Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

They arrived at the corner of St. James’s Street at half-past ten. Hugh gave Mead five shillings to get his evening meal, and said:

“Be back here at midnight, Mead. I expect I’ll be through my business long before that. But it’s a clear night, and we shall have a splendid run home.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you,” replied his hostess’s chauffeur.

Hugh Henfrey, instead of entering the smart Society hotel, turned up the street, and, walking quickly, found himself ten minutes later in Ellerston Street before a spacious house, upon the pale-green door of which was marked in Roman numerals the number fourteen.

By the light of the street lamp he saw it was an old Georgian town house. In the ironwork were two-foot-scrapers, relics of a time long before macadam or wood paving.

The house, high and inartistic, was a relic of the days of the dandies, when country squires had their town houses, and before labour found itself in London drawing-rooms. Consumed by curiosity, Hugh pressed the electric button marked “visitors,” and a few moments later a smart young footman opened the door.

“Mr. George Peters?” inquired Hugh. “I have an appointment.”

“What name, sir?” the young, narrow-eyed man asked.

“Henfrey.”

“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Peters is expecting you,” he said. And at once he conducted him along the narrow hall to a room beyond.

The house was beautifully appointed. Everywhere was taste and luxury. Even in the hall there were portraits by old Spanish masters and many rare English sporting prints.

The room into which he was shown was a long apartment furnished in the style of the Georgian era. The genuine Adams ceiling, mantelpiece, and dead white walls, with the faintly faded carpet of old rose and light-blue, were all in keeping. The lights, too, were shaded, and over all was an old-world atmosphere of quiet and dignified repose.

The room was empty, and Hugh crossed to examine a beautiful little marble statuette of a girl bather, with her arms raised and about to dive. It was, no doubt, a gem of the art of sculpture, mounted upon a pedestal of dark-green marble which revolved.

The whole conception was delightful, and the girl’s laughing face was most perfect in its portraiture.

Of a sudden the door reopened, and he was met by a stout, rather wizened old gentleman with white bristly hair and closely cropped moustache, a man whose ruddy face showed good living, and who moved with the brisk alertness of a man twenty years his junior.

“Ah! here you are, Mr. Henfrey!” he exclaimed warmly, as he offered his visitor his hand. Upon the latter was a well-worn black glove—evidently to hide either some disease or deformity. “I was wondering if you received my letter safely?”

“Yes,” replied Hugh, glancing at the shrewd little man whose gloved right hand attracted him.

“Sit down,” the other said, as he closed the door. “I’m very anxious to have a little chat with you.”

Hugh took the arm-chair which Mr. Peters indicated. Somehow he viewed the man with suspicion. His eyes were small and piercing, and his face with its broad brow and narrow chin was almost triangular. He was a man of considerable personality, without a doubt. His voice was high pitched and rather petulant.

“Now,” he said. “I was surprised to learn that you had left your safe asylum in Kensington. Not only was I surprised—but I confess, I was alarmed.”

“I take it that I have to thank you for making those arrangements for my escape from Monte Carlo?” remarked Hugh, looking him straight in the face.

“No thanks are needed, my dear Mr. Henfrey,” replied the elder man. “So long as you are free, what matters? But I do not wish you to deliberately run risks which are so easily avoided. Why did you leave Abingdon Road?”

“I was advised to do so by a friend.”

“Not by Miss Ranscomb, I am sure.”

“No, by a Mr. Benton, whom I know.”

The old man’s eyebrows narrowed for a second.

“Benton?” he echoed. “Charles Benton—is he?”

“Yes. As he was a friend of my late father I naturally trust him.”

Mr. Peters paused.

“Oh, naturally,” he said a second later. “But where are you living now?”

Hugh told him that he was the guest of Mrs. Bond of Shapley Manor, whereupon Mr. Peters sniffed sharply, and rising, obtained a box of good cigars from a cupboard near the fireplace.

“You went there at Benton’s suggestion?”

“Yes, I did.”

Mr. Peters gave a grunt of undisguised dissatisfaction, as he curled himself in his chair and examined carefully the young man before him.

“Now, Mr. Henfrey,” he said at last. “I am very sorry for you. I happen to know something of your present position, and the great difficulty in which you are to-day placed by the clever roguery of others. Will you please describe to me accurately exactly what occurred on that fateful night at the Villa Amette? If I am to assist you further it is necessary for you to tell me everything—remember, everything!”

Hugh paused and looked the stranger straight in the face.

“I thought you knew all about it,” he said.

“I know a little—not all. I want to know everything. Why did you venture there at all? You did not know the lady. It was surely a very unusual hour to pay a call?” said the little man, his shrewd eyes fixed upon his visitor.

“Well, Mr. Peters, the fact is that my father died in very suspicious circumstances, and I was led to believe the Mademoiselle was cognizant of the truth.”

The other man frowned slightly.

“And so you went there with the purpose of getting the truth from her?” he remarked, with a grunt.

Hugh nodded in the affirmative.

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing. She was about to tell me something when the shot was fired by someone on the veranda outside.”

“H’m! Then the natural surmise would be that you, suspecting that woman of causing your father’s death, shot her because she refused to tell you anything?”

“I repeat she was about to disclose the circumstances—to divulge her secret, when she was struck down.”

“You have no suspicion of anyone? You don’t think that her manservant—I forget the fellow’s name—fired the shot? Remember, he was not in the room at the time!”

“I feel confident that he did not. He was far too distressed at the terrible affair,” said Hugh. “The outrage must have been committed by someone to whom the preservation of the secret of my father’s end was of most vital importance.”

“Agreed,” replied the man with the black glove. “The problem we have to solve is who was responsible for your father’s death.”

“Yes,” said Hugh. “If that shot had not been fired I should have known the truth.”