Basil and Annette

Nearly half the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent possession was gone. With a gloomy countenance he counted what remained; his heart was filled with bitterness towards his companion, whose design it was to lead Chaytor on step by step until his ruin was complete. For a little while Chaytor contemplated flight, but so unwearying was the watch kept on him by Gilbert, that, had he nerved himself determinedly to his design, he could not have put it in execution. Besides, the thought of Annette held him back. No, he would not fly, he would return to the Villa Bidaud, he would marry Annette, he would compel Gilbert to make restitution of his niece's fortune, and then he would bid farewell for ever to his evil genius and take Annette to America, where he would commence a new life.

"I have had enough of this," he said to Gilbert. "If I followed your counsels any longer I should land in the gutter."

"Not so, not so," responded the unruffled Gilbert; "if you were guided by me you would land in a palace. See, now, I kept a record of the numbers while you were so recklessly staking your money on this chance and that, throwing away, like a madman, the certainty I offered you. You know my system; sit down with these numbers before you, follow them, back them according to my notation, and discover how you would have got back all your losses, and been in the end a large gainer. I leave you for an hour to the lesson I set you."

Chaytor applied himself to the task, with a savage desire to prove by mathematical demonstration that his associate had robbed him, and finding that Gilbert was right and that by following the system he would have recovered his money, cursed his luck, and Gilbert, and all the world. His paroxysm of anger abated, a sense of comfort stole upon him. When he had freed himself from the shackles which Gilbert had thrown around him, when Annette was his and he and she were alone, he would come back to Monte Carlo and carry out on his sole account the system he had so foolishly abandoned. Then all the money that was won would be his own: there would be no Gilbert Bidaud to cheat him of half. "Have you verified my figures?" asked the old man, returning. "Have you established your folly?"

"No," replied Chaytor, thrusting the paper upon which he made his calculations into his pocket, "you have deceived and tricked me."

"Ah, ah," ejaculated Gilbert, in a light and pleasant tone, "I have deceived and tricked you-and you have seen through me! Clever Basil, clever Basil! I am as a child in your hands. Come, let us get back to our dear Annette. Let us fly on the wings of love."

They had not announced their intended return, and their arrival at the villa Bidaud was therefore unexpected. The gates were unlocked for them by a servant, and they entered the grounds. Gilbert took the keys from the man, and relocked the gates.

"You are precious careful," said Chaytor. "Are you frightened of thieves?"

"I am old," said Gilbert, with a smile; "I am losing my nerve. We stopped at the post-house, did we not, to inquire for letters?"

"We did."

"You heard me speak to the woman?"

"You were talking, I know, but I did not hear what passed between you."

"Your thoughts were on our sweet Annette. Why is she not here to receive us? Why does she not fly into our arms? Ah, I forgot. We did not write that we were coming. Yes, I spoke to the woman at the post-house; I asked her for the news."

"News in this den!" exclaimed Chaytor, scornfully. "One might as well be out of the world."

"Out of the world-yes, out of the world. Speak not of it; I have passed the sixties."

"I tell you what," said Chaytor, with a gloomy look around, "I don't intend to keep here much longer. It is as much like a tomb as any place I have ever seen."

"There again, there again! Out of the world, and tombs. You mock the old man. What was I saying when you interrupted me? Ah, about the woman at the post-house. I asked her for news, and she told me that three strangers had been seen this afternoon in the village."

"Rare news that. She might have saved her breath."

"Everything is news in these small villages. Now, why is it that my mind dwells upon these strangers? Such visits are common enough. Doubtless they are but passing through, and we shall hear no more of them."

"Then why keep talking about them?"

"Gently, gently. I had a bad dream last night, I saw you pursued by foes, and I hastened after you in my dreams to assist you."

"More than you would do if you were awake."

"You misjudge me. But to continue. How many foes were pursuing you? Three. How many strangers appeared in the village this afternoon? Three. See you any warning, any hidden danger in this?"

"It is a coincidence, nothing more," replied Chaytor, with an uneasy shifting of his body. "Look here-I am not going to stand this, you know."

"You are not going to stand what?"

"This infernal badgering-this attempt to make me uncomfortable. Haven't I enough to worry me as it is? What do I care about your dreams and your three strangers?"

"I want to make you comfortable-and happy; yes, very, very happy. And you will be if you do not quarrel with me."

"And if I do quarrel with you?"

Gilbert Bidaud toyed musingly with a charm on Chaytor's watch chain. "Be advised. Keep friends with me, the best of friends. Old as I am, it is not safe to quarrel with me."

"Oh, tush!" cried Chaytor, vainly endeavouring to conceal his discomposure. "Have you done with your post-woman and her three strangers?"

"Not quite. I made further inquiries about them and learnt all there was to learn. They came to the village, they inquired for the Villa Bidaud, they walked all round the walls, they lingered at the gate, they looked up at the house, which, as you know, is not to be seen from any part of the road, they talked together, they lingered still longer, and then-they went away."

"The King of France went up the hill," quoted Chaytor. "Shall I tell you what I make of all this?"

"Do."

"The dream you had was of your enemies, not mine. These three strangers are interested in you, and not, by any remote possibility, in me. They inquired for the Villa Bidaud-your villa, your name. The fact is, my friend, something you have forgotten in the past has been raked up against you, and these three strangers have come to remind you of it." He laughed in great enjoyment at this turning of the tables.

"It is an ingenious theory," said Gilbert, composedly. "Something I have forgotten in the past! But I have been so very, very careful. Is it possible that anything can have escaped me? Perhaps, perhaps? We cannot be for ever on our guard. Thank you for reminding me. You asked me if I was frightened of thieves. Friend of my soul, I am frightened of everything, of everybody. That is why I gave instructions that these gates were never to be opened to strangers unless by my orders. None can gain admittance here against my wish. It is a necessary precaution. Ah, here is my sister." He saluted her on both cheeks, and then inquired for Annette.

"She keeps her room," was the answer.

"Sick?"

"In temper only."

"She knows of our return?"

"Yes, I informed her myself."

"And her reply?"

"She will come down later."

Gilbert turned to Chaytor and said, "Our little one has a will and a temper of her own, but you will tame her; yes, you will tame her."

Chaytor said nothing; he did not like the signs, and the temptation came again upon him to fly. But still the image of Annette acted as a counterpoise-her very avoidance of him made the prize more precious.

"Why did you not come to welcome us?" he asked, when at length she made her appearance.

"I was not well," she answered, with her eyes on the ground.

"Are you better now?"

"No."

"This is a nice lover's greeting," he said.

She shivered. He gazed frowningly at her, but she did not raise her head. "I will break her spirit," he thought.

Aloud he said, "You do not seem happy, Annette."

"I am most unhappy."

"Am I the cause?" he asked, and waited for the reply which did not come. "It is clear then; do you wish to break the contract?"

"Can I?" she said, with sudden eagerness.

"No," he answered, roughly. "You are bound by the paper we signed."

This was her own belief. With a sigh she turned away, and strove to fix her mind upon a book. But the words swam before her eyes; she turned over page after page mechanically, without the least understanding of their sense. All at once her attention was arrested by mention of a name-Old Corrie. For some reason of his own, Gilbert Bidaud had directed the conversation he was holding with Chaytor to the old Australian days, and he had just inquired whether Chaytor could give him any information of Old Corrie. The old fellow's visit to Emily's mother in Bournemouth had been made about the time that Annette's feelings were undergoing a change towards the man to whom she had engaged herself, as she believed, irrevocably. This would not have been a sufficient cause for her not speaking of the visit to Chaytor, but he had latterly expressed himself sick of Australia and all allusions to it.

"Don't speak of it again to me," he had said, pettishly, "or of anybody I knew there."

She obeyed him, and thus it was that he was ignorant of particulars, the knowledge of which would have saved him from tripping on the present occasion.

"Corrie," said Chaytor, "the woodman? Oh, that old fool!" Annette started. The brutal tone in which Chaytor spoke shocked her. "He's dead; and a good riddance too." Annette covered her eyes with her hands. Old Corrie was dead; he must have died lately-since his visit to Bournemouth. How strange that the man who had just spoken had said nothing to her of the good old man's death! She held her breath, and listened in amazement to what followed.

"Dead, eh?" said Gilbert, callously. "Long since?"

"A good many years ago."

"In Australia, then?"

"Of course, in Australia." Gilbert would have dropped the subject, as being of small interest; but, observing that Annette was listening to the conversation with somewhat unusual attention, was impelled to say something more upon it.

"Did he leave any money behind him?"

"Not a shilling. Drank it all away. He died in a fit of delirium tremens."

Annette rose from her chair in horror.

"You saw him dead?" pursued Gilbert, maliciously.

"I was with him at the time. You are mighty particular with your questions."

He was not aware that Annette had slowly approached him, and was only made conscious of it by the touch of her hand on his arm.

"Well?" he said.

She looked steadily at him; every vestige of colour had fled from her face, her eyes dilated, her lips were apart; thus they gazed at each other in silence, and Gilbert, leaning back in his chair, watched them closely. There was an accusing quality in Annette's steady gaze which fascinated Chaytor, and the colour died out of his face as it had died out of hers. His eyes began to shift, his limbs to twitch.

"How is this going to end?" thought Gilbert Bidaud, his interest in the scene growing. "My niece has the upper hand here. Faith, she has the Bidaud blood in her."

His suddenly-aroused pride in her was a personal tribute to himself. For fully five minutes there was dead silence in the room; then Annette removed her hand from Chaytor's arm, and quitted the apartment.

The spell broken, Chaytor jumped up in fury, and looked after her retreating form. Turning to Gilbert, he cried:

"The girl has lost her senses. Is there insanity in your family, M. Gilbert Bidaud?"

"We were ever remarkable," replied Gilbert, in a more serious tone than that in which he generally spoke, "for well-balanced brains. It is that which has kept us always on the safe side, which has enabled us to swim while others sink. Instead of losing her senses, Annette, perhaps, has come to them. I give you my honest word, there crept into my mind, while you were playing that silent scene with her, a profound admiration for the young lady, my niece. She has qualities of the Bidaud type; I pay her tribute." He bowed towards the door, half mockingly, half admiringly.

"I don't want your honest word," cried Chaytor in wrath and fear, for it dawned upon him that the ally upon whom he reckoned might declare himself against him. "I want your plain meaning."

"You shall have it," said Gilbert; "but as walls have ears, and there may be danger-to you and not to me-in what you force me to say, I propose that we adjourn to the lodge by the gates, where we may exchange confidences in safety."

He led the way to the grounds, and Chaytor followed him, as a whipped dog follows its master.

CHAPTER XLII

The lodge to which Gilbert Bidaud referred stood close to the gates through which entrance was obtained to the house and grounds. It contained four rooms, two above and two below, and was furnished for residence. There were times when Gilbert himself occupied it, and it was always kept ready for him, the two rooms below affording him all the accommodation he required. Between these two rooms ran a narrow passage, at the back end of which was a door, but seldom used, leading out to the grounds. A staircase at the side of this passage led to the rooms above.

Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor had arrived at the villa late in the day, and it was now night. Dark clouds had gathered, obscuring moon and stars.

"There will be a storm before sunrise," said Gilbert, as they reached the front door of the lodge, which he unlocked and threw open. "Enter, my dear friend."

Chaytor uttered no word, and followed Gilbert into the passage. The old man carefully locked the door, and the two men stood in darkness a moment, listening. Then the master of Villa Bidaud turned the handle of the door of the sitting-room, and stepping towards the window, closed the shutters through which no chink of light could be seen from without. Having thus secured themselves from observation, he struck a match and lit a lamp, which threw a bright light around. In a basket by the sideboard were some bottles of red wine, and glasses and corkscrew were handy. Gilbert uncorked a bottle and put glasses on the table.

"Will you drink?" he asked.

"Have you nothing stronger than this stuff?" asked Chaytor, in reply.

"There is a bottle of brandy somewhere," said Gilbert, opening a door in the sideboard. "Ah, here it is. I am glad that am able to accommodate you. I am always glad to accommodate my friends."

Chaytor half filled a tumbler with the spirit, and drank it neat. His companion took the bottle, and replaced it in the cupboard.

"You are a generous host," observed Chaytor.

"It is not that," said Gilbert, genially. "It is that you need your wits to understand my plain meaning. Will you sit or stand?"

"I will do as I please."

"Do so. Your pleasure is a law to me. Pardon me a moment's consideration. I am debating by what name to address you."

"My name is Basil Whittingham, as you well know."

"How should I well know it? It is not my custom to accept men as they present themselves. I judge for myself. Man is a study. I study him, and each one who crosses my path and enters, for a time short or long, into my life, affords me scope for observation and contemplation. As you have done."

"As I have done," said Chaytor, moodily.

"As you have done," repeated Gilbert.

"I suppose I may make one observation."

"One! A dozen-a hundred. What you say shall be attentively received. Be sure of that."

"I recall," said Chaytor, "a conversation we had. You said you would not pry into my secrets, and expressed a desire that I should not pry into yours."

"I remember. I said also something about our cupboards with their skeletons, and that each should keep his key."

"Yes-and you concluded with these words: 'What I choose to reveal, I reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step.' I am correct in the quotation, I think?"

"It is freely admitted. You have a retentive memory, and my observations must have made an impression upon you."

"I have not," said Chaytor, "attempted to pry into your secrets. Why do you attempt to pry into mine?"

"My dear friend," said Gilbert, in his blandest tone, "you forget. It is by your invitation we are now conversing, and it is for your safety I proposed we should converse here in secresy. You said to me, 'I want your plain meaning.' If you have changed your mind, we will finish now, this moment, and will return to our dear Annette."

"No," said Chaytor, "we will not finish now. I will hear what you have to say."

"You are gracious. But pray believe me; I have not attempted to pry into your secrets. You have yourself revealed yourself to me by a thousand signs. I am a man gifted with a fair intelligence. I do not say to my mind, Observe, it observes intuitively, without command or direction. What is the result? I learn, not what you are, but what you are not."

"Indeed! And what am I not?"

"Plainly?"

"Quite plainly."

"My dear friend," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a smile and a confident nod, "you are not Basil Whittingham."

"That is your game, is it?" cried Chaytor, but his heart was chilled by the cold assurance of Gilbert's voice and manner.

"Not my game-yours. I did not intrude upon you; you intruded upon me. By your own design you came, and if there is a pit before you, it is you, not I, who have dug it. But you can yet save yourself."

"How?" said Chaytor involuntarily, and was instantly made aware of his imprudence by the amused smile which his exclamation called up to Gilbert's lips. "Curse it! I mean, what have I revealed, as you so cleverly express it?"

"I will tell you. You come to Paris, and play the spy upon us. You take rooms opposite our hotel, and so arrange a foreground of observation, that you can see what passes in our apartments without dreaming that you have laid yourself open to observation."

"Oh, you found that out, did you?" exclaimed Chaytor.

"I found that out; and I found out also that you had been in Paris a long, long time, although you declared to my niece, when you first presented yourself to us, that you had but just arrived by the night train. I take no merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while you were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 'Why this lie? Why this secret espionage?' and since then it is that I found the answer. Naturally we spoke of Australia; naturally I recalled the incidents of my first meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother's plantation. They were incidents it was not possible to forget by either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely ignorant of them; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing what never occurred. In this way did you again reveal to me, not what you are, but what you are not. Finding your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I confess it, a simple, innocent trap, which you, being Basil Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to yourself. In that case it would have been I, not you, who would have had to eat humble pie-is not that your English saying? I invented scenes and incidents in our meeting and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to which you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a comedy, these imaginary conversations and incidents of my conjuring up, and you saying, 'Yes, yes, I remember, I remember.' Fie, fie, dear friend, it was clumsy of you. Again, those English newspapers, with their celebrated case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explanation did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read them so eagerly. There were here to my hand the pieces of a puzzle not difficult to put together. Let me tell you-you deceived not one of us completely. My sister says, 'That man is not Basil Whittingham.' My niece says no word-her grief is too great-she suffers, through you, a martyrdom; but she doubts you none the less. Some strong confirmation-I know not what-of her doubts you presented her with this very night when you spoke so freely of Old Corrie's death."

"Curse you!" cried Chaytor. "You drew me on."

"Could I guess what was coming when his name was introduced? Could I divine what you were about to say? Take this from me, my friend; my niece knows something of Old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and when she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those eyes of yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, you felt as I felt, that she accused you of lying. Even her maid, Emily, who never set eyes on Basil Whittingham, believes not in you. And the fault is all your own. It is you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blustering and denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as we are concerned, the game is up."

"So you mean to say that you withdraw from the marriage contract between me and Annette?"

"It is not I who withdraw; it is she, who will choose death rather. She may consider herself bound-I cannot say; but she and you will never stand side by side at the altar."

"The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce."

"That is, to disappear?"

"You can express it in those words if you choose. Mind, I do not leave your hospitable abode because I am afraid. What is there to be afraid of? I can afford to laugh at what you have said, which is false from beginning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done pretty well out of me; you are a cunning old bird, and you have feathered your nest with my feathers. I calculate that you have at least five thousand pounds of my money in your pocket."

"Of your money?" queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile.

"Of my money."

"No, no; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of Basil Whittingham's money."

"Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. Have you anything else to say to me?"

"Yes. You are not free to go yet."

"What! Will you stop me?"

"No; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. We will have the case in the papers, and you shall have an opportunity of clearing yourself of the accusation I bring against you. Basil Whittingham maybe alive; Old Corrie may be alive; people who know really who you are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought forward to acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, fuss, publicity, you shall have them. There is, however, an alternative."

"Let me hear it."

"Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed forgery by affixing his name to two documents in my possession. Not being Basil Whittingham, you have obtained by fraud the fortune which was his. So apprehensive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have done, but you carry it about with you, in secret pockets, on your person." Chaytor started. "I could put my finger on the precise spots in which Basil Whittingham's fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising your hand-you are doing it unconsciously at this moment-to your side, to your breast, to assure yourself that the money is safe. Shall we make terms?"

"Name them."

"I do not desire to know the amount of your wealth; I think only of myself, and of what the secret in my possession is worth. Shall we say five thousand pounds?"

"You may say five thousand pounds," blustered Chaytor, and then suddenly paused, overwhelmed by the sense of power in his companion's smiling face. "Hang it," he said presently, "give me some brandy."

Gilbert Bidaud produced the bottle, and, as Newman Chaytor gulped the liquor down, repeated, "Shall we say five thousand pounds?"

"I will give you one," said Chaytor faintly. "Five. Decide quickly. Observe, I take out my watch; it wants two minutes to the hour. If at the end of these two minutes you do not agree, I shall double the terms. By this time you know me, and know that you cannot with safety trifle with me."

Chaytor stepped forward and looked at the second-hand, his mind dazed with whirling thought. Should he refuse? Should he show fight? Did he dare to risk the exposure which Gilbert threatened?

"It wants thirty seconds yet," said Gilbert, calmly? "they are precious moments, these that are flying so fast? Twenty-fifteen-ten-five-"

"I consent to be robbed," said Chaytor, hurriedly. He did not dare to fight.