Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“Do you think he is a thief?” asked the girl.

“Yes. I am convinced that your friend is none other than the picturesque and romantic criminal whose octopus hand is upon almost every great theft in Europe, and whom the police always fail to catch, so elusive and clever is he.”

She gave him further details of their first meeting at Nice.

“Exactly. That is one of his methods—secrecy and generosity are his two traits. He and his accomplices rob the wealthy, and assist those wrongly accused. It must be he—or one of his assistants. Otherwise he would not know of the secret hiding-place for those after whom a hue-and-cry has been raised.”

He recollected at that moment the girl who had been his fellow-guest in Genoa—the dainty mademoiselle who evidently had some secret knowledge of his father’s death, and yet refused to divulge a single word.

Ever since that memorable night at the Villa Amette, he had existed in a mist of suspicion and uncertainty. Yet, after all, he cared little for anything so long as Dorise still believed in his innocence, and she still loved him. His one great object was to clear up the mystery of his father’s tragic end, and thus defeat the clever plot of those whose intention it, apparently, was to marry him to Louise Lambert.

On every hand there was mystification. The one woman—notorious as she was—who knew the truth had been rendered mentally incompetent by an assassin’s bullet, while he, himself, was accused of the crime.

Hugh Henfrey would have long ago confessed to Dorise the whole facts concerning his father’s death, but his delicacy prevented him. He honoured his dead father, and was averse to telling the girl he loved that he had been found in a curious state in a West End street late at night. He was loyal to his poor father’s memory, and, until he knew the actual truth, he did not intend that Dorise should be in a position to misconstrue the facts, or to misjudge.

On the face of it, his father’s death was exceedingly suspicious. He had left his home in the country and gone to town upon pretence. Why? That a woman was connected with his journey was now apparent. Hugh had ascertained certain facts which he had resolved to withhold from everybody.

But why should the notorious Sparrow, the King of the Underworld, interest himself so actively on his behalf as to travel up there to Perthshire, after making those secret, but elaborate, arrangements for safety? The whole affair was a mystery, complete and insoluble.

It was early morning, after they had rambled for several hours in the moonlight, when Hugh bade his well-beloved farewell.

They had returned through the park and were at a gate quite close to the castle when they halted. It had crossed Hugh’s mind that they might be seen by one of the keepers, and he had mentioned this to Dorise.

“What matter?” she replied. “They do not know you, and probably will not recognize me.”

So after promising Hugh to remain discreet, she told him they were returning to London in a few days.

“Look here!” he said suddenly. “We must meet again very soon, darling. I daresay I may venture out at night, therefore why not let us make an appointment—say, for Tuesday week. Where shall we meet? At midnight at the first seat on the right on entering the part at the Marble Arch? You remember, we met there once before—about a year ago.”

“Yes. I know the spot,” the girl replied. “I remember what a cold, wet night it was, too!” and she laughed at the recollection. “Very well. I will contrive to be there. That night we are due at a dance at the Gordons’ in Grosvenor Gardens. But I’ll manage to be there somehow—if only for five minutes.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, again kissing her fondly. “Now I must make all speed to Kensington and there go once more into hiding. When—oh, when will this wearying life be over!”

“You have a friend, as I have, in the mysterious white cavalier,” she said. “I wonder who he really is?”

“The Sparrow—without a doubt—the famous ‘Il Passero’ for whom the police of Europe are ever searching, the man who at one moment lives in affluence and the highest respectability in a house somewhere near Piccadilly, and at another is tearing over the French, Spanish, or Italian roads in his powerful car directing all sorts of crooked business. It’s a strange world in which I find myself, Dorise, I assure you! Good-bye, darling—good-bye!” and he took her in a final embrace. “Good-bye—till Tuesday week.”

Then stepping on to the grass, where his feet fell noiselessly, he disappeared in the dark shadow of the great avenue of beeches.

SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE ESCROCS OF LONDON

For ten weary days Hugh Henfrey had lived in the close, frowsy-smelling house in Abingdon Road, Kensington, a small, old-fashioned place, once a residence of well-to-do persons, but now sadly out of repair.

Its occupier was a worthy, and somewhat wizened, widow named Mason, who was supposed to be the relict of an army surgeon who had been killed at the Battle of the Marne. She was about sixty, and suffered badly from asthma. Her house was too large for one maid, a stout, matronly person called Emily, hence the place was not kept as clean as it ought to have been, and the cuisine left much to be desired.

Still, it appeared to be a safe harbour of refuge for certain strange persons who came there, men who looked more or less decent members of society, but whose talk and whose slang was certainly that of crooks. That house in the back street of old-world Kensington, a place built before Victoria ascended the throne, was undoubtedly on a par with the flat of the Reveccas in Genoa, and the thieves’ sanctuary in the shadow of the cathedral at Malines.

Adversity brings with it queer company, and Hugh had found himself among a mixed society of men who had been gentlemen and had taken up the criminal life as an up-to-date profession. They all spoke of The Sparrow with awe; and they all wondered what his next great coup would be.

Hugh became more than ever satisfied that Il Passero was one of the greatest and most astute criminals who have graced the annals of our time.

Everyone sang his praise. The queer visitors who lodged there for a day, a couple of days, or more; the guests who came suddenly, and who disappeared just as quickly, were one and all loud in their admiration of Il Passero, though Hugh could discover nobody who had actually seen the arch-thief in the flesh.

On the Tuesday night Hugh had had a frugal and badly-cooked meal with three mysterious men who had arrived as Mrs. Mason’s guests during the day. After supper the widow rose and left the room, whereupon the trio, all well-dressed men-about-town, began to chatter openly about a little “deal” in diamonds in which they had been interested. The “deal” in question had been reported in the newspapers on the previous morning, namely, how a Dutch diamond dealer’s office in Hatton Garden had been broken into, the safe cut open by the most scientific means, and a very valuable parcel of stones extracted.

“Harry Austen has gone down to Surrey to stay with Molly.”

“Molly? Why, I thought she was in Paris!”

“She was—but she went to America for a trip and she finds it more pleasant to live down in Surrey just now,” replied the other with a grin. “She has Charlie’s girl living with her.”

“H’m!” grunted the third man. “Not quite the sort of companion Charlie might choose for his daughter—eh?”

Hugh took but little notice of the conversation. It was drawing near the time when he would go forth to meet Dorise at their trysting place. In anxiety he went into the adjoining room, and there smoked alone until just past eleven o’clock, when he put on his hat and went forth into the dark, deserted street.

Opposite High Street Kensington Station he jumped upon a bus, and at five minutes to midnight alighted at the Marble Arch. On entering the park he quickly found the seat he had indicated as their meeting place, and sat down to wait.

The home-going theatre traffic behind him in the Bayswater Road had nearly ceased as the church clocks chimed the midnight hour. In the semi-darkness of the park dark figures were moving, lovers with midnight trysts like his own. In the long, well-lit road behind him motors full of gaily-dressed women flashed homeward from suppers or theatres, while from the open windows of a ballroom in a great mansion, the house of an iron magnate, came the distant strains of waltz music.

Time dragged along. He strained his eyes down the dark pathway, but could see no approaching figure. Had she at the last moment been prevented from coming? He knew how difficult it was for her to slip away at night, for Lady Ranscomb was always so full of engagements, and Dorise was compelled to go everywhere with her.

At last he saw a female figure in the distance, as she turned into the park from the Marble Arch, and springing to his feet, he went forward to meet her. At first he was not certain that it was Dorise, but as he approached nearer he recognized her gait.

A few seconds later he confronted her and grasped her warmly by the hand. The black cloak she was wearing revealed a handsome jade-coloured evening gown, while her shoes were not those one would wear for promenading in the park.

“Welcome at last, darling!” he cried. “I was wondering if you could get away, after all!”

“I had a little difficulty,” she laughed. “I’m at a dance at the Gordons’ in Grosvenor Gardens, but I managed to slip out, find a taxi, and run along here. I fear I can’t stay long, or they will miss me.”

“Even five minutes with you is bliss to me, darling,” he said, grasping her ungloved hand and raising it to his lips.

“Ah! Hugh. If you could only return to us, instead of living under this awful cloud of suspicion!” the girl cried. “Every day, and every night, I think of you, dear, and wonder how you are dragging out your days in obscurity down in Kensington. Twice this week I drove along the Earl’s Court Road, quite close to you.”

“Oh! life is a bit dull, certainly,” he replied cheerfully. “But I have papers and books—and I can look out of the window on to the houses opposite.”

“But you go out for a ramble at night?”

“Oh! yes,” he replied. “Last night I set out at one o’clock and walked up to Hampstead Heath, as far as Jack Straw’s Castle and back. The night was perfect. Really, Londoners who sleep heavily all night lose the best part of their lives. London is only beautiful in the night hours and at early dawn. I often watch the sun rise from the Thames Embankment. I have a favourite seat—just beyond Scotland Yard. I’ve become quite a night-bird these days. I sleep when the sun shines, and with a sandwich box and a flask I go long tramps at night, just as others do who, like myself, are concealing their identity.”

“But when will all this end?” queried the girl, as together they strolled in the direction of Bayswater, passing many whispering couples sitting on seats. London lovers enjoy the park at all hours of the twenty-four.

“It will only end when I am able to discover the truth,” he said vaguely. “Meanwhile I am not disheartened, darling, because—because I know that you believe in me—that you still trust me.”

“That man whom I saw in Nice dressed as a cavalier, and who again came to me in Scotland, is a mystery,” she said. “Do you really believe he is the person you suspect?”

“I do. I still believe he is the notorious and defiant criminal ‘Il Passero’—the most daring and ingenious thief of the present century.”