Chapter Twelve. The Second Burglary at Aldborough Park.

Stewards, bailiffs, solicitors, and the men of affairs who are called in on the occasion of the death of the head of the family, had finished their work at Aldborough Park. Life had resumed its normal state. The new baronet had taken possession, and was entering into the duties of his position with commendable spirit and enterprise. Lady Remington witnessed her son’s interest in the affairs of the estates with much pleasure.

Her mind was greatly relieved that they had seen the last of the mysterious Gilda Tempest and the forbidding Doctor Malsano. She was satisfied that Raife had overcome his mad infatuation for the woman, and as for the doctor, no possible good could come from such an association. She sincerely hoped they would forget the impulsive invitation extended to them whilst they were at Nice.

The Baroness von Sassniltz was staying at the Park. She had brought the inevitable jewels, without which, and their attendant anxiety, her otherwise placid life was incomplete. Fräulein Schneider, the baroness’s maid, and the faithful custodian of the priceless trinkets, was there. Alert as ever, she wore the importance of her trust, as she wore those multitudinous coils of yellow hair. They were all a part of the institution that she represented.

Edgson, the faithful old butler, ruled the servants’ hall with a firm but genial sway. The yellow coils were the subject of much discussion among the other servants, but Edgson had ruled, with a fine decision, that it was both unladylike and ungentlemanly to discuss a lady’s back hair in the servants’ hall. The Fräulein Schneider, herself, maintained an austerity becoming the importance of her position, and the subject was therefore not discussed directly with that lady. Only one person was believed to have dared to a direct allusion to the crowning piece of the Fräulein’s headgear. One James Gibson, called “Jim” by his intimates, was possessed of a manly frame, well set off by Melton corduroys and leather gaiters. His curly beard was black, and well-trimmed, whilst his sparkling black eyes, that twinkled above his round, rosy cheeks, were counted irresistible by the lasses of that Kentish countryside.

Report had it that Jim met the Fräulein in the town of Lewes, nine miles away, and there purchased a fancy comb, which he induced her to wear for a brief while.

Unwittingly the comb was in position when the Fräulein responded to a sudden summons from the baroness. Not even the Fräulein Schneider could stand the withering stare, assisted by a jewelled lorgnette, of an indignant baroness, whose maid had dared to wear a comb in her well coiled, and oiled hair. The comb was never seen again.

For safe keeping the baroness’s jewels were placed in the strong safe in the wall of the library, during her stay at Aldborough Park.

The shooting season was near at hand, and Raife had invited his old college friend, Edward Mutimer, preparatory to the opening of the first of September, when the party would be increased.

Perhaps no festival was treated with greater respect and ceremony than that of “St. Partridge.” On the first of September, through the centuries, the line of shooters with the dogs and gamekeepers, have set forth in search of the “birds” that until this day had been so jealously guarded. The Aldborough estates have always been strictly preserved and famed for partridge and pheasant alike.

At eventime, when the shooters had returned from the prolonged and sometimes tiring sport, the fine old Tudor mansion, snug and warm within its ivy-covered walls, rang with the merriment that accompanied the hospitable festivities of such occasions.

The privileged dogs did take their place before the fire. There were “Grouse,” the setter; “Jo,” the pointer; “Nellie” and “Judy,” the two spaniels; “Prince,” the black retriever; whilst three or four less useful, less trained, but generally more pampered and self-assertive, were grouped around.

The toast of “St. Partridge” was given with the brevity that most good toasts deserve. Champagne, followed by port, are the wines for these commemorations.

In the servants’ hall the gamekeepers and every man and woman of the large household joined in the general festivity, and the usual liberality of the servants’ hall was still further extended. On such nights the genial old butler was at his best, for the task fell to him to propose the toast of “St. Partridge,” and do the honours generally. His well-studied and hoary witticisms came with such a hearty burst of his own laughter, that the infection spread around the depleted board, until joy was on every countenance.

On such a night sleep would be heavier than usual. By general consent the potations that followed dinner were not excessive, but a little more liberal, as became the occasion.

One by one the household, in its many varying branches, retired, each in his or her direction up one of the many winding staircases, and along corridors to their respective rooms, with stifling yawns, and walking with a respectful silence until the last of the doors opened and closed.

The guests also lingered longer than usual in billiard-room or library, and they, in turn, having received the ministrations of the servants allotted to them, retired up the wide oak staircase, over the soft, deep carpet.

The most astute criminal, even burglars, will choose sometimes a wrongly-timed occasion for his offence against society.

It was a few nights after the “First,” when Sir Raife and the rest of the household had sought the sleep that follows sweetly on a long day’s shooting. Lazily knocking the contents of his pipe into the fire, he climbed into the four-posted bed with its pale-blue curtains hanging around. The old-fashioned, and even the mediaeval, survived in many directions at Aldborough Park, and this bed was one of the survivals.

Although fatigued beyond the ordinary point, even after a long tramp over stubble and turnips, up hill and down dale, Raife did not sleep. His mind was too active, and his thoughts trended in directions which left him sleepless and troubled.

The recollection of his father’s murder, and the dying words which, in spite of the intervening months and the exciting events that had transpired, still, on such an occasion as this, caused him anxiety.

Insomnia may not be a disease, but it is a very serious complaint at the moment of suffering. There are some people who possess mentality of a calibre that permits them to lie awake during long and dark nights. Others, of a higher-strung fibre, cast bedclothes and resolution to the corners of the room, and rise to smoke, to read—or do anything rather than endure the torture of wakefulness caused by a troubled mind. Raife rose from the high, old-fashioned bed and proceeded for a light and his dressing-gown, when he heard sounds that arrested his movement and attention. Premonition of danger displays a very high sense in animals. The later stages of civilisation have made matters so safe for human beings, that the premonitive sense is becoming rare. Environment undoubtedly affects such a sense, and the proximity of the library to Raife’s bedroom may have affected his alertness, and kept him awake. Certainly there was something, somebody moving, and the noise was in the direction of the library—the room of sad, tragic association. “Nerves” do not imply timidity, and Raife of the Reymingtounes was hardly likely to be a timid man. At the moment he was possessed of a strong spirit of revenge. His father had been cruelly shot by a burglar in that very library, where those stealthy sounds were proceeding from. He did not wait to don a dressing-gown. Hastily snatching his Browning revolver from under his pillow, he proceeded along the dark, oak-panelled corridor. Gloomy old helmets, empty shells of armour that had protected his ancestors in many a fray, frowned upon him. As he crept quietly, but quickly, over the familiar soft carpets, he thought also of the baroness’s jewels, those gems that attracted trouble in their train. They were in the iron safe embedded in the wall of the library. If there was to be a vendetta, he—Raife Remington—would see to it that the feud was well sustained on his side. The last few yards he covered on tip-toe, gripping his Browning in his hand. At last, he was peeping through the door, determined to have the first shot in the contest that had been forced on him. All such contests are cowardly. The midnight marauder carries long odds in his favour—the greatest being the unwillingness of the man, who is protecting his own property, to fire first. In this aggravated case his father’s spirit, through the memory of his dying words, impelled Raife to fire first and shoot straight. Justice was on his side and Raife brought the revolver to a level for aim, as he peered into the room. The sight that met him was so staggering that he involuntarily gasped.

Holding an electric torch in one hand, a case of the baroness’s jewels in the other, and kneeling before the open door of the safe, he saw the outline of the figure of a woman. Raife’s involuntary gasp was sufficient, for the woman, who had displayed wonderful craftsmanship in achieving her purpose, switched off the lamp. It was too late. With a bound Raife had seized her by the throat and dragged her to the wall, switching on a powerful electrolier.

His horror and consternation reached the highest human point when he recognised Gilda Tempest, the woman he loved—the woman of mystery—the woman he had trusted! She had asked him to trust her—to be her friend. He had responded with the whole of his heart and enthusiasm, and this—this hideous nightmare was his reward.

Raife slung her from him with force, and hissed: “You hideous fiend! Is this womanhood—the womanhood that I—I had loved?”

Gilda fell in front of the open door of the dismantled safe. For a full minute her sobs filled the old library, till they became a moan, a prolonged wail.

Raife placed the revolver in the pocket of his pyjamas and crossed the room with bowed head and heaving chest. His face was contorted with rage, and his hands and fingers worked convulsively. He re-crossed the room and gazed at her with a look of intense hatred. Slowly she rose to her knees and crawled towards him with clasped hands. Then, clutching at his knees with upturned face, a still beautiful face, she ceased her sobbing. In low, mellifluous tones she pleaded: “Raife, Raife! I have wronged you. I have wronged you grossly, grievously. But listen to me, spare me! I, too, have been wronged. I have not been a willing agent. I have been forced, yes compelled, to do these foul, hateful things.”

Raife looked down on her with a contemptuous glance. “You have acted well before. You are acting well now. Before I give you in charge of the police you can tell me, if you will, why you borrowed my keys at the Hôtel Royal, at Nice?”

“No! No! Raife, Sir Raife! Believe me, I am not naturally bad. My uncle—at least, he tells me he is my uncle—forces me to do these things. When he looks at me and tells me what to do I am afraid, but I must obey. I simply must, I can’t help it.

“He made me get your keys and told me the story to tell you. He is clever, so clever.” Here Gilda shuddered, and then trembled violently all over. Passionately she raised her voice a trifle, saying: “He is horrid! He is hateful—yes, awful!” Then, relapsing almost into a state of coma, she continued: “I must obey. Yes, I must obey.”

At this moment there was a violent knock on the door, and Raife almost dragged Gilda to a curtain and hastily thrusting her behind, crossed to the door and said lazily, in a tired key: “Yes, who is there?”

Edgson’s, the old butler’s voice, came from without in trembling tones. “Lud a mussy! Is that you, Sir Raife? You have given us a fright! I saw a light in the library and thought there was burglars again. And I’ve got all the men and the gardeners and we’ve surrounded the house.”

Sir Raife laughed a forced, hearty laugh, exclaiming: “Well done, Edgson! You were quite right, but there aren’t any burglars this time. No, I’m just at work on some of my papers, that’s all.” Then, turning the key and holding the door slightly ajar, he added: “Give them all a drink, and send them to bed again. I shan’t be long myself, now.”

The old man replied respectfully: “Very good, Sir Raife.” As he walked down the long corridor behind the other servants who had accompanied him on his well-planned police expedition, Edgson laughed softly to himself. He remembered some of the stories told to him of Master Raife’s escapades in the long white room at the “Blue Boar.”

It was not a very good explanation, but it served at the moment.

When the sound of the last footsteps had died away, Raife returned to Gilda and beckoned her from the curtains, saying:

“Now, Gilda, tell me all that happened after you disappeared from the hotel at Nice. Tell me some of the worst of this man Malsano’s crimes?”

Gilda told how she had seen Raife and Lady Remington at Bordighera. Of her flight from there in the motor-car, of the accident and her escape, and the long journey by a circuitous route to England, where she met her uncle. She told how he had planned this burglary, and was plotting to steal the jewels whilst the baroness was at the Hôtel Royal, Nice.

In a low, musical voice, she related the long story of a young, beautiful girl’s life, ruined by the unscrupulous machinations of a human fiend. She reclined in a deep, leather arm-chair, facing the still open safe, with the baroness’s jewels scattered about on the floor.

The simplicity with which she told her sad story, the sincerity of her manner contrasted with the incongruous surroundings and recent events.

Raife Remington’s mind and heart were torn with confused passions. His pride had received a shock so cruel, that it seemed utterly impossible to condone the offence. He was still suffering from a sense of extreme exasperation. Was this girl telling the whole truth, or only a portion?

He rose from the corner of the table on which he had been sitting, and proceeded to pick up the scattered jewels and the various articles on the floor. He replaced them in the safe and closed the door with the false key that was in it. It was made from the wax model traitorously obtained from him by Gilda. At her uncle’s enforced bidding? Yes, but how true was that story? He placed the key in his pocket. Much of the mystery of this extraordinary girl’s actions had been speciously explained away. What was there more of mystery remaining? The struggle between his better sense, his wounded pride and the weird fascination of this wonderful woman lasted for some time. Gilda lay back in the luxurious leather chair, and gazed, with a glazed expression, into space.

At length, he turned to her and said: “Gilda, you have hurt me more than I can tell. If this man, Malsano, who says he is your uncle, has compelled your actions, which appear so unnatural, I forgive you. Promise me that you will leave him, hide from him and go into the world you know so well, and lead a pure and clean life. You have shown yourself to be clever enough. Promise me, Gilda, and come to me if you want help. I will help.”

He held out his hand. She sprang from the deep recesses of the chair. Clutching his hand, she smothered it in passionate kisses.

Then gazing at him, she said: “I promise! I promise, Raife! May I go now?”

Mechanically Raife said: “Yes.”

In two seconds the dainty figure of the young girl was sliding down a silken rope from the library window to the ground below. Amazed at the rapidity of the action, Raife watched her disappearing form as it glided sinuously into a bunch of rhododendron bushes.