The Lady in the Car

“I’ll come to the Excelsior, and call on your aunt – if I may?”

I noticed that she hesitated. She did not seem at all desirous to see me at their hotel. I, of course, knew the reason. The old lady was not Madame Demidoff in Palermo.

“We will call and see you at the Igiea,” she said. “We have never been there yet.”

“I shall be delighted,” I answered her. “Only send me a note, in order that I may be in.”

Beyond the town we ran along beside the calm blue sea, with the high purple hills rising from across the bay.

Bright and merry, she seemed quite her old self again – that sweet and charming self that I had first met in that rough, uncouth Bulgarian town. After an hour, we got out and seated ourselves on the rocks to rest.

She was certainly not averse to a mild flirtation. Indeed – had she not already been engaged to Hausner, broken it off, and was now half engaged to the Marquis Torrini? She was nothing if not fickle.

“Yes,” she sighed at last, “I suppose we shall have to go back to humdrum London, before long. It is so much more pleasant here than in Toddington Terrace,” she added in her pretty broken English.

“Ah! Mademoiselle,” I laughed. “One day you will marry and live in Paris, or Vienna, or Budapest.”

“Marry!” she echoed. “Ugh! No!” and she gave her little shoulders a shrug. “I much prefer, Prince, to remain my own mistress. I have been too much indulged – what you in English call spoil-et.”

“All girls say that!” I laughed. “Just as the very man who unceasingly declares his intention to remain a bachelor is the first to become enmeshed in the feminine web.”

“Ah! you are a pessimist, I see,” she remarked, looking straight into my eyes.

“No, not exactly. I suppose I shall marry some day.”

“And you are engaged – eh?”

“No,” I laughed, “it hasn’t got so far as that yet. A single kiss and a few letters – that’s the present stage.”

“And the lady is Engleesh?”

“Ah! The rest must, for the present, remain a mystery, mademoiselle,” I laughed, wondering what the Marquis would say if he discovered us idling away the morning like that.

And so we chatted and laughed on, the best of friends. I tried to obtain some facts regarding her visit to Abbazia, but she was not communicative. Knowing that she was well aware of my visit to the Stefanie, I mentioned it casually, adding:

“You must have already left before my arrival.”

For an instant she raised her eyes to mine with a keen look of inquiry, but, finding me in earnest, lowered her gaze again.

At length I saw from my watch that we must move again, if we intended to be back to luncheon, therefore we rose and re-entering the car drove by the sea-road, back to the town. She seemed delighted with her ride.

“I’ll bring my aunt to call on you very soon,” she said, as we parted. “I will send you a line to say the day.”

“Yes, do, mademoiselle, I shall be greatly charmed. Au revoir!” and I lifted my hat as she gave me her tiny, white-gloved hand and then turned away.

Next afternoon, while in the car near the theatre, I saw her driving with a dark-bearded, well-dressed young man, whom I afterwards discovered was the Marquis.

She saw me raise my hat, blushed in confusion, and gave me a slight bow of acknowledgment.

That evening I made a discovery considerably increasing the puzzle.

I met the mysterious Mr Wilkinson face to face in the hall of the Hôtel de France, whither I had gone to pay a call upon some English friends who had just arrived.

Wearing the same brown suit, he passed me by and left the hotel, for he was unacquainted with me, and therefore unaware of my presence. From the hall-porter I learnt that “Mr James Wilkinson, of London” – as he had registered in the hotel-book – had been there for the past three days.

For four days I awaited Madame’s visit, but no note came from Elise. The latter was, no doubt, too occupied with her Italian lover. I could not write to her, as she had not given me the name by which she was known at the Excelsior.

Compelled, therefore, to play a waiting game, I remained with my eyes ever open to catch sight of one or other of the mysterious quartette. But I was disappointed, for on this fifth day I made inquiry, and to my utter dismay discovered that the same tactics had been adopted in Palermo as in Abbazia.

The whole four had suddenly disappeared!

Greatly puzzled, the Parson returned to London. I nevertheless remained in Italy until May, when back again I found myself, one bright afternoon about five o’clock, descending from the car outside the house in Toddington Terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon Madame Demidoff.

My ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron.

Next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement. It was Elise!

Utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched.

“You – you want to see Madame,” she managed to stammer in her broken English. “She isn’t at home!”

Beyond her, in the hall, stood the tall figure of a man, whom I at once recognised as the mysterious Wilkinson.

“But, mademoiselle,” I said, smiling, yet wondering, the motive of that masquerade. “I called also to see you.”

She drew herself up in an instant, replying with some hauteur:

“I think, m’sieur, you have made some mistake. We have never met before – to my knowledge.”

Her reply staggered me.

“When will Madame Demidoff return?” I inquired, amazed at this reception.

“To-morrow – at this hour,” was her rather hesitating reply.

“Then I shall be glad if you will give her my card, and say I will call,” I said; “that is if you still deny having met me in Tirnovo and in Palermo?”

“I really do not know what you are talking about, m’sieur,” she answered, and then, without further parley, closed the door in my face. I stood still, staggered.

Surely my reception at Toddington Terrace was the reverse of cordial.

Next afternoon at the same hour I called at Number 10, but there was no response to my ring, and the blinds were all down again. The place was deserted, for the tenants had evidently fled.

That same night as I sat in my rooms, a short, thick-set man, who gave the name of Payne, was ushered in.

“I think,” he said, “your Highness happens to know something of an old lady named Demidoff and her friends who live in Toddington Terrace?”

“Yes,” I replied, much surprised.

“Well,” he explained, “I’m a police officer, and I watched you go twice to the house, so I thought you knew something about them. Are they your friends?”

“Well, no; not exactly my friends,” I replied, very suspicious of my visitor. “I had never been nearer a man from Scotland Yard in all my life! Imagine my position, my dear Diprose!”

“Ah! that’s a good job. They seem to have been playing a pretty smart game on the Continent of late.”

“How? What was their game?” I asked eagerly.

“One that brought them in thousands a year. From the Italian and Austrian police, who are both over here, it seems that they worked like this: Old Madame Demidoff had a young and pretty French servant named Elise. On the Continent Madame took the title of countess, and Elise posed as her daughter. The latter flirted with wealthy young bachelors, and so cleverly did she play her cards, that in several instances they proposed marriage to her. Then, after the old woman had secretly spread the report of the engagement, there would suddenly appear on the scene Elise’s English husband – a well-known ex-convict named Wilkinson. This latter person would at once bluster, make charges against the unsuspecting young lover, threaten exposure, and end by accepting a thousand or two to preserve secrecy, none of the young elegants, of course, caring that it should be known how completely they had been ‘had.’ There are over a dozen different charges against them, the most recent being a coup in Palermo a few months ago, by which they blackmailed the young Marquis Torrini to the tune of nine thousand pounds.”

“I was in Palermo at the time, but I never knew that was their game.”

“Were you?” he cried in triumph. “Then you’ll identify them, won’t you? I arrested Madame Demidoff and Wilkinson at Parkeston Quay last night, as they were getting away to the Hook. The girl tried to get to Paris, but was followed and apprehended on landing at Calais early this morning. The Italian Government are asking for the extradition of the interesting trio, and the papers are already on their way over.”

I regretted having blurted forth the fact that I had known them in Palermo, for in the interests of justice – though terribly afraid of being recognised myself – I was compelled to identify Madame and Wilkinson at Bow Street next day.

She swore a terrible vengeance upon me, but at present I have no fear of her reprisals, for the Assize Court at Palermo a month ago condemned her to ten years’ imprisonment, while Wilkinson – whose past record was brought up – has been sent to Gorgona for fifteen years, and the dainty Elise, his wife, is serving seven years at Syracuse.

“But,” the Prince added: “By Jove! it was a narrow squeak for me. Old Never-let-go Hartley, of Scotland Yard, was in the Extradition Court. And I know he was racking his brains to remember where he had met me before.”

Chapter Six

The Vengeance of the Vipers

Certain incidents in my friend’s career are a closed book to all but Clayton, the exemplary Bayswater parson, the devoted valet Charles, and his smart chauffeur Garrett.

Gay, well-dressed, debonair as he always is, a veritable master of the art of skilful deception and ingenious subterfuge, he has found it more than once to his advantage to act as spy. His knowledge of the east of Europe is perhaps unique. No man possessed a wider circle of friends than Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, who to-day can pose perfectly as the young German Highness, and to-morrow as the wandering Englishman, and a bit of a fool to boot.

This wide acquaintance with men and matters in the Balkans first brought him in touch with the Intelligence Department of the Foreign Office, and his services as secret agent of the British Government were promptly secured. In this connection he was always known as Mr Reginald Martin. Downing Street is rather near New Scotland Yard, where the names of Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein and of Tremlett are a little too well-known. Therefore, to the chief of the Secret Service, and afterwards to the British Ministers and consuls resident in the Balkan countries, Servia, Bulgaria, Montenegro, and Roumania, he was for a time known as Reggie Martin.

Only on rare occasions, however, were his services requisitioned. The game of spying did not pay him nearly so well as the game of jewel-lifting. Yet he had taken to it out of mere love of adventure, and surely some of his experiences in the Orient were sufficiently perilous and exciting. More than once he had been in possession of State secrets which, if divulged, would have set two or more of the Powers flying at one another’s throats, and more than once he had carried his life in his hand.

One series of incidents through which he lived last year were, in themselves, as romantic as anything seen written in fiction. They were hard solid facts – an exciting chapter from the life of a man who was a perfect and polished adventurer, a little too impressionable perhaps, where the fair sex were concerned, but keen-witted, audacious, and utterly fearless. He seldom, if ever, speaks of the affair himself, for he is not anxious that people should know of his connection with the Secret Service.

As an old college chum, and as one whom he knows is not likely to “give him away” to the police, he one day, after great persuasion, related it in confidence to me as together we spent a wearisome day in the rapide between Paris and Marseilles.

“Well, my dear Diprose, it happened like this,” he said, as he selected one of his “Petroffs” and lit it with great care. “I was sent to the Balkans on a very difficult mission. At Downing Street they did not conceal that fact from me. But I promised to do my best. Garrett was with the ‘sixty’ in Vienna, so I wired sending it on to Sofia, in Bulgaria, and then left Charing Cross for the Balkans myself.

“I first went viâ Trieste down the Adriatic to Cattaro and up to quaint little Cettinje, the town of one long street, where I had audience of Prince Nicholas of Montenegro, whom I had met twice before – in my character of Reggie Martin, of course – and thence I went north to Servia, where I was received several times in private audience by King Peter. One day I arrived in Bulgaria to have confidential interviews with the Prime Minister Dimitri Petkoff, and the newly appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs. My orders from Downing Street, I may as well at once admit, were to ascertain whether Bulgaria intended to declare war against Turkey over Macedonia. The British Government was extremely anxious to ascertain Bulgaria’s intentions, as well as the views of the other Balkan Powers, in order that the British policy towards the Porte might combat that of the expansion intrigues of Germany.

“Our public at home have a perfectly erroneous idea of Bulgaria, believing it to be a semi-savage land. If, however, they went to Sofia they would find a fine modern city entirely up to date – a city that must in a few years become the Paris of the Balkans.

“I had wandered along the wide tree-lined boulevards, idled outside the big white mosque, and strolled through the market alive with peasants in their sheepskins, and the girls with sequins and fresh flowers twined in their plaited hair, until it was time for me to keep my appointment with my friend the patriot Petkoff, Prime Minister.

“Half an hour later I was conducted through the long corridor of the fine Government offices opposite the Sobranje, or Parliament House, and ushered into the presence of the real ruler of Bulgaria.

”‘Ah! mon cher Martin,’ he cried in French. ‘Welcome back to Sofia! They were talking of you in the Club last night. De Corvin was saying you were delayed in Belgrade. He met you there – at our Legation, so he told us. And you have your motor-car here – eh? Good. I’ll go for a run with you,’ and his Excellency put out his left hand in greeting. His right sleeve hung limp and empty, for he lost his arm in the Turco-Russian Campaign, at the historic battle of the Shipka.

“Dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a pleasant face and a small pointed imperial on his chin, he was a wonderful orator and a magnificent statesman who had the full confidence of his sovereign. A dozen times had political plots, inspired by Russia, been formed to assassinate him. Indeed, he had actually been driving beside the great Stambouloff when the latter had been killed in the street. But he had always escaped. Under his direction, Bulgaria had risen to be the strong power of the Balkans, and as my personal friend I hoped that he would tell me, in strictest confidence, what was his future policy towards the Turk.

“With that object I took the seat he offered me, and lighting cigarettes, we began to chat.

“Through the open window came up the strains of martial music, as an infantry regiment in their grey uniforms on the Russian model were marching past, and as I glanced around the quiet, comfortable, red-carpeted room, I saw that the only picture was a fine full-length portrait of the Prince.

“For fully an hour we gossiped. Perfectly frankly I at last told his Excellency the object of my mission.

“He shrugged his shoulders somewhat dubiously, and smiled, declaring that each of the Powers was endeavouring to ascertain the very same thing. I pressed my point, assuring him of Britain’s good-will, and explaining certain facts which, after a while, decided him.

”‘But you see, mon cher ami,’ he said, ‘supposing the truth got out to Constantinople! All my efforts of the past fifteen years would be negatived. And further – it would mean dire disaster for Bulgaria!’

”‘I have been entrusted with many State secrets before, your Excellency,’ I replied. ‘It would, for instance, not be the first time you spoke with me in confidence.’

“He admitted it, and assuring me of his good-will towards England, he declared that before he could speak, he must consult his royal master.

“Therefore, the French Minister awaiting an audience, I rose and left, having arranged to dine with him at the Union Club that evening.

“For nearly a week I idled in Sofia visiting many diplomatists and their wives, motoring about the neighbourhood, and driving out every night at one Legation or the other, no one, of course, being aware of my secret mission in the Bulgarian capital. Garrett kept eyes and ears open, of course. Useful man Garrett – very useful indeed.

“One night with the Italian minister and his wife, I went to the official ball given by the Minister-President, and among others I had as partner a rather tall, fair-haired girl with clear blue eyes and a pretty childlike face. About twenty-two, she was dressed exquisitely in white chiffon, the corsage of which was trimmed with tiny pink roses, and on her white-gloved wrist gleamed a splendid diamond bracelet. Olga Steinkoff was her name, and as we waltzed together amid the smartly dressed women and uniformed and decorated men I thought her one of the most charming of cosmopolitan girls I had ever encountered south of the Danube.

“Her chaperone was an old and rather ugly woman in dark purple silk, a stiff and starchy person who talked nearly the whole evening to one of the attachés of the Turkish Legation, a sallow, middle-aged, bearded man in black frock-coat and red fez.

“The girl in white chiffon was perfect in figure, in daintiness and chic, and a splendid dancer. We sat out two dances, and waltzed twice together, I afterwards taking her down to supper. She spoke French excellently, a little English, and a little Bulgarian, while Russian was her own language. Her father lived in Moscow, she told me, and she had spent four years in Constantinople with her aunt – the ugly old woman in purple.

“The sallow-faced, beady-eyed Turk who did not dance, and who took no champagne, was evidently her particular friend. I inquired of the Italian minister and found that the thin-faced bearded attaché was named Mehmed Zekki, and that he had been in Sofia only a couple of months.

“Towards me he was quite affable, even effusive. He mentioned that he had noticed me in the Club, dining with the Prime Minister, and he referred to a number of people in Belgrade who were my friends. He was attaché there, he told me, for two years – after the coup d’état.

“Twice during next day I encountered the charming Olga, driving with her aunt, in a smart victoria, and during the next week met them at several diplomatic functions.

“One afternoon, Olga and her chaperone accepted my invitation for a run on the ‘sixty,’ and I took them for a little tour of about thirty miles around the foot of the high Balkans, returning along the winding banks of the Isker. They were delighted, for the afternoon was perfect. I drove, and she sat up beside me, her hand on the horn.

“One night, ten days later, we were sitting out together in the bright moonlight in the garden of the Austrian Legation, and I found her not averse to a mild flirtation. I knew that the frock-coated Turk was jealous, and had become amused by it. On four or five occasions she had been out for runs with me – twice quite alone.

“I mentioned the Turk, but she only laughed, and shrugging her shoulders, answered:

”‘All Turks are as ridiculous as they are bigoted. Mehmed is no exception.’

“I was leaving Bulgaria next morning, and told her so.

”‘Perhaps, mademoiselle, we shall meet again some day, who knows?’ I added, ‘You have many friends in the diplomatic circle, so have I.’

”‘But you are not really going to-morrow!’ she exclaimed with undisguised dismay, opening her blue eyes widely, ‘surely you will stay for the ball at the palace on Wednesday.’

”‘I regret that is impossible,’ I replied, laughing. ‘I only wish I could remain and ask you to be my partner, but I have urgent business in Bucharest.’

”‘Oh! you go to Roumania!’ she cried in surprise. ‘But,’ – she added wistfully, ‘I – I really wish you could remain longer.’

“During our brief friendship I had, I admit, grown to admire her immensely, and were it not for the fact that a very urgent appointment called me to Roumania, I would have gladly remained. She had taken possession of my senses.

“But I took her soft hand, and wished her adieu. Then we returned into the ballroom, where I found several of my friends, and wished them farewell, for my train left at nine next morning.

“In a corner of the room stood the veteran Prime Minister, with a star in brilliants upon his dress-coat, the empty sleeve of which hung limply at his side.

”‘Au revoir, mon cher ami,’ he said grasping my hand warmly. ‘Recollect what I told you this morning – and return soon to Bulgaria again. Bon voyage!’

“Then I passed the police-guard at the door, and drove back to the Hôtel de Bulgarie.

“That night I slept but little. Before me constantly arose the childlike beautiful face of Olga Steinkoff that had so strangely bewitched me.

“I knew that I was a fool to allow myself to be attracted by a pair of big eyes, confirmed bachelor and constant traveller that I am. Yet the whole night through I seemed to see before my vision the beautiful face, pale and tearful with grief and sorry. Was it at my departure?

“Next day I set out in the car across the Shipka, and three nights later took up my quarters at that most expensive hotel, the ‘Boulevard,’ at Bucharest, the Paris of the Near East. Next day I paid several visits to diplomats I knew. Bucharest is always full of life and movement – smart uniforms and pretty women – perhaps the gayest city in all the Continent of Europe.

“On the third evening of my arrival I returned to the hotel to dress for dinner, when, on entering my sitting-room, a neat female figure in a dark travelling-dress rose from an armchair, and stood before me gazing at me in silence.

“It was Olga!

”‘Why, mademoiselle!’ I cried, noticing that she was without her hat, ‘fancy you – in Bucharest! When did you arrive?’

”‘An hour ago,’ she answered, breathlessly. ‘I – I want your assistance, M’sieur Martin. I am in danger – grave danger!’

”‘Danger! Of what?’

”‘I hardly know – except that the police may follow me and demand my arrest. This place – like Sofia – swarms with spies.’

”‘I know,’ I said, much interested, but surprised that she should have thus followed me. ‘But why do you fear?’

”‘I surely need not explain to you facts – facts that are painful!’ she said, looking straight at me half-reproachfully with those wonderful blue eyes that held me so fascinated. ‘I merely tell you that I am in danger, and ask you to render me assistance.’

”‘How? In what manner can I assist you?’

”‘In one way alone,’ was her quick, breathless answer. ‘Ah! if you would only do it – if you would only save my life!’ And with her white ungloved hands clenched in desperation, she stood motionless as a statue.

”‘Save your life!’ I echoed. ‘I – I really don’t understand you, mademoiselle.’

”‘Before they arrest me I will commit suicide. I have the means here!’ and she touched the bodice of her dress. ‘Ah, m’sieur, you do not know in what a position I find myself. I prefer death to save my honour, and I appeal to you, an English gentleman to help me!’

“Tears were rolling down her pale cheeks as she snatched up my hand convulsively, imploring me to assist her. I looked into her countenance and saw that it was the same that I had seen in those dark night hours in Sofia.

”‘But, mademoiselle, how can I help you?’ I inquired. ‘What can I do?’

”‘Ah! I – I hardly like to ask you,’ she said, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘You know so very little of me.’

”‘I know sufficient to be permitted to call myself your friend,’ I said earnestly, still holding her tiny hand.

”‘Then I will be frank,’ she exclaimed, raising her clear eyes again to mine. ‘The only way in which you can save me is to take me at once to England – to – to let me pass as your wife!’

”‘As my wife!’ I gasped, staring at her. ‘But – ’

”‘There are no buts!’ she cried, clinging to me imploringly. ‘To me it is a matter of life – or death! The Orient Express passes here at three to-morrow morning for Constantza, whence we can get to Constantinople. Thence we can go by steamer on to Naples, and across to Calais by rail. For me it is unsafe to go direct by Budapest and Vienna. Already the police are watching at the frontier.’