Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

On the fourth day they went together in a hired car along the winding road across the Var to Cannes.

At a big white villa a little distance outside the pretty winter town of flowers and palms, they halted. The house, which was on the Frejus road, was once the residence of a Russian prince.

With The Sparrow Hugh was ushered into a big, sunny room overlooking the beautiful garden where climbing geraniums ran riot with carnations and violets, and for some minutes they waited. From the windows spread a wide view of the calm sapphire sea.

Then suddenly the door opened.

TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

THE STORY OF MADEMOISELLE

Both men turned and before them they saw the plainly dressed figure of a beautiful woman, and behind her an elderly, grey-faced man.

For a few seconds the woman stared at The Sparrow blankly. Then she turned her gaze upon Hugh.

Her lips parted. Suddenly she gave vent to a loud cry, almost of pain, and placing both hands to her head, gasped:

“Dieu!”

It was Yvonne Ferad. And the cry was one of recognition.

Hugh dashed forward with the doctor, for she was on the point of collapse at recognizing them. But in a few seconds she recovered herself, though she was deathly pale and much agitated.

“Yvonne!” exclaimed The Sparrow in a low, kindly voice. “Then you know who we really are? Your reason has returned?”

“Yes,” she answered in French. “I remember who you are. Ah! But—but it is all so strange!” she cried wildly. “I—I—I can’t think! At last! Yes. I know. I recollect! You!” And she stared at Hugh. “You—you are Monsieur Henfrey!”

“That is so, mademoiselle.”

“Ah, messieurs,” remarked the elderly doctor, who was standing behind his patient. “She recognized you both—after all! The sudden shock at seeing you has accomplished what we have failed all these months to accomplish. It is efficacious only in some few cases. In this it is successful. But be careful. I beg of you not to overtax poor mademoiselle’s brain with many questions. I will leave you.”

And he withdrew, closing the door softly after him.

For a few minutes The Sparrow spoke to Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo about general things.

“I have been very ill,” she said in a low, tremulous voice. “I could think of nothing since my accident, until now—and now”—and she gazed around her with a new interest upon her handsome countenance—“and now I remember!—but it all seems too hazy and indistinct.”

“You recollect things—eh?” asked The Sparrow in a kindly voice, placing his hand upon her shoulder and looking into her tired eyes.

“Yes. I remember. All the past is slowly returning to me. It seems ages and ages since I last met you, Mr.—Mr. Peters,” and she laughed lightly. “Peters—that is the name?”

“It is, mademoiselle,” he laughed. “And it is a happy event that, by seeing us unexpectedly, your memory has returned. But the reason Mr. Henfrey is here is to resume that conversation which was so suddenly interrupted at the Villa Amette.”

Mademoiselle was silent for some moments. Her face was averted, for she was gazing out of the window to the distant sea.

“Do you wish me to reveal to Monsieur Henfrey the—the secret of his father’s death?” she asked of The Sparrow.

“Certainly. You were about to do so when—when the accident happened.”

“Yes. But—but, oh!—how can I tell him the actual truth when—when, alas! I am so guilty?” cried the woman, much distressed.

“No, no, mademoiselle,” said Hugh, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder. “Calm yourself. You did not kill my father. Of that I am quite convinced. Do not distress yourself, but tell me all that you know.”

“Mr. Peters knows something of the affair, I believe,” she said slowly. “But he never planned it. The whole plot was concocted by Benton.” Then, turning to Hugh, Mademoiselle said almost in her natural tone, though slightly high-pitched and nervous:

“Benton, the blackguard, was your father’s friend at Woodthorpe. With a man named Howell, known also as Shaw, he prepared a will which your father signed unconsciously, and which provided that in the event of his death you should be cut off from almost every benefit if you did not marry Louise Lambert, Benton’s adopted daughter.”

“But who is Louise actually?” asked Hugh interrupting.

“The real daughter of Benton, who has made pretence of adopting her. Of course Louise is unaware of that fact,” Yvonne replied.

Hugh was much surprised at this. But he now saw the reason why Mrs. Bond was so solicitous of the poor girl’s welfare.

“Now I happened to be in London, and on one of your father’s visits to town, Benton, his friend, introduced us. Naturally I had no knowledge of the plot which Benton and Howell had formed, and finding your father a very agreeable gentleman, I invited him to the furnished flat I had taken at Queen’s Gate. I went to the theatre with him on two occasions, Benton accompanying us, and then your father returned to the country. One day, about two months later Howell happened to be in London, and presumably they decided that the plot was ripe for execution, for they asked me to write to Mr. Henfrey at Woodthorpe, and suggest that he should come to London, have an early supper with us, and go to a big charity ball at the Albert Hall. In due course I received a wire from Mr. Henfrey, who came to London, had supper with me, Benton and Howell being also present, while Howell’s small closed car, which he always drove himself, was waiting outside to take us to the ball.”

Then she paused and drew a long breath, as though the recollection of that night horrified her—as indeed it did.

“After supper I rose and left the room to speak to my servant for a moment, when, just as I re-entered, I saw Howell, who was standing behind Mr. Henfrey’s chair, suddenly bend, place his left arm around your father’s neck, and with his right hand press on the nape of the neck just above his collar. ‘Here!’ your father cried out, thinking it was a joke, ‘what’s the game?’ But the last word was scarcely audible, for he collapsed across the table. I stood there aghast. Howell, suddenly noticing me, told me roughly to clear out, as I was not wanted. I demanded to know what had happened, but I was told that it did not concern me. My idea was that Mr. Henfrey had been drugged, for he was still alive and apparently dazed. I afterwards heard, however, that Howell had pressed the needle of a hypodermic syringe containing a newly discovered and untraceable poison which he had obtained in secret from a certain chemist in Frankfort, who makes a speciality of such things.”

“And what happened then?” asked Hugh, aghast and astounded at the story.

“Benton and Howell sent me out of the room. They waited for over an hour. Then Howell went down to the car. Afterwards, when all was clear, they half carried poor Mr. Henfrey downstairs, placed him in the car, and drove away. Next day I heard that my guest had been found by a constable in a doorway in Albemarle Street. The officer, who first thought he was intoxicated, later took him to St. George’s Hospital, where he died. Afterwards a scratch was found on the palm of his hand, and the doctors believed it had been caused by a pin infected with some poison. The truth was, however, that his hand was scratched in opening a bottle of champagne at supper. The doctors never suspected the tiny puncture in the hair at the nape of the neck, and they never discovered it.”

“I knew nothing of the affair,” declared The Sparrow, his face clouded by anger. “Then Howell was the actual murderer?”

“He was,” Yvonne replied. “I saw him press the needle into Mr. Henfrey’s neck, while Benton stood by, ready to seize the victim if he resisted. Benton and Howell had agreed to kill Mr. Henfrey, compel his son to marry Louise, and then get Hugh out of the world by one or other of their devilish schemes. Ah!” she sighed, looking sadly before her. “I see it all now—everything.”

“Then it was arranged that after I had married Louise I should also meet with an unexpected end?”

“Yes. One that should discredit you in the eyes of your wife and your own friends—an end probably like your father’s. A secret visit to London, and a mysterious death,” Mademoiselle replied.

She spoke quite calmly and rationally. The shock of suddenly encountering the two persons who had been uppermost in her thoughts before those terrible injuries to her brain had balanced it again. Though the pains in her head were excruciating, as she explained, yet she could now think, and she remembered all the bitterness of the past.

“You, M’sieur Henfrey, are the son of my dead friend. You have been the victim of a great and dastardly conspiracy,” she said. “But I ask your forgiveness, for I assure you that when I invited your father up from Woodthorpe I had no idea whatever of what those assassins intended.”

“Benton is already under arrest for another affair,” broke in The Sparrow quietly. “I heard so from London yesterday.”

“Ah! And I hope that Howell will also be punished for his crime,” the handsome woman cried. “Though I have been a thief, a swindler, and a decoy—ah! yes, I admit it all—I have never committed the crime of murder. I know, messieurs,” she went on—“I know that I am a social outcast, the mysterious Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, they call me! But I have suffered. I have indeed in these past months paid my debt to Society, and of you, Mr. Henfrey, I beg forgiveness.”

“I forgive you, Mademoiselle,” Hugh replied, grasping her slim, white hand.

“Mademoiselle will, I hope, meet Miss Ranscomb, Mr. Henfrey’s fiancee, and tell her the whole truth,” said The Sparrow.

“That I certainly will,” Yvonne replied. “Now that I can think I shall be allowed to leave this place—eh?”

“Of course. I will see after that,” said the man known as Mr. Peters. “You must return to the Villa Amette—for you are still Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, remember! Leave it all to me.” And he laughed happily.

“But we are no nearer the solution of the mystery as to who attempted to kill you, Mademoiselle,” Hugh remarked.