Part 25 (1/2)

On such a night he had retired early, and was restlessly tossing on his bed when he heard a familiar voice outside the front door of the flat.

The concierge was talking to some one, who was enquiring for a Monsieur Designe. The concierge said: ”There is no one of that name living here, sir, and I do not remember seeing any one such as you describe.”

”Who lives in this flat?” asked the voice.

The concierge replied: ”Monsieur Vach.e.l.le, sir, a very quiet gentleman, sir. I think he is from Brittany, sir. He speaks French, but with a slight provincial accent.”

Monsieur Henri Vach.e.l.le was the a.s.sumed name under which Raife was living in the Rue Lafayette.

Springing from his bed, he hastily pushed aside a sliding panel, by means of which he was able to see, through a combination of mirrors, who was in the pa.s.sage. It was true. He was not mistaken. The concierge was talking to Detective-inspector Herrion.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE BEGINNING OF THE REVENGE.

Raife's mind was already perturbed by the reflections it had undergone.

The thought of Herrion searching for Lesigne outside his flat was more than he could tolerate. Hastily dressing, he let himself out of the door of the second flat, and, calling a taxi, drove to Doctor Malsano's rooms.

No one can, for long, be the a.s.sociate of thieves without acquiring their cunning. To play eavesdropper is a common precaution on the part of thieves. Raife overheard the doctor talking to Denoir, and the words had a sinister sound in his ears. It was the doctor speaking. ”You shall have your revenge all right. I will see to that.”

Denoir's high-pitched voice responded. ”Yes, doctor, that big brute of an Englishman hit me. Hit me with his fists. I would like to shoot him.” Raife rang a bell, and the doctor opened the door. There was surprise on the face of the ex-officer when Raife confronted them. To show surprise was not part of the doctor's stock-in-trade. So, with urbanity, he greeted his guest. ”Ah, Mr Vach.e.l.le! You are a late visitor. Come in. To what do I owe the honour?”

Rather curtly, Raife replied: ”I must talk to you to-night, doctor.

Something has occurred.”

”Does it concern Mr Denoir?”

”No. It does not concern him.”

”Very well, I bid you good-night, Mr Denoir,” said the doctor, turning to that gentleman.

Mr Denoir retired, bowing low to both the other men.

”Come in, Mr Vach.e.l.le, or, as I may call you in here, Sir Raife,” added the doctor.

Raife was not in the mood to be trifled with and snapped out: ”I'm not so sure of that. I heard what you said to that fellow Denoir just now.”

”_Suaviter in modo, fort.i.ter in re_” was the doctor's motto in business, and unctuously he replied: ”Ah! that was nothing. The fellow was in a rage. You thrashed him and, naturally, he doesn't like it. I only said that to soothe him. He knows a good deal, and can be dangerous, you know. So I thought it best to soothe him. You quite understand, don't you, Sir Raife?”

Somehow, when the doctor undertook to explain a thing away, it all seemed so reasonable. Raife's anger vanished in a smile. When they were seated and some of the doctor's best cognac had been produced, Raife told how he had heard and seen the detective, Herrion, outside his door, and overheard him ask for Lesigne.

The doctor raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Raife continued: ”I must give it up. I can't have that clever little fellow hounding me down. It will never do. You can bet he's been hunting for me all over Europe. He'll find me, too.”

The doctor soothed the young man, as he would soothe a child. ”Now, Sir Raife, don't you fear. They call him a Scarlet Pimpernel, don't they?

He's been trying to catch me for a dozen years. He hasn't succeeded, and he won't. Ha! ha!” Raife left late and returned in a taxi to his flat. Once he was in his room his spirit returned to him, and he determined, at all costs, to abandon his hateful life and return to his own form of civilisation.

In the morning he was busy packing a bag, and the floor was strewn with articles of clothing, when Gilda entered, exclaiming: ”Hullo, Raife!

Packing up? Where are you going?”

His mood remained determined, and he almost snarled: ”Going? I've gone, it seems to me. Gone clean to the devil! I'm going away.”