A Maker of History, E. Phillips Oppenheim [early reader books .TXT] 📗

more likely to lead you into trouble. Miss Poynton is with the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. They are of the first nobility in France. Their position as people of honor and circumstance appears undoubted. But nevertheless, if you are allowed to see her I shall be surprised."

The hall-porter approached them, hat in hand.

"A lady to see Monsieur," he announced to Andrew.

Andrew rose and took his companion's arm. He scarcely glanced again towards Duncombe, who followed them out of the room. And there in the hall awaiting them was the young lady from Vienna, quietly dressed in black, but unmistakable with her pretty hair and perfumes. Duncombe watched them shake hands and move away before he could recover sufficiently from his first fit of surprise to intervene. Then a realization of what had happened rushed in upon him. They, too, then, had been to the Café Montmartre, with their obvious Anglicisms, their clumsy inquiries—to make of themselves without doubt the jest of that little nest of intriguers, and afterwards their tool. Duncombe thought of the fruits of his own inquiries there, and shivered. He hurried after the little party, who were apparently on their way to the café.

"Andrew," he said, grasping him by the arm, "I must speak with you alone—at once."

"I see no object in any further discussion between us," Andrew said calmly.

"Don't be a fool!" Duncombe answered. "That woman you are with is a spy. If you have anything to do with her you are injuring Phyllis Poynton. She is not here to give you information. She is at work for her own ends."

"You are becoming more communicative, my friend," Andrew said, with something which was almost a sneer. "You did not talk so freely a few minutes back. It seems as though we were on the eve of a discovery."

"You are on the brink of making an idiot of yourself," Duncombe answered quickly. "You were mad to bring that blundering English detective over here. What the French police cannot or do not choose to discover, do you suppose that they would allow an Englishman to find out—a stranger to Paris, and with an accent like that? If I cannot keep you from folly by any other means I must break my word to others. Come back into the smoking-room with me, and I will tell you why you are mad to have anything to do with that woman."

"Thank you," Andrew answered, "I think not. I have confidence in Mr. Lloyd, my friend here, and I have none in you."

"Andrew!"

"I speak as I feel!"

"Leave me out of the question. It is Phyllis Poynton you will harm. I see that your friend is listening, and Mademoiselle is impatient. Make your excuses for ten minutes, Andrew. You will never regret it."

The detective, who had evidently overheard everything, stepped back to them.

"You will excuse my interfering, sir," he said, "but if this case is to remain in my hands at all it is necessary for me to hear all that Sir George Duncombe has to say. The young lady will wait for a moment. This case is difficult enough as it is, what with the jealousy of the French police, who naturally don't want us to find out what they can't. If Sir George Duncombe has any information to give now," the man added with emphasis, "which he withheld a few minutes ago, I think that I ought to hear it from his own lips."

"I agree entirely with what Mr. Lloyd has said," Andrew declared.

Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He looked around him cautiously, but they were in a corner of the entresol, and no one was within hearing distance.

"Very well," he said. "To save you from danger, and Miss Poynton from further trouble, I am going to break a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to give you the benefit of my own surmises. In the first place, Mr. Lloyd is mistaken in supposing that the French police have been in the least puzzled by this double disappearance. On the contrary, they are perfectly well aware of all the facts of the case, and could have produced Miss Poynton or her brother at any moment. They are working not for us, but against us!"

"Indeed!" Mr. Lloyd said in a tone of disbelief. "And their object?"

"Here is as much of the truth as I dare tell you," Duncombe said. "Guy Poynton whilst on the Continent became the chance possessor of an important State secret. He was followed to France by spies from that country—we will call it Germany—and the young lady who awaits you so impatiently is, if not one of them, at least one of their friends. At the Café Montmartre he gave his secret away to people who are in some measure allied with the secret service police of France. He was kidnapped by them, and induced to remain hidden by a trick. Meanwhile diplomacy makes use of his information, and foreign spies look for him in vain. His sister, when she came to search for him, was simply an inconvenience which these people had not contemplated. She was worked upon by fears concerning her brother's safety to go into hiding. Both have been well cared for, and the report of Guy's death is, I firmly believe, nothing but an attempt to lull the anxieties of the spies who are searching for him. This young woman here may be able to tell you into whose hands he has fallen, but you may take my word for it that she is in greater need of information than you are, and that she is an exceedingly dangerous person for you to discuss the Poyntons with. There are the crude facts. I have only known them a few hours myself, and there is a good deal which I cannot explain. But this I honestly and firmly believe. Neither you nor I nor Mr. Lloyd here can do the slightest good by interfering in this matter. For myself, I am leaving for England to-night."

Duncombe, like most honest men, expected to be believed. If he had entertained the slightest doubt about it he would not have dared to open his mouth. The silence that followed he could understand. No doubt they were as amazed as he had been. But it was a different thing when he saw the expression on Andrew's face as he turned to his companion.

"What do you think of this, Lloyd?" he asked.

"I am afraid, sir," the man answered, "that some of the clever ones have been imposing upon Sir George. It generally turns out so when amateurs tackle a job like this."

Duncombe looked at him in astonishment.

"Do you mean to say that you don't believe me?" he exclaimed.

"I wouldn't put it like that, sir," the man answered with a deprecating smile. "I think you have been misled by those who did not wish you to discover the truth."

Duncombe turned sharply on his heel.

"And you, Andrew?"

"I wish to do you justice," Andrew answered coldly, "and I am willing to believe that you have faith yourself in the extraordinary story you have just told us. But frankly I think that you have been too credulous."

Duncombe lost his temper. He turned on his heel, and walked back into the hotel.

"You can go to the devil your own way!" he declared.

CHAPTER VII SPENCER GETS HIS CHANCE

Spencer tried to rise from the sofa, but the effort was too much for him. Pale and thin, with black lines under his eyes, and bloodless lips, he seemed scarcely more than the wreck of his former self.

His visitor laid his stick and hat upon the table. Then he bowed once more to Spencer, and stood looking at him, leaning slightly against the table.

"I am permitted," he asked gently, "to introduce myself?"

"Quite unnecessary!" Spencer answered.

The Baron shrugged his shoulders.

"You know me?" he asked.

The shadow of a smile flitted across Spencer's face.

"By many names, Monsieur Louis," he answered.

His visitor smiled. Debonair in dress and deportment, there seemed nothing to inspire alarm in the air of gentle concern with which he regarded the man whom he had come to visit. Yet Spencer cursed the languor which had kept him from recovering the revolver which an hour or more before had slipped from underneath his cushion.

"It saves trouble," Monsieur Louis said. "I come to you. Monsieur Spencer, as a friend."

"You alarm me," Spencer murmured.

Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"You are pleased to be witty," he answered. "But indeed I am no such terrible person. It is permitted that I smoke?"

"Certainly," Spencer answered. "If you care for wine or liqueurs pray ring for my servant. I can assure you that it is not by my own will that you find me so indifferent a host."

"I thank you," Monsieur Louis answered. "I think that we will not ring the bell. It would be a pity to disturb an interview to which I have looked forward with so much pleasure."

"L'affaire Poynton?" Spencer suggested.

"Precisely!"

"You have perhaps come to complete the little affair in which so far you have succeeded so admirably?"

"Pray do not suggest such a thing," Monsieur Louis answered deprecatingly. "For one thing I should not personally run the risk. And for another have I not already assured you that I come as a friend?"

"It was then," Spencer answered, "that I began to be frightened."

Monsieur Louis smiled. He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, and calmly lit a cigarette.

"Since you permit, mon ami," he said. "Good! I speak better when I smoke. You are not so ill, I see, but that you retain that charming sense of humor your readers have learnt so well how to appreciate."

"The dose was scarcely strong enough," Spencer answered. "Or perhaps by good fortune I stumbled upon the proper antidote."

"I see that you like plain speaking," Monsieur Louis continued with a gentle smile. "Permit me to assure you then that the dose was quite as strong as we wished. Extremes are sometimes necessary, but we avoid them whenever possible."

"I wonder where it happened," Spencer said reflectively. "I have been on my guard all the time. I have watched my wine and coffee at the cafés, and I have eaten only in the restaurants that I know."

Monsieur Louis did not seem to think the matter important.

"It was bound to happen," he said. "If you had been like your friends—the English baronet and the last two, who are even more amusing—perhaps it would not have been necessary. But you understand—you were beginning to discover things."

"Yes," Spencer admitted. "I was beginning to get interested."

"Exactly! We were forced to act. I can assure you, Monsieur Spencer, that it was with reluctance. The others of whom I have spoken—Sir George Duncombe, Monsieur Pelham, and his toy detective—forgive me that I smile—walk all the time in the palm of our hand. But they remain unharmed. If by any chance they should blunder into the knowledge of things which might cause us annoyance, why, then—there would be more invalids in Paris. Indeed, Monsieur, we do not seek to abuse our power. My errand to you to-day is one of mercy."

"You make me ashamed," Spencer said, with a sarcasm which he took no pains to conceal, "of my unworthy suspicions. To proceed."

"You have sent for Sir George Duncombe to come and see you!"

Spencer was silent for a moment. His own servant unfaithful? It was not possible.

"Well?"

"Even you," the Baron continued, "have not yet solved the mystery of l'affaire Poynton. But you know more than Sir George. Let me recommend that you do not share your knowledge with him."

"Why not?"

"If you do Sir George will at once share your indisposition."

"I begin to understand," Spencer said.

"How otherwise? Send Sir George home. You see the delicacy of our position. It is not so much that we fear Sir George Duncombe's interference, but he again is followed and watched