The Sign of Silence

"Without any inquiry?" I asked.

"Yes. At the time, remember, there was no suspicion. A good many people die annually in Peru of snake-bite," Edwards replied, again referring to the file of papers before him. "It seems, however, that three days later, the second Peruvian servant – a man known as Senos – declared that during the night of the tragic affair he had heard his master suddenly yell with terror and cry out 'You blackguard, Cane, you hell-fiend; take the thing away. Ah! God! You – why, you've killed me!'"

"Yes," I said. "But was this told to Cane?"

"Cane saw the man and strenuously denied his allegation. He, indeed, went to the local Commissary of Police and lodged a complaint against the man Senos for falsely accusing him, saying that he had done so out of spite, because a few days before he had had occasion to reprimand him for inattention to his duties. Further, Cane brought up a man living five miles from Huacho who swore that the accused man was at his bungalow on that night, arriving at nine o'clock. He drank so heavily that he could not get home, so he remained there the night, returning at eight o'clock next morning."

"And the police officials believed him – eh?" I asked.

"Yes. But next day he left Huacho, expressing a determination to go to Lima and make a statement to the Consul there. But he never arrived at the capital, and he has never been seen since."

"Then a grave suspicion rests upon him?" I remarked, reflecting upon my startling adventure of the previous night.

"Certainly. But the curious thing is that no attempt seems to have been made by the police authorities in Lima to trace the man. They allowed him to disappear, and took no notice of the affair, even when the British Consul reported it. I fancy police methods must be very lax ones there," he added.

"But what could have been the method of the assassin?" I asked.

"Why, simply to allow the snake to strike at the sleeping man, I presume," said the detective. "Yet, one would have thought that after the snake had bitten him he would have cried out for help. But he did not."

Had the victim, I wondered, swallowed that same tasteless drug that I had swallowed, and been paralysed, as I had been?

"And the motive of the crime?" I asked.

Edwards shrugged his shoulders, and raised his brows.

"Robbery, I should say," was his reply. "But, strangely enough, there is no suggestion of theft in this report; neither does there seem to be any woman in the case."

"You, of course, suspect that my friend Digby and the man Cane, are one and the same person!" I said. "But is it feasible that if Cane were really responsible for the death of the real Sir Digby, would he have the bold audacity to return to London and actually pose as his victim?"

"Yes, Mr. Royle," replied the detective, "I think it most feasible. Great criminals have the most remarkable audacity. Some really astounding cases of most impudent impersonation have come under my own observation during my career in this office."

"Then you adhere to the theory which you formed at first?"

"Most decidedly," he replied; "and while it seems that you have a surprise to spring upon me very shortly, so have I one to spring upon you – one which I fear, Mr. Royle," he added very slowly, looking me gravely in the face – "I fear may come as a great shock to you."

I sat staring at him, unable to utter a syllable.

He was alluding to Phrida, and to the damning evidence against her.

What could he know? Ah! who had betrayed my love?

CHAPTER XXIII.

LOVE'S CONFESSION

I dined alone at the Club, and afterwards sat over my coffee in one of the smaller white-panelled rooms, gazing up at the Adams ceiling, and my mind full of the gravest thoughts.

What had Edwards meant when he promised me an unpleasant surprise? Had the woman Petre already made a statement incriminating my well-beloved?

If so, I would at once demand the arrest of her and her accomplices for attempted murder. It had suggested itself to me to make a complete revelation to Edwards of the whole of my exciting adventure at Colchester, but on mature consideration I saw that such a course might thwart my endeavours to come face to face with Digby.

Therefore I had held my tongue.

But were Edwards' suspicions that the assassin Cane and the man I knew as Sir Digby Kemsley were one and the same, correct, or were they not?

The method by which the unfortunate Englishman in Peru had been foully done to death was similar to the means employed against myself at Colchester on the previous night. Again, the fact that the victim did not shout and call for aid was, no doubt, due to the administration of that drug which produced complete paralysis of the muscles, and yet left the senses perfectly normal.

Was that Indian whom they called Ali really a Peruvian native – the accomplice of Cane? I now felt confident that this was so.

But in what manner could the impostor have obtained power over Phrida? Why did she not take courage and reveal to me the truth?

Presently, I took a taxi down to Cromwell Road and found my well-beloved, with thin, pale, drawn face, endeavouring to do some fancy needlework by the drawing-room fire. Her mother had retired with a bad headache, she said, and she was alone.

"I expected you yesterday, Teddy," she said, taking my hand. "I waited all day, but you never came."

"I had to go into the country," I replied somewhat lamely.

Then after a brief conversation upon trivialities, during which time I sat regarding her closely, and noting how nervous and agitated she seemed, she suddenly asked:

"Well! Have you heard anything more of that woman, Mrs. Petre?"

"I believe she's gone abroad," I replied, with evasion.

Phrida's lips twitched convulsively, and she gave vent to a slight sigh, of relief, perhaps.

"Tell me, dearest," I said, bending and stroking her soft hair from her white brow. "Are you still so full of anxiety? Do you still fear the exposure of the truth?"

She did not reply, but of a sudden buried her face upon my shoulder and burst into tears.

"Ah!" I sighed, still stroking her hair sympathetically, "I know what you must suffer, darling – of the terrible mental strain upon you. I believe in your innocence – I still believe in it, and if you will bear a stout heart and trust me, I believe I shall succeed in worsting your enemies."

In a moment her tear-stained face was raised to mine.

"Do you really believe that you can, dear?" she asked anxiously. "Do you actually anticipate extricating me from this terrible position of doubt, uncertainty, and guilt?"

"I do – if you will only trust me, and keep a brave heart, darling," I said. "Already I have made several discoveries – startling ones."

"About Mrs. Petre, perhaps?"

"About her and about others."

"What about her?"

"I have found out where she is living – down at Colchester."

"What?" she gasped, starting. "You've been down there?"

"Yes, I was there yesterday, and I saw Ali and the two servants."

"You saw them – and spoke to them?" she cried incredibly.

"Yes."

"But, Teddy – ah! You don't know how injudicious it was for you to visit them. Why, you might have – "

"Might have what?" I asked, endeavouring to betray no surprise at her words.

"Well, I mean you should not have ventured into the enemy's camp like that. It was dangerous," she declared.

"Why?"

"They are quite unscrupulous," she replied briefly.

"They are your enemies, I know. But I cannot see why they should be mine," I remarked.

"My enemies – yes!" my love cried bitterly. "It will not be long before that woman makes a charge against me, Teddy – one which I shall not be able to refute."

"But I will assist you against them. I love you, Phrida, and it is my duty to defend you," I declared.

"Ah! You were always so good and generous," she remarked wistfully. "But in this case I cannot, alas, see how you can render me any aid! The police will make inquiries, and – and then the end," she added in a voice scarce above a whisper.

"No, no!" I urged. "Don't speak in that hopeless strain, darling. I know your position is a terrible one. We need not refer to details; as they are painful to both of us. But I am straining every nerve – working night and day to clear up the mystery and lift from you this cloud of suspicion. I have already commenced by learning one or two facts – facts of which the police remain in ignorance. Although you refused to tell me – why, I cannot discern – the name of the unfortunate girl who lost her life, I have succeeded in gaining knowledge of it. Was not the girl named Marie Bracq?"

She started again at hearing the name.

"Yes," she replied at once. "Who told you?"

"I discovered it for myself," I replied. "Who was the girl – tell me?"

"A friend of Digby Kemsley's."

"A foreigner, of course?"

"Yes, Belgian, I believe."

"From Brussels, eh?"

"Perhaps. I don't know for certain."

"And she learned some great secret of Digby's, which was the motive of the crime," I suggested.

But my love only shook her pretty head blankly, saying – "I don't know. Perhaps she knew something to his detriment."

"And in order to silence her, she was killed," I suggested.

"Perhaps."

She made no protest of her own innocence, I noticed. She seemed to place herself unreservedly in my hands to judge her as I thought fit.

Yet had not her own admissions been extremely strange ones. Had she not practically avowed her guilt?

"Can you tell me nothing concerning this Belgian girl?" I asked her a few moments later.

"I only knew her but very slightly."

"Pardon me putting to you such a pointed question, Phrida. But were you jealous of her?"

"Jealous!" she ejaculated. "Why, dear me, no. Why should I be jealous? Who suggested that?"

"Mrs. Petre. She declares that your jealousy was the motive of the crime, and that Digby himself can bear witness to it."

"She said that?" cried my love, her eyes flashing in fierce anger. "She's a wicked liar."

"I know she is, and I intend to prove her so," I replied with confidence. "When she and I meet again we have an account to settle. You will see."

"Ah! Teddy, beware of her! She's a dangerous woman – highly dangerous," declared my love apprehensively. "You don't know her as I do – you do not know the grave evil and utter ruin she has brought upon others. So I beg of you to be careful not to be entrapped."

"Have others been entrapped, then?" I asked with great curiosity.

"I don't know. No. Please don't ask me," she protested. "I don't know."

Her response was unreal. My well-beloved was I knew in possession of some terrible secret which she dared not betray. Yet why were her lips sealed? What did she fear?

"I intend to find Digby, and demand the truth from him," I said after we had been silent for a long time. "I will never rest until I stand before him face to face."

"Ah! no dear!" she cried in quick alarm, starting up and flinging both her arms about my neck. "No, don't do that?" she implored.

"Why not?"

"Because he will condemn me – he will think you have learned something from me," she declared in deep distress.

"But I shall reveal to him my sources of information," I said. "Since that fatal night I have learned that the man whom I believed was my firm friend has betrayed me. An explanation is due to me, and I intend to have one."

"At my expense – eh?" she asked in bitter reproach.

"No, dearest. The result shall not fall upon you," I said. "I will see to that. A foul and dastardly crime has been committed, and the assassin shall be brought to punishment."

My well-beloved shuddered in my arms as she heard my words – as though the guilt were upon her.

I detected it, and became more than ever puzzled. Why did she seek to secure this man's freedom?

I asked her that question point-blank, whereupon in a hard, faltering voice, she replied:

"Because, dear, while he is still a fugitive from justice I feel myself safe. The hour he is arrested is the hour of my doom."

"Why speak so despondently?" I asked. "Have I not promised to protect you from those people?"

"How can you if they make allegations against me and bring up witnesses who will commit perjury – who will swear anything in order that the guilt shall be placed upon my head," she asked in despair.

"Though the justice often dispensed by country magistrates is a disgraceful travesty of right and wrong, yet we still have in England justice in the criminal courts," I said. "Rest assured that no jury will convict an innocent woman of the crime of murder."

She stood slightly away from me, staring blankly straight before her. Then suddenly she pressed both hands upon her brow and cried in a low, intense voice:

"May God have pity on me!"

"Yes," I said very earnestly. "Trust in Him, dearest, and He will help you."

"Ah!" she cried. "You don't know how I suffer – of all the terror – all the dread that haunts me night and day. Each ring at the door I fear may be the police – every man who passes the house I fear may be a detective watching. This torture is too awful. I feel I shall go mad —mad!"

And she paced the room in her despair, while I stood watching her, unable to still the wild, frantic terror that had gripped her young heart.

What could I do? What could I think?

"This cannot go on, Phrida!" I cried at last in desperation. "I will search out this man. I'll grip him by the throat and force the truth from him," I declared, setting my teeth hard. "I love you, and I will not stand by and see you suffer like this!"

"Ah, no!" she implored, suddenly approaching me, flinging herself upon her knees and gripping my hands. "No, I beg of you not to do that!" she cried hoarsely.

"But why?" I demanded. "Surely you can tell me the reason of your fear!" I went on – "the man is a rank impostor. That has been proved already by the police."

"Do you know that?" she asked, in an instant grave. "Are you quite certain of that? Remember, you have all along believed him to be the real Sir Digby."

"What is your belief, Phrida?" I asked her very earnestly.

She drew a long breath and hesitated.

"Truth to tell, dear, I don't know what to think. Sometimes I believe he must be the real person – and at other times I am filled with doubt."

"But now tell me," I urged, assisting her to rise to her feet and then placing my arm about her neck, so that her pretty head fell upon my shoulder. "Answer me truthfully this one question, for all depends upon it. How is it that this man has secured such a hold upon you – how is it that with you his word is law – that though he is a fugitive from justice you refuse to say a single word against him or to give me one clue to the solution of this mystery?"

Her face was blanched to the lips, she trembled in my embrace, drawing a long breath.

"I – I'm sorry, dear – but I – I can't tell you. I – I dare not. Can't you understand?" she asked with despair in her great, wide-open eyes. "I dare not!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

OFFICIAL SECRECY

The following evening was damp, grey, and dull, as I stood shivering at the corner of the narrow Rue de l'Eveque and the broad Place de la Monnie in Brussels. The lamps were lit, and around me everywhere was the bustle of business.

I had crossed by the morning service by way of Ostend, and had arrived again at the Grand only half an hour before.

The woman Petre had sent a letter to Digby Kemsley to the Poste Restante in Brussels under the name of Bryant. If this were so, the fugitive must be in the habit of calling for his letters, and it was the great black façade of the chief post-office in Brussels that I was watching.

The business-day was just drawing to a close, the streets were thronged, the traffic rattled noisily over the uneven granite paving of the big square. Opposite the Post Office the arc lamps were shedding a bright light outside the theatre, while all the shops around were a blaze of light, while on every side the streets were agog with life.

Up and down the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance of the Post Office hundreds of people ascended and descended, passing and re-passing the four swing-doors which gave entrance to the huge hall with its dozens of departments ranged around and its partitioned desks for writing.

The mails from France and England were just in, and dozens of men came with their keys to obtain their correspondence from the range of private boxes, and as I watched, the whole bustle of business life passed before me.

I was keeping a sharp eye upon all who passed up and down that long flight of granite steps, but at that hour of the evening, and in that crowd, it was no easy matter.

Would I be successful? That was the one thought which filled my mind.

As I stood there, my eager gaze upon that endless stream of people, I felt wearied and fagged. The Channel crossing had been a bad one, as it so often is in January, and I had not yet recovered from my weird experience at Colchester. The heavy overcoat I wore was, I found, not proof against the cutting east wind which swept around the corner from the Boulevard Auspach, hence I was compelled to change my position and seek shelter in a doorway opposite the point where I expected the man I sought would enter.

I had already surveyed the interior and presented the card of a friend to an official at the Poste Restante, though I knew there was no letter for him. I uttered some words of politeness to the man in order to make his acquaintance, as he might, perhaps, be of use to me ere my quest was at an end.

At the Poste Restante were two windows, one distributing correspondence for people whose surname began with the letters A to L, and the other from M to Z.

It was at the first window I inquired, the clerk there being a pleasant, fair-haired, middle-aged man in a holland coat as worn by postal employees. I longed to ask him if he had any letters for the name of Bryant, or if any Englishman of that name had called, but I dared not do so. He would, no doubt, snub me and tell me to mind my own business.

So instead, I was extremely polite, regretted to have troubled him, and, raising my hat, withdrew.

I saw that to remain within the big office for hours was impossible. The uniformed doorkeeper who sat upon a high desk overlooking everything, would quickly demand my business, and expel me.

No, my only place was out in the open street. Not a pleasant prospect in winter, and for how many days I could not tell.

For aught I knew, the fugitive had called for the woman's letter and left the capital. But he, being aware that the police were in search of him, would, I thought, if he called at the post office at all for letters, come there after dark. Hence, I had lost no time in mounting guard.

My thoughts, as I stood there, were, indeed, bitter and confused.

The woman Petre had not, as far as I could make out, made any incriminating statement to the police. Yet she undoubtedly believed me to be dead, and I reflected in triumph upon the unpleasant surprise in store for her when we met – as meet we undoubtedly would.

The amazing problem, viewed briefly, stood thus: The girl, Marie Bracq, had been killed by a knife with a three-cornered blade, such knife having been and being still in the possession of Phrida, my well-beloved, whose finger-prints were found in the room near the body of the poor girl. The grave and terrible suspicion resting upon Phrida was increased and even corroborated by her firm resolve to preserve secrecy, her admissions, and her avowed determination to take her own life rather than face accusation.

On the other hand, there was the mystery of the identity of Marie Bracq, the mystery of the identity of the man who had passed as Sir Digby Kemsley, the reason of his flight, if Phrida were guilty, and the mystery of the woman Petre, and her accomplices.

Yes. The whole affair was one great and complete problem, the extent of which even Edwards, expert as he was, had, as yet, failed to discover. The more I tried to solve it the more hopelessly complicated did it become.

I could see no light through the veil of mystery and suspicion in which my well-beloved had become enveloped.

Why had that man – the man I now hated with so fierce an hatred – held her in the hollow of his unscrupulous hands? She had admitted that, whenever he ordered her to do any action, she was bound to obey.

Yes. My love was that man's slave! I ground my teeth when the bitter thought flashed across my perturbed mind.

Ah! what a poor, ignorant fool I had been! And how that scoundrel must have laughed at me!

I was anxious to meet him face to face – to force from his lips the truth, to compel him to answer to me.

And with that object I waited – waited in the cold and rain for three long hours, until at last the great doors were closed and locked for the night, and people ascended those steps no longer.

Then I turned away faint and disheartened, chilled to the bone, and wearied out. A few steps along the Boulevard brought me to the hotel, where I ate some dinner, and retired to my room to fling myself upon the couch and think.

Why was Phrida in such fear lest I should meet the man who held her so mysteriously and completely in his power? What could she fear from our meeting if she were, as I still tried to believe, innocent?

Again, was it possible that after their dastardly attempt upon my life, Mrs. Petre and her accomplices had fled to join the fugitive? Were they with him? Perhaps so! Perhaps they were there in Brussels!

The unfortunate victim, Marie Bracq, had probably been a Belgian. Bracq was certainly a Belgian name.

The idea crossed my mind to go on the following day to the central Police Bureau I had noticed in the Rue de la Regence, and make inquiry whether they knew of any person of that name to be missing. It was not a bad suggestion, I reflected, and I felt greatly inclined to carry it out.

Next day, I was up early, but recognised the futility of watching at the Poste Restante until the daylight faded. On the other hand, if Mrs. Petre was actually in that city, she would have no fear to go about openly. Yet, after due consideration, I decided not to go to the post office till twilight set in.

The morning I spent idling on the Boulevards and in the cafés, but I became sick of such inactivity, for I was frantically eager and anxious to learn the truth.

At noon I made up my mind, and taking a taxi, alighted at the Préfecture of Police, where, after some time, I was seen by the Chef du Sureté, a grey-haired, dry-as-dust looking official – a narrow-eyed little man, in black, whose name was Monsieur Van Huffel, and who sat at a writing-table in a rather bare room, the walls of which were painted dark green. He eyed me with some curiosity as I entered and bowed.

"Be seated, I pray, m'sieur," he said in French, indicating a chair on the opposite side of the table, and leaning back, placed his fingers together in a judicial attitude.

The police functionary on the continent is possessed of an ultra-grave demeanour, and is always of a funereal type.

"M'sieur wishes to make an inquiry, I hear?" he began.

"Yes," I said. "I am very anxious to know whether you have any report of a young person named Marie Bracq being missing."

"Marie Bracq!" he echoed in surprise, leaning forward towards me. "And what do you know, m'sieur, regarding Marie Bracq?"

"I merely called to ascertain if any person of that name, is reported to you as missing," I said, much surprised at the effect which mention of the victim had produced upon him.

"You are English, of course?" he asked.

"Yes, m'sieur."

"Well, curiously enough, only this morning I have had a similar inquiry from your Scotland Yard. They are asking if we are acquainted with any person named Marie Bracq. And we are, m'sieur," said Monsieur Van Huffel. "But first please explain what you know of her."

"I have no personal acquaintance with her," was my reply. "I know of her – that is all. But it may not be the same person."

He opened a drawer, turned over a quantity of papers, and a few seconds later produced a photograph which he passed across to me.