Chapter XXXII: The Mysterious M'sieur Smith

Weeks dragged by.

From Constantinople I was suddenly ordered to Berlin, thence to Warsaw and St Petersburg, where I was kept busy describing the reign of terror, and had little time for reflection. At Moscow I was eye-witness of a terrible bomb outrage, in which the chief of police and half a dozen other persons were blown to atoms, and very quickly I found that as special correspondent on the Continent my life was to be as full of adventure as it had been when I was the "Murder-Monger" of the evening edition of the _Herald_.

No word had come to me from Daisy, or indeed from anyone at home except my father, who constantly wrote to me from our dear old home in Suffolk, kindly encouraging and giving me good advice. Now and then a brief telegram of instruction came from Wakeley, and one day in our embassy in St Petersburg, I chanced to pick up a copy of the _Daily Herald_, and there saw a signed telegram of Julian Little's, dated from Chicago. He had, therefore, emerged from his retreat, and was again on one of his erratic journeys.

It was nearly seven weeks since I had left Charing Cross, and I was already tired of the strenuous work in towns with which I was unacquainted and amid people who spoke a tongue which I could not understand. True, my knowledge of French and the smattering of German I knew stood me in good stead, but there was nevertheless always a difficulty in getting at the root of a matter, and I was always liable to be misled by any unscrupulous informant who might wish to make the _Daily Herald_ the laughing-stock of Europe.

A special correspondent abroad experiences far more difficulties than the public even suppose. Every influential journal has its enemies as well as its partisans, and the former are ever scheming to bring it into ridicule by furnishing false intelligence. It is the correspondent's first qualification to be able to sift the truth from the fiction, and be ever wary not to be "had" for purposes of the Bourse.

Full of change and excitement as my life was, I had, nevertheless, already grown homesick because of the woman I so fondly loved. I used to sit in my hotel in the evening, smoking, reflecting, and trying to discern the reason why Scotland Yard, having discovered a clue to the strange affair at Barnes, had suddenly dropped it. What could be the reason of Whitlock's evasive responses?

The last letter I had received from him was dated from the Adelphi, at Liverpool, where, he told me, he was inquiring into a big jewel robbery on the American Boat Express between Euston and that port. A well-known woman in New York society had lost nearly forty thousand pounds' worth, and it had been taken, it was believed, by certain American "crooks." He made no mention of the Barnes affair, and merely concluded his letter with an expression of belief that I must be having a better time in Russia than in London.

By that same post came something which caused me the greatest gratification--three scribbled lines from the Chief, and initialled--lines of satisfaction at the work I was doing. At anyrate, I was not disappointing them at home, even though I had been thrown so suddenly upon my own resources without any old hand to guide me.

Yet, nevertheless, I was anxious to continue that inquiry in London, and to search out the truth regarding Daisy and the life she led. The man Drayton--the well-dressed idler who had stolen her heart--had aroused within me a perfect volcano of jealousy. I was anxious to follow him and to see with my own eyes the depth of his perfidy.

Ah! when I thought of my lost love I was beside myself. In all the faith my innocence could give me, and with all the duty of my soul, I had served her. And now in my bitterness it became impressed upon me that to doubt is safer than to be secure. Friendship is but a word after all; in this life of ours love is everything. Happy the man who is a stranger to love's enemy, jealousy. Yet fortune rules everything, and as far as my affection was concerned, she had jilted me. Was it not Massinger who wrote _Nil ultra_ to his proudest hopes?

There is no venom like that of the tongue, and it was certain that to advance his own interests Drayton had lied to her concerning me. What had he said? I knew that she suspected me to be implicated in the affair at Barnes, and yet was it not curious that she should also suspect Julian Little? Did it not appear as though some portion of what had been told her was the truth?

From St Petersburg I was sent to Berlin and thence to Hanover, hoping soon to be recalled to London. Unfortunately, however, a political crisis arose in Germany and I was compelled to return to the Kaiserhof Hotel in Berlin, and remain day after day reporting the progress of events, at that moment of great interest to England.

Just two months after leaving London I found myself in Paris, at the Grand Hotel. An automobile show was about to open, and I had been sent to do a special column of descriptive. I had dined, and upon the telephone I had just talked to Wakeley and extracted a promise that I should return to London as soon as the show in question had opened.

I was passing through the big winter garden, intending to go down to the Paris office of the _Herald_, where an old friend of mine named Dunn was in charge, when, amid the smart, chattering crowd sipping their coffee at the little tables, I caught sight of a familiar figure in a plain black evening dress, with a pretty hat of the latest mode, and a dark wrap about her shoulders.

She was leaning back in her chair, laughing merrily.

It was Daisy Marvin!

And the man with her--the good-looking idler in dinner jacket and black tie--was Francis Drayton!

I halted in amazement. Then, in fear lest they should detect my presence, I turned upon my heel and managed to conceal myself at a table behind one of the pillars, where I could watch unseen.

She was dressed with her characteristic neatness, except that her hat was of striking design and betrayed the hand of the Parisian _modiste_. That they were both on pleasure bent was apparent. They had evidently dined in the restaurant, and were now taking their coffee prior to going forth to some place of entertainment. The winter garden of the Grand is always crowded just after the dinner-hour, and is perhaps the most cosmopolitan spot in all Paris. The _monde_ and the _demi-monde_ rub shoulders, and the scene is usually full of gaiety and brilliance.

Daisy was chatting with her cavalier vivaciously, and appeared loth to go forth from the pleasant surroundings. Therefore I rose, and, slipping out to the hall, made some inquiries.

A Mlle. Marvin was certainly among the guests, but the name of Drayton did not appear on the list. He was not staying there.

So it seemed as though the fellow was a visitor. She had invited him to dine.

I wondered whether Daisy had an engagement at the Jardin de Paris, the Marigny, Olympian, the Folies Bergère, or one of the other variety theatres; but although I searched the lists I could not discover her name.

Returning to the table, where they were unable to see me, I took a newspaper and, pretending to read, still watched them. The expression in her eyes when they met his was sufficient to reveal to me how entirely and completely the fellow had fascinated her. He was "wanted" by the police, therefore I would, at the earliest moment, wire to Whitlock and tell him of the whereabouts of the man who was believed to have died in Peru.

That she was beneath his influence was undoubted. Her whole attitude was that of a woman devoted to her secret lover, hanging upon his every word; while he, blowing the cigarette-smoke from his lips, basked in her smiles.

And this was the woman in whom I had so foolishly believed, the woman whom I had known as so sweet, modest, and unassuming.

The steel of a poignant bitterness pierced my soul. I could have risen, gone over to them, and denounced the man before her. Sorely was I tempted to do that, yet after all, I reflected, it would be sheer folly to create a scene. The onlookers would only jeer at me as a jealous idiot.

No, I could only watch as I had watched before. That Drayton was possessed of a guilty knowledge regarding the mystery at Barnes I had all along been convinced. Was it possible that he--the man whose existence we had discovered by means of that anonymous Press message--was the actual assassin of poor Louise Lorimer?

For fully half an hour they remained there, still laughing and chatting. In those well-remembered eyes of hers was a love-look unmistakable. Her companion, with his airy graces, held her enthralled.

She was bending across to him, speaking very earnestly, laying her white-gloved fingers upon his arm in order to emphasise her words, but he on his part treated her with coolest unconcern. He merely smiled with veiled sarcasm and utterly disregarded what was, most evidently, an appeal.

What would I not have given at that moment to have overheard her words? Though she had forsaken me in favour of this man, whom Whitlock himself had denounced as a criminal, I, nevertheless, still regarded her as mine--mine by right of my intense and all-consuming love. I was still her champion, and he that harmed her would have to answer to me.

From my place of concealment I watched the superior airs the fellow had assumed towards the woman who had so unfortunately fallen beneath his influence, and surely if ever the thought of murder entered my heart it was at that moment. All the savage instincts of my wild ancestry were aroused within me, and I felt as though I could rise and strike him dead where he sat.

Yet I remained watchful, chuckling within myself at the thought of their utter ignorance of my presence, and determined to ascertain the reason of their meeting in Paris. She was staying alone in the hotel; therefore, if I wished, I might on the morrow meet her accidentally and demand of her the truth. Yet was such a course judicious? Would it not frighten Drayton into flight? I had no desire to do this until I knew what action Whitlock intended to take.

Indeed, it occurred to me that, as I had been on the telephone to Wakeley, I could speak to Scotland Yard and leave an urgent message for him, which he would receive in the morning.

At last Drayton drained his liqueur glass and put his cigarette-end in the ash-tray. By this I saw their intention to depart, therefore I rose and went out to the main entrance, where at a point where I should be unobserved, I awaited their exit.

In a few moments they came and, entering a motor-cab, drove away.

Inquiry of a porter, and a five-franc tip, elicited the fact that they had gone to Rue Pierre Charron, No. 105, in the Champs Elysées quarter.

I had believed, by their dress, that they were about to go to a variety theatre, for Daisy was ever anxious to witness the "turns" of other artistes, but it seemed that they had gone to a private house--to pay a call upon some mutual friend, no doubt.

My duty was to discover that friend's identity; therefore I took another motor-cab, and told the man to put me down at the corner of the rather aristocratic thoroughfare in question. No. 105 differed in no way from dozens of other high houses in the same wide thoroughfare, and a difficulty arose from the fact that the whole house was a series of flats, and that it was impossible to discover into which the pair had entered. The _concierge_, whom I found in his little den, was, after the application of a little palm oil, quite communicative. The English young lady and gentleman had ascended to the second floor--the right-hand door--the apartment of an eccentric Englishman who had only taken it furnished a week before, and who seemed a very eccentric person.

He was, according to the _concierge_, a certain "Meester Sme-eth."

Without a moment's hesitation I resolved to ascertain more of that interesting tenant, but such resolve was destined to cause me more adventures than I ever contemplated--adventures which were, to say the least, most exciting and extraordinary.