The de Bercy Affair

As he was packing the smaller of the bags, he saw the scrap of blood-stained lace that Furneaux had already seen, had taken out, and had replaced. Osborne, with that same feeling of repulsion with which Furneaux had thrust it away from him, held it up to the light. What was it? How could it have got into his bag? he asked himself – a bit of lace stained with blood! His amazement knew no bounds – and would have been still more profound, if possible, had he seen Furneaux's singular act in replacing it in the bag after finding it.

He threw the horrible thing from him out of the window, and his very fingers tingled with disgust of it. But then came the disturbing thought – suppose it had been put into his bag as a trap? by the police, perhaps? And suppose any apparent eagerness of his to rid himself of it should be regarded as compromising? He was beginning to be circumspect now, timorous, ostentatious of that innocence in which a whole world disbelieved.

So he glanced out of the window, saw where the lace had dropped upon a sloping spread of turf in the hotel grounds, and ran down to get it. When he arrived at the spot where he had just seen it, the lace had disappeared.

He stood utterly mystified, looking down at the spot where the lace should be and was not; then looked around in a maze, to discover on a rustic seat that surrounded an oak tree an elderly lady and a bent old man sitting there in the shadow. Some distance off, lounging among the flower beds in the moonlight, was the figure of a tall man. Osborne was about to inquire of the two nearest him if they had seen the lace, when the old gentleman hurried nimbly forward out of the tree's shadow and asked if he was seeking a piece of something that had dropped from above.

"Yes," answered Osborne, "have you seen it?"

"That gentleman walking yonder was just under your window when it dropped, and I saw him stoop to pick it up," said the other.

Osborne thanked him, and made for "the gentleman," who turned out to be a jauntily-dressed Italian, bony-faced, square in the jaw, his hair clipped convict-short, but dandily brushed up at the corner of the forehead.

To the question: "Did you by chance pick up a bit of lace just now?" he at once bowed, and showing his teeth in a grin, said:

"He dropped right to my feet from the sky; here he is" – and he presented the lace with much ceremony.

"I am obliged," said Osborne.

"Do not say it," answered the other politely, and they parted, Osborne hurrying back to his room, with the intent to catch a midnight train from Tormouth.

As he entered the house again, the older man, incredibly quick on his uncertain feet, overtook him, and, touching him on the arm, asked if he intended to catch the train that night.

"That is my desire," answered Osborne.

"It is mine, too," said the other; "now, could you give me a seat in your conveyance?"

Osborne said, "With pleasure," and they entered the hotel to prepare to go.

At the same moment the Italian sauntered up to the oak tree beneath which sat Hylda Prout in her Tormouth make-up. Seating himself without seeking her permission, he lit a cigarette.

"Good-evening," he said, after enveloping himself in a cloud of smoke. She did not answer, but evidently he was not one to be rebuffed.

"Your friend, Mistare Pooh, he is sharp! My! he see all," he said affably.

This drew a reply.

"You are quite right," she said. "He sees all, or nearly all. Do you mean because he saw you pick up the lace?"

"Now – how you know it was lace?" asked the Italian, turning full upon her. "You sitting here, you couldn't see it was lace so far – no eyes could see that."

This frankness confused the lady a moment; then she laughed a little, for he had supplied her with a retort.

"Perhaps I see all, too, like my friend."

There was a silence, but the Italian was apparently waiting only to rehearse his English.

"You know Mr. Glyn – yes?" he said.

"No."

"Oh, don't say 'no'!" Reproach was in his ogle, his voice. His tone was almost wheedling.

"Why not?"

"The way I find you spying after him this morning tell me that you know him. And I know that you know him before that."

"What concern is it of yours?" she asked, looking at him with a lowering of the lids in a quick scrutiny that was almost startled. "What is your interest in Mr. Glyn?"

"Say 'Osborne' and be done," he said.

"Well, say 'Osborne,'" she responded.

"Good. We are going to understand the one the other, I can see. But if you want to know what is 'my interest' in the man, you on your part will tell me first if you are friend or enemy of Osborne."

In one second she had reflected, and said: "Enemy."

His hand shot out in silence to her, and she shook it. The mere action drew them closer on the seat.

"I believe you," he whispered, "and I knew it, too, for if you had been a friend you would not be in a disguise from him."

"How do you know that I am in a disguise?"

"Since yesterday morning I know," he answered, "when I see you raise your blind yonder, not an old woman, but a young and charming lady not yet fully dressed, for I was here in the garden, looking out for what I could see, and my poor heart was pierced by the vision at the window."

He pressed his palm dramatically on his breast.

"Yes, of course, it is on the left, as usual," said Hylda Prout saucily. "But let us confine ourselves to business for the moment. I don't quite understand your object. As to the bit of lace – "

"How you know it was lace?"

She looked cautiously all round before answering. "I know because I searched Mr. Osborne's room, and saw it."

"Good! Before long we understand the one the other. You be frank, I be frank. You spied into the bag, and I put it in the bag."

"I know you did."

"Now, how you know?"

"There was no one else to do it!"

"No? Might not Osborne put it there himself? You know where that bit of lace come from?"

"I guess."

"What you guess?"

"I guess that it is from the dress of the dead actress, for it has blood on it."