Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

He chatted merrily with the stranger for nearly half an hour, and then rose and left the cafe. When quite close to the hotel the stranger overtook him, and halting, asked in a low voice, in very good English:

“I believe you are Mr. Henfrey—are you not?”

“Why do you ask that?” inquired Hugh, much surprised. “My name is Jordan—William Jordan.”

“Yes,” laughed the man. “That is, I know, the name you have given at the hotel. But your real name is Henfrey.”

Hugh started. The stranger, noticing his alarm, hastened to reassure him.

TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER

FRIEND OR ENEMY?

“You need not worry,” said the stranger to Hugh. “I am not your enemy, but a friend. I warn you that Marseilles is unsafe for you. Get away as soon as possible. The Spanish police have learnt that you have come here,” he went on as he strolled at his side.

Hugh was amazed.

“How did you know my identity?” he asked eagerly.

“I was instructed to watch for your arrival—and to warn you.”

“Who instructed you?”

“A friend of yours—and mine—The Sparrow.”

“Has he been here?”

“No. He spoke to me on the telephone from Paris.”

“What were his instructions?”

“That you were to go at once—to-night—by car to the Hotel de Paris, at Cette. A car and driver awaits you at the Garage Beauvau, in the Rue Beauvau. I have arranged everything at The Sparrow’s orders. You are one of Us, I understand,” and the man laughed lightly.

“But my bag?” exclaimed Hugh.

“Go to the hotel, pay your bill, and take your bag to the station cloak-room. Then go and get the car, pick up your bag, and get out on the road to Cette as soon as ever you can. Your driver will ask no questions, and will remain silent. He has his orders from The Sparrow.”

“Does The Sparrow ever come to Marseilles?” Hugh asked.

“Yes, sometimes—when anything really big brings him here. I have, however, only seen him once, five years ago. He was at your hotel, and the police were so hot upon his track that only by dint of great promptitude and courage he escaped by getting out of the window of his room and descending by means of the rain-water pipe. It was one of the narrowest escapes he has ever had.”

As the words left the man’s mouth, they were passing a well-lit brasserie. A tall, cadaverous man passed them and Hugh had a suspicion that they exchanged glances of recognition.

Was his pretended friend an agent of the police?

For a few seconds he debated within himself how he should act. To refuse to do as he was bid might be to bring instant arrest upon himself. If the stranger were actually a detective—which he certainly did not appear to be—then the ruse was to get him on the road to Cette because the legal formalities were not yet complete for his arrest as a British subject.

Yet he knew all about The Sparrow, and his attitude was not in the least hostile.

Hugh could not make up his mind whether the stranger was an associate of the famous Sparrow, or whether he was very cleverly inveigling him into the net.

It was only that exchange of glances with the passer-by which had aroused Hugh’s suspicions.

But that significant look caused him to hesitate to accept the mysterious stranger as his friend.

True, he had accepted as friends numbers of other unknown persons since that fateful night at Monte Carlo. Yet in this case, he felt, by intuition, that all was not plain sailing.

“Very well,” he said, at last. “I esteem it a very great favour that you should have interested yourself on behalf of one who is an entire stranger to you, and I heartily thank you for warning me of my danger. When I see The Sparrow I shall tell him how cleverly you approached me, and how perfect were your arrangements for my escape.”

“I require no thanks or reward, Mr. Henfrey,” replied the man politely. “My one desire is to get you safely out of Marseilles.”

And with that the stranger lifted his hat and left him.

Hugh went about fifty yards farther along the broad, well-lit street full of life and movement, for the main streets of Marseilles are alive both day and night.

By some intuition—why, he knew not—he suspected that affable little man who had posed as his friend. Was it possible that, believing the notorious Sparrow to be his friend, he had at haphazard invented the story, and posed as one of The Sparrow’s gang?

If so, it was certainly a very clever and ingenious subterfuge.

He was undecided how to act. He did not wish to give offence to his friend, the king of the underworld, and yet he felt a distinct suspicion of the man who had so cleverly approached him, and who had openly declared himself to be a crook.

That strange glance he had exchanged with the passer-by beneath the rays of the street-lamp had been mysterious and significant. If the passer-by had been a crook, like himself, the sign of recognition would be one of salutation. But the expression upon his alleged friend’s face was one of triumph. That made all the difference, and to Hugh, with his observation quickened as it had been in those months of living with daily dread of arrest, it had caused him to be seized with strong and distinct suspicions.

He felt in his hip pocket and found that his revolver, an American Smith-Wesson, was there. He had a dislike of automatic pistols, as he had once had a very narrow escape. He had been teaching a girl to shoot with a revolver, when, believing that she had discharged the whole magazine, he was examining the weapon and pulled the trigger, narrowly escaping shooting her dead.

For a few seconds he stood upon the broad pavement. Then he drew out his cigarette-case. In it were four cigarettes, two of which The Sparrow had given him when in London.

“Yes,” he muttered to himself. “Somebody must have given me away at Shapley, and now they have followed me! I will act for myself, and take the risks.”

Then he walked boldly on, crossed the road, and entered the big Hotel de Louvre et Paix. To appear unconcerned he had a drink at the bar, and ascending in the lift, called the floor-waiter, asked for his bill, and packed his bag.

“Ah!” he said to himself. “If I could only get to know where The Sparrow is and ask him the truth! He may be at that address in Paris which he gave me.”

After a little delay the bill was brought and he paid it. Then in a taxi he drove to the station where he deposited his bag in the cloak-room.

Close by the consigne a woman was standing. He glanced at her, when, to his surprise, he saw that she was the same woman who had been sitting in the cafe with a male companion.

Was she, he wondered, in league with his so-called friend? And if so, what was intended.

Sight of that woman lounging there, however, decided him. She was, no doubt, awaiting his coming.

He walked out of the great railway terminus, and, inquiring the way to the Rue Beauvau, soon found the garage where a powerful open car was awaiting him in the roadway outside.

A smart driver in a dark overcoat came forward, and apparently recognizing Hugh from a description that had been given to him, touched his cap, and asked in French:

“Where does m’sieur wish to go?”

“To the station to fetch my coat and bag,” replied the young Englishman, peering into the driver’s face. He was a clean-shaven man of about forty, broad-shouldered and stalwart. Was it possible that the car had been hired by the police, and the driver was himself a police agent?