Her Majesty's Minister

There, on her knees, she twice besought my forgiveness. But I remained silent. To forgive was impossible, I knew; nevertheless, I had no desire to cause her pain. Her face told me that she had already suffered sufficiently in the months that had elapsed since I had bidden her farewell at the little railway-station in rural England.

“Speak!” she cried. “Tell me, Gerald, that you love no one else beside myself – that – that you will forgive me!”

Turning to her, I grasped her hand, and, looking straight into those eyes which I had once believed to be so full of truth, honesty, and affection, I answered earnestly:

“I love no woman on earth except yourself, Edith. But to forgive is quite impossible.”

“No!” she cried wildly – “no! you cannot be cold and callous if you really love me. See! here at your feet I beseech of you to allow me to prove my innocence and show my love for you!”

“I once believed implicitly in you, Edith,” I said very gravely, still holding her hand; “but the discovery that you met your lover clandestinely beneath the very window of my room has so shaken my confidence that it is utterly impossible for you ever to re-establish it.”

“But he is not my lover!” she protested, her blanched face upturned to mine. “I swear he is not; nor has he ever been.”

“I have no proof of your declaration,” I answered, shaking my head dubiously.

“Except my oath,” she gasped in desperation. “Cannot you accept that? I swear by all I hold most sacred,” she cried, lifting her head and raising her face to Heaven – “I swear that I entertain no spark of affection for that man, and that he has never been my lover!”

“Then who is he?” I demanded. “What is his name?”

Chapter Twenty Eight

On the Crooked Way

She held her breath. Her hand trembled within my grasp. Then, after a moment, she faltered:

“He is not my lover. Is not my declaration sufficient?”

“No, it is not,” I responded harshly. “If he is nothing to you, as you allege, then why did you meet him secretly at night, and make an appointment to meet again after I had left Ryburgh?”

“Because I was forced to – because – ”

“Because you have allowed that shabby adventurer to love you!” I interrupted. “Because you have played me false!”

“I deny it!” she protested, a gleam of defiance flashing for an instant in her eyes. “I have never played you false, Gerald. The charge against me is utterly false and unfounded.”

“Then perhaps you will explain this wandering visitor’s business with you.”

“I would tell you all – all that has passed between us, but I dare not. My every action is watched, and if I breathed a single word to you he would know; and then – ”

“And what would happen then, pray?” I asked with some surprise, for I now saw that she entertained a deadly fear of her midnight visitor; it was evident that he held some mysterious power over her.

“The result would be disastrous,” she replied in a mechanical tone of voice.

“In what way?”

“Not only would it upset all the plans I have formed, but would in all probability be the cause of my own ruin – perhaps even of my suicide,” she added.

“I don’t understand you, Edith,” I said, turning again to her, in the hope that she would confide in me. “How would it cause your ruin? If you hesitate to tell me the truth, then it is certain that you fear some exposure.”

“You are quite right,” she answered, meeting my gaze unflinchingly; “I do fear exposure.”

“Then you admit your guilt? You admit that what I have alleged is the actual truth?”

“I do not, for a single instant. The charge is false, and without the slightest foundation,” she asserted. “You saw me speaking with him, you may have overheard our conversation, and you no doubt believe that he is my lover. But I tell you he is not.”

“His movements were mysterious,” I said dubiously. “I followed him.”

“You followed him!” she gasped, all colour leaving her face in an instant. “You actually followed him! Where did he go?”

She spoke as though she feared that I had discovered the truth as to his identity and calling.

“To a village some little distance away,” I replied ambiguously; “and I there discovered one or two things which increased my interest in him.”

“What did you discover? Tell me,” she urged, grasping my hand anxiously.

“What I discovered only led me still further to the belief that he held you within his power.”

“I have already admitted that,” she exclaimed. “I am perfectly frank in that respect.”

“And you will not tell me the reason? If you refuse to be open and straightforward with me, there surely can be no love between us. Confidence is the first step towards the union of man with woman.”

“I will tell you the reason,” she replied in a strange voice, almost as though she were speaking to herself. “It is because a secret exists between us.”

“Ah!” I cried, “I thought so. The secret of a love-affair – eh?”

“It concerns a love-affair, it is true, but not our own.”

“Oh, now this is interesting!” I cried with bitter sarcasm. “You are bound to each other because of your common knowledge of the love-affair of a third person. That is curious, to say the least of it. No,” I added, “I’m afraid, Edith, I cannot accept such a remarkable explanation, notwithstanding the ingenuity displayed in its construction.”

“In other words, you insinuate that I am lying to you!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with indignation.

“I do not use the term ‘lying,’” I said with a smile; “the word ‘prevarication’ is more applicable. A woman never lies.”

“You are not treating me seriously,” she complained quickly. “I have come here to tell you all that I can, and – ”

“And you have told me practically nothing,” I interposed.

“I have told you all that I dare at present,” she answered. “Some day, ere long, I hope to be in a position to make full confession to you, and then you will fully understand my action and appreciate the extreme difficulty and deadly peril in which I find myself at this moment.”

“You admit that you have a confession to make?”

“Of course I admit it. I wronged you when I met that man on the very night you were a guest beneath our roof. It is but just that you should know the whole of the ghastly truth.”

“That is what I am endeavouring to obtain from you,” I said. “I want to know who that shabby fellow was, and why he took such pains to keep his presence in Great Ryburgh a secret.”

“He had some good reason, I presume,” she replied.

“Do you declare that you know absolutely nothing of his movements?” I inquired.

“I know but little of them.”

“How long have you been acquainted?”

“Two years – perhaps a little longer.”

“And has he visited you often?”

“No, at infrequent intervals.”

“Always at night?”

“Always.”

“He evidently is a shrewd fellow, who does not wish his presence in that chattering little village to be known,” I said with a laugh. Then I added: “You went for moonlight rambles with him, I suppose?”

“He wished to talk with me, and on such occasions we took one or other of the paths across the fields.”

“Very interesting,” I said. “And all this time you were causing me to believe that you were mine alone! Are you surprised at my refusal to forgive?”

“I should be if I were guilty of playing you false,” she answered with slight haughtiness, as though my words wounded her self-respect.

“If you were not guilty you would never endeavour to conceal your lover’s name, as you are now doing!” I exclaimed.

“It is because I dare not tell you,” she replied, with a look of desperation on her face. “Were I to utter a word in explanation of the true state of affairs, all would be over, and both you and I would suffer.”

“How should I suffer?” I asked with some interest.

“The affair is much more curious and complicated than you imagine,” she said. “Knowledge of the truth could only bring ruin upon you.”

“Rubbish!” I cried roughly, starting up. “What have I to fear?”

“No, Gerald,” she implored, gripping my hand tightly, “do not treat this matter with indifference. It is, I tell you, a grave one for both of us.”

“In what way?”

“Ah,” she sighed, “if only I might tell you! If only I dared!”

“If you love me as you did on that evening when we wandered beside the river, you would brave all these mythical dangers and tell me the truth, Edith,” I said, bending towards her in a persuasive manner.

“But, as I have explained, I cannot. I will not – for your sake!”

“How can knowledge of it possibly affect me?” I cried.

She paused for a moment and then answered: “There are certain hidden influences at work, of which you, Gerald, have no suspicion. I alone am aware of the truth. Cannot you place sufficient confidence in me – in the woman who loves you – to leave the matter in my hands? Surely our interests are mutual!”

“I have, I regret, no confidence,” I said bluntly.

“Ah! because you are jealous,” she replied quite calmly. “Well, that is but natural in the circumstances. You discovered him, and you believe him to be my lover. Nevertheless, your jealousy should not lead you into any rash action which might wreck your life.”

“You speak as though you are anxious with regard to my personal safety. What have I to fear?”

“You have to fear the machinations of unscrupulous enemies,” she said anxiously. “You are living in ignorance of the peril that daily threatens you, and I – who love you so well – am unable to give you a single hint which might warn you of the pitfall so cunningly concealed.”

There was an earnestness in her tone which struck me as curious. What could she, a girl living in a quiet country village in England, know about “the machinations of unscrupulous enemies?” She spoke as though well versed in the diplomatic plots of Paris, even as though she would corroborate what the Princess had alleged. It was odd, and caused me much reflection. What could she possibly know?

“It is only fair to me that you should warn me of the peril,” I said at last.

“Hush!” she whispered, looking round the room in fear; “the very walls have ears. If it were believed that I had spoken to you of this, a catastrophe, terrible and complete, would ensue.”

“Really, Edith,” I said, “you speak in enigmas. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Believe in me,” she answered in a deep, earnest voice. “Believe in my truth and purity as you did before, for I protest that never for a single instant have I forgotten the vows I made to you.”

“Ah,” I said very sadly, “if I could only believe that you really love me, how happy I should be! But as it is, I fear this to be quite impossible.”

“No,” she wailed, tears welling in her eyes. “Surely the sight of that man unknown to you has not destroyed all your belief in woman’s honesty and affection? You must, deep down in your heart, see that I love you firmly and well. You cannot be so blind, Gerald, as to believe that here, to-day, I am playing you false! Ah! if you only knew!” she sighed. “If you only knew all that I am suffering, you would pity me, and you would take me in your embrace as once you used to do, and kiss me on the lips as a sign of your forgiveness. I can suffer,” she went on brokenly – “I can endure the awful anxiety and tribulation for your sake; I can cheerfully bear the jeers of men and the insults of women, but I cannot bear your coldness to me, because I love you, and because you once declared that you were mine.”

“This estrangement has arisen between us through your own fault,” I answered.

Just at this moment my man rapped smartly at the door, and Edith rose quickly from her knees before he entered with the tea. The little silver service was a quaint relic of the Queen Anne period, which had long been in my family, and which was always admired by the brilliant Parisiennes who often did me the honour of taking a cup of English tea – not, of course, because they liked the beverage, but because to drink it is nowadays considered chic. My man told me that a messenger had called from the Embassy, and I left the room for a few moments to see him.

But Edith disregarded the fact that tea had been brought. The instant I returned and the door had closed again, she came across to me, saying:

“It was not my fault, Gerald; it was his. He compelled me to meet him.”

“For what reason?”

“He wished me to render him a service.”

“Of what character?”

“That I cannot explain.”

“You of course acquiesced?”

“No, I refused.”

“And yet the fact that you met him against your will shows in itself that you were in his power,” I remarked. “How was it that you could refuse?”

She was silent a moment, standing before me wan and pale in her black dress, her gloved hands clasped before her.

“I defied him,” she answered simply.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Well, that is the reason why I live in dread of a catastrophe.”

“Answer me this question, Yes or No. Your mysterious visitor was a foreigner?”

I recollected what the innkeeper’s wife had told me – namely, that the word “Firenze” was on the tabs of his boots.

“Yes,” she answered in a half-whisper.

“An Italian?”

“How did you know that?” she gasped in quick surprise.

“From my own inquiries,” I answered.

“But do take my advice,” she cried earnestly, her hand upon my arm. “Make no further inquiries regarding him; otherwise I may be suspected and all my plans will be frustrated.”

“What plans?”

“Plans I have made for our mutual protection,” she whispered. “If you knew all the details you would not be surprised at my anxiety that you should remain inactive and leave all to me. I am but a woman; nevertheless, I am at least loyal to you, the man I love. Forgive me,” she implored, raising her white, pained face to mine – “forgive me, Gerald, I beg and pray of you. Have confidence in me, and I will some day, ere long, prove to you that I am, after all, worthy of your love.”

“Forgiveness is easy, but forgetfulness difficult,” I said, taking her hand and looking straight into the dark splendour of those soft eyes.

After the shrill-tongued, voluble foreign women by whom I was ever surrounded, this sweet English girl breathed peace and paradise to my wearied heart.

“But you will forgive me?” she implored in deep earnestness. “Say that you will!”

Her attitude impressed upon me forcibly the conviction that, after all, she really loved me. Nevertheless, the whole affair seemed so mysterious and perplexing that I found it difficult to regard her motives with unquestioning faith. “Yes,” I said at length, “I forgive you, Edith. But until you can explain all the mystery, I tell you frankly that I cannot entertain full confidence in you.”

“You will, however, leave me to carry out the plan I have formed?” she urged anxiously.

“If you wish.”

“And if I am denounced by one or other of my enemies, you will not believe that denunciation before I am at liberty to expose to you the whole truth? Promise me that – do!”

“Very well,” I responded, “it shall be as you wish.”

Then as those words left my lips she sprang forward with a loud cry of joy, and, throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me wildly in joy, saying:

“You shall never regret this decision, Gerald, never —never!”

For fully an hour we sat together, our tea untouched, so preoccupied were we with the burden of our hearts; then, declaring that Aunt Hetty would miss her, she reluctantly rose. When I had put her cape round her shoulders, we went downstairs together, I having promised to accompany her in a fiacre as far as the Grand Hotel.

Just as we were about to step into the street, I encountered Kaye, who evidently wished to have a word with me. As he raised his hat, I noticed how intently he was examining my companion’s face; then he passed us and entered the wide hall leading to the stairs. A moment later, however, he turned suddenly, and said:

“Excuse me, Mr Ingram, might I speak with you for one moment? I see you are going out.”

“Certainly,” I answered; and after excusing myself to Edith I moved off a few paces with him.

The words he uttered were spoken in a whisper. They startled me:

“Have a care, Mr Ingram,” he said meaningly. “We know that woman!”

Chapter Twenty Nine

Kaye is Puzzled

Having seen Edith as far as the Grand Hotel, I re-entered the fiacre and at once drove back to my own rooms, where I found the chief of the secret service awaiting me.

“What do you mean by saying that you know that lady?” I inquired breathlessly.

“Simply that we know her, that’s all,” he replied, with an air of mystery.

“Look here, Kaye,” I said, “just tell me plainly and straightforwardly what you know regarding her?”

“She’s a person to be avoided, that’s all.”

“To be avoided!” I echoed. “Why, surely she has no connection with the persons you are watching? She lives in Norfolk, in a little country village, and scarcely ever comes abroad.”

“I know it,” he answered with his sphinx-like smile. “She lives at Great Ryburgh, near Fakenham, is in possession of a fair income, and has a maiden aunt as companion.”

“How did you know that?” I demanded in surprise.

“It is our duty to know all who are the enemies of England.”

“And is she an enemy?”

“Most certainly,” he replied.

“I can’t believe it, Kaye!” I cried, aghast. “I won’t believe it! First you tell me that Yolande de Foville is a spy, and now you denounce Edith Austin.”

“I only tell you the truth,” he answered, leaning against the table and folding his arms.

“Then as you know so much about her, you probably know our relationship,” I said, rather annoyed that this ubiquitous man, whose proclivities for fathoming a secret were prodigious, should have watched her.

“I am quite well aware of it, Mr Ingram,” he responded; “and if I might be allowed to advise you, I should end it at once. It is dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because she is playing you false.”

“How do you know that?”

“By the same means that I know she is working against us – and against you. If you knew the facts they would astound you. Even I, with all my experience of the ways of felons and spies, was dumbfounded when I learnt the truth.”

“But can’t you see that it’s ridiculous to ask me to cast her aside without giving me any plain and ample reason?”

“The reason is certainly sufficient,” he replied.

“What is it?”

“You visited her at Ryburgh some months ago, and suspected her of having a secret lover. Is not that so?”

“Extraordinary!” I gasped. “How did you know that? You set your spies upon me!” I added angrily.

“No, not upon you,” he said. “She was already under observation.”

“Why?”

“Because of some suspicion that had been aroused regarding the Ceuta incident.”

“Nonsense!” I cried, unable to believe his allegation. “What possible connection could she have with that?”

“A rather intimate one, judging from the result of our inquiries.”

“In what manner?”

“Well, as a secret agent.”

“In the employ of whom?”

“Of France.”

“Of France?” I echoed. “Impossible!”

“My dear Mr Ingram,” he protested, “I’m not in the habit of misleading you or of making statements which I can’t substantiate. I repeat that Miss Edith Austin, the lady who has been here with you this afternoon, is a French agent.”

“I can’t believe it!” I gasped, utterly staggered. “Why, she’s a simple, charming English girl, leading a quiet life in that sleepy little village, and scarcely seeing anybody for weeks together.”

“Exactly. I don’t deny that. But as her affection for you is prompted by ulterior motives – pray pardon me for saying so – you should be forewarned; and this is the more desirable in view of the fact which you yourself discovered.”

“What fact?”

“That she has a secret lover.”

“Ah!” I cried eagerly. “Tell me, who is he?”

“An Italian named Bertini – Paolo Bertini.”

“Bertini,” I repeated, the name sounding somewhat familiar. “Surely I’ve heard that name before!”

“Of course. You remember, when you were in Brussels, the bold attempt he made one afternoon in your room at the Embassy?”

“Ah! I remember. Why, of course! And is he actually the same man?”

In an instant I recalled the face of Edith’s midnight visitor, and recollected where I had seen it on a previous occasion.

Kaye’s words brought back to me in that moment an incident which showed plainly the dastardly tricks of the foreign spies who constantly hover about every legation or embassy on the Continent. One afternoon, years ago, in Brussels, a well-dressed, gentlemanly man called to see His Excellency, and was shown into my room. Half an hour before, a Foreign Office messenger had arrived from London with despatches, and I was busily engaged in deciphering them when the servant showed in the stranger. The latter, who introduced himself as a shipowner of Antwerp, was seated near my table, and was talking to me about a complaint he had recently lodged against one of our consuls, when suddenly he stopped, turned pale, and fell back in a faint. I sprang up, and, rushing out of the room, went to get a glass of water. Fortunately I had on thin shoes, and the carpet in the corridor was so thick that my feet fell noiselessly. Judge of my surprise when, on my return, I saw my visitor standing in a perfect state of health with one of the deciphered despatches pinned against the wall and a camera in his hand! He had actually photographed it during my absence.

Without an instant’s hesitation I sprang upon him from behind, wrenched the camera from his hand, shouted for help, and held him until some of the servants came, when he was taken in charge by the police. After a short trial, during which it was proved that he was one of the cleverest spies employed by France, he was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for attempted theft, while the camera, together with the photographic films, was returned to us. The latter, on being developed, proved extremely interesting and very valuable, for not only did we find the photograph of our own despatch, but those of three other secret documents taken in the Italian Embassy in Brussels.

And it was this artful adventurer who had become Edith’s lover. She, young and inexperienced, had no doubt fallen his victim. She had become enmeshed in the net he had spread for her, and was the subordinate by means of whom he intended to operate further against us.

“What you tell me, Kaye, really staggers belief,” I said after a pause. “That man is absolutely unscrupulous.”

“He’s one of the most ingenious of all the army of secret agents. Indeed, I have a suspicion that he is the chief of the French spies operating in England. His intimate acquaintance with your friend Miss Austin shows conclusively that he is contemplating a big coup.”

Had this matter, I wondered, any connection with the gigantic conspiracy of which the Princess had told me? My promise of secrecy given to her prevented me from mentioning it to Kaye. Only a few weeks ago the Figaro had announced that Her Highness the Princess Léonie von Leutenberg had left the Château de Chantoiseau, and had returned to her mansion in the Frieung, in Vienna. She had left France without sending me a word.

“What connection had this man Bertini with the exposure of the Ceuta negotiations?” I inquired.

“He got to know of them by some means – how, I can’t tell. It is an absolute enigma.”

“And that despatch I brought from London, the exact contents of which were known a few hours after my return here, what of that?”

“Through him, I feel assured,” answered the clever man before me. “I only returned from London three days ago. I went myself to make inquiries.”

“And what did you find?”

“He carries on the business of a jeweller, and has a small shop half-way up the Edgware Road, one of those cheap Brummagem places that sell earrings and brooches for servant-girls. He poses as quite a respectable shopkeeper, and employs an Englishman as manager. The signor, it appears, has many friends in London, and when they call to see him they are always shown to his private room over the shop. I also learnt that your visitor of to-day has called upon him there.”

“Are you sure?” I cried quickly. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

“I gave her description and name to the manager, who said he recollected her calling there twice about three weeks ago. Once his master was not in, but on the second occasion she had an interview with him. It has more than once struck me as curious that this fellow Bertini should have been near you on the day of the mysterious theft of the contents of that despatch. You don’t think that he followed you from Ryburgh to London?”