Chapter XXII: Alza Makes a Confession

Slowly refolding the paper, Dick Jervoise handed it back to the young Frenchwoman, who, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, asked: “What does that convey to you?”

“Everything,” he answered.

“Then you had better tell mademoiselle the truth.”

“The truth! Who can prove it?” he cried. “I have been suspected—nay, I am still suspected—of being the assassin of the man I hated.”

“And really not without good cause, Mr. Jervoise,” the old whaler remarked quietly. “Remember, it has been long ago proved that upon that afternoon you met my daughter in secret.”

“Proved by Peter Sundt—the man who is madly jealous of me!” declared Dick with sarcasm.

“But the fact remains, nevertheless,” remarked the captain slowly.

“There need be no further concealment of it,” Thyra interrupted in a low, pained voice. “It is quite true that, at Mr. Jervoise’s request, I met him in secret that afternoon. He met me for two reasons—in order to bid me adieu, and also to reveal to me something—something that both astounded and horrified me.”

“Horrified you? What was it?” gasped her father.

“Mr. Jervoise told me the truth about my husband’s treatment of the poor unfortunate cafe concert singer, Helene Marquet, who had committed suicide after he had deserted her,” she went on. “He showed me a cutting from the _Petit Nicois_ giving the facts of the tragedy. Ah! imagine my feelings when I knew that I, in my ignorance, had married such a man! He might soon treat me the same—desert me! For a long time we walked together—how long I have no idea. Mr. Jervoise told me the truth now, alas! that it was too late, that he had never had an opportunity of previously warning me against Paul Grinevitch. He told me the whole sad story of poor Helene Marquet. I became beside myself with indignation and fear. I saw how he hated Paul, and with a just hatred, too, for the man who was my husband had robbed him of the woman he loved. At last I asked him to leave me. He went, but as he did so he vowed a terrible vengeance upon the man who had caused the death of poor Helene. I did not heed his words, so entirely was I wrapped in my own thoughts. I wandered on and on until evening, when I returned to the hotel—to charge my husband with the terrible allegation. And when I entered the room,” she cried, “I—I saw that murder had been done. An unknown hand had meted out to him his just deserts!”

“And you naturally supposed, child, that the avenging hand was Mr. Jervoise’s?” remarked her father.

She nodded in the affirmative.

“Just as Peter Sundt has supposed,” added Dick bitterly. “I admit that the evidence against me was circumstantial and convincing. That’s the reason why your daughter and myself have preserved the secret of our meeting, for has not her own honour been at stake? What would the world have thought of a woman who, on the first day of her marriage, had made an assignation with another man?”

“Ah! yes,” cried the girl. “I saw, immediately after I had consented to meet you, that I was doing wrong, but my curiosity got the better of me, and you promised to reveal something to me concerning Paul.”

“Why did you not speak in Trondhjem—before the marriage?” inquired Alza.

“Had I done so, my words would only have been regarded as the outcome of jealousy, and, besides, I had another reason,” he replied. “I was therefore compelled to wait till after the marriage, when my denunciation and warning could be made without ulterior motive. Ah! I assure you that my position throughout has been a most difficult one, more especially because from the first my friend, Dr. Odd, suspected me, and when Peter Sundt approached him he expressed his views very strongly.”

“Then it is not true, Richard!” cried Thyra wildly; “not true that when you left me you went to the hotel—to——”

“I tell you it is not true; I am not guilty of your husband’s murder,” he replied in a firm, calm voice. “I admit that I had a motive in committing such a crime—the avenging of the death of poor Helene; but, thank God, I did not carry out my threat!”

“Then who did—_who did_?” demanded the pale-faced girl, looking wildly about her. “Cannot you see that, until we know the truth, suspicion must still rest upon you, Richard, notwithstanding your denials?”

“I know that full well,” was his answer. “Yet I can bear whatever allegation may be made against me. Paul Grinevitch sinned before God, and he received his punishment at the hand of man.”

“At the hand of a man unknown,” added Captain Berentsen.

“Pardon,” interrupted Nystrom; “unknown to you, but known to others.”

“Known!” cried Thyra, turning to him and speaking in Norwegian. “Who committed the crime? Tell me quickly. It was not Mr. Jervoise—speak!”

“No, Miss Thyra,” answered the stranger. “Your friend is innocent.”

“I would like to ask Captain Berentsen a question, M’sieur Dick,” Alza interrupted. Then, turning to the old whaling captain, she asked him if he had ever, many years ago, met a young Frenchwoman named Marguerite Meunier, at the same time exchanging a significant glance with Dick.

“Meunier!” repeated the old fellow. “The only lady named Meunier I remember was the wife of Peter Sundt.”

“She died fully twenty-five years ago, eh?”

“I believe so. She died somewhere in France.”

The Frenchwoman nodded, while her companion—the man wanted by the police—whispered something to her in an undertone.

“I don’t understand the reason of that question,” Thyra remarked.

“Perhaps not,” replied Alza. “But first let me make a confession, let me explain certain facts which are a mystery to you all, even to M’sieur Dick himself. You will recollect that it was proved that at the Hotel Victoria, in Christiania, a lady visited Paul Grinevitch shortly before his death? Well, I was that visitor.”

“You!” gasped Dick. “You never told me this!”

“Because I deemed it best to withhold the information until I obtained something tangible,” was her answer. “I did not come forward and make any statement, for a very obvious reason. It was, I saw, quite within the range of possibility that a woman of my character would at once be suspected of the crime. So I slipped away to Paris on that same night, as soon as I read of the startling discovery in the papers. Your telegram, a week later, found me there. You asked me to assist you, and I of course knew more concerning both the victim and the tragedy than you did. I recognised in what direction to work if I would discover the truth, and lost no time in instituting my secret inquiries, which, from that moment until the present, I have never relaxed.”

“Why did you call upon my husband during my absence?” inquired Thyra, surprised.

“I had business with him. Remember, he had been an associate of mine in several rather crooked affairs. He had telegraphed to me, asking me to come to Christiania to meet him, he having emerged from his hiding-place in the north. I stayed at the Grand Hotel, and actually passed M’sieur Dick in the entrance on that fatal day, though he did not recognise me.”

“But what was the nature of your business with Paul?” demanded his widow.

“Financial. He required funds for his immediate necessities and to take him to England, where he intended to settle down amid respectable surroundings, while at the same time preserving his connection with us—to be our agent in Russia, as a matter of fact. At first we had a few words regarding a little occurrence immediately prior to his escape to the north. Afterwards he expressed regret at the arrest of my lover, Victor Laurillard, and I told him at whose instigation the arrest had been made, and warned him against the informer Bourtzeff. Then, as agent of our principal, Herr Enderlein—who, by the way, is never known in connection with us, though it is his active brain which evolves our plans—I discussed ways and means with him. The amount he wanted was larger than I had with me, therefore I telephoned to the Norsk Credit Bank to ask how long it would take to obtain money by telegram from Frankfort. The answer was that it could not be paid for four days. What I had told him regarding Bourtzeff appeared to cause him considerable thought, and must, after I left have induced him to resolve to go to London and face the man who had turned informant. That’s the only reason I can see for the despatch of that telegram to Captain Berentsen.” Then she added: “Before I left he showed me your photograph, mademoiselle, and declared that he was deeply in love with you.”

“Love!” cried Thyra indignantly. “How grossly he deceived me!”

“Unfortunately he did,” sighed the dark-eyed Frenchwoman. “I expressed surprise that he should have married, but he merely replied that he had resolved upon that step as one towards respectability.”

“But the hotel people stated that when you came down in the lift you carried in your hand a letter.”

“Certainly. He wrote that in order to make my visit appear one of legitimate business, for we knew that the whole eyes of the hotel were upon us, and he indeed expressed regret that he had not appointed our meeting elsewhere.”

“But what happened afterwards?” asked Thyra frantically. “What occurred after your departure?”

“He sent a telegram to his father-in-law, giving his address in London; he burned a quantity of compromising papers he carried, including a quantity of spurious French bonds, and he booked passages for himself and his wife by the next Wilson steamer for Hull.”

“But those letters which he addressed to persons in Russia?” asked Dick. “They only contained blank sheets of paper.”

“They were blank to the eyes,” laughed Alza, “but not to us. They were messages announcing his impending arrival in St. Petersburg, written in invisible ink.”

“He wrote to me also,” added the stranger standing at Alza’s side, “but I did not receive his letter. I had already left.”

“What was that paper you showed Mr. Jervoise a few minutes ago?” inquired Thyra of the neat-waisted Frenchwoman.

Alza and Dick exchanged meaning glances, by which the others knew that some further secret existed between them, and they felt that in that secret was an amazing, yet unsuspected, truth.