Part 83 (1/2)

Peter replaced the receiver and turned slowly round. Bernadine was smiling.

”You did well to rea.s.sure your wife, even though it was a pack of lies you told her,” he remarked.

Peter shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

”My dear Bernadine,” he said, ”up till now I have tried to take you seriously. You are really pa.s.sing the limit. I must positively ask you to reflect a little. Do men who live the life that you and I live, trust any one? Am I--is the Marquis de Sogrange here--after a lifetime of experience, likely to leave the safety of our homes in company with a lady of whom we knew nothing except that she was your companion, without precautions? I do you the justice to believe you a person of commonsense. I know that we are as safe in this house as we should be in our own. War cannot be made in this fas.h.i.+on in an over-policed country like England.”

”Do not be too sure,” Bernadine replied. ”There are secrets about this house which have not yet been disclosed to you. There are means, my dear Baron, of transporting you into a world where you are likely to do much less harm than here, means ready at hand, and which would leave no more trace behind than those crumbling ashes can tell of the coal mine from which they came.”

Peter preserved his att.i.tude of bland incredulity.

”Listen,” he said, drawing a whistle from his pocket, ”it is just possible that you are in earnest. I will bet you, then, if you like, a hundred pounds, that if I blow this whistle you will either have to open your door within five minutes or find your house invaded by the police.”

No one spoke for several moments. The veins were standing out upon Bernadine's forehead.

”We have had enough of this folly,” he cried. ”If you refuse to realize your position, so much the worse for you. Blow your whistle, if you will. I am content.”

Peter waited for no second bidding. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew it, loudly and persistently. Again there was silence. Bernadine mocked him.

”Try once more, dear Baron,” he advised. ”Your friends are perhaps a little hard of hearing. Try once more, and when you have finished, you and I and the Marquis de Sogrange will find our way once more to the gun room and conclude that trifling matter of business which brought you here.”

Again Peter blew his whistle and again the silence was broken only by Bernadine's laugh. Suddenly, however, that laugh was checked. Every one had turned toward the door, listening. A bell was ringing throughout the house.

”It is the front door!” one of the servants exclaimed.

No one moved. As though to put the matter beyond doubt, there was a steady knocking to be heard from the same direction.

”It is a telegram or some late caller,” Bernadine declared, hoa.r.s.ely.

”Answer it, Carl. If any one would speak with the Baroness, she is indisposed and unable to receive. If any one desires me, I am here.”

The man left the room. They heard him withdraw the chain from the door.

Bernadine wiped the sweat from his forehead as he listened. He still gripped the revolver in his hand. Peter had changed his position a little and was standing now behind a high-backed chair. They heard the door creak open, a voice outside, and presently the tramp of heavy footsteps. Peter nodded understandingly.

”It is exactly as I told you,” he said. ”You were wise not to bet, my friend.”

Again the tramp of feet in the hall. There was something unmistakable about the sound, something final and terrifying. Bernadine saw his triumph slipping away. Once more this man who had defied him so persistently, was to taste the sweets of victory. With a roar of fury he sprang across the room. He fired his revolver twice before Sogrange, with a terrible blow, knocked his arm upwards and sent the weapon spinning to the ceiling. Peter struck his a.s.sailant in the mouth, but the blow seemed scarcely to check him. They rolled on the floor together, their arms around one another's necks. It was an affair, that, but of a moment. Peter, as lithe as a cat, was on his feet again almost at once, with a torn collar and an ugly mark on his face. There were strangers in the room now and the servants had mostly slipped away during the confusion. It was Sir John Dory himself who locked the door.

Bernadine struggled slowly to his feet. He was face to face with half a dozen police constables in plain clothes.

”You have a charge against this man, Baron?” the police commissioner asked.

Peter shook his head.

”The quarrel between us,” he replied, ”is not for the police courts, although I will confess, Sir John, that your intervention was opportune.”

”I, on the other hand,” Sogrange put in, ”demand the arrest of the Count von Hern and the seizure of all papers in this house. I am the bearer of an autograph letter from the President of France in connection with this matter. The Count von Hern has committed extraditable offenses against my country. I am prepared to swear an information to that effect.”

The police commissioner turned to Peter.

”Your friend's name?” he demanded.