The Broken Thread Part 11

This was the form and frame hidden behind such a mask of bored manner and faultless attire as could only be a.s.sumed by a Scarlet Pimpernel in his leisure moments. He was truly a man to be feared, and Doctor Malsano had learnt by bitter experience to run when his little, astute enemy loomed on the horizon. The recognition had been mutual at the time of the stumble, and Herrion knew the doctor was not staying in the Hotel Royal for the cause of philanthropy. When the incident that produced the recognition had ceased to attract attention, the detective dodged through a service door used by the staff, and, making his way along corridors, knocked at an office door. Responding to the invitation to enter, he said to the rotund, bald-headed little man, ensconced in a big chair and surrounded by a maze of books and papers, "Forgive me, signor, for my brusque intrusion. Have you the Baroness von Sa.s.sniltz staying in your hotel?"

"Ah, inspector! It is you. I thought it was what you call ze greased lightning. I don't know whether the baroness you speak of is staying in the hotel, but I will inquire," and, ringing a bell, the jovial little manager continued: "You see at Nice we have so many barons, counts, ze English lords and people with t.i.tles, and at the Royal,"--this he said with a whimsical smile--"you see, Mr Inspector, we have the _creme de la creme_ of what you call the _haut-ton_, the best society."

In response to a bell a man in livery entered, and, with the deference of an inferior, asked for instructions. The manager, with an austere manner that contrasted with his previous geniality, ordered: "Go to the bureau and ask whether the baroness--what is the name, Mr Herrion?"

The man started and looked surrept.i.tiously at the detective. Herrion frowned and said, "The Baroness von Sa.s.sniltz, signor."

As the man closed the door to go on his errand, the inspector said: "I'm sorry you disclosed my ident.i.ty to that man. Who is he? Has he been long in the service of the hotel?"

"Ah, I'm very sorry, Mr Herrion. I did not think it would matter down here in this old office of mine. Again, Mr Herrion, I see my mistake.

I am sorry."

The messenger returned, and said, "The Baroness von Sa.s.sniltz is staying in the hotel, signor, with her maid, the Fraulein Schneider."

"Thank you," and, as the man glared at the detective again, the manager repeated, "You can go."

Herrion followed him to the door and proceeded to talk to the manager.

Suddenly wheeling, the officer opened the door and hauled from without the messenger.

"You were listening to our talk outside," he said to the man, and turning to the manager, asked: "Do you know this man, signor? I don't think you will find him a very good servant for such an aristocratic hotel as the Royal."

The little manager rose from his chair and said furiously: "Go! go at once, this hotel is no place for a man like you. Go! I tell you, go, and I will see to it that you do not stay in Nice."

The man attempted to explain, but the manager of a Riviera hotel is a despot in such matters, and the good name of a hotel must not be smirched by an inferior servant.

When the man had gone, Herrion continued his talk: "The Baroness von Sa.s.sniltz is very wealthy, signor, and she carries with her jewellery that is almost priceless. These people who will carry jewellery around with them are a great trouble to us. Before I intruded in your office I saw a man in the foyer, who is one of the most accomplished thieves in Europe. He is not here for a good purpose. That messenger whom I hauled, _sans ceremonie_, into the room, is, I have reason to believe, in league with this other criminal. I have seen a man skulking around at night in the costume of what might be the Quartier Latin of Paris, but he looks more like an Apache, and I strongly suspect this is the same man."

"_Ma foi_! Mr Herrion, but if that is so, I and my proprietors are profoundly grateful to you."

"Well it is, in some sense, my duty to prevent crime as well as to hunt down criminals and bring them to justice. I am not in Nice for this particular piece of work, but I saw a chance of nipping this man's plans, and I hope I have done it. The rest of the work I leave to you.

Good day, signor!"

When Herrion had left, the rotund little man leant back in his chair and laughed to himself.

"_Ma foi_! But when I was in London the crooks of Soho, Hatton Garden, and the other quarters used to laugh at the English detectives, with their big boots, pipe, and what they call a skull cap. But, this man Herrion, he's what they call `in another cla.s.s.'"

CHAPTER TEN.

THE MYSTERY OF SOME DISAPPEARANCES.

The doctor, after his encounter with Herrion, hastily ascended the main staircase and made his way to his room. Gilda was in the foyer talking to Sir Raife Remington. With a surprising agility, the doctor flung his belongings into his valises and then scribbled a note. Ringing the bell he called for his bill, at the same time instructing the waiter to hand the note to Miss Tempest, whom he would find in the foyer. "Call Miss Tempest," he added, "by saying that I wish to speak to her. Don't hand her the note in the presence of Sir Raife."

The waiter, with a profound bow, withdrew to obey the instructions, slightly elevating his eyebrows.

A few more instructions and Doctor Malsano left the hotel, ostensibly for a stroll along the Promenade des Anglais. He soon doubled his tracks and secured a motor-car. Seated in this he donned motor goggles of the mask type, attached to a jaunty looking cap. A gaily-coloured silk m.u.f.fler from his overcoat pocket, with the other alterations he had effected in his room, completed a transformation that had converted the sombre personality into a somewhat flashy-looking tourist. The modest luggage was easily negotiated, and a trail of white dust was all that remained of the courtly old doctor.

Gilda's conversation with Raife was interrupted by the arrival of the discreet waiter, who invited Miss Tempest to meet Doctor Malsano upstairs. Raife looked lovingly at her retreating figure. As she disappeared behind a marble pillar he saw the waiter hand her a note, which she hastily secreted in her bodice.

His heart gave a desponding throb. What was this fresh mystery? Why was the progress of their strange courtship to be jarred by a series of uncanny surprises?

He rose from his seat and crossing the foyer glanced up as her transcendingly beautiful but fragile form swept with a stately grace along the landing. She stood for a moment and started to read the note.

Then, catching sight of Raife, she lowered it to her side and continued her journey upwards. More torture. Why did she disguise the note?

What can have been the cryptic contents? Raife was enthralled with the subtle charms of this wonderful woman creature. Yet all his judgment kept telling him that their course could only lead to tragedy. A score of times a day he tore his soul in shreds by asking himself fatuous questions, to which he could find no answer. He was impelled with the fascination of a will-o'-the-wisp, and Gilda was the spirit that danced before him night and day.

Gilda reached the retirement of her room, and then read the note, which said:

"H of S Y is here. I have gone. Join me as soon as you can at C--. If we fail to meet there or at B--, meet L in a week or two."

Haunted and hunted, deprived of all real companionship save that of this conspirator criminal who called himself her uncle, Gilda's courage failed for a brief while.

Falling on to the lounge, covered with dainty dimity, which was at the foot of the bed she must soon vacate, this fragile girl, whose nerves had stood her in good stead so many times, sobbed.

Yes! hunted from place to place. Hunted by fear of a Nemesis that pursued unrelentingly. When the entrance hall was practically deserted and the dining halls were crowded, a tall figure, cloaked and shrouded in a motor veil, crept down the stairs and entered a car in waiting.

Into the mysterious night, quite slowly and silently, the car forged its way. Gilda did not know where she was going and had merely said to the chauffeur: "Drive on slowly until I tell you to turn."

The fiendish malignity of an accomplished criminal has formed the subject of much moralising. Criminals of the type of Doctor Danilo Malsano are, fortunately, rare. Their astounding gifts, which they use in a distorted form, make detection difficult, and escape easy.

To his mind it did not appear brutal to involve a beautiful young girl in a nest of criminal intrigue. A day or two after the sudden disappearance of uncle and niece, the quiet little town of Bordighera was made more attractive by the figure of a wistful-looking girl, who gazed across the deep-blue sea. Bordighera does not possess the fashionable and extravagantly gowned appearance of Nice. There is less of glitter, less of glare than in most of the towns of the Riviera.

Gilda had come here hoping to attract no attention by reason of the comparative obscurity of the place. Instead of staying at an hotel, she had found lodgings in an obscure street.

For the first time she felt a sense of peace in her life and, away from her uncle's baneful influence, a restored freshness was entering her very being. She sat gazing across that beautiful sea with its blue surface flecked by rippling streaks of turquoise, or purple, or deep emerald, as its wondrous depths were affected by a brilliant sun.

Distant smoke trailed in the wake of some steamer that may have "tramped" the world around, or of an Orient liner that was conveying white rulers to the far-away portions of our Eastern Empire.

Gilda thought of Raife and his mad pa.s.sion for her. She wished to tell him all--at least all she knew. She felt that she could hardly tell how much she knew, nor did she know how much she could tell. She did realise that she had treated him badly, but why had he followed and discovered her? Should she put an end to her perplexities by a short, sharp road to death? Rousing herself from this reverie, Gilda left the seat, with the wonderful view, and sauntered along a winding path embowered with foliage. As she turned the bend of the pathway she saw in front of her, on a jutting headland, an elderly lady and a young man.

They, in turn, were gazing seaward.

The young man of to-day is more daring in his costume and displays more individuality than those of a generation ago. It was not hard, even at this distance of a few hundred yards, for Gilda to recognise Raife Remington standing on the jutting rock with his mother.

This young man, who had just inherited large estates and a handsome income, in tragic circ.u.mstances, was easy to identify. With a lineage dating from Henry the Seventh, and the later period when Sir Henry Reymingtoune was Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth, and men's fashions rivalled in costliness those of the women, it was natural that Raife should possess judgment in such matters.

Queen Elizabeth has been counted the most extravagantly dressed woman of all time, unless it may be believed that the Queen of Sheba affected a similar extravagance. The pictorial souvenirs of the costumes of Elizabeth are more reliable than those of the days of Sheba, but it is not an important point to decide.

The centuries that have elapsed since the brave days of Drake, Frobisher and Hawkins, and the other bold admirals who founded the British empire, have induced a comparative drabness in men's clothing, and a severity in style.

Much of this has been altered in these later years by imaginative young Americans, who have learnt to deck themselves out more elaborately in cravaterie, hosiery, and general lingerie, whilst newspapers devote columns to the cut of suitings, and the latest form of shoe string, or the brim and feathered tuft that should rule the form of an Alpine hat.

These despised and minor considerations now, concern the youth of Britain and the continent of Europe.

Sir Raife Remington, Bart., possessed always the correct judgment in such matters. He allowed his tailor, hatter, hosier, bootmaker, and what not, just the correct lat.i.tude. They should, and did, only supply him with clothing that conformed sufficiently with the fashion of the moment, without displaying an _outre_ taste.

If coloured socks were _de rigueur_, and a variety of tints in shirts and cravats were the order of the day, the general effect should be conformable to the fiat of his tradesmen, without being conspicuous. In short, Raife Remington was a well-dressed man, and his fine, athletic figure, displayed to perfection the clothes he adorned.

Gilda Tempest saw Raife's form in the distance, and the old spirit of dread and unrest returned to her with an added fury.

Where should she go? How could she leave Bordighera without being discovered by Raife or his mother? Where also was the dreaded H of S Y?

Turning in the beautiful pathway, she hastened, with drooping form, back over the cliffs, and sought the seclusion of her obscure lodgings in the back part of the quaint and quiet old town.

Long she schemed and planned for a way out of the difficulty. All the soothing reflections of the afternoon had gone, and in place was the renewal of trouble, unrest and danger.

The darkest hours of night and trouble precede the dawn.