in debt all round. I owe quite a lot of money to the pension, too. I
don’t know how much. I have no head for figures. I’m like a child in
financial matters. I say, dear boy, you’ll lend me a bit, won’t you?
I’ve counted on you, you know.”

He winced. His lips tightened.

“How much?”

“Oh, a little bunch of _milles_. Ten or twenty will do. What does it
matter to you? You’re rich. You’re making millions. You’re not stingy,
are you?”

He felt the time had come for an explanation. “Look here,” he said,
“you’re all wrong. You assumed from the start I was a somebody and
had something. I’m really a nobody and I have nothing. You might even
call me an adventurer. I came here broken in health and practically
penniless. Now I am strong and fit again. And I have some money, fifty
thousand francs, which I managed to wrench from the Casino. That’s all
I’ve got, I swear it. I’m not mean, but I’ve known bitter poverty and
don’t want to know it again.”

She was looking at him in sheer amazement. He warmed to his subject,
and spoke with a gusto that was almost malicious.

“That money means life to me. It means a home, a chance to make a
living by healthy, agreeable work. I’m going to buy a car. Next year
if you’re here and you see me standing in line waiting for a job,
you can hire me. Now you know me. That’s the sort I am, a penniless
adventurer. I should have told you before, but I enjoyed being with you
so much that I postponed the confession. Well, that’s over any way. And
now what are you going to do?”

For a full minute she was speechless. Then she said breathlessly:

“But you are making millions, you and that old man. Every one knows it.
You are partners....”

“No, not partners. I never touch a _sou_ of what he makes.”

“But ... he’s like a father to you. He’ll give you anything you want. A
million if you ask. I am sure.”

“I don’t intend to ask.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Belmire.

“No, I don’t think you do; I don’t think you can. I’m sorry, but....
Hullo! there’s that fellow Vulning. By Jove! he’s coming in here. Drunk
as a tinker, too, I’ll swear.”

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. She sat silent, her chin propped
on her hands, staring into vacancy with stormy, scornful eyes. Yes, she
was lovely. Now that he had told her everything he was half sorry. She
was lost to him. She would turn on him presently, and call him a most
unmerciful bounder. Well, he deserved it. He waited. He felt sorry for
her, she seemed so bowled over. Then suddenly she turned to him, fixing
him with an intense gaze.

“I counted on you. Oh, how I counted on you!”

Tears and reproach were in her voice. At that moment he almost yielded,
almost promised her the money. Even as he hesitated, his attention was
attracted by Paul Vulning.

Vulning was standing at the bar. He was dressed in a golfing suit and
looked as if he had been on a long debauch. His face was puffy and
muddily red, his cheeks and chin bristly; his eyes fishy when they were
not wild. He stared round the room, and recognized Mrs. Belmire, but he
did not notice Hugh.

“Hullo! Marion,” he cried. “Come on, old girl, and have a Scotch.”

She did not pay any attention, but continued to brood, her chin in her
cupped hands. He shouted once more.

“Here, don’t be haughty. You weren’t always too proud to drink at a
bar. Well, I’ll come over and join you.”

Carrying his glass unsteadily, he made his way towards them.

“Brute!” said Hugh.

“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Mrs. Belmire contemptuously. “He’s
always beastly when he’s in that state.”

Vulning halted.

“Excuse me. Didn’t notice you had a fellow. Never mind. We’re all pals
here, ain’t we?”

He sat down unsteadily. “All pals.... _Damn you!_”

He had suddenly recognized Hugh, and he bent forward with a snarl like
that of an angry dog.

“You bloody whipper-snapper.... Bah!”

Hugh restrained himself with difficulty, and sat tense. The frown on
Mrs. Belmire’s face deepened. Vulning’s snarl gradually relaxed to a
sneer. He meant mischief.

“You’re looking rippin’ to-night, Marion. ’Pon my soul I never saw you
looking so stunning.”

He put out a rather dirty hand and patted her white shoulder. She drew
back.

“Don’t touch me, you beast!”

Hugh broke in tempestuously. “Don’t do that again, you dog, or I’ll
knock you down.”

Vulning gave a sneering laugh, then suddenly grew fierce.

“Why shouldn’t I do it if I choose? What’s it got to do with you, you
young whelp? What can you do?”

“I can make you respect a lady in my presence.”

“Respect! Lady!” Vulning burst into a roar of laughter. “That a lady!
_That!_ Why, man, she’s been my mistress. She’s been the mistress of
a dozen men I know. She’s anybody’s woman. Respect! Her! Oh you young
fool! You poor flat.... _Ach!_”

He choked. Hugh had clutched him by the collar and was shaking him
savagely. Vulning struck out wildly, but Hugh hurled him to the floor
and stood over him.

“Come on,” said Mrs. Belmire wearily, “I’m going.”

She went to the door alone, pulling her cloak over her dazzling
shoulders. Hugh hesitated, then followed her.

“I’d better see you home,” he said.

“Home!” she laughed bitterly. “I had a home once. I don’t suppose I’ll
ever have another.”

“Was it true? What he said?”

Her voice was hard, scornful. “Yes, all true. What would you? I must
live. I was brought up to do nothing. My husband died leaving me only
his debts. Try to understand! Put yourself in my place. Men are brutes.
A woman must prey or be preyed on. You are the first decent, clean man
I’ve met since ... oh, ever so long. And you’ve never suspected?...”

“No, I didn’t think _that_ of you. I suppose it was because I didn’t
want to think it. I thought you were foolish, worldly, of limited
means but straight, quite straight. I swear I did.”

“And now that you know you will never see me again?”

“I don’t know. I must think it out. We have both been deceived in the
other.”

“Yes, we must both think it out. Here’s the pension. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

2.

Two days later Hugh persuaded the professor to play more rapidly, with
the result that in less than two hours the old man had won nearly two
hundred thousand francs. The effort exhausted him and he retired to his
bed for the day. He intended to repeat the performance the next morning.

When Hugh returned, he found Margot laying the table for lunch. He
noticed that her hands trembled. Though quiet and reserved as always,
she had a strange sullen set to her mouth and a resentful look in her
eyes. Presently she said:

“A lady came to see you this morning.”

“A lady! Here! Who was it?”

“A haughty English lady,--with dyed hair.”

With some annoyance Hugh applied this description to Mrs. Belmire.

“What did she say?”

“I did not let her in. She took me for the domestic. I was scrubbing
the kitchen and not very tidy. I said you were out and I had not the
faintest idea when you would be in.”

“Yes?”

“She then said: ‘Tell him I will dine at the Carlton to-night at
eight, and expect him to have dinner with me.’ I bobbed my head and
answered, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Then she said, ‘Do you think you can give that
message correctly, my girl?’ I answered again, ‘Yes, ma’am. I think my
intelligence will be equal to the strain you are putting on it.’ She
then offered me a franc but I refused it.”

“Damn it! I’m sorry she came.... I mean I’m sorry you were put in such
a position.”

“I think I’d better go away. Is that the lady you go about with so
much?”

“How do you know I go about with her?”

“I’ve seen you; lots of times. She’s a bad woman, I tell you. I know
all about her. She’s ruined lots of men. She’ll ruin you, too.”

The girl seemed to be trembling with suppressed rage. Hugh became angry.

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” he said coldly.

“Are you going to see her to-night?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with you.”

“Because if you do, I won’t stay here. I’ll leave to-night. I swear I
will.”

“You seem determined to create an atmosphere of unpleasantness. I don’t
like it. I’ll go and get lunch elsewhere.”

He ate at the Bristol. Later, he took a walk, went for a swim, had tea
at Scapini’s, and strolled about the “Cheese.” He could not get the
thought of Margot out of his head. What had got into her? It was none
of her business whom he went with. He would not let any one exercise
a control over his actions. As for her going away, it was an empty
threat. She had said the same thing before. What did Mrs. Belmire want
with him? It would be safer, perhaps, not to see her again. It was
playing with fire....

At seven o’clock, nevertheless, he went home and changed into his
evening clothes. As he was going out Margot stood by the door.

“You’re going, then?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Very well, then, I warn you; you won’t find me here when you come
back.”

“Do as you please. You are entirely mistress of your own actions.”

He passed her, slamming the door.

3.

He found Mrs. Belmire waiting for him. She had reserved a table in one
of the alcoves and looked very bewitching.

“This is my farewell supper. I had intended to invite some other men;
then I thought it would be nicer, just we two.”

Mrs. Belmire’s invitations to supper always included the privilege
of paying for it. She seemed to have made up her mind to be the most
charming of hostesses. She ordered an exquisite brand of champagne
and kept Hugh’s glass filled. She talked vivaciously, with long deep
looks into his eyes, and little caressing touches of her hands. She
nestled close to him, so close that it was disconcerting to look down
on the delicious curves of dazzling flesh, emerging in such radiant and
insolent beauty from a gown that sheathed her to the bust in front, and
was cut to the waist behind.

It was a gala night. There was a gay crowd of dancers; brilliant
Chinese lanterns were strung closely overhead, and the walls and
columns were covered with fanciful decorations of coloured crêpe paper.

“Don’t you love it all?” she sighed. “Light, love, laughter,--what a
part they play in life.”

He was inclined to agree with her. The triumphant wine was singing
through his veins; the mad music was goading him to a frenzy of
happiness; the dazzling shoulders and gleaming arms of Mrs. Belmire
were pagan in their beauty. The whole combination, wine, woman, song,
was for him. Every fibre of his will was weakening in this atmosphere
of sheer delight.

“She’s got me going,” he almost groaned. When she turned away her head
he emptied his champagne on the floor.

Seeing his glass empty she plied him with another. “You don’t drink
anything,” she said. “Come, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.
Let’s abandon ourselves. It’s so jolly nice to be together like this. I
wish it could last forever.”

The champagne was taking possession of his sense. He saw her through
a roseate mist, a wholly voluptuous, desireful creature. He had drunk
nearly two-thirds of the wine; more would be fatal. To avoid real
intoxication, he stimulated a slight false one.

“No more of the damned stuff,” he said roughly. “My head’s all buzzing
with it. It’s poison. The tears of widows and orphans, the widows and
orphans the old professor’s working for....”

She leaned forward eagerly. “I heard you made quite a lot to-day.”

“He made nearly quarter of a million ... for his widows and orphans.”

“Why for them? Why not for you, for us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wouldn’t you like to be rich? Wouldn’t you like to have a life like
this always,--flowers, music, good wine, delicate food, a life of
luxury?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I want quiet and simplicity. I don’t want to be rich.”

“Oh, you make me lose patience. You say you would like to be a painter.
Well, why not study,--Paris, Rome and so on?”

“That takes money. I haven’t got it.”

“Yes, you have. All you want. Millions!”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you later. Have some more wine.”

“No, no. I’ve had enough. You want to make me drunk. Come on, let’s
leave this cursed _bordel_. My head’s splitting. I want fresh air.”

“Poor boy! You want to lie down a bit. I say, come and stretch, _chez
moi_. You can smoke a cigarette and have a snooze if you like. It’s
quiet there.”

He would have broken away, but she held his arm and called a _voiture_.
It was exactly ten o’clock when they left the restaurant and descended
to the Pension Pizzicato. Once in the open air the fumes of the wine
affected him with sudden drowsiness.

“Look here,” he said, “I do believe I’m a bit squiffy. Perhaps I’d
better lie down on your sofa for half an hour.”

“That’s a good boy. Come on.”

He remembered descending unsteadily from the _voiture_ and stumbling up
to her room. They met no one on the way. He threw himself on her divan
and closed his eyes.

4.

When he opened them again she was bending over him. She wore a lilac
peignoir that clothed her loosely. As he looked at her, surprised, she
said:

“My dear boy, how’s your poor head? You know you’ve slept nearly two
hours. And look who’s here,--Mr. Fetterstein. He came just a few
minutes after we did. We’ve been chatting.”

Fetterstein was comfortably seated, smoking a huge cigar, and drinking
a whiskey and soda. He grunted amiably to Hugh.

“Yey, boy! Some snorer too, hey, Mrs. B.? Well, feelin’ better?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m all right now.”

“Have a cigar?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me I’ll hit the hay. I’m not the night-hawk I
used to be. Gettin’ old, hey! I’ll leave the rounder game to you young
bloods. Good-night, young chap.”

When he had gone Mrs. Belmire came impulsively to Hugh and knelt by the
side of his chair.

“My poor darling! Are you really feeling better? We talked low so as
not to disturb you. Old Fetterstein’s not a bad sort. You mustn’t mind
him. You know he wants me to go to Vichy with him. He will pay all my
debts.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t want to. I want to go with you. Let’s go to Venice. It’s a
dream.”

He looked at her in a dazed way. She put her arms around his neck.

“Oh, come. You’re the only man I love in all the world. In a few more
years I will be _passée_; but now I am at my very best. Look at me.
Don’t I please you? Take me. I’ll be everything to you as long as you
like. When you tire of me, I’ll go. I’ll be yours, all yours. I’m not
fickle. I’ll love you, you alone. You won’t regret it. We’ll live in
places that glitter and glow; we will drink to the full the wine of
life. Oh, take me, take me....”

“I don’t understand. How can I do these things? I’m not a man of
wealth....”

“Oh, yes, you are, if you like. There’s the old professor. You know how
to play as he does. You can get hold of his books, copy his figures.
We’ll go to San Sebastien, Buenos Ayres, everywhere roulette is
allowed. Play, play for yourself. Become rich. Life without money is
hell. Come! you’ll do it. Won’t you, won’t you....”

She clung to him. He looked at her with something like horror.

“You want me to _steal_ the professor’s system?”

“Yes, if you want to put it that way. Why not? He’s old, half mad.
Charity begins at home. Why not?”

“Never!”

“You will ... you will....”

She seemed to be holding him with all the strength of her body; she
kissed him like a mad thing. He could feel her hot panting breath on
his face, see her eyes burn into his.

“No, a thousand times no!”

She was like a splendid animal mad with passion. He rose and wrenching
her arms apart, backed away from her, a look of repulsion in his eyes.
She saw it and knew she was defeated.

She crouched by the empty chair, her head dropping on her outstretched
arms. She seemed to be sobbing.

He paused by the door. Something forlorn in her attitude touched him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If I were mad for love of you, I would do
anything you asked me, but ... I’m not. I can’t go with you because I
don’t care for you in that way. I realize it now. Perhaps I should have
known it sooner. Please forgive me.”

She rose and faced him.

“Forgive you.... You poor fool! Did you think I meant it? Why, I was
only acting. Did you think I cared for you? It’s only money I care for,
money, money. I offered myself to you and you refused me. You are the
only man who ever did that. It’s that that hurts. You’ve wounded me in
a way time will never heal. I hate you, hate you! Oh, I could kill you.
Go!...”

She pointed to the door, then turning, once again dropped beside the
chair. She was really crying now, shaken with great rending sobs.

He left her. As he passed in front of the dark Casino, the pinkish face
of the clock showed it to be one in the morning. All the way downhill
to the Condamine he did not meet a soul. There was no moon; and the
quietness was almost eerie.

The passage leading to the house was as dark as a tunnel of anthracite.
He plunged into its blackness, then stopped short. A man was blocking
his way. Instinctively his hand went to his hip pocket for his
automatic. Assassins....

Then a second man, darting from behind, gripped his arms. He struggled
madly; but the first man, closing in, struck at him with something
hard, and he remembered no more.

CHAPTER FOUR

ARREST

“Where am I?”

About him were bare, white-washed walls; the light came by grudgingly
through a small barred window that gave on rock and shrub. He struggled
to a sitting position on the pallet bed on which he lay. The place
reeled round and round. He groaned, and put his hand to his head. It
was bandaged. It ached atrociously. What had happened? He tried to
think, but thinking was painful. Memory returned in gleams and dashes.
Bit by bit the evening before came back to him. But how to account for
his present position? He gave up the effort and lay down again.

A man entered, a rather grim, brown man in a kind of uniform.

“Monsieur has awakened?”

“Yes, what place is this?”

“It is the detention room of the Monaco Police Station.”

“But why am I here?”

“Monsieur was arrested only this morning.”

“Arrested! Good Heavens! Why?”

“Ah! that is not for me to say. Monsieur will be brought before the
examining magistrate in an hour. Will monsieur take _petit déjeuner_?”

“Bring me some strong coffee. It may buck me up.”

The coffee cleared his head wonderfully and helped him to realize his
position. He had been arrested last night by those two men in the
dark entry. They certainly had used him roughly enough. He would make
a deuce of a row about that. The whole thing was outrageous, an error
or else a dastardly plot. Then he became uneasy. Anything might happen
here. He was at the mercy of the powers that be. They might throw him
into one of the dungeons of the Castle. Sinister forebodings invaded
him.

Presently two policemen came for him, and he walked between them to a
large room where three men were sitting at a curving desk. Their backs
were to a double window but he was placed in the glare of the strong
light.

The three men were dusky Monegascans. They wore black frock coats and
black bow ties. The centre one was severe and stout, the one on the
right severe and thin, the third was young, intelligent and amiable
looking. It was evident they were important personages in the judiciary
system of the Principality, probably the examining magistrate, the
state attorney and the chief of police. The stout one addressed him
curtly.

“Your name is Hugh Kildair?”

“Yes.”

“You inhabit a room on the third floor of the Villa Lorenza?”

“Yes.”

The magistrate consulted his notes. There was a silence. Hugh saw six
piercing eyes fixed on his face.

“Can you account for your movements from ten o’clock until midnight
yesterday evening?”

Hugh reflected that his movements during that time consisted of
somewhat stertorous respirations on the sofa of Mrs. Belmire’s sitting
room, and hesitated. But after all, he thought, he had no need to be
reticent as far as Mrs. Belmire was concerned. He resented those
damned descendants of Saracen pirates, though. What had they against
him?

“I don’t understand,” he protested. “What have I been arrested for?
It’s an outrage. I’ll appeal to the British consul.”

The youngest of the men interposed smoothly. “You do not seem to
realize the seriousness of your position, monsieur. You will do well to
answer the question.”

Hugh was impressed.

“Well,” he said, “I was with a lady, if you wish to know.”

“Kindly give us her name.”

“A Mrs. Belmire, an English lady.”

The three exchanged glances. The thin one shrugged his shoulders. The
pleasant one smiled meaningly.

“She is known to us,” said the fat one. “Will you be so good as to tell
us where and how you passed the entire evening.”

Hugh repressed his growing indignation. He answered sullenly enough:

“I met her at eight at the Carlton. We had dinner. At ten we took a
_voiture_ and went to her hotel. There I fell asleep on her sofa and
awoke about twelve. I remained till nearly one, when I left for my
room. In the dark entry of the house where I live, my way was barred
by a man.... But then you know more than I do about what happened from
then on.”

“Why did you attempt to draw your pistol?”

“I was nervous. In the past few weeks there have been attempts to
injure me.”

The pleasant looking man nodded confirmation to this. The thin man then
said:

“We had better get hold of the English lady at once. She is not
the most desirable of witnesses, but ... if what monsieur says is
supported, he has an undeniable alibi and we can release him.”

“Release me! Of course, you will. What have I done, tell me. What am I
charged with?”

“There is no charge yet. You are arrested on suspicion only.”

“Of what?”

The three looked at each other. Then the fat one bent forward
dramatically.

“Of murder.”

“Good God! Whose murder?”

The lean one fixed his piercing eyes on Hugh’s face.

“_Professor Durand was murdered in his room last night, between ten and
twelve._”

All three watched him closely. He was dazed by the shock. He stared at
them blankly.

“Horrible!” he murmured. “The poor old man ... murdered!...”

“Yes, stabbed to the heart.”

“But who did it? Why have you arrested me?”

“Because the concierge says he saw you go up to the old man’s room a
little after ten, and leave a little after eleven.”

“Me!”

“Yes. If you can prove that you were elsewhere, then the man must have
been mistaken. We’ll see the English lady at once.”

But alas! a telephone call to the Pension Pizzicato informed them that
Mrs. Belmire had left early that morning with Mr. Fetterstein in a high
powered car. Destination unknown.

“Hum!” said the magistrate, “that makes it bad for you. We are willing
to release you if you can prove an incontestable alibi. We don’t want
any trouble here. But if you cannot we must hand you over to the French
authorities.”

“Hold on,” said Hugh. “Fetterstein was there too, in the room.”

“You mean Monsieur Fetterstein, the multi-millionaire American?”

“Yes, the same.”

“Ah!” All three looked impressed.

“If only Monsieur Fetterstein would testify in your favour that would
end the matter as far as you are concerned. He is well known to us and
much esteemed.”

“But can’t you find him?”

“That might be hard. There is all France to search. Cannot your friends
here hire a lawyer, get some one to help you,--a detective?...”

Hugh considered. “Perhaps Monsieur Krantz would help me.”

They looked surprised; Hugh went on:

“Will you let him know the position I’m in? If any one can find them he
can.”

The chief of police nodded. “He’s already interested in the case.”

The magistrate talked with the others in the Monegascan dialect.
Finally he said:

“We will see what we can do. In the meantime you must remain here. We
will investigate the affair thoroughly. If you are innocent you need
have no fear of the result. That is all I can say for the present.”

Hugh was conducted back to his cell, and left to his own reflections.
He sat for a long time in a state verging on stupor. The professor
murdered,--that was the thought that drove all others from his head,
made him forget even his own plight. The professor murdered! But by
whom? There were those who had reason enough to want the old man out
of the way; there were those who would rejoice at his death. But
assassination! No, they would surely draw the line at that. Krantz had
a drastic way of dealing with criminals, but he would never stain his
hands with the blood of honest men. Still, he had admitted he could not
always keep his subordinates in check.

If, then, it had not been the act of an irresponsible tool of Krantz,
who else had an interest in disposing of the professor? As he lay
through the long day he pondered on this. How slowly the time passed!
He thought sadly that all his friends had gone. MacTaggart, Gimp, Tope,
he was sure they would have hurried to his aid. Margot, too! Why had
she not come? She must know by now where he was. A strange longing to
see her came over him. It would be more comforting to see her than any
one else.

In the evening to his surprise Krantz arrived. The detective entered
with a smile of cheerful mockery that was rather irritating to a man in
Hugh’s position.

“Hullo,” he said, laughing as if it was quite funny, “you’ve got
yourself into a nice mess.”

“Have I?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Here’s your concierge swearing you were in
the old man’s room at the time the murder was committed. You say that
you were elsewhere, but you cannot produce your witnesses. You name two
people who have left the country, gone goodness knows where. Doesn’t
it strike you that if they should not come back to testify for you, you
will be in a devilish awkward box?”

“Look here, Krantz, you know I didn’t do it.”

“Of course, I know it,” said Krantz smilingly.

“And you know who did do it.”

The face of Krantz grew very grave. “Hum! I’m not so sure of that.”

“But what was the motive?”

“Robbery, of course. Didn’t they tell you that the safe was opened, all
the papers taken? He had better luck than I, whoever he was.”

“And the system?”

“Stolen. That’s unfortunate. I wish I knew who he was.”

“Whoever has it can’t use it,” said Hugh. “It’s in cypher, and there’s
only one man who can decipher it.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

“That’s interesting. Humph! I’ll remember that.”

Krantz thoughtfully tapped the floor with his cane for a full minute.
Then he rose.

“I’m going to help you if I can. I’ll try to find your two witnesses so
that you can establish your alibi. But if I get you clear, and should
ever want your aid (in an honourable way, of course) you’ll help me?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Don’t worry. Good-night.”

The visit of Krantz cheered Hugh and he was able to get some sleep.
But the next two days crawled past miserably. Except for the warders
with his food no one came near him; again his fears took shape. What if
Mrs. Belmire and Fetterstein could not be found! Mrs. Belmire probably
hated him and might be glad to revenge herself on him by keeping out of
the way. But no, he thought, she was too good a sport for that. There
was Fetterstein, too. Everything must come right. The time seemed so
long.

On the fourth day he was again ushered into the bureau. The stout
magistrate was at his desk and beside him sat the chief of police. He
smiled benignly at Hugh.

“Everything has been explained,” he said, “as far as you are concerned.
You are released. You need have no further fear. We regret exceedingly
we have been obliged to put you to the inconvenience.”

He bowed with a gesture of dismissal, and Hugh lost no time in leaving
the room. As he emerged from the police station a voice hailed him:

“Hullo there! Sorry we didn’t know you were in such a hell of a fix or
we’d have got here sooner. They connected with us at Marseilles and
we came right on in the car. We’ve just been and interviewed the old
guy. You bet we soon straightened things out. By the way, allow me to
present you to Mrs. Fetterstein.”

Hugh stared. Fetterstein with a hearty laugh was indicating a lady
who was arranging her motoring veil. It was Mrs. Belmire. She looked
radiant.

“Yes, we were married in Marseilles yesterday. Oh, I’m so happy! He’s
really such a nice old thing. You’ve no idea. We’re going to Italy for
our honeymoon. So sorry we didn’t know you were in trouble, or we’d
have simply flown to the rescue. He’s made an affidavit, or something
of the kind. Well, all’s well that ends well. Now we must be getting
on. Come, you precious old dear. Good-bye, Mr. Kildair. Hope we’ll all
meet again.”

Hugh had no time for congratulations. They sprang into a great
cheese-coloured car, and were gone, leaving him in a state of utter
bewilderment.

He made his way slowly back to the house he called home. Forebodings
assailed him. The concierge had gone, no doubt dreading awkward
explanations. Looking up Hugh saw that the windows of the professor’s
room were shuttered. So also were his own. To find his room so dark, so
silent, struck a chill to his heart!

“Margot! Margot!”

No reply. He pulled aside the grey curtain. Her bed had not been slept
in. He searched everywhere for a note from her. Nothing! Had she
carried out her threat? Had she left him as she had said she would?

He went slowly down stairs and asked the tenant of the room below for
news. The woman shook her head.

“The _petite blonde_? No, I know nothing of her. She disappeared the
night of the crime.”

CHAPTER FIVE

TRAPPED

1.

The next three days were more miserable to Hugh than those he had spent
in prison. He missed Margot keenly. He had become so used to her; she
had waited on him so devotedly; had made herself so essential to him in
a hundred little ways. Her sudden desertion of him when he most needed
her filled him with dismay.

He felt injured, too. He had done a good deal for her. He had always
been a perfect brother, respectful and courteous. If she had been a
real sister, he could not have thought more of her. If he could get
her back he would be even more considerate. He would take her to the
cinema, to tea sometimes, even for a drive occasionally. The trouble
was, if he went about with her, people would jump at wrong conclusions.
Well, in future, let ’em jump. He would buy that cottage and she should
keep house for him. He wondered if it would be possible to legally
adopt her as a sister. Then she could live with him until she found the
man she wanted to marry. Why not?

Where was she? In Paris, no doubt; taking up the weary struggle once
more. She would surely write soon, then he would go and fetch her. Why
had she left most of her clothes, he wondered? All the things he had
bought her? Perhaps she did not want to take them. The sight of her
abandoned garments made him lonelier than ever.

She must have left just before the crime. If she had been there, it
might not have happened, she always kept such a watchful eye on the
old man’s door. How shocked she would be. She had been so fond of the
professor, fussing over him, doing things for him. Poor man! So that
was the end of all his grandiose schemes. And the system was useless,
for only he, Hugh, had the key. Well, he was glad it had been stolen.
He had always hated it. There had been something so uncanny about it.
Although it was always successful, it seemed to bring misfortune on all
connected with it.

He felt the shadow of the tragedy penetrating even to his room. The
_concierge_ who had identified him as the murderer, had discreetly
gone on a vacation; but Hugh had gathered dubious details of what had
happened. About ten o’clock the assassin had mounted to the old man’s
room. The _concierge_ had seen him enter, but had not seen him leave.
About midnight the occupant of the room below, a Casino employé, had
heard groaning; but by the time the door had been opened the old
man was dead. He was lying face downward in a pool of blood with a
knife stab just under the ribs. The safe was open and empty; the room
ransacked.

That was all Hugh could learn. It was vague and confusing enough.
The Monaco police seemed to be in no hurry to clear up the mystery
and probably would allow it to swell the list of the Principality’s
undiscovered crimes.

Oh, for a word from Margot! He was growing anxious about her. Then one
day the postman handed him a letter.

2.

It bore the post-mark of Monaco. He tore it open and read with
amazement the following:

  “My dear Cousin:

  “You will no doubt be surprised at this manner of address, but
  various things have led me to conclude that the above relationship
  exists between us.

  “My uncle was Gilbert Kildair, the well-known artist, who, I find
  according to the records of the Municipality of Menton, was duly
  married to Lucia Fontana on the nineteenth of October, 1898.

  “After his death she went to England to see if his family would not
  do something for her and her son; but they had quarrelled with him
  and refused to recognize her as his wife.

  “My mother was a Kildair, and struck by the curious resemblance
  between us, I made inquiries with this result.

  “I know that up to now your feelings towards me have been hostile,
  but I hope that in view of our newly discovered relationship, you
  will let byegones be byegones. After all, blood is thicker than
  water, and already I feel an interest in you that exceeds the warmth
  of ordinary friendship.

  “I would like you to visit me at my Villa. If it suits you, my car
  will await you at ten this evening at the Church of St. Devoté. Do
  run you up. Please do not fail me.

                                            “Your cousin,

                                                         “PAUL VULNING.”

Hugh had to read this extraordinary letter over three times before he
understood the significance of it. To his amazement succeeded disgust.
He had no desire to be related to Vulning. His dislike for the man was
invincible. There was also his resentment towards his father’s family.
He did not want to have anything to do with them. They had refused to
recognize his mother, and had never shown the slightest interest in
himself. Vulning was typical of them, arrogant, selfish, supercilious.
Why then this sudden interest on his part? Why did Vulning recognize
him now, want to take him up? Hugh was puzzled.

He decided to go to Vulning’s villa; there could be no harm in that. He
might gain some information about his parents. He did not like Vulning
any the better now that he knew he was a cousin. Still there was no
reason they should not be decently civil to one another.

He was glad to learn that his father had been a well-known artist.
That accounted for his own modest talent and his joy in playing with
colours. His mother ... his poor mother ... perhaps she was one of the
Fontanas of Monaco, the famous Fontanas. He must go over to Menton and
look up the register. The letter suggested to him new and engrossing
lines of thought. He awaited the evening with impatience.

At ten o’clock the carmine car was waiting, breathing softly, with
great glowing eyes. The chauffeur touched his hat and Hugh leapt into
the seat beside him. How he loved a car! This was a Hispana Suiza
and the one-eyed chauffeur drove like a demon. He climbed the steep
serpentine hill, nursing his motor with infinite delicacy. The engine
roared triumphantly; the lights of the town fell away; the world
widened gloriously. They rose with a steady, panting urge, toward the
mountains and the stars.

Soon they were well in the belt of orange groves and the road became
more difficult to follow. The chauffeur was driving at a slow pace, the
way twisting and turning. Hugh could hardly believe that any one lived
in such a remote place until he remembered that Vulning’s villa was the
highest on the hillside. It was ideal for any one who loved seclusion;
the view must be superb. Presently lights swooped towards them, and the
wheels of the car ground in the gravel. They had arrived.

There is always something mysterious about the approach to a lonely
house at night. The sense of mystery at Vulning’s villa was heightened
by the great garden that encircled it. The vast velvety blackness, with
its suggestions of pines and cyprus, and its rich sullen silence was
almost aggressive. Against the mountain the tall house loomed faintly.
It was terraced on three sides, with a flight of steps leading up to
the front entrance.

As he mounted them the door opened and a man awaited him. Hugh was
surprised to see it was Bob Bender. Bob smiled in his sly, deprecating
way.

“How are you, sir? Mr. Vulning’s expecting you. He’s in the library.
Come this way.”

He led Hugh down a long unlighted hall and halted before a door. The
air was stale and heavy.

Then the door was opened and Hugh found himself in a large sombre room,
panelled in dark wood; over what appeared to be a bay window hung
heavy crimson curtains. The window was evidently open, as the curtains
trembled slightly. By an oak table in the middle of the room stood
Vulning with a curious smile on his face.

As the two men faced one another the resemblance between them was more
striking than ever. Both were tall and slim and straight. Both had the
severely regular features of the type that used to be known as the
English governing class. Their hair was of the same light chestnut
and brushed smoothly back. But while Hugh’s eyes were black, those of
Vulning were blue; while Hugh’s face was frank and boyish, that of
Vulning was cynical and blasé. There appeared to be a dozen years of
difference in their ages.

For a moment there was an awkward pause, then Vulning held out his hand
with a rather exaggerated cordiality.

“Come on, now, be cousinly. I know you are prejudiced against me; but,
hang it all, I’ve suffered more at your hands than you have at mine.
Let’s forget it, bury the hatchet, shake hands. Come, be a good sport.”

Hugh complied reluctantly. Cousin or not he could not overcome his
repugnance to this man.

“You were doubtless surprised,” Vulning went on pleasantly. “I was,
too, when I made the discovery. It was our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmire,
who put me on the track. It is really a very curious coincidence.
However, we won’t dwell on that. I asked you up here to speak about
quite another matter. Won’t you sit down? You’ll find that arm-chair
quite decent.”

Hugh took it, but Vulning remained standing.

“Now,” he continued, “I am afraid I am going to surprise you a second
time. To make a long story short, a few days ago there came into my
hands, in a round-about-way, certain documents with which you are
doubtless familiar. It was with regard to these I wanted to see you.
Look....”

With that Vulning extracted from the inside pocket of his coat a rolled
mass of manuscript, and laid it on the table, keeping his hand on it.

“You know this, eh?”

Hugh was speechless. He sat staring at the document. The cover had been
torn away, but he recognized it at once.

“The system of Professor Durand,” he gasped.

“Precisely. It’s all here. It was taken from his safe, and has come
into my possession; how--I cannot for the moment explain. Now what I
want of you is this....”

Vulning bent forward eagerly, his eyes gleaming.

“You and I alone know of this. I have all the documents that refer to
the system, but I am forced to confess I can do nothing with it. You,
I believe, are the one man who can decipher it. Now I want to propose
a partnership between us. You will translate this manuscript. We will
work the thing together. We will get a hundred million francs out of
the bank. We will share fifty-fifty. That is generous,--too generous.
But then we are cousins. Well, are you on?”

Hugh sat as if transfixed, staring at the folio. The sudden sight of
it, combined with the impudence of the proposal, quite took away his
breath. Vulning watched him keenly.

“Takes you some time to realize it. I told you I would surprise you.”

Hugh started up. “But,” he cried, “these documents do not belong to
you. They were stolen. The professor intended to leave them to me after
his death. I was to publish them. It’s a sacred trust. Here, give them
to me....”

He made a grab for the documents; but Vulning withdrew them quickly,
and at the same time jerked a small revolver from his pocket.

“No, you don’t,” he sneered. “Stand back. I’ve got you covered.”

“You’ve no right to these papers,” Hugh protested hotly. “I’ll go and
tell the police.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Don’t be a fool. It’s a fair offer I’m
making you. You translate this and we’ll work together. Come!”

“I refuse.”

“You refuse. You surprise me. An easy chance to make fifty million
francs. Think of all it means, man,--wealth, luxury, beauty. We are
getting it all legitimately from an institution that deserves no better
treatment. Consider again. You’ll translate this?”

“I tell you; no!”

“May I ask why?”

“Because.... Look here, how did those documents come into your hands?”

“Never mind. I told you we would not go into that.”

“You have some connection with this theft. You....”

Then a light burst on Hugh. The man for whom he had been arrested--

“It was you who stole them.... And--Oh, my God! ... you damned villain!
It was you, you who murdered Professor Durand.”

Vulning’s face went white; he seemed about to collapse.

“No, I didn’t,” he stammered. “Not that. I swear I didn’t do that. Look
here, I’ll be quite honest. I confess I took the papers. The professor
admitted me in the dusk, thinking it was you. He was working, and the
safe was open. I asked to refer to the system, and he brought it to
me. Then he saw who it was. We struggled, and I gave him a touch of
chloroform, a mere touch, not enough to harm him. When I came away he
was sleeping like a baby. I took the papers, closed the safe and left
very quietly. That’s all I know. He was found later, stabbed to the
heart. I did not do it. I swear to that.”

Aghast, incapable of action, Hugh stood staring at him. Then as quickly
as he had weakened Vulning recovered himself, and started forward,
tense, tigerish.

“I’ve told you too much,” he snarled. He covered Hugh with his revolver.

“You dog! I hate you. You refuse to give up what you know,--well then,
there’s only one thing left,--to make you. Ho! there.”

At his shout the door was thrown open. Bob Bender and the one-eyed
chauffeur rushed in.

“Quick. That rope in the corner! Tie him up. Steady there, you young
hound; or I’ll shoot.”

The chauffeur and Bob Bender threw themselves on Hugh. In spite of
Vulning’s threat, he struggled fiercely. It was not until the chauffeur
had pinioned and tripped him that he fell heavily. The three men held
him down, and trussed him so that he could not move. He lay helpless,
gazing up at them and panting painfully.

“Ah,” said Vulning, “that was hard. Let me get my breath....”

He regarded Hugh malevolently. As he lit a cigarette, his eyes were
sinister in their cruelty.

“He refuses to do what we want, boys. There’s only one thing left,
regrettable though it is; we’ve got to make him. Prop him up against
the wall.”

They did so. Hugh glared at them.

“Go on,” he gasped. “You murdered the professor. Murder me too.”

“I think we’ll get what we want out of you without that,” said Vulning.
“Close that window, Bob. He’ll probably scream. Charlot, you know your
job.”

What were they going to do? Hugh’s eyes followed them fearfully. He
watched Bob Bender go to the window and remain some moments fumbling
at the latch. He saw the villainous-faced chauffeur leave the room and
return with a pair of powerful pincers in his hand. Meanwhile Paul
Vulning sat down on the edge of the table and inhaled his cigarette. He
was evidently enjoying the scene and proposed to play with his victim
as a cat does with a mouse. Well, Hugh resolved, he would not cry out
whatever happened. At least Vulning should not get that satisfaction
from him.

The chauffeur caught Hugh’s hand, and, gripping the end of his thumb
with the pincers, began to squeeze. Hugh felt the nail crack. The pain
was excruciating. His breath came quick; his eyes started from his
head. He choked back his groan of agony. Vulning was grinning now, the
grin of a devil. It was that grin that nerved Hugh; not a sound passed
his lips.

“Harder yet,” hissed Vulning. “Make him scream. Begin on another
finger. Get a good grip. Squeeze! Remember, there are ten of them.”

He was carried away by a passion of cruelty and trembled with a strange
joy as he watched Hugh’s face. The pain was so atrocious that Hugh
almost fainted. Never mind! They should not make him give in. They
should kill him first.

“Here, let me do it,” said Vulning. “You’re too easy.”

Hugh felt his nail bursting under the continued pressure. He closed his
eyes. His breath came in long gasps....

Then suddenly in that tense and thrilling silence he heard a voice
ringing out, high, harsh, metallic:

“_Hands up, all of you._”

CHAPTER SIX

THE ESCAPE

1.

The three swung round and jerked their hands above their heads. A
very tall man stood in the doorway. He had a spade-shaped beard and a
coppery complexion. His hair of a glossy black was brushed smoothly
back from a long, retreating forehead. His large nose was like the beak
of a bird, and his black eyes glittered. In his outstretched hands he
held two large automatic pistols. Hugh recognized to his amazement the
supposed Brazilian diplomat, Doctor Bergius.

“Keep your hands up, gentlemen,” said Doctor Bergius warningly; and
with a careless air he lowered his pistols and entered the room.

At his heels trooped three others. The first, no other than the dashing
Italian Castelli, was in evening dress, but handling his revolver as if
accustomed to its use. The other two were the most blood-thirsty pair
of ruffians Hugh had ever seen. One was huge and hulking, hairy like a
bear. A short beard almost covered his face, and his hair, bristly as
that of a worn scrubbing-brush, came down to meet his bushy eyebrows.
His companion was a very small man, spare, active and hairy as a
monkey, with a lean and withered face and slit eyes that twinkled with
malice.

“Come on, Golaz,” said Doctor Bergius to the tall ruffian. “You can
look after the old fellow. Golaz, gentlemen, is my knife-man. In fact
he used to be a pig-sticker. He is rather an enthusiastic specialist.
He’d as lief cut your throat as look at you. Wouldn’t you, Golaz?”

The ursine man grunted in a pleased way. He took out a
murderous-looking knife and going up to Bob Bender, who was standing
very straight, with his arms in the air, made a playful pass with the
knife across Bob’s scraggy throat. A little spot of blood appeared. Bob
shuddered. Then Golaz gave him a little dig in the ribs with the needle
point of the knife. Bob shivered.

“Golaz is really an artist,” said the doctor. “I have the greatest
difficulty in restraining him. Now let me introduce another of my pets.
Advance, Gamba.”

The simian man came forward grinning.

“Gamba’s specialty is strangling,” explained Doctor Bergius. “His work
is slower but not less sure. Once let him get those hairy hands of his
around your throat, and you’ll have to kill him to make him let go. You
love to get your fingers round a windpipe, don’t you, Gamba?”

Gamba grinned broadly, clutching and gripping with his hands in a
suggestive manner.

“All right, Gamba, you can account for the chauffeur. As for you,
Castelli, I leave you the Englishman. Now that these preliminaries are
all settled I can take a smoke.”

With a sigh of satisfaction Doctor Bergius sank down in the big
arm-chair and lit a cigarette.

“Ah,” he sighed again, “what would life be without the soothing weed?
You can have women and wine, Castelli; I would not exchange them both
for nicotine. This is a comfortable den, Vulning; I feel quite at home
already. Ha! I see you have the papers there. Castelli, hand them to
me.”

The Italian took the system from Vulning’s hand and gave it to the
doctor.

“Thank you. I imagine it’s all here. Also ...” he turned to Hugh, “it’s
translator. Excellent. You know, Vulning, you’ve given me a lot of
trouble. We were both on the same errand, only you went out by the door
just as I came in by the window. What a pity you closed that safe. How
was I to know it was empty? There I was struggling to open it, when the
old man woke up. Golaz had to take his case in hand. The methods of
Golaz are not refined but they are effective. Well, now to business.”

Doctor Bergius turned over the leaves of the system. “Here it is in my
hands at last, the key that opens the golden gates of wealth. I say,
Vulning, I’m sorry for you. You worked hard for this. I’m not such a
bad chap after all. I’m going to take you in with us. You and Castelli
can be on the same footing. The others can rank with Golaz and Gamba.
Do you accept?”

Vulning nodded sullenly; the other two with alacrity.

“Good. You may lower your hands. And now let us come to this young man
you have so beautifully bound, and I fear, so sadly maltreated. Your
methods are primitive. I think I can show you a better way to make him
listen to reason. Golaz, bring in the girl.”

Hugh started. He had fallen forward; but, by turning his head
painfully, he could follow the movements of Golaz. He saw the big
cut-throat disappear into the hallway. He heard a low moan and it
seemed his heart forgot to beat. With straining eyes he watched the
doorway. Yes, his worst fears were realized. Golaz entered with Margot
in his arms. Her hands and feet were tied; her eyes closed, her
hair streaming to the floor. She did not seem conscious of what was
happening.

“Put her down,” said Doctor Bergius. “And now suppose we begin by
trying this instrument of torture on those rosy little nails. It may be
more effective with our obstinate friend here. Golaz and Gamba, hold
her. Castelli, you can wield the pincers.”

But Castelli hung back. “No, Master,” he said with a shrug, “I have no
stomach for that. A man, yes! A woman, well....”

“All right, Castelli. I know your softness of heart where the weaker
sex is concerned. Vulning, to you will fall the honour.”

Again Paul Vulning took up the big pincers, and the points closed over
the girl’s thumb-nail. With a piercing scream she opened her eyes.

“Hear that?” said Doctor Bergius to Hugh. “That’s only a beginning. If
necessary we’ll crack her ten little nails like hazel nuts. Then if you
don’t do what we want, I’ll hand her over to Golaz and Gamba to work
their will on her. You know what that means. On the other hand if you
consent, if you tell us the meaning of all this, you will both be well
treated. You will perhaps be kept in close confinement for a few weeks,
but after that you will be released. By then I hope we shall be ready
to depart with the spoil. Shall we begin again on the girl?”

Hugh shook his head. His face was stamped with horror. “No, no,” he
cried hoarsely. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“That’s a sensible lad. Seat him at the table and release his right
arm. Vulning, have the goodness to fetch me pen, ink and paper.”

Vulning brought them from a little card table that stood in front of
the bay window. Doctor Bergius rose and bent over Hugh.

“Now,” he said in his harsh metallic voice, “what we want you to do
is quite simple. You will put on that paper all the symbols in those
documents with their meanings. After that we will shut you up while
I make the translation. If you forget anything and give me needless
trouble, I shall have to deal severely with you. Also I will hold you
responsible for the subsequent working of the system. So you see I want
you to take your task very seriously. Now, go ahead.”

Hugh was placed facing the curtained window. He took up the pen and
began to write. Doctor Bergius paced up and down. Every now and then he
would look at the document in his hand and then at the symbols Hugh was
writing. The page was soon covered with them. Hugh strained his memory.
Had he forgotten anything? Were they complete?

As he paused for a moment, his brows pursed in thought, the eyes of all
were fixed on him. The doctor stood with his back to the bay window,
and as he struck a match to light a fresh cigarette, he laid the
precious documents down on the little card table. Then in the tense
silence the striking of the match startled Hugh, and he glanced up....
What was it he was seeing?... _Behind the doctor a long sinewy hand was
passing between the crimson curtains. It reached towards the little
card table; it clutched the bundle of papers; it disappeared. But in
that swift moment Hugh saw that the little finger of the hand was
missing._

2.

The silence was almost painful. Hugh wondered how long it would last.
Suddenly Paul Vulning pointed to the empty table with a cry.

“The system! It has vanished.”

Swift as a flash Doctor Bergius looked down. Then he rushed to the
window.

“Quick,” he shouted, “I saw some one leap from the terrace. All of you
in pursuit. We must recover it at all cost.”

He dashed out, Vulning, Castelli and the three others following him.
From the darkness Hugh heard shots and much shouting.

“Scatter. Search the garden. Fire only if you’re sure.”

They had all gone. He was alone with Margot. He tried to see her, to go
to her. He twisted around and tumbled from his chair.

Could he believe his ears? As he lay face down he heard a voice address
him.

“Quick, sir. I’m goin’ to cut the ropes.”

It was old Bob Bender. He cut and slashed to such good purpose that in
a moment Hugh and Margot were both free.

“There’s not a moment to lose,” whispered Bob. “They’re hunting out
in front but they may return any minute. You must escape by the back.
Come, I’ll show you the way. Buck up, missy, you’ve got to make an
effort.”

Hugh supported the girl, and Bob piloted them along the dark hallway.
At the foot of a flight of stairs Bob opened a door. The pure air of
the mountain caressed their faces.

“Take to the woods,” whispered Bob. “Climb high, make a wide circle.
I’ll slip back and get that paper you wrote. Then I’ll join them in the
hunt. Good luck to you. Krantz is a wonder. The Casino is saved.”

3.

Taking the girl’s hand Hugh led her through the darkness, down a narrow
flight of stone steps, and along a steep pathway amid the shrubbery. He
heard sounds of the pursuit from the other side of the house and once
the sharp crack of a revolver. Once too, some one came panting along
the pathway towards them. He had scarcely time to pull Margot into the
deep shadow of the bushes before a burly form pounded past. Trembling
and terrified the girl clung to him until the footsteps were drowned in
silence.

Once more he dragged her on. At the end of the pathway, they came to
a small door set in the high wall, secured by a rusted bolt that at
first resisted all his efforts. Suddenly it shot back, and they found
themselves on the mountain side.

From the door a steep trail led to higher altitudes, and up this he
hurried her. Rocks tripped them, and thorny bushes clutched at them,
but spurred by fear they stumbled on. Even when the tiny donkey-path
faded out and they found themselves on the raw and ragged flanks of the
mountain, they continued to climb and climb.

Several times he thought Margot was going to give out, but a few words
from him inspired her with a new courage. In the last of these pauses
he listened acutely. The silence was absolute. They must be safe by
now. They had been climbing for nearly an hour. He urged her to make
one more effort, but she was unequal to it and entirely collapsed.

Lifting her in his arms he carried her to where a huge overhanging
boulder formed a shallow shelter and laid her down. Resting her head on
his knee, he covered her with his coat. Then with his back to the rock
he waited for the daylight.

With the first brightening of the dove-grey sky he saw that they had
climbed further than he had reckoned. They were on the slope beneath
the Tete-du-Chien; above them towered the great bluff, its beetling
front steel grey, stained with cinnamon, and around them, as if the
greater gods had pelted it in sport, huge boulders heaped in fantastic
confusion. Below them the olive groves were saturnine; the roofs of the
Condamine a sullen crimson, and the sea’s immense tranquillity painted
with a pale fire.

He looked down at the white face, pillowed on shining hair. Poor girl!
How desperately exhausted she must be. Her sleep had been troubled by
fits of trembling; and dry nervous sobs had awakened her half a dozen
times. He had soothed her with assurances of safety. He aroused her
gently and pointed to the brightening sky.

“Look!”

“But you are chilled through,” she said. “You are shivering. You should
not have given me your coat.”

They rose stiffly, their faces haggard in the dawn. Slowly and
painfully they descended the mountain.

“What happened,” he asked, “that night?...”

“I don’t know. I never understood. It was very late; I heard a noise
in the professor’s room and tried his door; it opened. All was dark.
There was a curious smell. Again I heard a noise. I was afraid he was
ill. I hurried to his assistance. Some one caught me from behind, and a
hand covered my mouth. I struggled, but I had no power. They bound and
gagged me. Just as we were going away one of them flashed an electric
torch on the floor. I saw the professor lying face downward. It was
horrible....”

“Yes, I know. They killed the poor old man. But what after that?”

“A very strong man carried me in his arms; we descended from the window
by a rope ladder. Below they had a closed-in car. We went up among the
mountains, before we stopped at a lonely house. They lifted me down,
and carried me to a room. I was locked in, a prisoner. Oh, they treated
me well enough. There was a peasant woman who brought me my food and
was kind to me. But the time was long, for I was terrified, and so
anxious about you. I thought I should go mad. Then last night they put
me in the car again, and brought me down. You know the rest.”

“What shall we do now? I suppose we had better go back to our room.”

She shook her head. “Nothing can make me spend another night there. The
very idea horrifies me. No, I want to go far away from here, very far.
If you don’t mind, I will get my things, stay at a hotel to-night, and
to-morrow morning leave for Paris.”

“I quite understand. But ... how about that cottage at Villefranche?
Won’t you come there with me?”

Again she shook her head. “No, not now....”

“Once you wanted to.”

“Once, yes. Once I had a dream.... That’s finished now. I’ve been a
foolish girl. I did lots of thinking when I was alone up there, and I
see my way clear. It’s a lonely way but perhaps I’ll have my share of
happiness. Yes, I’d better go.”

He felt that she was right, and did not try to dissuade her.

“At any rate,” he said, “you’ll let me lend you that money, the two
thousand we had such a fuss over?”

“Yes, I’ll borrow it gladly, and I’ll pay you back. I bless you for all
you’ve done for me....”

Next morning he saw her off at the station. As she leaned from the
window of a third class carriage she tried hard to keep back her
tears. He remembered their arrival at this same station, and how he
had followed her. He would miss her painfully. A last handclasp and
the train bore her away. A loneliness came over him that was almost a
heartache.

“That ends another chapter,” he said to himself. “Perhaps I’ll never
see her again. Ah! little girl, may the gods bless you and make you
happy.”

And with that he went sadly away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AN INTERLUDE

1.

About the end of May he bought the cottage near Villefranche. It had
pinkish walls that dripped roses and a long generous garden dropping to
the beach. There he had a little boat pulled up on the shingle and lay
for long hours in its shadow, watching the dreamy glimmer of the sea,
and listening to the musical plash of the waves. The velvet monotony of
sea and sky tranquilized his spirit.

He used to rise at four every morning, and work in his garden through
the cool hours; then go for a swim in the bay, floating lazily on the
milk-warm water, blinking at the brightness of the sun. In the evenings
he would fish from his boat, pulling softly home in the starlight. He
became soaked with sunshine, as brown as any of his peasant neighbours,
and just as carelessly happy. He learned to look on life with quiet
eyes.

It was pleasant to think that he could go on like this for twenty
years. He needed so little; his garden supplied him with fruit and
vegetables, the sea with fish. By selling some of his produce and
keeping chickens and rabbits, he could make the place self-supporting.
He had infinite time to dream and paint. If he painted patiently and
sincerely during twenty years surely he could achieve something.

This was the future he sketched out for himself. One thing was
lacking; he missed Margot. If only she were there, it seemed to him his
happiness would be complete.

But she was back at work with Folette. She had taken her old room
again, the little mansard room, overlooking the Boulevard Montparnasse.
She wrote to him quite often, and always that she was very happy.

Often as he lingered in his garden, he would look up and imagine her
standing in the doorway of the cottage in a frame of roses. She seemed
to complete the picture so perfectly. What a pity she was not there.
Well, one can’t have everything. True, he might ask her to marry him.
But the idea of marriage dismayed him; it seemed so irrevocable.
Romance ended there, he told himself. He was only twenty-three and
a lifetime is long to spend with one woman. An early marriage is a
mistake, so every one said. He missed her companionship awfully, but
there! ... no doubt in time he would get used to the loss of her!

2.

It was curious how far away Monte Carlo seemed. Unfamiliar mountains
heaved up behind him; another topaz hoop separated him from the gloomy
rock and the glittering point. Sometimes he would sail his little
boat far out, and from the shadow of his sail, watch the poisoned
paradise. It seemed to him like a dream picture, rising in terraced
beauty from the azure of the sea. The Casino glittered like a heap
of jewels, and the mountains brooded in violet abstraction. All was
loveliness,--creamy beach and cradled harbour, palms and olive groves,
snowy villas gleaming in green gardens, and shining slopes of pine. He
gazed at it with rapture,--then shuddered at the thought of all that
lay behind.

For Monte Carlo may be all things to all men, the most adorable spot
in the world or the most hateful. And to him, filled with the moral
strength that is born of peace, the place was increasingly detestable.
Its beauty was the fatal beauty of a glorious courtesan, its people
parasites living on the folly and depravity of mankind. From prince to
page-boy they were dependent on that great temple of chance into which
poured streams of gold from all the world. Its white range of palaces
were to him the symbol of all that was weak and wanton in human nature.

As he sat in the shadow of his sail he recalled them all so plainly,
the spendthrift and the starveling, the derelict and the degenerate,
swirling round in the eternal circle of that greater wheel which
symbolizes the whole, unable to extricate themselves, being drawn
nearer and nearer to that vortex which is ruin.

He detested it all now and saw it with other eyes. He had escaped its
lures. Never again would he set foot in its polluted halls.

Then one day a shadow fell across his path and looking up he saw Bob
Bender.

3.

Bob, rusty and creaky as ever, looked singularly out of place in his
radiant garden.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, rubbing his hands together with a rasping
sound, “for interruptin’ your horticulturous provocations.”

“Not at all. Glad to see you.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve got a tidy sorto’ place ’ere. Now if I was you
I’d bank up that celery a little more, an’ them artichokes want cuttin’
back. Awful things artichokes is to grow on you, if you gives ’em a
chance.”

“What do you know about gardening?”

“Most all there is to know, I expect, considerin’ that I was once in
that way myself. Indeed I ’opes some day, if ever I can scrape up
enough money, to buy a little place I know out ’Ampstead way. But
there, I didn’t come ’ere to talk of gardens; I came over on quite
another matter. Krantz sent me.”

“Krantz!”

“Yes. You see that Doctor Bergius ’as got something up ’is sleeve.
We can’t quite make ’im out. ’E’s a great one, ’e is. There ain’t a
greater international crook on the Continent to-day. ’E was ragin’ mad
because Krantz got the system away from ’im, and now ’e swears ’e’ll
get even, and do the Casino one in the eye.”

“That reminds me,” said Hugh. “What happened that night after we got
away?”

“Oh, they thought you’d got at a knife with your free ’and and cut
the ropes. I joined the chase and ’eaded ’em in the wrong direction.
You see my bein’ with Vulning was an idea of Krantz’s. He suspected
that Vulning ’ad the papers and got me to approach ’im. I pretended
I’d fallen out with Krantz; and after a bit Vulning told me ’e ’ad the
papers. It was me suggested ’e get you to translate ’em. Krantz was to
come to your rescue. But we didn’t bargain on the other gang. However,
it came off all right.”

“What do you want of me now?”

“Well, you see, I’m no longer in the confidence of that crowd. The
doctor distrusted me from the first. There was the business of the
window for one thing. Why didn’t I ’appen to fasten it properly? Anyhow
they won’t ’ave anything to do with me now; and I can’t get to the
bottom of the game they are playin’. But I do know they are ’avin’ an
important meetin’ to-morrow at Vulning’s villa. It’s at two o’clock.
There will only be Vulning and the doctor and Castelli. Now we were
thinkin’ if we could get Vulning out of the way, and you could take his
place....”

“What!”

“It’s really very simple, sir. You see you’re so extraordinary like
’im any way. Just a touch of make-up and you’d be perfect. We’ll give
you a key to the villa and you can change into some of ’is clothes and
receive the other two in the library. You can close the curtains and
darken the room. Then you’ll deceive them, ’ear their plans and let us
know.”

“But I’m risking my life.... If these fellows suspect, they’ll shoot me
like a dog.”

“It’s true there’s a lot of risk; but Krantz says ’e’ll pay you ten
thousand francs if you get the information ’e wants.”

“I’d rather not. I swore I’d never set foot in the Principality again.”

“Krantz says that, if ever ’e asked a favour of you, you promised you’d
do it.”

“That’s true.... Well, tell Krantz ... I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PLOT

  “Cher Comerade:

  There is something which weighs on me and of which I have been trying
  to write to you since several days.

  You have heard me speak of Florent Garnier. Twice has he asked me in
  _marriage_, and a week ago he sought me out and demand me for the
  third time.

  He is more prosperous than ever. He has a grand auto, and a villa
  near the forest of St. Germain. On Sunday with Jeanne we drive out to
  see it, and it is truly charming. Only he says he is so lonely there
  all by himself....

  What am I to do? I think I am the most unhappy girl in all Paris. It
  is a great chance for me, and Madame Folette, Jeanne and the girls
  tell me I am crazy to refuse. Which is quite true because I am all
  alone in the life....

  I do not ask your advice because I know you will tell me to take him
  too, and I don’t like when you do that. All the same I thing you are
  right, and this time it is for the best that I shall tell him....
  _Yes._

  I hope you are well, and happy, and think of you very, very often.

                                   Votre petite soeur adoptée,

                                                                 MARGOT.

  Florent wishes we marry on the seventeenth September so that in that
  day you must think of me and wish me happiness.”

It was quarter past one when Hugh received this letter; it was half
past when he jumped into the carmine car and told the chauffeur to
drive him to Vulning’s villa.

“Keep to the blind side of that chap and he’ll never know you,” Bob
Bender had said. “What with Vulning’s coat and hat and them yellow
glasses he’s wearin’ lately any one would take you for his twin
brother. The chauffeur’s had one or two drinks too much anyway,--we’ve
seen to that. ’E’ll ’ave all ’is time taken up lookin’ after ’is car.”

“And Vulning?”

“We’ve got ’im safe. You see there’s a little girl he’s been after for
some time. Mrs. Emslie’s daughter wot committed suicide. She’s workin’
as a nurse girl; but she won’t ’ave anything to do with ’im. Well, we
got ’er to send ’im a note sayin’ she’d meet ’im at one o’clock in a
room in a certain ’otel that’s a bit out of the way. ’E came all right;
and, while he waited for her, we simply locked ’im in. ’E’s there now,
’ammerin’ at the door and ragin’ like a madman. We won’t let ’im out
till you get back.”

“I’m feeling nervous.”

“Don’t be afraid. With that touch of make-up you’re as like ’im as two
peas. You’ll fool ’em all right. ’Ere’s a key to the front door. Now
run and jump into the car as if you were in a ’urry. Take this. It will
steady you.”

Hugh took the small flask of brandy that Bender handed to him, walked
quickly to the car and leaped in. The chauffeur did not even look at
him. He touched the button that started the motor, moved into gear and
the car shot forward.

As Hugh left the town below him his uneasiness increased. His
excitement seemed to mount with the mounting road, his heart pounded
like the straining motor of the car that bore him on. He took a pull at
the brandy flask, and felt better.

They were now among the olive trees and still climbing. A sleepy quiet
brooded around them. When they drew near the solitary house Hugh wanted
to leap out and make for safety, but it was too late to draw back.

As the chauffeur drove the car around to the garage, Hugh mounted the
front steps and opened the door. A rush of stale air met him. The
hallway was dark and dirty. Vulning did not seem to have a caretaker
and probably only slept there once in a while. The rooms leading off
the hall were shuttered and dark. Hugh went into the library, threw
back the shutters and unclasped the window. The light leaped in like
a wild thing. He looked carefully out of the window. It gave on the
terrace with a balustrade about three feet high. Below was the road
leading to the garage, and beyond that dense shrubbery. He closed the
window without clasping it, then drew the heavy curtains, plunging the
room in mysterious gloom.

Once more he went out into the unlighted hall. How quiet and dark the
house was! His footsteps awakened echoes everywhere. He went upstairs
to where a door, slightly open, showed a chink of light. It appeared to
be Vulning’s bedroom. The bed was unmade, the room untidy. He took off
his overcoat and drew on a dressing-gown he found lying over a chair.
On the tiny table at the head of the bed was a small automatic pistol.
Seeing that it was loaded, he put it into his pocket.

He felt horribly “funky,” but a glance in the mirror reassured him.
His sunburnt skin had been made up to resemble Vulning’s sallow
one; little crowsfeet were round his eyes, and cynical lines about
his mouth. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed back like
Vulning’s. When he put on Vulning’s yellow glasses it would have taken
a very clever man indeed to detect the substitution. If only his
confounded nervousness would not give him away! He wound a silk muffler
around his neck, noting as he did so how his hands trembled. That would
never do! He took another big swig at the brandy flask. Courage glowed
in him, even to the point of recklessness. He was ready to go down and
face them.

As he descended the stairway somewhat unsteadily he saw that his guests
were already awaiting him. How quietly they had come in! He had not
heard them. Golaz and Gamba were in the hall and glowered at him with
fierce and restless eyes as he passed. In the darkened library Castelli
and the doctor were talking in low tones, bending over the table on
which lay a large plan. They turned as he entered.

Hugh shivered as he shook the large hairy hand of Doctor Bergius. How
he hated this man. Those deep set eyes were profound with cruelty; that
dense blue-black beard concealed a face that might be that of a fiend
incarnate; his large fleshy lips of a bright unnatural red, set in that
black beard, gave a singularly repulsive impression. When he smiled it
was with a grin, callous, relentless, orientally cruel.

He smiled now, and Hugh was glad of his yellow goggles. They concealed
the fact that his eyes were black instead of blue. He was glad, too,
of the drawn heavy curtain. It seemed to him that even with all his
precautions Doctor Bergius was regarding him with a curious fixity.

“Ah, young man,” he said in his metallic voice, “you have kept us
waiting. There is so much to be done and we have so little time.
Castelli, close that door.”

Hugh nodded sullenly. He dared not trust himself to speak. Once again
Doctor Bergius regarded him curiously. He did not seem satisfied. He
went up to Hugh and stared at him very hard. Hugh’s heart began to
thump.

“I am discovered,” he thought, and his hand went to his pistol.

But the Doctor turned away with an expression of contempt. “Pah!” he
said. “You’ve been drinking again. I hope you’re not off on one of your
bouts.”

Hugh shook his head. He affected a certain surly stupidity. “No, no,
doctor,” he said thickly, “only a touch of brandy. Got sore throat.
Caught a chill on the golf course. Felt shaky. Took it to steady me,
clear my head.”

“Well, it must be the last until to-morrow evening. After that you can
go to the devil your own way. Promise me that now,--the last.”

Hugh nodded sulkily.

“That is understood. Your part in the programme is a small one, but
important. You must have all your wits about you. If you fail you may
throw out the whole plan.”

“All right. I’ll keep off the stuff.”

“Good. Now to business. Look!... Here’s a plan of the Casino.”

Hugh showed an eager interest. In order to see it better he edged round
to the side of the table nearest the window. He had Doctor Bergius on
his right, on his left Castelli. The plan showed the entire ground
floor of the Casino, the different rooms, the entrances, the windows,
even the tables. Here and there were traced lines and figures in red,
with names in Italian.

“You already have an idea,” went on Doctor Bergius, “of what the great
plan is. It is something unheard of, unthought of, magnificent in its
audacity. Only a man of genius could have imagined it, perfected it
in all its detail. Only one man living could have done it. That man
is myself. It is what the Americans call a ‘hold-up.’ _We propose to
hold-up the Casino._”

Here the doctor paused to give effect to his words, then continued:

“To do that, you realize, is a project of the greatest gravity. But I
have arranged everything; and it should go like clockwork. In the first
place we need lots of men. I have a band of about sixty, all desperate
characters, recruited from the slums of Genoa. They are supposed to be
a touring athletic club, all wear the same caps and ties. You may have
noticed some of them already. They have been here for some days and
have visited the Casino in the morning when it is open to all visitors.
Besides this we have secured admission cards for about a score of them.
They know the ground. Every man has his part and is drilled in it.
Each is of proved and desperate courage, will carry two six-chambered
revolvers, and know how to use them. Ah, my friend, it is a marvellous
conception. You should have been present at our rehearsals.”

“What is my part?”

“Your part, my dear Vulning, is very simple. We have got a day ticket
for you in the name of a Swedish gentleman. You will wear a heavy
blonde beard and be completely disguised. This is for your sake. You
see with what consideration we treat you. At six o’clock in the
evening you will enter the Casino. That is the hour of affluence when
all the tables are working, and the visitors have left their money
behind. There should be several million francs in sight.”

Here the doctor paused and rubbed his hands crisply.

“But before going any further, I will explain my ideas as to the
division of the spoil. Each of our men has been promised five thousand
francs. For that they would risk their lives a dozen times. Golaz and
Gamba are to have a hundred thousand francs each. You and Castelli will
have five hundred thousand. I will be modestly contented with whatever
is left. Is that understood?”

Castelli nodded. Hugh followed suit.

“Agreed. Now, Vulning, for your _rôle_! You enter the Casino, I say,
at six o’clock precisely, disguised as a Swede. You go straight to the
table next to the refreshment room. It has been arranged that a man
will rise and give you a place. You will sit for a few minutes, then
suddenly, ...” the doctor paused, and took from his pocket a revolver,
“you will rise to your feet. You will take this from your pocket, and,
holding it to your head, you will fire.... Ah! my friend Vulning, don’t
start. It will only be loaded with a blank cartridge. It will do you
no harm. Then having fired you will collapse and slip under the table.
That’s all you have to do for five hundred thousand francs. Easy, isn’t
it?”

“And what happens then?”

“What happens then?...” Doctor Bergius raised both hands exultantly.
“Ha! I will tell you. That is the signal. Every one in the rooms
will hear the shot and rush to the table. You know them. They will
crowd around and push and jostle. They will want to get a glimpse
of the suicide. There will be a mob. The attendants will be making
frantic efforts to get out the body. Every one’s attention will be
distracted.... Then it is that things will _begin_ to happen.”

Doctor Bergius grew more and more impressive.

“We will have a dozen of our own men in the small room with the Opium
Dream on the ceiling. Behold! it will be empty but for them. Every
one else will have run to see the suicide. Only the croupiers will
have remained at their posts. Everything will be easy. Six of our men
will hold up the croupiers while the others throw open the windows. If
you remember, there are four windows giving on the terrace near the
band-stand. My men will be waiting down below. They will swarm up. To
protect them I will have a cordon of men running down to the sea. There
I will have waiting also two very fast steam launches.”

The doctor seemed to see it all. He spoke as a man inspired.

“After that it will be easy. A rush, a great drive. We will sweep them
all before us. They will be like frightened sheep. Think of it! There
will be forty of us all armed to the teeth. Can’t you see them flying
before us? We will herd them all into the refreshment room. Castelli
with twenty men will control the main rooms; Golaz with ten men will
take the long room that gives on the terrace; Gamba with another ten
will attend to the _salon privé_. We will shoot down any one that shows
the least sign of resistance. There will be panic, confusion, terror.
We will pen the croupiers in corners at the revolver’s point. Castelli,
Golaz and Gamba will run to the tables and scoop the big notes into
bags. We only want the big bills.”

“Hold on!” said Hugh. “What about the mechanism that automatically
locks the coffers?”

“We’ve seen to that. An electrician in our pay has put it out of
action. Everything has been thought of. In five minutes it will all
be over. We will then gather in a band under the big dome, fire a
final volley over the heads of the crowd and beat a retreat. Then we
will drop from the windows, run to the beach, tumble into the waiting
launches and ho! for Italy. It will all be over before any one realizes
what has happened. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“And what about me?”

“Ah, my dear Monsieur Vulning, do not worry about your precious self.
Yours is the easiest part to play. You will, of course, beat a retreat
with us. We will put you ashore at St. Remo if you wish. You can then
remove your disguise and return here. No one will even suspect you....”
Again Doctor Bergius looked at him curiously.

“I believe you are a coward, Vulning. Look here, Castelli will go
through your part just to show you. I have here some blank cartridges.
See! I charge the revolver. Now, Castelli....”

Castelli stood up by the table. He held the revolver about three feet
from his head and fired. Then he dropped to the floor and remained
there, grinning up at Hugh.

“_Voila_,” said the doctor. “That’s all. No risk for you. You lie
snug under the table and watch events. Easy, isn’t it? Ah, the whole
conception is superb, the work of a man of genius.... _Listen!_...” The
doctor stopped suddenly, grew tense, alert. “What’s that? Who’s out
there with Golaz and Gamba?”

Hugh, too, was listening. He heard excited voices and steps coming
down the hall. He trembled and as he reached out for support his hand
touched an inkwell made out of the fuse of an old German shell. The
next instant the door was flung violently open and a man entered.

It was Paul Vulning.

CHAPTER NINE

THE HOLD-UP

1.

“Hold him! Hold the impostor!” cried Vulning.

Hugh dashed the brass inkwell at the head of Doctor Bergius. The doctor
collapsed over the table. Castelli, who was still on the floor in a
crouching position, clutched at Hugh’s leg. Hugh launched a vicious
kick and caught him on the jaw. With one bound, he was behind the
crimson curtains, and out on the terrace. He leaped the balustrade and
plunged into the shrubbery. Madly he tore on. About fifty yards away
was a high wall. He leaped at it desperately. His hands just clutched
the coping, and he hung, slipping and scraping, feeling for a foothold.
Then his toe caught in a tiny projection, and in another moment he had
drawn himself up.

_Spat! Spat!_ went the plaster of the wall.... They were firing at him
as they ran. Golaz and Gamba came plunging through the bushes. They
were appallingly near. The top of the wall was covered with bits of
broken glass that caught his dressing-gown, as he leaped down on the
other side. As he tried to wrench it free, a brown hand reached over
and gripped it. With a twist and a turn, Hugh wriggled out of it. His
pistol fell from the pocket. He snatched it up and rushed on.

A few yards further he darted behind an ancient olive tree and looked
back. Gamba was already astride of the wall. Hugh fired twice and he
saw the man drop back. Then he ran blindly on, taking the terraces of
olive trees in reckless leaps, often landing on his knees. At length
he came out on the mountain side amid boulders and prickly scrub. He
dodged among the rocks, and cowered behind the bushes. He was torn and
bleeding in a dozen places, and his clothes were in shreds. Presently
he sank exhausted.

For over an hour he lay without moving. Everything was quiet; they had
evidently given up the pursuit. He rose and by a round-about route he
made his way back to the Casino.

Bob Bender was waiting for him on the steps. He looked anxious and
excited. He dragged Hugh through a side door.

“Quick! tell me what’s happened. You’re in a hell of a state. We were
afraid they’d got you.”

“Didn’t you know?... Vulning has escaped.”

“No!”

“Yes, he arrived at an awkward moment for me. I’ve had to jolly well
risk my life for your people.”

“Vulning must have got out by the window. It was over thirty feet from
the ground. We never thought of guarding that. He must have made a
desperate effort.... Well, did you discover anything?”

“All.”

“The devil! Quick! Tell me. How pleased the chief will be!”

“There’s a hold-up of the Casino planned for to-morrow night.”

“A hold-up!”

“Yes. They’ve got over sixty gunmen. Vulning’s to give the signal by
shooting himself with a blank cartridge. The men are to swarm up by
the windows of the small room facing the band-stand. They have two fast
steam launches to make their getaway in.”

“It was planned for to-morrow at six, you say?”

“To-morrow at six.”

“They’ll never try it now. We’ve got them beaten, thanks to you. It has
taken you a long time to get here.”

“Over two hours.”

“More. Look, it’s nearly six now.”

“I had to make a big detour to avoid them.”

“Well, there’s no time to lose. They may try to-morrow after all; we
must be prepared. Oh, won’t the chief be pleased! We must try to find
him. He’s in the Casino somewhere. He has many disguises. Come....” Bob
peered everywhere, but could see no sign of Krantz.

“Let’s look at the windows they mean to swarm up,” suggested Bob. The
two men pulled aside the yellow blinds and looked down. The ledge was
broad and the height not great.

“Easy enough,” commented Bob. “By getting into the band-stand a dozen
men could command the whole terrace. The plan’s been well considered,
but we’ll fix it so as it can never be carried out. We’ve got you
beaten, Mister Bergius.... God! What’s that?”

Hugh looked to where Bob was pointing. On the calm sea, lying close in,
were two long steam launches. They manœuvred up and down, until they
were hidden by the terrace.

“Did you see them, or did I dream?”

“No, it’s them ... _them_!”

A sudden fear seized Bob Bender. He looked up at the clock.

“Just on the stroke of six. If only Krantz were here. I wonder....”

The two men stared at one another, and even as they stared, a sudden
shot rang out.

Bob Bender gripped Hugh by the arm and cried hoarsely: “Hear that! the
signal! _They’ve advanced the time by twenty-four hours. If I’m not
mistaken the ‘hold-up’ is now on._”

2.

They turned swiftly. The people at the table had left their places,
and grabbing their stakes, were running in the direction of the sound.
Only the croupiers sat still. These looked at one another in a rather
uncomfortable way.

“Come,” said Hugh, “I want to see if it’s really Vulning.”

He ran after the others. The crowd was so dense, it was impossible to
get near the victim. Hugh saw the lackeys struggling to extricate a
limp form from under the table. The faces of the crowd wore a mixture
of curiosity and awe; they pushed and jostled shamelessly, to get a
glimpse of the suicide. The inspector, the floor director and the
director of games hurried to the scene. It had been a long time since a
suicide had taken place at the tables. It would make a nasty scandal.

“_C’est tres embetant_,” Hugh heard one of them say. He saw a lackey
arrive with a black sheet to cover the corpse. Then a woman pushed her
way out of the crowd; she was in a hysterical state.

“I saw him do it,” she cried. “I was sitting beside him. It was a big
blonde man, a Swede, I think.”

“Look!” said Hugh, suddenly gripping Bob’s arm. “It’s true. There they
come.” Almost simultaneously there were a dozen revolver shots, and a
bunch of croupiers tumbled from the smaller salon, their hands in the
air, their faces sick with fear.

“This is no place for me,” said Bob Bender. “They’ll shoot me at sight.
I’m willing to work for the Casino, but I’m not willing to lose an inch
of my skin for them.”

Bob disappeared and not a moment too soon. Hell seemed to have broken
loose. With a rush and a roar a score of men burst from the small
salon. They whooped as they ran, brandishing revolvers and firing in
the air. Their swarthy faces were lit by the savage joy of combat.
They drove every one before them; if a croupier showed a sign of
resisting he was felled with the butt of a heavy revolver. But few of
the croupiers resisted; most of them ran like rabbits, diving under the
tables.

All was pandemonium. Women shrieked and fainted; there was a general
struggle to get to the doors. Hugh could not move; he was wedged in a
mob of players who fought and roared and cursed, as they backed away
from the bandits.

Then in the midst of the mad tumult, hushing and dominating it, a harsh
metallic voice rang out. “There is no danger so long as no one resists.
Go quickly, all of you, and leave the rooms empty.”

It was Doctor Bergius. He was standing on the table to the right, an
automatic in either hand. Around his head was bound a white bandage.
Suddenly Hugh heard a report near him. A croupier had put his hand on
the metal box where the big notes were kept; he collapsed instantly,
shot in the head by Castelli.

Hugh was forced with the crowd into the refreshment room. He could
still see swarthy ruffians pouring from the small salon and hear
shrieks, shots, howls of excitement.

The centre of the Casino had been cleared, hundreds of players had been
driven into the atrium, hundreds of others penned in the refreshment
room. Doctor Bergius still stood there, while Castelli and two others
looted the tables. The band that had worked the private rooms came
running back with their booty. They were joined almost immediately
by the gang that had been pillaging the main rooms. With revolvers
in hands, they formed a solid mass, their eyes flashing, their teeth
gleaming ferociously. The voice of Doctor Bergius again rang out:

“Stay where you are, all of you. We have men posted to command the
crowd. If one of you moves from his place before a full ten minutes has
passed he will be shot. This is a solemn warning.”

The doctor leaped down, and his men followed him, firing as they went.

Hugh edged through the crowd; he wanted to see what was happening. The
last of the rear guard had disappeared into the smaller salon. Through
the open doorway he saw them descending by the window. No one had as
yet dared to move. Yes, there was _one_, a woman. Hugh saw her run
in from the atrium, and marvelled at her daring. Then he recognized
her. It was the tall woman who always dressed in grey. As she crossed
the threshold of the small salon, she fired at the two men who were
balanced on the sill; they swung around and returned the fire. Hugh
recognized Castelli and the doctor. Then they, too, disappeared and the
woman in grey lay still on the floor.

Everything was quiet, impressively quiet. The ten minutes were up but
still no one was inclined to move. Hugh was the first to break the
spell. He ran across the empty hall to the nearest open window. Two
launches were steaming away. All was over now. The grand _coup_ had
been successful. When he turned back, the lackeys were carrying the
veiled woman into one of the private rooms. Suddenly Hugh remembered
the supposed suicide. He ran into the grand salon. The body still lay
under the table. He bent down and examined it. It was Vulning; the
false blonde beard was crimsoned with blood, and his head was blown
open. The revolver had been loaded with a real ball. The poor devil had
put an end to his own life. Doctor Bergius had seen to it that he had
saved them his share of the swag. What a joker the doctor was!

3.

Hugh was sitting in his garden the following afternoon when Bob Bender
came to see him. He counted out ten bills of a thousand francs each.

“There! if we failed it was through no fault of yours. You’ve earned
this. Now we want you to go away for awhile, disappear somewhere. We
want to hush the whole thing up, choke off all inquiries.”

“All right. By the way, what about that poor woman who was shot?”

“Oh, she’s all right! They only winged her. She dropped to avoid
further injury. But then I shouldn’t say ‘she.’ Do you know who that
was?”

“No.”

“Krantz.”

“The devil!”

“Yes, I was surprised myself. He’s been spying on the gang for months.
He’ll be all right in a few weeks.”

“I’m glad. I liked Krantz. I say, you don’t need to be afraid of my
blabbing anything. But I don’t see how you are going to hush up a thing
like that. How are you going to account for it?”

Bob grinned.

“We’re giving out that it was the rehearsal of a cinema production.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!... All right. I’ll make myself scarce. I’ll
shove off somewhere this very night.”

And three hours later he was on the boat bound for Corsica.

END OF BOOK FOUR

BOOK FIVE

_The Man Hunt_

CHAPTER ONE

THE VALLEY OF THE GOLO

1.

In the glimmer of early dawn, the big boat swung slowly into the
harbour. Under the lightening sky the steel grey waters changed to
steel blue; and the dark mysterious land smiled into friendliness. The
grey cubes piled against the mountain brightened into tall houses still
locked in sleep. Presently, with a fore-glow of citron, the clear rim
of the sun cut the sea-line; and the sea became jade green. The air
was diamond pure; the mountains took on colour; and Bastia awakened to
another careless day.

High caserne-like houses, massive-walled and stucco-fronted; shabby
shops half a century behind the times; mustiness and age; cigarettes,
vendetta knives, and goat-flesh,--these were some of Hugh’s first
impressions of Bastia.

He found a room in a tall hotel near the upper end of the town. It had
vast rambling corridors with many doors, none of which were numbered,
and to find his room he had to count each time the doorways from the
head of the staircase. The interiors of all the rooms were alike in
their simplicity. Each had high yellow walls, and a ceiling painted
with a design of flowers and fruit, a bed, a _commode_ with water-jug,
two cane bottomed chairs.

Bastia soon bored Hugh. It’s streets seemed gloomy and sordid, its
people sunk in tradition. There was nothing to do. The first morning he
wandered up and down buying the numerous brands of local cigarettes.
In the afternoon he craved a cup of tea, but it seemed to be unknown.
Finally at a big café he found a brew which tasted like _tisane_. A
single gulp sufficed.

At his hotel the food was very bad. The place was run on casual lines
by a family of Corsicans, swarthy, hairy, oily, with a suavity that
signified nothing. At his special request they procured him butter, but
it looked so much like axle-grease that he did not have the courage to
discover what it tasted like. At dinner he had a ragout of very young
lamb that tasted quite good, until the smallness of the bones suggested
to him that the lamb had been still-born, then he ate no more.

In his overwhelming loneliness he thought that he would write to
Margot. He went to the so-called _salon_, dipped a rusted pen hopefully
into a dusty ink-bottle. Alas! it was dry. Discouraged, he rose and
sought the streets again. A few cheap cinemas were open, the bills
displaying cowboy pictures,--strong, silent, wooden-faced men and
romping, sunny-haired heroines. The streets were badly lighted and
suggested nocturnal adventure; but the frequent display of the vendetta
knife in the shop windows was an incentive towards virtue. He found a
big, dingy café, and, ordering a liqueur, fell to sampling one after
another the various brands of cigarettes he had purchased. He was
abysmally bored. Bastia was the finest place in the world, he decided,
to pass through without stopping.

Then he went home to his hotel. Sitting on his bed in the candlelight,
he read his little guide-book. Suddenly he had an idea. He was fit,
foot-loose, free,--why not walk across the island? Yes, that was it.
He would tramp from Bastia to Agaccio.

2.

Next morning he bought a small, cheap valise and packed in it the few
clothes he needed, also his sketching materials, as he might want to
make some colour notes on the way. He planned to take about a fortnight
to the trip, jogging along easily, studying the people, perhaps fishing
a little, and generally enjoying himself.

This cheerful prospect reconciled him to another day in Bastia. He made
the acquaintance of a tourist party that were stopping at his hotel.
They were nearly all women, and their great subject of conversation was
not the beauties of the island but Food,--the feasts that awaited them
of fresh trout, black-birds and passionate pink wine.

“Ah! you are English!” said a vivacious French girl to Hugh. “There
are so many English in Corsica, very aristocratic English. They have
been coming here for years, and seem to think they have discovered
the place. They rather resent us ordinary tourists. There is another
Englishman in the hotel. Perhaps you have seen him. He has the
room next to yours. Or he may be an American, he is so tall and
clean-shaven, and he wears those funny big round tortoise-shell
spectacles. They make people look like owls, I think. Do you know him?
I ask because he seems so quiet, so retiring. I am quite curious about
him.”

“No, I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been near my room all day.
If I see him I’ll speak to him, and allay your curiosity about him.”

That evening he passed the tall man in the gloom of the corridor. Hugh
was about to accost him when the man brushed past him and disappeared
hurriedly into his room.

“Can’t be an American, after all,” thought Hugh, “or he’d be more
sociable. I’ll look up his name in the register.”

When he did look it up, he found it was Wilbur P. Hoffmann, Jersey
City; that settled it.

3.

The next morning, before starting out, he sought the proprietor of the
library where he had bought his guide-book, and inquired the best road
for his journey.

“But, monsieur,” said the man, “it would be better to take the train to
Cassamozza; it is very flat and uninteresting as far as that. There the
mountains begin, and you go up the valley of the Golo. The train starts
in half an hour. You have just time to catch it, if you hurry.”

The idea was a good one. Hugh hurried back to the hotel, leaped up the
two flights of stairs and burst into his room. He grabbed his valise,
which he had packed before going out, and rushed down into the street.
Within ten minutes he was seated in the train.

The first class carriage in which he found himself was very small and
very dirty. He had to rub the windowpane with a newspaper in order to
see out. On the walls of the compartment were advertisements of the
wine of Cap Corse, a local _apéritif_, and a liquor called Cederatine.
There were three other passengers in the carriage, a fat, spectacled
man and two thin, spectacled women. From their accent he thought they
were German at first, but later decided they were Dutch. They did not
interest him. When the train started he turned his attention to the
scenery. A green level stretched away to brown marshes that in turn
yielded to the grey of the sea. At the tiny stations, sheltered by
eucalyptus trees, peasants laden with baskets got in and out. Hugh
attached a strap to the rings of his valise so that he could sling it
from his shoulder. He had packed it with bread, cheese and fruit, a tin
billy and a packet of tea.

He had decided to walk for two hours after reaching Cassamozza, then
lunch in the open, so that it was with a sense of cheerful adventure
that he descended at the little station and started out on his long
tramp. How hot the way was! As he strode up the valley of the Golo the
sun was scorching, the road a dazzling white; below him was a furious
torrent, now dashing in dazzling foam amid great boulders, now swirling
greenly in gravelly pools. It delighted him; it was so pure, so wild,
so free. There was the _maquis_, too. It rose on either hand, clothing
the mountain sides with rich dark green. It was pathless, dense, the
best cover in the world. Here in the old days bandits had defied the
forces of law and order; but now, doubtless, they were all dead.

With every step he realized more and more that he was advancing into
the land of legend and history. He passed a hoary shepherd, who might
have stepped from the pages of romance. The old man had a long beard
and was dressed in brown corduroy. On his head he wore a picturesque
_beret_, and strapped to his back was a huge blue umbrella and a gun.
He was leaning motionless on his long staff, gazing over a flock of
black-haired sheep that mottled the hillside. Hugh felt the poetry of
it--the mountains soaring to meet the sky, the white torrent roaring
in his ears, the solitary shepherd, white-bearded as a patriarch of old.

He was becoming hungry, furiously hungry, and he thought with joy of
the simple fare tucked away in his valise. He climbed down to the
river, and in the shadow of a great rock made a cheerful fire of
driftwood. Now for the tea. Confound it! What was the matter with his
valise? His key refused to turn in the lock.

“That is the worst of these cheap bags,” he complained; “the key always
jams when you are in a devil of a hurry.”

He was ravenously hungry. His mouth watered even at the thought of
bread and cheese. Damn the thing! It was a pity to break the lock but
there seemed no help for it. Another effort. There, it was yielding.
Bravo! it had suddenly burst open.... Good God!

He stared blankly at what he saw. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
No, he was not dreaming, he was not mad ... they were there, dozens of
them ... packets tightly tied, neatly arranged, numbered.... _Thousand
franc bank-notes_. There seemed to be a hundred to a packet, and there
were twenty-eight packets. Nearly three million francs! What could it
all mean? Still staring at the wealth in his possession, he sat down
and tried to think. The Golo roared in his ears. Between two grim grey
boulders it crashed; it swirled and eddied into a great green pool. In
those pure depths could be seen the darting shadows of trout.

_Three million francs!_

He breathed the perfume of the _maquis_. He saw it carpeting the broad
valley, rising to the mountain ridges that met the sky. Yonder like a
carved figure the patriarchal shepherd stood motionless by his flock.
It was like a dream.

_Three million francs._

Yes, there they were in that little valise. He looked closely at it;
it was not his valise. It was quite different from the one he had
bought, bigger and finer! He had taken it by mistake. How could he
have made such a blunder? It had been in his room.... Or had it been
in his room? Ah! that was it. In his furious hurry to catch the train
he must have entered the wrong room.... But whose? Why, whose but the
tall American’s; Wilbur P. Hoffmann’s. Now he was getting at it. He
had rushed into the room adjoining his and carried away the American’s
valise. It was not such a strange thing to do, after all. The rooms
were all alike, the doors unnumbered. He had not examined particularly
his valise when he had bought it; and it was little wonder that he had
not noticed the difference. Yes, he had carried away another man’s
valise containing nearly three million francs. What should he do with
it? Go back to Cassamozza and telegraph, of course! The tall American
must be in a devil of a stew. But what was Wilbur P. Hoffmann doing
packing three million francs around in a hand valise? It was a rum
affair....

Hugh realized suddenly his own position. It was dangerous to be
carrying such a treasure in this wild, primitive country. Few men would
hesitate to kill him to gain possession of it. Even now some one might
be watching him. Half fearfully he looked around. Then he closed the
valise with a snap. Some one _was_ watching him. It was a peasant lad
who had bobbed up from the other side of the big boulder.

“Hullo,” said Hugh.

“_Bon jour, monsieur._”

The lad drew nearer. He carried a long cane fishing-rod and had a
canvas wallet slung at his back. He wore an old army tunic on which was
sewn the yellow ribband of the military medal. He also limped badly.
His age was about that of Hugh, and his face was olive tinted and bold
featured.

“How is the fishing?”

“Not bad, monsieur. A little too clear. Still, look....”

Opening his satchel he showed Hugh four fine trout. Suddenly Hugh
remembered that he was hungry.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve walked from Cassamozza, and I’ve forgotten to
bring anything to eat. I’m dying of hunger. I suppose it wouldn’t be
possible to cook these?”

“Nothing easier, monsieur. I generally cook a fish or two for lunch.
See....”

He took from his wallet a small frying-pan and a bottle of olive oil.

“Already you have a fire made. We will cook these in no time, and you
will see how nice they will be.”

He soon had the fish simmering on the fire. He produced a piece of
coarse bread and even some salt. When the fishes were cooked Hugh
laid them on a flat stone. He ate with his hands, stripping the bones
with his fingers. What matter! There was lots of water to wash in
afterwards, all the Golo a giant finger-bowl at his feet. He had never
tasted fish quite so delicious.

“There! I feel better,” he said at last. “Now for a good drink at the
river and a smoke.”

He produced cigarettes and the two smoked comfortably.

“Been at the War?” asked Hugh.

“Yes,” said the lad. “Verdun. I got wounded in the leg there. It still
bothers me. Two of my brothers were killed. There’s not a family here
but lost some one. You know we Corsicans are brave. There were no
braver men in the French army than our regiments. But they don’t like
the Corsicans in France. The French generals sacrificed us.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Ah! poor Corsica. It is the forgotten island. So rich, yet so
neglected. We are supposed to be savage, but there is no people so
kindly. But we are poor, oh, so poor. Look at me. I have not a _sou_.
And I will always be like this, poor, ragged, ignorant. It is hard.”

“What would you do if you had ... say three million francs?”

“Ah, monsieur, you jest. That is all the money in the world. Why, I
would buy my old mother the cottage she lives in; then I would go to
Paris and get an education. I would live like a fine gentleman. Ah!
Paris. I was there once. What a time I had! I shall never forget it.
Well, now I must catch some more fish for our supper this night.”

Hugh tried to give him a bill for five francs, but the lad drew back
proudly.

“No, monsieur, we are a hospitable people. We do what little we can to
make the stranger welcome. I thank you, but I can accept nothing.” He
limped away in his rags and Hugh did not see him again.

4.

Once more Hugh climbed to the road. He would go on, he decided, to the
next station and telegraph there. What a beastly nuisance! He would
have to return to Bastia. That American, who was he? Even in that brief
moment in the corridor there had been something vaguely familiar about
him. What if he were a criminal fleeing from justice! What if.... Good
Heavens!... Hugh stopped short as the great idea flashed on him. Could
it be?... Could it be that Wilbur P. Hoffmann was....

He tore open the valise again, and fell to examining the notes. Some
pencil markings confirmed his suspicion.... Was it Doctor Bergius?
Absurd! Yet why not? Doctor Bergius with his beard shaved off, his
head cropped, would not look very unlike Wilbur P. Hoffmann. He had
noticed, even in the obscurity, the man’s large, beak-like nose.
Conviction grew on him. Yes, the tall American was Doctor Bergius. Here
now was a pretty mess. What was he to do? The Casino had been robbed
of three million francs. He was alone with the booty in the savage
heart of Corsica; he could not return it to the robbers, and to return
it to the Casino ... hum! That didn’t quite appeal to him either. He
had not much sympathy with the Casino. They could well afford to lose
it. It would be better to hand it over to some deserving charity. In
the meantime what was to be done? He could not carry the stuff round.
He must dispose of it for the moment. That was it. He would hide it.
He had been hearing for some time, as he walked, the roar of a great
waterfall, and saw it about three hundred yards further on at the head
of a very wild and solitary gorge. Climbing over the rocks, he reached
the base of the cliff where the white shaft of water plunged into a
deep pool. He found that the rock over which it fell shelved back into
a low cave. He crawled in; it was quite dry. He took out the bundles
of bank-notes, and wrapping them in his waterproof coat, bound the
parcel tightly with stout cord. Then he crawled still further into the
cave and jammed it into a fissure of the rock.

“There! It’s safe,” he said. “It can remain in that cleft a thousand
years and no one will find it.”

He crawled out cautiously, and, after reconnoitring to see that no one
had observed him, continued on his way.

CHAPTER TWO

IN THE “MAQUIS”

1.

Amid the gorges of the Golo the white road wound on and up. The
_maquis_ encroached on it, frowned on it shaggily. Once or twice Hugh
plunged into the perfumed cover and explored it for a few yards. The
landscape lay sunny and still.

On the other side of the road, all strength and joy, the river leapt
like a living thing; it charged the boulders, it flashed in foam, it
gleamed in green pools. Sometimes he saw peasants with cane-poles
tempting the unsophisticated trout.

He came on other ancient shepherds, with big flocks of black sheep,
or goats. They always bowed profoundly, then resumed their statuesque
pose. From time to time he passed cottages with red tiled roofs. Sturdy
children, peach-skinned, with dark, glossy hair, and bold black eyes,
came out to stare at him. A poor, proud, self-reliant race.

Beside each house was its own private graveyard. Often the tombs were
walled, so that the dead were better housed than the living.

Sometimes the road dived into groves of cork-trees. They had all been
stripped of their barks, the new growth showing by its colour and depth
the number of years since each tree had been scaled.

Hugh found the way full of interest, and would have been very happy
indeed, had it not been for the thought of the money. It haunted him.
Why had Doctor Bergius brought it here? Had he given the others the
slip, or were they all here? If they were, then heaven help him!
They would soon be on his trail, and would never let up. They were
relentless. In this lonely seabound island how could he escape them?
In spite of the bright sunshine and the reassuring tranquillity of his
surroundings, he shuddered.

High up in the folds of the hills he saw grey mountain villages, each
clustered about a tall church, and looking so still, so dreamlike, that
it was hard to believe any one lived there. Nearly all the women he
met were dressed in black with black-silk scarfs knotted around their
heads. He remembered that in this land the period of mourning is seven
years, so that it is rare for a woman to be out of black.

He had passed many round rings of stone on the green sward. He asked a
stalwart farmer what they were and was told that they were threshing
floors. They still used oxen to trample the corn as they had done ever
since the time of the Romans. Then as the sun was setting, he met a
caped and bearded shepherd, leading home his flock, and carrying a lost
lamb in his arms.

It was evening when he reached Ponte Lecchio and found a lodging for
the night. His room was large and lofty, quite bare except for a large
crucifix on the white-washed wall. As he was dropping off to sleep he
thought of Margot. She must be very busy preparing for her wedding.
He ought to write to her, and give her his fraternal blessing. But
somehow he couldn’t. Of course, what she was doing was for the best.
He hoped she would be happy and all that sort of thing. He had always
advised her to marry, and now she was doing it; yet somehow it made him
melancholy.

“I’ll get over it,” he sighed dolefully; “I’ll forget all about her.”

In the morning he resumed his tramp. He had luncheon at a place called
Omessa, in an _auberge_. He ate slices of the raw ham of the country,
Roquefort cheese made on the neighbouring farms, figs and walnuts,
all washed down with the rich wine of the country. Thus heartened
he continued his way. As he neared the station of Omessa he heard
the train whistle. He loitered to let it pass. He bought a couple of
oranges from a woman squatting on the platform beside a great round
basket full of them, then stepped back into the grimy waiting room. He
was idly peeling one of the oranges when the train drew up. The window
of the waiting room was plastered with time-table bills, but in the
narrow space between them Hugh peered out.

Suddenly his heart seemed to lift in a sickening way. At the door of a
first class carriage were three men,--Castelli, Golaz and Gamba. They
were after him. As he stared through the narrow chink he saw Gamba
descend and buy some oranges. Then a fourth man came from the back
of the compartment. It was Wilbur P. Hoffmann. The supposed American
looked up and down the platform. His face was worried and anxious.
Hugh’s suspicion was correct. That hard, grim face, dominated by its
beak-like nose, was none other than Doctor Bergius.

“Take a look round the station,” cried the doctor to Gamba. “He may be
here. We cannot afford to take any chances.”

Hugh had just time to rush from the waiting room by the back door
as Gamba entered. He heard a step on the wooden floor, and knew the
little man was coming after him. How could he escape? At the end of
the station house was a small stone building into which he darted.
He pulled the door shut, holding the handle with all his strength.
Around him were brushes and a ladder. Under his feet he heard the
crunch of coal. He was evidently in the closet used by the caretaker
of the station. As he held the door, he heard a step outside and Gamba
seized the handle, cursing volubly. Hugh held on grimly. Although Gamba
supposed the door was locked, he made another effort to open it. He
had powerful hands had the Strangler. Hugh felt the handle gradually
turning in his grip. Another instant and Gamba would conquer. Then the
train whistled, and Gamba hurried off.

Hugh waited a full ten minutes before he emerged from the closet. The
train has gone; he saw it puffing far up the valley. There was no one
on the platform. He was safe.

For the moment at least. The train was bearing his enemies away, but
to-morrow they would return. When they discovered he had not arrived at
Agaccio they would double back. They were like a pack of blood hounds
on his trail and the hunt was only beginning. He was entirely at their
mercy. He must use his wits and trust to Providence.

2.

Before he reached Corte the weather had changed; clouds had collected,
and a fine rain was falling. He found a poor room in a large,
unsanitary hotel, but dined decently on an omelette and some fried
trout.

Corte in the drizzling twilight was very depressing. An old fortress
stood on a rocky point against a savage mountain. Clammy scarfs of mist
wreathed the peaks and trailed down the passes. Hugh wandered about the
muddy main street, halting on the greasy pavement to peer down dark
and ruinous courts. Seen under that cowl of sky, through the curtain of
soft rain, Corte was indeed a joyless and discomforting place.

He sought his room, and spent an uneasy night between damp sheets. He
was sorry now he had not made for Bastia and hid there until a boat
sailed. The thought of the doctor and his band of desperadoes frankly
terrified him. Well, he would go on now, and trust to luck.

Next morning the rain had ceased, although it still threatened. It
would be better, he thought, to lunch by the wayside; and he bought
some cheese, fruit, bread and a bottle of wine. Thus provisioned he
started up the mountain road that was to take him on the next stage of
his journey.

Ever since he had left Cassamozza he had been climbing steadily. He
had left behind the lemon and orange groves, and now was steadily
mounting to a land of oak forests and ravines. The flocks of sheep had
given place to herds of goats, and the _maquis_ was growing more and
more aggressive. Down in the dim valley, like a silver tape, was the
Tavignano meandering to the sea. On the other side of the valley were
two precipitously perched villages. He passed many little roadside
shrines, and one or two old lime kilns. Here and there were bearded
goatherds in long black cloaks, standing as motionless as scarecrows in
a wheatfield. At noon he sat down on the edge of the _maquis_ and ate
his luncheon.

He was just finishing his meal, when he paused and listened. Surely he
heard the faint chugging of a motor.... Yes, yonder it was, a small car
cautiously descending the mountain road. Some instinct made him draw
back into the bush. Well he did so, for it was the four men who were
hunting him, Castelli driving with the doctor, Golaz and Gamba behind.
Hugh saw their eyes searching the road on either side. Now they were
looking at the very spot where he lay. But the brush was thick, and
they passed slowly on. A narrow escape!

They must have started early that morning from Agaccio. He knew they
would have little difficulty in tracing him on that island where
strangers were rare. It was just a question of time, of getting his
location narrowed down. They would learn that he had stopped at Corte
and had taken the road to Agaccio. Then they would turn back to search
for him, inquiring at every house and village on the way. Beyond him
was the little hillside town of Venaco. They would inquire if he had
passed through. Well, he would not pass through; he would take to the
_maquis_ and go round.

All afternoon he kept to the _maquis_, avoiding villages, hamlets
and even houses. He scrambled over rocks, stumbled through brush. He
flattered himself that not even a peasant had seen him. He kept close
to the road, his ear ever alert for the far off sound of a motor.

He was making slow progress, but he could see no other way. By now
they must have traced him to Corte, and learned that he was but a few
miles away. Doubtless they had asked the peasants to look out for him,
even offered a reward. Perhaps at that very moment a score of stalwart
Corsicans were scouring the bush for him. He had but one slim chance of
escape, that of lying low, working his way to Agaccio and catching the
boat for Marseilles.

He decided to sleep that night in the _maquis_. Under the shadow of
an overhanging rock he found a place that was quite dry and screened
by the foliage of an oak tree. He made a tiny fire, ate what remained
of his food, and smoked a good deal. If only he had had a blanket he
would have been fairly comfortable.

He arose with the dawn, stiff and sore. He took to the road, thinking
he would meet no one at that early hour. He was ravenously hungry and
felt reckless. When he came to the solitary house of a shepherd, he
ventured to approach it and ask for food.

It was a two storied house with plastered walls, and a red tiled roof.
An outer stairway led to the upper floor where the family lived; the
ground floor was used as a stable.

As he knocked at the rough door he told himself he must seem rather a
sorry sight. A night in the _maquis_ had not improved his appearance.
If he had only been wearing the corduroys of the country ... but he was
in a brown Norfolk jacket, grey flannel trousers and a panama. He was
not surprised when the bearded and spectacled old man who opened the
door stared at him with astonishment.

“Can I have something to eat?” he asked.

Corsican hospitality is proverbial.

“_Entrez donc, monsieur_,” said the old man.

Hugh entered. The house consisted of but one big room meagerly
furnished. Hams hung from the rafters, and at a small stove a woman,
surrounded by a brood of half-clad children, was preparing coffee. The
old man offered him a chair.

“The place is yours, monsieur. Make yourself at home.”

He ate some bread and drank his coffee, then rose to go. The old man
detained him. In half intelligible French he began to relate the
family history: they were miserably poor; his son, the father of the
small brood, only worked at intervals. They had a garden, some goats,
pigs, chickens, a few cultivated acres. Praise God there was always
something to feed the children. Would monsieur like to taste their
home-cured ham? Ah! now he must insist.

There was a heavy step on the outer stair and the old man went quickly
to the door. Hugh heard hurried whispers then the step descended
rapidly. The old man returned, and continued to cut the ham. He offered
it raw after the fashion of the country. Hugh would have preferred it
cooked, but under the circumstances he thought it best to bolt it down
as it was. Then he rose again and said he must be on his way.

Again the old man tried to detain him. “Why not stay a little and rest
yourself? There is a nice warm bed, and we have goat’s meat for dinner.
You must see how good it is.”

The old man almost hung onto his arm. His eagerness seemed very
suspicious, so Hugh gently detached himself and bade good-bye to the
family. As he went up the road, he saw them all watching him from the
doorway.

No sooner was the house out of sight than he took to the _maquis_. His
fears were justified, for about an hour later two cars passed very
slowly. The first, the small green one he had already seen, contained
Castelli, Golaz and Gamba; the other, a big powerful grey, driven by a
chauffeur, held Doctor Bergius. They had heard of him, no doubt, at the
house of the shepherd, and were patrolling the road. But, hidden as he
was in that dense jungle of _maquis_, they had little chance of finding
him. He imagined that they must have telegraphed to Bastia for the big
grey car.

About two o’clock he saw the two cars going back in the direction of
Venaco, and once more ventured to take to the road. As he passed a
dismal farm a man and a woman paused in their work to regard him. He
wanted to ask them for food, but their manner was so strange that he
decided it was wiser to go on. When he was a little way from the house,
he saw the man leap on a mule and ride off in the opposite direction.
Evidently the whole countryside had been warned, and every one was on
the look-out for him. It would be only a matter of time before they
cornered him. Once again he took to the _maquis_.

Rain had begun to fall. The underbrush was drenched and he was cold and
wet. Still he pushed doggedly on. His despair gave him strength and he
covered quite a distance. He cut off a big bend in the road by going
straight through the bush. As he was in the midst of the _maquis_ he
heard again the sound of a motor. Climbing a rock he peered cautiously
over the country. Close to the road a number of peasants were moving
back and forth. They were beating the bush for him.

Still more cautiously he moved forward. Half an hour later he came
out on the road once more. Not far away he heard the beaters crashing
through the brush. Soon they must find him. He peered around carefully
... then his heart leaped.

Standing by the side of the road was the little green car. It was
empty. Castelli and the others had gotten out and were searching for
him. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of them.

Then a desperate idea came to him.... Yes, he would do it.

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE MOUNTAINS

Once more he looked up and down the road. Still no sign of any one. Now
was the moment.

He sprang to the little green car and spun the handle. Would it start
or not? The motor breathed gently. Exultation flamed in him. A good
car and a good road ... the devil himself could not stop him now. He
leapt to the seat, jerking off the brake and giving her gas at the same
moment. Then he heard a shout from behind, and turned his head sharply.
About a hundred yards behind him Gamba had come out of the _maquis_.

There was no time to lose. The little man was running like a deer. How
about the gears? Hugh looked down at the gate in which they worked, a
four-speed gear box. They must go the usual way,--front, back, cross
and front, back. Quick, Gamba was getting closer! He jammed in the
first speed, and the car moved slowly forward. Second speed! He was
going faster now, but Gamba was still gaining. Third speed! He heard
close behind him the hard, panting breath of his pursuer. Gamba was
running like the wind. Quickly he shot into high; and at the same
instant he heard a heavy thump on the back of the car. Gamba had jumped
and was hanging on behind.

The car was going at a fair speed now. If he only could get rid of that
grinning little devil behind all would be well. Gamba was hoisting
himself up. Soon he would be in the car, and then.... Hugh looked back
once more. The man was waist-high above the hood. In another moment it
would be too late. Ha! there on the floor by his feet was a spare can
of petrol. That might do. He reached for it and with all his strength