Chapter Twenty Three. On the Trail. The Finding of the Reticule.

In the few minutes that Raife talked with Gilda Tempest in the conservatory in Mayfair, he had made his plans. They were quite discreditable to him, but he was no longer a free agent. Gilda’s influence had captured him completely, and it was an influence for evil. Gilda, in turn, was entirely controlled by Doctor Malsano. They met in Paris, and theirs was the abandon of a crazy infatuation, over which Doctor Malsano exercised his cunning. The wayward Raife Remington had fallen very low indeed. Hidden away in the Rue Lafayette was a small flat. It was the scene of many ugly situations; but, throughout all, the relationship of Raife and Gilda was purely platonic. He had left his wife on her wedding-day. He had abandoned himself to a scandalous life.

Doctor Malsano’s gang of continental crooks worked in varying directions, and there was very little in the way of villainy that did not come within the scope of their operations, and Raife was entangled in them. Malsano, through Gilda, controlled Raife’s actions. Only on one point was he firm. He refused to allow Gilda to remain the decoy, and his unconquerable firmness brought him into antagonism with the doctor, who vowed to complete the revenge that was being carried out on the son of the man who had offended forty years previously.

It seemed incredible that a young aristocrat of ancient lineage, endowed with high moral and intellectual courage, could be dragged down to such depths. A crazy infatuation for a woman, who carried trouble in her train, for a woman who had displayed all the traits of inherent criminality, had brought Raife to a moral standard beneath contempt. It is not to be supposed that Raife had surrendered to his downfall without long and bitter struggles. Time and again he endeavoured to emerge from this fearful debacle. On each occasion the pleading of this fascinating woman held him in a closer grip, and the triumph of Malsano was complete.

The Dowager Lady Remington and the new Lady Remington did not believe the newspaper paragraph that stated that Raife had been seen in Paris. In the midst of the overwhelming trouble, the crushing blow to their pride, these two women solaced one another, and hoped against hope. Neither could believe that the man who possessed such amiable and loving qualities could have destroyed himself, or wantonly disappeared in such cruel circumstances.

A week or more after the disappearance, a maid brought to Raife’s mother a reticule which had been picked up in the conservatory in Mayfair. It was very handsome, and contained some visiting-cards on which were engraved, “Miss Gilda Tempest.” There was no address, nor did the reticule contain any indication of an address.

The old lady at once sent for Hilda and when she entered the room exclaimed, “Hilda! at last here is some news, although I fear it is not of the best.” She then told of the finding of the reticule and the cards contained therein. She quickly added, “We met this young person at Nice, and she has an uncle, a rather evil-looking person. But he can be quite charming on occasions, in spite of an extraordinary swivel eye that produces a most mystifying effect. I always mistrusted them, and now I feel confident they are at the bottom of this mystery.”

Hilda at once thought of “the other woman” that Raife had spoken about in Cairo—the woman that had made him a woman-hater. Had she returned and recaptured her lost fancy? It could not be love. Hilda was the only woman, in her own estimation, who could love Raife. The terrifying thoughts that haunted her made her courageous mind act very quickly. Her father’s business had compelled his return to the United States, and she was alone in so far as initiative was concerned. Taking possession of the reticule, she left the room, and, in the next few minutes was talking on the telephone to Scotland Yard. It is not to be expected that a detective-inspector should be at the other end of a telephone every time he is wanted. Hilda had heard Raife speak of Herrion, and, with the extraordinary gift possessed by most Americans, she remembered his name and all about him.

“Is Detective-inspector Herrion there?” The reply came softly back, “No, he is not. Who is speaking?”

The title came strangely to Hilda’s lips as she spoke into the receiver: “I am Lady Remington. You may remember something about the disappearance of Sir Raife Remington some time ago.” Then she added, and again the title sounded strange: “Sir Raife Remington is my husband, you know. Well, I have got some news, what you call a clue, and I would like very much to see Mr Herrion, if possible. I shall be at the house in Green Street, Mayfair, all day. I wonder if he could call?” Then, as the receiver clicked into its position, she leant back and thought very hard.

It was late that evening when Mr Herrion was announced. Hilda received him in a small writing-room. The lithe, powerful little man was, for the occasion, immaculately clad, and there was more than a suggestion of the society lisp that deceived so many unsuspecting criminals. Hilda Remington was brief and business-like. She came to the point at once, producing the reticule and telling all she knew about “the other woman.” It was not much, but it was quite enough for Detective-Inspector Herrion. Too well he knew the full importance of that name, “Miss Gilda Tempest.”

Then, in a low tone, he spoke. “Lady Remington, you have, indeed, found a useful clue. I know altogether too much about this mysterious woman, who has entered so much into the life of Sir Raife. Her so-called uncle is one of the most desperate criminals in Europe! He is so clever, and veils his operations under the more active work of his dupes in such a manner that it is very hard to run him to earth. This unfortunate woman is completely under his control, and acts as a decoy in a score of directions. I have never been able to fathom the matter completely, but there seems to be some sort of a feud—a vendetta—between this arch-fiend Malsano and Sir Raife’s family. Malsano leaves no stone unturned to bring about his ruin. He seems to be afraid of murder, but he lays clever plans to entrap Sir Raife and smirch his name. You will excuse me saying so, Lady Remington, but I have a great admiration for Sir Raife. He is a magnificent man, and he holds a name respected in his country. I tried to help him some time ago, and thought I had succeeded when I persuaded him to go away on a big-game shooting expedition on the Blue Nile. Somehow, these fiendish people track him down and cause trouble.”

Hilda Remington had never met a detective-inspector before, and Herrion was in no sense the type of man she had expected to meet. His charming manner and graceful speech gave her confidence. This man—this dainty Scarlet Pimpernel—was a friend, not a policeman. She felt he should, at least, be an Attaché at a Court in Europe. She gazed at him with a combination of admiration and appreciation. Herrion was human, and he could not fail to be influenced by the beauty of this stricken woman, who gazed at him, seeking sympathy and help in her trouble.

With her eloquent eyes she appealed to him as she spoke: “Mr Herrion. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. Do help me to find my husband.” Herrion rose from his seat, saying: “Lady Remington, if that blackguard, Malsano, is to be found in Europe, I will find him. If I can trace your husband, I will do so for his sake, and for your sake, and for the sake of his mother. I will go now and, look up the last records of the gang. Will you give me the number of your telephone? It may save time. And please hold yourself in readiness, as one never knows how long or how soon it may take to unearth a criminal fox in his burrow.” When Mr Herrion left Green Street, he took a taxicab to Scotland Yard, and promptly set in motion all the machinery that was possible, in order to find out the whereabouts of Doctor Malsano. His active mind was hard at work, and, under the influence of this beautiful, frank American girl with the pleading eyes and soft voice, he was determined to find Raife and restore him to his bride of a day or so. He was satisfied that Raife was not in his sound mind, or he could not have acted in so scandalous a manner. What ruse had been adopted to lure him away? What fresh devilment was this master of crime at? This should be a matter of international importance. Apart from all these considerations, the pride of his craft had been stirred, and that was not a light matter.

Hilda and Raife’s mother sat late talking of the only subject possible to them in the trying circumstances. Hilda had narrated the gist of her interview with Detective-Inspector Herrion. For the first time Raife’s mother learnt a very bare outline of Raife’s intrigue with Gilda Tempest. It explained many of his moods that had appeared strange. It reminded her of the conversation she had thought she had overheard as she climbed the staircase to the old white room of the “Blue Boar” Inn at Tunbridge Wells. She recalled the fact that the room had appeared empty, yet she felt confident she had heard voices barely a moment before. A rumour had spread, somehow, from somewhere, concerning the silk rope that had been found under the library window, on the night when the old butler, with a fine sense of strategy, had arranged for the house to be surrounded. All these rumours and speculations were disturbing the old lady’s mind. Now, there was something almost tangible in what Hilda had learnt about Gilda Tempest, her uncle, and the reticule that had been picked up in the conservatory.

Now that there was a prospect of something definite being accomplished, Hilda’s bravery redoubled, and she supported the old lady with her courage. Raife’s mother had at length retired, and Hilda sat alone. It was late and she rang for her maid. When the girl appeared she rather startled her with a request for tea. Tea is an unconventional drink when it is nearly midnight, in an English household. All the conventions had been broken since Raife disappeared, and Hilda cared naught for convention. She was anxious for news that should at least help her to straighten out a situation that had become intolerable. It was impossible to return home to the United States and face the “sympathy” of friends. It was equally intolerable to endure the uncertainties of her present life.

At length the telephone rang. Hilda clutched the receiver. “Yes, this is Lady Remington. Who am I speaking to? Oh, yes, Mr Herrion! Any news? What’s that? You think I’d better go to Paris, and you’ll try and meet me there. Sure, I’ll start right away, to-morrow. I have a house on the Champs Elysées! It won’t be hard for you to find me, and I’ll take Lady Remington, Sir Raife’s mother, with me.”

Here, at last, was action. There was hope in action, and she had suffered from inertia.