Chapter Nine. Tells Some Strange Truths.

Along the dark street, quiet after the glare and bustle of the King’s Road, I retraced my steps, when, about half-way up, I met a man dressed as a mechanic, idly smoking a pipe. He glanced quickly at me as I passed beneath the light of a street-lamp, and I guessed from his searching look that he was the detective Bullen.

Without apparently taking notice of him I went along almost to the end of the street, until I discovered that the house which Lolita had indicated differed little from its neighbours save that it was rendered a trifle more dingy perhaps by the London smoke. And yet the large printed numerals on the fanlight over the door gave it a bold appearance that the others did not seem to possess. The area was a deep one, but the shutters of the kitchen window were tightly closed. With the exception of the light in the hall the place seemed in darkness, presenting to me a strange, mysterious appearance, knowing all that I did. Why, I wondered, was that police officer lounging up and down keeping such a vigilant surveillance upon the place? Surely it was with some distinct motive that a plain-clothes man watched the house day and night, and to me that motive seemed that they expected that some person, now absent, might return.

There is often much mystery in those rows of smoke-blackened uniform houses that form the side-streets of London’s great thoroughfares, and the presence of the police here caused me to ponder deeply.

My first impulse had been to try and get sight of the mysterious Frenchwoman and her associates, but to escape the observation of that vigilant watcher was, I knew, impossible. So I passed along down to the Embankment, where the river flowed darkly on and the lights cast long reflections.

I was puzzled. I could not well approach the detective without making some explanation of who I was, and by doing so I recognised that I might inadvertently connect my employer’s sister with whatever offence the inmates of the mysterious house had committed.

Yet when I recollected that wild terrified declaration of Lolita’s on the previous night, how she had told me that if the Frenchwoman withheld her secret “it must result in my death,” I felt spurred to approach her at all hazards. There are moments in our lives when, disregarding our natural caution, we act with precipitation and injudiciously. I fear I was given to hot-headed actions, otherwise I should never have dared to run the risk of arousing suspicion in Bullen’s mind as I did during the hours that followed.

From the fact that the house was in darkness there seemed to me a chance that the woman Lejeune was absent and that she might return home during the evening. The detective was apparently keeping watch at the King’s Road end of the street, therefore I resolved to keep a vigilant eye on the Embankment end. She might perchance approach from that direction, and if she did I hoped that I should be able to stop her and obtain a few minutes’ conversation. It was true that I did not know her, yet I felt sufficient confidence in my knowledge of persons to be able to pick out a Frenchwoman in a half-deserted London thoroughfare. The gait and manner of holding the skirts betray the daughter of Gaul anywhere.

Patiently I lounged at the corner, compelled to keep an eye upon the detective’s movements lest he should notice my continued presence. Apparently, however, he had no suspicion of a second watcher, for he stood at the opposite end of the street gossiping with all and sundry, and passing the hours as best he could. Presently a ragged newsvendor came up, and after exchanging words the man shuffled along the street in my direction, while the detective went off to get his supper. Then I knew that the ragged man was one of those spies and informers often employed by the London police and who are known in the argot of the gutter as “policemen’s noses.”

I avoided him quickly, well knowing that such men are as keen-eyed and quick-witted as the detectives themselves, being often called upon to perform observation work where the police would be handicapped and at once recognised. Many a crime in London is detected, and many a criminal brought to justice by the aid of the very useful “policeman’s nose,” whose own record, be it said, is often the reverse of clean.

It was then nearly eleven o’clock. The newsvendor had seated himself upon a doorstep half-way up the road and almost opposite the house with the number upon the fanlight, munching his supper, which he had produced from his pocket. I had watched him from around the corner and was turning back towards the Embankment, when of a sudden I heard footsteps.

On the opposite side, by the parapet which divided the roadway from the river, two persons were walking slowly, a man and a woman. In an instant I strained my eyes in their direction, and as they passed beneath one of the lamps I saw that the woman was young, dark-haired, thin-faced and rather well-dressed, while her companion was older, bearded, with a reddish bloated face which betokened an undue consumption of alcoholic liquors. As they passed on towards Britten Street I stepped across the road and walked behind them when, next instant, I recognised by the man’s dress and his broad back view that he was none other than he whom I had observed walking with Lolita in the wood that morning—the stranger whose face I had not then plainly seen!

My curiosity was aroused immediately, for on hearing the woman make an observation in French I knew that she must be the person of whom I was in search.

Was she, I wondered, aware that the police were watching her house? Should I not, by placing her on her guard, ingratiate myself with her? My object was to get her to speak the truth and thus save Lolita, therefore I should have greater chance of success were I her benefactor.

She and her companion, whoever he was, were stepping straight into the trap laid for them, therefore on the spur of the moment, regardless of the fact that I might be the means of enabling certain criminals to escape from justice, I stepped boldly up to her just before they turned the corner into Britten Street and, raising my hat, said—

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but your name, I believe, is Lejeune?”

The pair started quickly, and I saw that they were utterly confused. They were evidently endeavouring to reach the house by the less-frequented route.

“Well, and what if it is?” inquired the broad-shouldered man in a harsh bullying tone, speaking with a pronounced Cockney accent and putting forward his flabby bull-dog face in a threatening attitude.

“There’s no occasion for hot blood, my dear sir,” I replied quietly. “Just turn and walk back a few yards. I’m here to speak with mademoiselle—not with you.”

“And what do you wish with me?” the young woman inquired in very fair English.

“Come back a few yards and I’ll explain,” I responded quickly. “First, let me tell you that my name is Willoughby Woodhouse, and that I am private secretary to the Earl of Stanchester.”

“Woodhouse!” gasped her companion involuntarily, and I saw that his face went pale. “You are Mr Woodhouse!”

“Yes,” I continued, “and I have been sent here to you by Lady Lolita Lloyd to warn you that your house is being watched by the police.”

“The police!” ejaculated the man. “Are they there now?”

“They are. A detective has been keeping observation all the evening.”

“Then we must fly,” he whispered quickly. “By Jove! we’ve had a narrow escape! And, sir, I can only apologise for what I’ve just said. Of course I didn’t know who you were. The fact is I thought you were yourself a detective.”

“No apology is needed,” I smiled. “I’ve only one further word to deliver from her ladyship,” I added, turning to the young Frenchwoman, “and it is that, having given you this timely warning, she hopes that you will not fail to let her know your whereabouts. She also says that you are to regard myself as the intermediary between you.”

“Tell her that I shall not fail to recognise this kindness,” was the woman’s answer in her broken English. “But for her we might both have fallen into the hands of the police. I’ve been absent a fortnight, but thought that all was clear, otherwise I should not have dared to return here.”

“Come, let’s get away,” urged her companion anxiously.

It was on the tip of my tongue to remark upon his presence in the Monk’s Wood with her ladyship, but perhaps fortunately I held my peace. He seemed more in fear of detection than she did, for his face had gone ghastly pale and his bloodshot eyes were turned back upon the street-corner.

“Have you any message for her ladyship?” I inquired eagerly of the woman.

“Only my thanks to her.”

“But,” I said, bending to her and speaking in a low very earnest voice, “she is in grave peril. Only the truth, spoken by yourself, can save her. Recollect by giving you this warning she is saving you from the police.”

“I know. I know!” she replied. “I am fully aware of the disaster which threatens her. Tell her that I have not yet myself learned the whole truth. When I do, I will write to her.”

“But you will surely tell what you know?” I urged quickly.

“At risk of incriminating myself? Not likely,” was her reply.

“Then when the blow falls—as fall it must—it will kill her,” I said, disregarding the man’s presence, for I felt that he must certainly be aware of everything.

“Perhaps,” was her vague answer, in a hard strained voice. “If I could help her I would. At present, however, it is utterly impossible.”

“Not after this great service she has rendered to you? She has rescued you, remember.”

“Because it is not to her own interests that she should be connected with the affair,” she remarked with what seemed a sneer.

Then, for the first time, I realised what a terrible mistake I had committed. The warning I had given this woman she actually believed to be an additional sign of weakness on the part of my well-beloved!

“But her very life depends upon your words,” I cried. “You surely will not now withhold the truth?”

“I can say nothing—at least at present,” she responded evasively.

“But you must—you hear?” I cried. “You must!”

“I shall not until it suits me,” was the woman’s defiant answer, as her dark eyes flashed quickly upon me, and I recognised with what kind of person I had to deal. “Tell her that in this matter the stake is her life, or mine—and I prefer to keep my own.” And she laughed that harsh discordant laugh of a Frenchwoman triumphant.

“Then you refuse to tell the truth?” I demanded fiercely.

“I do.”

In that instant a bold plan had suggested itself. She expected to escape, but now she defied me I had no intention that she should; therefore I sprang forward, seized her, and at the same time shrieked with all my might—

“Murder! Murder! Help—help!”

Her companion flung himself upon me, beating me about the head, but I had gripped them both, and in a few moments there sounded hurrying footsteps and several persons, including the detective Bullen, came tearing round the street-corner.

Next second the pair recognised how very neatly they had been trapped.