Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“Why did you go and see her at that hour?” asked the girl.

“Because I wanted her to tell me something—something of greatest importance to me.”

“And she refused, of course? She keeps her own secrets.”

“No. On the other hand, she was about to disclose to me the information I sought when someone fired through the open window.”

“The shot might have been intended for you—eh?”

Hugh paused.

“It certainly might,” he admitted. “But with what motive?”

“To prevent you from learning the truth.”

“She was on the point of telling me what I wanted to know.”

“Exactly. And what more likely than someone outside, realizing that Mademoiselle was about to make a disclosure, fired at you.”

“But you said that Mademoiselle had enemies.”

“So she has. But I think my theory is the correct one,” replied the girl. “What was it that you asked her to reveal to you?”

“Well,” he replied, after a brief hesitation, “my father died mysteriously in London some time ago, and I have reason to believe that she knows the truth concerning the sad affair.”

“Where did it happen?”

“My father was found in the early morning lying in a doorway in Albemarle Street, close to Piccadilly. The only wound found was a slight scratch in the palm of the hand. The police constable at first thought he was intoxicated, but the doctor, on being called, declared that my father was suffering from poison. He was at once taken to St. George’s Hospital, but an hour later he died without recovering consciousness.”

“And what was your father’s name?” asked Lisette in a strangely altered voice.

“Henfrey.”

“Henfrey!” gasped the girl, starting up at mention of the name. “Henfrey! And—and are—you—his son?”

“Yes,” replied Hugh. “Why? You know about the affair, mademoiselle! Tell me all you know,” he cried. “I—the son of the dead man—have a right to demand the truth.”

“Henfrey!” repeated the girl hoarsely in a state of intense agitation. “Monsieur Henfrey! And—and to think that I am here—with you—his son! Ah! forgive me!” she gasped. “I—I–Let us return.”

“But you shall tell me the truth!” cried Hugh excitedly. “You know it! You cannot deny that you know it!”

All, however, he could get from her were the words:

“You—Monsieur Henfrey’s son! Surely Il Passero does not know this!”

ELEVENTH CHAPTER

MORE ABOUT THE SPARROW

A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by.

Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason.

It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the newspapers.

The evening after Hugh’s disappearance, Monsieur Ogier had called upon Dorise Ranscomb—her mother happily being away at the Rooms at the time. In one of the sitting-rooms of the hotel the official of police closely questioned the girl, but she, of course made pretense of complete ignorance. Naturally Ogier was annoyed at being unable to obtain the slightest information, and after being very rude, he told the girl the charge against her lover and then left the hotel in undisguised anger.

Lady Ranscomb was very much mystified at Hugh’s disappearance, though secretly she was very glad. She questioned Brock, but he, on his part, expressed himself very much puzzled. A week later, however, Walter returned to London, and on the following night Lady Ranscomb and her daughter took the train-de-luxe for Boulogne, and duly arrived home.

As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had told her of her lover’s escape.

In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious George Sherrard.

Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.

“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”

“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a delightful man!”

“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?” queried the widow of the great contractor.

“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”

“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.

Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.

“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he’s done?”

“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”

“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily. “He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”

“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”

“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”

“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last of the fellow.”

“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.

Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.

Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.

From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it—something she dared not tell.