A month of weary anxiety and nervous tension had gone by.
Yvonne Ferad had slowly struggled back to health, but the injury to the brain had, alas! seriously upset the balance of her mind. Three of the greatest French specialists upon mental diseases had seen her and expressed little hope of her ever regaining her reason.
It was a sad affair which the police of Monaco had, by dint of much bribery and the telling of many untruths, successfully kept out of the newspapers.
The evening after Hugh’s disappearance, Monsieur Ogier had called upon Dorise Ranscomb—her mother happily being away at the Rooms at the time. In one of the sitting-rooms of the hotel the official of police closely questioned the girl, but she, of course made pretense of complete ignorance. Naturally Ogier was annoyed at being unable to obtain the slightest information, and after being very rude, he told the girl the charge against her lover and then left the hotel in undisguised anger.
Lady Ranscomb was very much mystified at Hugh’s disappearance, though secretly she was very glad. She questioned Brock, but he, on his part, expressed himself very much puzzled. A week later, however, Walter returned to London, and on the following night Lady Ranscomb and her daughter took the train-de-luxe for Boulogne, and duly arrived home.
As day followed day, Dorise grew more mystified and still more anxious concerning Hugh. What was the truth? She had written to Brussels three times, but her letters had elicited no response. He might be already under arrest, for aught she knew. Besides, she could not rid herself of the recollection of the white cavalier, that mysterious masker who had told her of her lover’s escape.
In this state of keen anxiety and overstrung nerves she was compelled to meet almost daily, and be civil to, her mother’s friend, the odious George Sherrard.
Lady Ranscomb was for ever singing the man’s praises, and never weary of expressing her surprise at Hugh’s unforgivable behaviour.
“He simply disappeared, and nobody has heard a word of him since!” she remarked one day as they sat at breakfast. “I’m quite certain he’s done something wrong. I’ve never liked him, Dorise.”
“You don’t like him, mother, because he hasn’t money,” remarked the girl bitterly. “If he were rich and entertained you, you would call him a delightful man!”
“Dorise! What are you saying? What’s the good of life without money?” queried the widow of the great contractor.
“Everyone can’t be rich,” the girl averred simply. “I think it’s positively hateful to judge people by their pockets.”
“Well, has Hugh written to you?” snapped her mother.
Dorise replied in the negative, stifling a sigh.
“And he isn’t likely to. He’s probably hiding somewhere. I wonder what he’s done?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”
“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily. “He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”
“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”
“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”
“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last of the fellow.”
“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it—something she dared not tell.
On the day following their midnight stroll, he had done all in his power to induce her to reveal something at least of the affair, but, alas! to no avail. Then, two days later, she had suddenly left—at orders of The Sparrow, she said.
Before Hugh left Ravecca had given him eighty pounds in English notes, saying that he acted at Il Passero’s orders, for Hugh would no doubt need the money, and it would be most dangerous for him to write to his bankers.
At first Henfrey protested, but, as his funds were nearly exhausted, he had accepted the money.
As he left the station in Brussels on that bright spring morning and crossed the busy Place, he was wondering to what hotel he should go. He had left his scanty luggage in the consigne, intending to go out on foot and search for some cheap and obscure hotel, there being many such in the vicinity of the station. After half an hour he chose a small and apparently clean little place in a narrow street off the Place de Brouckere, and there, later on, he carried his handbag. Then, after a wash, he set out for the Central Post Office in the Place de la Monnaie.
He had not gone far along the busy boulevard when he was startled to hear his name uttered from behind, and, turning, encountered a short, thick-set little man wearing a brown overcoat.
The man, noticing the effect his words had upon him, smiled reassuringly, and said in broken English: “It is all right! I am not a police officer, Monsieur Henfrey. Cross the road and walk down that street yonder. I will follow in a few moments.”
And then the man walked on, leaving Hugh alone.
Much surprised, Hugh did as he was bid, and a few minutes later the Belgian met him again.
“It is very dangerous for us to be seen together,” he said quickly, scarcely pausing as he walked. “Do not go near the Post Office, but go straight to 14 Rue Beyaert, first floor. I shall be there awaiting you. I have a message for you from a friend. You will find the street close to the Porte de Hal.”
And the man continued on his way, leaving Hugh in wonder. He had been on the point of turning from the boulevard into the Place de la Monnaie to obtain Dorise’s long looked for letter. Indeed, he had been hastening his footsteps full of keen apprehension when the stranger had accosted him.
But in accordance with the man’s suggestion, he turned back towards the station, where he entered a taxi and drove across the city to the corner of Rue Beyaert, a highly respectable thoroughfare. He experienced no difficulty in finding the house indicated, and on ascending the stairs, found the stranger awaiting him.
“Ah!” he cried. “Come in! I am glad that I discovered you! I have been awaiting your arrival from Italy for the past fortnight. It is indeed fortunate that I found you in time to warn you not to go to the Poste Restante.” He spoke in French, and had shown his visitor into a small but well furnished room.
“Why?” asked Hugh. “Is there danger in that quarter?”
“Yes, Monsieur Henfrey. The French police have, by some unknown means, discovered that you were coming here, and a strict watch is being kept for anyone calling for letters addressed to Godfrey Brown.”
“But how could they know?” asked Hugh.
“Ah! That is the mystery! Perhaps your lady friend has been indiscreet. She was told in strict confidence, and was warned that your safety was in her hands.”
“Surely, Dorise would be most careful not to betray me!” cried the young Englishman.
“Well, somebody undoubtedly has.”
“I presume you are one of Il Passero’s friends?” Hugh said with a smile.
“Yes. Hence I am your friend,” was the reply.
“Have you heard of late how Mademoiselle Yvonne is progressing?”
The man, who told his visitor his name was Jules Vervoort, shook his head.
“She is no better. I heard last week that the doctors have said that she will never recover her mental balance.”
“What! Is she demented?”
“Yes. The report I had was that she recognized nobody, except at intervals she knows her Italian manservant and calls him by name. I was ordered to tell you this.”
“Ordered by Il Passero—eh?”
The man Vervoort nodded in the affirmative. Then he went on to warn his visitor that the Brussels police were on the eager watch for his arrival. “It is fortunate that you were not recognized when you came this morning,” he said. “I had secret warning and was at the station, but I dared not approach you. You passed under the very nose of two detectives, but luckily for you, their attention had been diverted to a woman who is a well-known pickpocket. I followed you to your hotel and then waited for you to go to the Poste Restante.”
“But I want my letters,” said Hugh.
“Naturally, but it is far too dangerous to go near there. You, of course, want news of your lady friend. That you will have by special messenger very soon. Therefore remain patient.”
“Why are all these precautions being taken to prevent my arrest?” Hugh asked. “I confess I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. But when Il Passero commands we all obey.”
“You are, I presume, his agent in Brussels?”
“His friend—not his agent,” Vervoort replied with a smile.
“Do you know Mademoiselle Lisette?” Hugh asked. “She was with me in Genoa.”
“Yes. We have met. A very clever little person. Il Passero thinks very highly of her. She has been educated in the higher schools, and is perhaps one of our cleverest decoys.”
Hugh Henfrey paused.
“Now look here, Monsieur Vervoort,” he exclaimed at last, “I’m very much in the dark about all this curious business. Lisette knows a lot concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”
“Admitted. She acted once as her maid, I believe, in some big affair. But I don’t know much about it.”
“Well, you know what happened at the Villa Amette that night? Have you any idea of the identity of the person who shot poor Mademoiselle—the lady they call Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”
“Not in the least,” was the reply. “All I know is that Il Passero has some very keen and personal interest in the affair. He has sent further orders to you. It is imperative, he says, that you should get away from Brussels. The police are too keen here.”
“Where shall I go?”
“I suggest that you go at once to Malines. Go to Madame Maupoil, 208 Rue de Stassart, opposite the Military Hospital. It is far too dangerous for you to remain here in Brussels. I have already written that you are coming. Her house is one of the sanctuaries of the friends of Il Passero. Remember the name and address.”
“The Sparrow seems to be ubiquitous,” Hugh remarked.
“He is. No really great robbery can be accomplished unless he plans and finances it.”
“I cannot think why he takes so keen an interest in me.”
“He often does in persons who are quite ignorant of his existence.”
“That is my own case. I never heard of him until I was in Genoa, a fugitive,” said Hugh. “But you told me I shall receive a message from Miss Ranscomb by special messenger. When?”
“When you are in Malines.”
“But all this is very strange. Will the mysterious messenger call upon Miss Ranscomb in London?”
“Of course. Il Passero has several messengers who travel to and fro in secret. Mademoiselle Lisette was once one of them. She has travelled many times the length and breadth of Europe. But nowadays she is an indicator—and a very clever one indeed,” he added with a laugh.
“I suppose I had better get away to Malines without delay?” Hugh remarked.
“Yes. Go to your hotel, pay them for your room and get your valise. I shall be waiting for you at noon in a car in the Rue Gretry, close to the Palais d’Ete. Then we can slip away to Malines. Have you sufficient money? If not, I can give you some. Il Passero has ordered me to do so.”
“Thanks,” replied Hugh. “I have enough for the present. My only desire is to be back again in London.”
“Ah! I am afraid that is not possible for some time to come.”
“But I shall hear from Miss Ranscomb?”
“Oh, yes. The messenger will come to you in Malines.”
“Who is the messenger?”
“Of that I have no knowledge,” was Vervoort’s reply. He seemed a very refined man, and was no doubt an extremely clever crook. He said little of himself, but sufficient to cause Hugh to realize that his was one of the master minds of underground Europe.
The young Englishman was naturally eager to further penetrate the veil of mystery surrounding Mademoiselle Yvonne, but he learned little or nothing. Vervoort either knew nothing, or else refused to disclose what he knew. Which, Hugh could not exactly decide.
Therefore, in accordance with the Belgian’s instructions, he left the house and at noon carried his valise to the Rue Gretry, where he found his friend awaiting him in a closed car, which quickly moved off out of the city by the Laeken road. Travelling by way of Vilvorde they were within an hour in old-world Malines, famous for its magnificent cathedral and its musical carillon. Crossing the Louvain Canal and entering by the Porte de Bruxelles, they were soon in an inartistic cobbled street under the shadow of St. Rombold, and a few minutes later Hugh was introduced to a short, stout Belgian woman, Madame Maupoil. The place was meagrely furnished, but scrupulously clean. The floor of the room to which Hugh was shown shone with beeswax, and the walls were whitewashed.
“I hope monsieur will make himself quite comfortable,” madame said, a broad smile of welcome upon her round face.
“You will be comfortable enough under madame’s care,” Vervoort assured him. “She has had some well-known guests before now.”
“True, monsieur. More than one of them have been world-famous and—well—believed to be perfectly honest and upright.”
“Yes,” laughed Vervoort. “Do you remember the English ex-member of Parliament?”
“Ah! He was with me nearly four months when supposed to be in South America. There was a warrant out for him on account of some great financial frauds—all of which was, of course, hushed up. But he stayed here in strict concealment and his friends managed to get the warrant withdrawn. He was known to Il Passero, and the latter aided him—in return for certain facilities regarding the English police.”
“What do you think of the English police, madame?” Hugh asked. The fat woman grinned expressively and shrugged her broad shoulders.
“Since the war they have been effete as regards serious crime. At least, that is what Il Passero told me when he was here a month ago.”
“Someone is coming here to meet Monsieur Henfrey,” Vervoort said. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I only received word of it the day before yesterday. A messenger from London, I believe.”
“Well, each day I become more and more mystified,” Hugh declared. “Why Il Passero, whom I do not know, should take all this interest in me, I cannot imagine.”
“Il Passero very often assists those against whom a false charge is laid,” the woman remarked. “There is no better friend when one is in trouble, for so clever and ubiquitous is he, and so many friends in high quarters does he possess, that he can usually work his will. His is the master-mind, and we obey without question.”
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