The Place of Dragons: A Mystery

"No. I cannot explain," she replied. "If you knew, M'sieur Vidal, how horrible, how terrible all this is for me, you would not press your question."

"But I do – in your interests," I said with deep earnestness. "I want to help you to escape from these scoundrels – I want to stand as your friend."

"My friend!" she exclaimed blankly. "My friend – ah! that you can never be."

"Why not?"

"You would not wish to cultivate my acquaintance further, M'sieur Vidal, if – if you were aware of the actual truth. Besides, this friendship which you have shown to me may, in itself, prove fatal to you. If you do not exercise the greatest precaution, your reward for saving me, as you did that night at Balmaclellan, will be death!"

"You are apprehensive on my account?" I asked, wondering whether she were really in earnest – or whether beneath her strange warning there lay some subtle motive.

"Yes," was her frank response. "Take great care, or death will come to you at a moment when you least expect it."

For an instant I was silent. Her warning was truly a curious and disconcerting one, for I knew the dangerous character of Jules Jeanjean. That if he threatened, he meant action.

"I do not care for myself, Lola," I said at last. "I am thinking how I can protect you, and rescue you from the hands of these unscrupulous men."

"You cannot," she declared, with a hard, fixed look of desperation. "No, only be careful of yourself, and, at the same time, dismiss me from your thoughts. I – I am unworthy of your regard," she murmured, her voice choked by a sob. "Alas, entirely unworthy!"

"No, no," I urged. "I will not allow you to speak like that, Lola. Ever since you entered my room, on that well-remembered night in Scotland, I have wondered how best I could assist you to lead an honest life; how I could – "

"I can accept no further assistance from you, M'sieur Vidal," she interposed, in a quivering voice. "I repeat that I am utterly unworthy," she cried, and shivered with despair, as she stood erect before me. "And – and – if you only knew the truth – the terrible truth of the past – you would at once, I know, turn and discard me – nay, you would probably ring for the waiter and hand me over to the police without either compunction or regret."

And the girl, known as "The Nightingale," stood before me, her face white and hard, her eyes with a strange light in them, staring straight before her, her breast heaving and falling with emotion which she was trying in vain to suppress.

CHAPTER XV

CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS

For yet another hour we sat together, but Lola would reveal nothing further.

She only repeated that serious warning, urging me to abandon this investigation of the strange affair at Cromer.

She refused to tell me the name under which old Gregory was known in Hatton Garden, and she likewise firmly declined to give me any information concerning the curious code which had been found in Gregory's room. Indeed, she affected ignorance of it, as well as of the mysterious spot in Ealing "where the two C's meet."

"My uncle is in Antwerp," she told me in reply to a question. "I join him to-morrow, and then we go travelling – where, I have no idea. But you know how erratic and sudden our movements necessarily are. The master usually meets my uncle in Antwerp, going there regularly in the guise of a diamond merchant."

"And you will not tell me the master's real name?" I asked persuasively.

"I am not allowed. If you discover it for yourself, then I shall not be to blame," she said, with a meaning smile. "But do, I beg of you, give up the search, M'sieu' Vidal. It can only end fatally if you still persist."

"You have warned me, Lola, and I thank you sincerely for doing so, but I shall continue to act as I have begun."

"At your own peril – a deadly peril!" she ejaculated, with an apprehensive look.

"I must accept the risk," I said quietly. "And I intend to still stand your friend, Lola."

"But you must not, you cannot!" she protested. "Of course I most deeply appreciate all that you have done for me – and how generous you have been, knowing that I am, alas! what I am. But I will not allow you to risk your life further on my account."

"That is really my own affair."

"No. It is mine. I am here to-day, in secret, solely to warn you – to ask you – to give up this inquiry, and allow the matter to rest a mystery," she protested. "Will you not do this for my sake?" she pleaded.

For a few seconds I paused, smiling at her. Then I replied —

"No. I cannot promise that. Young Craig was foully murdered, of that I am confident, and I intend to unravel the mystery."

"Even though it costs you your life?" she asked slowly.

Why, I wondered, was she so frantically anxious for me to abandon the inquiry? Was it really because she feared that her uncle might attempt to rid himself of me, or had she some other hidden motive?

The expression upon her sweet face had altered. It was eager and apprehensive – a curious look, such as I had never witnessed there before.

Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of which she, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation – why?

My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety – even deadly fear. She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told her point-blank that I would make her no promise.

"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will be forewarned of the evil that is intended!"

"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My first concern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks when we strolled together in the Bois – when you told me all your troubles, and your fears?"

"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But – but, I did not tell you all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.

"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are – well, let us say it quite plainly – a thief."

"Ah! If I were only that, I might dare to look you in the face – to crave your sympathy – your interest – your generosity once again. But I cannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.

"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there may be confidences."

"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidences between friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyes with a little wisp of lace.

I was disappointed. I had fully expected to obtain from her some clue which might lead to a solution of the mystery of Craig's death. But she was obdurate.

"Lola," I said, taking her trembling hand again, "I wish to tell you something."

"Well, what is it?" she asked.

"Simply this. I think I ought to tell you that, near that seat on the cliff at Cromer, where Craig was found, there was discovered a clear print of a lady's shoe," and I watched her countenance narrowly.

Her face went paler in an instant, and in her eyes showed a quick look of terror. But in a second she had recovered herself, and said —

"That is interesting. Do you think that its presence there gives any clue to the assassin?"

"I don't know," was my reply. I stood before her in wonder. Her perfect sang-froid was truly amazing. "But," I went on, "curiously enough, the same lady's shoe was found in Beacon House, after Gregory's property had been carried off. It fitted exactly the imprint in the sand near the seat."

The only sign that her mind was perturbed by my knowledge was a slight twitching at the corners of her pretty mouth. Yes, she preserved an astounding calm.

"That is curious," she remarked with unconcern.