No. II.—A LITTLE SMOKE.
LOOKING back on my startling experience, I come to the conclusion that in the whole of England there were probably few men in stranger position than I, Rupert Phenays, when, on a certain dull February morning, I found myself, after my brief visit to Paris, once more back in London. In that visit all my life had been changed. I had gone to Paris to see my greatest friend, who, in struggling to tell me a terrible and important secret, had died. Agents of the French Secret Service believed me to be in possession of this great secret, and in consequence my life was in danger. Such was the state of affairs. Already I had been within an ace of being hurled into eternity; what further dangers were in store for me it was impossible to tell.
When I arrived at my comfortable rooms in Half Moon Street I owned to a momentary sensation of relief, but this was of short duration. My fears with regard to the future quickly returned, and I determined to put the whole matter before my lawyer, Mr. Charles Tempest, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and take his advice.
I called on Tempest soon after breakfast; he was within and saw me almost immediately. I told him of the curious position in which I found myself, and I could see that at first he was almost unable to take my communication seriously. It was not until I had driven home fact after fact that he assumed his normal professional attitude.
"Now for your advice, sir," I said. "I do not know anyone in such a deplorable position as I find myself in. All the British Government and Scotland Yard combined cannot prevent my assassination by desperadoes. Is it likely that the persecution will be continued?"
"It is certainly possible," replied Tempest. "The attempt already made on your life is sufficient to show you that these people are in earnest. Your position is, I take it, this. You are supposed by the agents of the French Secret Service to be in possession of a great secret, and nothing you can say will convince them to the contrary."
"That is so."
"In reality you have no secret whatever?"
"Precisely."
"It is the lady you call Mademoiselle Delacourt whom you principally fear?"
"Yes."
"You believe that she is one of the agents of the French Secret Service?"
"Yes."
"There is little doubt that you are in danger," continued Tempest. "The issues, you see, are considerable; they are international, and lives are cheap when these things hang in the balance. Well, you have two courses open to you. One, to take no notice at all and go on with your usual life—the other, to disappear. The first offers the greatest danger to yourself, and the second may seem a trifle cowardly, but in your position and circumstances I should quietly drop out of sight. Go to some remote part of Europe, amuse yourself with your favourite occupation, sketching, and wait there until the thing blows over."
"I do not like the idea," I answered. "I should be, to all intents and purposes, a sort of escaped criminal, except that in my case the situation would be reversed, for the criminals would be hunting down the innocent man. Thank you for your advice. Tempest, but at present I like neither alternative which you have suggested, and yet I have no third plan to propose for myself. Is it possible that the law can do nothing to help me?"
"Nothing; yours is probably a unique situation in the annals of circumstance."
I could not help sighing in self-pity.
"I am only five-and-twenty," I said, "and at any moment my life may be taken by some low brute."
"I pity you, my dear fellow, but what is to be done?"
"I am like a man in a nightmare," I answered. The whole thing is horrible."
"Take my advice, Phenays, and leave England. I can watch your case in this country, and will employ a good detective for the purpose. Now, think over what I have been saying and let me know when you have made your plans."
I left Tempest's office in profound depression. It was something, at any rate, to know the exact, crude, legal opinion of my position, which briefly amounted to this: I was liable at any moment to be assassinated.
Piccadilly and Pall Mall looked bright and cheerful as usual, but as I passed through the familiar crowd I shuddered more than once; my assassin might turn up at any corner, he might lay his hand on me at any moment, anywhere. The thought was enough to upset the stoutest nerves.
I entered my club, ordered lunch, and sat down to eat. I had barely begun when I heard a voice behind me exclaim—
"My dear Phenays!"
A hand was laid on my shoulder. I swung round. Before me stood my old friend Jack Tracey, whom I had not seen for nearly four years. He was a civil engineer, and had been abroad for some time, in Ceylon, laying some electric tramways.
"Just the very man I want," he cried. "I got home last week and found another billet waiting for me. This time it is in Portugal. I am looking out for a mate to come with me. I know that you are a lazy sort of dog, also that you have nothing special to do—will you come? Lovely climate—beautiful scenery, and lots for you to paint; for my work will be in Cintra, about the most lovely spot in Europe—just the place for you to sketch in. The Portuguese Government are going to run a new road alongside one of the mountains, and the work has been given to our firm, to the honour and glory of Cooper's Hill. Just lunching? I will join you; I am as ravenous as a hawk."
He took a seat at my table. His bronzed, honest face and breezy heartiness cheered me, and I was genuinely glad to see him again.
"When do you want to start?" I asked.
"The day after to-morrow. Is that too early for you? If you really make up your mind to come, I dare say I can put off for a day or two to suit you."
"Give me a little time to consider, my dear fellow. I never saw such a chap as you, always just the same, bursting with energy, enthusiasm, and impatience."
"I do not care what you call me, provided you come, Phenays. I want a mate, and you and I have always got on well together. Now, make up your mind and be sensible."
I finished my lunch without further remark; but while I ate, my thoughts were busy. Here, indeed, was a chance. Why should I not go? I should have just the companion I liked best, I should escape the east winds of the spring, and have a good excuse for that flitting which Tempest had advised me to undertake.
As we chatted and talked together, Tracey recounted all his experiences, and while I listened to him I made up my mind. Yes, I would leave England the day after to-morrow, and, taking the Royal Mail to Lisbon, escape from my persecutors—they surely would not follow me into Portugal. It had always been one of my greatest wishes to see Cintra, and here was the opportunity.
Two hours later I once more reached Tempest's office, and there told him that I had made my plans.
"The way of escape has come, and I have not sought for it," I remarked. "Such an opportunity ought not to be missed."
"It is the very thing," he replied, "and I am heartily glad, for your sake, Phenays. But now I will tell you what we had better do. It is most important that you and I should keep up a certain communication one with the other. I have already put a detective on your affairs. He is a capital fellow, and will watch things from this side of the water. By to-night's post I will send you a key of a private cipher, in which I can communicate with you if important news reaches me."
I agreed to this, and went back to my rooms to make necessary arrangements for my departure.
I had just settled down after dinner to write some letters when my servant entered.
"A lady to see you, sir," he said, handing me a card.
I started in surprise. What woman—unless, indeed, the terrible Mademoiselle Delacourt—took the slightest interest in me? I had neither mother nor sister, neither wife nor sweetheart. I glanced at the card which the man had given to me. The name I saw written upon it dispelled all thought of Mademoiselle. Miss Cecil Hamilton was a lady I had never heard of before.
"Show Miss Hamilton in," I said.
The next moment a slightly-built girl, with a dark face and beautiful eyes, entered the room. I rose and bowed; she bowed also to me. There was a deprecating, almost frightened look about her whole appearance which disarmed my anger.
"I am speaking to Mr. Phenays?" she said in a tentative voice.
"Yes," I answered. "Will you sit down?"
I pushed a chair towards her, but she did not take it. She continued to stand, laying one slender hand Tightly on the back of the chair.
"I have much to apologise for," she said. "My errand is distasteful and unpleasant. I am the bearer of a message from a lady, Mademoiselle Delacourt, whom you met in Paris."
"I do not wish to have any further communication with that lady," I interrupted, speaking hotly.
She held up her hand, as if to entreat my patience.
"I must deliver my message," she said. "I am Miss Delacourt's greatest friend. I am an English girl by birth, but have spent most of my life in Paris. In order to prove my identity, it will be sufficient for me to say that I am fully acquainted with your position as regards the secret entrusted to you by your late friend Mr. Escott, and which secret should have been given to Mademoiselle Delacourt."
Here she stopped speaking and looked earnestly at me. Her eyes were kindly and compassionate. Her lips slightly trembled.
"I am sorry for you," she said. "You are so young, and unless you accede to my request your fate is so terrible."
"I can do without your pity, Miss Hamilton," I answered. "Please tell me at once why Mademoiselle has presumed to send you to visit me."
"Because she also is sorry for you, Mr. Phenays. Because it has occurred to us both, that, although you have already refused to put yourself into a position of safety, yet on mature consideration you will be willing to discharge your duty to your friend's memory and so act as a man of honour."
It was with difficulty I could restrain a burst of indignation.
"Mademoiselle wishes you to communicate your secret to me. Will you do so?"
"I will not," I replied. "Forgive me if I speak frankly, but you have intruded on me in what I consider an unwarrantable manner, and this is no moment for courtesy. Tell Mademoiselle that I possess no secret, and am therefore incapable of communicating what I do not know. Tell her also that I could, if necessary, throw light on a recent occurrence, in the neighbourhood of Paris, which would be by no means to her credit. Tell her, further, that at any instant I could put her within the arm of the law. And finally tell her that there is a law in England, if not in France, by which redress can be claimed for personal annoyance."
At these words, to my amazement and distress, the girl fell on her knees.
"It is for your sake, believe me, it is for your sake," she pleaded. "I can understand your indignation, and forgive it. Please reconsider things. You will regret this—oh, terribly—if you do not. Please change your mind. Do you think I like forcing myself upon you? I beg of you to tell me your secret, because I have your true interest at heart."
"It is unpleasant to be rude to a lady," I replied, "but I must ask you, Miss Hamilton, to leave me. I have one answer to give to Mademoiselle, and that is, an emphatic 'No.' I have no secret; and if I had, she is the last person on earth to whom I would, tell it."
As I spoke I rang the bell. My servant entered.
"Show this lady downstairs," I said.
She left me without a word. After she had gone I sent a line to Tempest to acquaint him with my interview. I received the following reply—
"Do nothing but get away," were his brief and emphatic words.
All the next day I was busy packing and settling my affairs, and the following morning, at eight o'clock, Tracey and I, with my large Newfoundland dog Zulu, had left Charing Cross en route for Portugal. It was only at the last moment that I decided to take Zulu with me. He was a splendid animal, and had been my constant companion since his puppyhood. Our journey to Cintra took place without any adventure, and when we had put up at Lawrence's comfortable hotel I congratulated myself on having left England and France so far behind. I surely must be safe in this remote corner of the world. It was therefore with an elation of heart that I received my first impressions of the charming spot where Tracey's work lay.
The little village was situated close to the base of a range of granite mountains, the extreme continuation of the Estrella. The mountains were clothed with verdure and trees of every variety and size. Towering above us, on twin peaks, stood an old ruined Moorish castle and the new royal castle of the Pena.
We arrived at Cintra about midday, and immediately after lunch we started out to climb to the Moorish castle in company with the Portuguese overseer, who was anxious to show Tracey the site of the projected new road. While they were talking business I had time to take in the romantic loveliness and exquisite richness of the colouring around me. The trees were just budding, birds were singing, and the air was full of the sweet scent of heliotrope that hung in clusters on the walls of the quintas as we climbed past them. I felt light-hearted as I had not been since my terrible adventure in Paris. I saw before me months of undisturbed enjoyment, painting among these enchanting hills and dales, for surely the most inveterate enemy would scarcely follow an inoffensive and innocent man to this remote part of Portugal.
I recall my sensations on this first day very vividly, because of the darker recollections which were so soon to follows.
The next morning Tracey and I started off again to the site of his work. Already some Portuguese labourers were busy clearing timber and blasting rocks. The latter operation interested me considerably. A deep hole was drilled into the centre of a boulder, into this a handful of dynamite was poured—then a little moss was pushed on the top, and the fuse inserted. After it was lit we scrambled away to a safe spot. In a couple of minutes a terrific roar rent the air, and the great granite boulder lay split into half a dozen fragments.
I had spent over a week at Lawrence's Hotel, and a picture which I was painting was in full progress, my life was happy, my days fully occupied, when one evening, at a single blow, all sense of security was shattered. Tracey and I were returning home, when we saw standing on the balcony of the little hotel the slight and graceful figure of Miss Hamilton.
"Good Heavens!" I could not help exclaiming; the blood rushed back to my heart and I felt my face turning cold.
My violent start and words of consternation caused Tracey to turn and glance at me in astonishment.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Do you see that lady standing there?"
"I see a remarkably pretty girl. Is she an old flame, Phenays? In the name of Fortune, what is the matter with you?"
"I saw her once before," I gasped. "I hoped never to meet her again. What has she come for?"
"How can I tell you? I presume visitors are allowed to stay at the hotel without our being consulted."
"If you knew all" I began.
But I had scarcely spoken the words before Miss Hamilton, having seen us both, waved her hand to me with a gesture of recognition, and the next instant was tripping down the steps of the hotel to meet us.
"Mr. Phenays," she exclaimed, "by what good fortune do we meet? How do you do? Pray introduce me to your friend."
Her manner was so frank and pleasant, the expression in her eyes so joyous and unshaded by embarrassment, that in spite of myself I began to think it a hideous dream that this pretty girl had ever come to me to plead for Mademoiselle Delacourt. I replied to her stiffly, however, and when she glanced in Tracey's direction gave the necessary introduction with marked unwillingness.
"Oh, what a lovely dog!" she said as Zulu came up.
The next moment she had dropped on her knees by the dog, clasped her arms round his neck, and printed a kiss on his broad forehead. To these blandishments Zulu immediately succumbed, although, as a rule, he was extremely distant to strangers; he licked Miss Hamilton's hand, wagged his bushy tail, and when she slowly returned to the hotel, to my still greater amazement, he left us to follow her.
"Your friend, or your enemy, or whatever you like to call her, seems to have considerable power over the dog world," said Tracey. But what is up, Phenays? You look as if you had got a shock."
"So I have; and perhaps I'll tell you to-morrow, perhaps I'll keep it to myself. God help me! I do not know what to do."
"Your nerves are unstrung; you had better have some dinner and forget your trepidations," said Tracey, with a dash of impatience.
There was nothing for it but to follow his advice. At table d'hôte Miss Hamilton dined with us. She said quite frankly that she had a passion for travelling, had come by sea to Lisbon, and was making a brief tour through Portugal en route for Spain.
"I shall say here for two or three days," she remarked. "Cintra is the most lovely spot I have ever seen in my life."
Tracey was evidently much taken with her; he was quite enthusiastic when he and I paced up and down the terrace for our evening smoke. He now asked me in wonder what I knew about her.
"She visited me in London," I answered. "The purport of her visit I prefer not to talk about."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Keep your secret, Phenays," he remarked. "Whatever you may know about her, I protest that Miss Hamilton is as charming a girl as I have often seen. I have promised her that she shall accompany us to-morrow to see some of the blasting operations; she is much interested in them."
Early the following morning I arose, and seeing Miss Hamilton up and walking in the direction of the shore, I resolved to follow her. Zulu, of course, accompanied me.
"Miss Hamilton," I cried as I drew near.
She stopped, turned, and looked me full in the face.
"How do you do, Mr. Phenays?" she remarked. "Oh, this lovely dog!"
Again all her attention was absorbed by the Newfoundland, who pressed close to her, wagged his tail, and licked her small hand.
"I want to ask you a direct question," was my next remark. "Why have you followed me here?"
"Our meeting at Lawrence's Hotel is a coincidence," she said. "Make what you like of it."
"Then you have not followed me?"
She glanced at me for a moment.
"No," she said.
"I do not believe you," I replied. "You are telling me a lie."
When I said this the colour swept into her face. She had been looking at me, now she turned away. The action was significant. I was certain now of what I was almost sure of before. She had come to Cintra because I was there, for what ghastly purpose Heaven only knew.
I would have questioned her further, but just then Tracey made his appearance. He was evidently more than attracted by Miss Hamilton. Her gentle words, her pretty, well-trained voice, her graceful actions, impressed this rough, good-hearted fellow in a way which amazed me.
"What are our plans for to-day?" he asked in a genial voice. "I, of course, shall be busy with my work, but if you would really like to see the blasting, Miss Hamilton, I will promise to look after you. You, Phenays, and I can lunch together just on the spot where Phenays is painting his celebrated picture."
"Oh, you are an artist, Mr. Phenays?" she asked, and she gave me a gentle and what looked like a beseeching glance. "Your plan is delightful, Mr, Tracey," she continued; "let us carry it out to the letter."
Tracey grew now almost boisterous. We interviewed our landlady, with the result that we were provided with an excellent luncheon-basket, and immediately after breakfast we started for our day's expedition.
I went to my accustomed place, sat down and made arrangements to continue my painting. I gazed right across the valley at the glorious scene which I was endeavouring to depict; my palette was in my hand, my brushes lay near. All of a sudden I missed the dog. Where was he? It was the habit of this faithful creature to lie at my feet during the long hours that I was employed over my work, and never for an instant to leave me. His absence puzzled me, until I remembered his extraordinary penchant for Miss Hamilton. Could it be possible that he was with her? At lunch time this turned out to be the case, for Miss Hamilton, Tracey, and the dog appeared together.
"Ah, Zulu," I cried, pretending to be angry with the handsome creature, "you have forsaken me for the first time in your life."
As I said the words I noticed a peculiar flash of satisfaction in Miss Hamilton's eyes. She was in high spirits and insisted on opening the luncheon-basket and acting as hostess. We two young men were as children in her hands. She was so gentle, bright, picturesque, and graceful that even I forgot my alarms and enjoyed myself thoroughly. After lunch Tracey rose.
"It is hard to tear myself away, but Duty calls," he exclaimed. "Are you coming back," he added, looking at Miss Hamilton, "or will you watch Phenays for a time?"
"I will follow you presently with Zulu," she answered, "but just now I should like to watch Mr. Phenays."
Tracey went off, and Miss Hamilton and I were alone. The dog lay at her feet. Now and then her pretty hand touched his black head, now and then she looked at me without speaking—her attitude was one of repose and contentment.
"How well you paint!" she said suddenly.
"This is the hobby of my life," I answered. "I should, indeed, think small beer of myself if I did not do it fairly well."
"You are, perhaps, a professional artist, Mr. Phenays?"
"No," I replied, "I am an amateur. I have never earned my bread—I have enough money to live on."
"Ah, lucky you!" she replied.
"I do not agree with you," I answered shortly. "The man who has enough money to live on is deprived of the most powerful stimulus which can animate the human race. He need not work to live, therefore he scarcely works at all. But there," I added, reading a curious expression in her eyes, "I have done for to-day."
I put down my palette, collected my brushes, and, putting them back in their case, looked full at her.
"When are you going away?" I asked.
"Do not you like to have me here?"
"Frankly, no."
"That means that you are afraid of me."
I was silent.
"Mr. Phenays," she said gently, "I did not mean to say a word, but your question and your attitude towards me force me to speak. You dislike my presence at Cintra, you resent it. Cintra is your hiding-place, and I have come to it."
I shook my head when she said that Cintra was my hiding-place. She gazed back at me and laughed, then she said abruptly—
"You need not deny it. You say that I have followed you here, I say that you have come here to hide; that means that you are afraid. Now, Mr. Phenays, I am sorry for you. It is a pity that one so young and good-looking, and with enough money to live on, should needlessly endanger his life—yes, I repeat the word, his life. I will go to-morrow morning if you will confide to me that small secret which you refused to communicate to Mademoiselle Delacourt."
I rose now and bent over Miss Hamilton, who was still seated on the ground.
"You think me a coward," I said, "but I am not quite so bad as that. Listen. The subject to which you have alluded must be in the future a closed book between us. I decline to discuss it—you are not to allude to it. Now, what do you think of this view? Come and stand just here and see what I am making of it."
She rose and entered into a critical and very intelligent dissertation with regard to my picture. Soon afterwards we both wended our way in the direction where Tracey was busy superintending the making of the new road.
Notwithstanding my growing anxiety, the evening passed cheerfully. Miss Hamilton had brought her guitar, and she sang Spanish ditties, to her own accompaniment, with excellent taste. Tracey was in greater raptures with our visitor than ever.
"I tell you what it is, old fellow," I could not help exclaiming, when we found ourselves alone, "you had better look before you leap. The next thing I shall hear is that you have fallen in love with Cecil Hamilton."
"Is Cecil her Christian name?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I saw it on her card."
"In this hotel?"
"No, before I came to Portugal."
"Phenays, won't you explain this mystery?"
"I hope I may never need to," was my answer. "But, Tracey, one word of warning. Whoever you lose your heart to, do not let Cecil Hamilton be the girl."
He laughed, then he sighed.
"I never intend to marry; I would not tie myself to a woman for all creation, but I may as well own that if I could see myself conducted to the altar for the sake of any woman, it would be for that of the pretty girl who is now at the hotel."
A few days went by, and my sketch progressed. Miss Hamilton did not leave Cintra, and Zulu became more and more attached to her. We two young men and this dark-eyed, pretty girl now spent the greater part of our days together; in the evening she sang to us. Tracey was like a moth coming ever nearer and nearer to the candle. Beyond these small facts nothing happened in the least interesting.
Another week went by, and a morning dawned with bright sunshine and cloudless sky. I had got up rather earlier than usual, intending to continue my picture before the sun got too hot, when the waiter entered the dining-saloon and handed me a telegram. I tore it open, my heart quickened with a sense of alarm. It was in cipher and was signed "Tempest." I quickly took out my copy of the key and translated the words, which ran as follows:—
"You are in the utmost danger. Enemy has been close to you since you left England.—Tempest."
I sank into a chair and grasped the paper in my hand. It did not need Tempest's words to tell me where the danger lay. Even a pretty girl, if employed by your enemies, can be ruthless and desperate. I felt a sick sensation round my heart. The inability to know from what direction the blow would fall was the worst of my trial. Till now I had refrained from telling Tracey a word of my extraordinary position, but on receipt of the telegram I determined to take him into my confidence. Perhaps he might help me. I sought his room and found him dressing. As piece by piece I communicated all the facts of my strange story, I observed a succession of changes passing over his face. First of all surprise, then incredulity, and last, as I showed him the telegram, a grave expression.
"What am I to do?" I cried. "This is fact, remember."
"So it appears," he answered. "You are a nice sort of companion to go about with." Here he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Never mind, old man," he continued, "I will stick to you through thick and thin; but do for Heaven's sake get the idea, that poor little Cecil Hamilton is mixed up in this affair, out of your head."
"By her own showing she is in communication with Miss Delacourt," I answered.
"That may be; but for any vulgar violence, any danger to your life, she would be the last person employed. If I were you, I would try to keep up my pecker, Phenays. We are not in fairyland or the realm of impossibilities; you cannot do any more than you are doing. Take my revolver with you this morning. I shall stay pretty near; and if there is the slightest sign of tricks, we will make it warm for the individual, whoever he may happen to be. Wait till I have had breakfast, and we will go up the mountain as usual. Of course, go on with your picture, it will help to take your mind off this nasty affair; and you have got Zulu, a bodyguard in himself. If it is any sort of vulgar violence, he will account for somebody."
After thinking for a moment or two I resolved to take Tracey's advice. There was, as he said, no help for the present situation, and to sit still with my hands before me meant madness.
Just as he and I were starting for the mountain, Miss Hamilton came into the hall to meet us. She was fully dressed, as if for a journey, and at that moment I saw the hall-porter conveying her luggage down-stairs.
"What!" I exclaimed, "are you off?"
"Yes," she answered. "I go to Lisbon by the next train. I have had a sudden message which obliges me to get to Paris as soon as possible."
Here she gave me a full and very penetrating stare.
"Then we shall not meet again?" I said.
There was unmistakable relief in my tones.
"We are not likely to meet any more," she answered gravely, almost solemnly. She held out her hand. I just touched it; as I did so I felt an extraordinary repugnance seizing me.
"I shall miss you both," she said, "and in especial shall I miss Zulu; but good-bye, don't let me keep you. Au revoir, gentlemen."
She waved her hand in the pretty way she had done when I had first seen her standing on the balcony, and the next instant Tracey, Zulu, and I started for our day's expedition.
"Well, that is a relief!" I could not help muttering.
Tracey shrugged his shoulders.
"I wish you would leave that unfortunate girl out of the thing," he said. "She is not what you think her, of that I am firmly convinced."
I did not reply. We went up the mountain by our usual path, and I soon settled myself in my accustomed nook to continue my sketch.
"There you are, old chap," said Tracey. "Paint away, and good luck to you! I shall be just above you, a hundred yards or so, and I will come down to have a smoke and a chat now and then. I do not wonder you feel capsized, but there is really no possible danger."
He started up the path and disappeared into a thicket of high laurels. I felt little inclined to work, and for half an hour scarcely touched my canvas; but by and by I became once more interested and then completely absorbed. Presently I rose from my stool
[pp. 233, 234 missing in scan ]
"The explosion took place nearly an hour ago," I said. "Why did you not come to me sooner? You are concealing something—what is the matter?"
He did not speak.
"You are concealing something?"
"Yes, oh, my God! yes."
"What, Tracey? Speak, in Heaven's name! It was not that girl—tell me—Miss Hamilton had nothing to do with it?"
"Yes," said Tracey again—"yes."
He spoke in gasps, as though his breath failed him.
"I will tell you," he said. "You must know, and the sooner it is over the better. When the dog rushed to you I saw a girl crouching behind a boulder of rock. She was Miss Hamilton. She was straining her neck and bending forward to watch the movement of the dog. She never saw me. When the report came she clapped her hands to her ears, looked again as though her eyes would start from her head, uttered a shriek, and flew down the mountain in the opposite direction. I followed her like a madman. I called to her to stop. A sort of instinct told me what she was going to do. I knew that she was making for the cliff, just where there is a drop of five hundred feet. She had an advantage of me and she ran like the wind. She got to the edge of the cliff while I was still a good way behind her. How she stopped herself I do not know, but she did. She stood as rigid as a statue, pressed her hand to her heart, turned and shouted to me—
"‘Your friend is alive,' were her words. 'I have failed. Those who belong to the French Secret Service die when they fail'
"With that she was over the precipice. Phenays, old man—I—am—sick."
The great burly fellow fell like a lump of lead at my feet.
Tracey came to himself, and I brought him back to the hotel, and that evening I went with some workmen to discover the body of the miserable girl whose mission it had been to take my life. I found it mangled out of recognition. The next day we buried her on the side of the mountain. That evening Tracey spoke to me—
"I cannot stay here, Phenays; it is no use. I have wired to Cooper's Hill. They must send out another man to complete this job; I leave Cintra to-morrow morning."
"And I go with you," was my answer.