The White Lie

One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.

“How delightful it is here!” exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse of distant sea.

“Ah!” he laughed. “You always prefer this place to Bracondale – eh? It is but natural, because you are among your own people.”

At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car, raised his soft felt hat to them.

“Halloa!” exclaimed the Earl. “Here’s Martin! Left Downing Street last night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest.”

“Yes, but you’ll come with us, won’t you?”

“Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought,” was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife’s side, passed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty’s Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.

“Mornin’, Martin!” exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. “Nice passage over?”

“Yes, my lord,” was the traveller’s response. “It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday.”

And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked “On His Britannic Majesty’s Service.”

The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.

Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King’s Messenger took it with a word of thanks.

“When do you go back?” he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.

“To-night, at midnight.”

“Will you call here at eight for despatches?”

“Certainly.”

“They’ll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople.”

“Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey – to Petersburg – on Friday,” he added, speaking as though a journey to that Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.

“Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no objection, I suppose?”

“None,” laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but few short spells of leave. The life of a King’s Messenger is, indeed, no sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy wagonlits of the European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office, had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy in Europe, and to every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.

“And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street, Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera,” added Lord Bracondale. “I wish you would bring it over next time you come.”

“Certainly,” Martin replied.

“Then, at eight o’clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,” his lordship said.

So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box – a steel one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas – upon a side table, and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.

Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.

During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no delay.

Upon Bracondale’s brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned Charlton’s letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.

But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.

In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and were quickly driven through the pines and out upon the sea-road until, when on the railed esplanade at St. Addresse, the car pulled up suddenly at some steps which led down to the sands.

Just before he did so his lordship, addressing Jean, said:

“I know you will excuse me staying with you this morning, dear, but I must attend to those despatches Martin has brought. And they will certainly take me till luncheon. So I will see you down to the beach and then go back. The car shall come for you at half-past twelve.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Jean, regretfully. “But I know, dear, how worried you are. So I’ll forgive you. I shall spend a quiet morning with a book, and Enid will enjoy herself.”

Then the car stopped, he got out, helped Enid and Miss Oliver down, and then gave his hand to Jean, who, with her dark cloak thrown over her white dress, looked extremely dainty, and much younger than her years.

While the car waited for them, all four descended to the beach, where little Enid with her governess went forward, while Bracondale and his wife walked along to a secluded corner in the rocks, where it was Jean’s habit to read while awaiting her little girl.

Then, after he had seen her comfortably settled in the shadow, for the sun was hot, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to where the car awaited him, absorbed in the international problem which had, according to Charlton, so suddenly arisen.

As he sat in the car and was whirled along the sea-front towards Monplaisir, he passed a clean-shaven, well-dressed man in a dark suit with carefully-ironed trousers, his handkerchief showing from his jacket pocket, patent leather boots, grey spats, and a light grey Tyrolese hat. The stranger gave him a curious, inquisitive glance as he passed, then, looking after him, muttered some words beneath his breath.

The idler stood and watched the car disappear in the dust along the wide, straight road, and then he walked to the steps over which Jean had passed and followed in her footsteps.

As a matter of fact, this was not the first occasion upon which the stranger had watched her ladyship.

On the previous day he had been passing along a street in Havre when a big red car had passed, and in it was her ladyship with little Lady Enid.

In a second, on looking up suddenly, he had recognised her.

But she had not seen him. At the moment she had been bending towards the child, buttoning up her coat.

The stranger, who had only the day previous arrived in Havre, and was awaiting a steamer to America, turned upon his heel and, chancing to meet a postman face to face, pointed out the car and asked in French whose it was.

The veteran, for he wore his medal, glanced at the car and replied:

“Ah! That is the automobile of the English lord. That is the Countess of Bracondale, his wife.”

“Do they live here?”

“At the Villa Monplaisir, m’sieur, out on the road to Fécamp.”

“Are they rich?” he asked unconcernedly.

“Oh, yes; Lord Bracondale is the English Minister for Foreign Affairs.”

“Bracondale!” echoed the stranger, recognising the name for the first time. “And that is his wife?”

“Yes.”

“And the child?”

“His daughter.”

“Is Lady Bracondale often here, in Havre?” he inquired eagerly.

“Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping,” replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his letters.

“Look here, my friend,” exclaimed the stranger. “Tell me something more about that lady.” And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man’s hand.

“Ah! I fear I know but little – only what people say, m’sieur.”

“What do they say?”

“That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife, although she is such a great lady – one of the greatest ladies in England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and are enormously wealthy.”

“Rich – eh?” remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. “You know nothing more?”

“No, m’sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do.”

“Bien. Bon jour,” said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries.

And the stranger, whose name was “Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.,” was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE BLOW

With easy, leisurely gait, the man in the grey hat strode along the sands towards the rocks behind which the Countess and the governess had disappeared.

Upon his mobile lips played an evil, triumphant smile, in his keen eyes a sharp, sinister look as he went forward, his hands thrust carelessly into his jacket pocket.

His eyes were set searchingly upon the grey rocks before him, when suddenly he saw in the distance Miss Oliver and little Enid walking together. Therefore he knew that Lady Bracondale was alone.

“What luck!” he murmured. “I wonder how she’ll take it? To think that I should have been lying low in Trouville yonder all that time while she was living here. I’ve got ten louis, and a ticket for New York, but if you are cute, Ralph Ansell,” he said, addressing himself, “you won’t want to use that ticket.”

He chuckled and smiled.

“The Countess of Bracondale!” he muttered. “I wonder what lie she told the Earl? Perhaps she’s changed – become unscrupulous – since we last met. I wonder?”

And then, reaching the rocks, he walked as noiselessly as he could to the spot where he had located that she must be.

He had made no error, for as he rounded a great limestone boulder, worn smooth by the action of the fierce winter waves, he saw her seated in the shadow, her sunshade cast aside, reading an English novel in ignorance of any person being present.

It was very quiet and peaceful there, the only sound being the low lapping of the blue, tranquil water, clear as crystal in the morning light. She was engrossed in her book, for it was a new one by her favourite author, while he, standing motionless, watched her and saw that, though she had grown slightly older, she was full of girlish charm. She was quietly but beautifully dressed – different indeed to the black gown and print apron of those Paris days.

He saw that upon the breast of her white embroidered gown she wore a beautiful brooch in the shape of a coronet, and on her finger a ring with one single but very valuable pearl. He was a connoisseur of such things. At last, after watching her for several minutes, he knit his brows, and, putting forward his hard, determined chin, exclaimed in English:

“Well, Jean!”

Startled, she looked up. Next second she stared at him open-mouthed. The light died out of her face, leaving it ashen grey, and her book fell from her hand.

“Yes, it’s me – Ralph Ansell, your husband!”

“You!” she gasped, her big, frightened eyes staring at him. “I – I – The papers said you were dead – that – that – ”

“I know,” he laughed. “The police think that Ralph Ansell is dead. So he is. I am Mr. Hoggan, from California.”

“Hoggan!” she echoed, looking about her in dismay.

“Yes – and you? You seem to have prospered, Jean.”

She was silent. What could she say?

Through her mind rushed a flood of confused memories. Sight of his familiar face filled her with fear. The haunting past came back to her in all its evil hideousness – the past which she had put behind her for ever now arose in all its cruel reality and naked bitterness.

And worse. She had preserved a guilty silence towards Bracondale!

Her husband, the man to whom she was legally bound, stood before her!

She only glared at him with blank, despairing, haunted eyes.

“Well – speak! Tell me who and what you are.”

The word “what” cut deeply into her.

He saw her shrink and tremble at the word. And he grinned, a hard, remorseless grin. The corners of his mouth drew down in triumph.

“It seems long ago since we last met, doesn’t it?” he remarked, in a hard voice. “You left me because I was poor.”

“Not because you were poor, Ralph,” she managed to reply; “but because you would have struck me if Adolphe had not held you back.”

“Adolphe!” he cried in disgust. “The swine is still in prison, I suppose. He was a fool to be trapped like that. I ran to the river – the safest place when one is cornered. The police thought I was drowned, but, on the contrary, I swam and got away. Since then I’ve had a most pleasant time, I assure you. Ralph Ansell did die when he threw himself into the Seine.”

She looked at him with a strange expression.

“True; but his deeds still remain.”

“Deeds – what do you mean?”

“I mean this!” she cried, starting to her feet and facing him determinedly. “I mean that you – Ralph Ansell, my husband – killed Richard Harborne!”

His face altered in a moment, yet his self-possession was perfect.

He smiled, and replied, with perfect unconcern:

“Oh! And pray upon what grounds do you accuse me of such a thing? Harborne – oh, yes, I recollect the case. It was when we were in England.”

“Richard Harborne was a member of the British Secret Service, and the authorities know that he died by your hand,” was her slow reply. “It is known that you acted as the cats’-paw – that it was you who tampered with the aeroplane which fell and killed poor Lieutenant Barclay before our eyes. Ah! Had I but known the truth at the time – at the time when I, in ignorance, stood by your side and loved you!”

“Then you love me no longer – eh, Jean?” he asked, facing her, his brows knit.

“How can I? How can I love a man who is a murderer?”

“Murderer!” he cried, in anger. “You must prove it! I’ll compel you to prove it, or by gad! I’ll – I’ll strangle you!”

“The facts are already proved.”

“How do you know?”

“From an official report which I have seen. It is now in my husband’s possession – locked up in his safe.”

“Your husband!” repeated Ansell, affecting ignorance of the truth.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I have married, believing that you were dead.”

“And both pleased and relieved to think I was dead, without a doubt!” he laughed, with a sneer.

She said nothing.

At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single blow – that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last fallen to crush her.

No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother, but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an assassin to boot.

Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her breath.

The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.

“I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again,” she said simply.

“Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he knows how you’ve deceived him.”

“I have told him no lie!”

“No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes.”

“Yes. I have been silent regarding your crimes,” she replied. “The affair is not forgotten, I assure you. And a word from me will sentence you to the punishment which all murderers well deserve.”

“Good. Do it!” he laughed, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I wish you would. You would be rid of me then – the widow of a murderer!”

“You killed Richard Harborne because you were paid to do so – paid by a spy of Germany,” she said, very slowly. “The report which my husband possesses tells the truth. The British Secret Service has spared no pains to elucidate the mystery of Harborne’s death.”

“Then they also know that I married you, I suppose? They know you are wife of the guilty man – eh?”

She bit her lip. That thought had not recently occurred to her. Long ago, when it had, she had quickly crushed it down, believing that Ralph was dead. But, on the contrary, he was there, standing before her, the grim vision of the long-buried past.

“Well,” she asked suddenly, “what do you want with me now that you have found me?”

“Not much. I dare say you and I can come to terms.”

“What terms? I don’t understand?”

“You are my wife,” he said. “Well, that is your secret – and mine. You want to close my mouth,” he said roughly. “And of course you can do so – at a price.”

“You want money in return for your silence?”

“Exactly, my dear girl. I am very sorry, but I have been a trifle unfortunate in my speculations of late. I’m a financier now.”

She looked him straight in the face, her resolution rising. She hated that man whose hands were stained with the blood of Richard Harborne, who had been such a platonic friend to her.

“I wish you to understand, now and at once,” she said, “that you will have nothing from me.”

He smiled at her.

“Ah! I think you are just a little too hasty, my dear Jean,” was his reply. “Remember you are my wife, and that fact you desire to keep a secret. Well, the secret is worth something, surely – even for the sake of your charming little girl.”

“Yes,” she said angrily. “You taunt me with my position – why? Because you want money – you, a thief and an assassin! No; you will have none. I will go to the police and have you arrested.”

“Do, my dear girl. I wish you would do so, because then your true position as my wife will at once be plain. I shall not be Silas P. Hoggan, homeless and penniless, but Ralph Ansell, husband of the wealthy Countess of Bracondale. Say – what a sensation it would cause in the halfpenny papers, wouldn’t it?”

Jean shuddered, and shrank back.

“And you would be arrested for the murder of Richard Harborne – you, the hired assassin of the Baron,” she retorted. “Oh, yes, all is known, I assure you. Not a year ago I found the report among Lord Bracondale’s papers, and read it – every word.”

“And how does he like his private papers being peered into, I wonder?”

“Well, at least I now know the truth. You killed Mr. Harborne, and, further, it was you who tampered with Lieutenant Barclay’s aeroplane. You can’t deny it!”

“Why should I deny it? Harborne was your lover. You met him in secret at Mundesley on the previous afternoon. Therefore I killed two birds with one stone. A very alert secret agent was suppressed, and at the same time I was rid of a rival.”

“He was not my lover!” she protested, her cheeks scarlet. “I loved you, and only you.”

“Then why don’t you love me now? Why not return and be a dutiful wife to me?”

“Return!” she gasped. “Never!”

“But I shall compel you. You married this man, Bracondale, under false pretences, and he has no right to you. I am your husband.”

“That I cannot deny,” she said, her hands twitching nervously. “But I read of your death in the papers, and believed it to be true,” she added in despair.

“Well, you seem to have done extremely well for yourself. And you have been living in London all the time?”

“Mostly.”

“I was in London very often. I have seen your name in the papers dozens of times as giving great official receptions and entertainments, yet I confess I never, for a moment, dreamed that the great Countess Bracondale and my wife, Jean, were one and the same person.”

She shrank at the word “wife.” That surely was the most evil day in all her life. She was wondering how best to end that painful interview – how to solve the tragic difficulty which had now arisen – how best to hide her dread secret from Bracondale.

“Well,” she said at last, “though you married me, Ralph, you never had a spark of affection for me. Do you recollect the last night that I was beneath your roof – your confession that you were a thief, and how you raised your hand against me because I begged you not to run into danger. How – ?”

“Enough!” he interrupted roughly. “The past is dead and gone. I was a fool then.”

“But I remember it all too well, alas!” she said. “I remember how I loved you, and how full and bitter was my disillusionment.”

“And what do you intend doing now?” he asked defiantly.

“Nothing,” was her reply. Truth to tell, she was nonplussed. She saw no solution of the ghastly problem.

“But I want money,” he declared, fiercely.

“I have none – only what my husband gives me.”

“Husband! I’m your husband, remember. I tell you, Jean, I don’t intend to starve. I may be well dressed, but that’s only bluff. I’ve got only a few pounds in the world.”

“I see,” she said. “You intend to blackmail me. But I warn you that if those are your tactics, I shall simply tell Bracondale what I know concerning Richard Harborne.”

“You will – will you!” he cried, fiercely, advancing towards her threateningly. “By Heaven, if you breathe a word about that, I —I’ll kill you!”

And in his eyes shone a bright, murderous light – a light that she had seen there once before – on the night of her departure.

She recognised how determined he was, and drew back in fear.

Then, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, he drew forth a small leather wallet, much worn, and from it took a soiled, crumpled but carefully-preserved letter, which he opened and presented for her inspection.

“Do you recognise this?” he asked, with a sinister grin.

She drew back and held her breath.

“I’ll read it,” he said with a triumphant laugh. “I kept it as a souvenir. The man you call husband will no doubt be very pleased to see it.” Then he read the words:

“In spite of my love for you, Ralph, I cannot suffer longer. Certain hidden things in your life frighten me. Farewell. Forget me.– Jean.”

For a few seconds she was silent. Her face was white as paper.

Then, with a sudden outburst, she gasped, in a low, terrified voice, and putting up her arms with a wild gesture:

“No, no! You must not show that to him. You won’t, Ralph – for my sake, you won’t. Will you?”

CHAPTER XXV.

TO PAY THE PRICE

“Well?” asked Ansell, looking at his wife with a distinctly evil grin.

“Well?” she answered blankly, for want of something else to say.

“What will you give me for this letter?” he asked, carefully replacing it in his wallet and transferring it to his pocket with an air of supreme satisfaction.

“I have nothing to give, Ralph.”

“But you can find something quite easily,” he urged, with mock politeness. “Your ladyship must control a bit of cash-money. Remember, I’ve already made enquiries, and I know quite well that this man Bracondale is extremely wealthy. Surely he doesn’t keep too tight a hold on the purse-strings!”

“I have already told you that I have no money except what Lord Bracondale gives me, and he often looks at my banker’s pass-book. He would quickly ask me where the money had gone to.”

“Bah! You are a woman, and a woman can easily make an excuse. He’ll believe anything if he is really fond of you, as I suppose he must be. You wouldn’t like him to have that letter – would you, now?”

“No. I’ve told you that,” she replied, her pale, dry lips moving nervously.

“Then we shall have to discuss very seriously ways and means, and come to terms, my girl,” was his rough rejoinder.

“But how can I make terms with you?”

“Quite easily – by getting money.”