The Broken Thread

Holding an electric torch in one hand, a case of the baroness’s jewels in the other, and kneeling before the open door of the safe, he saw the outline of the figure of a woman. Raife’s involuntary gasp was sufficient, for the woman, who had displayed wonderful craftsmanship in achieving her purpose, switched off the lamp. It was too late. With a bound Raife had seized her by the throat and dragged her to the wall, switching on a powerful electrolier.

His horror and consternation reached the highest human point when he recognised Gilda Tempest, the woman he loved – the woman of mystery – the woman he had trusted! She had asked him to trust her – to be her friend. He had responded with the whole of his heart and enthusiasm, and this – this hideous nightmare was his reward.

Raife slung her from him with force, and hissed: “You hideous fiend! Is this womanhood – the womanhood that I – I had loved?”

Gilda fell in front of the open door of the dismantled safe. For a full minute her sobs filled the old library, till they became a moan, a prolonged wail.

Raife placed the revolver in the pocket of his pyjamas and crossed the room with bowed head and heaving chest. His face was contorted with rage, and his hands and fingers worked convulsively. He re-crossed the room and gazed at her with a look of intense hatred. Slowly she rose to her knees and crawled towards him with clasped hands. Then, clutching at his knees with upturned face, a still beautiful face, she ceased her sobbing. In low, mellifluous tones she pleaded: “Raife, Raife! I have wronged you. I have wronged you grossly, grievously. But listen to me, spare me! I, too, have been wronged. I have not been a willing agent. I have been forced, yes compelled, to do these foul, hateful things.”

Raife looked down on her with a contemptuous glance. “You have acted well before. You are acting well now. Before I give you in charge of the police you can tell me, if you will, why you borrowed my keys at the Hôtel Royal, at Nice?”

“No! No! Raife, Sir Raife! Believe me, I am not naturally bad. My uncle – at least, he tells me he is my uncle – forces me to do these things. When he looks at me and tells me what to do I am afraid, but I must obey. I simply must, I can’t help it.

“He made me get your keys and told me the story to tell you. He is clever, so clever.” Here Gilda shuddered, and then trembled violently all over. Passionately she raised her voice a trifle, saying: “He is horrid! He is hateful – yes, awful!” Then, relapsing almost into a state of coma, she continued: “I must obey. Yes, I must obey.”

At this moment there was a violent knock on the door, and Raife almost dragged Gilda to a curtain and hastily thrusting her behind, crossed to the door and said lazily, in a tired key: “Yes, who is there?”

Edgson’s, the old butler’s voice, came from without in trembling tones. “Lud a mussy! Is that you, Sir Raife? You have given us a fright! I saw a light in the library and thought there was burglars again. And I’ve got all the men and the gardeners and we’ve surrounded the house.”

Sir Raife laughed a forced, hearty laugh, exclaiming: “Well done, Edgson! You were quite right, but there aren’t any burglars this time. No, I’m just at work on some of my papers, that’s all.” Then, turning the key and holding the door slightly ajar, he added: “Give them all a drink, and send them to bed again. I shan’t be long myself, now.”

The old man replied respectfully: “Very good, Sir Raife.” As he walked down the long corridor behind the other servants who had accompanied him on his well-planned police expedition, Edgson laughed softly to himself. He remembered some of the stories told to him of Master Raife’s escapades in the long white room at the “Blue Boar.”

It was not a very good explanation, but it served at the moment.

When the sound of the last footsteps had died away, Raife returned to Gilda and beckoned her from the curtains, saying:

“Now, Gilda, tell me all that happened after you disappeared from the hotel at Nice. Tell me some of the worst of this man Malsano’s crimes?”

Gilda told how she had seen Raife and Lady Remington at Bordighera. Of her flight from there in the motor-car, of the accident and her escape, and the long journey by a circuitous route to England, where she met her uncle. She told how he had planned this burglary, and was plotting to steal the jewels whilst the baroness was at the Hôtel Royal, Nice.

In a low, musical voice, she related the long story of a young, beautiful girl’s life, ruined by the unscrupulous machinations of a human fiend. She reclined in a deep, leather arm-chair, facing the still open safe, with the baroness’s jewels scattered about on the floor.

The simplicity with which she told her sad story, the sincerity of her manner contrasted with the incongruous surroundings and recent events.

Raife Remington’s mind and heart were torn with confused passions. His pride had received a shock so cruel, that it seemed utterly impossible to condone the offence. He was still suffering from a sense of extreme exasperation. Was this girl telling the whole truth, or only a portion?

He rose from the corner of the table on which he had been sitting, and proceeded to pick up the scattered jewels and the various articles on the floor. He replaced them in the safe and closed the door with the false key that was in it. It was made from the wax model traitorously obtained from him by Gilda. At her uncle’s enforced bidding? Yes, but how true was that story? He placed the key in his pocket. Much of the mystery of this extraordinary girl’s actions had been speciously explained away. What was there more of mystery remaining? The struggle between his better sense, his wounded pride and the weird fascination of this wonderful woman lasted for some time. Gilda lay back in the luxurious leather chair, and gazed, with a glazed expression, into space.

At length, he turned to her and said: “Gilda, you have hurt me more than I can tell. If this man, Malsano, who says he is your uncle, has compelled your actions, which appear so unnatural, I forgive you. Promise me that you will leave him, hide from him and go into the world you know so well, and lead a pure and clean life. You have shown yourself to be clever enough. Promise me, Gilda, and come to me if you want help. I will help.”

He held out his hand. She sprang from the deep recesses of the chair. Clutching his hand, she smothered it in passionate kisses.

Then gazing at him, she said: “I promise! I promise, Raife! May I go now?”

Mechanically Raife said: “Yes.”

In two seconds the dainty figure of the young girl was sliding down a silken rope from the library window to the ground below. Amazed at the rapidity of the action, Raife watched her disappearing form as it glided sinuously into a bunch of rhododendron bushes.

Chapter Thirteen

Into a Trap and Out of it

When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.

Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic power that was convincing – at least to him. Again she had taken possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and passion were for her.

On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the passers-by, of whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl, and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person for whom he had waited.

An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and said: “Well! where are they? Have you got them?”

In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: “No, I have not got them.”

With a half-suppressed howl, he said: “What! you have not got them? You lie! You are deceiving me.”

Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:

“No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you what happened.”

In spite of the blue glasses the old man’s face assumed a contorted expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a vicious grip, he almost shrieked: “Again I tell you, you lie! Where are they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took.”

“Hush!” she whispered. “You will be heard. Yes! I bungled.”

Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl who was so dearly loved by the “intended victim.” To have stolen any property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but to attempt, with all the skilled burglar’s art, to steal those valuable jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe keeping – that was to place him in the most invidious position. It sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest dye was the cause of this young girl’s downfall, and he was furious at her failure.

With a resumption of his usual self-control he hissed: “Those jewels are worth thirty thousand pounds. You were clumsy to miss such a prize. Now listen to me. That young fool’s father killed your father.”

Gilda shuddered, and tears trickled down the cheeks which had been skilfully lined to disguise their youthful beauty.

Again, stooping towards her, his words were reduced almost to a whisper as he said: “Look at me straight in the eyes, Gilda, and listen. You must make love to that man. He cannot, and shall not resist you. He must marry you, and you – must – ruin – him. That shall be your revenge. It shall be my revenge – and your father’s revenge.”

Then, springing to his feet with extraordinary vigour, he added:

“Come now! Remember what I have said. It must be. It shall be.”

People turned to look at this peaceful and distinguished-looking “old” couple sauntering down the front to their hotel.

There is an unscrupulous type of villain in this world, whose power for harm is unbounded. Even as the weasel, the stoat, and certain of her types of ferocious animals, kill for the lust of killing, so these evil-minded people pursue their depredations. The worst of this type exercise a curious fascination over women.

It is not essential to discuss the possibilities of hypnotism, mesmerism, or any other forms of mind influence, or thought transference. A perusal of the newspapers, and even a general observation of those around us is sufficient to satisfy us of the existence of this power. Curiously, it would more generally seem to be exercised for evil rather than good. Doctor Danilo Malsano exercised his malicious influence over Gilda Tempest with all the malignancy of the type of predatory blood-sucking animals, to which allusion has been made.

It was easy, therefore, for plans to be made to encompass the downfall and ruin of Raife Remington. Subterfuge brought clandestine meetings between the young couple. The clandestine element is that which appeals most strongly to the ordinary lover. Raife Remington loved Gilda Tempest with a fierce passion, which he could not control, but, in many senses, he was an ordinary lover.

He was now well aware of Gilda’s skill as a “thief” – a burglar. The thought rankled in his mind, but still he could not stave off the desire for her company. A smile from her chased away the hateful reminiscence of the night in the library at Aldborough Park, when she was fully revealed as a thief. There were other mysterious circumstances that, in his ordinary mood, he could not explain away, but when Gilda smiled and looked at him with her appealing eyes, all doubt vanished.

He was certain of one thing – Doctor Malsano was a blackguard, and he hated him. Again, his sense of reason – nay of duty – impelled him to give information to the police that would lead to the arrest and conviction of this arch-criminal – a criminal who used his uncanny powers to employ, as a dupe, a sweet, beautiful girl whom he called his niece.

His influence appeared almost supernatural, and yet, his cowardice was evident in the fact that he adopted such foul methods. So, in spite of all this, when Gilda smiled, that baneful person, her uncle, was safe from arrest as far as Raife was concerned.

There were many incongruities in this courtship. Their first meeting, and each subsequent meeting, had been quite unconventional – yet there was nought but pure thought as far as this couple were concerned when they met.

The baleful influence of the doctor at other times alone made for trouble.

In all these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that the quaint, old-world, white room of the “Blue Boar” at Tunbridge Wells should have become the rendezvous when it was the only opportunity that served.

Raife Remington’s sense of proportion had restrained him for a week or two, and he had not met Gilda. Doctor Malsano was not the type of man to allow his victim to elude his machinations for long. Gilda was, therefore, compelled to adopt the disguise of a hospital nurse, and, with full instructions from information obtained by the doctor, visited Tunbridge Wells. On the pretext of a patient who was expected from town, she obtained a room at the “Blue Boar.” It was not hard to invent a ruse to ensure Raife’s attendance at the “Blue Boar.” When Gilda met him on the staircase, her old influence returned, and under the chaperonage of the landlord, Mr Twisegood, they started the interview. The astute, old Twisegood chuckled as he discreetly left the room, but, at the same time, he had no real knowledge of the state of affairs. Nor was Raife aware that this “accidental” meeting had been cunningly planned by Doctor Malsano.

For long they talked. Gilda exercised her fascinating arts, and Raife succumbed more completely than ever. The conquest was complete, and Raife arranged to meet her in town, where they should run less risk of observation, and each should enjoy their own society unmolested by the inquisitive.

During all this strange courtship the ordinary caresses, in which lovers freely indulge, had been few indeed. Now, to-day, when Fate seemed propitious, their caresses were less restrained, and, for the first time, Raife kissed Gilda passionately. The fire of youthful kisses will destroy discretion. The sight of a neatly-costumed nurse being passionately embraced by the youthful owner of Aldborough Park would have made an interesting film for a cinema. In real life the casual or accidental witness of such a scene, is liable to be shocked. In this instance the genial old landlord of the “Blue Boar” was ascending the stairs, and saw sufficient of the impassioned incident, through a mirror, to encourage him to give a loud and friendly cough. The process of disentanglement was instant and complete. Most of us are familiar with it. With a discreet tap at the door, which had been, with an inadvertence which was frequent on such occasions, left partly open, the old man announced: “If you please, Sir Raife, Lady Remington is coming upstairs and would like to see you.”

Raife merely exclaimed, in a tone that indicated panic, and the exclamation consisted of one word only – a characteristically English utterance, “What!” Hastily pushing the old man out of the room, and, closing the door, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then Raife ejaculated in short, disjointed sentences: “Good heavens! The mater! What brings her here? How did she know?”

Gilda stood calmly. She had been well trained to avoid panic in an emergency.

A man ceases to be an aristocrat when he allows panic to be more than momentary. Sir Raife Remington, Bart., was an aristocrat. Gilda’s practised eye looked at the window and calculated the drop.

With a discretion inherited through generations of “service,” Twisegood had descended the old staircase.

Lady Remington, with the instinct of a mother, ascended the staircase. Her rather “exalted” tones sounded from without:

“Is this the room, Twisegood?” Her hand was upon the handle of the door.

Then did inspiration seize Raife.

Whispering hurriedly: “You go down this staircase,” pointing to the secret exit, “into the loose box at the bottom and wait your chance.”

To Gilda, who had shown such dexterity in descending by a silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, it was easy to find a “way out” by a staircase, even if it did lead her into a loose box in a stable!

When Lady Remington explained that the horse in her brougham had cast a shoe, and that Twisegood’s man was attending to it – and that Twisegood had said that Sir Raife was upstairs, it became easier to understand why Lady Remington was climbing those stairs at that unpropitious moment.

Sir Raife expressed his opinion of affairs to Twisegood at a later date.

Chapter Fourteen

Haunted by the Spirit of the River

There are brief times of happiness in the careers of most people, and it is a fortunate circumstance that, in the majority of instances, memory reverts to happiness rather than to misery.

The gambler prefers to remember the times when he won. The joys of our youth linger in our minds until we approach the border-line of dotage. Among the joys of the youth of most of us are the joys of love. There are few who cannot remember the thrill that accompanied the first kisses with the girl we loved. The happy moments when the world was a vista of promised pleasure! There is happiness in the quiet content of drab surroundings, and there is the delirious happiness of forced gaiety. The pleasure spots of this world are many and varied. “The Great White Way” of New York has its thrills and excitements. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and the Riviera all possess their pleasure atmosphere and zones, but the vast swing and swirl of London gaiety is a thing apart.

Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest came to London to enter into what they determined should be the love zone of pleasure, which should complete their lives. By a tacit understanding, now that the first and most important stages of conquest had been acquired, the doctor did not appear more than necessary. Raife was rich enough for a full indulgence in the round of gaiety that London offers, especially to those who are to the manner born. Raife was to the manner born, and he possessed the gift of selecting those varied entertainments which appeal to most youth, but more especially to young and beautiful women.

Gilda, now to a considerable extent away from the depressing and exacting influence of her uncle, experienced, for the first time, the joys of love and of comparative freedom. Her lightest whims were gratified, and together, light-heartedly, they joined the gay whirl of entertainment. Dressed in the richest attire and bejewelled, she was the observed of all, and envied by most women. By men she was admired. By the man to whom she had given her heart she was adored, and Raife had acquired a wonderful skill in courtly admiration. He was living in his old-world suite of rooms in Duke Street, St. James’s, and Gilda and her uncle occupied a suite in a new Bloomsbury hotel.

September, and even October, are frequently the most kindly months in England, in the matter of genial climate, and ate more suggestive of perfect summer weather than that afforded by July.

On a night in September, Raife and Gilda were dining at the Savoy Hotel. He had chosen a table, and, prior to dinner, they were overlooking the river and the embankment, with the long sweep of lights that lead mysteriously into gloom, whilst the flickering reflections of the murky Surrey side sparkled in the swiftly-moving stream at high tide. He was supremely happy. She appeared to be, but it was not possible to fathom the depths of a heart and mind that had been subordinated to the sinister workings of a hard and cruel disposition. There are few who have looked upon that ancient waterway who have not been influenced by its fascination. To-night its mystery entered into the spirit of Raife, and for a brief while he was affected by the outlook. His had been a great happiness for two weeks now, and he had chased away every grim thought in connection with Doctor Malsano and Gilda. They whispered a brief love-talk and then entered the salon, and crossed to the table which was awaiting them. The waiters performed those mystic evolutions which indicate the relative rank of the diners who are to occupy their tables. It appeared evident that Raife was a person of importance. Apart from this testimony from the waiters, he and she were evidently the cynosure of the rest of the richly-clad diners. With a gay laugh he spoke softly across the table.

“Gilda, that view of the river depressed me for a while. There was something of gloom and hidden mystery about it. Shall we drink some champagne to-night?”

“Yes, Raife, by all means. Don’t let a horrid river depress you. I’m never depressed now that you are mine.”

The soft light from the shaded lamp fell on her lovely form. A pink glow suffused her bare arms and heaving breast. The jewels that decked her sparkled, and her wonderful, lustrous eyes looked at him with a strange, tender look as she uttered those last words, “Now that you are mine.” He answered: “Yes, Gilda, I am yours.” There seemed to be still some sense of foreboding, in spite of all the happiness of the last two weeks and the luxurious gaiety of their present surroundings. The spirit of that ancient river had left a sense of sadness which Raife could not alter. The waiter arrived opportunely with the wine, and they both drank a glass of the sparkling champagne, the wine which has made much merriment and led to much sadness.

The dinner progressed with all the stateliness of service, and the exquisite choice of food which is associated with a restaurant whose chef receives the salary of a statesman.

Gilda said, during one of those intervals, when a pièce de résistance, which is to follow, has justified a delay:

“Oh, Raife, uncle said to-day – ”

With a gesture of impatience he interrupted: “Don’t tell me what your uncle said. I don’t want to know what he says. I only want to know what you say.”

Then he smiled, as many another lover has smiled, who was tempted into a lapse of perfect and complete adoration of his loved one. Even in these happy conditions, where everything seemed favourable to a perfect courtship, love was on tenterhooks.

The dinner was finished, and those supplementary accompaniments to the modern meal were in progress. Cigarettes – cigars – liqueurs, were in course of leisurely consumption by some people. Others were leaving, to continue their round of pleasure at theatre – revue – music-hall, or in one of the hundreds of haunts where the leisured ones congregate at night-time. Among those who were leaving were two men, both of whom carried a distinction with them. One, who was the personification of perfectly-dressed dandydom, with a drawl, nudged his companion’s elbow and indicated Raife and Gilda at their table. He whispered to his companion “I will tell you something about them presently.” The other replied: “Do, old chap! They’re a deuced handsome couple, whoever they are.” They passed out.