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.

"Good," said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his pocket. "The bargain must be completed to-night, after which without loss of time, I should advise you to disappear. I will make excuses to my niece; she will not be anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight, here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you have purchased safety we will bid each other an eternal farewell. I will have a horse ready for you, on which you can ride to--where you please. Let us now return to the bosom of my beloved family; a longer absence may arouse suspicion."