Genre Mystery & Crime. Page - 11

t tell us how his son comes to be your guest," President Bonnet urged.

"It is very simple: Etienne Rambert is an energetic man who is always moving about. Although he is quite sixty he still occupies himself with some rubber plantations he possesses in Colombia, and he often goes to America: he thinks no more of the voyage than we do of a trip to Paris. Well, just recently young Charles Rambert was leaving the pension in Hamburg where he had been living in order to perfect his German; I knew from his father's letters that Mme. Rambert was about to be put away, and that Etienne Rambert was obliged to be absent, so I offered to receive Charles here until his father should return to Paris. Charles came the day before yesterday, and that is the whole story."

"And M. Etienne Rambert joins him here to-morrow?" said the Abbé.

"That is so----"

* * * * *

The Marquise de Langrune would have given other information about her young friend had he not come into the room ju

ie La Verde's house in Forty-seventh street, disguised as a plumber.

The room which she had formerly occupied was nearly in the same condition in which it had been found on the morning after the murder, and a careful search offered no immediate suggestion to the detective.

From the sleeping room, he passed to the parlor floor, where he inspected all of the window-catches and appliances, casings, and panels.

Again without result.

Presently, he approached the stairs which led from the parlor floor to that below.

The door of communication was at the foot of the stairs, and was both locked and chained on the inner, or parlorfloor side.

There was nothing faulty about either the lock, chain, or door. They were evidently perfect, and he turned his attention to the stairs.

Stair-ways are convenient arrangements through which to construct a secret passage-way, and Nick never neglected them.

Suddenly he made a discovery. The third step from the bottom was not secu

steel bars. "Depend upon it, though, he feels this more than he shows. Why, it's the only friend he ever had in the world--or ever will have, in all probability. However, it's no business of mine," with which comforting reflection he began to whistle as he turned over the pages of the private day-book of the firm.

It is possible that his son's surmise was right, and that the gaunt, unemotional African merchant felt an unwonted heartache as he hailed a hansom and drove out to his friend's house at Fulham. He and Harston had been charity schoolboys together, had roughed it together, risen together, and prospered together. When John Girdlestone was a raw-boned lad and Harston a chubby-faced urchin, the latter had come to look upon the other as his champion and guide. There are some minds which are parasitic in their nature. Alone they have little vitality, but they love to settle upon some stronger intellect, from which they may borrow their emotions and conclusions at second-hand. A strong, vigorous bra

words knifed out at me.

I pulled my bottom lip. "Looks like the bastard shot you from behind, too."

Billings made fists of his dead hands and pounded the arms of the chair. "I want him!"

Chapter 3

"All right," I said. "How'd it happen?"

Mr. Billings looked uncomfortable as he squeaked around in his seat. I knew the look; he was about to be fairly dishonest with me.

"You must realize the importance of--confidentiality." His eyes did a conscientious little roll of self-possession until they came to rest on me again, quivering and uncertain like bad actors. They were indefinite and restless on either side of his hatchet nose. Perfectly unconvincing so far.

"You may not believe this, but under all this makeup, I'm a god-damned angel," I sneered. "Besides, there are few people who take my word seriously." I flashed him a quick idiot grin.

"May I ask?" The dead man nervously pulled out a package of ci

"Well, to make a long story short, I used to find the little man in his place every morning, always with his black bag, and for nigh unto four months never a day passed without his having his three hours' drive and paying his fare like a man at the end of it. I shifted into new quarters on the strength of it, and was able to buy a new set of harness. I don't say as I altogether swallowed the story of the doctors having recommended him on a hot day to go about in a growler with both windows up. However, it's a bad thing in this world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at it never put myself out o' the way to find out what the little game was. One day, I was driving up to my usual place of dropping him--for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular beat every morning--when I saw a policeman waiting, a perky sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the arms of the 'bobby.'

"'I arrest you, John Malone,' says the policeman.

"'On what charge?' he answers as cool as a turnip.

"'On the charge of forging Bank of

r yourself a remarkably lucky girl?"

The governess lifted her head from its stooping attitude, and staredwonderingly at her employer, shaking back a shower of curls. They werethe most wonderful curls in the world--soft and feathery, alwaysfloating away from her face, and making a pale halo round her head whenthe sunlight shone through them.

"What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Dawson?" she asked, dipping hercamel's-hair brush into the wet aquamarine upon the palette, and poisingit carefully before putting in the delicate streak of purple which wasto brighten the horizon in her pupil's sketch.

"Why, I mean, my dear, that it only rests with yourself to become LadyAudley, and the mistress of Audley Court."

Lucy Graham dropped the brush upon the picture, and flushed scarlet tothe roots of her fair hair; and then grew pale again, far paler thanMrs. Dawson had ever seen her before.

"My dear, don't agitate yourself," said the surgeon's wife, soothingly;"you know that nobody asks you to marry Sir

like anything better than being moddley-coddleyed.'

With the check upon him of being unsympathetically restrained in agenial outburst of enthusiasm, Mr. Jasper stands still, and lookson intently at the young fellow, divesting himself of his outwardcoat, hat, gloves, and so forth. Once for all, a look ofintentness and intensity--a look of hungry, exacting, watchful, andyet devoted affection--is always, now and ever afterwards, on theJasper face whenever the Jasper face is addressed in thisdirection. And whenever it is so addressed, it is never, on thisoccasion or on any other, dividedly addressed; it is alwaysconcentrated.

'Now I am right, and now I'll take my corner, Jack. Any dinner,Jack?'

Mr. Jasper opens a door at the upper end of the room, and disclosesa small inner room pleasantly lighted and prepared, wherein acomely dame is in the act of setting dishes on table.

'What a jolly old Jack it is!' cries the young fellow, with a clapof his hands. 'Look here, Jack; tell me; whos

el path.

"Who on earth are you?" he gasped, trembling violently.

"I am Major Brown," said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action.

The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered wildly, "Come down--come down here!"

"At your service," said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.

The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight.

"For heaven's sake," he said, "don't mention jackals."

Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter.

The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and peacock

with anallowance from his patron, and (it is generally agreed) madeacquaintance with the money-lenders. He was supposed, by hispatron and any others who inquired, to be "writing"; but what hewrote, other than letters asking for more time to pay, has neverbeen discovered. However, he attended the theatres and musichalls very regularly--no doubt with a view to some seriousarticles in the "Spectator" on the decadence of the Englishstage.

Fortunately (from Mark's point of view) his patron died duringhis third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted.From that moment his life loses its legendary character, andbecomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with themoney-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvestingof others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized theArts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett nolonger wrote for money; editors were now offered freecontributions as well as free lunches; publishers were givenagreements f

all just mention; it was at the time whenpress warrants were issued, on the alarm about Falkland Islands.The woman's husband was pressed, their goods seized for some debtsof his, and she, with two small children, turned into the streetsa-begging. It is a circumstance not to be forgotten, that she wasvery young (under nineteen), and most remarkably handsome. Shewent to a linen-draper's shop, took some coarse linen off thecounter, and slipped it under her cloak; the shopman saw her, andshe laid it down: for this she was hanged. Her defence was (I havethe trial in my pocket), "that she had lived in credit, and wantedfor nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband from her;but since then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give herchildren to eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she mighthave done something wrong, for she hardly knew what she did." Theparish officers testified the truth of this story; but it seems,there had been a good deal of shop-lifting ab