LITMIR.BIZ

      Published by Good Press, 2020

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      EAN 4064066409302

Table of Contents

       No. I.— MADEMOISELLE DELACOURT.

       No. II.—A LITTLE SMOKE.

       No. III.—THE TIGER'S CLAW.

       No. IV.—A CONJURING TRICK.

       No. V.—A GALLOP WITH THE STORM.

       No. VI.—THE LOST SQUARE.

No. I.— MADEMOISELLE DELACOURT.

       Table of Contents

      DEATH had summoned my friend Maurice Escott, and I was called to Paris at a moment's notice. I was thirty years of age, and had led up to that date a lazy and in many respects a good-for-nothing existence. My name was Rupert Phenays. I came of an old family, and had plenty of money for my needs.

      It was on the 5th of February, 1898, that I received the telegram, and little did I guess as I opened it that with one leap I was to spring into a totally new life. I, who had not the slightest experience of danger, whose blood had never been quickened by a single heart-beat into undue excitement, was henceforth to be the victim of a strange mystery. I was to know tragedy, pain, and the extreme of peril.

      I was standing in the bay window of my luxurious sitting-room in Half Moon Street when my servant brought me a telegram on a salver. I tore it open. It ran as follows:—

      "Dying, Come at once—Escott.'"

      I had known Escott all my days. I was fond of him. He was a first-rate fellow in very sense of the word—handsome to look at, brave, and in all his actions straight as a die. Where I was lacking in energy, he was lull of go and spirit. Nevertheless, friends that we were, there was a secret in connection with his life which I had never been able to discover. He was, I knew, a very busy man, but in what sort of manner he occupied his time, or in what way he earned his income, for he had no private means, was a secret he had never divulged. He was strangely, remarkably sensitive on the point, and, knowing that such was the case, I had long ceased to worry him.

      Such a telegram was immediately to be obeyed. I took the night mail to Paris, and early the following morning drove up in hot haste to Escott's apartments in the Rue de Rivoli. The door was opened by my friend's valet, who knew me well.

      "How is your master, Valentine?" I asked.

      The man shook his head.

      "I am sorry to say he is very bad, sir; the doctor does not give the slightest hope. I am glad, Mr. Phenays, that you are in time."

      "Pray let the nurse know that I have arrived," was my next remark.

      The man ushered me into a sitting-room. A moment later a tall young woman dressed as a nurse came in.

      "You are in time, Mr. Phenays. Mr. Escott has been asking for you at intervals all night. He is very ill, but your presence will comfort him."

      "What is the matter?" I asked.

      "The patient is in the last stage of double pneumonia. The doctor, Professor Thesiger, who is attending him, and who is an Englishman, gave up all hope a few hours ago. Will you follow me, sir?"

      The nurse led the way into a darkened room. As soon as I got accustomed to the dim light, I looked on the face of my friend, and knew that both doctor and nurse were right. Escott was breathing with extreme difficulty, and there was a dusky hue under his eyes and round his lips. When I first bent over him, his eyes were shut, but the next instant he opened them with a restless movement, saw me, and a smile lit up his face.

      "Thank God! Rupert, you have come," he said. "I must speak to you at once and alone. I have not a moment to lose. Please leave us, nurse."

      The woman withdrew from the room. When the door had closed behind her, Escott raised himself with some difficulty in bed. A flicker of strength came into his voice, and his eyes grew bright.

      "I have come to the end, old man," he said. "I am within a few moments of solving the great secret. Do not waste time condoling with me; there is something I must tell you quickly. You have often wondered what my life has been. I never told you, but it is necessary to tell you now. I am one of the agents of the British Secret Service."

      I listened to these words in astonishment. I had always heard of the Secret Service, and knew well that to belong to it meant danger and difficulty.

      "You may thank Heaven that up to the present you have known nothing of what I have lived through," continued Escott. "Men in my profession have to obtain their strange knowledge at fearful risks. Yes, my life has been one of danger; and now, Phenays, I am about to transfer that danger to you. You must not shrink nor hesitate; there is no course in honour open to you but to accept the charge which I am about to confide in you. When you know my secret, you, too, will be at the mercy of men without scruple and without conscience. But I put this burden on you, Phenays, because you are an Englishman, and for the sake of our country."

      His voice sank to a whisper. I gave him a spoonful of a restorative which stood near. It revived him, and he continued, his words coming out now in gasps.

      "You will do what I want, Phenays?"

      "Yes," I replied.

      I spoke with earnestness, and my words comforted him.

      "I knew I was right in appealing to you," he said. "Now listen. A fortnight ago it was my misfortune to obtain possession of a political secret of such gravity that if even a suspicion of its existence were breathed, it would cause a European crisis. There is only one who knows that I know this secret. That man is a certain Monsieur Laroque, a French chemist, a man of remarkable learning and power. He is altogether my friend in this matter. Immediately after my death you must go to my cabinet in my sitting-room; you will find a letter there addressed to him. Take it to him and act in concert with him over this grave matter."

      "But what is the secret?" I asked.

      "Listen. I was present, but unknown, a fortnight back, at a secret conference between the President of the French Republic and the agent of the Czar of Russia. The substance of what I heard was that in the event of war between England and the Transvaal, Russia and France would—but come closer. No, do not write anything, for Heaven's sake! it would not be safe. Listen, and do not forget. There are three generals of the French Army, General Romville, General——"

      There was a sudden movement at the door, a few words of entreaty and expostulation fell on our ears, and the next instant a tall girl, with evidences of great excitement on her face, burst into the room.

      The name of General Romville must have fallen on her ears. She rushed to the bedside, and the horror on her face was painful to witness.

      "I am in time," she said. "Send him away, Maurice, and tell me what you want. Tell me what has burdened your last moments!"

      She

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