Part 12 (1/2)

”I'll do nothing of the sort. I'd rather see her dead.”

Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited. Upon his dark sallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil look which his companion had only seen once before.

”Listen, Brooker,” he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing close to him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that none might hear them save himself.

”Good G.o.d! Zertho!” cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips, and glaring at him. ”Surely you don't intend to give me away?” he gasped, in a hoa.r.s.e, terrified whisper.

”I do,” was the firm reply. ”My silence is only in exchange for your a.s.sistance. Now you thoroughly understand.”

”Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret! My G.o.d!” he groaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in an att.i.tude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face with trembling hands.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE MISSING MARIETTE.

In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless. Alone in his dingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house in Clifford's Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen from its once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily into the fire. In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; a strange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder, whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortune for her sake.

She had been nearly three months abroad, and although she had written weekly there was an increasing coldness about her letters which sorely puzzled him. Twice only had they met since he left the Court--on the two evenings she and her father had spent in London on their way to the Continent. He often looked back upon those hours, remembering every tender word she had uttered, and recalling the unmistakable light of love that lit up her face when he was nigh. Yet since she had been _en sejour_ on the Riviera her letters were no longer long and gossipy, but brief, hurriedly-written scribbles which bore evidence that she wrote more for the fulfilment of her promise than from a desire to tell of her daily doings, as lovers will.

A dozen times he had read and re-read the letter, then lifting his eyes from it his gaze wandered around the shabby room with its ragged leather chairs, its carpet so faded that the original pattern had been lost, its two well-filled bookcases which had stood there and been used by various tenants for close upon a century, its panelled walls painted a dull drab, and its deep-set windows grimy with the soot of London. The two rooms which comprised this bachelor abode were decidedly depressing even on the brightest day, for the view from the windows was upon a small paved court, beyond which stood the small ancient Hall, the same in which Sir Matthew Hale and the seventeen judges sat after the Great Fire in 1666, to adjudicate on the claims of landlords and tenants of burned houses, so as to prevent lawsuits. An ocean of chimneys belched around, while inside the furniture had seen its best days fully twenty years before, and the tablecloth of faded green was full of brown holes burnt by some previous resident who had evidently been a careless cigarette smoker.

George drew his hand wearily across his brow, sighed, replaced the letter slowly in its envelope, examined the post-mark, then placed it in his pocket.

”No,” he said aloud, ”I won't believe it. She said she loved me, and she loves me still.”

And he poked the fire vigorously until it blazed and threw a welcome light over the gloomy, dismal room.

Suddenly a loud rapping sounded on the outer door, and rising unwillingly, expecting it to be one of his many friends of the ”briefless brigade,” he went and opened it, confronting to his surprise his father's solicitor, Harrison.

”Well, George,” exclaimed his visitor, thrusting his wet umbrella into the stand in the tiny cupboard-like s.p.a.ce which served as hall, and walking on uninvited into the apartment which served as office and sitting-room. ”Alone I see. I'm glad, for I want ten minutes' chat with you.”

”At your service, Harrison,” Stratfield answered, in expectation of a five-guinea brief. ”What is it? Something for opinion?”

”Yes,” answered the elder man, taking a chair. ”It is for opinion, but it concerns yourself.”

George flung himself into the armchair from which he had just risen, placed his feet upon the fender and his hands at the back of his head, as was his habit when desiring to listen attentively.

”Well,” he said, sighing, ”about that absurd provision of the old man's will, I suppose? I'm comfortable enough, so what's the use of worrying over it?”

”But it is necessary. You see, I'm bound to try and find this woman,”

the other answered, taking from his pocket some blue foolscap whereon were some memoranda. ”Besides, the first stage of the inquiry is complete.”

”And what have you discovered?” he asked eagerly. ”I placed the matter in the hands of Rutter, the private inquiry agent, whose report I have here,” answered the solicitor. ”It states that no such person as Madame Lepage is living at 89 Rue Toullier, Paris, but the concierge remembers that an elderly lady, believed to be a widow, once occupied with her daughter a flat on the fourth floor. The man, however forgets their name, as they only resided there a few months. During that time the daughter, whom he describes as young and of prepossessing appearance, mysteriously disappeared, and although a search was inst.i.tuted, she was never found. There was no suspicion of suicide or foul play, but the police at the time inclined to the belief that, possessing a voice above the average, she had, like so many other girls who tire of the monotony of home life, forsaken it and obtained an engagement at some obscure cafe-concert under an a.s.sumed name. Rutter, following up this theory, then visited all the impressarios he could find in an endeavour to discover an artist whose real name was Lepage. But from the first this search was foredoomed to failure, for girls who desire to exchange home life for the stage seldom give their impressarios their correct names, hence no such person as Mariette Lepage could be traced.”

”Then, after all, we are as far off discovering who this mysterious woman is as we ever were,” George observed, glancing at his visitor with a half-amused smile.

”Well, not exactly,” the solicitor answered. ”Undoubtedly the girl who disappeared from the house in the Rue Toullier was the woman for whom we are searching.”

”The letter found on Nelly Bridson is sufficient proof that she's still alive,” said the younger man.