Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“I suppose I had better get away to Malines without delay?” Hugh remarked.

“Yes. Go to your hotel, pay them for your room and get your valise. I shall be waiting for you at noon in a car in the Rue Gretry, close to the Palais d’Ete. Then we can slip away to Malines. Have you sufficient money? If not, I can give you some. Il Passero has ordered me to do so.”

“Thanks,” replied Hugh. “I have enough for the present. My only desire is to be back again in London.”

“Ah! I am afraid that is not possible for some time to come.”

“But I shall hear from Miss Ranscomb?”

“Oh, yes. The messenger will come to you in Malines.”

“Who is the messenger?”

“Of that I have no knowledge,” was Vervoort’s reply. He seemed a very refined man, and was no doubt an extremely clever crook. He said little of himself, but sufficient to cause Hugh to realize that his was one of the master minds of underground Europe.

The young Englishman was naturally eager to further penetrate the veil of mystery surrounding Mademoiselle Yvonne, but he learned little or nothing. Vervoort either knew nothing, or else refused to disclose what he knew. Which, Hugh could not exactly decide.

Therefore, in accordance with the Belgian’s instructions, he left the house and at noon carried his valise to the Rue Gretry, where he found his friend awaiting him in a closed car, which quickly moved off out of the city by the Laeken road. Travelling by way of Vilvorde they were within an hour in old-world Malines, famous for its magnificent cathedral and its musical carillon. Crossing the Louvain Canal and entering by the Porte de Bruxelles, they were soon in an inartistic cobbled street under the shadow of St. Rombold, and a few minutes later Hugh was introduced to a short, stout Belgian woman, Madame Maupoil. The place was meagrely furnished, but scrupulously clean. The floor of the room to which Hugh was shown shone with beeswax, and the walls were whitewashed.

“I hope monsieur will make himself quite comfortable,” madame said, a broad smile of welcome upon her round face.

“You will be comfortable enough under madame’s care,” Vervoort assured him. “She has had some well-known guests before now.”

“True, monsieur. More than one of them have been world-famous and—well—believed to be perfectly honest and upright.”

“Yes,” laughed Vervoort. “Do you remember the English ex-member of Parliament?”

“Ah! He was with me nearly four months when supposed to be in South America. There was a warrant out for him on account of some great financial frauds—all of which was, of course, hushed up. But he stayed here in strict concealment and his friends managed to get the warrant withdrawn. He was known to Il Passero, and the latter aided him—in return for certain facilities regarding the English police.”

“What do you think of the English police, madame?” Hugh asked. The fat woman grinned expressively and shrugged her broad shoulders.

“Since the war they have been effete as regards serious crime. At least, that is what Il Passero told me when he was here a month ago.”

“Someone is coming here to meet Monsieur Henfrey,” Vervoort said. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I only received word of it the day before yesterday. A messenger from London, I believe.”

“Well, each day I become more and more mystified,” Hugh declared. “Why Il Passero, whom I do not know, should take all this interest in me, I cannot imagine.”

“Il Passero very often assists those against whom a false charge is laid,” the woman remarked. “There is no better friend when one is in trouble, for so clever and ubiquitous is he, and so many friends in high quarters does he possess, that he can usually work his will. His is the master-mind, and we obey without question.”

TWELFTH CHAPTER

THE STRANGER IN BOND STREET

As Dorise walked up Bond Street, smartly dressed, next afternoon, on her way to her dressmaker’s, she was followed by a well-dressed young girl in black, dark-eyed, with well-cut, refined features, and apparently a lady.

From Piccadilly the stranger had followed Dorise unseen, until at the corner of Maddox Street she overtook her, and smiling, uttered her name.

“Yes,” responded Doris in surprise. “But I regret—you have the advantage of me?”

“Probably,” replied the stranger. “Do you recollect the bal blanc at Nice and a certain white cavalier? I have a message from him to give you in secret.”

“Why in secret?” Dorise asked rather defiantly.

“Well—for certain reasons which I think you can guess,” answered the girl in black, as she strolled at Dorise’s side.

“Why did not you call on me at home?”

“Because of your mother. She would probably have been a little inquisitive. Let us go into some place—a tea-room—where we can talk,” she suggested. “I have come to see you concerning Mr. Henfrey.”

“Where is he?” asked Dorise, in an instant anxious.

“Quite safe. He arrived in Malines yesterday—and is with friends.”

“Has he had my letters?”

“Unfortunately, no. But do not let us talk here. Let’s go in yonder,” and she indicated the Laurel Tea Rooms, which, the hour being early, they found, to their satisfaction, practically deserted.

At a table in the far corner they resumed their conversation.

“Why has he not received my letters?” asked Dorise. “It is nearly a month ago since I first wrote.”

“By some mysterious means the police got to know of your friend’s intended visit to Brussels to obtain his letters. Therefore, it was too dangerous for him to go to the Poste Restante, or even to send anyone there. The Brussels police were watching constantly. How they have gained their knowledge is a complete mystery.”

“Who sent you to me?”

“A friend of Mr. Henfrey. My instructions are to see you, and to convey any message you may wish to send to Mr. Henfrey to him direct in Malines.”

“I’m sure it’s awfully good of you,” Dorise replied. “Does he know you are here?”

“Yes. But I have not met him. I am simply a messenger. In fact, I travel far and wide for those who employ me.”

“And who are they?”

“I regret, but they must remain nameless,” said the girl, with a smile.

Dorise was puzzled as to how the French police could have gained any knowledge of Hugh’s intentions. Then suddenly, she became horrified as a forgotten fact flashed across her mind. She recollected how, early in the grey morning, after her return from the ball at Nice, she had written and addressed a letter to Hugh. On reflection, she had realized that it was not sufficiently reassuring, so she had torn it up and thrown it into the waste-paper basket instead of burning it.

She had, she remembered, addressed the envelope to Mr. Godfrey Brown, at the Poste Restante in Brussels.

Was it possible that the torn fragments had fallen into the hands of the police? She knew that they had been watching her closely. Her surmise was, as a matter of fact, the correct one. Ogier had employed the head chambermaid to give him the contents of Dorise’s waste-paper basket from time to time, hence the knowledge he had gained.

“Are you actually going to Malines?” asked Dorise of the girl.

“Yes. As your messenger,” the other replied with a smile. “I am leaving to-night. If you care to write him a letter, I will deliver it.”

“Will you come with me over to the Empress Club, and I will write the letter there?” Dorise suggested, still entirely mystified.