Her Majesty's Minister

“True,” I admitted. “We met often, and I have more than once been her guest at the château; but as to loving her, such an idea has never entered my head. She is a smart and attractive woman, like many others in the circle in which I am compelled to move; but I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that I never loved her in the past, and that to-day is as yesterday.”

“She loves you. That letter is sufficient proof of it.”

“It was written in a moment of madness,” I assured her. “She regretted it a few hours afterwards, and asked me to destroy it. The fault is entirely my own, for I neglected to carry out her wish. By my own culpable negligence she is placed in this position.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Forgive me, Gerald; I acted under compulsion, as I have always been compelled to act.”

“Certainly I forgive,” I answered. “But will it not be humane conduct on your part to rescue the Princess from this terrible doom? Wolf wishes to marry her for her money alone, and will force this step upon her if we can find no means to save her.”

She paused. Hitherto she had been jealous of Léonie, but now, upon my assurance that I had no love for her, I saw that she inclined towards mercy.

“If I could,” she said at last, “I would assist her. But I cannot see that it is possible.”

“You can do so by explaining your own position to me,” I said. “Despicable though it may seem, the ghastly truth is, that you are actually a spy in the service of France. If you do not seek to clear yourself now, you may be condemned with your accomplices Wolf, Bertini, and Yolande de Foville.”

“That woman!” she cried quickly. “It was she who plotted against you.”

“Then you have met her!” I exclaimed, surprised at this revelation.

I had never believed that they had met.

“Yes,” Edith replied, “I met her in London; and while dining one night at the Carlton with Wolf and Bertini she told me how she had misled you into the belief that she loved you passionately, in order to obtain from you certain official information which had been of the greatest use to them at the Quai d’Orsay. She little dreamed that I knew you and loved you, and the three of them laughed heartily over what they called your gullibility.”

I pursed my lips, for I now saw that woman’s motive in responding to my declaration of love long ago. At the time I would not believe the whispered condemnation of the Countess and her daughter as secret agents, but of late the truth had been shown me all too plainly.

“And did she mention an incident last year in Paris as the result of which she nearly lost her life?” I inquired.

“Yes; she told us a long story of how a mysterious attempt had been made to poison her in her own apartment in Paris by some subtle poison being placed upon the gum of the envelopes in her escritoire. She wrote a letter, and licked the envelope in order to seal it, when she was seized suddenly by excruciating pains, followed by coma and a state so nearly resembling death that even the doctors were at first deceived. Only by an antidote administered by an English doctor – a friend of yours, I believe – was her life saved. Because of your efforts she had, she said, been seized by remorse, and ceased to mislead you further, because of the debt of gratitude she owed you.”

“Very kind indeed of her,” I laughed.

A silence fell between us. We were both looking seaward, far away over the great expanse of clear bright blue, to where a distant steamer was leaving a trail of smoke upon the horizon. Down in the carnation-gardens some girls were singing an old Italian folk-song while they cut and packed the flowers for the London market; at our feet were violets everywhere.

“Can you tell me absolutely nothing, in order to lead me to a knowledge of the truth, Edith?” I asked again. “Remember that our love and our future depend upon you alone. At present you are a spy, liable to arrest as a traitress.”

“I know – I know!” she cried, bursting into a flood of tears. “It was not my fault. I could not help it. I was compelled – compelled!”

“You are aware of the channels through which knowledge of our diplomatic secrets have been obtained by our enemies. Will you not make amends by telling me the truth?” I asked in a low, persuasive, earnest tone, my arm about her slim waist.

“I dare not!” she sobbed – “I dare not! They would kill me, as they have sworn to do if I betrayed them!”

During the hour that followed, as we wandered together among the olives, I ascertained a few unimportant facts from her – facts which threw considerable light upon the ingenuity of the spies with whom she had been compelled to ally herself. But upon the secret of how their great coups had been accomplished her lips were sealed.

I gave her to understand that Bertini was now within an ace of arrest, and that in less than an hour he would, if I willed it, be inside the Prefecture, charged with treason against his own Government; but in such terror did she hold him that even my assertion that his power over her had ended did not induce her to disclose anything.

At first it had seemed to me almost impossible that she, living in the country with the strictly prim and proper Miss Foskett, could at the same time be a member of the secret service of our enemies. But I had witnessed her midnight meeting with Bertini, and that had convinced me.

“And if you cause his arrest,” she exclaimed reflectively, as we descended the mule-path on our return, “what will be the result?”

“The only result will be, as far as I can tell at present, that his evil influence over you will be ended, and you will be free.”

“No,” she responded, sighing, “there are the others. His arrest would only bring their wrath upon me, for they would believe that I had betrayed them.”

“They are spies and enemies of our country and our Queen, Edith,” I urged. “To betray them is your duty as an Englishwoman.”

“To disclose their secret would mean to me a swift and terrible death,” she answered.

I saw that all my efforts at persuasion were unavailing. As we retraced our steps the silence between us was a sad and painful one.

“You do not love me sufficiently to sacrifice all for my sake, Edith,” I said at last gravely; “otherwise you would help me to unravel the mystery.” We were just descending a narrow winding path to the high road as I spoke, and she halted suddenly in indecision.

“I do love you, Gerald,” she cried with sudden resolution. She flung her arms about my neck; she buried her face upon my shoulder; she burst again into tears. “I love you – I have never loved any man except yourself!” she declared passionately, lifting her face to me until our lips met.

“Then will you not make this sacrifice, if you really love me so well?” I asked. “Will you not tell me the truth, and allow me to be your champion?”

She hesitated, and I saw the terrible struggle going on within her.

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely at last, “I will – I will! and if they kill me, you will at least know that I loved you, Gerald – that I loved you deeply and dearly!”

“I am convinced of that, darling,” I said. “But in this affair your interests are my own. Tell me the truth, and give me freedom of action. If you will, we may yet overthrow our enemies.”

For a few moments she did not speak, but sobbed convulsively upon my breast. Then, suddenly holding her breath, she raised her tear-stained face to mine. At last, her love for me conquering all else, she said in a low whisper, as though fearful lest someone should overhear:

“Go to the little village of Feltham, near London, the next station to Twickenham, and find Cypress Cottage. You will discover the secret there.”

Feltham! It was the place mentioned by Wolf when I had listened to that conversation in the dingy little café at Batignolles.

“What is there?” I inquired quickly. “What secret does the cottage contain?”

“Have a care in approaching the place. Obtain the assistance of the police – surround it – search it – and see.”

“Is there sufficient evidence there to justify the spy’s arrest?”

“Certainly. Go and ascertain for yourself. I have betrayed their secret – that is enough. If their revenge falls upon me, then I am content to bear it, Gerald, for your sake. Tell me, however, that you have forgiven me all the past; that you will believe no word of any vile scandal that may be uttered against me by that pair of adventurers. Promise me,” she cried in deep earnestness.

“I will believe nothing without proof,” I answered, kissing her fondly. “I love you to-day, darling, just as passionately as I did when first we met long ago. I start for London by the Calais express at six to-night, and will at once follow your directions.”

“And Bertini, what of him?” she asked in alarm. “He is here, in Bordighera, for an evil purpose, without a doubt. If he knows, I shall be in deadly peril.”

“Have no fear,” I assured her. “Before I leave he will be in the hands of the police. My plans are already matured.” We walked back through the orange-grove down to the hotel hand-in-hand, both resolved to act firmly and fearlessly. As we walked along we seldom spoke with our lips; but our hearts discovered a beautiful language in the silence; and used it.

I loved her and she had proved her affection for me. The betrayal of their secret made it plain that after all she was really mine; for she had now defied her enemies and had placed her life in deadly jeopardy for my sake.

Chapter Thirty Six

The Secret

The village of Feltham is a sleepy little place standing in the centre of a bare, flat country half-way between Twickenham and Staines. It is still quite a rural spot, even though only a league outside the twelve-mile radius.