Passers-By E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The illicit gambling house in the Place Noire was raided by the police in Paris. Several of the gang were killed, one was caught and jailed, and one escaped by shambling off in the guise of a workman, accompanied by a young girl, a dwarf, and a monkey. Gilbert Hannaway, who was wounded as a bystander on the night of the raid, has been searching for the girl for five years but, one evening, he finds her. Lord Ellingham is a peer of the realm, with a successful marriage, and a cabinet position, but he flees England rather than meet with the girl. Jacques Leblun, most brilliant of French detectives, desires to end his illustrious career by landing the long sought „escaped” man from the raid. And what of Ambrose the dwarf and Chicot the monkey? What secrets do they hold?

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER I

There was nothing particularly inviting about the dark, stone-flagged passage, nothing which could possibly suggest a happy hunting-ground for the itinerant seeker after charity. Yet the couple passing wearily along the Strand welcomed it as at least a temporary refuge from the constant admonitions of a very vigilant police. A word and a glance were all that passed between the girl and the atom of deformity who wheeled the small piano. They crossed the sidewalk, and made their way down the inhospitable-looking passage. It led by a somewhat devious route to the Embankment, but at the present moment passers-by were few. On the left-hand side were a couple of shops, dirty, ill-cared for, improvident. On the right, a blank wall; in front, a small section of a great hotel. About halfway down was a gas-lamp, burning with a dim, uncertain luster, feebly reflected through the dirt-encrusted glass. The place had an unattractive and deserted air. Nevertheless the man who had been wheeling the piano brought it to a standstill there, with a little gasp of relief. The girl stood by his side, and for a moment buried her face upon her folded arms, leaning upon the top of the instrument. With a prodigious yawn a small monkey, who had been asleep in a basket, awoke and shook himself. He looked around with an air of plaintive disgust, and would have settled himself down to sleep again but for a pat from his master.

“Sit up, Chicot,” the man ordered. “It’s a poor place, but God knows where one may rest in this city. What do you say, Christine? Is it worth while?”

The girl looked up and down the dark passage. Two boys passed, whistling, without a glance at them. A beggar woman selling matches was the only other person in sight. Nevertheless she produced a roll of music and glanced through it.

“I will sing,” she said. “I must. Some fool may pass this way. Who can tell?”

The man at the piano, deformed, with the long, worn face of a man and the misshapen body of a youth, drew in a little breath which sounded like a hiss, as his fingers wandered over the keys.

“Who can tell?” he muttered, in a voice which sounded singularly deep for such a small creature. “Who can tell, after all? It may be even here that the great adventure should come.”

She turned her back a little upon him, and as he struck the notes she began to sing a familiar ballad. She sang to the bare walls, to the deserted shops, to the rain-soaked flagstones. Chance seemed suddenly to have diverted into other thoroughfares even the insignificant stream of people that sometimes filtered through the little passage. Only the monkey listened, listened with his head a little on one side, and an air of intense, plaintive interest. When she had finished there was a dead silence. Not a soul was in sight.

No remark passed between the two. The woman pushed her hat a little farther back as she bent once more over the music, and one saw something of her face by the light of that ill-looking gas-lamp. She was dark, and whatever good looks might have been hers under normal conditions were temporarily, at any rate, unrecognizable, owing to the ill-kept hair which came low over her forehead, and the bitter, sullen lines of her mouth. She drew another song from the shabby portfolio, and once more she sang.

A messenger boy, passing through, lingered for a moment. A woman with a basket of apples propped it up against the wall, and gave herself a second’s rest, hurrying on, though, when she saw the monkey fingering the little tray that hung from a cord round his neck. Once more the girl finished her song, and as its echoes died away she swept the passage from end to end with her sullen, angry eyes. There was no one in sight. She leaned back against the wall.

Up on the fifth floor of the great hotel, a narrow section of which fronted the passage, a man suddenly pushed open a window and looked down. He saw the rain-soaked pavements, and turned back to the valet who was putting out his clothes.

“It’s a wet night, Fred,” he remarked. “I’ll have my thicker patent shoes, and my opera-hat.”

He was on the point of leaving the window when his eyes chanced to fall upon the little group below. He eyed them at first carelessly enough, and then, as he continued to look, a startling change took place in his face. He leaned forward out of the wide-opened window. His lips were parted, his eyes almost distended. He was like a man who looks upon some impossible vision, a man who is driven to doubt even the evidence of his senses. Intensely, with a rapt air of complete obsession, he stood there, perfectly, rigid, gazing at that little group. He looked at the man, sitting before the crazy instrument, his head bowed, the rain beating upon his threadbare coat. He looked at the girl, leaning back against the wall, motionless as a statue, and yet with that touch of hopelessness about her face which was written large in the features of her companion. He looked at the monkey, who stood with a pitiful air of his own, shaking in his paw the little tray, and gazing up and down the empty passage. He looked at them all fiercely, incredulously, and then an exclamation broke from his lips.

“The girl, the hunchback, and the monkey!” he exclaimed softly. “In London, of all places!”

He turned abruptly back into the room, and without a word of explanation to the valet hurried out into the corridor and rang the bell for the elevator. In a moment or two he was in the passage, and with a whispered breath of relief he saw that the little company was still there. He had caught up a hat as he left the room, and to give himself more the appearance of a casual passer-by he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, and strolled along the passage. As he came, the monkey, the man, and the girl turned their heads. The girl, with something like a despairing shrug of the shoulders, began another song. The man commenced to play. Even the monkey seemed to eye this newcomer hungrily. He walked steadily on, but as he was in the act of passing, he paused, as though aware for the first time of the girl and her song. He went on a few paces and paused again. Finally he took up a position a few yards away, and established himself as an audience. His coming seemed to bring better fortune to the little group. Several other passers-by formed a broken semicircle. The girl sang to them in a hard, unsympathetic voice, flawless as to her notes, but with an indifferent intonation as though the words were flung from her lips against her will. When she had finished, the monkey was on his hind legs before the little gathering of listeners. A few pennies rattled in his tin tray. He paused in front of the man who had descended so suddenly from his room. Gilbert Hannaway thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, only to withdraw them with a little exclamation of annoyance. He drew a step nearer to the girl.

“I am very sorry,” he said. “I wished to give you something for your song, but I have left my money in my room. It is only a short distance off. If you will wait here for a few moments it will give me very great pleasure to offer you something perhaps a little better worth having than these.”

He touched the pennies in the tin tray, and looked up at the girl. Her dark eyes searched his face for a moment doubtfully.

“Thank you,” she said; “it doesn’t seem much use stopping here. Perhaps you’ll give us something next time.”

“No,” he said; “I wish to give you something now. Meanwhile, will you sing one more song?”

A faint surprise, not unmingled with suspicion gleamed in the girl’s dark eyes. “Why do you want to hear me sing?” she asked. “My voice is impossible. You know that.”

“I do not think so,” he answered gently. “If you will sing one more song, I should like to listen. Then I will go to my rooms, and I think that I can satisfy you both.” She looked at him steadfastly. “Where are your rooms?” she asked.

“Close by here,” he answered evasively.

She pointed up to the window out of which he had leaned.

“Was it you,” she asked, “who looked down at us from there?”

He hesitated for a moment, but denial seemed scarcely worth while.

“It was I,” he admitted. “I was just going to change my clothes. That is why I have no money in my pocket.”

“Why did you come down?” she asked.

“I wished to hear you sing,” he answered.

The shadow of a new emotion was in her face. She was afraid. All the time the man by her side was listening with half-closed eyes.

“Was it that only?” she asked. “Had you no other reason?”

The man was called upon to make a decision, and he felt himself unequal to it. They were alone in the passage now, for the other loiterers had passed on. The deformed man, from his seat in front of the piano, the monkey, and the girl were all looking at him. And Gilbert Hanna-way, because he was honest, spoke the truth.

“No,” he said. “I had another reason.”

A word, or was it only a glance, flashed from the girl to the man. He rose to his feet. His seat disappeared. Chicot jumped into his basket. With a slight gesture of stiffness the hunchback once more took hold of the handles of the barrow on which his crazy instrument was placed. The girl turned to join him.

“We do not want your money,” she said. “Please go away.”

Gilbert Hannaway planted himself obstinately before her. “Look here,” he said, “you must not send me away like this. I have been searching for you for years.”

“Absurd!” she declared. “You do not even know who we are.”

“I do not know your names,” he answered. “They do not concern me. And yet I have searched in many places for a hunchback who played the piano, a girl with black hair who sang, and a monkey. Send your thoughts backward a little way. Do you remember the afternoon when you sang in the Place Madeleine?”

Only the girl’s eyes moved, but it was enough. Her companion quietly relinquished the handles of his strange little vehicle. He took a step backward. The newcomer saw nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the girl.

“I have a question to ask you,” he repeated, “and I think you know what it is.”

Then the world spun round with him. The little dark passage began to wobble up and down. The thunder of the sea was in his ears, the girl’s face mocked him. Then there was darkness.

*     *

*

When he came to, he was sitting with his back against the wall, the center of a little group of idlers. A policeman stood by his side, and another, who had been performing first-aid work, was on his knees.

“Feeling better, sir?” the policeman asked.

Hannaway raised his hand to his head.

“I wouldn’t touch it, sir,” the man said. “You have a nasty scalp wound. How did it happen?”

Hannaway, still dazed, looked around him. There was no sign of the hunchback or the monkey or the girl. He drew a little breath and collected his thoughts.

“The pavement is slippery,” he said. “I was hurrying, and I fell. My name is Gilbert Hannaway, and I live in the hotel there. If you will give me your arm, I think I can get back to my rooms.”

He staggered up. With a policeman on either side of him, he made his way slowly back into the hotel from which he had issued a few minutes before.

CHAPTER II

Out once more into the Strand, unnoticed, unsuspected, the little company wound its way. The man, bent almost double, so that his deformity was even exaggerated, pushed his barrow and forged ahead at a speed which was almost incredible. The girl walked by his side with swift, even footsteps, and with downcast head. The monkey slept.

Once the man paused, but the girl shook her head.

“Not again to-night,” she said. “We may as well starve at home as in jail. You strike too hard.”

“It was the wrong man?” he muttered.

“It was the wrong man,” she assented, in dull, lifeless tones. “You know that.”

Down the Savoy hill, along the Embankment, and across Waterloo Bridge they made their unhesitating way. Near the farther end, the girl for the first time paused. She turned around and looked across the river, inky black, to the long sweep of lights which bordered the Embankment. She looked beyond, to where the two great hotels seemed to vie with each other in a blaze of light, reflected far across the gloomy waters. Farther still, to where the Houses of Parliament shone with a somewhat subdued glory. Across the sky beyond hung the golden haze of a million lights, the reflection from the great seething heart of London caught up and mirrored in the clouds. She looked at it steadfastly, with a scowl upon her sullen face.

“So this is London!” she muttered. “I wish–oh! I wish–”

Her companion dropped the handles of the barrow with a little gesture of weariness. He was glad of the moment’s rest. “You wish?” he murmured. “Go on!”

She raised her arms with an impulsive gesture. Her face was suddenly illuminated with a bitter transfiguring light.

“I wish I were a prophetess from behind the ages,” she cried. “I wish I could call down fire and brimstone upon every street and house whose lights go flaring up to the sky. They are not men and women any longer, these people who walk the streets, who jostle us from the sidewalk. They are beasts! They have the mark of the beast upon their foreheads. They throw their pennies with a curse. They hunt for pleasure like wolves. Not one smile, not one have I seen to-day!”

The man, too, looked up at the reddened sky. “And yet,” he muttered, “somewhere underneath there lies fortune–fortune for you, Christine. Gold, rest, luxury,” he added, glancing at her stealthily.

“And for you, too, Ambrose,” said the girl, with a faint softening of her tone.

He picked up the handles of his barrow, avoiding her gaze. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “Perhaps.”

They continued their pilgrimage; the end was not far off. The man turned up a passage with the piano. The girl entered a small shop and made some humble purchases. They met, a few minutes later, in the stuffy hall of a neglected, smoke-begrimed house, in the middle of a row of similar buildings. Silently they made their way into a back sitting-room. The floor was bare of any carpet, the paper hung down in strips from the walls, the wooden mantelpiece knew no ornaments. The table in the middle of the room was covered with a sheet of hard oilskin, stained in many places. The two cane chairs were of odd design. One had only three legs; the other had a hole in the middle, where the cane had worn away. The only sound article of furniture was a horsehair sofa, and of this the springs were almost visible. The girl threw herself upon it with a little sob.

The man watched her for several moments, apparently unmoved. In the room his deformity seemed more apparent. He was less than five feet high, and his head and features were large for a full-grown man’s. His face had gone unshaven for so long that his expression was almost unrecognizable. Yet his eyes seemed soft as he watched the girl, shaking all over now with her sudden storm of grief. Her hat, with its poor little cluster of flowers, had fallen to the floor; her black hair was streaming over her face, pressed hard into the round unsympathetic pillow. Chicot jumped upon the man’s shoulder as he stood and watched; the man caressed him with gentle touch. The girl he left alone.

Presently Ambrose abandoned his watch and commenced to busy himself about the room. He lighted an oil-stove, opened the parcel which the girl had been carrying, and placed its contents in a small frying-pan. From a deal cupboard he produced a tablecloth and some articles of crockery, every one of which he carefully rubbed over with a cloth. Then he slipped out of the room for a minute, and returned with a small bottle of red wine and a bunch of violets, which he arranged in the middle of the table. When all was ready he touched the girl on the shoulder. ristine,” he said softly, “there is supper ready.”

“I will not eat,” she answered sullenly. “It is a pigsty, this place.”

Nevertheless she sat up, and for a moment her face softened when she saw the preparations which he had made. She seated herself ungraciously at the table.

“Wine!” she protested. “It is ridiculous! To-morrow we shall starve for this. Give me some, please. I am shivering.”

He filled her glass. “You should take off your wet jacket,” he urged.

“I cannot,” she answered bitterly. “I threw away my last blouse yesterday. There is nothing on my arms underneath, and they are cold.”

A spasm crossed his face. “We cannot go on like this,” he muttered. “To-morrow I shall steal.”

She shook her head. “It is not easy here,” she said gloomily. “The police are everywhere. Ambrose,” she added, looking across at him steadfastly, “do you think that you hurt him very much this evening?”

Ambrose shook his head. “He was only stunned,” he answered. “He will recover quickly. I saw his face as I struck. I think, Christine, that there will be trouble. He will search again for us.”

She shivered a little. “I am afraid,” she muttered. “Give me some more wine, Ambrose. It warms my blood.”

Obediently he filled her glass. His own was as yet untouched.

“It is–the other one we want,” she continued, dropping her voice a little. “Think what he owes us, Ambrose. He is free and he is rich. I hate him–I hated him from the first; but he shall pay for it. All this time he has hidden, and we have starved. Think of it, Ambrose, think of it!”

The hunchback moved in his chair uneasily.

“We shall never find him,” he muttered. “With four million francs, a man can live like a prince anywhere–even in the far corners of the world. Think of the countries which we can never visit,–South America, the United States, Brazil, Chile, Peru! Our search is a mad thing.”

“I do not believe,” she said, “that he is in any of those places. Ambrose, is London a very large city?”

“The largest in the world,” he answered. “One man in it is lost like a berry upon the hedges. One may seek for a lifetime in vain–and meantime one starves.”

She shook her head. Her expression was sullen but determined. “I will find him,” she declared. “I will seek and seek until the day comes when I see him standing before me.”

“And then?” Ambrose asked softly.

She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling through half-closed eyes. “And then,” she repeated, “the great adventure! It must come then! It shall come!”

*     *

*

Gilbert Hannaway spent his evening in bed, his head bandaged and still painful. Toward midnight he awoke from a long doze and rang for a drink. He was young and strong, and already he was beginning to feel himself again. When the waiter had left the room he lifted the receiver from the telephone which stood by the side of his bed.

“I want the residence of the Marquis of Ellingham,” he said. “It is in Cavendish Square, I believe.”

In a moment the bell tinkled. He took the receiver once more into his hand.

“This is Lord Ellingham’s house,” a quiet voice said. “What do you want?”

“I want to speak to Lord Ellingham,” Gilbert Hanna-way answered.

“Who are you?” was the reply. “I am Lord Ellingham’s secretary. I can give him any message.”

“I must speak to him personally,” Hannaway answered. “He would not understand if I told you my name. The matter is an important one.”

There was silence for a moment. Hannaway heard the sound of voices at the other end. Then some one else spoke, briefly, imperatively.

“I am Lord Ellingham. What do you want?”

“To give your lordship some valuable information,” Hannaway said. “Listen!”

“Who are you?” the voice at the other end asked.

“It does not matter,” Hannaway answered. “Listen while I tell you what I saw this evening, in London, within a mile of Cavendish Square. I saw a dark-haired girl singing in the streets–a dark-haired girl, a hunchback, and a monkey!”

Hannaway heard the receiver at the other end go clattering down. There was silence for some moments. Then a voice again, the same voice, but it seemed to come from a long way off.

“Who are you,” it demanded. “For God’s sake, tell me who you are!”

“An unknown friend, or enemy, whichever you like,” Hannaway answered. “I have no more to say.”

“Stop!” the voice insisted. “I must know–”

Hannaway laid down the receiver, disconnecting it with the instrument. Then he turned over on his side. “In London!” he muttered softly to himself. “What will come of it, I wonder? Lord, how my head aches!”

Nevertheless he closed his eyes and slept–slept better by far than the great statesman with whom he had been talking.

CHAPTER III

In what corner of that squalid lodging-house Ambrose Drake slept no one save he and Chicot knew. At seven o’clock the next morning he appeared from somewhere underground, and with a little package under his arm turned breakfastless into the street. Half an hour later he was selling matches under one of the arches of London Bridge. For some time the stream of people was constant, and the pennies he received were fairly frequent. When the passers-by began to thin he left his place, and crossing the street, bought a cup of coffee and a roll at the stall upon which his hungry eyes had been fixed for some time. Afterward he walked back to the lodging-house, and turned into the little sitting-room where he and his companion had sat the night before. With the air of one used to such duties, he lighted the stove, made coffee in a scrupulously clean pot, and arranged it, with the rolls and butter which he had bought on his homeward way, on a tray. Then he went to the door and called out, and presently a small child, ill-dressed and ragged, came into the room. He pointed to the tray.

“Take it up carefully,” he said. “See that you do not spill the coffee. Tell the young lady that it is wet, and that she had better rest. Say that I am gone out for an hour–perhaps longer.”

The child took up the tray and carried it up the bare stairs. Once more Drake left the house. This time he turned northward, crossed the bridge, made an inquiry of a policeman whom he approached with some hesitation, and followed the directions given. In a few minutes he found himself inside a large public library. The assistant behind the desk handed him the book he asked for with a smile. He took it to a table in the reference-room, and began his search. In less than five minutes he had found what he wanted. He drew a little breath between his teeth. There it was, easy to read, easy to understand–“Francis William George Cuthbertson Ellingham, Sixth Marquis.” He passed rapidly over the titles and honors set forth in nearly half a page of black type. He took no interest in the country-seats or pursuits of the man whose pedigree was here blazoned out. The town address, 11 Cavendish Square–that was what he wanted.

He closed the book, returned it over the desk to the young man, who looked at him once more with a faintly curious smile, and walked out into the street. Presently he found himself standing upon the doorstep of an imposing mansion, and enduring the surprised stare of a very dignified person in plain black clothes.

“His lordship is at home,” the man admitted, “but he is not up. In any case, he sees no one without an appointment.”

The man would have closed the door, but Drake’s foot was in the way. “His lordship will see me,” he said. “Let me speak to his secretary, or some one by whom I can send a message.”

A young man, smooth shaven, well dressed, came strolling down the hall, evidently on his way into the street. He looked with surprise at the queer little object who was standing just inside the door.

“Who is this, Graves?” he asked.

“A person inquiring for his lordship, sir,” the servant answered. “I was just closing the door.”

“You had better tell me what you want,” said the young man, addressing Drake. “I am the Marquis of Ellingham’s secretary.”

“My business is with the marquis himself,” Drake answered, with something in his tone which was almost a snarl. “Look at me. Look at me well. Now go and tell your master that the person whom you can describe is here to see him. Don’t flatter me. Tell him what I am like.”

The young man was on the point of making a curt reply. Suddenly he paused. He remembered how, the night before, he had seen the telephone slip from the nerveless fingers of the marquis, and his face suddenly grow white as though with fear. He wondered for a moment if the coming of this strange individual had anything to do with that mysterious message. He turned on his heel.

“Keep this person here for a few minutes, Graves,” he said. “I will go up and see his lordship.”

The marquis, who by reason of a long residence abroad had acquired Continental habits, was sitting half dressed in a sitting-room leading out from his sleeping apartments. On the round table by his side was a light but daintily arranged breakfast tray, a bowl of flowers, and a pile of letters. He looked up as the young man entered.

“Not gone yet, then, Penton?” he asked.

“I am just leaving, sir,” the young man answered. “There is a very strange person down in the hall, who insists upon seeing you. He would not give a name, and he wished me to describe him to you. I am afraid I ought not to have troubled you, but he is such a queer little object, and he seemed so much in earnest.”

The marquis sat quite still in his chair, and his eyes remained fixed on the young man, who stood, hat in hand, upon the threshold. His face seemed suddenly to have become almost rigid, expressionless, and yet there was something in the set, helpless gaze which spoke of fear. The young man noticed that the long white fingers which held the newspaper were shaking. He came a step farther into the room and closed the door.

“Shall I see this person for you, sir?” he asked slowly. “He is not exactly a pleasant-looking individual.”

The marquis found his voice, and with it regained some of his self-possession. “So I should imagine,” he said, “from your description. I think I know what he wants. I will see him myself. You can bring him up here, and then go on to the city.”

The young man withdrew. As he descended the stairs a frown darkened his good-humored features. He was fond of the man whom he had served for the last three years, and he recognized surely enough the coming of tragedy in those pale, somewhat worn features. What it meant he could not tell. He had no clue whatsoever, yet he did his errand with marked unwillingness.

“The marquis will see you,” he said to Drake. “You can follow me upstairs to his room.”

Drake showed no sign of exultation. Never once did he look around him, although his surroundings must have seemed in strange contrast to the wretched little lodging-house from which he had come. He was heedless of the rich carpet pressed by his muddy, gaping boots. He passed without a glance the famous pictures which hung upon the walls, the many evidences of wealth and luxury by which he was surrounded.

They reached the door of the marquis’s room. His guide opened it and ushered him in.

The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into the room.

“This is the person who wished to see you, sir,” he said.

The marquis folded up his newspaper and nodded. “You can go, Penton,” he said. “Remember that I expect you back before eleven.”

The door closed behind the young man. The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into the room. As though his eyesight were at fault, he shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand, and looked fixedly at the man whom he had come to see. The marquis pointed to a chair. “Sit down, if you like,” he said.

“I prefer to stand,” Drake answered.

“As you will,” was the quiet reply. “Tell me, in as few words as you can, exactly what you want of me.”

CHAPTER IV

A ray of winter sunshine came stealing through the high windows of the room, glancing for a moment upon the faces of the two men, faces as far removed from any likeness to or kinship with one another as the poles of life themselves. Drake was dressed in the shabbiest of blue serge suits, a suit made for a boy, short in the arm, high in the neck, mud-stained, and shiny with wear. His boots had holes in them. His low collar and scrap of tie were negligible things. His face was of a length out of proportion to his size; the chin stubbly, the complexion pallid, and bearing traces of his daily privations. Only his eyes were soft, of a gray which deepened sometimes almost into blue. At this moment, however, they were overcast with a heavy frown, which seemed to gather in intensity as the seconds of silence passed.

The man before whom he stood had presence enough and had borne himself bravely on many great occasions, but at that moment he seemed in some sense to have collapsed. No sense of his stature remained. His limbs were drawn closely together, his shoulders had acquired a new stoop, his head was thrust a little forward, as though he were forced against his will to return the earnest gaze of his visitor. The marquis was forty-six years old, and called himself a young man. He had health enough, and courage, and good looks, but at this moment all three seemed to have deserted him. The cords of life had suddenly slackened. He was face to face with horrible things, and the nerve which should have set him with feet firmly planted upon the ground to face the crisis was gone.

“It has been a long search,” Drake said.

“Since it is at an end, then,” the marquis answered, “what would you have of me? Up to a certain point,” he added, in a low, uneasy tone, “I am in your hands. Do you see, I attempt no evasions. I say that I am in your hands. Go on.”

Drake laughed a little bitterly. It was not a pleasant sound, that laugh. It seemed to come from somewhere at the back of his throat, and it left his features unmoved. “Milord has lost his courage,” he muttered. “Why don’t you have me thrown into the gutter?”

“Because,” the marquis answered, “your snarl would reach me from there. Is the–I mean is she–are you alone?” he asked, with a sudden break in his voice.

Drake shook his head. “We are all here,” he answered, “she and I and Chicot.”

The marquis shivered a little. “Yes, I remember,” he said, half to himself. “You, with your tattered brown overcoat, that cursed animal, and the girl. You have been looking for me, I suppose?”

“Over half the world,” Drake answered. “Up and down the streets and along the byways of more cities than I should care to count. We have watched the boulevards, the restaurants, the clubs of Paris. We have watched the crowds go by in all the great thoroughfares where one might hope to find a man such as you. It is four years since we started on the search.”

“And now?” the marquis asked.

“And now,” Drake answered, “I have come to warn you. We shall be here in this city for months. Get you gone out of it. You will be wiser.”

The marquis looked startled for a moment. Then he leaned forward, with the air of one who does not understand. Suddenly his expression gave way to one of positive terror. “You don’t mean,” he faltered, “that you have already, without coming to see me–”

“No,” Drake interrupted. “We have done nothing. We have said nothing. It is for another reason that I would have you go.”

The marquis was once more puzzled. “You tell me,” he protested, “that for four years you have sought me, and yet, now that you have succeeded in your search, you tell me to go away. What do you mean?”

“It is not I who have sought you,” Drake answered bitterly. “It is she. She builds dreams, she has many fancies. It is she who has driven us round the world, from place to place, in this wild quest. Understand me. It is I who have found you out. She has not. She does not know.”

“But you will tell her!” the marquis exclaimed.

“I shall not,” Drake answered. “I tell you that all through these weary months, when her eyes have gone through the throngs, seeking, always seeking, mine have followed hers with a dread as great as her desire. For the first time in my life, to-day I am faithless to her. I come here alone. She does not know, and I would have you hurry away and hide yourself before chance brings you face to face with her.”

“I do not understand,” the marquis said weakly.

“Perhaps not,” Drake replied. “Yet it is simple enough. Look at me. See what I am–a miserable fragment of a man, a misshapen creature, the scoff of passers-by, an outcast. Yet such as I am, I am all that she has. It is I who stand by her, I on whom she relies from day to day for bread and shelter. If she finds you, there will be an end of this, there will be an end of me.”

The marquis drew a long breath. There were some signs of color in his cheeks. His tone had gained a little strength. He was no longer absolutely a stricken thing.

“You mean,” he said, “that she would have no more need of you?”

“I mean that,” Drake answered. “She would take your gold. I wouldn’t. She would be a great lady, while I pushed my barrel, ground out my tunes, and pocketed the pennies for which Chicot danced.”

Once more the marquis drew a long breath. This time he almost whistled. He remembered that he posed sometimes as a student of human character, that he was a member of the Ethnological Society, and sometimes attended its discussions. These were strange words to come from such a person. “Tell me,” he said, “why would you not take my gold? You have only to speak, you know that.”

Drake raised his eyes, and he looked the marquis straight in the face, until the eyes of the latter drooped and fell. “You know,” he answered.