Chapter THE TENTH: Monsieur Suzor Again (5)

From our windows looking across the Thames between the trees on the towing path we had a wide view of the river with the chimneys of the factories on the opposite bank. On the right was Putney, the starting place of the University Boat Race, and on the left the great reservoirs and the bend of the river behind which lay Mortlake, the finish of the boat-race course. Each morning, when I rose and dressed, I looked out upon the wide and somewhat uninteresting vista, racking my brains how to further proceed with my campaign against the great intriguer who could, by his immense wealth, juggle with dynasties.

With Mrs. Tennison I had become on very friendly terms. Fearing to reveal myself as having taken that bundle of Bank of England notes as a bribe, I held back from her what had actually happened to me on that fateful night. But I had become a frequent guest at Longridge Road, and often spent many delightful hours with Gabrielle, who at times seemed quite in her normal senses.

Yet, at others, she became vague and spoke in awed tones about what she had seen--"all red, green and gold." And often I sat at home smoking and wondering what she had seen that had so impressed her. Often, too, I discussed it with Mrs. Tennison and with Harry Hambledon, but neither of us could suggest any solution of the mystery.

Mrs. Tennison, on account of the slump in securities owing to the war, was, I knew, in rather straitened circumstances. When I again suggested a visit to the great specialist in Lyons she shook her head, and told me frankly that she could not afford it. De Gex had, it seemed, sought his victims among those who had been ruined by the war.

She had, however, told me that her brother, a shipping agent living in Liverpool, who was Gabrielle's godfather, was deeply interested in her.

I suggested that she should write to him and urge that, as a last resort, Gabrielle should consult Professor Gourbeil. The latter had been successful in restoring to their normal mental condition patients who had been infected with orosin, that most dangerous and puzzling of the discoveries of modern toxicologists.

Mrs. Tennison had acted upon my advice. Had I been in a financial position to pay Gabrielle's expenses to Lyons I would have done so most willingly. But my journey to Spain had depleted my resources, and though I had those Bank of England notes still reposing in a drawer at home, I dared not change one of them lest by such action I should have accepted and profited upon the bribe which De Gex had so cleverly pressed upon me.

In the first week of July Mrs. Tennison wrote to me, and that evening I went over to see her after leaving the office in Westminster.

It was a hot dry night when London lay beneath its haze of sun-reddened dust after a heat spell, parched and choked.

Gabrielle was out at the house of one of her school friends, hence, we sat alone together in the cool drawing-room--a room which was essentially that of a woman of taste and refinement.

A few seconds after I had entered, a tall, grey-haired man came in, whereupon Mrs. Tennison introduced him as her brother Charles from Liverpool.

The man glanced at me sharply, and then, smiling pleasantly, took my hand.

"I have come up to see my sister regarding poor Gabrielle," he said, when we were seated. "I understand that you have experienced similar symptoms to hers, and have recovered."

"I have not completely recovered," I replied. "Often I have little recurrences of lapse of memory for periods from a few moments to a quarter of an hour."

"My sister has told me that you believe that poor Gabrielle and yourself are fellow-victims of some plot."

"I am certain of it, Mr. Maxwell," I replied. "And I have already devoted considerable time and more money than I could really afford in an attempt to solve the mystery of it all."

"Can you explain the whole circumstances?" he asked. "I am deeply interested in my unfortunate niece."

"I can relate to you a few of the facts if you wish to hear them," was my reply. I certainly had no intention of telling him all that I knew, or of the death and cremation of the mysterious Gabrielle Engledue--whoever she might have been.

So I explained practically what I had told his sister. I also described how Professor Vega at Madrid had told me of the two cures effected by Professor Gourbeil, of Lyons.

"My sister tells me that you suggest Gabrielle should consult him," Mr. Maxwell said. "But she has consulted so many specialists. Doctor Moroni has been most kind to her. He took her to doctors in Paris and in Italy, but they could do nothing."

"Well, I think that as Professor Gourbeil has cured two persons of the deadly effects of the drug Miss Tennison should see him," I remarked.

"I quite agree. It is for that reason I have come to London," he said. "I understand that you, Mr. Garfield, take a personal interest in my niece, therefore I want to ask you a favour--namely, that if I pay the expenses would you accompany my sister and her daughter to Lyons?"

"Willingly. But I will pay my own expenses, please," was my prompt reply.

At first he would not hear of it, until I declined to go unless I went independently, and then we arranged for our departure.

Four days later we descended at the big busy Perrache station at Lyons from the lumbering _rapide_ which had brought us from Paris, and entered the Terminus Hôtel which adjoins the platform. Later, from the concierge, we found that Professor Gourbeil of the Facultés des Sciences et de Médecine, lived in the Avenue Felix Faure, and I succeeded over the telephone in making an appointment with him for the following day at noon.

This I kept, going to him alone in order to explain matters.

I found him to be a short, florid-faced man with a shock of white hair and a short white beard. His house was a rather large one standing back in a well-kept garden full of flowers, and the room in which he received me was shaded and cool.

I told him of Professor Vega's recommendation, whereupon he exclaimed in French:

"Ah! I know Professor Vega. We met last year at our conference in Paris--a very brilliant man!"

Then, as briefly as I could, I explained how the deadly drug orosin had been surreptitiously administered to Gabrielle and myself, and its effects upon us both.

"Orosin!" exclaimed the old savant, raising his thin hands. "Ah! There is not much hope of the lady's recovery. I have known of only two cases within my experience. The effect of orosin upon the human brain is mysterious and lasting. It produces a state of the brain-cells with which we cannot cope. A larger dose produces strong homicidal tendencies and inevitable death, and a still larger dose almost instantaneous death."

I told him how we both had lost all sense of our surroundings for weeks, and how we were both found at the roadside, she in Hampshire and I in France.

"You were both victims of some plot; that is evident. Of course you have invoked the aid of the police?"

I did not reply. I certainly feared to seek the assistance of Scotland Yard.

He explained to me practically what Professor Vega had done regarding orosin and its terrible effect.

"There have been other cases of its administration," said the great alienist. "Somebody must be preparing the drug and selling it for sinister purposes. Though it is so little known as yet that its manufacturer must be an expert toxicologist with special knowledge."

"Have you seen many cases of its administration?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes. Quite a number," was the old Professor's reply. "I am in communication with Doctor Duroc, of the Salpêtrière in Paris, and together we are keeping a record of the cases where orosin is administered by some mysterious hand. Whose, we have no idea. We leave that to the Sûreté. But you say that your adventure and that of mademoiselle occurred in London?"

I repeated my story. Then I ventured to ask:

"Do you, Professor, know anything of a Doctor Moroni, of Florence?"

The white-bearded, shock-haired man reflected for a moment, and then moving in his chair, replied:

"I fancy I have heard his name. Moroni--Moroni? Yes, I am sure someone has mentioned him."

"As a toxicologist?"

"Probably. I do not really remember. I believe I met him at one of the conferences in Paris or Geneva. He was with one of your English professors--one of your medico-legists whose name at the moment escapes my memory. He gave evidence in that curious case of alleged poison at the Old Bailey, in London, a year ago."

"But is Doctor Moroni known as an expert in poison?"

"Not to my personal knowledge. Possibly he is, and I have heard his name in that connexion. Why do you ask?"

"Because he has had my friend Miss Tennison under his care. He has taken her to see several specialists in Italy." Then in a sudden burst of confidence I told him of my great love for the girl who, like myself, had been attacked in secret. Further, I told him that the reason of my steady inquiry was in her interests, as well as in my own.

"My dear Monsieur Garfield, now that you are so frank with me I will do my utmost in the interests of both of you," declared the dear old Professor, as he rose and crossed to the window. "What you have told me interests me intensely. I see by your travels to Spain and the South that you are leaving no stone unturned to arrive at a true solution of the problem--and I will help you. Orosin is the least known and most dangerous drug that has ever been discovered in our modern civilization. Used with evil intent it is unsuspected and wellnigh undiscoverable, for the symptoms often resemble those of certain diseases of the brain. The person to whom the drug is administered either exhibits an exhilaration akin to undue excess of alcohol, or else the functions of the brain are entirely distorted, with a complete loss of memory or a chronic aberration of the brain."

"That is the case of my friend Miss Tennison," I said.

"Very well. I will see her and endeavour to do what I can to restore her," said the elegant old French savant. "But, remember, I hold out no hope. In all cases orosin destroys the brain. It seems to create a slow degeneracy of the cells which nobody yet can understand. We know the effect, but we cannot, up to the present, combat it. There are yet many things in human life of which the medical men are in as complete ignorance as those who study electricity and radio-frequencies. We try to do our best to the extent of our knowledge, my dear monsieur. And if you will bring Mademoiselle to me to-morrow at three o'clock I will try to make my diagnosis."

I thanked him for his perfectly open declaration, and then I left. That he was the greatest living authority on the symptoms and effect of the mysterious drug orosin I felt confident. I only longed that he would take Gabrielle beneath his charge and endeavour to restore her brain to its normal function.

Punctually at three o'clock next day I called with my beloved and her mother at the house embowered in roses and geraniums up on the hill above the broad Rhône river.

We were ushered in by an old man-servant, silent and stately.

The Professor quickly appeared, his sharp eyes upon the patient.

"I wonder if you will allow me, Madame, to take your daughter into my consulting-room alone?" he asked in good English. "It will be best for me to question her without any other person being present."

"Most certainly," Mrs. Tennison replied. Then, turning to Gabrielle, she said: "The Professor wants to put a few questions to you, dear. Will you go with him into the next room?"

Gabrielle, pale-faced and tragic, looked at me strangely, and then meekly followed the old Professor into his consulting-room.

The door was closed, and Mrs. Tennison waited with me in silence. The window of the room was open and through it came the sweet scent of the roses and climbing jasmine, with the buzz of the summer insects and the chatter of the birds, for the house was high up on that hill above the great silk-weaving capital of the Rhône.

I rose and looked out upon the garden, so well ordered, for the Professor was, it seemed, a lover of roses, the blossoms running riot everywhere.

Suddenly, as we remained in silence, we heard Gabrielle's voice raised until she shouted fierce defiant words in English:

"No!" she shrieked. "It was not that--not that! You try and fix upon me a deed that I did not do! Why should you do this--why should you do this!"

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," we heard the Professor say in a quiet, calm tone. "Pardon. Please! I do not allege it. I have only asked a simple question."

"Your question is insulting, doctor!" declared my beloved loudly. "Why should you insinuate such a thing?"

"Mademoiselle, I insinuate nothing," replied the Professor. "I am endeavouring to ascertain the exact state of your mental balance. Your anger is, in itself, a most gratifying feature. A thousand pardons if you feel that I have insulted you," he added with the extreme politeness of his race.

Then, through the folding doors which divided the apartments, we heard him say:

"Will you please give me both your hands, and look directly into my eyes?"

There was a silence.

We could hear the Professor sigh, but he made no comment.

His examination occupied nearly an hour. He put to her many searching questions in an endeavour to restore her memory as to what happened, but without avail. Those questions seemed to perturb her, for of a sudden she cried loudly, indeed she almost shrieked in terror:

"Ah! no! no! Save me!" she implored. "I--I can't stand it! I can't--I really can't! See! Look! Look! There it is again--all red, green and gold!--all red, green and gold!"

And we could hear her expressions of fear as she gazed upon some imaginary object which held her terrified.

We heard the kindly old Professor putting many questions to her in an endeavour to discover what gave rise to that nameless horror which she so often experienced, but her replies were most vague. She seemed unable to describe the chimera of her imagination. Yet it was only too plain that on that fatal night she had seen something bearing those colours which had so impressed itself upon her mind as distinctly horrible that it constantly recurred to her.

Yet she was unable to describe it, owing to her mental aberration.

Time after time, she implored the Professor's protection from some imaginary peril, and time after time, after she had begged him to remain near her, she repeated those mysterious and meaningless words:

"Red, green and gold!--red, green and gold!"

In breathless anxiety we listened, but all we could hear were the Professor's sighs of despair, which meant far more to Mrs. Tennison and myself than any of his words could convey.

We knew that upon poor Gabrielle, the girl I loved with all my heart and soul, the deadly drug had done its work--and that she was, alas! incurable!

Her case was hopeless, even in the hands of the one man in all Europe who knew the effects of orosin and had only in two cases effected cures.

I looked at her mother in silence. She knew my thoughts, for tears were now coursing down her pale cheeks.

Both of us knew the worst. Our journey had been in vain.

That thought caused me to grit my teeth against De Gex and his unholy hirelings. I would follow and unmask them. I would avenge the innocent girl whom I loved so dearly, even though it should cost me my life!

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

YET ANOTHER MYSTERY

The first week in August was unusually hot and dry in London.

Gabrielle and Mrs. Tennison had remained in Lyons, for Professor Gourbeil had suggested that his patient should, as a desperate resource, remain under his treatment for a few weeks. He gave practically no hope of her recovery. The dose of orosin that had been administered was, he declared, a larger one than that which De Gex had introduced into my drink on that night of horrors.

The effect upon me had been to muddle my brain so that I had accepted those Bank of England notes as bribe to assist the mystery-man of Europe in his foul and mysterious plot.

My companion Harry Hambledon was still earning his guineas at Hammersmith Police Court, gradually establishing a reputation. He had bought a small two-seater car, and each Sunday he took Norah out for runs to the Hut at Wisley, to the Burford Bridge Hotel, where the genial Mr. Hunt--one of the last remaining Bohemians of the days of the Junior Garrick Club--welcomed them; to the Wooton Hatch, or up to those more pretentious and less comfortable hostelries on Hindhead.

Motoring had roused a new interest in my friend. I loved the open road, but with the heavy expenses I had recently sustained I could not afford it. Besides, my firm had just secured a big electric lighting contract with the corporation of Chichester, and I was constantly travelling between that city and London, sometimes by rail and sometimes in Mr. Francis's car.

I suppose I must have carried on my work satisfactorily after the generous leave the firm--one of those stately old-fashioned ones which have still survived the war--had accorded me. But my thoughts were ever of my beloved Gabrielle, the beautiful girl whom, though her mind was so strongly unbalanced, I yet loved with all the strength of my being.

Every few days we exchanged letters. Sometimes Mrs. Tennison wrote to me from the quiet little pension in the Rue Paul Bert, in Lyons, but her letters were always despairing. Poor Gabrielle was just the same. She still had no other vista in life than her immediate one, and she still in her reflective moments gave vent to that strange ejaculation of those mysterious words: "Red, green and gold! Red, green and gold!"

I confess that I went about my business in a low-spirited, despairing mood. More than once I passed by that dark forbidding house in Stretton Street, the blinds of which were drawn, for ever since the winter it had been closed with the caretaker in charge. Pass along Park Lane and the Mayfair neighbourhood in August and you will see the Holland blinds drawn everywhere. The window-boxes filled with geraniums and marguerites are drooping, for they have served their turn and "the families" are out of town, enjoying themselves in Scotland, in Norway, or at the French Spas. Honest Londoners may sweat and toil with their begrudged fourteen days at the sea or in the country, but Society, caring nothing for unhealthy trades or ill-paid labour, unless a strike perchance affects their pockets or their comforts, drifts to where it can flirt, dance or gamble amid gay surroundings denied in London by our sanctimonious kill-joys.

Whenever I passed along Stretton Street there spread over my mind the strange and inexplicable events of that night when De Gex's man-servant Horton had dashed out after me, and suddenly implored me to see his master. Ah! I saw the amazing cleverness of the whole plot--a plot such as could only be conceived by a master brain.

De Gex's dark, sinister, half-Oriental countenance haunted me in my dreams. True, he was a man who swayed the finances of Europe, suave, smiling, and with an extremely polished and refined exterior. But why Suzor had purposely become acquainted with me, and why I had afterwards been enticed into that house of tragedy were, in themselves, two points, the motive of which I failed to grasp.

Late one evening I passed the house, going out of my way purposely to do so, when, to my amazement, I saw standing upon the doorstep, and about to enter his car, no other person than Oswald De Gex himself. Behind him stood a strange man-servant, who at the moment seemed to be taking some instructions.

In the darkness De Gex could not distinguish me. Therefore I drew back and watched the world-famous financier enter the car and drive away.

So Oswald De Gex was back in London--and in August! I had passed the house on the previous afternoon and seen that as usual the faded Holland blinds were drawn, just as they had been for months, an indication to callers that the owner was away. I looked again. The blinds were still down!

Next day being Sunday I watched, and though at four o'clock in the afternoon De Gex came forth and strolled round to his club in St. James's Street, the blinds were still drawn, it being evident that the unscrupulous man who juggled with European dynasties was living there in obscurity--and in pretence of absence.

Why?

My watchfulness was increased; my thoughts being ever upon the avenging of the injury done to the sweet girl I so dearly loved--that poor unfortunate creature whose brain had been destroyed by the dastardly administration of that poison only known to students of toxicology. In my waking hours I conjured up scenes of how mother and daughter, living in that obscure pension in busy Lyons, went each day to the Professor's house, and how the kindly old savant did his best to restore her brain to its normal activity.

One hot day I had been to Reading on business for the firm, and on arrival at Paddington I bought an evening paper and took it home to Rivermead Mansions. As usual Harry and I had dinner together, and after he had gone out to Richmond, I sat by the open window which looked upon the towing-path beside the Thames, and with my pipe in my mouth, scanned the day's news.

Of a sudden I came across a heading which attracted me, and read as follows:

"The sudden death is announced, at his house outside
Amsterdam, of Baron Harte van Veltrup, the well-known Dutch
financier, who for some years was in active association with
the Spanish banker, the late Count de Chamartin. The Count
died recently in San Sebastian just after he, with van
Veltrup, had promoted a great railway scheme in Central
Spain. The circumstances of the Baron's death appear to be
somewhat mysterious, says our Amsterdam correspondent. Three
days ago the banker, who is a widower, went to The Hague,
where in a private room in an obscure hotel, he met a man on
business. The meeting was apparently in secret, for he told
his valet that he did not wish anyone to know of the
mysterious visitor for a certain financial reason. The man
remained with the Baron for nearly an hour, after which the
financier went home in his car to Amsterdam, his valet
driving. On the way the servant noticed that his master
seemed very perturbed, once or twice muttering threats
beneath his breath.

"On arrival at his house facing Vondel Park, he dressed, ate
his dinner alone, and was about to re-enter his car to drive
to the Park Schouwburg, where opera was being given that
night, when he staggered and fell just outside the gate, and
expired in a few moments.

"Though a medical examination proved that death was due to
heart failure, some comment has been caused by the valet's
story of his master's mysterious visitor at The Hague. The
latter he describes as middle-aged, with a small dark
moustache, a ruddy complexion, wearing round horn-rimmed
spectacles. He thinks the latter were worn for purposes of
disguise.

"Three doctors have, however, declared that death ensued
from natural causes, hence the police discredit the valet's
story. Baron van Veltrup, who was well known in
international finance, was a frequent visitor to London,
where he had permanent chambers in Jermyn Street. He was in
the habit of receiving strange callers--persons who probably
gave him secret information regarding Government concessions
and other such matters. Therefore it is not believed that
the man whom he met in secret has any connexion with his
sudden and lamented death. The Baron contributed most
generously to Dutch charities, especially to the Blinden
Institution, of which he was one of the governors.

"Some of his financial deals were of outstanding magnitude.
The last loan to Peru was made through his house, in
combination with that of Chamartin, in Madrid, while he
negotiated a big loan to Serbia immediately before the war,
as well as obtaining the concessions for two new railways in
Northern Italy and in Portugal. The reputation of the house
of Veltrup was one of the highest standing, and the Baron's
untimely death has cast a gloom over financial circles in
all the European capitals."

I raised my eyes from the paper and gazed across the Thames now growing grey in the evening light. Outside, the soft wind whispered in the trees and across the long suspension bridge ran an endless stream of motor traffic into and out of London.

The affair in Amsterdam was certainly curious, but what attracted me most was the fact that the dead Baron had been a partner with the late Count Chamartin, whose widow I knew by sight. The Count had also died very suddenly. So within a short time of each other two men whose names were ones to conjure with in international finance had both died!

The valet's story I did not doubt. I knew that such men as the late Baron were often compelled, in their own interests, to receive visits from mysterious and often undesirable persons, most of whom were paid for their information. Every giant of finance employs his secret agents, whose duty it is to keep his principal informed of the various political and other secrets in Europe. Indeed, the great financiers know more of the underground currents of foreign politics than they do at any Embassy or Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It is their duty to know the secrets of nations--and they profit upon their knowledge.

I sat ruminating. The sudden deaths of the two pillars of finance was, to say the least, a curious coincidence. I recollected that Chamartin had been associated with De Gex, and the object of the latter's journey to Madrid had apparently been to interview his dead friend's widow. I also remembered Professor Vega's description of the deadly effect of that secret poison orosin--that it might cause almost instant death, and that all doctors would attribute the cause to heart failure.

This caused me to ponder for a long time. I read and re-read the report of the Baron's death, and when I retired to bed--Harry not having yet returned--I could not sleep, so haunted was I by vague suspicions.

Next day I found that I could not apply myself to work at the office, so gave it up and once more wandered towards Hyde Park Corner and up Park Lane where again I passed through Stretton Street. The blinds of the big dark mansion were all lowered, indicating that its owner was still out of town. Yet I knew that he was living in the half darkness of that closed house.

Why?

Several days passed when, unable to rest, I at last asked leave of absence from old Mr. Francis, and crossed by the night-boat from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. On the following day I found myself in quaint old Amsterdam, that city built upon the sand in defiance of a certain text in St. Matthew, the city with its great network of canals, and its many gaudily-painted barges. As I left my hotel and walked to the Dam, the central square of the city, my nostrils were saluted upon one side by the perfume of the flowers adorning the windows and the odour of cook-shops, while on the other was the smell of tar and the fumes of the humble kitchens of sailing vessels.

I happened to know an Englishman employed as clerk to a firm of Dutch forwarding agents whose offices were in the Dam, and this man, whose name was Graham, I at once sought.

We went out to a café together, and I explained the object of my visit, namely, the investigation of the death of Baron van Veltrup. Graham at once regarded me with considerable astonishment, for very naturally he could not make out why I should take such a keen interest in the death of one of the richest men in Holland.

"The Baron died of heart failure," my friend said. "The doctors are agreed upon that. His valet told some extraordinary story, but no credence has been placed in it. There has been a good deal in the papers concerning the unfortunate affair, but the excitement has now all died down. The Baron was, I believe, buried yesterday."

"I know that there is no suspicion that death was due to foul play, Graham," I said. "But I confess that in face of certain knowledge I possess I am not altogether satisfied with the doctor's conclusion."

My friend smiled incredulously.

"At first, the police were, I heard, inclined to suspect foul play. But after full investigation they are now quite satisfied as to the cause of death."

"Be that as it may, I intend to make a few discreet inquiries," I replied resolutely. "I want you, if you will, to assist me."

He smiled again in undisguised disbelief.

"Of course you are at liberty to express your own opinion," he said with some reluctance. "And if you wish, I will assist you. But I really think, Garfield, that you will be only wasting your time--and mine."

"I hope not," I assured him. "Were I not in possession of certain exclusive information I should not venture to come here from London and trouble you, as I am doing."

Graham, whom I had known for a number of years, looked very straight at me.

"What is the nature of this exclusive information?" he inquired. "You are concealing something, Hugh."

"Yes. I know I am," was my reply as I smiled at him. "I am here to discover the truth regarding the death of Baron van Veltrup."

"Then you suspect foul play--eh?" asked my friend.

"Yes, I do," I replied in a low voice, "and I want you, Graham, to put me in touch with the Baron's valet."

"He is a man named Folcker, a Swede, according to the newspapers. I dare say I could find him."

"If you can, you will assist me very much. I must have a chat with him," I said. "I feel somehow that in face of the strange facts within my knowledge that he can give me the clue to the cause of his master's death."

Graham smiled. He seemed to regard me as a person whose mind was not quite sound. But I will give him his due. He propitiated me, and promised to get into touch with Oscar Folcker. By virtue of the wide ramifications of the firm by which Graham was employed, I knew that it would be an easy matter, hence I was not surprised when next day he rang me up on the telephone to my hotel and told me that he had been able to find the valet Folcker who would call upon me at six o'clock that evening.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH

WHAT THE VALET KNEW

At the time appointed, as I stood in the hall, a tall, clean-shaven, rather spruce young man entered and spoke to the concierge, who at once brought him over to me.

I took him into a corner of the lounge, and when we were seated I told him of my suspicions and my quest.

Like many Swedes he spoke English, and in reply said:

"Well, sir, I was in the Baron's service for five years, and I knew his habits very well. He was an excellent master--most kind and generous, and with him I have travelled Europe up and down. We were very often in London, where the Baron had bachelor chambers in Jermyn Street."

"I know that," I said. "But tell me what you know, and what you suspect concerning his untimely end."

"There was foul play, sir!" he said unhesitatingly. "The Baron was a strong healthy man who lived frugally, and though he dealt in millions of francs, yet he was most quiet in his habits, and his boast was that he was never out of bed after half-past ten. Though very rich he devoted nearly half his income yearly to charitable institutions. I know the extent of his contributions to the needy, for I have often seen him draw the cheques."

"Well--tell me exactly what happened," I asked.

"The affair presents some very puzzling features, sir," he replied. "One morning, while dressing, my master told me that he had to motor to The Hague as he wished to meet in strict secrecy a man who would call to see him at a little hotel called the Rhijn, in the Oranje Straat. He asked me to drive him there so that Mullard, the chauffeur, should have no knowledge of the visit. This I promised to do, for I can drive a car. We arrived early in the afternoon, and the Baron, who was unknown at the obscure little place, ordered lunch for us both. He ate his in the private room he had engaged, and at about three o'clock the visitor arrived. He inquired of the proprietor and was shown into the Baron's private room. I judged him to be about forty, of middle height, well-dressed, and wearing big round tortoiseshell glasses, like those Americans so often wear. He was red-faced and walked with a slight limp."

"And what happened while your master was with the stranger?"

"The Baron came out and told me to go to the garage with the car, and I was telephoned for an hour later. When I met him again he seemed to be in an ill and petulant mood, for he told me to drive back to Amsterdam with all speed. He also again made me promise to tell nobody of the secret meeting."

"And then?" I asked anxiously.

"On arrival home he washed, dressed, and dined alone. Afterwards he put on his gloves, grey suède ones, ready to go, but exchanged them for a pair of white ones, as he recollected that he was going to the opera. Then he walked out to the car, but suddenly cried, 'Oh! My head! My head!' and fell on to the pavement. I was just behind him when he did so, and hurried to get him up. But he was already unconscious, and scarcely before we could get him into the house he expired."

"And why do you suspect foul play?" I asked.

"I feel certain that my master did not die from natural causes," declared the thin-faced man-servant.

"You suspect that the individual in round spectacles had a hand in it--eh?"

"I do. But how, I have no idea. The police pooh-pooh my suspicions. But if my suspicions are unfounded, why has not the stranger come forward? There has been a lot about the affair in the papers."

"Yes," I said. "It certainly appears strange, for there can be no cause for secrecy now that the Baron is dead, even if some great financial transaction had been involved."

"My master often received very queer visitors," said Folcker. "Once he entertained two very strange-looking shabby individuals when he was at Aix-les-Bains with Mr. De Gex."

"With Mr. De Gex!" I echoed. "Was the Baron a friend of his?"

"Yes, an intimate friend. They often had big deals together in which Count Chamartin, who lived in Madrid, participated."

"Ah! That is distinctly interesting," I said. "Did the Baron, when in London, visit Mr. De Gex at Stretton Street?"

"Frequently. They were mutually interested in the great Netherlands Shipping Combine about a year ago," replied the valet.

"And you usually travelled with your master, I suppose?"

"Nearly always. We were frequently in Paris, Berlin, Rome, or Madrid, and naturally I learnt a good deal about his business. His most intimate friend was Mr. De Gex. Do you happen to know him?"

I gritted my teeth, and replied in the affirmative.

"A very charming man," the valet declared. "He was always very good to the servants. I used to look after him when he visited us here in Amsterdam."

"Did you ever meet a friend of his--a Frenchman named Suzor?" I asked.

"Yes, once. When we stayed with Mr. De Gex at Florence. He was a fellow guest with my master."

"And an Italian doctor named Moroni?"

Folcker shook his head, as he replied:

"I have no recollection of an Italian doctor. We were in Florence only two weeks."

"Of course you know Mr. De Gex's butler, a man named Horton?" I asked.

"No, the man I know is named Farmer. I haven't been to Stretton Street for over a year."

It would therefore appear that Horton was a new servant.

"But have you any idea how your master died?" was my next query.

"None--only something tells me that he fell victim to a plot for his assassination."

"Why?"

"Because he more than once told me that if he died certain persons would derive great benefits."

"Who? His friends?"

"I suppose so."

"Including De Gex?"

The thin-faced man shook his head, saying:

"Ah! That I cannot tell, sir. But I know that Mr. De Gex owed the Baron a very considerable sum over a financial deal regarding some oil wells in Roumania. Only a few months ago he mentioned to Mr. Grant, one of his friends, in my presence, that he hoped De Gex would very soon settle with him. In fact he seemed annoyed at the delay in the payment."

This statement caused me to reflect deeply.

Was it really possible that the Dutch Baron's death had been due to the machinations of this mystery-man of Europe? The fact that he owed the dead man money would serve as sufficient motive! I did not overlook the deeply-laid plot against myself, one that must have sent me swiftly into my grave had it not been for my providential escape.

The whole amazing facts, my meeting with Suzor in the express between York and King's Cross, the trap set for me at Stretton Street, and my astounding adventures afterwards, all flashed through my mind. Oswald De Gex was a most unscrupulous person who had climbed to fame and fortune over the ruined homes and bodies of his victims. I was now out to obtain direct and undeniable evidence of his crimes.

Yet up to the present I could not go much further than mere surmise. Two of his business friends, Count Chamartin and Baron van Veltrup, had died quite suddenly. In the case of the latter, the valet expressed a positive belief that his master had not died of natural causes. This was supported by the fact that the Baron received a mysterious visitor at an obscure hotel at The Hague, a man who was apparently disguised by big horn spectacles, and was certainly not a Dutchman.

And above all that, I held most conclusive evidence that both De Gex himself and the dead bandit, Despujol, had used that deadly drug orosin to secure their nefarious ends.

But the most irritating feature of the affair was that I was as far off as ever from solving the mystery of what happened on that memorable night in Stretton Street, or with what motive I had been induced to give a death certificate that had enabled the body of an unknown girl to be cremated.

I questioned the valet, Folcker, still further, telling him that I had come especially from London to endeavour to elucidate the truth concerning his master's death. He was devoted to the Baron, and was highly incensed at the attitude taken by the Dutch police.

"I will give you every assistance, sir," he replied.

"Excellent," I said. "I would very much like to go to the Baron's house. Could you take me there?"

"Most certainly, sir," was his response, and with willingness he accompanied me in a horse cab up the cobbled Leidwche Straat with its many canals to the pleasant Vondel Park, just outside the city. We stopped before a great white house, square and rather inartistic, standing back behind very high iron railings, to which we were admitted by an elderly man-servant who was in charge of the place now that its owner was dead.

Folcker showed me his master's handsome dressing-room which had been left practically as it was on the night of his tragic end. He showed me how the Baron had put on his evening clothes and descended to dine.

He took me into the fine, handsomely-furnished dining-room, with big long carved table in the centre, and showed me the small round table set in the big bow window looking out upon the garden, at which the Baron always ate his meals when alone.

"After finishing his dinner the Baron smoked one of his Petroff cigarettes which were especially made for him in Odessa, and then calling me, he asked for his coat and told me to ring up for the car," Folcker said. "He finished his cigarette and a glass of kümmel, at the same time scanning the evening newspaper. All the time he had been eating, however, he seemed in a very angry mood. The interview with the stranger at The Hague had somehow upset him, for once or twice he muttered angrily to himself."

"Now tell me, Folcker," I asked seriously, "when he entered that little hotel at The Hague he waited for his mysterious visitor--did he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"The visitor arrived and you saw him. I understand that your master came out and saw you during the interview?"

"Yes. About ten minutes after the stranger's arrival the Baron came into the little hall of the hotel and told me that he would not require me for an hour, or perhaps more. Apparently he did not wish the car to stand outside the place for so long, lest it should be recognized. So he sent me to a garage."

I hesitated.

"Then the stranger was left inside the hotel alone?"

"Yes, sir, for two or three minutes. Why?"

We were standing out in the well-furnished hall and I glanced around.

"Your master was in quite good health as he ate his dinner and smoked his cigarette?" I remarked.

"Quite. He came out of the room and standing here I gave him his hat, coat, gloves and stick. After he had put on his coat he drew on his left-hand glove. Suddenly he tore it off again, and rubbing his fingers together impatiently, said: 'I forgot, Folcker! I'm going to the opera, give me some white gloves.' They were in the drawer yonder," the valet said, pointing to a great old carved Flemish cupboard. "So I got them out and handed them to him. He drew one of them on and walked down to the gate to enter the car, when he suddenly fell upon the pavement outside. You see, just yonder," and he pointed through the open door.

"Why did he rub his fingers together, I wonder?" I remarked. "Was it a habit of his?"

"Not at all, sir. He seemed to have a sudden pain in his fingers."

"A pain. Why?"

"I don't know, sir. It has only this moment occurred to me. He flung off the glove and tossed it upon the table. It's still there--as you see. Then he put on the white gloves and went down the steps and collapsed."

"His head was affected?"

"Yes, he cried out twice that his head hurt him. The doctors attribute his death to heart failure. But, personally, I doubt it, sir! I'm certain that there was foul play somewhere."

I crossed to the great carved table which stood on the opposite side of the wide hall, tiled as it was with ancient blue and white Dutch tiles, and from the table took up a pair of well-worn grey suède gloves. They interested me, because after putting one on the Baron had torn it off and rubbed his fingers.

"Is this the glove your master wore when he went to The Hague?" I asked, selecting the left-hand one.

"Yes, sir."

I examined it closely and very gingerly. The exterior presented nothing out of the ordinary, but on turning it inside out, I found in the index finger a tiny piece of steel which tumbled out upon the table.

It was apparently a piece clipped from the blade of a safety razor, and keenly sharp. Anyone inserting a finger into the glove would certainly be cut by the razor edge of that sharp scrap of steel. As it lay upon the polished oak I bent to look at it, the valet also standing near and bending down in curiosity.

Upon it something had apparently been smeared--some colourless jelly, it seemed.

Had Baron van Veltrup fallen victim to orosin, wilfully administered?

That was my instant suspicion, one that was afterwards verified by the great Dutch pathologist Doctor Obelt, who lived in the Amstel Straat, and to whom I carried the mysterious but incriminating scrap of steel.

"Without a doubt this piece of razor-blade has been impregnated with a new and most deadly poison, orosin," he declared to me on the following evening as I sat in his consulting room. "The police have seen no mysterious circumstances in the unfortunate death of the Baron, who, by the way, was a very dear friend of mine. But now you have brought me this piece of steel which you took from his glove, and which no doubt must have caused a slight cut to his finger and, in consequence, almost instant death, I feel it my duty to take up the matter with the authorities."

"I shall be much gratified, doctor, if you will," I urged, speaking in French. "The valet's suspicions of foul play are entirely proved."

"Yes, foul play, committed by somebody who possesses expert toxicological knowledge. I confess that this is the first time I have discovered orosin. The hint you gave me caused me to search for it, and that I have found it is undoubted."

Later that day I accompanied the doctor to the Bureau of Police, where we were met by a very stolid official who smoked a long thin cigar all the time he talked to us.

At first he treated the affair as of no importance. The medical evidence had pronounced the Baron's death as having been due to natural causes. The police could not interfere further, he declared.

"Ah! but thanks to the Baron's valet we now have evidence of a most subtle and deadly poison," declared the Dutch pathologist. "I certify that I have found upon a small piece of sharp steel, which has been discovered in the dead man's glove, traces of orosin, one of the least known but most dangerous poisons."

The heavy-jowled Dutch police official straightened himself in his chair.

"Is that really so, doctor?" he asked in surprise, holding his cigar between his fingers.

"Yes, it is," Doctor Obelt replied. "The body must be exhumed, and an examination made to ascertain if there is a small cut in the first finger of the left hand. If there is--then the Baron has been secretly murdered!"

"The valet has alleged this all along, but there being no evidence we disbelieved him," said the official at once.

"There is now evidence--direct evidence," said the Dutch doctor. "This Englishman here is interested in some way in the Baron's death, and after discovering the scrap of razor-blade he brought it to me."

The Dutch police official knit his brows, and turning to me, asked:

"Did you yourself discover this piece of steel?"

"I did. From certain facts within my knowledge I suspected that the Baron had been deliberately killed. The allegations of the valet, Folcker, strengthened my suspicions, hence I travelled from London and pursued my own independent inquiries, which have resulted in the discovery of the little piece of blade inside the glove which the Baron wore when he went to interview his mysterious visitor at The Hague."

"But what evidence have we that the mysterious visitor--the individual who has been referred to in the report as the man with the round horn glasses--had anything to do with the affair?"

"According to the Baron's servant the visitor was left alone for a few moments in the room where van Veltrup had put down his gloves in order to go out and speak to his valet, who on that day was acting as his chauffeur. It was in those moments of his absence that the unknown visitor put the infected scrap of steel into the Baron's glove."

"Did he not wear the gloves on his way back to Amsterdam?" asked the police official, as he laid down his thin cigar.

"No," I replied. "The valet is certain that instead of putting on his gloves he thrust them into the pocket of his linen dust-coat. Folcker says that when his master returned he took the gloves from the pocket of the linen coat and placed them on the table in the hall--as was his habit. It was only when the Baron was going out again that he put on the left-hand one, and then suddenly drew it off and rubbed his fingers. The first finger of his left hand had undoubtedly been cut, and hence infected with that substance which causes almost instant death and the exact symptoms of heart disease."

"Orosin--did you say?" asked the head of the Amsterdam police.

"Yes," I replied. "Orosin--the most dangerous, subtle and easily administered poison known to our modern toxicologists. And your great financier Baron van Veltrup has died by the hand of one who has wilfully administered it!"

"Well," said the stolid man with the scraggy beard, rather reluctantly, "I confess that this has come to me as a perfect revelation."

"You have only to order the exhumation of the Baron's body, and an examination of the left hand, to be convinced that what this Englishman, Mr. Garfield, has discovered is the actual truth!" declared Doctor Obelt, whose reputation as a pathologist was the highest in the Netherlands, and against whose opinion even the Chief of Police of Amsterdam could raise no word.

"It shall be done, gentlemen," the stolid official assured us. "It shall be done in secret--and at once."

He was true to his word, for at noon next day I received an invitation to call again at the Police Bureau, and was there informed that a small superficial cut upon the first finger of the left hand had been discovered.

Therefore there was no doubt that death had resulted from foul play.

If such were the case, it seemed more than probable that to Count de Chamartin, the intimate associate of Oswald De Gex, a similar dose of orosin had been administered!

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH

MORE ABOUT MATEO SANZ

The means by which the unfortunate Baron van Veltrup had met with his death was as ingenious as that practised upon me by the expert thief, Despujol. As I reflected upon all the details as related to me by the valet, Folcker, I suddenly recollected that the Baron's strange visitor, the man who must have placed that sharp scrap of razor-blade within his glove at the moment when the unsuspicious victim had gone outside to speak with his servant, was described as a man with a red face and a dark moustache.

A man who answered such description was the elusive friend of Mademoiselle Jacquelot, of Montauban, the motor bandit Mateo Sanz--the man who had so cleverly evaded the police, and who had no doubt been an intimate friend of Despujol! In order to confirm my suspicions, I at once telegraphed to Señor Rivero in Madrid, urging him to send me a copy of the police photograph of Sanz for identification purposes. That same day I received a reply which informed me that the photograph was in the post, hence I remained in Amsterdam awaiting its arrival.

Four days later it was handed to me, a photograph taken in several positions of the rather round-faced, florid man whom I had seen talking to Mademoiselle at the station at Montauban--the man whom Rivero had followed, but who, on the French police going to arrest him, was found to have fled.

I carried the photograph to Folcker's lodgings and there showed it to him.

"That is the man who met my master, sir!" he cried unhesitatingly. "Only he wore round horn spectacles. His face and moustache are the same. He was not Dutch."

"No. This man is a Spaniard named Sanz, who is well known to the police," I replied.

"Then they should arrest him, for he is no doubt responsible for my poor master's death."

We went together to the Bureau of Police where the valet formally identified the photograph, and made certain declarations concerning the malefactor in question. These he signed.