CHAPTER XXXI "SHEEP OF THY PASTURE"

The autumn sun shone brightly into the artistic little sitting-room at the Berkeley Hotel, overlooking Piccadilly and the Green Park, where, next morning, I was seated alone with Lola.

She was dressed in a pretty, neatly-made gown of a delicate brown shade, with silk stockings and smart little shoes to match, and as she leaned back in her cosy arm-chair, her pointed chin upon her white hand, her big blue eyes, so full of expression, were turned upon me, their brows slightly knit in her earnestness.

Upon the centre table stood a big silver bowl of dahlias and autumn foliage, while upon a sideboard was lying a fine bouquet of roses which a page-boy had brought in as we had been chatting.

I related my strange experience of the previous night, whereupon she had said, in a low, intense voice—

"Yes. I heard yesterday afternoon, when I was at Vernon's house in Hampstead, that an attempt was to be made somewhere. But I was not told where."

"Lola," I exclaimed, taking her hand tenderly, and looking into her eyes, "I am here this morning to save you from these people, and to save myself. If we remain inactive like this, they will deal us both a secret blow. They fear you, and in addition they know that I have discovered who they are, and the truth concerning some of their crimes."

She nodded, but no sound escaped her lips.

At last, however, by dint of long persuasion and argument, I succeeded in convincing her that I really was her friend, and that even if I exposed the gang, and caused them to be arrested, I could at the same time keep her out of the sensational affair which must inevitably result.

She rose, and for a long time stood at the window, gazing out upon the never-ceasing traffic in Piccadilly, her countenance very grave and thoughtful. By the quick rising and falling of her bosom, and by her pursed lips, I saw how deep was her agitation, how torn was her mind by conflicting emotions.

At last, as she leaned upon a chair, her eyes still fixed blankly out upon the long, rather monotonous façade of the Ritz Hotel, she began to tell me some of the facts she knew concerning her notorious uncle, Jules Jeanjean.

"He started life," she explained, "as an employé of the Nord Railway of France, and, being honest and hardworking, rose from an obscure situation in the goods-yard at Creil to become chief conductor on the express line between Calais and Paris. His sister, who was my mother, had married Felix Sorel, a leather-merchant in the Boulevard de Clichy, and they had one daughter, myself. Jules, however, remained unmarried. Apparently he held advanced Republican views, and soon entertained Anarchist ideas, yet no fault was ever found with the performance of his duties by the railway officials. He was, I have heard, a model servant, always punctual, sober, and so extremely polite that all the habitual passengers knew and liked him."

She paused, reflecting.

"It seems," she went on after a few moments, "it seems that as chief of the express which left Calais for Paris each day, after the arrival of the midday boat from Dover, his position was much coveted by the other employés. After about two and a half years of this, however, the Company one day offered him the post of Station-Inspector at Abbeville, where the boat expresses stop for water. But, to the surprise of his friends, he declined and, moreover, resigned from the service, pleading an internal trouble, and left France."

"Curious," I remarked. "He must have had some other motive than that for his sudden decision, I suppose."

Then, continuing her narrative, the pretty blue-eyed girl revealed to me a very remarkable story. From what she said it appeared that during his two and a half years' service between Calais and Dover, her uncle had been reaping a golden harvest and placing great sums of money in an English bank. The device by which the money had been gained was both ingenious and simple. Employed in the Customs House at the Maritime Station at Calais—through which all persons travelling from England by that route have to pass—was a douanier from Corsica who, though a French subject, bore an Italian name, Egisto Bertini. Between Bertini and the honest train-conductor a close friendship had arisen. Then Bertini, who had become acquainted with a London diamond-broker, Mr. Gregory Vernon, a constant traveller between the French and English capitals, one day introduced his friend. Before long Vernon's master-mind was at work, and at a meeting of the three men, held one evening on Dover cliffs, a very neat conspiracy was formed. It was simply this—

Bertini's duty was to examine passengers' baggage registered beyond Paris, and when it was placed upon the counter in the Customs House, he kept an open eye for any jewel-cases. Exercising his power, he would have them opened and inspect their contents, and then, being replaced, the box would be locked by the unsuspecting passenger. The Customs Officer would, however, chalk a peculiar mark upon the trunk containing the valuables, and during its transit between Calais and Paris Jeanjean would go to the baggage-wagon, and, with a big bunch of duplicate keys, unlock the marked trunks, abstract the jewellery, and relock it again. By the time the unfortunate passenger discovered the loss, the stolen property would probably be on its way into old Vernon's hands for disposal in Antwerp or Amsterdam.

Thus the two made some huge coups. In one instance, the pearls of the Duchess of Carcassonne, valued at forty-five thousand pounds, were secured, and never traced, for they were sold east of Suez. In another instance the celebrated diamond necklace belonging to Mademoiselle Montbard, the famous actress at the Ambigu in Paris, worth thirty thousand pounds, was abstracted from her baggage. Emeralds to the value of over twenty thousand pounds, the property of the wife of an American millionaire, and the whole of the famous jewels of the Princess Tchernowski were also among the articles stolen.

So constant, however, were these mysterious thefts, that at last the police established a strict surveillance upon all baggage, and hence the interesting little game was at an end.

Matters grew a trifle too warm, and though neither Jeanjean nor Bertini changed their mode of life with their rapidly-gained wealth, yet it was felt that to retire was best. So, within a month of each other, they left. Jeanjean crossed over to England, and Bertini accepted promotion to Boulogne, where he remained several months, fearing that if he resigned too quickly suspicions might be aroused.

Of course, after this, the organized thefts between Calais and Paris ceased suddenly, though the Company never entertained the slightest suspicion of the guilty persons, or of the mode in which each trunk containing jewellery was made known to the thief.

Vernon's craft and cunning were unequalled, for at his suggestion, Jeanjean, though he had over fifty thousand pounds in the Bank of England, now embarked upon the career of a jewel-thief, whose audacity, daring and elusiveness was astounding. His anarchist views prompted him to disregard human life wherever it interfered with his plans, and so clever and ingenious were his coups, that the police of Europe, whom he so often defied, stood dumbfounded.

About this time Lola's father, the honest leather-merchant of Paris, went bankrupt, and died a few weeks afterwards of phthisis, while Madame Sorel, brokenhearted, followed her husband to the grave two months later, leaving little Lola alone. She was then fifteen, and her uncle, seeing that she might be of use to him, adopted her as his daughter, and gradually initiated her into the arts and wiles of an expert-thief. His whole surroundings were criminal, she declared to me. She lived in an atmosphere of crime, for to the flat in the Boulevard Pereire, which her uncle made his headquarters when in Paris, came the men, Bertini, Vernon, Hodrickx, Hunzle, and others, great coups being discussed between them, and arranged, thefts carried out in various cities of Europe, often at great cost and frequently with the assistance of Lola, who was pressed into the service, and upon whom her uncle had bestowed the name of "The Nightingale," on account of her sweet voice.

Vernon was the brain of the organization. By his connection with the diamond trade he obtained information as to who had valuable gems in their possession, and by the exercise of his marvellous wit and subterfuge would devise deep and remarkable plots of which the assassination of the well-known Paris jeweller, M. Benoy, was one. In three years the daring gang, so perfectly organized, perpetrated no fewer than eighteen big jewel robberies as well as other smaller thefts and burglaries. In many, robbery was, alas! accompanied by brutal violence. The Paris Sûreté, Scotland Yard, and the Detective Departments of Berlin, Brussels, and Rome were ever on the alert endeavouring to trace, capture, and break up the gang, but with the large funds at their disposal they were able to bribe even responsible officials who became obnoxious, and by such means evade arrest. Of these bribings there had been many sinister whispers, as Henri Jonet told me months afterwards.

"Ah! Lola!" I exclaimed. "How strangely romantic your career has been!"

"Yes, M'sieur Vidal," she replied, turning her splendid eyes upon mine. "And were it not for your generosity towards me, I should have been arrested that night at Balmaclellan, and at this moment would have been in prison."

"I know that you have been associated with these men through no fault of your own—that you have been forced to become a confederate of thieves and assassins," I said. "Surely no other girl in all England, or, indeed, in Europe, has found herself in a similar position—the decoy of such a dangerous and unscrupulous gang."

"No," faltered the girl. "It was not my fault, I assure you. Ah! Heaven knows how, times without number, I have endeavoured to defy and break away from them. But they were always too artful, too strong for me. My uncle held me in his grip, and though he was never unkind, yet he was always determined, and constantly threatened me with exposure if I did not blindly do his bidding. Thus I was forced to remain his cat's paw, even till to-day," she added, in a voice full of sorrow and regret.

I recollected the scene I had witnessed on Hampstead Heath on the previous night—her meeting with the man who had so mysteriously died in Cromer, and as I gazed upon her fair face, I pondered.

What could it mean?

Apparently she was staying at the Berkeley alone, and I mentioned this fact.

"Oh, they know me well, here. When I'm alone, I often stay here," she explained, still speaking in French. "I like the place far better than the Carlton or the Ritz. I have had quite enough of the big hotels," she added with a meaning smile.

She referred to those hotels where she had lived in order to rub shoulders with women who possessed rich jewels.

At that moment a foreign waiter knocked at the door and interrupted our tête-à-tête, by announcing—

"Mr. Craig to see you, miss."

"Show him in," was her prompt reply in English, as she rose and glanced quickly at me. I saw that her cheeks were slightly flushed in her sudden excitement.

And a few seconds later I stood face to face with the man upon whose body a Coroner's verdict had been pronounced.

He was tall, good-looking, and smartly-dressed in a grey lounge-suit, carrying his plush Tyrolese hat in his hand.

On seeing me he drew back, and cast a quick, inquisitive glance at Lola.

"This is M'sieur Vidal," the girl exclaimed in her pretty broken English, introducing us. "My very good friend of whom I spoke yesterday—M'sieur Edouard Craig."

We bowed to each other, and I thought I saw upon his face a look of annoyance. He had evidently believed Lola to be alone.

In an instant, however, the shadow fled from the young man's face, and he exclaimed with frankness—

"I'm extremely pleased to know you, sir, more especially after what Lola has told me concerning you."

"What has she told you?" I asked, with a smile. "Nothing very terrible, I hope?"

For a second he did not reply. Then, looking over at her as she stood on the opposite side of the table, he replied—

"Well, she has told me of your long friendship and—and—may I be permitted to tell Mr. Vidal, Lola?" he suddenly asked, turning to her.

"Tell him what you wish," she answered.

"Then I will not conceal it," he went on, turning back to me. "Lola has explained to me her position, her connection with certain undesirable persons, whom we need not mention, and how you in your generosity allowed her her freedom."

"She has told you!" I gasped in surprise, not understanding in what position he stood towards the dainty little Parisienne. "Well, Mr. Craig, I thought you knew that long ago," I added after a pause.

"Until last night, I was in entire ignorance of the whole truth. I met Lola at Hampstead, and she explained many things that have astounded me."

"I have told Mr. Craig the truth," declared the girl, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "It was only right that he should know who and what I am—especially as——" she broke off suddenly.

"Especially as—what?" I asked.

"Especially as I love you, Lola, eh?" the young man chimed in, grasping her hand and raising it to his lips fondly.

This revelation staggered me. The pair were lovers! This man, whose attitude when he saw her in secret at Boscombe was so antagonistic, was now deeply in love with her! Surely I was living in a world of surprises!

How much, I wondered, had she revealed to this man who was believed to have been buried?

For some moments all three of us stood looking at each other, neither uttering a word.

Then I swiftly put to the young man several questions, and receiving answers, excused myself, and went below to the telephone.

I had three calls in various directions, and then returned to where Lola and her lover were standing together. Heedless of my presence, so deeply in love was he, that he was holding her hand and looking affectionately into the girl's eyes as he bent, whispering lovingly, to her.

Yes, they were indeed a well-matched pair standing there together. She sweet and innocent-looking, he tall and athletic, with all the appearance of a gentleman.

Yet it was Edward Craig, the man who had lived at Beacon House at Cromer, the man whom I had seen lying stark and dead, killed by some mysterious means which medical men could not discover. Edward Craig, the dead man in the flesh!