The Place of Dragons: A Mystery

I hurried after him, but alas! I was too late.

Again, he had evaded me!

So I returned to my rooms utterly fagged by the long vigil, and feeling thoroughly ill. Indeed, in my weak state, it had been a somewhat injudicious proceeding, yet I felt anxious and impatient, eager to strike a crushing blow against the daring band who held poor Lola so completely in their power.

The result of my imprudence, however, was another whole week in bed, and a further confinement to my room for a second week. Meanwhile Rayner was active and watchful.

Observation upon the offices of Loicq Frères showed that only an English clerk was left in charge, and that neither Vernon, Jeanjean nor Bertini had since been there. Vigilance upon Merton Lodge, in Hampstead, also resulted in nothing. It was clear, therefore, that the trio had become alarmed at my visit to Hatton Garden, even though I had exercised every precaution to avoid recognition.

As I sat in my big arm-chair, day after day, unable to go out, I carefully reviewed all the events of the past, just as I have set them down in these pages. Somehow – how it came to pass, I cannot tell – I found myself thinking more than ever of Lola Sorel, the sweet-faced, innocent-looking girl whose career had been fraught with so much tragedy, apprehension and bitterness.

Every day, nay, every hour, her pretty, fair face arose before my vision – that pale, delicately-moulded countenance, with the big, blue, wondering eyes, larger and more perfect than the eyes of any woman I had ever before met in the course of my adventurous career.

Time after time I asked myself why my thoughts should so constantly revert to her. Sleeping or waking, I dreamed ever of that dainty little figure with its sweet, rather sad face, the pathetic countenance of the pretty Parisienne who had so gradually fascinated and entranced me.

Within myself, I laughed at my own feelings of sympathy towards her. Why should I entertain any regard for a girl who, after all, was only a thief – a girl whose innocence had decoyed men, and caused women to betray the whereabouts of their jewels, so that her associates could rob them with impunity?

From the moment when I had seized her in my bedroom at Balmaclellan I had pitied her, and that pity had now deepened into keen sympathy for her, held, as she was, in those bonds of guilt, yet struggling always to free herself, like a poor frightened bird beating its wings against the bars.

Had I fallen in love with her? Time after time I asked myself that question. But time after time did I scout the very idea and laughed myself to ridicule.

The thought that I loved Lola Sorel, beautiful as she was, seemed utterly absurd.

Yes. During that fortnight of forced inactivity I had plenty of time to carefully analyse the whole situation, to examine every detail of the mystery surrounding the death of Edward Craig and, also, to formulate fresh plans.

One fact was evident – that Vernon and his friends intended that Lola should die. In addition, so subtle were they, I knew not when some secret and desperate attack might not be made upon myself.

Foul play was intended. Of that I had no doubt.

The autumn days were passing. Business London had returned from the country and the sea, and even the blinds of houses in Berkeley Square were, one after another, being raised, indicative of the fact that many people in Society were already again in town.

I exchanged letters with Lola almost daily. She was very happy and had greatly improved, she said, and also expressed a hope that we should soon meet, a hope which I devoutly reciprocated.

My one great fear, however, was that some dastardly attack might be made upon her if any of the bandits succeeded in discovering her hiding-place. For that reason I sent Rayner to Bournemouth in secret to watch the house, and to ascertain whether any signs of intended evil were apparent.

He remained there a week, until one morning in October I received an urgent telegram from him asking me, if I were well enough, to lose no time in coming to Bournemouth. He gave no reason for the urgency of his message, but gravely apprehensive, I took the next train from Waterloo, arriving in Bournemouth about four o'clock. Rayner refused to meet me openly, so I drove to the Grand Hotel, where he was staying, and found him in his room awaiting me.

"There's something up, sir," he said very seriously, when I had closed the door. "But I can't exactly make out what is intended. Mademoiselle does not, of course, know I'm here. She went to the Winter Gardens with two young ladies last night, and they were followed by a man – a stranger. He went behind them to the concert, and sat in the back seats watching them, and when they walked home, he followed."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"Never, sir."

"Is he young or old?"

"Young, and looks like a gentleman."

"A foreigner?"

"No, an Englishman, sir," was my man's reply. "I dare say if we go along to Boscombe to-night, and watch the house, we might see him. He's up to no good, I believe."

I readily adopted Rayner's suggestion.

As soon as darkness fell, we took the tram eastward, and at length alighted at the end of a quiet road of comfortable red-brick villas, in one of which Lola was residing, a road which ran from the highway towards the sea.

Separating, I passed up the road, while my man waited at the corner. The house of my friends stood in its own small garden, a neat, artistic little red-and-white place with a long verandah in front and a pleasant garden full of dahlias. As I passed it I saw that many of the rooms were lit, and I was eager to go and ring at the door and meet Lola, after our long separation.

But I remembered I was there to watch and to ward off any danger that might threaten. Therefore I turned upon my heel, and finding a hedge, behind which lay some vacant land, I hid myself behind it and waited, wondering what had become of Rayner.

All was quiet, save for the rumble of electric trams passing along the main road to Bournemouth. From where I lurked, smoking a cigarette, I could hear a woman's sweet contralto voice singing gaily one of the latest songs of the Paris Café concerts, which ran —

"C'est la femme aux bijoux,
Celle qui rend fou,
C'est une enjôleuse,
Tous ceux qui l'ont aimée,
Ont souffert, ont pleuré.

Ell' n'aime que l'argent,
Se rit des serments,
Prends garde à la gueuse!
Le cœur n'est qu'un joujou,
Pour la femme aux bijoux!"

La femme aux bijoux! The words fell upon my ears, causing me to ponder. Was she not herself "La femme aux bijoux"! How strangely appropriate was that merry chanson which I had so often heard in Paris, Brussels, and elsewhere.

Suddenly the train of my reflections was interrupted by the sound of a light footstep coming in my direction, and, peering eagerly forth, I discerned the figure of a rather smart-looking man advancing towards me.

I watched him come forward, tall and erect, into the light of the street-lamp a little to my left. He was well dressed in a smart suit of dark brown with well-creased trousers, and wore a soft Hungarian hat of dark-brown plush. On his hands were wash-leather gloves and he carried a gold-mounted stick.

As he came nearer I saw his face, and my heart gave a great leap. I stared again, not being able to believe my own eyes!

Was it, indeed, any wonder? How would you, my reader, have felt in similar circumstances? I ask, for the man who came past me, within a couple of feet from where I stood concealed, all unconscious of my presence, was no stranger.

It was Edward Craig – Edward Craig, risen from the dead!

CHAPTER XXV

IS MORE MYSTERIOUS

I stood there aghast, staggered, open-mouthed. The man was walking slowly towards the house whence issued the gay chanson, the house where, in the great bay window, shone a bright light across the tiny strip of lawn which separated it from the roadway.

I watched him like a man in a dream. As he approached the house he trod lightly on tip-toe, unaware of my presence behind the bushes. In a flash the recollections of that strange affair by the North Sea, in Cromer, recurred to me. I remembered that green-painted seat upon the cliff, where the coast-guard, in the early dawn, had found him lying dead, of his strange disguise, and of the coroner's inquiry which followed. I remembered too, all too well, the puzzling incidents which followed; the presence of the notorious Jeanjean in that quiet little cliff-resort; the disappearance of the man of master-mind; the discovery of his hoard of gold and gems, and how, subsequently, it had been spirited away in a manner which had absolutely flabbergasted the astute members of the Norfolk Constabulary, unused as they were to cases of ingenious crime.

Truly it was all amazing – utterly astounding.

I watched Craig's receding figure in startled wonder, holding my breath, and trying to convince myself that I had been mistaken in some resemblance.

But I was not. The man who had passed me was Edward Craig in the flesh – the man upon whose death twelve honest tradesmen of Cromer had delivered their verdict – the man who had been placed in his coffin and buried.